For The Admiral
by W.J. Marx
CHAPTER I. A
Tracked, or Not?
CHAPTER III. The
Fight by the Way
CHAPTER IV. How
We Kept the Ford
CHAPTER V. A
Traitor to the
CHAPTER VI. The
CHAPTER VII. A
The Tragedy of
CHAPTER IX. A
CHAPTER X. I
CHAPTER XI. A
CHAPTER XII. The
CHAPTER XIII. A
CHAPTER XV. A
CHAPTER XVI. A
CHAPTER XVIII. A
CHAPTER XIX. Who
CHAPTER XXI. I
CHAPTER XXIII. A
CHAPTER XXIV. A
CHAPTER XXV. A
What will the
The Day of the
FOR THE ADMIRAL
Author of “Scouting for Buller,” “The British Legion,” etc.
HODDER AND STOUGHTON PUBLISHERS LONDON
Printed in 1906
Butler and Panner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London
TO MY WIFE
BUT FOR WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT
THIS STORY WOULD NEVER
HAVE BEEN WRITTEN.
CHAPTER I. A Perilous Ride
“I trust no harm has happened to my father, Jacques. The night grows
late and there are strange rumours afloat. 'Tis said that the Guises
are eager to break the peace.”
“Better open warfare than this state of things, monsieur. The peace
is no peace: the king's troops are robbing and slaying as they please.
Francois of the mill told me a pretty tale of their doings to-day. But
listen, I hear the beat of hoofs on the road below.”
“There are two horses, Jacques, and they approach very slowly. My
father does not usually ride like that.”
“No, faith!” said Jacques, with a laugh; “if his horse went at that
pace the Sieur Le Blanc would get down and walk! But the travellers are
coming here, nevertheless. Shall we go to the gate, monsieur?”
“It may be as well,” I answered. “One can never tell these days what
mischief is brewing.”
By the peasantry for miles around my home was called the Castle of
Le Blanc. It stood on the brow of a hill, overlooking a wide plain, and
was defended by a dry moat and massive walls. A score of resolute men
inside might easily have kept two hundred at bay, and more than once,
indeed, the castle had stood a regular siege.
According to Jacques it might have to do so again, for in that year,
1586, of which I write, France was in a terrible state. The nation was
divided into two hostile parties—those who fiercely resisted any
changes being made in the Church, and the Huguenots, those of the
Religion—and the whole land was given over to brawling and disorder.
My father, who was held in high esteem by the Huguenot party, had
fought through three campaigns under Gaspard de Coligny, the Admiral,
as men, by virtue of his office, generally called him. Severely wounded
in one of the numerous skirmishes, he had returned home to be nursed
back to health by my mother. Before he recovered a peace was patched up
between the two parties, and he had since remained quietly on his
He it was who, rather to my surprise, now came riding at a foot pace
into the courtyard. The stranger accompanying him sat his horse limply,
and seemed in some danger of falling from the saddle.
[Illustration: “The stranger accompanying him sat his horse
“Take the bridle, Jacques,” cried my father. “Edmond, let your
mother know I am bringing with me a wounded man.”
When we had assisted the stranger into one of the chambers I saw
that he was of medium height, spare in figure, but tough and sinewy. He
had a swarthy complexion, and small, black, twinkling eyes that gave
the impression of good-humour. His right arm, evidently broken, was
carried in a rough, hastily-made sling; his doublet was bloodstained,
and his forehead had been scored by the slash of a knife.
He must have been suffering agony, yet he did not even wince when my
father, who had considerable experience of wounds, set the broken limb,
while I, after sponging his face with warm water, applied some salve to
the gash. But he kept muttering to himself, “This is a whole night
wasted; I must set out at daybreak.”
“We are going to get you into bed, and dress the wound in your
side,” said my father cheerily. “I hope that at daybreak you will be
“The cut is a bagatelle, monsieur, and I must to the road again. A
murrain on those rascally bandits!”
“At least you will be none the worse for an hour's rest,” said my
father, humouring his fancy. “Edmond, get off his boots, and do it
gently: we must keep this wound from bleeding afresh.”
Between us we removed his clothes, and in spite of his protests got
him into bed, when my father bathed and bandaged his side, saying, “It
looks worse than it really is. Now, a cup of hot broth, and you should
“The broth will be welcome, monsieur, but I have no time for sleep.
An hour lost here may plunge thousands of good Frenchmen into
I thought at first the pain had turned his brain; but he spoke
sensibly enough, and appeared deeply in earnest.
“Can we help you?” my father asked. “It will be a week yet before
you are able to sit in the saddle. Do you know me?”
“Yes,” said the other, and his face brightened, “you are the Sieur
Le Blanc. I have seen you at Rochelle with the Admiral.”
“Then you know I am to be trusted! Mind, I have no wish to pry into
your business; but perhaps we can be of service. Are you travelling
“A week's ride,” groaned the man; then, raising himself in bed, he
said, “Monsieur, I must go forward!”
“Pshaw, man, you talk nonsense! You haven't sufficient strength to
carry you across the room, and the wound in your side would start
bleeding before you reached the courtyard. Come, throw aside your
fears; I make no secret of my friendship for Gaspard de Coligny, and it
is easy to guess you have fought under his banner before now. But here
is Jacques with the broth! Drink this, and afterwards we will talk.”
I raised him up while he drank, and presently he said, “Monsieur, if
I rested till midday I should be strong enough.”
“A week at the least,” my father replied, “and even then a score of
miles would overtax your strength.”
After lying quietly for a few minutes, he whispered, “Monsieur, make
the door fast. Now, hand me my doublet. A murrain on the knaves who
brought me to this! A knife, monsieur, and slit the lining. Do you feel
a packet? 'Tis a small one. Ah, that is it. Look, monsieur, at the
“The Admiral!” said my father with a start of surprise, “and he is
at Tanlay. Man, it will be a month before you can reach Tanlay; and the
packet is marked 'All speed!' Do you know the purport of the message?”
“It conveys a warning, monsieur, and it will arrive too late. The
Guises and the Queen-Mother have laid their plans; the Loire is guarded
along its banks, and the troops are collecting for a swoop on Tanlay.”
“And Conde is at Noyers!”
“The Prince is included, monsieur. 'Let us take off the heads of the
two leaders,' is what the Italian woman says, 'and there will be no
more Huguenots.' And the chiefs at Rochelle chose me to carry the
warning. 'There is none braver or more prudent than Ambroise Devine,'
they said. Monsieur, I would rather have lost my right hand!”
“Cheer up, man. I warrant you have no cause for reproach. Guise has
his spies in Rochelle, and they would follow you on the chance of
picking up some information. When were you attacked?”
“At the close of the afternoon, monsieur, in the wood a few miles to
the west. They sprang out upon me suddenly—there were three of
them—and I was taken unawares. But it was a good fight,” and, in spite
of his pain and distress of mind, his face lit up with a smile of
satisfaction. “There is one trooper the less in Guise's ranks, and
another who won't earn his pay for months to come.”
“And best of all, the papers are safe,” my father observed. “Now,
what is to be done? That is the important point. The Admiral must have
them without loss of time, and you cannot carry them to him. My duties
keep me here, but I could send Jacques——”
“Jacques?” said the sick man questioningly.
“He is a trusty servant; I will vouch for his loyalty.”
Devine shook his head. It was plain he did not welcome the proposal.
“Trust the papers to me,” I said, on a sudden impulse, “and I will
take Jacques for company.”
“'Tis a long journey, Edmond, and full of danger,” said my father.
“I fear an older head than yours is needed.”
“Jacques can supply the older head, and I will take charge of the
“You are only a boy,” objected Devine.
“So much the better: no one will suspect I am engaged on an errand
“There is something in that, but this is no child's game; 'tis an
affair of life and death. You must travel day and night, and from the
moment the papers are in your hands your life belongs to the Admiral.
If you fail to reach Tanlay in time, the death of the noblest gentleman
in France will lie on your shoulders.”
“I will do my best.”
“He is young,” remarked my father, “but he can bear fatigue. He has
a sure seat in the saddle, and he is more thoughtful than most boys of
his age. With Jacques at his elbow the venture is not as desperate as
it may seem.”
Since nothing better offered, Devine at length agreed to the
proposal, and having informed Jacques that we should start at dawn I
went straight to bed, in the hope of getting a couple of hours' sleep
before beginning the journey.
The morning had scarcely broken when Jacques wakened me; I sprang up
quickly, dressed—my mother had sewn the precious papers securely
inside my doublet—and made a hearty meal.
My mother, who had risen in order to bid me farewell, was full of
anxiety; but, like the brave woman she was, she put aside her fears;
for the Admiral's safety was at stake, and we of the Religion were well
content to make any sacrifice for our beloved leader. I embraced her
fondly, assuring her I would be careful, and proceeded to the chamber
where Ambroise Devine lay. He had not slept, but was eagerly awaiting
the time of my departure.
“You have the papers?” he asked. “Give them into the Admiral's own
hands, and remember that a single hour's delay may ruin the Cause.”
“He carries a full purse,” said my father, “and can buy fresh horses
on the road.”
Wishing the sick man good-bye, and bidding him be of good courage, I
descended to the courtyard, where Jacques awaited me with the horses.
“Do not be sparing of your money, Edmond; if need arises, spend
freely,” my father advised. “And now, may God bless you, and bring you
safely through. Do not forget, Jacques, that a shrewd brain will pay
better than a strong arm in this venture.”
“We will be as prudent as the Admiral himself, monsieur,” declared
Jacques, as he vaulted into the saddle; and, with a last word of
counsel from my father, we crossed the drawbridge and rode down the
hill to the high road.
“'Tis a long journey before us, monsieur, and an unexpected one,”
observed my companion, as, turning sharply to the left, we rode through
the still sleeping village. “'Tis odd what a chance encounter may bring
about; but for the Sieur's meeting with the wounded man we should still
be snug abed. There is some one stirring at the inn. Old Pierre will be
none too pleased at having guests who rise so early; but there, 'twill
be another coin or so to add to his hoard.”
“Pierre is a wise man,” I said.
“I think not, monsieur. There is little wisdom in saving money for
others to spend. The king's troopers will ride through here some day,
and Pierre will be a cunning man if they do not strip him as bare as a
trussed fowl. 'Tis more satisfactory these days to spend one's money
while one has the chance. And things will never be any better until
they send the Italian woman out of the country.”
Jacques generally spoke of the Queen-Mother as the Italian woman,
and he regarded her as the chief cause of all our troubles.
“She cares for no one but herself,” he continued, “not even for the
boy king, and the Guises have her under their thumb. What with them and
her Italian favourites there is no room in France for an honest
Frenchman. Listen, some one rides behind us! 'Tis the early riser from
the inn perhaps. Faith, he is a keen judge of horseflesh.”
“And he has a firm seat,” I remarked, glancing round. “He will
overtake us in a few minutes. Shall we quicken our pace?”
“No, monsieur. If he is a friend there is no need; should he be an
enemy 'twill but arouse suspicion.”
“Good-day, messieurs,” cried a pleasant voice, “I trust we are well
met. I am a stranger in the district, and wish to discover the
whereabouts of one Etienne Cordel. He is an advocate from Paris, but he
owns a small estate in the neighbourhood.”
“A tall man,” said Jacques, “with a nose like a hawk's beak, and
eyes that look in opposite directions?”
“Faith, my friend,” laughed the stranger jovially, “you have his
picture to a nicety. That is Etienne Cordel. Are you acquainted with
“I have met him,” replied Jacques carelessly. “We shall pass within
a mile or two of his place, if you care to travel in our company.”
“Nothing would please me more,” declared the cavalier. “This is a
stroke of good fortune on which I had not counted. I spent the night at
the inn yonder, but the dolt of a landlord might have been one of the
staves of his own barrels: he could not answer me a question!”
“Ha! my dashing friend,” I thought to myself, “old Pierre must have
had his reasons for making a fool of you,” for in truth the landlord
knew every one, and everything that happened, for miles around.
The stranger had drawn his horse abreast of mine, and was riding on
my left. He was a man of perhaps thirty years, richly but quietly
dressed, wearing a sword, and carrying two pistols in his holsters. His
dark brown hair escaped over his forehead in short curls; his face was
strong and capable; he had good features, and a rounded chin. His eyes
were blue, deep, expressive, and beautiful as a woman's, and he had a
most engaging air of candour and sincerity. The horse he rode was a
splendid animal; my father had not its equal in his stables.
“This place of Etienne's,” said he, addressing Jacques, “is it far?”
“Within a dozen miles, monsieur. You might easily have reached it
last night by pushing on.”
“Had I been acquainted with the road! But it was late when I arrived
at the inn, and my horse had done a heavy's day work. You are a native
of the district, monsieur?” turning to me.
“If you make the district wide enough,” I answered, with a laugh.
“You have escaped the ravages of war in these parts; you are
fortunate. One can ride here without loosening his sword.”
“Yes,” assented Jacques, “'tis a peaceful neighbourhood.”
“A pity one cannot say the same of all France,” replied the other
with a deep sigh, as if saddened at the mere thought of bloodshed; “and
yet it is whispered that the war is likely to break out again. Has the
rumour reached you down here?”
“We hear little news of the outside world,” I replied.
“Excuse me, monsieur,” exclaimed Jacques suddenly, “but it will suit
us to quicken the pace. We have pressing business to transact,” to
which our chance acquaintance replied that he was quite willing to be
guided by our wishes.
Accordingly we broke into a canter, and for the next hour or so no
sound was heard save the beat of our horses' hoofs on the hard road.
But once, when the stranger had shot a few paces to the front—for as I
have said he rode a splendid animal—Jacques made me a swift sign that
I should be cautious.
CHAPTER II. Tracked, or Not?
“That is your road, monsieur. At the end of a mile a cross-road
leads straight to Etienne Cordel's dwelling. You will see the house
from the spot where the road branches. You will pardon us for our hasty
departure, but time presses. If you put up again at the inn, we may
have the pleasure of meeting you on our return.”
Taking the cue from Jacques, who evidently did not intend holding a
prolonged conversation, I said: “Adieu, monsieur, and a pleasant ending
to your journey. You cannot mistake the way, now,” and directly he had
thanked us for our assistance we rode on.
“Rather an abrupt departure, Jacques,” I remarked presently, feeling
“Better that, monsieur, than wait to be asked inconvenient
questions. Did you notice that slash across his doublet? He has been
pretty close to a naked sword, and not long ago either! What does he
want with Etienne Cordel? He looks more fitted for the camp than the
“Monsieur Cordel no doubt transacts his private business for him.”
“No doubt,” said Jacques, with a shrug of his shoulders. “But I did
not like his appearance, and if we could spare the time I would ride
back to discover what made Pierre suddenly dumb. I warrant he misliked
his questioner; but if the stranger is seeking information, he can
obtain all he wants from Cordel.”
“You are no friend to the advocate, Jacques!”
“He is a spy, monsieur, and a maker of mischief. One of these days
men will learn his true character.”
“I have no liking for Cordel,” I said, “but still all this has
nothing to do with our errand.”
“Perhaps not, monsieur; we will hope not,” replied my companion,
“but all the same, I wish we had started an hour earlier.”
Honestly I felt rather inclined to laugh at Jacques' vague fears,
for the stranger's pleasant speech and affable manner had impressed me,
and I could not think of him in any other light than that of a
courteous and gallant gentleman. In spite of wise saws, one is often
tempted to believe that occasionally fine feathers make fine birds.
We rode on steadily, stopping for an hour or two during the hottest
part of the day, and putting up late at night at a dilapidated inn in a
half-deserted village. The landlord, a bent, feeble, old man, had gone
to bed, but he set about preparing some supper, while, since there was
no ostler, we fed and groomed the animals ourselves.
“We must start at daybreak,” said Jacques, when we had finished our
meal; “that will give us four hours' sleep.”
“Fourteen would suit me better!” I laughed, as we followed our host
to the guest-chamber, and, indeed, I was so thoroughly tired that my
head scarcely touched the pillow before I was sound asleep.
It was still dark when Jacques roused me, and by dawn we were once
more on the road. On this second day's journey the ravages of the late
war were plainly apparent, and the sights made one's heart ache. The
fields lay waste and untilled; the cattle, few in number, were mere
bundles of skin and bone; the villages were half-emptied of their
inhabitants, while those who remained resembled skeletons rather than
“And all this,” exclaimed my companion bitterly, “is the work of the
Italian woman and her friends. It is time that Frenchmen took their
country into their own hands again, and out of the clutches of these
“That can be done only by another war, Jacques, and surely we have
had enough of cutting one another's throats!”
“It must be either war or murder,” he responded. “The Guises won't
rest until they become masters. France will swim in blood one of these
days. Do you know, monsieur, I am glad that Mademoiselle Jeanne is not
at the castle!”
Jeanne was my sister, who, since the peace, had been living at
Rochelle with an invalid aunt. She was seventeen years of age, a year
older than myself, and a girl of beauty and courage.
“You are in a gloomy mood, Jacques, and fancying all kinds of
dangers that are not likely to happen. Why, even the stranger we met at
Le Blanc alarmed you.”
“He alarms me yet,” replied Jacques gravely; “he is a bird of ill
“Come,” I said banteringly, “let us have a canter; it will clear the
cobwebs from your brain, besides helping us on our way to Saintbreuil,”
the little town where we intended to pass the night and to procure
fresh horses. Jacques had an acquaintance at Saintbreuil—an innkeeper
who secretly favoured the Cause without possessing sufficient courage
to declare his opinions.
The night had grown somewhat late by the time of our arrival, but we
managed to secure admittance, and Jacques had no difficulty in finding
the inn—a fairly decent house in a small square.
“A quiet room, Edouard, and some supper,” said my companion to the
host, “and serve us yourself. There is no need that all Saintbreuil
should learn of our being here. And be quick, for we are tired and
hungry, and there is business to transact.”
The landlord, a nervous-looking fellow, took us quickly to a chamber
at the farther end of the house, and in a short time we were sitting
down to a well-spread table.
“Is the town quiet?” asked Jacques presently.
“Quiet, but uneasy. The citizens are afraid of they know not what.
There is a whisper that the peace will be broken.”
“Humph! there is more than a whisper in some parts; but listen to
me, Edouard; monsieur and I are travelling fast. We have nearly
foundered our animals, and yet it is necessary to push on again
directly the gates are opened. You must procure us fresh horses, the
best that can be got.”
“And the two in the stables?”
“Can go in exchange.”
“You will have to pay heavily.”
“Of course we shall, my dear Edouard, but monsieur is prepared to
open his purse. Get them into the stable to-night, and call us at
“Can you trust him to procure really good animals?” I asked, when
the man had gone out.
“There are few keener judges of horseflesh than Edouard, monsieur;
and now let us to bed.”
Jacques had lost his gloomy fit; there seemed little likelihood of
danger, and I slept soundly till wakened by our host. Dressing hastily
we went straight to the stables, and were more than satisfied with our
new animals. They were beautiful creatures, shaped for both speed and
endurance, and I did not grudge the money the landlord had spent.
“They should carry us to our journey's end,” said Jacques in a
whisper; “the sight of them gives me fresh courage. I care not a rap of
the fingers now for our chance acquaintance!”
“The cavalier seems to have turned your brain!” I laughed.
“Maybe 'twas only an idle fancy, but I mistrusted the fellow.
Perhaps you will laugh, but I thought he might be one of those who
attacked Monsieur Devine.”
“Well?” I said, startled by this statement, and yet puzzled to
understand how it affected us.
“If so, he must be trying to obtain possession of the papers. He
would follow the wounded man, and suddenly lose him. He failed to get
any information from old Pierre, and he learned little from us; but the
advocate would tell him everything.”
“What could Cordel tell?” I asked, still puzzled.
“That your father, monsieur, is the chief person in the
district—that he is of the Religion—that the wounded messenger might
have found shelter in the castle.”
“Yes, the advocate would certainly mention that.”
“The stranger would speak of us, too, and the lawyer, recognizing
the description, would inform him who we were. That would arouse his
suspicions, for you must admit that we chose a strange hour to ride.”
“And you think he would follow us?”
“That is what I feared. He is splendidly mounted, and could easily
overtake us; but now,” and Jacques laughed, “the case is different.”
“Even should he come up with us,” I said, “he is but one against
two, and we can both handle a sword!”
My companion shrugged his shoulders. “What chance should we have in
Saintbreuil, monsieur? A word to a king's officer, and we should either
be dead, or in prison.”
“Faith,” I said laughing, though not with much heartiness, “you draw
a lively picture! Once outside these walls, I shall not care to venture
into a town again until we reach Tanlay.”
“With these horses there should be no need.”
The officer of the guard gazed at us suspiciously. “You travel
early, monsieur!” he remarked.
“Too early for comfort!” I replied, “but I must reach Nevers before
Marshal Tavannes leaves. He does not like idle excuses.”
“You are right, monsieur!” replied the man, with an instant change
of expression, “one does not play tricks with the marshal. But I did
not know he was at Nevers.”
“'Tis but a flying visit, I believe.”
“Well, a pleasant journey to you. Have a care, though, if you ride
late; the country is infested with brigands.”
Thanking him for his advice I followed after Jacques, who had taken
advantage of the conversation to ride on.
“I thought the officer might take a fancy to ask me some questions,
and I am not so intimately acquainted as you with the doings of the
king's general!” he said with a chuckle. “'Twas a bold stroke,
monsieur, but it paid.”
“Yes,” I said, “it paid. And now let us push forward.”
Strangely enough, now that Jacques had recovered his composure I
began to feel nervous, and more than once caught myself glancing round
as if half expecting to see a body of pursuers on our track. However,
we proceeded all day without adventure, slept for two or three hours at
a village inn, and resumed our journey in high spirits.
“We should reach the Loire by midday,” remarked Jacques. “Shall we
go into the town and cross by the bridge, or try for a ford? There is
one a little to the north.”
“The ford will suit our purpose,” I said, “and I hardly care about
trusting myself in the town.”
There still wanted two hours to noon when, coming to a grassy and
tree-shaded plateau through which ran a sparkling stream, Jacques
proposed that we should rest the horses. So we dismounted, gave them a
drink, fastened them to a tree, and lay down beside them.
“Monsieur might be able to sleep,” suggested Jacques. “I will watch,
but we cannot afford more than an hour.”
“We will take turns,” I said.
“Not at all, monsieur. I do not feel sleepy. I will waken you in
Feeling refreshed by the short rest I was just remounting when a
rough, sturdy-looking fellow came along, riding a powerful horse.
“Good-day, messieurs,” he said, glancing at us, I thought, very
keenly; “am I on the right track for Nevers?”
“Yes,” I answered rather curtly.
“Perhaps monsieur is himself going there? I am a stranger in these
“No,” I replied, “we are not going to the town, but you cannot miss
He hung about for some time, trying to make conversation, but
presently rode on, and a bend in the road hid him from our view.
“An ugly customer to meet on a dark night, Jacques,” I remarked.
“Let us push on, monsieur; that fellow meant us no good. Did you
notice his speech?”
“I did; he comes from our own neighbourhood. It is possible he has
seen us before.”
“And what of that?”
“Nothing, except that it is curious,” and Jacques quickened his
At the end of a quarter of a mile a cross-road to the left led to
the river, and along this track we travelled. It was very narrow, so
narrow, indeed, that we were forced to ride in single file, Jacques
going before. The stranger had disappeared; no one was in sight; the
countryside seemed deserted.
“Do you know where the ford is situated?” I asked.
“I have a fairly good notion. Ah, what is that?” and he reined up
From our position we could just catch a glimpse of several horsemen
riding swiftly along the bank of the river. They were out of sight in a
few minutes, and we proceeded in a somewhat uncomfortable frame of
“They can have nothing to do with us, Jacques,” I said cheerily.
“No, monsieur, nothing,” he replied.
“How much farther do we go before descending?”
“About a quarter of a mile.”
“Once across the river we shall be in no danger at all.”
“None at all, monsieur.”
“A plague on you, Jacques!” I cried, “can't you make some sensible
“I was but agreeing with monsieur.”
We had gone about four hundred yards when the track began to descend
in winding fashion toward the water. My companion was still in front,
and I noticed he had loosened his sword. I had done the same, and in
addition had seen that my pistols were in order. Somehow, a strange
sense of approaching peril, for which I could not account, hung about
“There is the ford,” said Jacques, drawing rein, and pointing
straight ahead of him. “That is where we must cross.”
“Yes,” I said.
“But I cannot see the horsemen, and they should be visible from
here. It is very absurd, of course, but still, I would advise monsieur
to look to his pistols.”
“I am ready, Jacques.”
“Come, then, and if I say 'Gallop!' stretch your horse to his
He advanced carefully, I following, and watching him intently.
Presently, without turning round, he said: “It is as I thought; the
horsemen are there; we cannot get through without a fight.”
“Then we must fight, Jacques; it is impossible to turn back. They
will not expect a rush, and we may catch them off their guard. But it
will be amusing if they turn out to be simply peaceful travellers.”
“Amusing and satisfactory, monsieur. Are you ready? We will ride
abreast at the bottom; it will give us greater strength.”
Jacques was a splendid horseman, and he had taught me to ride almost
from the first day I could sit a horse's back. From him, too, as well
as from my father, I had learned how to use a sword, though my weapon
had never yet been drawn in actual conflict, and even now I hoped
against hope that the horsemen below were not waiting for us.
But if Jacques' view were correct, then we must fight. Because of
the trust reposed in me, I could not yield; either I must win a way
through, or leave my dead body there on the bank.
My companion's voice recalled me to action. “Fire your pistol
directly we come within range,” he said, “and then lay on with the
“But we must give them warning, Jacques!”
“It is needless; they have seen us, and are preparing. Corbleu!
it is as I thought! See, there is the man who overtook us in the
village. Monsieur, there is no escape; it is a fight to the death!”
“I am ready!”
CHAPTER III. The Fight by the Way
They watched us furtively, as, with seeming carelessness, we
descended the slope, slowly at first, but gradually increasing the pace
as the ground became less steep. There were five of them in all, and
presently I perceived that the one a little in advance of the group was
the unknown cavalier whom we had directed to the house of Etienne
“Draw level, monsieur. Now!” and the next instant we were dashing
down the remaining part of the slope at terrific speed.
It was a wild ride, a ride so mad that many a night afterwards I
started from sleep with the sensation of being hurled through space.
The horses flew, their hoofs seeming not to touch the ground; had we
wished, we should have found it impossible to check their headlong
career. Nearer and nearer we approached; the horsemen wavered visibly,
their leader alone remaining unmoved.
There was a loud report; a ball whizzed past, and we heard a cry of
“In the king's name!”
For answer we discharged our pistols almost at point-blank distance,
and a horse rolled over heavily with its rider.
“One down!” cried Jacques in triumph, drawing his sword and aiming a
desperate blow at the leader, who called out—“The boy! Capture the
boy! Shoot his horse, you dolts!”
He thrust at me vigorously, but, parrying the attack more by luck
than good management, I dashed on, Jacques crying, “This way, monsieur,
With a tremendous leap we sprang into the river, the poor animals
struggling franticly to keep their footing.
“This way!” shouted Jacques, “we are too far to the right; the ford
lies here. Forward, forward! Use your spurs; they are after us. To the
front; I will hold them at bay!”
“No, no; we will stand by each other.”
“Nonsense!” he cried, “remember the packet!” and, having no answer
to that, I pushed forward, though with reluctance.
It was a wild scramble, now swimming, now wading, stumbling, and
floundering along with the yells of the pursuers in our ears. I reached
the opposite bank, and while my gallant animal clambered up, Jacques
turned to face the enemy. Almost immediately there came the clash of
swords, and, looking back, I saw him engaged in desperate conflict with
the foremost of the pursuers.
The contest was short. With a howl of pain the fellow dropped his
sword, and the water reddened with his blood.
“Spread out!” cried the cavalier angrily, “'tis the boy we want!”
and at that, Jacques being powerless to prevent them from slipping
past, rode after me.
“Only three to two now!” he exclaimed joyfully; “shall we stop? It
will be a good fight.”
“No, no, we may get away; we are the better mounted.”
“I do not think so, monsieur; their horses are the fresher.”
Once again Jacques proved correct. The three men, the cavalier
leading, hung stubbornly on our track, and began steadily to ride us
“If we could reach a village,” I gasped, “the people might be for
“Or against us, monsieur.”
On we went across the open stretch of upland, the pace becoming
perceptibly slower, the pursuers approaching steadily nearer. Below us,
white and dusty in the sunlight, wound a broad road, with a high bank
on one side of it.
“If we could get there,” remarked Jacques, “we could fight with our
backs to the wall, and the odds are not so heavy.”
“Let us try.”
The animals responded nobly to our urging, though their nostrils
were blood-red, and their quivering haunches flaked with spume. Panting
and straining, they raced along, so that we gained the road a
considerable distance ahead of our pursuers; but the pace could not be
maintained and Jacques counselled a halt.
“The horses will get back their wind,” he said, “and we shall engage
at an advantage. If we go on, the creatures will be completely blown.
Only three against two, monsieur; your father would laugh at such
“I am not thinking of myself, Jacques, but of the Admiral. The
papers make a coward of me.”
“This is the best chance of saving them. Let us wait here.
Fortunately their firearms are useless, and they must trust to the
sword. Just fancy you are engaged in a fencing bout in the courtyard,
Monsieur Edmond, and we shall beat them easily.”
We drew up on the dusty road, with our backs to the high bank, and
waited—perhaps for death. The sobbing animals, trembling in every
limb, were grateful for the rest, and drew in deep breaths. The sun
beat down on our heads; not a ripple of air stirred the branches of the
trees; for a few moments not a sound broke the eerie stillness.
“Here they come!”
They had struck the highroad some distance above us, and it gave me
heart to see how blown their animals were. But the cavalier, catching
sight of us, spurred his jaded beast and advanced, crying out loudly,
“Surrender, Edmond Le Blanc! I arrest you in the king's name!”
“What charge have you against me?” I asked.
“I have an order for your arrest. Lay down your sword.”
“Faith!” broke in Jacques, “those who want our swords must take
them. We are free men.”
“Then your blood be on your own heads!” exclaimed the cavalier.
“Forward, my lads. Capture or kill; 'tis all one.”
“Keep cool, monsieur,” advised Jacques, “those two cut-throats are
no sworders. They are far handier with a knife than a sword, and are
unused to fighting in the sunlight.”
“A truce to words!” cried their leader; “at them, my lads!” and he
himself led the way.
Jacques met him boldly, while I found myself furiously engaged with
his followers. They were sturdy fellows, both, and fearless of danger;
but fortunately for me without trick of fence, and almost in the first
blush of the fight I had pricked one in the side. The misadventure
taught them caution, and they renewed the attack more warily.
Jacques was on my left, but I dared not look to see how he fared,
though fearing that in the unknown cavalier he had met his equal, if
not his master.
Thrust and parry—thrust and parry; now a lunge in front, now a
half-turn to the right, till my arm ached, and my eyes became dazzled
with watching the movements of the flashing steel. A laugh of triumph
from the leader of our foes warned me that some misfortune had happened
to my comrade, but whatever the mishap the gallant fellow continued to
keep his adversary fully employed.
“Ride him down!” cried the leader, and once more the two ruffians
attacked me furiously. One of them paid the penalty of his
recklessness. With a rapid lunge I got beneath his guard, and my sword
passed between his ribs. He fell forward on his horse's neck, groaning,
and I cried exultingly, “Courage, Jacques! Two to two!”
But disaster followed swiftly on the heels of my triumph. A
half-suppressed cry of pain came from my comrade, and I saw his horse
roll over. Warding off a blow from my opponent, I turned and attacked
the cavalier so hotly that he was forced back several paces, and
Jacques disengaged himself from the fallen animal.
“Look to yourself, monsieur,” he said, “I still count.”
I had only a momentary glimpse of him as he staggered to his feet,
but the sight was not encouraging. His face was covered with blood, his
left arm hung limply at his side, and he had received a wound in the
shoulder. But in spite of his injuries he faced his opponent boldly,
using his horse's body as some sort of protection.
“Yield!” cried the cavalier, “and I will spare your lives. You are
“Fight on, monsieur,” said Jacques stolidly.
“As you will,” exclaimed the other, and once more the clash of steel
broke on the air.
How would it end? The contest was going steadily against us. I could
easily hold my opponent in check, but Jacques was seriously wounded; he
was on foot, and must inevitably be beaten. I thought once of riding
off in the hope of drawing the others after me, but they might stop to
kill my comrade, and that I dared not risk.
He still fought with his accustomed skill, but he was becoming
weaker every minute; he could no longer attack, and had much ado to
defend himself. Our sole chance lay in disabling my opponent before
Jacques was over-powered. I rode at him recklessly, but he was a wary
knave, and, judging how matters were likely to go, he remained on the
We were still battling vigorously, though I was fast losing all
hope, when the tramp of hoofs sounded in the distance. Who were the
travellers? They could not make our situation worse; they might improve
it. Our assailants seemed to be of the same opinion, and, leaving
Jacques, they flung themselves at me.
Could I hold out a few minutes longer? I set my teeth hard, and
braced myself for the effort. Twice the unknown cavalier missed my
breast by a hair's breadth; but I was still unwounded, save for a
slight scratch, when a body of mounted men turned the bend in the road.
They appeared to be a nobleman's bodyguard, and wore blue favours, but
this told me nothing.
Jacques, however, was better informed. “Lord St. Cyr!” he cried
feebly. “For the Admiral!” and sank to the ground.
Echoing my comrade's words, I cried lustily, “For the Admiral!” at
which the gentlemen set spurs to their horses, while our assailants as
hastily rode off.
Before the troop came up, I dismounted, and bending over my comrade
whispered, “Who is this St. Cyr?”
“A friend,” he replied; “the papers are safe now; you can trust
A noble-looking gentleman rode in front of the troop. He was well
advanced in years—at least fourscore, as I afterwards learned—but he
sat erect in his saddle, and his eyes were keen and vigorous.
“What is the meaning of this, monsieur?” he asked sternly, as I went
“Am I speaking to the Lord St. Cyr?” I asked.
“I am the Count of St. Cyr.”
“Then, my lord, I can speak freely. My name is Edmond Le Blanc; my
father is the Sieur Le Blanc——”
“Sufficient recommendation,” he interrupted, with a genial smile.
“My servant and I were on our way to Tanlay, carrying important
despatches to the Admiral. At the ford we were attacked by five
ruffians. Two were wounded; the others followed us here.”
“What was their object?”
“I fear, my lord, they must have learned the nature of my mission.”
“And wished to obtain possession of the papers! Are they really of
“The original bearer, my lord, was waylaid and grievously wounded
near my home. He assured me solemnly that their loss would probably
plunge thousands of Frenchmen into mourning. He hinted at some special
peril to the Admiral.”
“You have made a gallant fight,” said the count, “and Providence has
plainly sent us to your aid. Your servant is wounded I see. Leave him
to my care, and meanwhile I will provide you with suitable escort. The
ruffians will think twice before venturing to attack my gentlemen.”
“One of our assailants is hurt, my lord.”
“We will attend to him also; he cannot be left to die.”
During this conversation, a man soberly clad and evidently a
minister of the Religion—he was, in truth, though wearing a sword, the
count's private chaplain—had been attending to Jacques. Now he stepped
forward, and said, “The man is weak from loss of blood, but his wounds
are not serious; he should speedily recover his strength.”
“That is good hearing for Monsieur Le Blanc,” said the count. “Pray
tell your servant that he has fallen into friendly hands.”
I ran joyfully to Jacques, who looked at me with a smile. “It is all
right now, monsieur,” said he; “the journey is as good as done.”
“Still, I wish we could finish it together, but that is impossible.
I must leave you with Lord St. Cyr, and push on. He has promised to
furnish me with an escort.”
“Do not delay, monsieur; time is precious.”
I gave him a portion of my money, bade him be of good cheer, and
returned to the count, who had already selected six of his gentlemen to
“Keep free from brawls,” he advised their leader, “and ride with all
speed. Remember that you are engaged on a matter that may involve the
life of our chief.”
“We will waste no time on the road, my lord.”
Amidst a cheer from the rest of the bodyguard we rode forward, and
were soon out of sight. My new comrades were kindly, gallant gentlemen,
in whose company I soon recovered my spirits. Jacques was in no danger,
while it was certain that I should now be able to place the paper in
the Admiral's hands.
Indeed, the remainder of the journey can be passed over almost
without comment. We travelled fast, making few halts, and on the
evening of the next day rode into Tanlay.
The Admiral, who had just finished prayers, granted me immediate
audience, and my heart throbbed with excitement as I entered his room.
I was about to see, for the first time, this splendid gentleman, who
was to many thousands of Frenchmen the pride and glory of France.
He was of medium height, strongly made, well proportioned, and of a
ruddy complexion. His eyes had a grave but kindly expression; his
countenance was severe and majestic. “Here,” was my first thought, “is
a true leader of men!” He spoke slowly, but his voice was soft,
pleasant, and musical.
“Well, my young friend,” he said, “you have something of importance
to communicate to me?”
I had ripped the lining of my doublet, and now handed him the
packet. “My story can wait, my lord,” I said, “this is the more
He broke the seal and read the letter, slowly, as if committing each
word to heart. Then he said in his grave manner, “This is from La
Rochelle, and should have reached me by the hand of Ambroise Devine.
Where is he?”
“There are those who desired that you should not receive this
communication, my lord, and the original messenger lies in my father's
house, grievously wounded. As there was none other to bring it, the
packet was even entrusted to my keeping.”
“You are of the Religion?”
“The son of the Sieur Le Blanc could not well be otherwise, my
“The Sieur Le Blanc has proved his devotion on more than one
battlefield. So you are his son! And you have risked your life to help
me! I am grateful, my young friend, and others will be grateful also;
but I will speak with you again. For the present I must place you under
the care of my gentlemen. There is much here,” touching the packet, “to
be considered, and that without delay. But you have deserved well of
the Cause, boy, and the Sieur Le Blanc can be justly proud of his son.”
I was thoroughly tired by my long, hazardous journey, but I lay
awake for hours that night, my cheeks burning at the remembrance of the
Admiral's words. He had praised me—Edmond Le Blanc—this hero whom I
regarded as the highest, the bravest, the noblest gentleman in the
whole world! It seemed incredible that I should have obtained such
CHAPTER IV. How We Kept the Ford
Early next morning I was summoned to attend the Admiral, who
received me very graciously.
“I trust you have rested well,” he said, “as I am about to send you
on another journey. There is, however, no danger in it,” he added,
smiling. “I wish you to go to the Prince of Conde at Noyers, to tell
him your story, and to answer any questions he may put to you. I am
setting out myself in an hour or two, but my preparations are not
complete. Monsieur Bellievre will accompany you as guide; he has
received my instructions.”
The Admiral could not have chosen for me a more suitable comrade
than Felix Bellievre. He was quite young, barely more than eighteen,
tall, slim, and good-looking. He had large, expressive, dark eyes,
thick, curling hair, and beautiful white teeth. His smile was sweet and
winning, and he had an air of candour very engaging. Indeed, he so won
upon me, that, after the first mile or two of our journey, we were
chatting like old friends.
“You must be a person of importance,” he declared merrily. “Your
coming has created a tremendous commotion at Tanlay. Is it true that
the Guises are bent on a fresh war?”
“I cannot tell; I am nothing more than a messenger.”
“'Twas said last night you were the bearer of startling news. There
was whisper of a plot to swoop down upon the Admiral and on Conde, and
to whisk them off to Paris. Faith, if the Guises once got them there we
should see little of them again.”
“Why has the Admiral no soldiers?”
“Because he is too honourable to distrust others. He believes they
will keep their word. As for me, I would as soon trust a starving wolf
as a Guise, or the Queen-Mother. The Admiral is foolish, but he is too
good-hearted to think about himself.”
Praise of the Admiral entered largely into Bellievre's conversation,
as indeed it did into that of all his retinue. No one was so wise or
strong, so full of courage and good sense, so patient and forbearing,
so grand and noble as Gaspard de Coligny. It was hero worship, perhaps,
but hero worship of the truest kind. Not one of his household but would
have died for him.
“Do you know,” I said presently, “that the Admiral is coming to
“And his gentlemen! It looks as if rumour for once spoke true.”
“But we cannot defend ourselves at Noyers against an army!”
“No, that is impossible. Besides, our leaders must be free, or there
will be no one to command the troops. Fancy an army without Conde or
the Admiral at its head!” and he laughed merrily.
“Then what is likely to be done?”
“Faith, I have no notion!” he answered lightly.
“We march and countermarch and fight, just as we are bidden; it is
all one to those of Coligny's household. We never ask questions.”
It was a glorious day, with a fresh breeze tempering the heat of the
sun, and we rode along gaily. My comrade had already learned habits of
caution, but there was really no danger, and late in the afternoon we
reached Noyers, where, after a short delay, I was admitted into Conde's
He had received a message from Tanlay some hours previously, and he
said at once: “You are Edmond Le Blanc, who brought the packet from La
“From the Castle of Le Blanc, my lord, where it was given me by
“Ah, yes, he was attacked and wounded. What did he tell you?”
“That troops were being collected secretly to surround Tanlay and
Noyers, that the banks of the Loire were guarded”—the Prince gave a
start of surprise—and that unless you moved quickly, your escape would
be cut off.”
“And you rode from Le Blanc to Tanlay? Did you hear anything of this
on the journey?”
“No, my lord, but there seemed to be a general feeling of uneasiness
abroad, as if people thought something strange was about to happen.”
“Did you notice any movement of troops?”
“No, my lord.”
“Where did you cross the Loire?”
“At the ford a little to the north of Nevers.”
“And it was unguarded? But there, it matters little; it will be
guarded by now. How do the folks in your own neighbourhood talk?”
“That the present state of things cannot continue, and that one side
or the other must begin a fresh war.”
“Humph,” he said, half to himself, “if we unsheath the sword again,
we will not lay it down until the work is finished. Monsieur, you need
rest and refreshment; my gentlemen will attend to you. The Admiral will
be here by nightfall. We have to thank you for your services. It was a
very gallant enterprise.”
Bellievre, who was no stranger at Noyers, introduced me to several
of his acquaintances, and we spent a merry evening together. The rumour
of some impending calamity had spread rapidly, and all sorts of
opinions were expressed by Conde's cavaliers.
“I hope,” said one, “if war does break out that the Prince will not
make peace until the Guises and the Queen-Mother are swept out of the
country. The king is but a cat's-paw.”
“True,” cried another. “His mother rules him completely.”
“And the Guises rule her!”
“Not at all,” said the first man, “she is ruled by her own fears.
Catherine wants all the power in her own hands, and she is afraid of
the Prince's influence. That is the root of the evil.”
“She has too many Spaniards and Italians around her,” said
Bellievre; “France is drained dry by foreigners. A plague on the
“Bravo, Felix, that is well said; but if this rumour is really true,
it is time we were doing something. A hundred sworders would make
little impression on an army.”
“Trust our chiefs! The Admiral will be here in an hour or two. I
shall be surprised if we are not out of Noyers by this time to-morrow.”
Bellievre and I were in bed when the Admiral arrived, but the next
morning we discovered that preparations were being made for almost
instant departure. We numbered about a hundred and fifty horsemen, and
by ourselves could have made a spirited fight; but we were hampered by
the presence of our leaders' wives and children, and more than one man
shook his head doubtfully at the thought of meeting the king's troops.
I asked my comrade where we were going, and he replied that there were
as many different opinions as horsemen. “But for my part,” said he, “I
believe our destination is La Rochelle. That has always been the
“'Tis a long journey, and with the women and children a dangerous
one!” I remarked. “We can be ambushed at a thousand places on the
“Then,” said he gaily, “there are a thousand chances of a fight. My
dear Edmond—we seem such good friends that I cannot call you Le
Blanc—do not look so gloomy. To us of the Admiral's house a brush with
the enemy is as natural as breaking one's fast. They know the Coligny
battle-cry by now, I assure you.”
“I am not thinking of ourselves, but of the women and children.”
“Ah,” said he brightly, “that gives us a chance of gaining greater
The sun was always shining and the sky always blue for Felix
Bellievre, and if there were any clouds, he failed to see them. He and
I rode in the rear of the cavalcade, with the Sieur Andelot, Coligny's
brother, and a number of cavaliers belonging to his household. The
weather, fortunately, was dry, but the sun beat down fiercely, and at
times we were half-choked by the dust that rose from beneath our feet.
As Felix had foretold, we struck westward, travelling at a steady
pace, and seeing no sign of the king's troops till shortly before
reaching the Loire, near Sancerre. Then the few cavaliers forming the
extreme rear came riding hurriedly with the information that a large
body of the enemy was pushing on at a tremendous pace with the object
of overtaking us.
“The rear is the post of honour, gentlemen,” said Andelot, with his
pleasant smile—he was, I think, even more kindly than his famous
brother—“but it is also the post of danger. We must keep these troops
at bay until our comrades succeed in discovering a ford,” and we
greeted his words with a loyal cheer.
The situation was in truth an awkward one. Unless our scouts could
find some way of crossing the river we must either surrender or suffer
annihilation, and the word had gone forth that there must be no
yielding. “Faith, Edmond,” exclaimed Felix merrily, “it seems you are
to have a good baptism. One could not wish a better introduction to
knightly feats. Ah, here comes one of Conde's men with news.”
A cavalier galloping back from the advance-guard informed Andelot
that the ford was passable, and that the Prince expected us to keep off
the foe until the ladies, with a small escort, had crossed to the
“The Prince can trust in our devotion,” replied Andelot briefly.
We proceeded steadily and in perfect order, Andelot last of all,
when presently we heard the thunder of hoofs and a loud shout of “For
the King!” as the foremost of the enemy tore pell-mell toward us. We
quickened our pace in seeming alarm, and the royalists rushed on
cheering as if their prey were already secured.
Suddenly Andelot gave the signal; we wheeled as one man, and with a
yell of defiance dashed at them. The surprise was complete. Confident
in their numbers they were riding anyhow, and before they could form we
were upon them. Down they went, horses and riders, while the air was
rent by shouts of “Conde!” “For the Cause!” “For the Admiral!” “Guise!
Guise!” In three minutes after the shock they were flying in wild
confusion back to their infantry.
“Bravo, gentlemen!” cried our leader, as we checked the pursuit and
reformed our ranks, “that is worth half an hour to our friends!”
“A smart affair that,” remarked Bellievre, “but soon over. If Guise
is with the troops we shan't come off so well next time; he is a fine
soldier. But the women and children must have crossed the ford by now.”
We proceeded steadily till the road turned, and here Andelot halted,
evidently expecting another attack. Nor had we long to wait. With a
sweeping rush the enemy returned, headed by a richly-dressed cavalier
on a superb horse, and shouting: “Guise! Guise!”
They outnumbered us by four to one, but we were well placed, and not
a man budged.
“Let them spend their strength,” said our leader, “and when they
waver, charge home!”
The onset was terrific, but not a horseman broke through our ranks;
they crowded upon one another in the narrow pass; they had no room for
the play of their weapons, and while those in the rear were striving to
push forward, the foremost were thrust back upon them in a confused
Then, above the din, was heard Andelot's voice, crying: “Charge,
gentlemen!” and with the force of a hurricane rush we swept them before
us like leaves scattered by an autumn gale. And as we returned, flushed
but triumphant, a second messenger met us.
“They are across, my lord,” he cried, “all but ourselves; and the
Prince is preparing to defend the ford on the farther side of the
river. He begs that you will come immediately; the waters are rising.”
“Forward! Forward!” Laughing and cheering, we raced along, a few
wounded, but none seriously, and most of us unharmed. Our comrades were
marshalled on the opposite bank, and they cried to us to hasten. From
what cause—unless by a direct intervention of Providence—I know not,
but the river was rising rapidly, and the last of our troop were
compelled to swim several yards.
But we reached the bank without mishap, and turning round perceived
our stubborn pursuers advancing at full speed. The foremost horsemen
reaching the river drew rein; the ford was no longer visible, and they
had no means of passage. They wandered along the bank disconsolately,
while we, sending them one last cheer, rode after our van.
“A point in the game to us, Edmond,” said my comrade, “and oddly
gained too. The Admiral's chaplain will make use of that in his next
discourse. He will say that Providence is fighting on our side.”
“'Tis at least a good omen! Had the enemy crossed, we must have been
“Perhaps so; perhaps not. I'll wager Guise is storming over yonder,
at the escape of his prey.”
“But why wasn't the ford guarded?” I asked.
“An oversight, most likely, and a fortunate one for us. However, we
are out of the trap.”
“There is still a long distance to go.”
“Yes, but every day's journey improves our position. Conde feels
secure now; he dreaded only the passage of the Loire. Guise made a huge
blunder which, in the future, will cost him dear.”
Encouraged by our escape, and more so by the strange manner of it,
we rode on with light hearts, chatting gaily about our past adventures,
and looking forward with confidence to our safe arrival at Rochelle.
“I suppose you will throw in your lot with us,” said Bellievre, as
we lay sheltering one noon from the sun's heat; “it is a great honour
to belong to the Admiral's household.”
“I should like it of all things, but there are two objections to the
plan. In the first place the Admiral has not offered me the privilege,
and in the second I must return home. My parents will be alarmed at
such a long absence.”
“Yes,” he said slowly, “you must visit your father and mother. As
for the first objection,” he added mysteriously, “it can be remedied
I did not understand his meaning, but the very next day, as we were
proceeding on our journey, the Admiral came to my side.
“Bellievre tells me,” he said, “that you wish to join my household!”
“My lord,” I replied, flushing crimson—for this speech was very
startling and unexpected—“I can hardly credit that such honour is
within my reach.”
“There is no honour to which the son of the Sieur Le Blanc cannot
aspire,” he said, “and you have already proved yourself a brave lad.
But first you must lay the proposal before your father; if he consents,
you will find me at my house in Rochelle. We pass, I believe, within a
day or two's march of Le Blanc. Is your purse empty?”
“No, my lord, I thank you; I have sufficient for my needs.”
“Very well; you know where to find me, but I warrant Bellievre will
be looking out for you!”
“I shall watch for him eagerly, my lord,” interposed Felix; “he is
too good a comrade to be lost.”
“I owe this to your kindness, Felix,” I remarked when the Admiral
had ridden off.
“Not kindness, my friend, but selfishness. I was thinking not so
much of you, as of Felix Bellievre. I foresee many happy days in store
for us, Edmond.”
“Like the one at Sancerre, for instance!”
“Ah,” he replied brightly, “that is a day to be marked in red. But
there will be others; and, Edmond, do not waste too much time between
Le Blanc and La Rochelle.”
“Unless I am laid by the heels,” I answered laughing, “I shall be at
Rochelle shortly after you!”
CHAPTER V. A Traitor to the King
It was on the evening of the first day in August, 1568, that I rode
into the village of Le Blanc. All day long a pitiless sun had been
beating down on the arid earth, with not one freshening breeze to
temper the intense heat, and even now not a breath of air stirred so
much as a solitary leaf on the trees.
My poor beast dragged wearily along, and his fatigue was scarcely
greater than my own.
“Good old fellow!” I said, stroking his neck affectionately, “a few
hundred yards more and we shall be at home. Food and water, clean
straw, and a shady place for you. Ha, ha, old fellow, that makes you
prick up your ears!”
We trailed along the sun-baked street; the door of every house was
wide open; the villagers, men, women, and children sprawled listlessly
in the coolest places, hardly raising their eyes at the beat of my
But those who did glance up gazed at me curiously, and once or twice
I heard a muttered, “'Tis Monsieur Edmond!” as if I were the last
person they expected to see in my own home. Their strange glances, half
surprise, half pity, made me uncomfortable, and set me wondering
whether any accident had happened.
However, I proceeded slowly as far as the inn, outside which half a
dozen men had congregated, while old Pierre himself stood in the
doorway. They greeted me in wonder, and again I heard some one say,
“'Tis Monsieur Edmond!”
“Well, my friends,” I exclaimed, with perhaps a suggestion of
annoyance in my voice, “is there any reason why it should not be
Monsieur Edmond? Did you think me dead, or has the heat affected your
brains? Speak up, some of you!”
“Is monsieur going to the castle?” asked Pierre.
“Of course I am!” I answered half angrily.
“Perhaps monsieur will dismount and enter the inn. Things have
happened since monsieur went away.”
A great fear seized me, but, keeping my features under control, I
slipped from the saddle, and, bidding the ostler take charge of the
animal, followed Pierre into the one private room the inn contained.
“Now, Pierre,” I exclaimed, “tell me the story quickly, in as few
words as possible.”
“First then, monsieur,” began the old man in his quavering voice,
“it is useless going to the castle, as it is shut up.”
“The castle shut up!” I cried in astonishment. “Well, go on with the
story; it promises plenty of interest.”
“Shortly after your departure, monsieur, many rumours spread abroad.
Some said one thing, some mother; but no one knew the truth. Then, one
night, your father sent for me to the castle. He ordered me to watch
for your return, and to tell you he had gone to Rochelle. Not another
word, monsieur, except that you were to join him, and to keep out of
the way of the king's troops.”
“This is strange news!” I said.
“Your father must have gone away that night, monsieur, for next day
the castle was deserted. And it was well he did not stay longer,” the
old man concluded, with a wise shake of the head.
“Why?” I asked anxiously.
“The next night, monsieur, we were roused from sleep by the tramping
of soldiers. I ran to the window and looked out. There were more than
two hundred of them marching through the village. On arriving at the
castle, they found they were too late. Their leader was very angry; he
raved like a madman.”
“Did you go to listen to him?”
“No, monsieur, he slept here at the inn. The next day he had all the
villagers drawn up outside, and made them a grand speech. Had it not
been for his soldiers, I think he would not have left the village
“Then he made the good folk angry?”
“Monsieur, it was terrible. He said the Sieur Le Blanc was a traitor
to the king, that he had harboured one of the king's enemies, and that
his life was forfeit to the law. Any man was to shoot him like a dog.
He said all this, monsieur, and more, much more. Then he called in the
leading men one by one, and questioned them closely, but they knew
“He should have asked you, Pierre.”
“He did, monsieur, but he said I was a stupid dolt, with no more
sense than one of my own casks!” and the old man broke into a hearty
“You had a guest the night I went away; he left early in the
morning. Who was he?”
“I do not know, monsieur. He was a stranger who wished to learn all
he could about the chief folk in the district; but he was an enemy to
the Cause, and he did not carry away much information. Old Pierre was
too dense to understand his questions,” and the old man chuckled again.
“Well,” I said after a pause, “since it is useless going to the
castle, I must put up here for the night. I am tired and hungry. Get me
some supper and a bed; meanwhile I must attend to my horse; the poor
beast has carried me far.”
Pierre's information was very disquieting, but, as my father had
evidently received timely warning, I trusted he had effected his
escape, and that by this time he was safely sheltered behind the strong
walls of La Rochelle.
When Pierre brought in the supper I asked after Jacques, and,
hearing he had not returned, told the landlord to inform him of what
had happened. Whether he would endeavour to get into Rochelle or not I
left to himself.
I ate my supper slowly, my mind fully occupied with this
extraordinary occurrence. Why had my father thus suddenly been marked
down for vengeance? He was a noted Huguenot, 'twas true, but he was not
a leader such as Conde or the Admiral. He had sheltered the wounded
messenger, and had allowed me to carry the warning to Tanlay.
This, of course, was sufficient to incur the Queen-Mother's
displeasure; but how had the knowledge reached her? Who was there at Le
Blanc able and willing to betray our secrets? Not a soul, unless——!
Ah, the name leaped of itself into my mind. Who was the maker of
mischief but Etienne Cordel?
I put together all that I had heard of this man whom Jacques
detested so thoroughly. He was a lawyer, who, by some means, had
amassed wealth and lands. Numerous stories, all evil, were related of
him, and it was rumoured that he had long served as a useful tool to
persons in high places. At least he had prospered exceedingly in some
mysterious manner, and it was said he had been promised a patent of
nobility. I called for Pierre, and asked if he had heard anything fresh
lately of this upstart lawyer.
“No, monsieur,” he answered, “Cordel had gone away before the
soldiers came, and he has not yet returned. He went hurriedly, after a
visit from the cavalier who slept here. Monsieur does not think——”
“For the present I think nothing, Pierre. I am tired and will go to
bed. Get me an early breakfast, so that I can proceed on my journey in
the cool of the morning.”
Of what use were my suspicions, even if I proved them to be correct?
The mischief was done, and I could not undo it. My father was a
fugitive from his home, to which he dared not return, and it only
remained for me to join him.
I went to bed, and, in spite of my anxiety, was soon asleep, for the
long journey from Noyers had been both tedious and fatiguing. Pierre
called me early, and while the village still slumbered I set forth.
“Monsieur goes to Rochelle?” asked the old man, as I vaulted lightly
into the saddle.
“Yes, at present I intend going to Rochelle.”
“It is said here that the war has begun again.”
“If it has not, it soon will, Pierre, and when it is finished, the
Sieur Le Blanc will once more be master of his castle.”
“Heaven grant it, monsieur,” said he earnestly, as I rode off.
The state of the country west of Le Blanc was even more deplorable
than what I had seen during my journey to Tanlay. The fields were bare
both of corn and of cattle; the villagers were starving; the people of
the towns went about in fear and trembling; the king's troops robbed as
they pleased without restraint.
At Poictiers I found the citizens in a state of dangerous
excitement. Armed bands, some Huguenots, some Catholics, patrolled the
streets, singing and shouting, and uttering threats of vengeance.
Fearful of being mixed up in these disturbances, I alighted before the
door of the first decent inn, gave my horse to the ostler, and entered.
“Your streets are a trifle dangerous for a peaceful traveller,” I
remarked to the landlord, who showed me to a room.
“What would you, monsieur?” he asked, with a shrug of the shoulders;
“the times are evil. These miserable heretics disturb the whole country
with their senseless brawls. But the mischief will be stamped out
“How?” I said. “Has not the king granted them the privilege of
worshipping in their own way?”
“Ah, monsieur, that was meant but for a time. The Queen-Mother will
make a clean sweep of their rights as soon as she has power enough. And
it is said,” here he lowered his voice to a confidential whisper, “that
a royal army is already marching from Paris. But monsieur is hungry?”
“Hungry and thirsty both,” I replied. “What is that?” for the sounds
of angry voices came from the outside.
“It is nothing, monsieur; some one has drawn a knife, perhaps, and
there is a little fighting, but that is all. One does not regard these
things,” and he hurried off to prepare my meal.
After leaving Poictiers, I avoided the towns as much as possible,
though travelling in the country districts was nearly as hazardous. The
peasants having no work, and being without food, had formed themselves
into robber bands, and more than once I owed my safety to the fleetness
of my horse.
However, on the evening of the second day, I reached Rochelle, just
as the gates were being closed. The streets were filled with citizens
and Huguenot soldiers, and it was apparent that the illustrious
fugitives had arrived safely at their stronghold.
Being a stranger to the city I rode slowly along the street, noting
the houses, and scanning the people closely, on the chance of
discovering a familiar face. In all my solitary wanderings I had not
felt as lonely as I did now, amidst a seething crowd of my
The first thing, of course, was to find my father, but on coming to
the Hotel Coligny, I resolved to dismount and to seek out Felix
Bellievre. Fortunately, he was within, and I received a hearty welcome,
which caused me to feel once more as if I belonged to the world of
“Faith, Edmond,” he cried cheerily, “the grass has not grown under
your feet! I did not expect you until to-morrow, at the earliest.”
“One does not care to linger around an empty nest,” I replied
“Empty only for a short time, I hope. Do not look so astonished. I
have seen your father. More than that, I have been presented to your
sister. Already I am a friend of the family! I will conduct you to the
house, if you wish. Come, I have plenty of leisure, and you will serve
as an excellent excuse for my visit.”
“How did you happen to become acquainted with my father?” I asked,
as we walked along.
“In the simplest way imaginable, my dear Edmond. He called to pay
his respects to the Admiral; being on duty at the time, I heard his
name, and made myself known as your friend. He was eager to hear news
of you, and carried me off. I met your sister, and you will not be
surprised that within twenty-four hours I was repeating my visit. You
see there were so many things to tell her about yourself,” and he
“Are they depressed by what has happened?”
“Not in the least; they regard it as a trial of their faith; but
here we are at the house. I fear you will not see your estimable aunt;
she is an invalid, and keeps strictly to her own rooms. Ah, here is one
of the servants; let him attend to your animal, and I will announce
you. Your sister will fall on your neck and embrace you. Do you think
it possible for us to change parts for a few minutes?”
He was still laughing and talking in his madcap way when a door
opened, and my father came towards us.
“Edmond!” he cried, on seeing me, “now this is indeed bright
sunshine gleaming through the dark clouds. Monsieur Bellievre, you are
doubly welcome, for your own sake and for what you bring with you!”
The memory of the pleasant evening that followed I treasured for
many years. I sat beside my mother, my hand clasped in hers, telling
her the story of my adventures. Jeanne was full of high spirits, while
Felix was simply overflowing with wit and good-humoured drollery.
The only drawback to our enjoyment was the absence of the trusted
Jacques, but even that was slight, as he was not seriously wounded, and
from the household of the noble Count St. Cyr he was certain to receive
Nothing was said that evening about the visit of the troops to Le
Blanc, but the next morning I had a long talk with my father on the
subject. I told him what I had learned from old Pierre, and also my
suspicions concerning Etienne Cordel.
“The advocate is a scheming rogue,” he said, “who bears me no
goodwill because I have laughed at his pretensions to be considered our
equal. He is in the pay of Monseigneur, and he has acted as a spy on
those of the Religion; but, unless he heard of the affair of the
letter, he could do me no harm.”
“He must have heard of it from the stranger with whom we travelled,”
I declared. “Jacques distrusted him from the first, and believed he was
one of those who attacked Devine. Did he recover?”
“Yes; he is in Rochelle, fretting and fuming at having been
prevented from fulfilling his mission. But to return to our own
affairs. Have you considered what this proclamation means?”
“That your life is in danger.”
“A bagatelle, Edmond. It has been in danger these many years. There
is something far more serious. As a traitor to the king, my estates are
forfeit, and you will grow up to see another man master of the land
which by right is yours. It is a heavy price for you to pay, my boy.”
Now I hold it folly to pretend that this caused me no grief, but I
was young and enthusiastic, and sensible enough to know that any sign
of sorrow would add to my father's unhappiness. So I looked straight
into his eyes and said brightly, “Others have paid a heavy price for
their faith without murmuring; I am strong enough to do the same.”
He held me in his arms and kissed my cheeks, saying: “Now God bless
and reward you for those brave words, my son,” and never before in all
my life had I seen him so deeply moved.
CHAPTER VI. The Unknown Cavalier
My father had already accepted the Admiral's kind offer, so, after a
few days of idleness, I began my new duties, meeting with a genial
reception from my future comrades, several of whom were but a little
older than myself.
Every day now some fresh note of alarm sounded. The king withdrew
the privileges he had granted to those of the Religion, and from
several quarters we learned that civil war in all but the name had
broken out afresh. It was said, too, that the king had given command of
the royal army to his brother, the Duke of Anjou, with orders to
exterminate us, root and branch.
“Anjou!” laughed my comrade, “why, he is only a boy! He should be
doing his lessons. Has the king provided him with a nurse?”
“Yes,” I replied, “he will find Marshal Tavannes a very capable
“Oh, that is the way of it, eh? Faith, 'tis a good plan, for, see
you, Edmond, if there be any glory 'twill go to Anjou, while Tavannes
can take the discredit. A capital arrangement—that is, from
Monseigneur's point of view!”
Meanwhile numbers of Huguenot gentlemen with their retainers were
arriving at Rochelle, and our leaders were soon able to muster a
respectable little army.
“Anjou must make haste if he wishes to cover himself with glory,”
said Felix one morning. “The Queen of Navarre will be here to-morrow,
bringing four thousand Bearnese with her. They are sturdy fellows and
“There is another item of news,” I said. “The English queen is
sending money and guns!”
“Ah,” responded my comrade, “the English are stupid! Why don't they
join us boldly? We are fighting for the same object, and against the
same enemy. For, mark you, Edmond, our real foes are Spain and the
Pope, which these English will find out one of these days! If we get
beaten, it will be their turn next.”
We gave the brave Queen of Navarre and her troops a right royal
reception, but to me the most interesting figure in the procession was
her son, Henry, on whom in the years to come the hopes of so many
Frenchmen were centred. He was quite a boy, only fifteen years old, but
he had a strong and capable face, full of fire and energy. His hair had
a reddish tinge, his skin was brown but clear, and he had well-shaped
regular features. His eyes had a sweet expression, and when he smiled
his whole face lit up with animation. He sat his horse with extreme
grace, and responded to the plaudits of the crowd with courtly bows.
“A gallant lad!” exclaimed Felix delightedly. “He has the makings of
a soldier, and in a year or two will be a tower of strength to us.”
The talk now among the younger men was of moving out from Rochelle,
scattering the Royalists, marching on Paris, and dictating peace in the
palace. It was astonishing how easy these things appeared to be, as we
sat and gossiped idly in the Admiral's ante-chamber! Fortunately,
however, our leaders, being in possession of cooler heads and clearer
brains, decided otherwise, and when winter came, making a campaign
impossible, we were still inside the walls.
During the autumn we were joined by a troop of English gentlemen,
about a hundred strong, under the leadership of one named Henry
Champernoun. They were mostly young, of good birth and family, very
gallant fellows, and as eager to fight as the most headstrong of us.
With one of them—Roger Braund, a lad about the same age as
Felix—we soon became very friendly. He was fair and handsome, with
sparkling blue eyes and shapely features. He was tall and well made, a
skilful horseman, and an astonishing master of fence. Few of us could
equal him with the sword, but he was modest and unassuming, and had a
genial manner, very captivating.
He was a frequent visitor at my aunt's house, where he speedily
became as great a favourite as Felix. Indeed, I sometimes thought that
Jeanne regarded him with even more favour. She spent much time in his
company, listening to his accounts of the English Court and of his own
home, which was situated in a district called Devonshire. I think Felix
was not too well pleased with this intimacy, but whatever sorrow it
caused him he kept locked up in his own breast.
One evening, they started together to the house, expecting me to
follow as soon as I was relieved of my duty. It was, I remember, about
a half after six, when I left the hotel. The streets as usual were
thronged with citizens and soldiers, who in some places almost blocked
the road. In front of me was a horseman, to all appearance but newly
arrived. He was proceeding at a foot pace, and evidently looking for
“A fine beast!” I thought, glancing at the animal, and then—“Surely
I have seen that horse before!”
The knowledge did not come to me at once, but by degrees I
remembered the early morning ride through the sleeping village of Le
Blanc, and the richly-dressed cavalier with whom we had travelled some
distance. I quickened my steps, and scanned the rider closely. I could
not see his face well, but there could be no mistaking the alert,
soldierly figure, and the short, brown curls escaping over the
“Faith, my friend,” I said to myself, “the tables are turned now!
One word from me, and you would be torn in pieces; but you must be a
brave rascal to venture alone into Rochelle! If Anjou has many spies as
fearless as you, he must be well served.”
I walked close behind him, wondering what was best to be done. He
was certainly a spy, who had entered the city for the purpose of
searching out our strength and weakness. Perhaps it would be best to
call a patrol, and have him arrested on the spot. I was still
considering this, when he turned up a side street and dismounted before
the door of an inn. An ostler led his horse to the stables, and he
entered the house.
Now the fellow was so completely in my power that I had the mind to
watch him a little further. Several persons were in the room, but he
had taken his place at an unoccupied table in the corner, and called
for the host.
“Some food and a little wine,” he said, “but serve me quickly; I
have important business on hand.”
“Monsieur has travelled?” said the landlord, with a glance at his
“Yes,” he answered, “and one feels safer inside Rochelle than beyond
its walls, let me tell you!”
“What is Anjou doing now, monsieur?” asked a man at one of the other
“Killing,” said the stranger briefly. “Rochelle will soon be able to
hold all those left of the Religion.”
“I vow,” exclaimed an iron-featured trooper, “it makes one wonder
our leaders should keep us cooped up here.”
“You had better offer your opinion to the Admiral, or to Conde,”
said the stranger with a laugh, and he turned his attention to the food
that had been set before him.
He ate and drank quickly, taking no further part in the
conversation, but apparently as much at ease as if sitting at Anjou's
“You will require a room, monsieur?” said the host presently.
“I will pay for one, though I may not use it.”
“And your horse, monsieur?”
“Will remain in the stables.”
He had nearly finished his meal now, and, acting on a sudden
impulse, I crossed the room and sat down opposite him. He looked up at
me in a casual way, and the next instant understood he was discovered.
But the man had nerves of iron; not a muscle of his face moved; only by
the sudden light in his eyes did I know that he recognized me.
“The game is to me, monsieur,” I said simply.
“Yes,” he agreed, “the game is yours, but do not claim the stakes
until I have spoken with you.”
“The game is altogether finished, monsieur, and you have lost; you
cannot throw again.”
“A fig for the game!” he said; “you have but to raise your voice,
and these bloodhounds will bury their fangs in my heart. I know that,
and do not complain. I ask only a few hours' freedom.”
“Surely, monsieur, in the circumstance, that is a strange request!”
“A riddle is always strange when one does not possess the key. For
instance, you believe I have entered Rochelle as a spy.”
“And yet you are mistaken. I suppose you will laugh at my story, but
I must tell it you. You know me only as an opponent.”
“A clever and a daring one.”
“And yet you foiled me! But that is not to the point. My name is
Renaud L'Estang. My father was a gentleman, poor and without influence;
I had good blood in my veins but no money in my purse. My only chance
of wealth lay in my sword. I sold it to the highest bidder. In short,
monsieur, I am an adventurer, no better and no worse than thousands of
“And in the pay of the League!”
“At present,” he corrected, with a courteous inclination of the
head, “in the service of the Duke of Anjou.”
“Why did you attack me at Nevers?”
“To obtain possession of the letter of whose contents we were in
“And you denounced my father to the Duke!”
“There you wrong me. I endeavoured to capture the letter; I failed,
and my part in the affair was over; but again I am wandering from the
point, which is to explain my presence in Rochelle. Monsieur, has it
ever occurred to you that a man who earns his livelihood by his sword
may have a heart the same as more innocent persons?”
“No one is without some virtue,” I said.
“There is one person in the world,” he continued, in low earnest
tones, almost as if communing with himself, “who has all my love and
affection. For her I would willingly die, or suffer the worst tortures
a fiend could invent. Monsieur, there is but one person on earth who
loves me and whom I love; and she is in Rochelle, lying at the point of
“Your wife?” I said questioningly.
“My mother!” he replied. “In her eyes, monsieur, I possess all the
virtues. It is strange, is it not?” and he laughed a trifle bitterly.
“And you risked your life to comfort her before she died?”
“Bah!” he exclaimed impatiently, “what is a trifle like that?
Monsieur, I never yet begged a favour, but I beg one now. Not for
myself, but for her. You are young, and have a mother of your own! I
shall not plead to you vainly. I tried to kill you, but you will not
take your revenge on her. And I am altogether in your power.”
“Yes,” I said slowly, “that is true.”
“You can send for a guard, but without explaining your object. They
can surround the house, while I close my mother's eyes, and afterwards
I am at your service. The gallows, the block, or the wheel, as your
leaders direct; you will not lose much.”
“No, I shall not lose much,” I repeated.
Now, strangely perhaps, I felt not the slightest doubt of the man's
story. His good faith was apparent in every tone and every gesture.
Whatever his vices, he loved his mother with his whole heart. And he
was entirely in my power! Even if he got away from me in the streets he
could not leave Rochelle! I thought of my own mother, and hesitated no
longer. I could not keep these two apart.
“Monsieur,” I said, “for good or ill I intend to trust you. We will
go together to your home, and—and afterwards you will return with me
to the Hotel Coligny. If you abuse my confidence, I will leave
your punishment in the hands of God, who judges Huguenot and Catholic
alike. Come, let us hasten.”
He made no violent protestations, but murmured brokenly: “May the
blessing of a dying woman reward you!”
We passed out of the inn together, and walked briskly through the
streets, until we reached a house not far from the harbour. The door
was opened by a middle-aged woman who gazed at my companion in
“Hush!” he said softly, “am I in time?”
“For the end,” she answered, “only for that. Madame has already
received the last rites.”
The woman showed us into an empty room, where my companion laid
aside his weapons.
“You do not repent of your generosity?” he asked.
“I have trusted you fully,” I replied, and his face lit up with a
gratified smile as he left the room, stepping noiselessly into the
The servant brought a light, and some refreshments, but they stood
before me untasted. I was busy with my thoughts. The house was very
still; not a sound broke the silence, not the murmur of a voice, nor
the fall of a footstep. I might have been in a house of the dead.
Suddenly the door was pushed open noiselessly, and the adventurer
stood before me beckoning. I rose from my seat and followed him without
a word into another apartment. In the bed in the alcove a woman lay
dying. She must have been beautiful in her youth, and traces of beauty
still lingered on her face. She stretched out her hands and drew my
head down to hers.
“Renaud tells me you have done him a great service,” she said
feebly. “It is through you that he was able to come to me. A dying
woman blesses you, monsieur, and surely the saints will reward you. A
goodly youth! A goodly youth! May God hold you in His holy keeping!
Treasure him, Renaud, my son, even to the giving of your life for his!”
Her eyes closed, she sank back exhausted, and I stole from the room.
How my heart ached that night! “Treasure him, Renaud!” Poor soul! How
merciful that she should die ignorant of the wretched truth! “Even to
the giving of your life for his!” And his life was in my hands already!
Oh, the pity, the horror of it! She called on God to bless me, and I
was about to lead her only son straight from her death-bed to the
For I could not disguise from myself the fact that this man would
die the death of a spy. Ambroise Devine was in Rochelle, and he would
show no mercy. And, terrible as it might seem, there were those in the
city who would scout the idea that Renaud L'Estang had risked his life
solely to visit his dying mother. “He is a spy,” they would declare
hotly; “let him die a spy's death!”
“It is not my fault,” I said to myself angrily; “he has lost; he
must pay forfeit!”
“A dying woman blesses you, and surely the saints will reward you!”
The room was filled with the words; they buzzed in my ears, and beat
into my brain continually; I could not rid myself of them. “A dying
woman!” Ay, perhaps a dead woman by now, and her son following swiftly
as the night the day! I could have cried aloud in my agony of mind.
CHAPTER VII. A Commission for the
“It is over, monsieur.”
Renaud L'Estang stood before me, his face drawn and haggard, and
heavy with a great grief. He had stolen in noiselessly; his sword and
pistol lay within reach of his hand; he might have killed me without
effort, and saved his own life. The thought flashed into my mind, but
died away instantly. From the moment when he told his story I had never
once mistrusted him.
“Your mother has passed away?” I questioned in a tone of sympathy.
“She died in my arms; her last moments were full of peace. Now, I am
at your service.”
“You are faint,” I said. “Will it not be advisable to break your
fast before starting out? You will need all your strength.”
“I cannot eat.”
“Yet it is necessary. Pardon me if I summon your servant.”
He allowed himself to be treated almost as a child, eating and
drinking mechanically what was set before him, hardly conscious of my
presence, unable to detach his thoughts from the sombre picture in the
adjoining apartment. At last he had finished, and I said gently, “Have
you made arrangements for your mother's burial?”
“They are all made,” he replied gravely.
“There is your sword,” I remarked, pointing to the weapon lying on
“Let it lie monsieur,” he answered with a mournful smile; “a dead
man has no use for a sword.”
Now I may have done a very foolish thing, for this L'Estang was a
daring soldier, crafty, able, and resolute. He was an enemy to be
feared far more than many a general in the armies of the League. All
this was well known to me, and yet I could not harden my heart against
him. I had meant to denounce him to the Admiral, but at the last moment
my courage failed. How could I condemn to death this man who had freely
risked his life to comfort his mother's last moments?
“Monsieur,” I said awkwardly, “listen to me. When I met you in the
city, I jumped to the conclusion that you had come to Rochelle as a
spy. You told me your story, and I believed it; but you have doubtless
many enemies who will laugh at it. They will say——”
“Nothing, monsieur; I shall go to the block without words. Renaud
L'Estang will find no mercy in Rochelle, and asks none.”
There was no hint of bravado in his speech; it was but the
expression of a man of intrepid courage and iron will.
“Once more listen,” I said. “Had you come to Rochelle as a spy I
should have handed you over to our troops without hesitation; but I am
regarding you, not as the servant of Anjou but as a tender and loving
son. I cannot have on my hands the blood of a man who has shown such
affection for his mother. I propose to accompany you to the gate, and
there to set you at liberty.”
He stood like one suddenly stricken dumb. His limbs trembled, the
muscles of his face twitched convulsively; he gazed at me with unseeing
“Monsieur,” he said after a time, “I do not comprehend. Is it that
you give me, Renaud L'Estang, my life? No, I must have mistaken your
“You have made no mistake. As far as I am concerned you are free. I
ask but one thing, Renaud L'Estang. Some day you may be able to show
mercy to one of your foes. Should such a time arrive, remember that
once mercy was not withheld from you.”
He did not speak, but motioned me with his hand to follow him. We
entered the chamber of death, and he knelt reverently by the bedside.
Then, in low, passionate tones, calling on the dead woman by name, he
made a solemn vow that, should it ever be in his power, he would repay
the debt he owed me, even at the sacrifice of life and all he held most
“I must fight for my side,” he said, “but no Huguenot shall ever
seek quarter from me in vain.”
He buckled on his sword, and we went out together in the dull grey
morning. Few persons were abroad, and none presumed to question one of
the Admiral's household. My companion fetched his horse from the inn,
and I walked with him until we were well beyond the walls of the town.
Then I came to a halt, saying: “Here we part; now you must depend on
yourself for safety.”
He doffed his plumed hat. “Monsieur,” he said, “the friends of
Renaud L'Estang would laugh on being told he was at a loss for words;
yet it is true. I cannot express my gratitude; I can but pray that I
may have an opportunity of proving it. Good-bye!”
“Good-bye!” I replied, and when he had ridden some distance I
returned thoughtfully to the city.
Felix, who was on duty at the hotel, looked at me curiously. “Where
have you been?” he asked. “We expected you last night, and concluded
you must have been detained on some special service. I have been
wearing myself to a shadow on your account!”
I made some commonplace excuse and left him, saying I was tired and
wished to sleep; for, though I did not regret my action, I could hardly
refrain from doubting its wisdom.
At first the incident occupied a large portion of my thoughts, but
as the days passed into weeks the memory of it wore off.
Winter had set in, and we knew the campaign would not open until the
spring of the next year. It was a trying time; the cold was
intense—the oldest veteran had never known such a keen frost—and much
sickness broke out among the troops. The good Admiral tended them with
the devotion of a father, spending himself in their service, and we of
his household were kept busy from morning till night.
In spite of every care, however, our losses were enormous, and the
prospect became very gloomy. Every one looked forward with eagerness to
the coming of spring.
“If the winter lasts much longer,” said Roger Braund, one night when
we had all met at my aunt's house, “there will be no army left.”
“A little more patience,” my father exclaimed smilingly; “once the
campaign begins you will have no cause to complain of inaction!”
“Faith,” laughed Felix, “if he rides with the Admiral, he will be
regretting sometimes having left the comforts of Rochelle.”
“I shall probably do that,” said Roger, glancing at my sister, “even
without the hard riding.”
“Then you are a caitiff knight and no true soldier,” I broke in
hastily, for Jeanne was blushing furiously, and my comrade's face had
lost its merriment; “but, really, things are becoming serious; more
than a score of men have died to-day!”
“Poor fellows!” said my mother tenderly; “if those who force us into
these cruel wars could only realize the misery they cause!”
“I fear, madame,” remarked Roger, “that the suffering troubles them
little, as long as they can gain their ends.”
About a week after this conversation there were signs that our long
inactivity was drawing to a close. The weather became far milder; the
ice began to thaw, and it was possible for the soldiers to pass the
nights in some degree of comfort. Orders were issued to the various
leaders, carts were collected and filled with stores, bodies of troops
marched out from the city, and preparations for the campaign were
actively pushed forward.
“I really believe,” said Felix one morning, “that we are about to
move. Conde has issued instructions for all his followers to hold
themselves in readiness, and a body of infantry left Rochelle an hour
We were on duty in the Admiral's ante-chamber, and my comrade had
just finished speaking when our leader, attended as usual by the Sieur
de Guerchy, ascended the staircase. He glanced round at us with his
kindly smile, and, clapping me lightly on the shoulder, exclaimed: “A
word with you in my room, Monsieur Le Blanc.”
Expecting some trifling commission, such as often fell to his
gentlemen of the bodyguard, I followed him into the apartment, and
stood waiting to hear his commands.
“A prudent youth, De Guerchy,” he remarked to his companion, “and
not without experience. He it was who brought the timely warning to
Tanlay. His father is the Sieur Le Blanc.”
“A gallant soldier!” said De Guerchy with decision.
“And I think the lad will follow in his father's footsteps. I am
about to send him to Saint Jean d'Angely, and to Cognac,” adding, with
a laugh, “'tis a far less distance than to Tanlay.”
“But the commission is almost as important,” said De Guerchy.
“Much less dangerous though,” and, turning to me, he added: “Can you
carry a letter to the commandant at Cognac?”
“I will do my best, my lord.”
“Then make your preparations; I shall be ready for you at the end of
I saluted and returned to the ante-chamber, where Felix, catching
sight of my smiling face, exclaimed: “More good fortune, Edmond? I
shall be jealous of you soon! Why do the Fates select you for their
“It is an affair of little importance,” I said.
“Does it carry you away from Rochelle?”
“A short distance; but I must attend to my horse; our patron is in a
hurry,” and expecting that we should meet later I hurried away.
Having saddled my horse and put my pistols in order I paid a hasty
visit home, though fully expecting to be back in the city within a few
days. My father, however, thought my absence would be for a longer
“The truth is, Edmond,” he said, “that the campaign has opened. Some
of the troops have already started, and Coligny himself leaves the city
before night. So, should you be charged with a message for him, you are
not likely to return to Rochelle.”
“And you?” I asked.
“I am waiting for orders, I may march with the troops, or remain
here; it depends on our leaders.”
My father's information put a greyer colour on the farewell; Jeanne
and my mother embraced me very tenderly, and neither could altogether
keep back the tell-tale tears. Still, they were very brave, and when at
last I rode off, they stood at the window waving their handkerchiefs
and smiling, though I suspect the smiles quickly faded after I
disappeared from sight.
I found the hotel in a state of commotion, and Felix, who met me in
the lobby, exclaimed excitedly: “It has begun, Edmond; we march almost
immediately. I am just going to say good-bye to your sister. Will you
be away from us long?”
“I think not. I am carrying a despatch to the commandants at Saint
Jean d'Angely and Cognac. Afterwards I shall rejoin you.”
“Till we meet again then,” said he, hurriedly, anxious to make the
most of the short time still at his disposal.
Several of our leaders besides De Guerchy were with the Admiral, and
from time to time one of them came out, mounted his horse, and galloped
off. Presently the door opened, and De Guerchy called me inside, where
the Admiral handed me two packets.
“One for the commandant at Saint Jean d'Angely,” he said, “and one
for him at Cognac. From Cognac you will proceed to Angouleme, unless
you meet with us on the way. I need not warn you to be prudent and
vigilant, nor remind you that these despatches must not fall into the
hands of an enemy. Start at once; you should reach Saint Jean d'Angely
I took the packets, placed them securely inside my doublet, and,
after a last word of caution from De Guerchy, left the room. The news
of the coming movement had spread throughout the town and the streets
were crowded. The excitement was intense, and I witnessed many sad
scenes; for every one understood that of the thousands who marched from
Rochelle comparatively few would return.
Heavy carts, and big, clumsy guns—chiefly useful for making a
noise—rumbled along; dashing cavaliers with flaunting favours bestrode
their horses proudly; sturdy foot-soldiers carrying murderous pike or
deadly arquebus tramped steadily onward, while weeping children and
silent, white-faced women stood bowed with grief.
Even beyond the gates I found crowds of people who had come thus
far, loth to say the last farewell to their dear ones; but after a
while I left the throng behind, and set my horse into a canter. Now and
again I overtook a body of troops, marching cheerfully, and singing
their favourite hymns. They, too, were tired of inaction, and eager to
plunge into the strife.
With the falling of darkness I slackened my pace, riding carefully,
listening for any unusual sounds, and peering into the gloom. I had not
forgotten my former adventure, but nothing untoward happened, and
shortly after midnight I drew rein at the gate of the town.
“Your business?” exclaimed the officer of the guard.
“I am from Rochelle, with a despatch for your commandant.”
“From the Prince?”
“From the Admiral—it is all one.”
The gate was opened, and, having dismounted, I led my horse forward
by the bridle.
“You have had a dark ride, monsieur.”
“But a safe one,” I answered, laughing. “Where is the commandant to
be found? He will not feel well pleased at being wakened from his
“Ah, you do not know him! He is like the owl, and sleeps only in the
daylight. At other times he watches; he is going the rounds now, and
will be with us in a few minutes. It will need a craftier leader than
Anjou to take Saint Jean d'Angely by surprise! Ah, here is the
A veteran soldier, with white moustaches, white hair, and grizzled
beard! A strongly-built man of middle height, with resolute, determined
face, and an air that betokened long years of command.
“A despatch from the Admiral, monsieur,” I said, saluting and
handing him the packet.
Tearing off the covering, he read the letter by the light of a
torch, folded the paper, and put it away carefully. By his face one
could not judge whether the information he had received was good or
“You are from Rochelle?” he asked sharply.
“I have just ridden from there, monsieur.”
“And are you returning?”
“No, monsieur. I am proceeding to Cognac.”
“You have had a brisk ride, and your horse is in leed of rest. Come
He conducted me to an inn, wakened the landlord, and did not leave
until my horse was comfortably stabled, and preparations for a good
supper were in progress. Then he said: “You will be starting early in
the morning. Have a care on your journey to Cognac. Bodies of the enemy
have been prowling around the district for some days.”
“I thank you, monsieur. I was unaware they had ventured so far
“They are striking, I think, at Angouleme,” he said; “I have sent a
courier to Rochelle with the news. Good-night! And don't let the
rascals snap you up.”
The supper was an excellent one, the bed delightfully cosy and
inviting, and my last thought was one of regret at having to leave it
so soon. However, I turned out at the landlord's warning, made another
hearty meal—these journeys were keen sharpeners of the appetite—and
before the day was fairly awake had started in cheerful spirits for
CHAPTER VIII. The Tragedy of Jarnac
What led to the dismal disaster that overtook us at the very opening
of the campaign I cannot say. Some ascribe it to the rashness of the
Prince, who was certainly a very impetuous leader; but it is ill work
buffeting the dead, and profitless also. And if his fiery temper did,
indeed, bring about the mischance, he exerted himself as a gallant
gentleman to retrieve his error.
By great good fortune, as it appeared afterwards, I had carried my
despatch safely to Cognac, and was now, after spending a night in the
town, riding along the bank of the Charente in the direction of
Angouleme. I had not encountered any of Anjou's troopers, though at
Cognac it was strongly rumoured they were in the neighbourhood.
The day was cold and somewhat cloudy, the sun shining out only at
intervals, and there was a suspicion of rain in the air. Partly to
restore the circulation, and partly to ease my horse—for we were
ascending a hill—I had dismounted, and was walking briskly along at
the animal's side.
From the brow of the hill I had a clear view of the wide plain
stretching before me. Huddled together in one corner was the cluster of
houses forming the village of Jarnac, where I intended to break my
journey. Presently, however, I caught sight of something which put all
thought of food and rest out of my head. A body of cavalry had halted
on the plain. Some of the men were lying down, some drinking from the
brook, but scouts were stationed at a distance from the main body to
give warning of any hostile approach.
“This is either Anjou or Conde,” I thought, “and in any case it is
necessary to discover which.”
Still leading my horse, I crept down the hill, and advanced some
distance across the plain, ready directly danger threatened to mount
and ride. As soon, however, as I drew close enough to distinguish the
scouts I saw they were friends, and went on boldly.
Where was Coligny? They did not know; they had parted company with
the infantry some time previously. Leaving them, I proceeded to the
main body, and in passing a group of cavaliers, heard my name called by
a voice I recognized as Roger Braund's.
“Why are you wandering about here?” he asked.
“Faith,” I laughed, “I might put that very same question to you!
Where are Coligny and the troops? I did not expect to meet with half an
“Say, rather, a third; we have not a gun, nor even a man to carry a
“But what does it mean?”
“Perhaps that I don't understand your mode of warfare. We have been
marching and countermarching for hours, with no other result as yet
than wearing out our animals; but I warrant the Prince has his
“If there is a man with brains in the enemy's council,” said another
Englishman, “we shall rejoin our infantry only in the next world. We
are scarcely fifteen hundred strong, and I heard this morning that
Anjou has at least three thousand.”
“Two to one,” I remarked carelessly, “the Prince has fought against
even heavier odds. But——”
“Mount, mount, messieurs; Anjou is advancing!”
The scouts came galloping in with their warning; the cry was
repeated on all sides; men running to their horses mounted hurriedly;
officers shouted commands; in an instant all was activity.
“You showed little wisdom in stumbling on us to-day,” said Roger.
“You would have been better off with your own leader.”
“At least I make one more!”
“Yes,” he replied, “and a pity too. But come along, you will ride
with us, and I promise we will not disgrace you. A fair field for a
charge, Edward!” addressing one of his comrades.
“I would rather it were a pitched battle,” replied the other; “with
our numbers we can do no more than ride them down.”
“The Prince! The Prince!” cried one, and presently Conde came riding
along our ranks. He had opened his helmet; his face was full of high
resolve, his eyes flashed fire.
“Gentlemen!” he exclaimed, “here is the chance for which we have
waited. Let us begin the campaign with a victory, and we shall finish
it the sooner.”
We greeted his words with a cheer; the English shouted “Hurrah!”
which sounded strangely in our ears, and every one gripped his sword
firmly. For, in spite of cheers, and of brave looks, a desperate
enterprise lay before us. Monseigneur's troops were at least twice as
numerous as ours, and his men were seasoned soldiers.
But Conde gave us little time for reflection. “Forward! Forward!” We
rose in our stirrups, and with a ringing cheer dashed at the foe. Like
a wall of rock they stood, and our front rank went down before them. We
withdrew a space, and once more sprang forward, but with the same
result. The din was terrific; steel clashed against steel; horses
neighed, men groaned in agony, or shouted in triumph.
And presently, above the tumult, we heard Conde's voice ringing high
and clear, “To me, gentlemen! To me!”
He was in the thick of the press, cutting a passage for himself,
while numbers of his bodyguard toiled after him.
“To the Prince!” cried Roger Braund in stentorian tones, “or he is
We tore our way like a parcel of madmen, striking right and left in
blind fury, and not pausing to parry a blow. But the enemy surged round
us like waves in a storm. They hammered us in front, in the rear, on
both flanks; we fell apart into groups, each group fighting strenuously
for dear life.
And in the midst of the fearful struggle there rose the ominous cry,
“The Prince is down!”
For an instant both sides stood still, and then Roger Braund,
crying, “To the rescue!” leaped straight at those in front of him. The
noble band of Englishmen followed, the battle flamed up afresh; renewed
cries of “Conde! Conde!” arose, but we listened in vain for the reply
of our daring general.
“The Prince is down!” ran mournfully from man to man, and though
some fought on with intrepid bravery, the majority were thrown into
disorder by their leader's fall.
As for myself, I know not how the latter part of the battle went.
Half-stunned by a heavy blow on my helmet, I clung mechanically to my
horse, who carried me out of the press. As soon as my senses returned,
I drew rein and gazed across the plain. It presented a melancholy
sight. Here was a little band of wearied troopers spurring hard from
the scene of conflict; there a man, dismounted and wounded, staggering
along painfully, while some lay in the stillness of death. They had
struck their first and last blow.
The battle, if battle it could be called, was over; the victors were
busy securing their prisoners; nothing more could be done, and with a
heavy heart I turned reluctantly away. Removing my helmet so that the
fresh air might blow upon my aching temples, I rode on, picking up a
companion here and there, until at last we formed a troop some fifty
Hardly a word passed between us. We were angry, and ashamed; we had
met with a bitter defeat; our leader was down, and no man knew even if
“Where is the Admiral?” I asked at last of the horseman at my side;
“we must find the Admiral.”
“I cannot say, but it is certain that when the news reaches him he
will retreat”; then he relapsed into silence.
It was a dreary journey. We wandered on aimlessly and hopelessly for
hours, and night had long since fallen when, by some lucky chance, we
stumbled upon our infantry. We were not the first fugitives to arrive,
and the camp was full of excitement.
I made my way straight to the Admiral's tent, and was instantly
admitted. Several officers were already there, eagerly discussing the
news, and they plied me with anxious questions. I could, however, tell
them nothing fresh, and could throw no light on the fate of the Prince.
In the midst of the interview an officer brought in a wounded
trooper. He was weak and faint from loss of blood, and, gallantly as he
had held himself in the fray, he hung his head shamefacedly.
“You are from Jarnac?” said Coligny kindly; “can you tell us what
has happened to your general?”
Every voice was hushed; the silence became painful as we listened
with straining ears for the man's reply. Steadying himself, he gave his
answer, and a deep groan burst from the assembled officers.
“The Prince is dead, my lord,” he said slowly.
“Dead!” echoed our leader. “Killed in the battle?”
“Murdered in cold blood after the battle, my lord!”
“How?” cried Coligny, and never had I seen his face look so stern.
“Think well, my man, before speaking. This is a serious statement to
“But a true one, my lord. I was not a yard away when the deed was
“Tell us all about it,” said the Admiral, “for if this be true——“
but here he checked himself.
“The Prince's horse fell, my lord, and he was thrown heavily. I
tried to reach him, but failed.”
“'Tis plain that you made a most gallant attempt!” remarked Coligny
in kindly tones.
“I was knocked down, my lord, and I suppose thought to be dead! The
Prince lay a yard or so away. He had taken off his helmet, and was
talking to one of the enemy's officers. I heard him say, 'D'Argence,
save my life and I will give you a hundred thousand crowns!”
“And what was the answer?”
“The officer promised, my lord, but just afterwards a fresh body of
soldiers came galloping to that part of the field. Then the Prince
said, 'There is Monseigneur's troop; I am a dead man!'“
“And what answered D'Argence?”
“He said, 'No, my lord, cover your face, and I will yet save you.'
But he had not the chance. One of Monseigneur's officers”—we learned
afterwards that it was Montesquieu, the captain of the Swiss
guard—“shot the Prince in the back of the head!”
“And killed him instantly?”
“He just had strength to say, 'Now I trust you are content!'“
replied the trooper, “and then he fell forward dead. They wrapped his
body in a sheet and carried it off the field, but I do not know where.”
“There is no possible chance of your having been mistaken?”
“None, my lord.”
The chaplain, stepping forward, led the trooper from the tent to
give him some food, and to bind up his wounds, while every one began
discussing the mournful story he had told. In the midst of the talk I
slipped out, eager to assure Felix of my safety, and to learn if Roger
Braund had returned.
No one in the camp thought of sleep or rest; the soldiers had
gathered together in knots, asking and answering questions, while from
time to time a single horseman, or half a dozen in a body, trailed
wearily into the lines. I met Felix coming toward the tent, and on
seeing me he ran forward hastily.
“Is it really you, Edmond?” he cried; “are you hurt? How came you to
be in the fight? One of the Englishmen told me you were there. 'Tis a
sorry beginning to the campaign, eh? But, after all, 'tis but one dark
spot on the sun. Come to our tent and tell us what has happened. There
are a thousand rumours.”
“Is Roger Braund not with his comrades?” I asked.
“No; there are a good many of the English still missing, but their
friends are not anxious; they have lost their way perhaps, and we shall
see them in the morning.”
As nothing could be done, I accompanied Felix to the tent, where a
number of our comrades speedily assembled. Felix gave me food, as I had
eaten nothing for hours, and then I related my story.
“On the plain of Jarnac!” exclaimed one in surprise; “what was the
Prince doing there?”
“I cannot say. Remember, I came upon them by mere chance.”
“'Twas stupid folly!” exclaimed the speaker. “We aren't so strong
that we can afford to divide our forces. Conde's rashness will ruin
everything. One would think he was a hot-headed boy!”
“If Conde was in fault, he has paid dearly for his mistake,” I
remarked, and was greeted by cries of “What do you mean?” “Is the
Prince hurt?” “Is he a prisoner?” “Speak out, Le Blanc!”
“The Prince, gentlemen,” I replied slowly, “is dead; and if my
account be true, most foully murdered.”
“Conde dead!” cried one, “no, no; there must be some strange
“I fear not, monsieur!” and, while they listened in breathless
silence, I repeated the story which the wounded trooper had brought
from the battle-field.
“Anjou shall have cause to rue this day!” said one, speaking with
deadly earnestness. “If I meet him on foot or in the saddle, in victory
or in defeat, I will not leave the ground till I have plunged my sword
into his heart!”
“But Anjou was not the murderer!”
“An officer of his bodyguard, you said. Do you think he acted
against his master's wishes? Pshaw! I tell you, Monseigneur is as much
the murderer as if his own fingers had pulled the trigger!” and the
murmur of applause from all who heard showed how fully they agreed with
When they left the tent, to retail the circumstances of the Prince's
death, I was glad to lie down. I was still anxious concerning my
English comrade, but Felix, who was too excited to sleep, promised to
bring me any information that he could gather. My head ached terribly,
but I managed to sleep, and for an hour or two at least I forgot the
dismal tragedy that had occurred.
The whole camp was astir in the early morning, and my comrade
brought me very welcome news. Roger had arrived during the night, with
about a dozen fellow-countrymen, tired out but unwounded.
“I half expected he was dead,” I said; “he was in the very thickest
of the melee.”
“Humph!” said Felix, “I warrant he fought with no greater bravery
than Edmond Le Blanc! He is a gallant fellow enough, but you need not
worship him as a hero.”
I looked at my comrade with surprise, and I think he felt rather
ashamed of his ungenerous speech, as he continued: “however, he is
unhurt, which is the main thing. It seems we have lost quite a number
of brave fellows besides Conde at Jarnac.”
“I suppose the last of the stragglers are in?”
“Yes, and we strike camp almost immediately. Anjou is very kind to
give us breathing time. According to our scouts, he is actually going
to lay siege to Cognac.”
“He will meet with a warm reception!”
“If the citizens can hold him only for a few weeks,” said Felix,
“all will go well. We are to be joined by strong reinforcements. The
sun will shine again, Edmond.”
Making my way through the camp after breakfast I came across Roger,
who had Just risen from a brief sleep.
“I did not come to your tent last night,” he said; “there was no
need to disturb you. You are not much hurt?”
“No, but rather ashamed! We have begun badly.”
“And shall therefore make a better ending,” said he brightly. “Cheer
up, Edmond, there is no disgrace in being beaten by twice our number.
Jarnac is not the only field of battle in France.”
CHAPTER IX. A Glorious Victory
The steady courage and resolute will of our great leader raised the
spirits of every soldier under his command; the disaster at Jarnac
became more and more a dream; the retreat to Niort was conducted
without the least disorder or confusion. Every one trusted Coligny, and
felt that under his rule all would go well.
And, as far as human skill and foresight could prevail, the Admiral
deserved our confidence. All through the day, and far into the night,
he toiled, and never grew weary; at one time inspecting his troops, at
another strengthening his defences; now endeavouring to form some
useful alliance, again writing cheerful letters and putting heart into
the more timid of our friends.
We had another leader, too, who, though she did not lead us into
battle was worth many a troop of horse to the Cause. I shall never
forget the day when Joan of Albret, the great-hearted Queen of Navarre,
came riding into our camp at Niort, bringing her son, Henry of Beam,
and her nephew Henry, the son of the murdered Conde. True and steadfast
in the hour of our defeat—more steadfast even than some of those who
would ride fearlessly in the wildest charge—she came to prove her
“I offer you my son,” said this noble lady—may her name ever be
held in reverence—“who burns with a bold ardour to avenge the death of
the Prince we all regret. Behold also Conde's son, now become my own
child. He succeeds to his father's name and glory. Heaven grant that
they may both show themselves worthy of their ancestors!”
While she spoke, not another sound broke the silence in all that
vast assembly; but when the echo of the last word had died away, such a
shout arose that few have ever heard its like. The whole army cheered
and cheered again with one voice; hundreds of swords flashed in the
air; men went wild with enthusiasm as they cried, “Long live Joan of
Albret! long live the Queen of Navarre!”
When at length silence was restored there rode to the front that
gallant youth, Henry of Beam, whose winning manners had already charmed
us at Rochelle. I have seen him since with all the world at his feet,
and crowned with victory; but after his most glorious triumph he did
not look more noble than on that memorable day at Niort. He was, as I
have said, a splendid horseman, and he managed his fiery charger with
exquisite grace and ease. His eyes, usually so sweet, were bright and
burning; the hot blood reddened his clear brown skin.
“Soldiers!” he exclaimed—and I would you could have heard the music
of his voice—“your cause is mine. I swear to defend our religion, and
to persevere until death or victory has restored us the liberty for
which we fight.”
Once again the thundering cheers pealed forth, and had Monseigneur
but met us that day, I warrant he would not have carried a hundred men
with him from the field.
“Your Henry of Beam is a gallant youngster, Edmond,” remarked Roger
Braund that evening; “I would he had been with us at Jarnac!”
“That might have prevented his being here now!”
“True! On the other hand, his presence might have saved the day.
However, he will have an opportunity of showing his mettle. Do we move
“We are waiting for a body of German foot-soldiers, and for the
troops from Languedoc. Directly they arrive, I believe we break camp.”
“The sooner the better,” said he; “we shall rust out by staying
Most of the troops, indeed, had begun to weary of inaction, and
when, on the arrival of our reinforcements, Coligny determined to offer
battle once more, the whole camp received the news with satisfaction. A
great grief had befallen our leader. His brother, the kindly genial
Sieur Andelot, whom all men loved, had broken down under the terrible
strain, and died at Saintes. It was a terrible blow, but the Admiral
sternly repressed his sorrow, counting no sacrifice too great for the
success of the Cause.
We marched out from the camp at Niort, twenty-five thousand strong,
all in good spirits, and all placing the most implicit trust in our
gallant leader. The dead Conde's troops were especially eager for the
fray, and as they mounted and rode off, the words “Remember Jarnac!”
passed from man to man. It was a watchword that boded ill for their
From day to day our scouts brought in word of the royal forces. They
outnumbered us by several thousands, but that did not damp our ardour;
in spite of Jarnac, we felt that we were marching to victory.
We had advanced within two days' distance of the city of Limoges,
when our scouts galloped in with the information that they had
encountered a strong force of hostile cavalry. Our preparations for
battle were all made, so Coligny continued his march, the horsemen
retiring before us, and making no effort to attack.
We passed an anxious night: the sentries were doubled, the outposts
strengthened, and the men slept with their weapons in their hands,
ready to spring up at the first note of warning. For the Admiral's
personal attendants there was no sleep whatever. We passed our time in
visiting the outposts, and in seeing that everything was secure. Only
after day broke were we able to snatch an hour or two's rest.
“Faith,” laughed Felix, as the march was resumed, “this is fine
preparation for a battle! Edmond, rub the dust from your eyes; you look
sleepy enough to fall from your saddle!”
“And all our labour was wasted!” I grumbled. “Those fellows just
went comfortably to sleep, laughing at us for our pains.”
“Never mind!” said my comrade merrily, “it may be our turn to laugh
next. And, after all, I would rather laugh last.”
All that day we marched through a woody, irregular district, the
horsemen watching our movements, but retiring steadily at our approach,
as if wishing to lure us into some cunning trap. But Coligny was not to
be tempted; he kept his troops well in hand, and in the evening we
camped by the side of a small stream with a marsh in our front.
“We have caught him,” cried Felix, in a tone of delight.
“Or he has caught us!” said I dubiously. “Anjou has some skilful
soldier at his elbow who chose that position.”
On the other side of the marsh rose a rugged hill, and at the summit
the royalist general had pitched his camp. Rude breastworks, from which
the muzzles of several guns peeped out, had been erected, and
altogether it looked as if Monseigneur had provided us with a hard nut
Coligny rode out across the marsh to examine the enemy's position
more clearly, and I fancied there was a shade of anxiety on his usually
serene face. It was a heavy responsibility he had to bear, for, should
his troops be defeated, the Huguenot Cause was lost. There was no other
army to replace the one under his command.
“The longer you look at it the less you'll like it,” said Roger
Braund cheerfully—for our English comrade often came over for a chat
when we had pitched camp—“Monseigneur has fenced himself in
“The more credit in digging him out!” laughed Felix. “Don't make
Edmond more doleful; he is half afraid now of meeting with a second
Jarnac. De Pilles”—the commander of our artillery—“will soon batter
down those walls, and a sharp rush will carry the hill.”
“'Tis a simple matter winning a battle—in our minds,” laughed
Roger, “but not always so easy in practice. Monseigneur's troops fought
well enough at Jarnac.”
“Ah,” said Felix merrily, “they will fight well here, but we shall
“Is an assault decided on?”
“No one knows,” I replied; “there is to be a meeting of the Council
presently. But I take it that we must attack. Monseigneur has the
advantage of us. He can obtain provisions; we can't.”
“And we aren't likely to retreat!” exclaimed Felix.
“In that case we must go forward; but we shall hear the decision in
an hour or two.”
The Council sat for a considerable time, while we of the Admiral's
household discussed the situation among ourselves. There were various
opinions given, the older men declaring Monseigneur was too strongly
posted to be dislodged, the younger and more hot-headed making light of
At length the Council broke up, and, though nothing was actually
disclosed, we soon became aware that Coligny had resolved on risking a
“Bravo!” said Felix, as we went to our tent, “'twill be a pity if
Roche Abeille does not make up for Jarnac!”
The bugle-call roused us at daybreak, and after a hasty breakfast we
prepared for the fray. It was a glorious summer morning, with only a
few fleecy clouds dotting the blue sky. The country was bathed in
sunlight, and the green, leafy foliage of the numerous trees on our
left made a delightful picture. The waters of the little stream in our
rear danced and sparkled, and the chorus of the birds made wondrous
music. Before long every feathered creature was flying hastily away in
amazement and affright.
The army was drawn up in battle array, and the noble Coligny, serene
and confident, rode along the lines.
“Soldiers!” he exclaimed, “the time has come. The enemy are before
us. We must beat them or die. Soldiers, if we lose this battle, the
sacred Cause to which we have pledged our lives is overthrown. Our
religion will be destroyed, our wives and little ones slain, we
ourselves shall go to the prison, the block, or the stake. Soldiers,
the safety of the Cause is entrusted to your arms! I know you are
worthy of the honour.”
A great cheer greeted these stirring words, a cheer that, echoing
far and wide, sounded like a haughty challenge of defiance to the foe.
I had little to do but to watch the opening of the battle, and my
heart beat fast as De Pilles, a rough and fearless fighter, went
forward with his artilery. Almost instantly the excitement became
“He is into the marsh!” cried Felix. “His guns are stuck fast! He
cannot get them out! Ah, see, Monseigneur is launching his horsemen at
Down the hill they came in beautiful order, a troop of Italian
cavalry, their helmets gleaming, their swords flashing in the sunlight.
“De Pilles is lost!” muttered a man behind me.
“No, no!” cried Felix; “he will beat them off. See, he is forming up
his men. Ah, bravo! bravo! Look, there isn't a coward among them!”
With a rush, the Italians swept down on the guns. They were brave
men and seasoned fighters, but they came to grief that day. Though
their animals floundered in the soft soil they struggled on valiantly;
they reached the guns, they wheeled and circled, they struck fierce
blows with their glittering blades, but, wherever they rode, there they
found a grim and sturdy opponent.
Back they went for a breathing-space, and then, with a magnificent
charge, once more flung themselves on the handful of gunners. My heart
stood still when, for a moment, our gallant few disappeared as if
overwhelmed by the waves of a human sea.
A triumphant shout from Felix roused me. The waves had rolled back,
broken and shattered, and we raised cheer after cheer as the baffled
horsemen slowly climbed the hill. De Pilles had saved his guns, and in
Monseigneur's Italian troop there were more than a score of empty
saddles. It was a good beginning for us.
The battle now became general. The guns, dragged from the marsh on
to firm ground, opened fire against the breastworks, the infantry
marched steadily forward, two troops of horse worked round to the
right, seeking a favourable place for attack.
But our progress was slow. Monseigneur's troops, fighting with rare
vigour and courage, forced us back again and again; their position
seemed impregnable, and our men fell fast. Unless we could break
through somewhere the battle was lost.
By extreme good fortune, I was close behind the Admiral when he
turned his head, seeking a messenger.
“Le Blanc” he cried, courteous as ever, even in the midst of the
terrible strife, “ride to De Courcy Lamont, and tell him to charge
home. Tell him that unless he can make a gap for us, the day is lost.
And say that the Admiral trusts him.”
Bowing low, I spurred my horse sharply, and darted off. Around me
rose the din of battle—the thunder of the guns, the savage cries of
angry men closely locked in deadly combat. Already Monseigneur's troops
were shouting “Victory!” and I had visions of an even more fearful
disaster than at Jarnac.
De Courcy Lamont listened to my message with a proud smile on his
face. His troopers were faint and weary; many were more or less
seriously wounded; they had lost several of their comrades; but
Coligny's words acted like magic.
“The Admiral trusts to us!” said their leader. “Shall we disappoint
“No! no!” they cried; “we will die for the Admiral! Let us charge!”
“I thank you, gentlemen,” said De Courcy simply.
It was a desperate enterprise, and would never have been attempted
but for the love these gallant men bore to our great chief. For his
sake they were going to throw themselves upon death.
“Charge!” Half mad with excitement, I took my place with them,
behind De Courcy, who rode several lengths in advance. From a trot to a
canter, from a canter to a gallop, and then with one mighty rush we
swept down on the foe. A body of horse dashed across our path; we
brushed them aside like a handful of chaff, and never slackened pace.
“The Admiral! The Admiral! For the Cause! Remember Jarnac!” we
shouted hoarsely, as our straining animals flew over the intervening
Faster and faster grew the mad gallop, until, like a living
whirlwind, we flung ourselves on a line of bristling pikes.
“For the Admiral!” cried our leader joyously.
“Anjou! Anjou!” came back the defiant answer, and then we were in
the midst of them. We had made a gap, but at terrible expense.
Hotter and hotter waxed the strife; swords flashed, pikes ran red,
shouts of triumph mingled with groans of despair; men went down and
were trampled underfoot in the horrible press; we were tossed and
buffeted from side to side, but we fought on with savage desperation,
and the cry, “For the Admiral!” still rose in triumph. Truly it could
not be said that we grudged our lives that day!
And presently an answering cry of “For the Admiral!” sounded on our
ears. Our charge had not been made in vain! Back went the enemy, slowly
and stubbornly at first, fighting every inch of the ground, but still
“They give way!” cried De Courcy, who was bare-headed and wounded,
“they give way! Charge, my brave lads!”
The words decided the fortunes of the day. With a rush and a roar we
swept forward, and Anjou's stubborn troops scattered in flight. Forward
we went in hot pursuit, but suddenly everything became dark to me; the
stricken field with its mob of flying men vanished from sight, and I
sank forward helplessly across my horse's neck.
CHAPTER X. I Rejoin the Advance
“Do you know me, monsieur? It is I—Jacques.”
“Jacques?” I repeated dreamily. “Where are we? What are we doing
here? My head aches; I feel stiff all over. Where is the letter? Ah, I
remember now. We won the battle, Jacques?”
“Yes, monsieur. It was a great victory. Monseigneur's troops were
I closed my eyes and lay thinking. By degrees it all came back to
me; the Admiral's message, De Courcy's wild charge, the terrible
conflict, the flight of the royalists, and then—! I had a strange
half-consciousness of having been raised from the ground and carried
some distance, but of what had really happened I had no definite
But how came Jacques into the picture? Surely he was not at Roche
Abeille! I opened my eyes and saw him bending over me and looking
eagerly into my face.
“Jacques,” I said, “what are you doing here?”
“Nursing you, monsieur,” he answered cheerfully. “I got to Rochelle
just after you had started, and followed the army; but the battle was
over when I reached Roche Abeille.”
“How did you find me?”
“I went to the Admiral's gentlemen. They said you were killed, and
that your friend Monsieur Bellievre was distracted, and there was
another gentleman, an Englishman, who looked very unhappy. But we
fetched a surgeon, who patched you up, and we carried you here.”
“The city of Limoges, monsieur. You are lodged at a comfortable inn,
and now you have talked enough.”
“One more question, my good Jacques; how long have I been here?”
“Three days, monsieur. Now I will get you some nourishing food, and
afterwards you must sleep.”
The next morning, finding I was much stronger, Jacques was willing
to answer further questions. Felix had come through the fray unscathed,
and Roger Braund was only slightly wounded. Anjou, he said, had been
thoroughly defeated, and there was already talk of the end of the war.
“And where are the troops now?” I asked.
“They marched in the direction of Poictiers. It is rumoured that the
Admiral intends to besiege the town.”
“It may be so,” I observed doubtfully, “but it is hardly likely.
That is the mistake Monseigneur made after Jarnac.”
“Well,” replied Jacques with a smile, “it cannot interest monsieur
very much for the next three or four weeks.”
He had quite recovered from his own wounds, and was full of praise
of the Count St. Cyr, who had treated him with the greatest kindness.
“The count is a noble gentleman,” he remarked, “and full of zeal for
the Cause. He is bringing his retainers to aid the Admiral.”
“He is an old man, too,” I said musingly.
“But with all the fire of a boy, monsieur.”
“Have you heard that a price has been set on my father's head?” I
“Yes,” and the worthy fellow's face clouded over with passion, “that
is Etienne Cordel's handiwork.”
“But we have done the man no harm!”
“He hates your father, monsieur; and, besides, Le Blanc is a fine
property. Monseigneur and the Italian woman are deeply in his debt, and
that would be a simple mode of payment. 'Tis easy to give away what
does not belong to one. Many Huguenot estates have changed hands in
I thought Jacques was exaggerating the case, but not caring to argue
the matter I said no more, and turning round dropped off into a
For a fortnight longer I lay in bed, and then the surgeon, who came
every day, allowed me to get up. My head was still dizzy, and my legs
tottered under me, but, leaning on Jacques' arm, I walked slowly up and
down the room. The next morning, still attended by my faithful servant,
I went downstairs and out into the street, and from that day I fast
began to recover my strength.
There was not much news of the war, beyond the fact that the
Huguenots were besieging Poictiers, a piece of information that I was
sorry to hear, since it seemed to me they would fritter away their
strength for nothing. The Admiral, however, doubtless possessed good
reasons for his actions, and in any case it was not for me to question
I was able now to walk without assistance, and even to sit in the
saddle, though not very firmly, and I felt eager to rejoin my comrades.
But to this neither Jacques nor the surgeon would consent, so I
continued to while away the time in the quaint old town as patiently as
possible. But, as the weeks passed and my strength returned more fully,
life in Limoges became more and more insupportable, and I finally
resolved to travel by easy stages to Poictiers.
The news we gathered on the journey was by no means reassuring.
Coligny had failed to capture the town; he had lost several thousand
good troops, and had raised the siege. Equally discomforting was the
information that Anjou was in the field again with a strong and
“We seem to have gained little by our victory,” I said
“We shall do better after our next one,” said Jacques cheerily. “We
learn by our mistakes, monsieur.”
The rival armies had apparently vanished. From time to time we
obtained news of Coligny, but it was very vague, and left us little the
wiser. One day he was said to be at Moncontour, another at Loudun; on a
third we were told he was retreating pell-mell to La Rochelle, with
Anjou hot on his heels.
Within a few hours' ride of Loudun we put up for the night at a
small inn. Jacques attended to the animals—one of us generally saw
them properly fed—while I gave instructions to the landlord concerning
our supper. He was an old man, almost as old as Pierre, and he had such
a peculiar trick of jerking his head in answer to my remarks that I
almost feared it would come right off.
“I am sorry, monsieur, I will do my best; but the larder is empty. I
will kill a fowl; there is one left; but monsieur will be under the
disagreeable necessity of waiting.”
“We are sharp set,” I said. “Is there no cold meat in the house?”
“Monsieur, the troopers have devoured everything.”
“Whose troopers?” I asked sharply.
“Whose but Monseigneur's!” replied the old man; “but they did not
remain long; they were busy hunting down the heretics.”
After asking a few more questions, I sent him away to catch and cook
our supper, and then discussed his information with Jacques. From the
old man's story we gathered that the Duke of Montpensier was marching
south with a division of the royal army in pursuit of our comrades.
“Between Montpensier and Anjou we are in an awkward situation,” I
said. “We have overshot the mark.”
“That is true, monsieur; we must turn back, if we wish to join the
Admiral; but our animals are tired.”
“We will give them a few hours' rest, and start early in the
“If the supper is cooked by then!” answered Jacques slily.
There seemed to be some little doubt about that, but finally our
host, who had been scouring the village, returned in triumph with
provisions for an ample meal.
Awake soon after dawn, we fed the animals, broke our own fast, and,
having settled the score, started off on the highroad to Poictiers.
It was, by the position of the sun, about nine o'clock in the
morning when we perceived a horseman approaching us. He appeared in a
desperate hurry, and was spurring his horse vigorously.
“Jacques!” I exclaimed, “this is a soldier of some sort. Will he be
coming from Montpensier, think you?”
“Likely enough, monsieur.”
“If so, he may carry important news, and his information may be of
service to the Admiral. It should be easy for us to obtain it.”
“True, monsieur; he will never dream of danger.”
“But we must not hurt him, Jacques; mind that.”
“Nothing more than a tap on the head,” said Jacques, “if he should
The rider came along at a swinging pace. He was a young fellow,
richly dressed, and of a handsome appearance.
“Good news, monsieur!” I cried, riding toward him. “Do you carry
It was evident that he had not the slightest idea of meeting with an
enemy in the rear of Montpensier's troops. He drew rein, saying, “Are
you from Monseigneur? I am bearing him welcome information. Coligny is
retreating, we fell on his rear just now and drove it in. Ah, ah, 'tis
a rich joke! He thinks Monseigneur himself is here with the whole
“While 'tis only Montpensier with a division!” I said, laughing.
“Where shall we find the Duke?”
“An hour's ride, not more; but I must be going. Monseigneur waits to
make his plans.”
The next instant Jacques had clutched his bridle rein, while the
young fellow was gazing in blank astonishment along the barrel of my
“'Tis a disagreeable necessity, monsieur,” I remarked, speaking very
harshly, “but you are our prisoner. Tie the horses' reins together,
Jacques, and remove this gentleman's weapons. Do not stir, monsieur, it
would be foolish. A cry or a movement will cost your life. We must have
that despatch which you are carrying to Monseigneur.”
“Who are you?” he asked.
“We belong to the Huguenot army, and have met you by a stroke of
good fortune. And now the document, monsieur! Will you surrender it? Or
will you compel us to search you? That is an undignified proceeding,
and will not help you at all.”
“No,” he agreed gloomily; “I am in your power. But this is a sorry
trick; I would rather you had forced the paper from me at the sword's
point. It would have been more creditable to your honour.”
“That may be so, but meanwhile we await the paper.”
Finding himself helpless, he handed me the document with the best
grace he could muster, and I immediately placed it inside my doublet.
“Now,” I exclaimed cheerfully, “we are in a hurry to reach our
comrades, but we have no wish to ride into the midst of the Duke's
troops. In order to avoid that calamity, we will make you our guide;
but pray be careful, because in the event of a mistake you will be the
first victim. My servant is an old soldier, while I have had some
practice with the pistol. But this is a disagreeable subject; let us
“With all my heart,” said he, laughing. “And now what would you have
“Put us on the track of our comrades, and prevent us from falling
into the Duke's hands.”
“That is,” said he, “to return good for evil. Well, 'tis something
of a novelty for me.”
“You should practise it more frequently,” I laughed, and with that
we rode on, our prisoner being in the middle.
I hardly thought he would venture his life by misleading us of set
purpose, yet for all that I rode cautiously, keeping my eyes open for
any sign of the enemy. But either by good luck or our prisoner's
skilful guidance—and it matters little which—we entirely avoided the
Royalist army, and came up with our own troops just as they had halted
for a short rest.
Being instantly challenged, I gave my name to the officer, and asked
where the Admiral was to be found.
“I will take you to him,” said he, and he led us through the camp,
walking by the horse's side.
Coligny was eating his frugal meal, but he glanced up at our
approach, and the officer said, “Edmond Le Blanc, general, who claims
to belong to your household.”
“Le Blanc!” echoed the Admiral, knitting his brows—he had doubtless
forgotten me—“ah, of course; you have been absent from duty a long
“I had the misfortune to be left behind at Roche Abeille, my lord.”
“Ah, I remember. You are Bellievre's comrade, and you carried my
message to De Courcy. So you have recovered?”
“Yes, my lord; but I have something important to say. I have had the
good luck to capture a messenger carrying a despatch from the Duke of
Montpensier to Monseigneur.”
“To Monseigneur!” and, turning to my prisoner, he said, “Is he not
with the troops who attacked us?”
“I do not know the customs of your gentlemen, my lord,” he replied,
with a low bow, “but it is not our practice to betray secrets to an
“A proper answer,” said the Admiral, with more slowness of speech
even than usual, “and a just reproof. But this paper should tell what I
wish to learn,” and he broke the seal.
“Montpensier's division alone,” he muttered; “this is valuable
information. Le Blanc, can we be sure of this?”
“It is certain, my lord, that Monseigneur's troops are not present,
though I believe they are hurrying to join with the Duke's.”
“There will be just time,” he said, “just time,” and, leaving his
meal, he instantly summoned his principal officers.
As soon as my interview with him was over a dozen of my old comrades
crowded around, congratulating me on my recovery, and asking all sorts
of questions. Several familiar faces were missing, and I learned that
more than one of my intimate friends had been left behind in the
trenches at Poictiers. Felix, happily, was unhurt, and he informed me
that Roger Braund was still with the little troop of Englishmen.
“But what of your prisoner?” he asked. “Has he given his parole?”
“No, I fancy he is rather counting on the chance of escape.”
“Then he must be placed under guard. I will attend to it, and return
in a few minutes. Well, Jacques, has your master been very
“Not since we left Limoges, monsieur.”
We were preparing to look for Roger when the bugles sounded, the men
sprang to arms, and orders were issued for the retreat to be resumed.
“I don't like this,” grumbled Felix, “it breaks the men's spirits.
Our rearguard came running in to-day like a parcel of sheep. I wish the
Admiral would fight; it will be too late after a while. It is not
pleasant to be chased as if we were rabbits.”
The royalists were in full view now, and the faster we marched the
more closely they pressed the pursuit. It was very galling, and many a
murmur was heard even against our noble leader, but none from those who
rode with him in the rear. Twice we turned and faced the enemy, but, on
each occasion, after a few minutes' conflict the order was issued for
At length we reached the summit of a gentle slope, behind which
flowed the River Dive. Here it seemed as if the Admiral intended to
make a stand, but the royalists gave him little leisure for forming
plans. They advanced boldly, taunting us for runaways, and bidding us
muster sufficient courage to cross swords with them.
A volley from our German foot-soldiers checked their rush, and,
while they were endeavouring to re-form, a body of horse crashed, as if
shot from a gun, into their left flank. The noble St. Cyr, erect and
soldierly, in spite of his four score and five years, led the charge,
and a rousing cheer broke from us at sight of the gallant veteran.
But there was little time for cheering. “Charge, my children!” cried
the Admiral, “charge, and strike home! For the Faith!”
“For the Faith!” we echoed lustily, spurring our horses, and dashing
into the fray.
Hammered by St. Cyr on the left, by the Admiral in front, by the
young princes on the right, the royalist horse reeled and staggered.
Again and again they tried to rally; but we rode them down, broke the
groups as soon as they re-formed, drove them pell-mell on to their
infantry, and then with one grand rush tumbled the whole division into
“Forward! Forward!” cried the hot-bloods. “Remember Jarnac!”
“Remember Conde!” “Cut them down!”
But a wild pursuit formed no part of the Admiral's plans; he wished
to cross the river unmolested, so the bugles were sounded, and we came
dropping back, laughing and cheering, and in high spirits at our
brilliant little victory. As with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes we
ranged ourselves around our brave leader some one cried out, “See, what
is going on over yonder!”
In a corner of the field, some distance off, a number of royalists
had rallied round a flag. Something strange was happening; the flag
disappeared, came into view again, and once more sank from sight. Then
in one spot the crowd gave way as if burst asunder, and out from the
gap leaped a horseman. He was carrying the flag, and he rode straight
toward us. A dozen men started in pursuit, but he outdistanced them
easily, turning from time to time and waving the flag as if in
We gazed in astonishment at the spectacle, wondering what it meant,
until Felix cried out, “'Tis the Englishman! 'Tis Roger Braund. He has
captured the flag!”
A great roar of cheering went up as he approached us, his helmet
gone, his face bleeding, his doublet slashed, but his eyes smiling
cheerfully. With an easy grace he jumped from his horse, and advancing
on foot presented the trophy to the Admiral.
“A memento of the battle-field, my lord,” he said, with a courteous
Coligny took the flag, and with a rare smile handed it back, saying,
“Monsieur, it could not remain in worthier hands! Let it be carried in
the ranks of your gallant countrymen, to whom we owe so much.”
Roger bowed again. “The memory of your praise my lord,” said he,
“will nerve us to deserve it.”
As we rode back toward the river, every one tried to get near him,
to shake his hand, to praise him for his deed of daring. And in truth
it was a splendid action! Single-handed, he had charged into the press;
single-handed he had wrested the trophy by from its custodian; and,
still alone, had fought his way out. It was a brilliant feat, which we
of the Religion talked of round many a camp fire. And that it was done
by one who was not our countryman did not lessen our admiration.
CHAPTER XI. A Desperate Conflict
WE had crossed the Dive safely, the cavalry last of all, and the
soldiers, wearied by their long marches, had thrown themselves down to
snatch a brief rest. The enemy were assembling on the opposite bank of
the river, and it was plain that they had been heavily reinforced.
“Monseigneur must have arrived with his troops,” said Felix. “I hope
the Admiral will offer him battle. The victory over Montpensier has put
our fellows in fine fettle; they would fight now with a good heart.”
“The enemy have us at a disadvantage,” said Roger. “You forget our
guns are at Montcontour.”
A surgeon had dressed his wounds; he had borrowed a helmet from a
comrade, and had changed his doublet. His left arm troubled him
somewhat, but otherwise he suffered no ill effects from his famous
fight for the flag.
“They outnumber us, too,” said I, “especially in their cavalry, and
Anjou's gentlemen are no mean sworders.”
“But we must fight at some time or other; we cannot wander about the
country for ever!” laughed Felix. “It seems to me we have been playing
at hide-and-seek with Anjou ever since leaving Poictiers. And let me
whisper another thing—the Germans are beginning to grumble.”
“That,” said Roger, “is a serious matter. What is their grievance?”
“Money! Their pay has fallen into arrears, and I don't see how it is
to be made up. The Admiral has almost ruined himself for the Cause
already. 'Tis a pity we cannot capture Anjou's money chests; they would
be worth having. Corbleu! the bugle is sounding! That means
there is to be no battle.”
“Monseigneur may have something to say to that,” remarked Roger, as
he walked off toward his own comrades.
In a short time the troops had fallen in, and the infantry at a
swinging pace marched off the ground, the cavalry as before forming the
rearguard. The evening was neither clear nor dull, there being just
sufficient light to enable us to see our way. St. Cyr's troop, and the
body of Englishmen, now, alas! sadly reduced in numbers, rode last of
all, and occasionally one of the troopers would gallop up to our leader
with information of the enemy's movements.
We appeared to have gained a good start, as it was not until noon of
the next day that our rearguard was driven in, and we got a clear view
of the hostile troops. They followed us closely, hanging like leeches
on our rear, but refraining from making any determined attack. Still,
in order to protect our own main body, we were forced several times to
turn at bay. In these combats the fiercest fighting always centred
round the troop of Englishmen carrying the captured flag.
“Roger is a gallant fellow,” I remarked after one of these
occasions, “but too venturesome. It would be more prudent to hide the
“Faith!” cried Felix, “you have strange ideas! I would hold it as
high as I could, till my arm was numbed. I hear they have hung our
banners in Notre Dame, so that the Parisians may see what fine fellows
they are. If I could capture a flag, Edmond, they should cut me in
little pieces before I let it go. Were I your English friend I would
not change places with Coligny himself.”
“Well,” I said laughing, “you may have a chance to obtain your wish
soon, for, whether it pleases our leaders or not, they will be
compelled to fight. This retreat cannot continue much longer. And if
the Germans desert us, there is likely to be a second Jarnac.”
“Rubbish!” exclaimed he lightly; “we should gain the greater honour
by the victory!”
Our German allies had become very sullen during the last day or two,
and the evening we reached Montcontour they broke out into open
threats. They declared angrily that unless their arrears of pay were
immediately made up they would not fight.
The evening was almost as miserable as that after the battle of
Jarnac. Monseigneur, with a strong, well-equipped army, was close on
our heels, ready to swoop down upon us at any moment. Our own men were
weary and disheartened, and now we had to contend with the anger of our
“Let the poltroons go!” exclaimed Felix scornfully. “We will fight
and win without them,” and all the young hot-heads among our comrades
applauded him. But the veterans were wiser, and openly showed their
pleasure when it was announced that our leader had, by another splendid
sacrifice, appeased his mutinous followers. But, even with the Germans
ready to do their duty, our prospects seemed to me far from rosy, and I
found that Roger Braund held the same view.
“Whether we fight or retreat,” said he, “in my opinion the situation
is equally desperate.”
“The Council has decided to give battle,” exclaimed Felix, who had
just come from the Admiral's tent.
“Then a good many of us are spending our last evening on earth,”
observed Roger calmly.
“We must take our chance,” said Felix; “every battle levies its
toll; but I can see no more danger here than at Roche Abeille. Do you
think our fellows have lost heart?”
“Not exactly; but they are dispirited, while their opponents are
full of confidence.”
“We beat them at Roche Abeille!”
“They have recovered from that defeat.”
“We flung them off at Dive!”
“A bagatelle! Remember, only Montpensier's division was engaged.
Things are different now. Monseigneur has a thoroughly good army. His
cavalry especially are as brave as ours, and far more numerous. Still,
I may be looking through a smoked glass. This time to-morrow you may be
rallying me on my gloomy prophecy. I hope so, with all my heart!”
“I am sure of it,” laughed Felix merrily. “You will not have the
courage to look me in the face!”
During this conversation there was a matter on my mind of which I
was resolved to speak before my English comrade returned to his own
“Is it necessary,” I asked, “to carry that flag into the battle
to-morrow? According to your account, the conflict will be a desperate
one; is it well to expose your comrades to even greater danger? The
sight of it will rouse your opponents to fury, and your troop will be
singled out for vengeance.”
“As Felix would say, we must take our chance,” he answered
smilingly. “The Admiral committed the flag to our charge, and, my
comrades will guard it with their lives.”
“It is needless risk.”
“I think not, Edmond; it will put heart into us when the hour of
trial comes. But the night grows late; I must wish you farewell, and
trust that we may meet again when the battle is over.”
We bade him good-night, and, having no duties to perform, lay down
to rest. I slept very lightly, my brain being filled with all sorts of
confused fancies, and it was a relief to hear the bugles sound the
Felix sprang up cheerfully, and in a short time we had placed
ourselves in attendance on our chief, who greeted us with his usual
grave but kindly smile.
“Let us commend our souls to God, gentlemen,” he said reverently,
“and beseech Him to strengthen our hearts in the approaching
It may have been pure fancy on my part, but as we rode along the
lines I seemed to miss that air of cheerful confidence which had been
so evident at Roche Abeille. The men greeted their general with cheers,
and I had no doubt they would do their duty; but they lacked that eager
vivacity which goes so far toward winning victory.
Across the plain the enemy were drawn up in two lines with their
artillery posted on a hill, and about eight o'clock the first cannon
ball came booming toward us. Instantly our guns replied, and a fierce
artillery duel which lasted throughout the battle began.
“Their guns are heavier than ours, and carry a farther distance,” I
observed to Felix.
“It matters little,” replied he; “the battle will be decided by the
sword. I wonder when we are going to advance?”
“Not at all, I expect. The Admiral has chosen his ground”—though
there was little choice for that matter—“and intends to stand on the
“That may suit the Germans well enough, but our own men do not like
waiting to be charged. Monseigneur means to drive in our right wing!
See, he is bringing his cavalry forward. How splendidly they ride! It
makes one proud to know they are Frenchmen!”
“And sorry, too!”
I think Monseigneur was at their head, but the distance from our
centre, where the Admiral had stationed himself, was great, and I may
have been mistaken; but the leader, whoever he was, advanced very
gallantly, several lengths in advance of his front line, waving his
sword and cheering his followers.
The sun shone down on their steel caps, their breastplates and
thigh-pieces, and made their swords glitter like silver. They formed a
pretty picture, with their gay flags and fluttering pennons, and they
rode with all the confidence of victors.
From a trot they broke into a gallop, and we held our breath as,
gathering momentum, they swept proudly down on our right wing. A volley
rang out, and here and there a trooper dropped, but the rest galloped
on straight for their foe.
We craned our necks to watch the result. Not a man spoke; we hardly
dared to breathe, so keen was our anxiety. Would our fellows stand firm
before that human avalanche? If they gave way ever so little, our right
wing must be tumbled into ruin.
Nearer and nearer, in beautiful order, horse's head to horse's head,
they tore along, until, with a tremendous crash, they flung themselves
upon the solid wall of infantry.
“Bravo!” cried Felix excitedly, “they are broken; they are turning
back! Ah, St. Cyr is upon them! There go the Englishmen! For the Faith!
For the Faith!”
We stood in our stirrups, waving our swords and cheering like
madmen. Straight as a die the noble veteran with his gallant troop and
the scanty band of Englishmen leaped into the midst of the baffled
horsemen, and drove them back in wild disorder.
But there were brave and valiant hearts among those royalist
gentlemen, and we had hardly finished our exulting cheers when they
returned to the attack. They flung away their lives recklessly, but
they forced a passage, and our infantry were slowly yielding to numbers
when Coligny, with a “Follow me, gentlemen!” galloped to the rescue.
Cheer answered cheer as we dashed into the fray, and the shouts of
“Anjou!” were drowned by the cries of “For the Faith!” “For the
With splendid bravery the royalists stood their ground; but
Coligny's presence so inspired his followers that at last, with one
irresistible rush, they swept forward, carrying everything before them.
“Stand firm, my brave lads!” said our chief, as the troops, flushed
with their success, formed up anew, “stand firm, and the day is won!”
He had turned to speak to the Count of St. Cyr, when a mounted
messenger dashed up, panting and breathless.
“My lord,” he gasped, after a moment's pause, “we are heavily beset
on the left, and are being forced back. I fear that the whole wing is
“Courage, my friend,” replied Coligny, “courage. We will be with you
directly. Come, gentlemen, there is still work for us to do.”
The battle was now at its height, but as we dashed along from right
to left, our centre paused to cheer their gallant general. They were
hardly pressed, but were holding their own sturdily, and our spirits
rose at sight of their intrepid defence.
On the left wing, however, the case was different. Here Anjou, or
Tavannes—for I suppose it was the marshal who really directed the
battle—was throwing successive bodies of troops upon the devoted
Huguenots, who were sorely put to it to defend their position. But at
our approach a great cry of relief went up from the panting soldiers.
There was one among us worth a whole division!
Even those who had begun to retreat joined in the shout, and once
more dashed into the fray. Wave after wave of royalists rolled down
upon us, but time and again we flung them back, and at last, with one
superb effort, hurled their front rank into ruin.
“The day goes well,” cried Felix exultingly, as we galloped back to
our lines. “Anjou will remember Montcontour!”
In every part of the field the fight now raged fiercely, and,
wherever the stress was greatest, there, as if by magic, appeared
Coligny. His escort steadily decreased in numbers; one died here, while
supporting a body of infantry, another dropped during some wild charge;
but our general himself, though fighting like a common trooper,
Wherever he was, there victory followed our arms; but the odds
against us were too heavy. Our men stood in their places and fought to
the death; but their limbs grew tired, their arms ached with the
strain; they needed rest. All our troops, however, were in the
fighting-line, and the royalist attacks never ceased.
Anjou fed his lines constantly; fresh troops took the places of the
fallen; we might slay and slay, but the number of our enemies never
seemed to lessen. And in the midst of the terrible uproar a cry arose
that our centre was wavering. For an hour or more a battle of giants
had been taking place there. In front of our infantry the dead lay
piled in a heap, but for every royalist who died Anjou sent another.
The strain was too great to be borne. Our men were beginning to give
way, and once more we galloped with the Admiral at headlong speed
toward the point of danger. We were too late; we should perhaps have
been too late in any case. The royalist foot-soldiers opened out, and
from behind them poured impetuously a body of horsemen.
They struck us full, rode us down, leaped at the infantry, forced a
passage here and there, cut and slashed without mercy, yelling like
tigers, “Death to the Huguenots!”
Coligny was wounded, his face bled; I thought he would have fallen
from his saddle; but, recovering himself, he called on us to follow him
and dashed at the victorious horsemen. Our numbers were few and no help
could reach us. We called on our men to stand firm, to fight for the
Admiral, to remember their wives and children—it was all in vain.
We were borne along in one struggling, confused mass, horse and
foot, royalists and Huguenots all mingled together.
“Anjou! Anjou!” shouted the victors in wild exultation, while the
cries of “For the Admiral! For the Faith!” became weaker and weaker. In
that part of the field the battle was lost.
We closed around our chief, perhaps a score of us, some even of that
number already desperately wounded. No one spoke, but we set our teeth
hard, resolving grimly that there should be twenty corpses before
Anjou's victorious troopers reached him.
“We must stop them,” said Coligny, speaking in evident pain, “turn
them back, beg them to fight, or the Cause is lost.”
Again and again we endeavoured to make a stand; calling on the
fugitives to halt, to remember they were Frenchmen, to look their foes
in the face—it was useless, every little group that formed for a
moment being swept away by the raging, human torrent.
“Some one must find Count Louis of Nassau,” said our general, “and
say I trust to him to cover the retreat. We may yet rally the
We looked at each other in doubt. It was not the fear of death that
kept us tongue-tied, though death lay in our rear, but each man wished
to spend his life for our beloved leader.
“Let three or four of you go,” he said; “one may reach him,” and as
he spoke his glance seemed to light on my face.
“I will take the Count your message, my lord!” I cried, and without
waiting for a reply turned my horse's head, and dashed into the
The battle-field was a hideous scene. Wherever the eye could reach,
men were fighting and dying. There was no order even among the
conquerors. I came across a little knot of Huguenot gentlemen who had
turned furiously at bay.
“For the Admiral!” I cried, plunging in wild excitement into the
midst of the hostile sworders. “For the Admiral!” Perhaps my comrades
thought me mad, and in sober truth they would not have been far wrong;
but they were generous souls, and with a yell of defiance they cut
their way through after me.
“Count Louis,” I said breathlessly to the first man, as we emerged
on the other side, “where is he?”
“I do not know; he was on our right wing when the crash came.”
“I must find him; I have a message from the chief”
“Let us try the right wing,” he said, “they are making a stand
A dozen gentlemen had followed me, one of them carrying a flag, and
as we galloped forward others joined us until we were fifty or sixty
strong. It was like riding into the very jaws of death, but they asked
no questions; the sight of the flag was sufficient. A body of infantry
barred our path; we turned neither to right nor left, but crashed
straight through them. A few foot-soldiers ran with us, holding by the
stirrups, going cheerfully to death, rather than seek safety in
Suddenly a burst of cheering in a foreign tongue reached us.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! For the Admiral!” and a troop of horse came tearing
down. It was the band of gallant Englishmen, and I recognized Roger
Braund still bearing the captured trophy. Fearing they might mistake us
for royalists I rode forward hastily, crying in English, “Friends!
Friends! We are Huguenots!”
CHAPTER XII. The Return to Rochelle
The conference was brief. “Have you seen Count Louis?” I asked their
“No, monsieur, but we will help you to find him. Forward, brave
boys; another blow for the Cause!”
They replied with a cheer—oh, how those Englishmen cheered!—and we
raced on together, French and English, side by side, and death all
around us. I glanced at Roger; he had been wounded again, but there was
no time to speak.
The retreat in this part of the field had not become general;
numbers of soldiers in tolerably good order were still battling
stubbornly, and presently we reached the remnant of several troops of
In front of them was the venerable Count of St. Cyr, his snow-white
beard sweeping to his waist.
“My lord,” I said, riding up, “can you tell me where to find Count
Louis of Nassau?”
“Farther on the right, monsieur,” he replied courteously; “but you
will find it difficult to reach him. Ah, here they come!” and, glancing
ahead, I perceived a cloud of horsemen preparing to swoop down upon us.
“Pray, my lord,” pleaded his chaplain, who was close by, “say
something to encourage your troops. They are faint and weary with
fighting, and the odds against them are terrible.”
The stout-hearted warrior turned to his followers. “Brave men need
no words!” he cried; “do as you see me do!” and they greeted his speech
with frantic cheers.
“You will be lucky to meet Count Louis after this!” cried Roger, as
I returned to my men.
The royalists swept forward, threatening to engulf us as the wild
sea swallows a tiny boat, and I must admit that my heart sank at sight
of them. But I was in the company of brave men, and following the flag
of as brave a leader as could be found in all France.
He glanced round at us; there was a proud smile on his resolute
face; his eyes glowed with fiery ardour.
“Charge, my children!” he cried, “and strike a last blow for St.
He pressed his horse's sides with the spurs, and waving his sword
dashed forward, his battle-cry, “St. Cyr!” ringing out high and clear.
It was a sight to make one weep, and yet feel proud that one's country
could produce such a hero.
Forward we went, and the air was filled with cries of “St Cyr! For
the Admiral! Hurrah! Hurrah!” as we plunged into the midst of the
“Forward, my children!” cried St Cyr, as he carved a passage for
himself through the throng; “forward!”
He was a splendid rider and a skilful swordsman, but his enemies
closed round him thickly. Savage blows rained upon him from every side,
and at last, with a “Fight on, my children!” the gallant veteran sank
bleeding to the ground. Montcontour cost France numerous brave men but
none braver than the chivalrous St. Cyr.
His fall, instead of dispiriting his followers, roused them to fury!
No one asked or gave quarter; it was a fight to the death, and when
finally we succeeded in breaking through the royalist horse, half of
our number lay lifeless on the plain. Some there were—St. Cyr's
personal attendants notably—so fired with grief and anger at the death
of their beloved chief that they were for turning back and renewing the
This, however, was stark madness, so we galloped on, with the
royalists like sleuth-hounds on our track.
Presently they slackened their pace, and then abandoned the pursuit,
for we were approaching our cavalry, commanded by Count Louis of
“You are welcome, brave hearts!” he exclaimed, “every man is
needed,” and his troops cheered us vigorously.
“My lord,” I said, riding up and saluting, “I have come from the
Admiral; he begs that you will cover the retreat, for unless you can do
so all is lost.”
“Where is the Admiral, monsieur?”
“My lord, when the centre broke, he was carried away by the rush. He
has been wounded in the head, and I fear seriously.”
“Did you leave him in safety?”
“He was surrounded by his bodyguard; at least, by all those who were
“Will the centre rally, think you?”
“There is no centre; it is a scattered mob. I fear there is no army
except the troops you have here. The left, I am sure, has given way.”
He was about to reply when a cavalier galloped up to us. His horse's
sides were flaked with spume, and the gallant beast quivered in every
limb. The rider was deathly pale; one arm hung down limply, his side
was stained with blood. He rolled from side to side, having scarcely
sufficient strength to keep his seat in the saddle.
He endeavoured to salute Count Louis, while I, leaning forward,
placed my arm round his waist to support him.
“My lord,” he said, “the Admiral——” and stopped helpless.
“'Tis one of Coligny's gentlemen,” I exclaimed, “he has come on the
same errand as myself. There were three or four of us.”
The wounded cavalier looked into my face. “Le Blanc!” he said
feebly; “it is all right,” and with that his head fell forward, and he
dropped dead across his horse's neck.
“A brave and gallant gentleman!” exclaimed Count Louis. “France
should be proud of her sons!”
Lifting him from his horse, we laid him on the plain and turned
away. On that awful day no one had leisure for sorrow; the sorrow would
It was useless now attempting to return to the Admiral, so I joined
my English comrade.
“You are hurt?” I said anxiously.
“A trifle; no more. Where is Bellievre?”
“With the Admiral. Coligny is badly wounded. We have lost the
“There is time to gain the victory yet!”
“You do not understand. The army is gone; it is a mere mob, utterly
helpless; we are the only troops left. The royalists are slaying at
“In that case,” said he gravely, “we have serious work before us.
Who was the noble old man killed in the last charge?”
“The Count of St. Cyr, one of the bravest gentlemen in the Huguenot
army. It will grieve the Admiral sorely to hear of his death.”
“He was a splendid soldier. Ah, the bugles are sounding. Edmond, my
friend, I fear the worst of the day is still to come.”
My English friend was right. What had gone before was the play of
children compared with what followed. We had the whole force of Anjou's
army opposed to us. Hour after hour we retreated, fighting every step
of the way. Of the eighteen thousand Huguenots who had marched out to
battle it seemed as if we alone remained. Again and again the royalists
bore down in overwhelming numbers; their heavy guns ploughed lanes
through our ranks; the arquebusiers pelted us with bullets unceasingly;
the horsemen charged with desperate fury.
But in spite of everything we held together; for if we once gave way
the doom of our beloved general was sealed.
“Remember, brave hearts,” cried Count Louis, “that we are fighting
for the Admiral! We must die for Coligny!”
He himself displayed the most wonderful bravery; nothing daunted
him; beset by death on every hand he remained cool and resolute,
rallying us after every onset, rousing the faint-hearted by his own
At last the blessed darkness came to our relief. The rain of bullets
ceased; we no longer heard the thundering beat of galloping horses in
our rear, were no longer called to face about in order to repel some
fierce cavalry charge. The pursuit had stopped; the victors had
returned to celebrate their triumph.
We marched on in the darkness of the night, gloomy and weary. Some
were too tired and dispirited even to talk; others—but only a
few—grumbled bitterly at their leaders, telling each other that if
this or that had been done, we should have gained the victory. Many of
the poor fellows were badly hurt; some sank exhausted to the ground,
from which they would never rise again.
At Parthenay we overtook the Admiral and the few troops he had been
able to collect. When morning came, Felix was one of the first to meet
me, and I had never seen him so down-hearted. His bright smile, his
happy, cheery looks had all gone; he hung his head in shame.
“It is terrible, Edmond,” he said; “the Cause is ruined, and we are
disgraced. I would rather we had all died on the field.”
“Nonsense!” I replied, endeavouring to hearten him; “we are of far
more use alive than dead. And to be beaten is not to be disgraced. Had
you seen the Count of St. Cyr die you would not use that word. But what
of our chief? Is he seriously wounded?”
“His jaw is broken by a pistol-shot.”
“Yet I warrant he has not given way to despair!”
“No,” he replied with something of his old brightness, “a Coligny
does not despair.”
“Nor does a Bellievre!” I returned smiling. “We shall rally the
runaways in a few days, and Coligny will command an army again.”
The defeat was, however, a heavier one than I guessed, and only
Anjou's folly saved us from utter destruction. Instead of hunting us
down with his whole force he turned aside to besiege St. Jean d'Angely,
and thus gave our leaders time to form fresh plans. Strong garrisons
were sent to defend Niort and Angouleme, while the main part of the
beaten army retired to Rochelle.
It was a dismal entry into the town. The citizens came to meet us,
the men sullen and downcast, the women white-faced and weeping. Many
were searching eagerly among the war-worn band for the dear ones they
would never meet again on earth. On that dreadful day scores of women
learned for the first time that they were already widowed, and that
their helpless little ones were fatherless.
Opposite the hotel I perceived Jeanne and my mother, and on seeing
me their faces lit up with happy smiles. I could not go to them then,
but the instant my duties permitted I ran again into the street. They
were still in the same place, waiting.
“I thank God for this blessing, my son,” said my mother. “I feared I
had lost you for ever. Let us hasten home; you are weary and faint.”
“But are you not hurt, Edmond?” cried my pretty sister. “Oh, how my
heart ached at sight of those poor wounded men! They must have suffered
torture on their long march!”
“Did Jacques not find you?” my mother asked presently.
“Yes, he was with me at the beginning of the last battle, but I have
not seen him since. He may have escaped though, for all that; numbers
besides ourselves got away. Bellievre is safe, and so is Roger Braund.
They have acted like heroes!”
“I saw them both,” said Jeanne, blushing prettily; “Monsieur Braund
has been wounded.”
“Yes,” I replied laughing, “he will need a skilful nurse. But where
is my father? Is he not still in Rochelle?”
“No,” said Jeanne with a sigh, “an order came from the Admiral three
weeks ago for him to take fifty men to St. Jean d'Angely. I know it is
selfish, but I wish Edmond, oh, I wish he could have stayed with us. It
seems to me there is no safety outside the walls of Rochelle.”
“Rochelle may be as dangerous as any other place,” I remarked, not
caring to let them know that Monseigneur was marching on St. Jean
d'Angely. “But here we are at the house; does my aunt still keep her
“Yes,” replied Jeanne with a smile, “though I believe her illness is
more fanciful than real. But she is very good and kind, and we humour
It was very pleasant to be home again; to see the loving looks and
to receive the tender caresses of my mother and sister. They were eager
to hear what had happened, and the tears came to their eyes as I
described the sufferings of my gallant comrades. They were brave, too,
and instead of being crushed by our defeat looked forward to happier
“Perhaps the king will stop the cruel war,” said my mother
hopefully, “and let us worship God in peace. How can he think we wish
to harm our beautiful France? We ask so little; surely he could grant
us our modest request.
“I believe he would if it were not for his mother,” I said, “and she
is afraid of the Guises. They are hand in glove with the Pope and the
“Will Monseigneur try to capture Rochelle?” asked Jeanne.
“It is very likely, but he will not succeed; Rochelle can never be
taken by an enemy.”
I stayed very late with them that night, for there were many things
to talk about, and they were so glad to see me that even at the end I
was loth to depart.
The next day my comrades, who purposely stayed away on the previous
evening, accompanied me home, and were made much of by my mother and
These occasional visits were like oases in a dreary desert. We tried
to banish all thoughts of the war, and to talk as cheerfully as if
there were no misery in the land. But for Felix and me these days of
happy idleness speedily came to an end. There was much to be done, and
Coligny needed our services. Instead of being cast down by his reverse
at Montcontour, our leader was already planning a gigantic scheme which
should help to repair our broken fortunes.
Meanwhile the garrison at St. Jean d'Angely was offering a splendid
resistance to the enemy. Anjou was pressing the siege with vigour, King
Charles himself was in the trenches—I never held, as some of my
comrades did, that the king was a coward—but the handful of troops
defied the royal brothers and all their force.
One morning as our chief came from his chamber, the ante-room being
filled with his gentlemen and the leaders of the army, he stopped and
laid his hand with a kindly touch on my shoulder.
“My young friend,” he said, “we are all proud of your father. The
reports from St. Jean d'Angely declare that he is the very heart of the
“I thank you, my lord, for your kind words,” I stammered, blushing
crimson with pride, for to hear my father thus honoured was far sweeter
than any praise of myself could have been.
And a day or two later Rochelle was ringing with his name. Men
lauded his courage and prowess, speaking of him almost as if he were
our beloved leader himself.
Heading a body of troops in the early morning, he had sallied forth,
destroyed a big gun, and driven the besiegers pell-mell from the
trenches. Anjou had scowled angrily, but King Charles was reported to
have declared it a most brilliant feat of arms.
It was a proud day for all of us, but our joy was shortly changed to
mourning. Coligny, with most of his attendants, had left Rochelle for
Saintes; the rest of us, with two hundred troopers, were to depart the
next day. I had spent the evening at home, and accompanied by Felix had
returned to the hotel.
“Is that you, Le Blanc?” cried one of my comrades. “What means this
treasonable correspondence with the enemy?” and he handed me a sealed
“For me?” I exclaimed, taking it in surprise. “Where does it come
“Ah,” said he, laughing merrily, “that is a nice question to ask!
One of Monseigneur's rascals brought it under a flag of truce to the
officer at the gate, and he sent it here. I should have put you under
arrest, and forwarded the correspondence to the Admiral.”
I looked at the letter curiously, and with a vague feeling of
uneasiness. It bore my name, but the handwriting was unfamiliar. “One
of Anjou's troopers!” I muttered.
I walked slowly away, still accompanied by Felix and carrying the
packet in my hand. I had no idea of the sender, nor of the contents,
yet strangely enough, when we reached our room, my fingers trembled so
much that I could hardly break the seal.
“What is it?” asked Felix anxiously. “What do you fear?”
“Nothing,” I replied with a forced laugh; “I am foolish; that is
Yes, there was my name in crabbed letters; I glanced from it to the
foot of the page: the letter was signed, “Renaud L'Estang.”
“L'Estang!” I muttered, “L'Estang! Why, that is the name of my
adventurer. Of course he is with Anjou; but why should he write to me?
Perhaps 'tis to thank me again, or to tell me something about Cordel!
Ah, yes, that would be it. He must have gathered some fresh information
concerning the rascally lawyer!”
I gave a deep sigh of relief, yet studiously avoided what he had
written. But this was childish folly! Courage! What had I to fear?
Cordel had already done his worst. We had lost our estates—it mattered
little who gained them.
“Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I have never
forgotten—shall never forget——”—“Just as I thought,” I remarked
aloud, “the poor fellow still feels under an obligation to
me!”—“Believe me, monsieur, it is with poignant grief I write this
brief note.”—“Ah,” I continued, “he has discovered some fresh
villainy. Well, well, it is of little consequence.”—“I have been with
Monseigneur at St. Jean d'Angely——”
“D'Angely!” I cried; “Felix, he has been at the siege. Read it, my
friend, my eyes swim, I cannot see the letters, they all run into one
another.”—“Your father was the bravest.”—“Oh, Felix, Felix, do you
understand? How can I tell them? How can I comfort them? And I must
ride away in the morning and leave them to their grief! Read it to me
slowly, dear friend, while I try to think.”
CHAPTER XIII. A Daring Enterprise
After the lapse of many years, I close my eyes, and leaning back in
my chair listen again to my comrade as with tremulous voice he reads
the fatal letter.—“Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I
have never forgotten—shall never forget. Believe me, monsieur, it is
with poignant grief I write this brief note. I have been with
Monseigneur at St. Jean d'Angely throughout the siege. Your father was
the bravest man among our enemies. His wonderful skill and courage have
gained the admiration of friend and foe alike. The king spoke of his
bravery with the highest praise: Monseigneur has declared openly that
the Sieur Le Blanc alone stood between him and the capture of the town.
He has indeed proved himself one of the finest soldiers in France; but,
alas! monsieur, the Sieur Le Blanc is no more. He fell not an hour ago
at the head of his men, in a brilliant sortie. Remembering your
kindness to me, my heart bleeds for you. I write this with the deepest
sorrow, but it may be less painful for you to learn of your loss in
this way than to be tortured by a rumour, the truth of which you cannot
prove. Accept my heartfelt sympathy.”
“My father is dead, Felix,” I said in a dazed manner.
“He fought a good fight,” replied my comrade. “His memory will live
in the hearts of our people.”
This might be true, but the knowledge did little to soften my grief.
And I was thinking not of my father alone—after all he had died a
hero's death—but of my mother and sister. How could I tell them this
mournful news? How could I comfort them?
“Felix,” I said, “we are going away to-morrow.”
“You must stay here,” he said firmly, “at least for a few days. I
will inform our patron; he is not likely to leave Saintes for a week.
Shall I come home with you, or do you prefer to be alone?”
“I will go alone, Felix; it will be better for them. I will join you
at Saintes. Good-bye, dear friend.”
“Tell your mother and sister how deeply I sympathize with them,” he
said. “I would come with you, but, as you say, perhaps it is better
“I think they will prefer to be alone,” I answered, grasping his
hand in farewell.
I went out into the deserted street, walking unsteadily, and hardly
conscious of anything beyond my one absorbing sorrow. I reached the
house at last, and in answer to my summons a servant opened the door.
No, the ladies had not retired; they were still downstairs.
Perhaps my face betrayed the miserable truth; perhaps some chord of
sympathy passed from me to them—I know not. They jumped up and came
forward with a sudden fear in their eyes. I had already bidden them
farewell, and they did not expect to see me again, until I rode from
the city in the morning.
My mother gazed at me earnestly, but said nothing; Jeanne cried
impulsively, “What is it, Edmond? There is bad news! Oh, Edmond, is it
about our father?”
“You must be brave,” I said gently, taking a hand of each, “very
brave. Yes, I have received bad news from St. Jean d'Angely. There has
been a fierce fight; our father headed a sortie, and has been seriously
hurt. He was the bravest man there, every one says so from the king
downwards. Even his enemies praise him.”
“Edmond,” said my mother quietly, “we are strong enough to bear the
truth—is your father dead?”
Words were not needed to answer that question; the answer was plain
in my face, and those two dear ones understood. Oh, it was pitiful to
see their white faces, and the misery in their eyes! And yet I could
feel a pride, too, in their wonderful bravery. They wept silently in
each; other's arms, and presently my mother said softly, “It is God's
will; let us pray to Him for strength to bear our loss.”
I stayed with them for four days, being I believe of some comfort in
that sorrowful time, and then my mother herself suggested that I should
return to my duty.
“You belong to the Cause, my son,” she said, “and not to us. It is a
heavy trial to let you go, but your father would have wished it.
Perhaps the good God, in His mercy, may guard you through all dangers,
and we may meet again. But, if not, we are in' His hands. Tell Felix we
thank him for his kind message.”
“Roger, too, will grieve for our loss,” I said. “He admired my
The Englishmen had accompanied the Admiral, so that Roger had left
Rochelle when the news arrived.
Early on the morning fixed for my departure I wished my mother and
sister good-bye, and returned to the hotel. Coligny was still at
Saintes, and I waited for a letter that the commandant had requested me
to deliver to him. I had gone into the courtyard to see about my horse
when a man, riding in, exclaimed, “Oh, I am in time, monsieur; I feared
you had gone.”
“Jacques!” I cried with delight, “surely you have taken a long while
to travel from Montcontour to Rochelle! And yet you have a good beast!”
“As good an animal as ever carried saddle!” said Jacques, eyeing his
horse complacently; “but then I have not owned it long.”
“Have you been to the house?”
“Yes, monsieur,” and his face became grave, “it was madame who told
me where to find you. She said you were about to rejoin the army.”
He did not speak of my loss, though it was plain he had heard the
news, and indeed several days passed before the subject was mentioned
between us. Jacques had been brought up in my father's service, and he
was unwilling to talk about the death of his loved master.
“Yes, I am going to join the Admiral,” I said; “but have you not had
enough of adventures? Would you not rather stay at Rochelle?”
“While monsieur is wandering about the country?” he asked. “Ah,” as
a servant came from the building, “here is a summons for monsieur!”
The commandant had finished his letter, and having received his
instructions I returned to the courtyard, mounted my horse, and,
followed by Jacques, started on my journey. I was very glad of his
company, since it took me out of myself, and gave me less opportunity
“Did Monsieur Bellievre and the Englishman escape from Montcontour?”
he asked, as we reached the open country.
“Yes, we shall meet them both at Saintes; but about yourself—I was
afraid you were killed.”
“So was I,” he laughed. “Monsieur, it was a terrible day, and a
still more terrible night. Our poor fellows received little mercy.
Monseigneur's troopers gave no quarter. I got a nasty cut, and hid in a
hollow till all was quiet; then I crawled out, took my choice of
several riderless horses, and rode into the darkness. I thought I might
find the army somewhere, but there was no army to be found.”
“No,” I said rather bitterly, “the army was running to all the
points of the compass.”
“That's just what I was doing, monsieur. What with the darkness, and
the pain of my wound, and the fear of falling into the hands of
Monseigneur's troops, I lost my head entirely, and wandered about in a
circle. When morning came I was hardly a mile from Montcontour. Then
some peasants seized me, and for once in my life I was glad to count a
robber among my friends.”
“One of the fellows was Jules Bredin, from our own village. He
recognized me, and as he possessed some authority I came to no harm.
Indeed, they took me to their camp in the woods, and attended to me
until I had quite recovered. I owe Jules a debt of gratitude.”
“On which side do these fellows fight?”
“I asked Jules that question myself, and he laughed in my face. 'My
dear Jacques,' said the rascal, 'we fight for ourselves, and we get our
victims from both parties. They won't let us work, so we must earn our
living as best we can.' And they seemed to be flourishing, monsieur.
They had no lack of wine and provisions. Jules never feasted so well in
his life before. But, monsieur, what is the Admiral doing at Saintes?”
“That I do not know, Jacques, but doubtless we shall soon discover.”
Our journey passed without incident, and having delivered the
despatch I sought my comrades. Roger had by this time been made
acquainted with my loss, and both he and Felix showed me the greatest
kindness. It was pleasant to feel that one possessed such trusty
“You have arrived just in time,” said Felix, “for we march in the
“March?” I asked in surprise, “where?”
“Somewhere to the south, I believe; but the Admiral keeps his plans
close. But you may be sure he isn't going to offer Anjou battle. We
scarcely number three thousand, counting the handful of infantry.”
“Not a large number with which to conquer a kingdom!” laughed Roger.
“We shall get more,” said Felix, who had recovered his spirits, and
was as sanguine as ever. “Coligny's name alone will attract men to the
standard. Why, surely that must be Jacques!” as my servant approached.
“Jacques, you rascal, I thought you had deserted us at Montcontour!”
“I think it was the other way about, monsieur,” replied Jacques
slily. “I stayed at Montcontour.”
“Ah, a good thrust!” cried my comrade merrily, “a good thrust! But
whichever way it is I am glad to see you again, Jacques. We are sadly
in need of strong arms and stout hearts.”
“Well, monsieur, I have been round the camp, and certainly I think
the Admiral is quite equal to commanding a larger army.”
“You should not regard mere numbers, Jacques; it is the quality that
tells. Three thousand picked men are worth ten thousand ordinary
troops. And then our chief is as good as an army in himself!”
To those who had fought at Roche Abeille, our camp presented a
somewhat sorry spectacle. As Felix had said, we numbered barely three
thousand men, and one missed a host of familiar faces. I thought with
pity of the noble St. Cyr, and many others of our best and bravest who
had already laid down their lives for the Cause.
We retired to rest early, and soon after daybreak were roused by the
bugles. Tents were struck, prayers said, and about nine o'clock we
moved off the ground in the direction of the Dordogne.
It would be tedious to relate in detail the incidents of that
southern journey. The weather was bitterly cold and rainy, much
sickness set in, and we suffered numerous hardships. Still we pushed
steadily forward, through Guienne, Ronergue, and Quercy, passed the Lot
below Cadence, and halted at Montauban. Here we were cheered by the
arrival of Montgomery, with two thousand Bearnese, a welcome addition
to our scanty force.
Smaller bodies of troops had already joined us, and after leaving
Montauban we picked up several more. Felix, of course, was in excellent
spirits, and talked as if we had the whole kingdom at our feet.
“But where are we going?” I asked in bewilderment, “and what are we
going to do?”
“I do not know, my dear Edmond,” he replied gaily. “It is enough for
me that Coligny leads. I warrant he has some brilliant scheme in his
From Montauban we marched up the Garonne to Toulouse, and finally
found ourselves at Narbonne, where we went into winter quarters. Roger
was, of course, with his own troop, but Felix and I were billeted in
the same house, much to our satisfaction.
After our long and painful march, the comfort which we met with at
Narbonne was exceedingly welcome, and week after week glided rapidly
away. Toward the end of the winter several hundred men came in from the
surrounding districts, and our army began to present quite a
Many conjectures were made as to our leader's intentions, but he
kept his own counsel, and even we of his household had no inkling of
the gigantic scheme forming in his mind. Some said he meant to
establish a separate kingdom in the south, to which those of the
Religion in all parts of the country would flock; but this idea was
scouted by those who knew his intense love of France. Besides, as Felix
remarked, we should have to abandon La Rochelle, and such a proceeding
as that was incredible.
“Into harness again, Edmond,” exclaimed my comrade excitedly, one
morning, coming from his attendance on the Admiral. “Boot and saddle,
and the tented field once more. We leave Narbonne in a week; aren't you
“Upon my word I am not sorry. Where do we go? Is the mystery
“No,” he said, laughing good-humouredly, “the chief still keeps his
secret. But when it does leak out I fancy there will be a surprise for
The news soon spread, and the town was filled with bustle and
animation. Every one was busy with his preparations, and from morning
till night the streets were crowded with men and horses, and with
wagons for carrying the provisions and stores. Our days of idleness
were over; we had no rest now. Felix and I were ever hurrying from
place to place, carrying orders and instructions to the different
At last the day came when with cheerful confidence we marched out
from the town that had been our winter home. The sick had recovered
their health, every one was strong and vigorous, the horses were in
capital condition, and we all looked forward to a successful campaign,
though without the slightest idea where it would take place.
I had thought it most probable that we should retrace our steps to
Toulouse, but instead we speedily struck eastward. What did our leader
intend doing? was the question asked by every one that night, and which
no one could answer. A few of the troops showed some concern, but the
majority shared my comrade's opinion.
“What does it matter where we go,” said he, “as long as Coligny
leads us? It is for him to form the plan, and for us to carry it out.”
“We are going farther away from Rochelle,” I remarked.
“Rochelle can look after itself, Edmond. It would help the Cause
considerably if Anjou would besiege the city; but he won't. As to this
march, the Admiral will explain his intentions when he thinks well.”
It was at Nismes that Coligny first revealed his purpose, and it
came on most of us as a thunder-clap. Instead of returning to the
scenes of our former struggles, we were to cross the Rhone, march
through Dauphigny, and threaten Paris from the east. The proposal was
so bold and audacious that it fairly took away our breath, and we gazed
at each other in astonishment. But the hot-headed ones, and Felix among
them, cheered the speech with all the vigour of their lungs, more than
making up for the silence of the rest.
“Soldiers,” said the Admiral, “there are my plans, but I do not
force you to obey me. Those whose courage fails must stop behind and
return to their homes, but I will march though not more than five
hundred should follow my banner. Think well before you agree. The
journey is long, perilous, and full of hardship. We shall find few
friends and many enemies; our provisions may fail, and Monseigneur will
certainly send a strong army to bar our passage. It is an undertaking
for only the bravest; the weak-kneed will but hinder.”
“We will follow you to the death, my lord,” cried Felix impetuously,
and thousands of voices took up the bold cry.
“I will ask you to-morrow,” said our chief; “for when once we have
started I must have no faltering, nor turning back.”
That same evening Felix and I went over to the Englishmen's camp. I
had expected to find some traces of excitement, and to hear them
discussing whether they should embark on the hazardous venture. Instead
of that they were lounging about as carelessly as if we had Drought the
war to a successful conclusion.
Roger came towards us smiling. “Well,” said he, “your general has
sprung a surprise on us!”
“Will your comrades go with us?” I asked. “Have they talked the
matter over yet?”
“What is there to talk over? We are here to help, not to say what
you shall do. Of course we shall go. One part of France is the same to
us as another; but I fancy some of your own troops will elect to remain
“'Tis quite possible,” I replied. “The venture is a daring one.”
“The majority will march,” declared Felix with enthusiasm; “a few of
the southerners may prefer to guard their own districts, but that is
all. I knew Coligny had some gigantic scheme in his head, but never
dreamed of this. It is glorious; it will be the talk of Europe.”
“If it succeed,” said Roger drily, “it will matter little whether
Europe talks or not; but in any case Coligny is staking everything on
one throw. If we get beaten, he cannot expect to raise another army.”
“Do not let us think of defeat,” I said, “and we shall stand a
better chance of winning a victory. There is no sense in gazing at the
black clouds when we can as easily look at the bright sunshine.”
CHAPTER XIV. Scouting for Coligny
As Roger had prophesied, not all the Huguenot soldiers were prepared
to follow their intrepid leader; but on that memorable April morning of
1570 we swung out from Nismes some five thousand strong, all horsemen,
for Coligny had mounted the three thousand arquebusiers who formed the
major part of our force.
The journey from Saintes to Narbonne had been tedious, and, because
of the bitter winter cold, full of hardship, but we had not met with
opposition. Now we were launched straight into the midst of a hostile
district filled with the king's troops, and few days passed without
some skirmish, in which, though petty enough, we could ill afford to
It seems little to put down on paper—how we rode hour after hour,
often with insufficient food; how we watched at night, sometimes
springing to arms at a false alarm, and more than once having to fight
desperately to beat off a surprise attack; but it was a stiff business
for those who went through with it.
We were, however, in good spirits, and pushed on steadily day after
day, picking up a few recruits here and there to strengthen our army.
The men were sturdy, resolute fellows, full of zeal for the Cause, and
ready to lay down their lives for the Admiral, to whom they were
How wholly dependent we were upon him, in spite of the presence of
Prince Henry and young Conde, became plain when he was taken ill at St.
Etienne. The march was stopped abruptly, and for three weeks we waited
in fear and doubt, asking ourselves anxiously what would happen if he
Even the sanguine Felix admitted that without him the enterprise
would result in failure, but fortunately the Admiral recovered, and we
resumed our march.
The halt which we were forced to make at St. Etienne had done us
considerable service. Horses and men alike were broken down by fatigue,
loss of sleep, and scanty rations, and the long rest had restored their
strength. Shortly before leaving, too, a body of cavalry, fifteen
hundred strong, had ridden into camp amidst the acclamations of the
“Now,” said Felix joyously, “Monseigneur can meet us as soon as he
After leaving St. Etienne we soon discovered that the worst part of
the journey was still before us. Our way lay over rugged crests, and
along the edge of steep precipices overhanging gloomy chasms. Nothing
save a few chestnut trees, whose fruit was not yet ripe, grew on that
bare, stony ground, while the only animals were small, stunted sheep,
and mountain goats.
Here and there we passed a tiny hamlet, but for the most part we
marched through a wild and desolate solitude, through steep and gloomy
gorges with rapid torrents thundering at the bottom. In the upper
passes the snow lay deep, and more than once as we stumbled along a
piercing shriek told us that some unfortunate animal, missing its
footing, had hurled its wretched rider into eternity.
At length, to the loudly expressed joy of every man in the army, we
left the gloomy wilderness behind, and emerged into a rich and smiling
valley. The animals neighed with delight on seeing the fresh sweet
grass, and we who had shivered with the bitter cold in the mountain
passes rejoiced at the glorious warmth of the sun.
But now we had to proceed with far greater caution, since at any
moment a royalist army might swoop down upon us. Sharp-sighted scouts
rode ahead and on our flanks, while messengers frequently arrived
bringing information for our general. According to these accounts
Monseigneur was still in the west, but Marshal Cosse had been
despatched with a strong army to oppose us.
We had halted for the night some ten miles or so from Arnay-le-Duc,
and I was gossiping with Roger Braund and several of the
Englishmen—their numbers by this time, alas! had thinned
considerably—when Felix came up hastily, his eyes shining with keen
“Any fresh news?” asked Roger.
“Nothing certain,” my comrade answered, “but Cosse is reported to be
at or near Arnay-le-Duc. Edmond are you for a ride?”
“With all my heart,” said I, “but where?”
“To find out what we can about Cosse. I have the Admiral's
instructions. I told Jacques to saddle your horse; but you must hurry.”
“Good-night, Roger; good-night, gentlemen,” I said, laughing; “you
can sleep soundly, knowing that we are awake.”
“Take care!” laughed Roger good-humouredly, “and don't let that
madcap get you into mischief. I shouldn't be surprised if he tries to
get his information from Cosse himself.”
“I would,” declared Felix merrily, “if he gave me half a chance; but
we must really go; the Admiral”—and he drew himself up with an air of
assumed importance—“depends upon us.”
“Good-bye,” laughed Roger, “you won't be a prisoner long; we will
capture the marshal and exchange him for you!”
“Monseigneur would make a poor bargain if he agreed to that!” said
my comrade, as we went off light-heartedly.
“Shall we take Jacques?” I asked, as we hurried along.
“He has settled that question for himself,” returned Felix in high
glee; “he is saddling his own animal as well as ours.”
“What does the Admiral wish to learn?”
“The enemy's numbers. The reports are conflicting and range from
five thousand to thirty, but we will discover the truth for ourselves
before the morning.”
“At any rate we will do our best. There is Jacques; he has lost
little time; the horses are ready. My pistols, Jacques!”
“They are in the holsters, monsieur, and loaded.”
“Into the saddle then! Have you the password, Felix?”
“Yes; 'tis Roche Abeille.”
“A good choice! 'Tis an omen of success. Have you any idea of the
“I can find the way easily to Arnay-le-Duc; I have had a long talk
with one of the couriers.”
Having passed our last outpost, where we stayed to chat for a moment
with the officer in command, we proceeded at a brisk pace, my comrade
feeling assured that we should not meet an enemy during the first six
miles. After that distance we went more slowly and with greater
caution, for if the marshal was really at Arnay-le-Duc, his patrols
were probably scouring the neighbourhood.
About four miles from the town we entered the street of a straggling
village. It was a half after ten; the lights in the cottages were out;
the villagers had retired to bed.
“Shall we do any good by knocking up the landlord of the inn?” I
“What say you, Jacques?”
“We shall probably learn the village gossip, and if the marshal is
anywhere near Arnay-le-Duc it will be known here.”
“True,” said my comrade; “let us lead the animals into the yard.
Edmond, hammer at the door!”
The landlord was in bed, but he came down quickly, and, having shown
us into his best room, proceeded to draw the wine which Felix ordered.
“You are in bed early,” I remarked on his return. “Have you no
guests in the house?”
“We expected to meet with some of the king's troops here: have they
passed through already?”
“There have been no soldiers in the village, monsieur.”
“But surely they are close at hand!”
“If monsieur means Marshal Cosse's army, it is ten miles off. At
least Philippe said so when he came home this evening.”
“Who is Philippe?”
“He lives in the village, monsieur; he could guide you to the
soldiers. Shall I fetch him?”
“Yes,” I replied, “and waste no time. Jacques,” and I glanced at my
servant meaningly, “you might go with the worthy host.”
They returned in less than half an hour, bringing with them a short,
thin man, spare in build, but tough and wiry. His eyes were sharp and
bright, and his face was shrewd and full of intelligence.
“Are you a good Catholic, Philippe?” I asked.
His glance passed from me to Felix and back again so swiftly that he
might never have taken his gaze from my face. Then he said with the
most natural hesitation in the world, and as if fully expecting to
suffer for his confession, “I hope monsieur will not be offended, but I
belong to the Religion.”
“Faith, Philippe,” I said, “I guessed you were shrewd; you are the
very fellow for our purpose. Since you belong to the Religion”—the
rascal's lips twitched ever so slightly—“you will have no scruple in
helping us. We are of the Religion, too.”
“Is it possible, monsieur?” he said, with a start of well-feigned
“Now listen to me,” I continued; “you know where the marshal's army
is. Don't contradict; it will be useless.”
“I am attending, monsieur.”
“We want to see this army, but we do not wish to introduce ourselves
to the soldiers. Now a sharp guide, thoroughly acquainted with the
district, can easily lead us to a place from which we can learn all we
want to know. Is not that a good scheme?”
“It has one serious drawback, monsieur.”
“Speak on; we are listening.”
“If the guide should be caught by the king's troops, he would be
“That is awkward, certainly. On the other hand, if he refuses to go
he will die by the sword. You are a sensible man, Philippe, and will
see the force of my remarks. Now, which is it to be? Will you earn a
few crowns by taking the risk, or will you lose your life at once?”
“Truly, monsieur,” said he, after a pause, “you place me in an
unpleasant position; but since there is no way out of it, I will do as
“A sensible answer, and there is but one thing more to add. If you
are thinking to play us false, we count three swords and six loaded
pistols, and you cannot reasonably expect to escape them all.”
“Monsieur's kindness in pointing out these things is truly
touching!” exclaimed the rascal with a broad grin.
“My friend is noted for such kindness!” laughed Felix. “And now let
us get into the saddle. Is there a spare horse in the stables,
“Yes, monsieur,” replied our host, whose limbs were shaking through
“Then we shall use it for Philippe. Don't be afraid; we will pay you
for the hire.”
“Monsieur is very good.”
“And a word in your ear, landlord. On our return, do not let us find
that your tongue has been wagging!”
We rode out from the inn yard, Jacques and Philippe in front, Felix
and I following.
“He is a clever rascal,” remarked Felix in a low voice; “he is no
“If he is,” I replied laughing quietly, “'twas a quick conversion.
He was certainly a good Catholic until he had taken note of our dress.
But the fellow will guide us aright, for his own sake. He is quick
enough to calculate the chances.”
Occasionally one or other of us cantered forward and rode a short
distance by his side, while Jacques watched him constantly with the
eyes of a hawk. But the fellow who was keen enough to understand that
treachery would result in his own death, whatever else happened, led us
very carefully across country and right away from the beaten tracks
until about three o'clock in the morning, when he came to a halt on the
top of a wooded hill.
“Very softly!” he whispered, “we are in the rear of the army, but
there may be some sentries at hand. When day breaks we shall see the
camp almost at our feet.”
I bade Jacques lead the animals deeper into the wood, lest they
should attract attention; then Felix and I lay down with the guide
“So far, Philippe, you have served us well,” whispered my comrade.
“You will pocket those crowns yet!”
“Hush, monsieur; a single sound may cost us our lives.”
This was true, so we lay silent, watching for the breaking of dawn.
Little by little the night haze cleared away; the light broke through
the clouds; the sun rose, lighting up first the distant hills, and
presently revealing the secret of the plain beneath. The bugles
sounded; men came from their tents, rubbing their eyes still burdened
with sleep, and before long all the camp was astir.
“Guns!” said Felix; “how many do you make, Edmond?”
“Six,” I replied, after a careful survey.
“I can count six, too,” he said. “According to our spies the marshal
had no guns.”
I nudged our guide, saying, “What is the number of the troops down
“Fifteen thousand infantry, and six thousand horsemen, monsieur,” he
“It may be so,” I said, “but we shall be better able to judge when
they are ready to march.”
For two hours we lay flat on the ground, with our eyes fixed on the
camp, never changing our position, and speaking hardly a word. We
watched the cavalry feed and groom the animals, and saw the troops sit
down to breakfast. Then a body of horsemen, about fifty or sixty in
number, rode out from the camp in the direction of Arnay-le-Duc.
[Illustration: “For two hours we lay flat on the ground, with our
eyes fixed on the camp.”]
After a while the troops fell in, and a number of richly-dressed
officers rode along the lines, as if to inspect them.
“Jacques,” I said softly, for all this time he had remained with the
animals, “if you can leave the horses, come here.”
In two or three minutes he had crept close up to us, and was looking
steadily at the camp.
“How many, Jacques?” I asked, for he was an old campaigner, with far
more experience than either Felix or I possessed.
“'Tis a nice little army,” he said after a time, “but”—with a
sidelong glance at Philippe—“no match for ours. Why, the Marshal has
hardly more than four thousand horsemen, with thirteen thousand
infantry at the outside.”
“My own estimate!” exclaimed Felix; “what do you say, Edmond?”
“One can easily make a mistake at this work,” I answered, “but I
should think your guess is not far from the truth.”
“Then we need stay no longer. Come,” to the guide, “lead us back
safely, and the crowns are yours.”
Stealing very quietly and cautiously into the wood, we took our
horses by the bridle, and led them—Jacques going in front and closely
followed by our guide—along a narrow path, away from the camp. At the
end of the wood we mounted, and, riding in twos, set out briskly on the
Thanks to Philippe, we reached the inn without mishap, paid the
landlord, who was evidently surprised at seeing us again, for the loan
of his horse, and handed our guide his promised reward.
“Put the crowns in your purse, my man,” said Felix, “and for your
own sake I should advise you not to open your lips. Marshal Cosse may
not be too pleased with your night's work.”
We cantered off at a sharp pace, eager to acquaint the Admiral with
our success, and had covered a little more than half the distance,
when, on turning a bend in the road, we perceived about a dozen
horsemen galloping full tilt towards us.
“King's men!” cried Jacques quickly. “A patrol from the camp on
their way back.”
“We must ride through them!” exclaimed Felix. “'Tis our only chance.
All three abreast, Jacques. Ready?”
There being no other way out of the business, except that of
standing still to be captured, we drew our swords and, crying “For the
Admiral!” dashed boldly at them. They were riding in no sort of order,
but straggled along loosely, each intent, it seemed to me, on getting
first. They were clearly surprised at encountering us, and, beyond a
few hasty sword-strokes in passing,—and these did no damage—made no
effort to oppose our passage.
Several yards behind the main body two men were stumbling along on
wounded horses. They themselves were hurt also, and both promptly
surrendered at our challenge.
“Faith!” cried Felix, “this is a queer proceeding. Ah, there is the
reason,” as a strong patrol of our own men came thundering along. The
leader pointed ahead with his sword, as if asking a question, and Felix
exclaimed quickly, “They are in front; their horses are getting blown.”
We drew aside to give them room, as they galloped past in a cloud of
dust, and then my comrade, turning to Jacques, said, “Can you manage
the prisoners, Jacques? We must hurry on.”
My servant produced a loaded pistol. “I am well provided, monsieur,”
he answered. “I think these gentlemen will not give trouble.”
“Very good. Take your time; I expect our troops are on the march.
Forward, Edmond,” and, setting spurs to our horses, we galloped off.
All danger was over now, and before long we caught sight of the
advanced-guard of our army.
“Can you tell us where to find the general?” asked Felix of an
officer, as we pulled up.
“He is with the centre, monsieur. Have you seen the enemy?”
“Yes,” I answered, riding on, “and there will be some stirring work
CHAPTER XV. A Glorious Triumph
Coligny was riding with a group of his principal officers when we
drew up, and he greeted us with a kindly smile.
“Here are our knights-errant,” said he, “let us hear what they have
to say. Have you seen the enemy, Bellievre?”
“Yes, my lord; their camp is a few miles beyond Arnay-le-Duc. They
were preparing to march when we left, though they seemed to be in no
particular hurry. The officers were holding some sort of inspection.”
“Did you get close to them?”
“We had a clear view of the whole camp from the top of a wooded hill
in the rear.”
“And you have formed some idea of their numbers?”
“There were three of us, my lord, and we were all fairly well
agreed. The marshal has six guns, between four and five thousand
cavalry, and about thirteen thousand infantry.”
“Do you agree with that statement, Le Blanc?”
“The numbers are a little over my calculation, my lord; but not
“In any case, you think the figures are high enough?”
“That is absolutely certain,” I replied.
“Good! We owe you both our best thanks.”
They were simple words, simply spoken, but they went straight to our
hearts, amply repaying us for the risks attendant on our night's
Marching slowly, and halting two or three times during the day, as
the general wished to husband his men's strength, we arrived early in
the evening at a little stream near Arnay-le-Duc, and beheld, on the
other side, two or three thousand of the royalist cavalry. There were
no guns in sight, and the infantry had been drawn up at some distance
in the background.
The troops took their supper—a very meagre one, too; our provisions
being at a low ebb—sentries were posted, and Coligny made all
arrangements for battle, in case the enemy should attack before
“There is Roger coming towards us!” I exclaimed, as we lay wrapped
in our cloaks on the ground.
“He has come to discover if we are still alive!” said my comrade.
“You are wrong,” laughed the Englishman, dropping down beside us;
“Jacques told me he had kept you from coming to grief. I congratulate
you on having such a servant. But, seriously, I am glad to see you
back; the errand was rather venturesome for such young persons,” and he
laughed again in his rich, musical voice.
“Go away,” said Felix, “before I am tempted to chastise you. It
would be a pity to lose your services for to-morrow!”
“It would,” agreed our friend. “By the look of things, Coligny will
need all the swords he can muster. Did you find out anything about the
We gave him the figures, and he remarked: “The odds are heavy enough
in all conscience, seeing that we count barely six thousand men. Still,
they are picked troops.”
“And they have their backs against the wall,” I observed. “There was
a chance of escape at Montcontour, but there is none here. If we are
defeated we shall be cut to pieces.”
“You are entertaining, you two!” interposed Felix. “Can we not have
a change? Let me arrange the programme. First, we rout Cosse—an easy
matter; second, we continue our march to Paris, defeating Monseigneur
on the way; third, we dictate terms of peace at the Louvre.”
“And fourth,” laughed Roger, “we appoint Monsieur Felix Bellievre
Marshal of France, and advance him to the highest dignity!”
“The suggestion does you credit,” replied my comrade,
good-humouredly; “and we will make a beginning in the morning by
Knowing that we had lost our sleep the previous night, Roger did not
stay long, and as soon as our attendance on the Admiral was over we
went to bed, or rather lay down inside the tent, muffled in our cloaks.
The morning of June 27, 1570, opened bright and clear, and we looked
forward with hope, if not exactly with confidence, to the approaching
battle. The enemy were nearly three to one, but, as Roger had said, our
men were all picked troops, hardy, resolute fellows, filled with
intense zeal, and fighting for what they believed to be right.
They greeted Coligny with deafening cheers, when, after breakfast,
and our simple morning service, he rode along the lines, accompanied by
Henry of Bearn and the young Conde. These gallant youths each commanded
a regiment, and their flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes told how
ardently they burned to distinguish themselves.
“There are the enemy, my lads,” said Coligny, in his grave, measured
tones, “and we must beat them. It is our last chance. If we fail, the
Cause is lost, and we shall find no mercy. If we run away, we shall be
cut down, for there is no place of shelter. We must win the battle, or
die on the field.”
“We will!” they cried, and there was a ring in their voices that
spoke of an iron determination to succeed.
“And we,” said young Henry of Bearn, “will die with you. Not one of
your leaders will leave the field except as a victor. It is victory or
death for all of us.”
At these brave words the cheering broke out afresh, and my comrade,
turning to me, exclaimed, “The battle is won already! Those fellows
will never retreat.”
They were, indeed, in fine fettle, but it was setting them a
desperate task to oppose nearly three times their number!
The marshal began the attack with a cavalry charge, but, as the
horsemen galloped forward, a body of arquebusiers posted in a ditch
discharged such a stinging fire that our opponents wheeled round and
rode hurriedly back to shelter.
“Well done!” cried Felix; “we have drawn first blood.”
They tried again with the same result, and then a strong body of
infantry was pushed forward. But the arquebusiers clung firmly to their
post, and presently young Conde, sweeping round unexpectedly at the
head of his regiment, charged and broke the hostile infantry. It was a
daring charge, and we waved our swords and cheered, as the victorious
horsemen rode proudly back.
The marshal, however, was not to be denied. Again and again he
launched his horsemen at us, while his foot-soldiers crept steadily
nearer. All along our front the battle raged fiercely, and at every
point our gallant fellows were fighting against overwhelming numbers.
“Stand firm, soldiers, stand firm!” cried our general, as he
galloped over the field, bringing the magic of his presence to whatever
part was in most danger.
It was in one of these wild rushes the incident occurred that laid
the foundation of my fortunes, though the building took many years to
complete. I tell it here, not out of pride or vainglory—though I was
proud, too—but because it is necessary to the better understanding of
We had just left the handful of Englishmen, who had bravely repulsed
a stubborn attack of cavalry and infantry on their position, when a cry
arose of “Prince Henry! Help for the prince!”
A cry of despair broke from us as we realized his peril. How it came
about I never clearly learned, for in the heat of battle one rarely
sees more than the things close at hand. Some said one thing, some
another, but this I reckon was the most likely way of it.
His regiment was rather exposed, and on the left flank stretched
some rolling ground, unsuitable for cavalry but affording good cover
for foot-soldiers. Across these hollows Cosse had sent a large body of
infantry, while at the same time the prince's regiment was assailed by
an overwhelming force of cavalry. An order to retire was given—though
none knew by whom—and in consequence, Henry, with a handful of men,
was left surrounded by a sea of foes.
Coligny glanced quickly round the field; the royalists were pressing
us at every point; not a man could be spared from his post.
“We must save him ourselves, gentlemen!” he exclaimed tersely,
We counted barely two score swords, but the prince was in peril, and
though the enterprise cost all our lives he must be rescued. Our
comrades battling desperately at their posts cheered us as we flew by,
crying, “Coligny! Coligny!” Straight as a die we rode, our chief
slightly in advance, the rest of us in threes, horse's head to horse's
head, the animals straining and quivering in every muscle as we urged
them madly forward.
Too late! was the thought in every heart, as we beheld the prince
fighting for dear life, and hemmed in by a host of enemies. “Coligny!
Coligny!” we cried, and in blind fury charged the dense mass.
Now it chanced by pure accident, for I had no other thought than to
follow my patron closely, that the charge brought me close to the
bridle-hand of the prince. Henry of Bearn, though a fine sworder, was
even a better horseman, and it was to his skill as a rider, much more
than to his dexterity with the sword, that he owed his life.
But now he was so closely beset that he was compelled to depend upon
the play of his sword, and his strength was failing. They struck
fiercely at him in front and on both sides; there was a continuous
circle of flashing steel; it was marvellous how death missed him.
Pressed hard by a trooper on the right he turned to parry his blows
more effectively, when a second trooper slashed at his bridle-arm.
There was no time for warning; no time even for thought. With a cry
of “Coligny!” I dashed forward, and, throwing myself half out of the
saddle, caught the descending sword. Before the trooper could recover
himself I had pierced him through the side, and he fell with a groan
across his horse's neck.
I did not think that Henry had noticed the incident, but without
turning his head he cried pleasantly, “My thanks, monsieur; I owe my
life to you.”
“Have no fear for this side, my lord,” I answered, and the next
instant was fiercely engaged with two of the king's troopers.
But now the cry of “Coligny!” grew louder; the press was broken here
and there; the Admiral himself appeared; some of his gentlemen fought
their way to our side, and with one desperate effort we thrust back the
hostile horsemen. “Coligny! Coligny! Bearn! Bearn!” were the shouts,
as, with swords flashing and gleaming in the sunlight, we pushed a way
through. At the same time the rest of the regiment drove back the
infantry, and the prince was saved.
“Stand firm, soldiers, stand firm!” cried our leader as he prepared
to gallop off, for Cosse's assaults were so rapid and daring that we
had hardly a moment's breathing space.
But, as we were moving away, Henry of Bearn, calling me to his side,
said, “Your name, monsieur?”
“Edmond Le Blanc, my lord,” I answered, bowing low.
“If we live through this day,” he said graciously, “I will remember
the debt I owe you.”
Once again I bowed, and, saluting with my sword, darted off to take
my place in the Admiral's train. Whatever Henry's fortune, there
appeared considerable doubt as to my surviving the battle, for my
patron seemed determined to court death not only for himself but for
every gentleman in his household. Wherever the Huguenots recoiled ever
so slightly before the terrible onslaughts of the foe, there we were
cheering and fighting till our arms were wearied by the work and our
heads dazed by the maddening tumult.
And never for a moment during that long summer day did the strife
cease. Cosse was inflexible; he sent his troops to death without pity,
and they obeyed without a murmur. The carnage was fearful, and I longed
for darkness to put an end to the hideous slaughter.
At the end of the afternoon he gathered his forces together for one
supreme effort. Horse and foot, they swung along as blithely as if the
battle were only beginning. I looked round on our diminished ranks, and
wondered if we had strength to withstand another onset.
“'Tis their last try!” exclaimed Felix cheerfully; “if they fail now
they will break, and the victory is ours. Half an hour will see the
finish; one side must give way.”
One side! But which?
On they came, wave after wave, like the waters of an irresistible
sea. We waited in painful silence, broken suddenly by the Admiral's
voice, “Stand firm, soldiers, stand firm. The end is at hand!”
On they came, bugles blowing, flags flying, horses prancing; the
dying sun lighting up the bared swords and pike heads, the steel caps
and breastplates. On they came, a goodly and gallant band of
“Stand firm, soldiers, stand firm!” Well in front, serene and
confident, full of proud courage and high resolve, there was our
glorious leader, the best and bravest man in the two armies.
With a roar of cheering and a hurricane rush the foe dashed forward.
They struck us in front, they swirled tumultuously around our flanks,
driving us back and cheering lustily, “For the King!” The fate of the
day hung trembling in the balance, but Henry of Bearn on the one flank,
and Conde on the other, rallied their troops, while in the centre the
stout old Admiral plunged yet again into the fray.
[Illustration: “With a roar of cheering and a hurricane rush the foe
“Forward! Forward!” we shouted. “On them! They are giving way!” and
Felix, snatching a flag from a wounded man, charged with reckless
abandon into the very midst of the foe.
“The flag!” I cried, “follow the flag!” Straight ahead of us it
went, now waving triumphantly aloft, now drooping, now swaying again,
and high above the din of strife sounded my comrade's voice, crying,
“For the Admiral! For the Faith! Forward! Forward!”
The daring hazardous exploit sent a wave of fire through every man.
We flung off our fatigue as if it were a cloak, dealing our blows as
vigorously as though the battle were but newly joined. And as we toiled
on, following the flag, a great shout of victory arose on our right.
Henry of Bearn had thrust back his assailants; they were running fast,
and his horsemen were hanging on their heels like sleuth-hounds.
The cry was taken up and repeated all along the line, and in a few
minutes the enemy, smitten by sudden fear, were flying in all
directions. For some distance we pursued, sweeping numbers of prisoners
to the rear; but our animals were wearied, and presently all but a few
of the most fiery spirits had halted.
The victory was ours, but we had bought it at a high price. Some of
our bravest officers were dead, and Coligny looked mournfully at his
diminished band of attendants. We rode back to our lines, and to me the
joy of our triumph was sadly dimmed by the absence of my comrade. In
the wild stampede I had lost sight of the flag, and no one had seen its
“Has Monsieur Bellievre fallen?” asked Jacques, who had ridden well
and boldly with the troopers.
“I do not know; I fear so. He was a long distance ahead of us in the
last charge. I am going to search for him.”
“There is your English friend, monsieur; he is not hurt.”
Roger grasped my hand warmly. “Safe!” he exclaimed; “I hardly dared
to hope it. It has been a terrible fight. Our poor fellows”—he spoke
of the English remnant—“have suffered severely. Where is Felix?”
“We are on our way to look for him; I fear he has fallen.”
Roger turned and went with us. “I saw him with the flag,” he
remarked. “'Twas a gallant deed. It helped us to win the battle. By my
word, Cosse must have lost frightfully; the field just here looks
carpeted with the dead.”
“'Tis a fearful sight to see in cold blood,” I replied.
Numbers of men were removing the wounded, but knowing that Felix had
ridden some distance ahead we kept steadily on our way.
“'Twas here Cosse's troops began to break,” said Jacques presently,
“and 'tis hereabout we ought to find Monsieur Bellievre's body.”
The words jarred upon me horribly; they expressed the thought I was
trying hard to keep out of my head.
We went quickly from one to the other, doing what we could for the
wounded, and hurrying on again. It was a gruesome task, and the fear of
finding what we sought so earnestly added to the horror.
Suddenly my heart gave a leap, and I ran forward quickly to where I
saw the colour of the blood-stained flag. A dead horse lay near it, and
by the animal's side lay my comrade. His head was bare, and his fair
hair clustered in curls over his forehead. He was very white and still,
and his eyes were closed.
“Poor fellow; I fear he is past help,” murmured Roger.
“Let us find out,” advised the practical Jacques, and, kneeling down
on the other side, he assisted me to loosen the doublet.
CHAPTER XVI. A Gleam of Sunshine
“The heart beats, monsieur; faintly, but it beats.”
“Are you sure, Jacques? Are you quite certain?”
“I can feel it plainly, monsieur. He has lost a great deal of blood.
If we move him the bleeding may begin again; I will fetch a surgeon to
dress his wounds here.”
It seemed an age before Jacques returned with a surgeon, and
meanwhile Felix lay perfectly still. There was not the flutter of an
eyelid, not the twitching of a muscle; only by placing a hand over his
heart could one tell that he still lived.
The surgeon shook his head as he bound up the wounds, evidently
having little faith in my comrade's chance of recovery. We got him back
to the camp, however, where Jacques and I watched by turns all night at
his side. Toward morning he moved restlessly, and presently his eyes
“Felix,” I said softly, with a great joy at my heart, “Felix, do you
“The flag!” he said feebly, “follow the flag! Forward, brave
hearts!” and he would have risen, but I held him down gently.
“The battle is over, Felix; we have won a great victory. It is I,
Edmond. You have been wounded, but are getting better. We found you on
“I dropped the flag,” he said, smiling at me, but not knowing me.
“It is all right. We picked it up; it is here,” and I placed it near
him. His hand closed lovingly round the silken folds, and his eyes were
filled with deep contentment.
Leaving the room quietly, I called to Jacques, saying, “He is awake,
but he does not recognize me.”
“Give him time, monsieur; his brain is not yet clear, but he will
come round. Sit by him a while, so that he can see you; he will
remember by degrees.”
Acting on this suggestion, I returned to the bedside and sat down,
but without speaking. Felix lay fingering the flag, but presently his
eyes sought mine, wonderingly at first, but afterwards with a gleam of
recognition in them.
I had sat thus for perhaps half an hour, when he called me by name,
and I bent over him with a throb of joy.
“Edmond,” he said, “where are we? Is the battle over?”
“Yes, and Cosse has been badly beaten. You were hurt in the last
“Yes,” he said slowly, “I remember. Ah, you found the flag!”
“It was lying beside you; your horse was killed.”
“A pistol-shot,” he said, “and a fellow cut at me with his sword at
the same time. But I am tired. Is the Admiral safe?”
“Yes, I am going to him now. Jacques will stay with you, and I will
send the surgeon.”
Fearing lest he should overtax his strength, I went out, and after a
visit to the surgeon proceeded to Coligny's tent. My heart ached as I
gazed around at my comrades, and realized more fully what the victory
had cost us.
“Is Bellievre likely to recover?” asked one.
“I hope so; he is quite sensible, but very weak.”
“He did a splendid thing! The Admiral is very proud of him.”
“That piece of information will go a long way toward pulling him
through!” I said.
Just then Coligny himself came from his tent, and hearing our talk
inquired kindly after my comrade.
“He is sensible, my lord, and I am hoping he may recover,” I
“I trust so; we cannot well afford to lose such a gallant lad. I
must come to see him presently, and tell him how much we owe him.”
“That will do him more good than all the surgeon's skill!” I said.
The excitement of the closing scenes of the battle, the uncertainty
as to my comrade's fate, and the long night's watch had driven from my
head all remembrance of the incident connected with Henry of Bearn, but
the prince himself had not forgotten.
During the forenoon he came riding over to Coligny's quarters,
debonair and gracious as ever.
“I have come,” said he to the Admiral, “not exactly to pay a debt,
but to acknowledge it. I owe my life to one of your gentlemen; but for
his bravery and skill with the sword Henry of Bearn would be food for
the worms. I trust he still lives to accept my thanks.”
“Le Blanc! It is Le Blanc!” murmured my comrades.
“That is the name,” said the prince with his frank smile, “and there
is the gentleman.”
My comrades pushed me forward, and I advanced awkwardly, hot with
confusion, but—I have no false shame about admitting the truth—my
breast swelling with pride.
“Monsieur,” exclaimed the prince genially, “yesterday we had leisure
for but little speech, and my thanks were necessarily of the scantiest.
To-day I wish to acknowledge before your comrades in arms that, when I
was sorely beset and had no thought except to sell my life dearly, you
came in the most gallant manner to my rescue. I have not much to offer
you, monsieur, beyond my friendship, but that is yours until the day of
He paused here, and, unbuckling his sword, placed it in my hands,
saying, “Here is the token of my promise. Should the day ever come when
you ask in vain anything that I can grant, let all men call Henry of
Bearn ingrate and traitor to his plighted word. I call you, my Lord
Admiral, and you, gentlemen, to witness.”
I tried to say something in reply, but the words were choked in my
throat; not one would come. But a still higher honour was in store for
me. The Admiral—the great and good leader whom we all
worshipped—removing my sword, buckled on the prince's gift with his
“I rejoice,” said he speaking slowly as was his wont, “that the son
of the hero who died for the Cause at St. Jean d'Angely should thus add
honour to his father's name.”
I managed to stammer out a few words, and then my comrades crowded
around, cheering me with generous enthusiasm. And, when the prince had
gone, I had the further happiness of conducting the Admiral to our
tent, and of hearing the words of praise he spoke to Felix, who would
gladly have died a thousand deaths to have secured such honour.
I said nothing to him that day of the prince's gracious gift—he had
already had as much excitement as he could bear—but Jacques, of
course, had heard of it, and the trusty fellow showed as much pride as
if he himself had received a patent of nobility. Roger Braund, too,
came to congratulate me, and his pleasure was so genuine that it made
mine the greater. Altogether I think that day after the battle of
Arnay-le-Duc was the most wonderful of my life.
The defeat of Marshal Cosse was so complete that we met with no
further opposition, but pushed on to Chatillon, the sleepy little town
which had the honour of being the birth-place of our noble chief.
Having to attend on the Admiral, I left my wounded comrade in the care
of Jacques, who made him as comfortable as possible in one of the
wagons, and waited upon him day and night. Whenever opportunity offered
I rode back to see him, and each time found to my delight that he was
At last we reached the town and rode along the main street through
groups of cheering citizens to the castle, a strong and massive
fortress with ample accommodation for thousands of persons. It stood in
the midst of a vast enclosure, surrounded by a deep and wide fosse; and
the thick walls, as Roger remarked, appeared capable of withstanding
the assaults of a well-equipped army.
Inside the enclosure were large gardens and handsome terraces, while
the huge tower, sixty feet high, looked down into a wide and spacious
“This is pleasant and comfortable,” said Roger that same evening,
“but what does it mean? Why have we come here? I understood we were to
march on Paris.”
“I do not know; there is some talk of peace. Several important
messengers were despatched post-haste to the king directly after the
defeat of Cosse.”
Roger shrugged his shoulders. “I think it a mistake,” he said; “one
should never come to terms with an enemy who is only half-beaten; it
gives him time to recover.”
“Well, this is pleasanter than marching through Dauphigny.”
“So it is,” he agreed laughingly; “what a magnificent old place it
is! Your nobles are very powerful; almost too powerful for the king's
comfort I should fancy. How is Felix?”
“Getting well rapidly, and clamouring to leave his bed. As usual, he
is just a little too impatient.”
“That is his chief failing,” said Roger, “but he is a gallant fellow
nevertheless. I wonder how your mother and sister are!”
“If we stay here, as seems likely, I shall despatch Jacques on a
visit to Rochelle.”
“Do not forget to say I send them my deepest respect and sympathy.
Indeed, Jacques might carry a little note from me.”
“To my mother?” I asked mischievously.
“Of course,” he replied, with a blush that became him well; but all
the same when, a few days later, Jacques started on his journey, I
noticed that Roger's letter was addressed to Jeanne. Perhaps being in a
hurry he had made a mistake!
We passed our time at Chatillon very pleasantly. Felix was soon able
to leave his bed, and every day increased his strength. The rumours of
an approaching peace became stronger, and at last it was announced that
Coligny had signed a treaty, which secured to those of the Religion
perfect freedom to worship as they pleased.
“As long as we keep our swords loose, and our horses saddled,” said
Felix, “but no longer,” and Roger, rather to my surprise, agreed with
It was the time of evening, and we were walking on one of the
terraces, when Jacques rode slowly into the courtyard. He looked tired
and travel-stained, as was but natural, but his face wore a gloomy
expression that could not be due to fatigue. I went down to him quickly
with a sudden sinking of the heart.
“Well, Jacques, what news?” I cried, with forced cheerfulness.
“The country is quiet, monsieur, and the citizens are rejoicing in
“I care nothing for Rochelle just now; 'tis of my mother and sister
I would hear. Are they well? Are they cheerful? Have they written to
me? Speak out, man; is your tongue in a knot?”
“I would it were,” said he, “if that would alter the news I bring.
You must brace yourself, monsieur, to face another calamity. But here
is a letter from Mademoiselle Jeanne.”
“From Jeanne?” I repeated, and at that I understood the truth. My
mother was dead!
I read the blotted and tear-stained paper with moist eyes. On the
very day when we started from Narbonne on our memorable march, my poor
mother, who had never really recovered from the shock of my father's
death, breathed her last. Concerning herself, Jeanne said little except
that she was living in the household of the Queen of Navarre, who was
holding her court at Rochelle.
After telling Felix and Roger the sad news, I went away to brood
over my sorrow alone. It was a heavy blow, and the heavier because so
unexpected. The chance that my mother might die during my absence had
never struck me, and I had been looking forward impatiently to meeting
Fortunately, the newly-signed peace brought me many active duties.
The army was disbanded, and most of our chiefs began their preparations
for a visit to Rochelle. Felix and I were kept busy, and indeed until
the journey began we had few idle moments.
The little band of Englishmen who had survived the war—gallant
hearts, they had spent themselves so recklessly that barely a dozen
remained—accompanied us, and naturally we saw a great deal of Roger.
“I suppose,” said Felix to him one day, “that now you will return to
“My comrades are returning at once,” he replied, “but I shall stay a
while longer; perhaps even pay a visit to Paris before I leave.”
“If you wish to see Paris,” said Felix, “it will be well to go
quickly, before the clouds burst again”; but Roger observed with a
smile that he intended to stay in Rochelle for a few weeks at least.
Our entry into the city was very different from that after the rout
of Montcontour. Cannon boomed, church bells rang merrily, the streets
were gay with flags and flowers and triumphal arches; while the
citizens, dressed in their best, with happy smiling faces, cheered
until they were hoarse, as the Admiral, with Henry of Bearn on his
right and the youthful Conde on his left, rode through the gateway.
Jeanne, with several of the queen's ladies, was sitting in the
balcony of the Hotel Coligny. Catching sight of us, she stood up
and waved her hand, and we bowed low in our saddles, and smiled, and
waved our hands in return.
“Your sister is more beautiful than ever, Edmond,” said my comrade
“She looked paler, I thought,” I replied, as we turned into the
courtyard; “but now the war is over we shall have a chance to cheer her
“Did she see Roger Braund, do you think?”
“It is likely enough,” I laughed; “he is a fair size, and sits up
well in the saddle,” a harmless pleasantry which, to judge by his
peevish exclamation, Felix did not appreciate.
That evening we all met at the reception given by the Queen of
Navarre, a reception brilliant by reason of the number of brave men and
beautiful women assembled. I had spent an hour alone with Jeanne during
the afternoon, and she had told me of our mother's illness, and of her
last loving message to myself.
I asked how she came to be in the Queen of Navarre's household, and
her eyes kindled and her face flushed as she answered, “Oh, Edmond, the
queen has been the kindest of friends! She sought me out in my sorrow,
saying it was not right that the daughter of so brave a soldier as my
father should be left to bear her grief alone. She insisted on my
becoming one of her ladies-in-waiting, and ever since has done her best
to make me happy.”
My sister was certainly very beautiful, and I could not wonder to
see the numbers of handsome and highborn cavaliers who clustered around
her that evening. But Jeanne was staunch and leal, and, though
courteous to all, it was in the company of her old friends Felix and
Roger she found her chief pleasure.
We four were chatting together, and Felix was describing in his
lively way some of our adventures, when Henry of Bearn drew near.
“Le Blanc,” he exclaimed, looking at me, “surely it is Le Blanc!”
and taking my arm he added jovially, “come with me, I must present you
specially to my mother. She ought to know to whom she is indebted for
her son's life.”
Jeanne looked at me in surprise, and as we moved away I heard Felix
saying, “I warrant he never told you a word of that. By my faith, one
could hardly blame him had he cried it from the housetops!”
Meanwhile the prince marched up the room, his arm placed
affectionately on my shoulder, and presented me to the gracious lady
who was such a tower of strength to the Cause.
“Madame,” he said in his hearty way, “this is the cavalier of whom I
spoke. But for his courage Henry of Bearn would have been left lying on
the field at Arnay-le-Duc.”
She gave me her hand to kiss, and thanked me graciously, saying that
while she or her son lived I should not want a true friend.
“Madame,” I replied, “in taking my sister under your gracious
protection you have already shown your kindness.”
“Your sister!” she said in surprise; “who is your sister?”
“Jeanne Le Blanc, whom your Majesty has honoured by making one of
“Then you must be the Sieur Le Blanc!”
“Edmond Le Blanc, your Majesty. My father sacrificed his title and
his lands, as well as his life, for the Cause!”
“How is this?” asked her son, and when I had related the story, he
declared roundly that, with the Admiral's support, he would force the
king to restore my rights.
Presently I withdrew, and Jeanne, to whom Felix had related the
adventure, kissed me and made much of me, to the envy of my two
comrades, who, poor fellows, had no pretty sister of their own. It was
a proud night for me, but the shadow of my parents' death lay on my
happiness, and I would gladly have sacrificed all my honours for their
“If life at Rochelle is to be as agreeable as this,” remarked Roger,
with a glance at my sister, “I shall be loth to return to England.”
“Then you can be no true Englishman!” laughed Jeanne, as she wished
us good-night before going to attend upon her royal mistress.
CHAPTER XVII. The King's Promise
Life flowed very smoothly in La Rochelle during that autumn of 1570.
Amongst us at least the peace was not broken, though we heard rumours
of dark threats from the Guises, and Coligny received numerous warnings
not to trust himself, without an armed force, outside the city walls.
The first break came about with the departure of Roger Braund. An
English ship put into the harbour one morning at the end of November,
and her master brought a letter which compelled my comrade to return
“No,” he said in reply to my question, “there is no bad news; it is
simply a matter of business. I shall not wish you good-bye; I have
still my promised visit to Paris to make. Perhaps we shall all be able
to go there together.”
What he said to Jeanne I do not know, but she did not seem so much
cast down at his departure as I expected, for they two had become very
close friends. Indeed, I sometimes thought their friendship was even
warmer than that between Jeanne and Felix.
However, we went down to the harbour, Felix and I, and aboard his
ship, an uncomfortable-looking craft, with but scanty accommodation for
a passenger. But Roger did not mind this. He had sailed in a much worse
vessel, he said, and a far longer distance than the passage across the
Felix shrugged his shoulders. “On land,” he remarked, “danger does
not alarm me, but I should not care to put to sea in such a boat as
that!” in which I was at one with him.
“I will choose a better craft next time,” laughed Roger, as, after
bidding him farewell, we walked across the gangway to the wharf, where
we stood waving our hands until he disappeared from sight.
“Does he really mean to return?” my comrade asked.
“I think so. He has evidently made up his mind to visit Paris.”
“I fancy,” said Felix rather bitterly, it struck me, “that he will
be satisfied with Rochelle, as long as Queen Joan holds her Court
My friend was not in the best of humour, but he recovered his
spirits in a day or two, and before a week had passed was as lively and
merry as usual. Black Care and Felix were not congenial companions.
Nothing happened after Roger's departure until the spring of 1571,
when we heard of the king's marriage with Elizabeth of Germany. None of
our leaders attended the ceremony, which seemed to have been a very
brilliant affair, the new queen riding into Paris in an open litter
hung with cloth of silver, drawn by the very finest mules shod with the
same gleaming metal.
A courier who waited upon the Admiral declared that the decorations
were a triumph of art, and that the bridge of Notre Dame was like a
scene taken bodily from fairy land. A triumphal arch was erected at
each end of the bridge; the roadway was covered with an awning
smothered in flowers and evergreens, while between every window on the
first floor of the houses were figures of nymphs bearing fruits and
flowers, and crowned with laurel.
But, although debarred from attending the marriage of the king, we
were not without our rejoicings. Our noble leader was married to
Jacqueline of Montbel, Countess of Entremont, who came to la Rochelle
attended by fifty gentlemen of her kindred. Headed by Coligny, we rode
out to meet her, and the cannon thundered forth a joyous salute. The
citizens lined the streets, and if our decorations were not as gay as
those of Paris, there was, perhaps, a more genuine heartiness in our
These public rejoicings, however, could not make me forget that my
position was still very awkward. My stock of money was dwindling, and I
could not expect to live in the Admiral's house for ever; while, as
long as we remained at Rochelle, Henry of Beam's generous promise was
not likely to bear fruit.
Jacques, who paid one or two visits to Le Blanc, reported that the
castle remained closed, and that the tenants on the property had
received orders to pay their rents to the crown. This was bad enough,
but his second piece of Information made my blood hot with anger.
I asked if he had learned anything of Etienne Cordel, and he replied
angrily, “More than enough, monsieur. I shall certainly spit that
insolent upstart one of these days. He is giving himself all the airs
of a grand personage, and boasts openly that before long he will be the
Sieur Le Blanc. He is a serpent, monsieur—a crawling, loathsome,
deadly serpent; his breath pollutes the very air.”
“He is no worse than his kind,” I replied somewhat bitterly. “He is
but trying to raise himself on the misfortunes of others.”
“Worse than that, monsieur. In my opinion it was he who caused the
downfall of your house, for his own wicked ends. Your father's property
was to be his reward for doing Monseigneur's dirty work.”
“It is likely enough,” I replied, “but we can do nothing without the
A day or two after this conversation—it was as far as I can
remember about the middle of July—Felix came to me in a state of great
“Have you heard the news?” he asked. “The king has sent for our
“For what purpose?”
“He has written a most kindly letter and has promised to follow his
“Faith,” said I, “it smacks to me of the invitation of the hungry
fox to the plump pullet! I think Coligny will be well advised to remain
within the walls of La Rochelle.”
The king's letter was the subject of eager discussion, and almost
every one declared that our beloved chief would run the greatest risk
in accepting the invitation.
“The king may be honest enough, though I doubt it,” said one, “but
the Guises are murderers; while as for Monseigneur and his mother, I
would as soon trust to a pack of wolves!”
Queen Joan, Henry of Bearn, young Conde, and all our leaders, though
making use of less blunt speech, were of the same opinion, but the
Admiral cared little for his own safety, when there was a chance of
benefiting his country.
“The king is surrounded by evil counsellors,” he said; “there is all
the greater need for one who will tender him honest advice. I have
ventured my life freely for France; you would not have me turn coward
in my old age?”
“To die on the field of battle, my lord,” exclaimed one of his
oldest comrades in arms, “and to be stabbed in the back by a cowardly
assassin are two very different things.”
“You love me over-much,” replied the Admiral, placing a hand
affectionately on his shoulder; “you are too tender of my welfare. What
is one man's life compared with the good of France?”
“Very little, my lord, except when the man is yourself, and then it
“Well,” replied Coligny, “at the least we can ponder his majesty's
“He will go,” declared Felix that evening; “his mind is made up.
With him France is first, second, and third; Coligny is nowhere.”
“The king may really mean well,” I suggested.
“If he doesn't,” said Felix, “and any harm happens to our chief, the
House of Valois will rue it! We will clear them out, root and branch.”
My comrade foretold the Admiral's decision correctly. With his eyes
wide open to the terrible risk, he elected to place himself in the
king's power, in the hope of healing the wounds from which France was
Jeanne was so happy with her royal mistress that I felt no misgiving
in leaving her, and for myself I was not sorry to exchange the
confinement of Rochelle for a more active life. Besides, I could not
help reflecting that it was to the Admiral's influence I looked for the
recovery of my father's estates.
The evening before leaving La Rochelle I went to take farewell of my
sister. “If Roger Braund should return during our absence,” I said,
“you can tell him we have gone to Blois and perhaps to Paris. What is
it, sweetheart?” for at this, a wave of colour spread over her fair
“'Tis nothing, brother,” said she, gazing earnestly at the ground,
“only this very morning the master of an English ship brought me a note
“A note for you! 'Tis strange he did not write to me!”
“He speaks of you in his letter, and hopes you are well. There is
some trouble at Court” he says, “and he cannot obtain his queen's
permission to leave the country.”
“Then we have seen the last of him. I am sorry.”
“He thinks he may be able to come in a few months,” she continued,
but, strangely enough, she did not show me his letter, nor did she
mention the subject to Felix, who presently joined us.
The next morning, to the visible anxiety of our friends, we rode out
from the city, fifty strong, with the Admiral at our head. We journeyed
pleasantly and at our leisure to Blois, where the king accorded our
chief a most gracious and kindly reception. If he really meditated
treachery, he was a most accomplished actor.
His gentlemen entertained us with lavish hospitality, and, though
there were occasionally sharp differences of opinion, we got on very
well together. When the king treated our leader so affectionately,
calling him “Father,” and placing his arm round his neck, the members
of the royal household could not afford to be churlish.
One morning I chanced to be in attendance on the Admiral when he and
the king were taking a turn in the grounds. Felix and two or three of
the king's gentlemen were with me, and we were all chatting pleasantly
together when my patron, turning round, beckoned me to approach.
“This is the young man, sire,” he said; “he comes from a good
family, and I have proved him to be a trusty servant.”
“My dear Admiral,” cried Charles, “a word from you is sufficient
recommendation. But there are forms to be observed, and you would not
have me override the Parliament! Eh, my dear Admiral, you would not
have me do that,” and he laughed roguishly.
“I would have you do nothing unjustly, sire, but I would have you
set the wrong right, and this is a foul wrong. The Sieur Le Blanc did
nothing more than any other Huguenot gentleman. Why was he outlawed,
and a price set on his head, and his property confiscated?”
“Upon my word,” exclaimed Charles, looking very foolish, “I do not
“You were pleased at St. Jean d'Angely to call him a very gallant
“At D'Angely?” echoed the king. “Are you speaking of the man who set
us so long at defiance? My brother was not well pleased with him.”
“Your brother, sire, does not rule France.”
“No, by St. James!” cried Charles, with sudden fury, “and while I
live he never shall! I am the king, and what I wish shall be done. This
Le Blanc who fought at D'Angely was as brave a soldier as ever drew
sword. Had he been on our side, I would have made him a marshal. I
“He fought against you, sire, but it was for what he thought right.”
“Perhaps he was right,” said Charles. “Why can't we all live at
peace with each other? When we have finished cutting each other's
throats, the Spaniards will step in and seize the country. I am not a
fool, though my brother thinks I am!”
“While France remains true to herself, sire, Spain can do her no
harm. And a generous action, your majesty, goes far toward gaining a
“You wish me to restore this young man's estates? They shall be
restored, my dear Admiral; I will look into the matter on my return to
Paris. There will be papers to sign—it seems to me I am always signing
papers, principally to please my mother and Monseigneur—in this I will
“I thank you, sire, not only for myself, but for Henry of Beam,
whose life the youth had the good fortune to save, and who is greatly
interested in him.”
“If it will please Henry of Beam,” said the king with an interest
for which I could not account, but which became clearer afterwards,
“that is a further reason why I should have justice done. Let the young
man go to his estates whenever he pleases; I will see that whatever
forms are necessary are made out.”
At that I thanked his majesty very respectfully, and at a sign from
my patron fell back to rejoin my companions. I said nothing to Felix
then concerning this conversation, but at night, when we were alone, I
told him of the king's promise.
“He will keep his word,” said my comrade, “unless Anjou gets hold of
him. But if Anjou has promised the estates to his tool, I foresee
“Surely the king is master of his own actions!” I remarked.
My comrade laughed. “He is a mere puppet; his mother and Anjou
between them pull the strings as they please. Charles is a weakling,
Edmond, and easily swayed by other people's opinions.”
“He seems to be under the Admiral's influence just at present.”
“Yes; it is when he returns to Paris that the trouble will begin.
The other side will work hard to drive him away from our patron.”
A fortnight passed before I heard anything more of the subject, and
I was beginning to feel somewhat doubtful of the king's good faith when
one morning the Admiral sent for me.
“His majesty is returning to Paris, Le Blanc,” he said, “and I am
going for a short while to Chatillon. He has promised to set things
right for you, but he may forget, and I shall not be with him.”
“It is very kind of you to think of my troubles, my lord.”
“I must be true to those who are true to me,” he replied graciously,
“and I am still deeply in your debt. Now, what is to be done? Until the
papers are signed, your tenants must continue to pay their rents to the
crown; but it may be as well for you to take the king at his word, and
go to your estates. Of course, you will need money, but, fortunately, I
can supply that.”
“You are indeed generous, my lord; but there is another objection,”
I stammered out awkwardly.
“What is that?” he asked
“My duty to yourself, my lord. It is not the part of a gentleman of
France to leave his chief in danger.”
“But I am not in danger, my boy! France is at peace; the king is my
friend; we have blotted out the past. Still, should the time come when
I have need of a trusty sword, I shall not fail to send for Edmond Le
Blanc. I leave Blois in two or three days, but before then I will send
my chaplain to you. Keep a stout heart; the king is anxious to stand
well with Prince Henry, who will not forget to press your claims.”
I took my leave of him with heart-felt gratitude, and sought my
comrade, whose face clouded as he listened to my story.
“'Tis good advice, Edmond,” he exclaimed dolefully, “and it is
selfish in me to feel sorry; but it puts an end to our comradeship.”
“Say, rather, it breaks it for a time,” I suggested. “As soon as the
affair is settled I shall come back.”
“Will you?” he cried delightedly; “then I hope the king will sign
the papers directly he reaches Paris. I shall be miserable until your
“The pleasures of the capital will help to keep up your spirits,” I
laughed. “It will be a novelty to see our friends attending the royal
banquets and receptions. Monseigneur and the Guises will be charmed
with your society.”
“It is a big risk,” he remarked thoughtfully. “I wonder how it will
all end?” and I hardly liked to answer the question even to myself.
The next day the chaplain brought me a purse of money, with a kindly
message from the chief, who had gone to attend the king, and I told
Jacques to prepare for setting out early in the morning.
“Are we going to Paris?” he asked, and I laughed at the amazed
expression of his face on hearing that we were about to return home.
“'Tis a long story,” I said, “but there will be ample time to tell
it on the journey.”
I wished my comrades farewell, and early in the morning took my
departure from Blois, Felix riding a short distance with me.
“I would we were travelling the whole journey together,” he said;
“but as that is out of the question I shall pray for your speedy
return. Good-bye, Edmond, till we meet again.”
“And may that be soon!” I exclaimed warmly.
CHAPTER XVIII. A Warning from
The hour being late when we reached Le Blanc, Jacques proposed that
we should put up at the inn. Old Pierre came bustling out with a hearty
welcome; the horses were stabled, a room was prepared, and by the time
we had removed the traces of our journey Pierre brought in a
substantial and appetising supper.
“Why, Pierre,” I exclaimed laughing, “you must have laid your larder
“All the larders in the village would be laid bare for monsieur's
use,” replied the old man, and I believed him.
“Come Jacques,” I said, “sit down and fall-to; the ride to-day must
have put an edge on your appetite!” for we had eaten nothing since the
After supper I bade Pierre seat himself and tell us the news of the
neighbourhood, which he did willingly, though there was but little to
relate. The castle still remained closed, and when I asked about the
keys he said they had been taken away by the officer, and no one knew
what had become of them.
“That need not keep us out long,” said Jacques, “we can easily get
fresh ones made in the morning; Urie will see to that.”
“Has Etienne Cordel been in the village lately?” I asked.
“He is always here, monsieur,” cried the old man with an angry
outburst; “he collects the money for the crown, and acts as if he were
the rightful owner. He gives himself as many airs as if he were some
“Which he may be one of these days; he has powerful friends at
Court. Doesn't he talk of what he will do in the future?”
“He tells idle tales, monsieur,” replied Pierre with a frown.
“What does he say?”
“That before long the estates will be his own, and that the king has
promised to make him the Sieur Le Blanc. He is going to live in the
castle and grind us under his feet. But”—and the old man shook his
head scornfully—“I don't think his life at the castle will be a long
one! A rascally lawyer to be our master, forsooth!”
“Well, Pierre,” I said, “at present I intend living there myself,
and, I do not suppose Cordel will care to keep me company. Send word to
Urie that I shall need his services at daylight, and now we will go to
bed; Jacques is half asleep already.”
“I do feel drowsy, monsieur,” said Jacques, almost as if it were a
crime to be tired, “but I shall be fresh by the morning.”
The news of my return quickly spread, and next day all the village
had assembled outside Pierre's door. Men, women and children were
there, and I confess their hearty and genuine welcome touched me very
closely. I had always been a favourite with them, and the death of my
father, of whose prowess at D'Angely they had heard, increased their
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed one burly fellow, “now that our young lord has
come back Monsieur Cordel can take himself off, or he will get a taste
of my cudgel!”
“No, no, my friend!” I cried hastily, for his companions had begun
to cheer, “you must not interfere with Monsieur Cordel, or you will get
into trouble. I have returned to Le Blanc by the king's instructions,
but his majesty has not yet signed the necessary papers permitting me
to take possession of my property. That will come in time, but
meanwhile we must be patient and give no cause of offence.”
“We will do whatever you tell us, monsieur,” they answered.
From the first streak of dawn Urie, the blacksmith and worker in
iron, had with the assistance of Jacques been busily fashioning the new
keys. It was a troublesome business, and evening was again approaching
when I succeeded in entering my old home.
Rather to my surprise, I discovered that the royal troops had
committed little damage, and in a few days, through the willing labours
of the villagers, everything was restored to its former condition.
Several of my father's old servants were eager to return, but, knowing
how uncertain the future was, I decided to manage with as few as
“I fear, monsieur,” said Jacques one evening, about a week after our
return, “that we must expect trouble.”
“How so?” I asked.
“Cordel has been in the village, and has gone off in a towering
passion. It seems he has only just learned of your arrival, and has let
fall several threats to old Pierre.”
“Pshaw!” I exclaimed, “what harm can the fellow do us?”
“I do not know, monsieur; but he is a false knave and full of
cunning. He will play you a nasty trick if he can find a way!”
“We will wait till that time comes,” I replied cheerfully, thinking
Jacques had magnified the danger.
Cordel did not tax my patience long. The very next afternoon an
officer with an escort of twenty troopers, clattering up to the
drawbridge, demanded admittance in the king's name. He was accompanied
by the lawyer, and, knowing it would be folly to offer resistance, I
ordered the bridge to be lowered.
“Edmond Le Blanc?” said the officer brusquely.
“Permit me to put you right,” I replied: “the Sieur Le Blanc!”
He looked at Cordel, who said, “No one bears that name now. His
father was outlawed, and his estate confiscated. The castle belongs to
the king; this fellow has no right here, and,” viciously, “I doubt if
he has a right to his life. In any case, as the king's representative,
I order you to arrest him!”
“You will be responsible?” asked the officer, who seemed suddenly to
have become somewhat timorous. “You will give me an order in writing?”
“I tell you,” exclaimed Cordel furiously, taken aback by this
question, “that I am carrying out the wishes of Monseigneur. If you
desire to make an enemy of him, you must.”
“But Monseigneur is not the king,” said the perplexed officer.
“You must choose between them,” I remarked, rather enjoying his
dilemma. “This man appears to shelter himself under the authority of
Monseigneur; I am here at the express command of his majesty, to whom,
as you wear his uniform, I suppose you are responsible. However, the
business is none of mine, but when the king calls you to account,
remember that I gave you warning.”
“A plague on you both!” cried the officer, now thoroughly
exasperated. “To offend Monseigneur will be bad; to offend the king may
be worse. Do I understand, monsieur, that you are here by the king's
“I am acting on his instructions. Of course, if you force me to
accompany you, I must submit, but it will be at your own peril.”
He drew Cordel aside, and the two conversed earnestly together for
several minutes. Then, turning to me, he said, “I am going away,
monsieur; when I return it will be with his majesty's order in my
“You will find me always ready to obey his majesty's commands,” I
answered, and at that the whole body rode off, Cordel turning round to
give me a glance of bitter and vindictive hatred.
“The lawyer's first move!” observed Jacques, who had been standing
by my side during the parley, “what will be the second?”
“To seek the advice of his patron. To-morrow most likely he will set
out for Paris. It was bound to come to this, but I am rather sorry.
Monseigneur has immense influence over the king. I fear that he and the
Queen-Mother will prove more than a match for the Admiral. However, we
will go on hoping until the worst happens.”
The next evening Jacques returned with the information that the
lawyer had departed. Having expected this move I was not surprised, but
it made my prospects distinctly gloomy. Anjou possessed much influence
at Court, and the king was hardly likely to quarrel with his brother
over the affairs of an unknown and penniless lad.
Several weeks passed, and even after Cordel's return from Paris I
remained in quiet possession of the castle. I received no papers from
the king, but, on the other hand, no one made any attempt to molest me.
It appeared as if the cloud had passed over without bursting. But I was
yet to learn of what Etienne Cordel was capable.
I was sitting one night alone in my room, reading for the second
time a letter from Jeanne. She wrote very brightly and hopefully. She
continued to be a decided favourite with her royal mistress, and was
very happy in her service. This was good news, as I thought it unwise
for her to come to Le Blanc until my affairs were settled.
She wrote at great length, too, on a subject that was producing much
excitement in Queen Joan's little court. This was a proposal that Henry
of Bearn should marry the king's sister, Margaret. Charles was said to
be eager for the marriage, which was also approved of by the leading
Huguenot gentlemen, but thus far Queen Joan had refused her consent.
“Faith,” I said to myself, “nothing could be better; it would give
our party a strong friend at Court. It might help me out of my
difficulty too. I wish the marriage were taking place to-morrow!”
It was a wild night outside; very cold, with a heavy downfall of
rain, while now and then the wind howled round the building in furious
gusts. I had put the letter away, and was sitting down again when some
one knocked at the door. Knowing it must be Jacques, I told him to
“A wild night, Jacques,” I remarked. “We have the best of it
“Truly, monsieur, only those who are forced will ride abroad in
weather like this. But there is one person eager enough for your
company to brave the storm. He has travelled far, too, by the look of
“A visitor for me! Where is he? Who is it?”
“He is in the courtyard, where, if you take my advice, you will let
him stay. As to who he is, he either has no name or is too shy to tell
it. He is muffled up so closely that one cannot see his face.”
“And he will not give his name?”
“He says it is sufficient to tell you he is the writer of the letter
from St. Jean d'Angely.”
“It is all right, Jacques. Have the horse put in the stables, and
bring the rider here.”
“Is it wise, monsieur? One cannot be too careful in these days.”
“The man is a friend, Jacques, and will do me no harm. You are
“Very good, monsieur,” said he stolidly, and turned away.
“The writer of the letter from St. Jean d'Angely,” I said. “He must
have come from Paris on purpose to see me! What does he want? Does he
bring news? What a dolt Jacques is! Why is he so long? Ah, they are
coming!” and in my eagerness I hurried to the door.
My visitor was heavily cloaked and closely muffled, and he made no
movement toward undoing his wrappings.
“Is it L'Estang?” I asked, at which he turned as if to remind me
that my servant was present.
“You can trust Jacques as you would trust myself,” I said; “but come
into my room, while he prepares some supper; you are wet; it is a wild
“A terrible night, monsieur; I was glad to see the walls of your
Bidding Jacques see that a good meal was got ready, I led my visitor
into my chamber, where he removed his hat and cloak, which I sent away
to be dried I made him take off his boots, and gave him a change of
clothing, for his own was soaked by the heavy rain.
“It is kind of you, monsieur,” he said, “but I must depart before
morning. I am supposed to be in Paris, and I cannot afford to be
“Still,” I said pleasantly, “you may as well be comfortable while
you remain. No one will see you but Jacques, and I would trust him with
my life. Join me when you are ready.”
Jacques had everything arranged so that there was no need for any
one to enter the room, and at a sign from me he went out, though very
reluctantly, being afraid apparently lest my unexpected visitor should
have some evil design on my life.
L'Estang sat down to the table and ate and drank like a man who had
“It is a curious situation, is it not?” said he presently. “Here am
I, in the service of Anjou, accepting the hospitality of one of
Coligny's attendants. We ought really to be cutting each other's
“There can be no question of strife between you and me, L'Estang.”
“No,” he said slowly, “I am too much in your debt. I have not
“You repaid me at D'Angely, and now I fancy I shall be in your debt.
You have journeyed from Paris on purpose to see me!”
“To warn you of danger!”
“From Cordel? He is my bitter enemy, and hates me, though I scarcely
“The reason is plain. You are in his way, and baulk his plans. He
has been very useful to Monseigneur, and is deep in his secrets.”
“But that does not concern me!”
L'Estang looked at me a moment before replying. “It concerns you
very nearly, monsieur. Cordel expects to be paid for his work, and his
wages were agreed upon long ago. They are the estates of Le Blanc, and
a patent of nobility. Cordel flies high.”
“It appears so.”
“As you know, the estates were confiscated, and he was made receiver
for the crown. That was the first step. Good progress had been made
with the second, when Coligny appealed to the king at Blois.”
“You know that?”
“I am acquainted with many things,” he answered, smiling. “The king
brought up the subject in Paris; Monseigneur protested, but Charles had
one of his obstinate fits and declared he would do as he pleased.
Monseigneur went to his mother, who talked to Charles with the result
that the papers are still unsigned.”
“The Admiral will use his influence,” I said.
“The Admiral is a broken reed, monsieur; but if it were not so, your
danger would be just as great. Cordel has been in Paris: he is furious
at the check to his plans, and afraid lest they should be overthrown.
He can see but one way out of the difficulty.”
“Is obvious; you are the obstacle in his path, and he intends to
“You mean that he will try to take my life?”
“If you were dead, he would obtain the estates without trouble, and
the patent would follow.”
“Pshaw!” I exclaimed, “Etienne Cordel is too timorous a knave to
play with naked steel, or even to fire a pistol from behind a hedge!”
“But not too timorous to employ others,” said L'Estang. “There are
scores of ruffians in Paris ready to earn a few crowns, and Cordel
knows where to seek them. That is what brought me here to-night. Weigh
well what I say, monsieur. This rascal has marked you down, and
sleeping or waking your life is in danger.”
I thanked the kind-hearted adventurer warmly for his service—it was
strange to think that but for a trifling accident he might have been
earning Cordel's pay—and promised to observe the greatest caution.
“If I learn anything more,” he said, “I will send you a note by a
trusty messenger, and that you may be sure it comes from me I will sign
“A good suggestion, monsieur. Now, there is still time for an hour
or two's sleep before starting on your journey.”
“I must not be here at daylight: if Cordel recognizes me, I can do
you no more good.”
“The mornings are dark; I will call you in ample time, and Jacques
will have your horse ready. You can be miles away from Le Blanc before
the villagers are stirring.”
The heavy supper and the warmth of the room after his cold, wet ride
had made him drowsy, and on my promising to call him at the end of two
hours he went to bed.
It was still dark when Jacques undid the fastenings of the gate, and
I bade my guest farewell.
“Remember my warning!” he whispered, “and keep free from Cordel's
“A short visit, monsieur,” commented Jacques, as L'Estang rode off.
“But full of interest, nevertheless. My visitor came all the way
from Paris in this wretched weather and at some risk to himself to warn
me against Etienne Cordel”; and thereupon I told Jacques the story,
though without revealing the adventurer's identity.
“The tale rings true,” said he, “but we ought to be a match for the
lawyer's cut-throats. 'Tis a pity that Cordel won't give us a chance of
measuring swords with him.”
“He knows better how to handle the goose-quill,” I laughed, leaving
Jacques to fasten the gate, and returning to my room.
CHAPTER XIX. Who Killed the Courier?
L'Estang's information caused me a certain amount of anxiety, and
during the next few weeks I was rarely abroad except for a ride in the
broad daylight. Cordel, who was still at home, occasionally came into
the village, but nothing happened that served to show he was pushing on
Indeed, as Jacques pointed out one evening when we were discussing
the matter, the lawyer had a difficult game to play. He could strike at
me only outside the castle walls, while the villagers were my devoted
friends, and every man of them would be eager to put me on my guard.
But Cordel's threats had apparently ended in smoke. Week followed
week; the old year gave place to the new, and I remained unmolested.
About the beginning of February, 1572, I received another letter
from Jeanne, informing me that her royal mistress had finally consented
to journey to Blois, and that they would set out in a week or two at
the latest. She also added, in a brief postscript at the end, that
Roger Braund intended to pay us a visit before the summer ended.
About the same time a message reached me from Felix, who was at
Blois again, in attendance on our patron. The king, he wrote, was more
than ever fixed on the marriage of his sister Margaret to Henry of
Beam, though the Pope and all the Guises were bitterly opposed to the
match. “But the marriage is certain to take place,” he concluded, “and
then, if not before, I trust Charles will see that justice is done
“'Twas from Monsieur Bellievre, Jacques,” I said, when the messenger
had departed with my reply; “he is at Blois once more. There is to be a
marriage between the king's sister and our Prince Henry, and the Court
is filled with excitement. Do you know, Jacques, I am getting weary of
this life. If we were at Blois I should have a chance of meeting the
king and pressing my claims. The longer we stay here, the more likely I
am to be forgotten.”
“True, monsieur; in my opinion it was a mistake to come. When one is
not in sight, one is not in mind, and the Admiral has many weighty
matters to think about.”
“I have told Monsieur Bellievre what I think, and asked his advice.
But still, I cannot return without the Admiral's commands.”
The next morning Jacques came early to my room before I had risen.
“Monsieur,” he said, “will you get up? A strange thing has happened.”
“A strange thing?” I repeated, springing from the bed.
“A man has been slain—at least I believe the poor fellow is
dead—on the highroad. Urie found him; he was not dead then, and had
sufficient strength to whisper your name. Urie declares that he said
quite distinctly, 'Monsieur Le Blanc!' so he had him brought here.”
“Do we know him?” I asked, now thoroughly roused.
“He is a stranger to me. I have never seen him before, and he does
not belong to these parts. But one thing is certain: he is no peaceable
All this time I was hastily dressing, and now, filled with
curiosity, I accompanied Jacques to the room where the wounded man lay.
He was a sturdy-looking fellow, in the prime of life, tough, wiry, and
with muscles well developed by exercise. His dress was that of an
ordinary trooper; he wore a long knife at his girdle, and Urie had
placed his sword, which was broken and stained with blood, by his side.
The mark of an old scar disfigured his left cheek, and his chest showed
that he had been wounded more than once in his life. Jacques was
certainly right in saying he was no peaceable citizen.
Urie had fetched the cure, who had bandaged his hurts, but the
worthy priest shook his head at me as if to say, “There was really
little use in doing it.”
“Foul work!” I exclaimed; “the man must have made a desperate
struggle for life. Where did you find him, Urie?”
“Just outside the little wood, monsieur. The ground all around was
ploughed up by horses' hoofs, and stained with blood. I should say he
was attacked by at least three horsemen. I thought he was dead, but
when I bent over him he was muttering 'Monsieur Le Blanc'“
“Did he seem sensible?”
“I asked him several questions, but he did not reply, except to
repeat monsieur's name, so I had him brought here.”
“It is very strange,” I said; “he is a perfect stranger; I have
never seen him before. Why should he mention my name? Is it possible
for him to recover?”
“Quite impossible, my son,” exclaimed the cure; “he is dying fast;
no surgeon could do anything for him. The wonder is that he has lived
so long. He has been fearfully hurt.”
“Did you meet no strange persons in the village?” I asked Urie.
“Not a soul, monsieur. It was very early; the villagers were not yet
about, and the road was empty.”
The wounded man groaned, and the cure partly raised his head, when
he seemed more comfortable. His eyes were closed, and his breath came
in quick gasps; the shadow of death was stealing across his face. Would
he have strength to speak before he died? It was unlikely.
Who was he? What was his secret? How did it concern me? These and a
dozen similar questions ran through my mind as I stood there watching
him die, and quite helpless to obtain the information I needed. Once or
twice he stirred uneasily; his eyes opened; his fingers strayed
uncertainly over the bed as if seeking something that had gone astray,
and presently he said quite distinctly, but very, very faintly, “Le
Blanc! Monsieur Le Blanc!”
“He is here,” said the cure softly. “This is Monsieur Le Blanc. What
have you to tell him?”
I do not know if the man heard; his eyes remained open; his fingers
were still fumbling among the bedclothes; a frown clouded his forehead,
and presently he whispered, but to himself, not to us, “The note! I
can't find it. It has gone.”
I bent over, him, placing my hand on his brow. “The note?” I said,
“tell me about it. Who gave it you? Come, who gave you the note that is
My question produced an effect, but not the one I intended. The
angry scowl spread over his face; the dying eyes filled with passion;
the voice became quite strong again as the man cried angrily, “I did
not lose it. I earned my money. It was stolen. They set on me—three of
them—they were too many—I—I—”
A great hush fell across us, and we gazed at each other blankly. “It
is too late,” said the cure; “he has carried his secret to the grave.”
“Is he dead?”
“We must make inquiries,” I murmured. “Urie shall show us the place
where he found the body. Come, Jacques, we can do no good here.”
“I will follow in a few minutes, monsieur. I wish to discover if
there is anything by which we can identify the stranger.”
Urie and I went out together, but the keenest search failed to help
us. The dead man's horse had disappeared, and his assailants had left
no trace behind them. I questioned the villagers closely, but none
could throw any light on the tragedy. The victim was unknown to them,
and no one had seen any strange persons in the neighbourhood. Jacques,
too, was at fault, having failed to find anything in the stranger's
clothing that would tend to solve the mystery.
“It is a curious thing, monsieur,” he remarked that evening. “A dead
body on the highroad is not an uncommon sight, but this man was coming
to you on a special errand.”
“It is evident he was bringing me a letter. The question is—did his
murderers kill him to obtain possession of it?”
“The note has disappeared.”
“True, and I am inclined to think it was the possession of the
letter that cost him his life. Now, who are the persons likely to write
to me? My sister—but we can dismiss her—one doesn't commit murder for
a page of ordinary gossip.”
“No,” said Jacques, “I do not think the poor fellow was a messenger
from Mademoiselle Jeanne.”
“There is Monsieur Bellievre! He is at Court and aware of what is
going on there. Is it likely that he has heard some favourable news,
“Ah, monsieur,” Jacques broke in hastily, “our thoughts are the
same. These cut-throats are in the pay of Etienne Cordel, and in
killing this poor fellow they have struck at you. But how, I cannot
“We know that Cordel has friends at Court,” I continued. “Let us
suppose for an instant that the king has agreed to sign the papers; the
lawyer would learn the news quickly enough.”
“Yes, monsieur,” agreed Jacques, “that is so. But how does that help
“Thus. Monsieur Bellievre or the Admiral writes, giving me the
information, and advising me to return. I arrive at Blois, or wherever
the Court may be; the papers are signed, and Cordel's chance of the
estates has vanished. He certainly might kill me afterwards, but it
could be only in revenge.”
“But, monsieur, the news could not have been kept from you for long.
Besides, the journey to Blois would have given the lawyer the very
chance he wanted. It would have suited him better for the letter to
have reached you. Then his ruffians would have waited, and have waylaid
you on the road.”
“He might not have thought of that!”
“It would not have needed much cunning, monsieur!”
“There is just one other solution possible,” I said. “You remember
the man who came here on the night of the wild storm? You did not
recognize him, but—”
“I am hardly likely to forget the man who tried hard to kill both of
us!” interrupted Jacques.
“You have kept your knowledge very close then!” I replied.
“I had no wish to pry into your secrets, monsieur.”
“It was not exactly a secret. Something happened while you were with
the Count of St Cyr. I had this man's life in my hand, and spared it.”
Jacques shrugged his shoulders as if to imply that he had hardly
thought me capable of acting so foolishly.
“He is in Monseigneur's service, and, as you know, came to warn me
against Etienne Cordel. He promised, if he could ferret out the
lawyer's schemes, to write to me.”
“Do you really trust this fellow, monsieur?”
“He bears no love to those of the Religion,” I answered; “but for me
personally I believe he would lay down his life.”
“Very good,” said Jacques, as if argument was utterly useless
against such folly.
“I was thinking it possible that in coming to or going from Le Blanc
he was recognized. If so, the lawyer would be put on his guard.”
“There is certainly something in that, monsieur.”
“And if he sent me a warning message, it would be to Cordel's
interest to secure it.”
“'Twould be easy to test the truth of the matter,” said Jacques.
“This fellow will be with Monseigneur; let me go to him, and put the
question directly. In that way, if you are right, we shall get at the
lawyer's schemes in spite of his villainy. I will not loiter on the
road, and I don't see how any danger can happen to you before my
We talked the plan over, and at length I agreed that Jacques should
start on the journey the next morning. I gave him the name of my
strange friend, and he promised to get to work with the utmost caution.
“It is possible,” I remarked, “you will find him at Blois, and in
that case you will have an opportunity of talking with Monsieur
Bellievre. Tell him that Mademoiselle Jeanne is accompanying the Queen
He went to the stables, and I did not see him again until just
before my time for going to bed, when he returned looking gloomy and
“I have been thinking, monsieur,” he said rather shamefacedly, “and
I am beginning to doubt the wisdom of my advice. If Cordel's ruffians
are close at hand, my going away will make their work easier. Now that
it comes to the point I do not like leaving you, and that is the
“That's a poor compliment, Jacques!” I laughed; “evidently you don't
think I can take care of myself.”
“The poor fellow they brought here this morning was as strong as
you, and had as much experience, but he is dead all the same.”
“I will take care, Jacques; I will go only into the village, and if
it will make you feel more easy, Urie shall sleep here at night all the
time you are away.”
He was somewhat relieved by this promise, and his face brightened
“Let Urie bring an iron bar,” he laughed, “and a man need wear a
thick steel cap to save his skull!”
I went to bed hoping to obtain a good night's rest, but the
startling tragedy had weakened my nerves more than I guessed, and I lay
awake a long time, wondering what the secret was that the dead man had
carried with him to the grave. Was he really a messenger from L'Estang?
And if so, what was the news he was bringing? I little dreamed that one
of these questions was to be answered within a few hours.
We rose early; I saw that Jacques made a good breakfast, and was
standing in the courtyard giving him his final instructions when we
heard the clatter of hoofs, and saw a horseman coming at a gallop up
“Another visitor!” I exclaimed, “and one apparently in a desperate
Jacques dismounted, saying, “He looks as if he had been frightened
half out of his wits. Stay here, monsieur, while I find out what he
In a few minutes he returned with the man, who, jumping from his
horse, said questioningly, “Monsieur Le Blanc?”
“Yes,” I said, looking at him keenly. He might have been own brother
to the poor fellow whom Urie had found by the wood. He was short but
strongly built; his face was scarred; his skin red and rough through
continual exposure to the weather. He carried a sword and a long knife,
and a pair of pistols peeped from the holsters. Plainly he was a man
accustomed to take his life in his hand.
“You have ridden fast!” I remarked, for his animal's sides were
lathered with foam.
“I was paid to ride fast!” he answered surlily; “my employer feared
you would have started.”
“Started!” I echoed unsurprised, “whither?”
“He did not confide in me,” the fellow replied, “and I didn't ask;
'twould have been no use. My orders were to ride for my life, to give
you a letter, and afterwards to guide you to a certain place mentioned
in the note.”
“And who is your employer?”
“I had no orders to tell that; I expect he has written it down
here,” and the fellow handed me a sealed packet.
As he raised his arm I noticed a hole, apparently made by a bullet,
through his cloak.
“What is the meaning of that?” I asked.
“It means,” said he grimly, “that had I not received orders to make
no delay on my journey, there would have been one rogue less in your
part of the world, monsieur.”
“You have been attacked on the road?” I said, with a swift glance at
“The bullet went a trifle wide,” he answered shortly, “but it came
close enough for my comfort.”
“Well,” exclaimed Jacques, “a miss is as good as a mile. Come and
have some breakfast, while monsieur reads his letter. Both you and the
animal need food and rest.”
Leaving my servant and the messenger together, I returned to my own
room, and opened the packet. As I more than half expected, the letter
was signed “D'Angely.” It was very short, but it answered one of the
questions I had been asking myself.
“Since sending my first messenger,” it ran, “Monseigneur's business
calls me immediately to Poictiers; so I must meet you there instead.
Start at once; you can trust the bearer.”
Directly Jacques was at liberty he joined me, and I handed him the
letter without comment.
“That clears up one point of the mystery,” said he. “It is plain the
lawyer knows he has this L'Estang to fight against; but 'tis a pity
your friend does not give a hint of what is in progress. He might, for
instance, have sent a description of Cordel's tools.”
“Very probably he did. You forget that this letter only supplements
the first one.”
“Yes,” said Jacques, adding, “will you go to Poictiers, monsieur?”
“I must. L'Estang may have something of importance to tell me.”
“He could have written it,” said Jacques. “I don't like this
journey. These assassins are on the watch. One messenger killed, and
the next shot at—we can be sure they won't let you pass free.”
“There are three of us,” I replied lightly—“you and I and
L'Estang's courier, and he seems well able to take care of himself. Let
us get ready while he is resting.”
CHAPTER XX. L'Estang's Courier
“The stranger rides a fine beast,” remarked Jacques, as we entered
the stables; “it has stood the long journey well. The grooming and feed
of oats have made it as fresh as ever.”
“Did he tell you his name?” I asked.
“No; he is a surly rascal. If he were to be in our company long, I
should have to teach him good manners. Had I not better waken him? We
shall not reach Poictiers to-night.”
“Yes; tell him we are ready to start. I have no wish to pass the
night at some village inn.”
L'Estang's messenger was indeed a surly fellow. He came into the
courtyard rubbing his eyes and grumbling at being disturbed. His patron
might not reach the town before the morning, he said, and it would be
better for us to make a two days' journey. His horse was tired, and
likely to break down on the way.
“Little fear of that!” declared Jacques brusquely; “the beast has
strength for a hundred miles yet. 'Tis as fine a creature as I have
The courier looked at him with a gratified smile. “Yes,” he said,
brightening up, “'tis as good an animal as monsieur has in his
He replaced the saddle and tightened the girths, but spent so much
time over the business that Jacques was hard put to it to restrain his
impatience. However, he was ready at last, and we all three rode down
the slope, and along the road toward the wood.
Jacques and the courier rode together a little in the rear, and,
turning round, I remarked pleasantly, “By the way, my good fellow, I
suppose you have a name of your own?”
“I can't say if it's mine or not,” he replied sulkily, “but men call
“Is this the place where you were attacked?” I asked, as we came to
The fellow returned no answer, but, suddenly seizing his pistol and
spurring his horse cruelly, he dashed to the front and disappeared. A
minute or two later, we heard a loud report, and Jacques and I gazed at
each other in amazement.
“Your friend sent you a pretty guide, monsieur,” said Jacques; “the
fellow must be crazy!”
“He fancied, perhaps, that he perceived one of his assailants.”
“I saw nothing, and heard nothing; but he is coming back. Well, my
friend, did you get a successful shot?”
“No,” replied Casimir, who seemed angry at his own clumsiness, “I
missed. But there are more days than one in a week, and my turn will
come yet! Did you get a good view of the fellow, monsieur?”
I admitted that I had neither seen nor heard any one, at which he
cried scornfully: “'Tis plain I shall have to be eyes and ears for the
party. He was half hidden by yonder tree, but I saw the barrel of his
arquebus. Had I known I was to be dragged into your quarrels, I would
have stayed in Paris!”
“Tell me where to find your patron, and you can return at once,” I
said sternly; “I want no unwilling service!” but, muttering something
under his breath he once more took his place beside Jacques.
“'Tis a rough dog, L'Estang has sent me,” I thought, “but one that
will bite if need be. I wonder if the fellow he fired at was one of
Cordel's ruffians? Strange that neither Jacques nor I saw him.”
The incident had rendered us more cautious, and we proceeded through
the wood carefully, keeping a sharp lookout and listening intently; but
the mysterious man had vanished so completely that I began to wonder if
Casimir had not been a victim of his imagination.
From the wood we turned into the highroad, and after travelling
steadily for nearly three hours halted at a wayside inn. For myself I
wished to push on, and Jacques was equally impatient, but our guide
complained that his horse was tired and needed a rest.
“'Twould be folly to risk foundering a valuable animal for the sake
of getting to a place before one is wanted there,” said he, laughing as
if he had made some humorous remark. But laughter was not Casimir's
strong point, and he made a sorry business of it.
However, since we were entirely in his hands, he had his way, and
much precious time was wasted.
“It will take us three days at this rate to reach Poictiers,”
grumbled Jacques, as we resumed the journey.
“We shall be there as soon as we are expected,” returned Casimir,
who seemed to have a fresh fit of sullenness, which increased rather
than lessened as we proceeded.
About five miles from our stopping-place, two horsemen overtook us.
They were cantering briskly along, but drew rein to bid us good-day.
“Are you for Poictiers?” asked one of them pleasantly, but before I
had time to reply our guide broke in roughly:
“We are going where we please. The highroad is free to all, I
“Certainly, friend, and I doubt if many travellers would care to
share it with you. A civil question is worth a civil answer.”
“Our business is our own,” muttered Casimir, “and we are able to
look after it.”
The horseman who had first spoken was on the point of making an
angry reply, but his companion exclaimed with a laugh, “Let the boor
alone to do his business; by the look of his face 'twill bring him
pretty close to the hangman's rope!” and, taking no further notice of
us, they galloped on.
“By my faith, Casimir,” I exclaimed hotly, “your Parisian manners
are not of the pleasantest. I could wish that your patron had employed
a less boorish messenger.”
“See here, monsieur,” said he, “there is no need for us to quarrel,
but I don't intend losing my life on your account, and it's plain there
is some one who bears you no goodwill. How do I know who these
travellers are? They may belong to the same gang that shot at me in the
“Well,” I returned rather scornfully, “since you are so fearful of
being in my company we had better push on faster. The sooner you bring
me to your patron the sooner you can take yourself off.”
The rebuke apparently produced some effect, and for a time we
proceeded at a fairly rapid pace; but the best part of the day was
over, and the late afternoon was already closing in. To reach Poictiers
before nightfall was out of the question, and I began to resign myself
to sleeping at some wayside inn.
“At any rate,” I thought, “there can be little danger. What with
Casimir's fears and Jacques' vigilance I shall receive plenty of
I was never an advocate of overboldness, but our guide erred in the
other extreme. He became more and more nervous and fidgety, stopping a
dozen times to listen, fancying he heard the beat of horses' hoofs in
our rear, and declaring we were being followed. And the more his
nervousness increased, the more Jacques and I laughed at his fears.
It was fast getting dark when we entered a narrow road, where there
was scarcely room for Jacques and Casimir to ride abreast. To the right
was a wall of rock, to the left a steep stony slope, on which one might
easily break a limb if not one's neck. I rode a little in advance;
Jacques on the edge of the slope, and Casimir next to the wall. It was
so dark that we could see hardly more than a few yards ahead, and I
warned Jacques to be careful.
Suddenly our guide, crying, “Stop a minute, monsieur, my horse has a
stone in its foot!” jumped to the ground.
What the reason was I had no suspicion at the time, though it was
easy enough to guess afterwards; but the animal began plunging and
rearing so violently that its owner had hard work to hold it. Jacques
had no time to escape the danger, and, before I realized what had
happened, his frightened horse, edging away from the kicking creature
at its side, toppled over the slope.
When in after days I related the story to Felix, he laughed at my
simplicity, saying I ought to have guessed the secret from the
beginning; but, as a matter of fact, even when my servant disappeared I
had no thought of treachery. I hugged the wall closely, and looked
“Get down, monsieur,” cried Casimir loudly; “get down and help me.
The beast has gone crazy.”
Now I could dismount only in front of the plunging brute, and having
no desire to be kicked to death, and the danger being pressing, I
seized my pistol and shot the animal in the forehead. Being a keen
lover of horses I hated to do it, but there was no alternative.
The effect of the shot produced a far more serious result than I
intended. The poor beast, plunging madly, must have kicked Casimir in
its last desperate struggle, for a scream of agony rang out wildly on
the night air, and I could just distinguish the man's body lying
This was not all. The report from my pistol was quickly followed by
two others, and a couple of bullets whizzed past my head. The next
instant I heard the clatter of hoofs, and two horsemen came tearing
along the road toward me. Bewildered by these sudden and startling
events, I had yet sufficient presence of mind to realize that I had
been trapped, and that my only chance of escape lay in flight.
Turning my animal's head, I prepared to gallop off, when I found my
way barred by another horseman, who had come up during the struggle.
The sudden movement saved my life; he was in the very act of firing
when I struck at him fiercely, and he dropped across his saddle with a
cry of pain.
The road was now open, and, keeping as far from the slope as
possible, I stretched my horse to his utmost speed. It was a mad
gallop, with the risk of a sudden and violent death in every foot of
the road. My pursuers were not far behind, but I dared not look round.
My limbs shook, the sweat poured in streams down my face; I could not
think, I could only sit firm and leave my fate in the hands of
[Illustration: “I stretched my horse to his utmost speed.”]
My poor horse bounded along like a crazy thing, but he kept his
footing, though every moment I expected him to tumble headlong. The men
behind must have ridden more warily, for the sound of hoofs, though
still audible, became more faint and indistinct.
I could have cried aloud in joyful triumph as my gallant horse flew
out from the narrow pass on to the broad road. My pursuers were now far
in the rear, and I had a moment to think. Whoever they were, they knew
I had come from Le Blanc, and would expect me to return there. My best
plan was to let them pass, and then go back in search of Jacques. Even
to save my own life I must not desert my trusty servant.
In a few seconds I had formed my plan, and acted upon it. Leaving
the highroad, I struck into the open country, and dismounting,
concealed my horse in a hollow. Several minutes passed before the two
horsemen came galloping by, evidently bent on following me to Le Blanc.
As soon as they had gone out of hearing, I mounted again and
returned quickly but cautiously to the spot where the startling
struggle had taken place. Casimir still lay where he had fallen, by the
side of his horse. The second animal had disappeared, but its rider was
huddled against the wall groaning, and talking as if in delirium.
“It was not my fault, monsieur,” he was saying, “Casimir bungled it;
he struck too soon.”
His head had evidently been dashed with great violence against the
wall and I could do little for him. Besides, there was my servant to be
considered. Tying my horse securely, I advanced to the edge of the
slope, and cried aloud, “Jacques! Jacques!”
There was no answer, and my heart sank as I thought how likely it
was that the poor fellow lay there dead, killed by the terrible fall. I
found the spot where his horse had slipped, and groped my way down,
still calling his name. And at last I heard a feeble “I am here,
“Where?” I cried, “where?” and, guided by the sound of his voice, I
made my way toward him.
He was half lying, half sitting at the foot of a chestnut tree, and
at my approach he struggled to his feet.
“I am coming round, monsieur,” he said in a whisper, “I must have
been stunned. I do not know what happened; I think I must have been
thrown against a tree.”
“Sit down,” I commanded, “and rest while I find the horse and get
your pistols; they may be useful.”
The poor beast had rolled to the bottom of the slope, and was, of
course, quite dead; so I removed the pistols and returned to Jacques
“We were trapped, monsieur,” he whispered.
“Yes,” I agreed, “but we can talk of that later. The question now is
whether you can get to the top of the slope. Lean on me and take your
time. There is not much danger. Casimir and a second man are dead, two
others are galloping in the direction of Le Blanc. Now, are you ready?”
“I shall soon be all right. There is no bone broken; it is my head
His steps at first were very tottery, and he had need of support,
but once we reached level ground he walked steadily. We paused at
Casimir's body, and Jacques said thoughtfully, “He was a cunning rogue;
he deceived me to the very end. Poor fellow, I am sorry to see him like
this, but he took his risks. He thought to kill me and he is dead
I went over to the second of our assailants. He had fallen forward
on his face; his heart had ceased beating; he lay quite motionless. He
was beyond human aid, and we turned away quietly. The dead must ever
give place to the claims of the living.
Jacques, who was fast recovering from the blow on his head, now
seemed capable of discussing the situation with me. What was best to be
done was the question in my mind. We had but the one horse, which could
not carry both of us, and Jacques was too weak to walk far. It was
plain that if we returned to Le Blanc he must ride, in spite of his
But was it safe to return? At any moment our two assailants might
abandon the pursuit, and we were not equal to continuing the fight.
They were doubtless strong, sturdy ruffians, well armed, and
experienced in the use of their weapons. I should be on foot, and
unable to count on Jacques for much assistance.
“I think,” I said, “we had better conceal ourselves until the
morning; they will hardly dare to attack us in broad daylight. Besides,
we can hire a horse at one of the inns.”
“Why not stay here?” asked my companion. “They may come back to see
if their comrades are living; then we can pounce on them.”
Poor old Jacques! He was as brave as a lion, and gave no thought to
After a while I convinced him that my plan was the best, so we
unfastened the horse, and, leaving the two bodies, walked slowly along
the narrow road, and so to the hollow where I had already lain.
Having secured the horse so that he would not stray, I compelled my
servant, much against his wish, to lie down in a sheltered nook, and
covered him with my cloak, for the night was bitterly cold.
“A good sleep will clear your brain,” I remarked, “and you will need
all your wits in the morning.”
Walking briskly to and fro in order to keep myself warm, I listened
intently for the sound of hoofs. Perhaps three hours had passed—the
time seemed an age—when clambering softly from the gully and advancing
to the roadside I stretched myself flat on the grass. Two horsemen were
approaching slowly, and their animals were jaded and leg-weary.
They came close to me at a walking pace; I could dimly distinguish
their figures as they leaned forward; they were level with me, one so
close that I could have shot him dead with my eyes shut; but it was
horrible to think of slaying a fellow creature in cold blood, and I let
them pass. Slowly and painfully they proceeded until at length they
reached the narrow road.
Returning to the hollow I wakened Jacques, and, telling him of the
two ruffians' return, advised that we should proceed.
“Very good, monsieur,” he said at once, “I am at your service.”
CHAPTER XXI. I Save Cordel's Life
Leading the horse to the road I helped Jacques to mount, for in
spite of his bold words he was still very weak, and then walked along
by his side. The night was passing, though it was not yet light, but as
the road stretched straight ahead of us for several miles we could not
mistake the way.
I walked at a smart pace, but rather with the idea of reaching some
place of shelter than from any fear of danger. Our pursuers had
abandoned the chase, and for a while, at least, were unlikely to renew
it. They were too tired for a fresh pursuit, and their animals were
Jacques being still wrapped in my cloak, I was able to walk briskly,
and this prevented me from feeling the cold. Mile after mile I trudged
along, and as we proceeded the haze of darkness lifted, and dawn began
to glimmer in the eastern sky.
Save for ourselves the road was deserted; the country around seemed
dead; not a hamlet, not even a house appeared in sight. Everything was
gloomy and depressing; the very rays of the sun were cold and
cheerless, and the bare trees added only another dreary feature to the
Several times Jacques begged earnestly that we should change places,
but, knowing this would make the pace slower, I insisted on his keeping
“We will stop at the first inn,” I said, “have some food and a rest,
and procure another horse.”
About eight o'clock we entered the street of a village and drew up
before the door of the inn. Jacques dismounted, the ostler led the
animal away, and we entered the house, the landlord, who could not
conceal his curiosity, showing us a room.
“A good breakfast,” I said; “the best the house contains. And while
you are getting it ready we will put ourselves straight. Have you any
salve suitable for cuts and bruises?”
“Yes, monsieur; I will fetch some.”
“Faith, Jacques,” I exclaimed, when the man had bustled off, “you
are a pretty object at present. There is a lump as large as a hen's egg
on your head, and your face is covered with bruises, which will show
more distinctly when we get the dirt off.”
“Perhaps it had better be kept on,” said he, smiling cheerily.
After we had brushed our soiled clothing and washed ourselves I
applied some salve to Jacques' bruises, while the landlord prepared a
compress for the swelling on his head. Then we sat down to breakfast,
and our attack on the provisions proved that the startling adventures
of the past night had not robbed us of our appetites.
I had, meanwhile, arranged with the landlord to furnish us with a
second horse, and now suggested that Jacques should take a couple of
hours' rest before starting. Against this he protested vigorously,
declaring he had slept well during the night, and that it was I who
At last he persuaded me to lie down, while he sat in the room facing
the road, with a loaded pistol in one hand and another by his side.
Nothing happened however, during the time I slept, and at the end of
the second hour Jacques wakened me.
The food and rest had made new men of us, and, having settled
accounts with the landlord, we mounted our horses, and set off
cheerfully in the direction of Le Blanc. For the time being the danger
had passed. It was broad daylight, and every yard forward brought us
nearer to my friends.
But there were several things in the adventure to worry me, and that
evening, after we had safely reached home, I called Jacques into my
room to discuss the matter.
“I don't pretend to understand it, monsieur,” he said, “but I feel
sure these fellows were in the lawyer's pay. Who else would set a trap
“I cannot think. Cordel is my only enemy, and yet before concluding
it was he who planned the assault there are one or two questions to
answer. Casimir, for instance, was he in league with our assailants? If
so, he played his part marvellously well, and blinded me effectually.”
“So he did me; but he was in league with them, for all that.
Remember how he shot at a man in the wood, when no man was there.”
“I certainly neither saw nor heard one.”
“Nor did Casimir. The shot was a signal to his comrades, and told
them that his trick had succeeded. And then his fear about being
dragged into your quarrel! That was a blind, monsieur, meant to throw
you off your guard.”
“It certainly succeeded,” I was forced to admit.
“And the fuss he made about foundering his horse! It was a mere
trick to delay us on the road; there was nothing the matter with the
“Do you think,” I asked, “he behaved so rudely to those horsemen
through fear that they might upset the plot?”
“No, monsieur,” replied Jacques, with a shake of the head; “I cannot
see through it clearly, but in my opinion that was all a part of the
scheme. I believe they were the fellows who rode out on you while I was
“But why should they join us?”
“There is no telling, monsieur. It might have been to learn from
Casimir if it was safe to carry out their plot. He was a crafty rogue.
I had no suspicion of the truth until he began to make his horse plunge
and rear. Then I knew he meant to kill me—by accident!” he concluded
“And in the confusion it would have been an easy matter to settle my
“A very easy matter,” agreed Jacques.
“The facts fit in well with your idea,” I said, after a pause; “but
if you are right, the puzzle becomes worse than ever.”
“In what way, monsieur.”
“It brings us face to face with this question—was Casimir in the
pay of two employers—one my friend the other my enemy?”
“Pardon me, monsieur,” exclaimed Jacques hesitatingly, “but are you
sure this adventurer is your friend? He once tried to take your life;
he belongs to the opposite camp, and he is a henchman of Monseigneur's,
who certainly does not love the Huguenots. You have done this man a
service, but it is easy to forget benefits.”
“I am afraid that is so, Jacques, yet I cannot doubt L'Estang.
Besides, he had me in his power the night he came here.”
“Yes,” said my servant, with a queer smile, “but he knew that had he
done you any harm he would never have left the room alive.”
“Still, we will assume that L'Estang is really my friend. In that
case Casimir must have sold his knowledge to the lawyer. But if he was
in touch with Cordel, who would shoot at him in the wood?”
“A friendly hand could shoot a hole through a cloak. Of course, it
is just possible Casimir did not come from L'Estang at all. It is as
easy to kill two messengers as one, and the first was killed.”
“But how would he know what was in the letter? It had not been
“I had not thought of that,” said Jacques. “It drives me back on my
first suspicion, which monsieur does not like. But, unless L'Estang
helped in the plot, I cannot understand how it was carried out!”
We sat talking half the night, but without coming any nearer to
solving the problem, and at last, thoroughly tired, I went to bed. Out
of the whole tangle one thing only was plain—Etienne Cordel was
playing a desperate game, and no scruples would prevent him from
And there was no way of getting at the rascal! He laid his plots
with so much skill that I could accuse him of nothing. I had no real
proofs against him, and without proofs he could laugh in my face.
The story of the attempt on my life quickly spread abroad, and the
villagers came in a crowd to learn if I had been injured.
“Who are the villains, monsieur?” cried Urie. “Tell us who they are,
and we will make an end of them.”
“Ay,” said another; “we will pull them in pieces!” and his
companions shouted their approval.
“No,” I exclaimed, “you must do nothing against the law, or you will
be made to suffer for it. Two of the rascals are dead, and the others
are not likely to trouble me again. But there is no harm in keeping
watch on any strangers hanging about the neighbourhood.”
“We will do that, monsieur!” they cried, and at last I succeeded in
persuading them to return to their homes.
The excitement, however, did not die down, and the next evening
Jacques informed me there was a fierce talk going on at old Pierre's.
Some one had started the report that my enemy was Etienne Cordel, and a
cry had been raised to march to his house and burn it about his ears.
“But they do not mean it?” I exclaimed.
“As far as words go, they do,” replied Jacques; “but dogs that are
so ready to bark rarely bite.”
He treated the subject so lightly that I thought no more of it; but
about ten o'clock a woman came from the village with the news that a
number of the men, armed with clubs, pikes and forks, had started off
in a body for the lawyer's house. In answer to my anxious questioning
she said they had been gone some time, and had taken a short cut across
“Saddle the horses, Jacques!” I cried; “this must be stopped. Cordel
has influence enough to have every one of them broken on the wheel.
Look alive, man!”
Putting on my boots hastily, I followed him to the stables, when we
saddled the horses and led them out. I was in a fever of excitement
lest we should not arrive at the house in time, since it was necessary
for us to take the longer route by the road.
Jacques endeavoured to calm me, saying, “They will do no harm; they
will only shout and threaten, and frighten the old fox half out of his
wits. It won't hurt him, and it may teach him a lesson.”
This was likely enough, but, fearing lest these foolish people
should get themselves into trouble I galloped along, almost as fast as
when my two assailants were in pursuit of me. Fortunately, we met no
travellers, but, on turning into the cross-road leading to the lawyer's
house, I heard a confused roar of voices. The villagers had arrived
I spurred my willing beast, swept swiftly along the narrrow road,
shot through the open gateway, and drew up in front of the building,
where a mob of men were shouting and yelling for Etienne Cordel.
“Bring your pikes!” roared one, “and break the door down!”
“Smoke the old fox out!” yelled another; and at that a dozen cried,
“Yes, yes, that's the plan! Smoke the fox out, or let him die in his
Some had brought torches, and in their lurid glare the peasants
looked quite truculent and formidable. Pushing between them and the
building, I called for silence, but the sound of my voice caused the
hubbub to grow louder.
“Monsieur Edmond!” they yelled, giving me the name by which I was
best known to them; “Bravo, bravo, we will see justice done, monsieur!”
“Be quiet!” I cried angrily, “and listen to me. Do you know what you
“Yes, yes. Burn the house down! He set the murderers on!”
“Who told you that?”
“Let him deny it! Where is he? Fetch him out!”
They were excited, even dangerous; I almost doubted if my influence
was sufficient to keep them from doing mischief; yet in ordinary times
they were as docile and obedient as a flock of sheep. They vowed they
would not depart unless Cordel came out to them, and at length the
lawyer appeared on the balcony which ran along the front of the house
above the ground floor.
He had huddled on a dressing-gown, and looked so wretched and
forlorn that I almost felt it in my heart to pity him. But the mob
showed no mercy, greeting him with cries of “Assassin!” “Murderer!” and
declaring loudly that he was unfit to live.
As soon as their shouts ceased, I exclaimed, “Monsieur Cordel, an
attempt has been made on my life, and it is rumoured that you hired the
men to kill me. Perhaps you will satisfy these good people that they
He leaned over the railing and looked down, his face yellow, his
eyes staring, evidently in abject fear for his life.
“My friends,” he cried desperately, and it made one laugh to hear
him address these peasants, whom he utterly despised, as his friends,
“I know nothing; I am innocent; I have conspired against no man's life.
I swear it!”
The fellow lied, and knew that I was aware of it, but for the sake
of the people themselves, I was bound to protect him. An attack on the
house would be followed by a visit from the king's troops, and I
shuddered to think of the miseries the unfortunate villagers would
“You hear his denial,” I cried loudly, “you have been deceived. We
cannot punish an innocent man. Now disperse quietly to your homes. Have
no fear for me; I can hold my own against any assassins who may come to
They departed sullenly, still murmuring threats of vengeance, and
turning round to shake their motley weapons menacingly at Cordel's
“Now, Monsieur Cordel,” I cried, when the last of them had
disappeared, “you can go to sleep without fear. I rejoice that I got
here in time to prevent mischief; but, monsieur,” I added drily, “had
the ruffians killed me, I could not have come to your rescue!” and with
that parting shot I rode off.
“'Tis a pity you had to stop them,” said Jacques presently; they
would have made short work of the rascal.”
“And have been fearfully punished afterwards!”
“As to that, monsieur, he will do them all the mischief he can now
if he gets a chance.”
The next morning I sent for Urie and the leading men, lectured them
on the folly of their proceedings, pointed out the risks they were
running, and made them promise to keep their companions from committing
any violence in the future.
“You are more or less in Monsieur Cordel's power,” I said; “he has
strong friends at Court, while I have none, and am unable to protect
“We will be careful,” replied Urie for the others, “but if anything
happens to monsieur the rascally lawyer will have need of all his
The failure of his plot—if it was his plot—served to keep the
lawyer quiet for a while. He remained at home with only his own
domestics in the house, and although many men kept a strict watch no
suspicious-looking stranger was seen to visit him.
Meanwhile the prospects of those of the Religion began to brighten:
the king was apparently throwing off the influence of his mother and
brother; it was reported that he relied more and more on the advice of
Coligny, and in spite of the Pope and the Guises, he was still
stubbornly bent on marrying his sister to Henry of Bearn.
The Queen of Navarre was at Blois, and Jeanne wrote me a long
account of the balls and festivities Charles had arranged. I do not
suppose they appealed strongly to Queen Joan, who had little taste for
such worldly matters, but the music, the dance, and the joyous
merriment were quite to the liking of the younger ladies in her train.
“The king has persuaded my dear mistress to consent to the
marriage,” Jeanne wrote, “and it is settled that we are to go from here
to Paris. Felix has just left for Touraine. He is a dear, good fellow,
and has been very kind. He says it is stupid for you to stay at Le
Blanc. The king is so full of the marriage and of affairs of State that
he will not attend to any less important business. Felix declares that
if Prince Henry comes to Paris you must come too, and push your claims.
It is certain that the prince's marriage will stop all further
persecution of the Huguenots, and it is that which caused my mistress
to give her consent. Felix told me yesterday that the Guises are very
angry with the king, and have gone away. From all I hear, I really
believe he would be pleased if they never came back.”
I read portions of my sister's letter to Jacques, but when I
remarked that our troubles were nearly at an end, he shook his head,
saying, “Those who live will see, monsieur.”
CHAPTER XXII. L'Estang Tells His
Spring had ripened into summer, and I was still at Le Blanc, not
having heard from my patron, and being unwilling to depart without his
orders. Cordel had gone to Paris, and, for the time at least, had
abandoned his schemes.
One day, about the third week in June, I had just returned from a
morning gallop when Jacques met me in the courtyard with the news that
Ambroise Devine had brought me a packet from Monsieur Bellievre.
I had almost forgotten the man, never having seen him since the
morning when I started on the memorable journey to Tanlay.
“It is along while since we met,” I said, greeting him. “My father
told me you recovered from your wounds, and I expected to find you in
“Rochelle forms my headquarters, so to speak, monsieur, but I am in
the hands of the chiefs. My last journey was to Flanders, whence I am
now returning. Hearing that I was on my way to Rochelle, Monsieur
Bellievre entrusted me with this packet for you.”
“You must stay and have a gossip with me,” said I, having thanked
him; “I hear little news from the outside world.”
“You honour me, monsieur; but it is necessary for me to push on with
all speed; I am carrying important despatches.”
“But you need refreshment!”
“Jacques has seen to that, monsieur, and also to my horse.”
“We may meet again,” I said, as he took his leave.
“It is very likely. There will be a gathering of our gentlemen in
Paris before long; but doubtless Monsieur Bellievre has told you all
When he had gone I sat down eagerly to read my comrade's letter.
There was a smaller packet enclosed, but that I set aside. Felix wrote
at some length, and his first item of news was very startling.
“It will cause you both grief and astonishment,” he wrote, “to learn
of the death of our good Queen Joan. She died on June 9, and some talk
has passed of her having been poisoned. There is, however, a great deal
of sickness here, and from what Jeanne tells me, I think the poor queen
“This may cause events to move more rapidly,” I thought. “Now that
Henry has become King of Navarre, he is a person of even greater
importance. Charles will need to reckon with him.”
“Our patron,” Felix continued, “remains in close attendance on the
king, who treats him with the utmost kindness, and even respect. The
Guises are in despair, Monseigneur is furious, and even the
Queen-Mother has to swallow her pride. This is strange, is it not?”
“Strange!” I exclaimed aloud, “it is a miracle! What else does this
wonderful budget contain?”
“Our patron has a grand scheme in his head. He is working hard to
unite the Huguenots and the Moderate Catholics into a national party,
and to declare war against Spain. The king has nearly consented, and
unless the Queen-Mother regains her power war may break out at any
“Better to fight the Spaniards than to cut each other's throats,” I
“I have kept my best news until the last,” the letter continued.
“Our patron believes the coming war will afford you the chance needed.
He will nominate you to a commission, and present you to the king at
the same time. For this purpose you must be here, and I am to instruct
you to repair at once to the Hotel Coligny, at Paris. Is not
this glorious news?”
I had scarcely patience to finish the letter, feeling more inclined
to jump up and dance around the room; and yet the ending was full of
“A week ago, a man, closely muffled, who refused to give his name,
sought me out late at night. He wished, he said, to communicate with
you, but for a special reason preferred to send in an indirect way. He
finished by asking me to enclose a note the first time I was sending
any correspondence to Le Blanc. It sounded very mysterious, but
thinking a letter could not work much mischief I consented.”
“That is odd,” I thought, looking at the smaller packet, which bore
no address, and opening it I read in Renaud L'Estang's handwriting—
“Monsieur, I fear something has gone wrong. Did you
receive my letter? My messenger has not returned, and I
can hear no word of him. I am too busily engaged to leave
Monseigneur, and I do not care to send to you openly.
Cordel either suspects or knows that I am your friend.
Calling Jacques, I handed the note to him, and asked his opinion.
“It does not help us a bit,” he declared; “it explains nothing. If
L'Estang is a false friend, as I believe, he is merely trying by this
note to throw dust into your eyes. If, on the other hand, he was not a
party to the plot, the mystery remains the same.”
“I fear you are right, Jacques. However, let us not trouble our
heads with the riddle; it will solve itself one of these days. I have
other news; can you guess what it is?”
“By your face, monsieur, it should be something pleasant: the king
has signed those tiresome papers!”
“Not exactly right,” I answered laughing, “but I have hope of that
happening in time. We are going to Paris, Jacques. There is likely to
be war with Spain, and I am to receive the king's commission. It will
be better than fighting against those of our own race and blood; and if
we come through the campaign alive, Monsieur Cordel may even cast his
eyes on some other person's estates.”
“When do we start?” asked Jacques eagerly.
“I have a few arrangements to make. Let us say the day after
“Very good, monsieur, but it is a long time to wait.”
The lawyer was still absent from his house, but in case any of his
spies should carry information, Jacques let it be known the next
morning that in a few days we were going to La Rochelle; nor did I give
my own servants any different information.
It was a glorious summer morning when we set forth: the sun shone
brightly in a blue sky thinly flaked with snowy clouds; the birds
carolled joyously; the green leaves, made brilliant by the sunlight,
danced in the gentle breeze; a fresh, sweet smell rose from the
Many a long day had passed since my heart had felt so light, and as
we cantered into the highroad I hummed a gay refrain. I felt as if this
was bound to prove the most successful of our ventures.
I had real hope as a foundation on which to rear my airy castle. The
war of Religion was over and done with; Huguenot and Catholic would
stand shoulder to shoulder against the common foe; Monseigneur, the
Guises, and all those who were striving for their own interests to
embroil the country in civil strife would have to stand aside; France
would at length be united, and therefore strong.
My own private fortunes also wore a rosy tint that morning. Even if
the king did not restore my estates at the outset, he would certainly
not refuse to do so after I had fought his battles, and perhaps helped
to gain his victories! No, I had not a single fear when I turned to
take a last lingering view of the castle of Le Blanc.
As a matter of precaution we rode a few miles in the direction of La
Rochelle, but neither Jacques nor I expected that any further attempt
would be made upon us in that part of the country. Cordel was most
probably in Paris, and could have no knowledge of our sudden departure
from Le Blanc. In fact we reached Paris without any mishap, save the
casting of a horse's shoe, and the loss of a few hours one night when
we went astray in the darkness.
We entered Paris a little before the gate was closed for the night.
It was still very light, and the streets were filled with people, very
few of whom, however, took much notice of us. The capital was utterly
strange to me, and I knew nothing of Coligny's residence, except that
it was situated in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. Overtaking an officer of the
king's guards I asked to be directed to that street, and he very
courteously undertook to conduct me part of the way.
“You are a stranger in Paris?” said he, looking critically at me and
“Yes, I have but now arrived from the south, to meet a friend who
lives in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec.”
“I should fancy,” exclaimed the officer, with a humorous twinkle,
“that your friend's residence is not far from the Hotel Coligny!
Have you borne arms, monsieur?”
“I fought at Arnay-le-Duc,” I replied, feeling sure that my
questioner had already set me down in his own mind as a Huguenot.
“I was there, too,” he said, “but I'll wager we were not on the same
side. However, those days are gone, and we may yet have a chance of
fighting under the same flag!” to which I replied that nothing would
give the members of our party more pleasure.
Having conducted me to the corner of the street and pointed out
Coligny's house he took his leave, with a cheery hope that I should
find my stay in town pleasant.
The Admiral was absent, but the house was occupied by several of his
gentlemen, who gave me a hearty welcome. Felix was somewhere in the
town on business, one said, not unconnected with my family, at which
the others laughed.
He came in about an hour later, when I learned he had been spending
the evening with the Countess Guichy, at whose house my sister was
“The countess, my dear Edmond,” said he, “is a relative of mine. She
does not belong to the Religion, but she is a worthy soul, and when
Queen Joan died and everything was in confusion, I persuaded your
sister to go to her until she could consult you as to her future.”
“That was like your kind heart, Felix; you have ever been a good
friend to both of us. I had not thought how awkwardly Jeanne would be
placed by the queen's death.”
“There is no need to thank me,” he replied, “I have done the
countess a favour. Your sister has won her heart already, though to be
sure there is no miracle in that. They called her the Queen of Hearts
at Blois. I must take you to see her in the morning. Did Jacques come
“Yes, he is making himself at home with some of his old
acquaintances; but where is the Admiral?”
“At Fontainebleau with the king. Everything is settled; Henry comes
to Paris in a week or two, and there is to be a grand wedding. Our
opponents are furious, but helpless. There is only one thing I dread.”
“What is that?” I asked, rather taken aback by the sudden serious
look on his face.
“There are ugly rumours about, Edmond. It is whispered that Guise
has sworn to take our patron's life. Coligny has received a dozen
warnings, but he is too fearless to notice them. He shrugs his
shoulders and says 'It would be better to die a hundred times than to
live in constant fear. I am tired of such alarms, and have lived long
enough.' But he hasn't lived long enough, Edmond! Without him, the
Cause would be ruined.”
“No one will dare to do him an injury while the king stands by him,”
I said cheerfully. “If Charles is really his friend there is nothing to
“I am not so sure of that. Unless the Admiral is at his elbow
Charles is simply a tool in the hands of Monseigneur and the
“Even so it should be difficult for the assassin's knife to reach
our patron while he has his body-guard around him!” at which Felix
laughed, saying the Admiral frequently ventured abroad either alone, or
with but one or two attendants.
The next morning we set off for the Countess Guichy's, where Jeanne
received me with open arms. Since our last meeting she had become even
prettier, and I scarcely wondered that the gay young courtiers had
called her the “Queen of Hearts.” She was very happy and cheerful, and
full of praise for Felix, who had watched over her as tenderly as if
she were his own sister.
The countess was a stately lady, with a kind face and twinkling
eyes. It was easy to see she had become very attached to Jeanne, and
she would listen to no arrangements that would remove my sister from
“From all I can gather,” she said, “you will be off to the wars
soon, and pray what will Jeanne do then? Bury herself in that musty
Rochelle? No, my dear, you shall remain with me until—ah, well, it
isn't your brother who will part us!” at which poor Jeanne flushed
The countess insisted on our remaining to dinner, after which we
escorted Jeanne into the city, Felix pointing out the sights and
describing the buildings with the air of one who had lived in Paris all
Our patron still being with the king we enjoyed a great deal of
leisure, and for nearly a week spent most of our time with the countess
and Jeanne, much to the satisfaction of Felix, who so contrived that I
always had the honour of escorting his noble relative.
We were returning late one evening, walking quietly along the Rue de
Bethisy, at the corner of which stood the Admiral's house, when a man,
who had evidently been watching the approaches to the building, tapped
me on the shoulder and whispered “Monsieur Le Blanc!”
He wore a large plumed hat which was drawn partly over his forehead,
and he was, besides, closely muffled, but I had no difficulty in
recognizing him as Renaud L'Estang. Telling Felix I would follow in a
few minutes, I turned aside with the adventurer into the courtyard of a
large house where we were not likely to be interrupted.
“I learned yesterday you were in Paris,” he remarked, “and have been
watching for you. Did your friend send you my note?”
“Yes, but it was difficult to answer. Your first messenger was
killed; your second was a traitor. That is why I did not meet you at
“My second messenger!” he exclaimed in a tone of surprise.
“Poictiers! Either you or I must be dreaming! I sent but one man, and
he vanished. Why should you expect to meet me at Poictiers?”
“At your own invitation!” I replied.
“But, monsieur, this is a puzzle! I do not understand; it is beyond
“Perhaps,” I remarked drily, “you have forgotten Casimir!”
At that he drew a long breath. “Casimir!” he exclaimed; “ah, that
lets in a little light. Monsieur, will you tell me the story? We shall
get at something surprising.”
He listened attentively while I related what had happened, and then
“Truly,” he said, “this Cordel is a clever rogue, and Casimir an able
tool. I have found him useful myself before now.”
“He cheated you to some purpose in the end,” I remarked.
“But he did not cheat me at all; I had nothing to do with him.
Listen, and judge for yourself. I discovered that the lawyer had
bargained with four men, one of whom was this very Casimir, to take
your life. The murder was to be done in such a manner that no suspicion
should attach to him, and the first thing was to get you away from Le
“In that at least,” said I laughing, “they succeeded.”
“I wrote a letter warning you of this, and describing the four men,
and despatched it by the hand of a trusty messenger.”
“He was worthy of your trust,” I said.
“The second letter asking you to meet me at Poictiers was not
written by me.”
“Then who was the writer?” I asked.
“It would be difficult to prove, but I should say it was Etienne
Cordel. Several little matters convinced me he had heard of my flying
visit to Le Blanc. That put him on his guard, and unfortunately my
messenger was known to Casimir and his companions.”
“Do you think they tracked him?”
“Waylaid him in the wood, abstracted the letter, and carried it to
the lawyer. It was easy for him to imitate my writing, and the
signature of D'Angely would disarm suspicion.”
“Your explanation certainly seems reasonable,” I remarked.
“And I believe it to be true. And now, take my advice and be very
cautious. Men are cheap in Paris, and Cordel will stick at nothing. If
I can help you against him, you may be sure I will.”
I thanked him warmly, and proceeded to the hotel.
“Jacques will be glad to know that gratitude is not altogether dead
in the world,” I said to myself.
CHAPTER XXIII. A Royal Marriage
I should probably have worried myself considerably over the strange
story related by Renaud L'Estang, but for the public events which
occurred almost immediately. On the very next morning we received
orders from the Admiral to be prepared to escort Henry of Navarre into
My purse, fortunately, was not yet empty, for it was necessary to
don a mourning suit in order to show respect to the memory of the late
“We must show ourselves as fine as those popinjays of Anjou's,” said
Felix. “Fine feathers make fine birds in the eyes of the populace, and
we must let them see that Huguenot gentlemen are a match for those of
It was early morning of July 8, 1572, when about a dozen of us, all
splendidly, though sombrely attired, rode out from the courtyard of the
Hotel Coligny, and, passing quickly through the empty streets,
proceeded to meet the princely cavalcade.
Henry's retinue formed a striking and impressive spectacle. He was
attended by young Conde, the Cardinal of Bourbon, and our own beloved
chief. Behind them rode eight hundred gallant gentlemen, all in
mourning, the majority of whom had proved their zeal and devotion to
the Cause on more than one battle-field. We saluted the chiefs, and
took our places in the procession.
“I think even the Parisians will admit we do not make a very sorry
show,” remarked Felix as we rode along.
At the gates of St. Jacques we were met by Monseigneur at the head
of fifteen hundred gorgeously attired horsemen. He greeted our leaders
with elaborate ceremony, but, as far as I could judge, with little
goodwill, and Catholics and Huguenots mingled together, forming one
imposing body. Young Conde and his brother, the Marquis, rode between
Guise and the Chevalier d'Angouleme; Henry himself was placed between
the king's brothers, Anjou and Alencon.
The streets were packed with dense crowds of citizens; every balcony
was filled, and fair ladies sat watching from the open windows. Here
and there men shouted lustily for Monseigneur, but for Henry of Navarre
there was no word of kindly welcome; we proceeded amidst a cold and
“This may be a royal welcome,” laughed one of my neighbours, “'tis
anything but a friendly one. Faith, I am beginning to think already
that we shall have as much need of our swords in Paris as ever we had
“Bah!” cried Felix; “who wants the plaudits of a mob? These people
are but puppets, and the strings are pulled by the priests.”
“The citizens are hardly reconciled yet to the new order of things,”
remarked one of Monseigneur's gentlemen; “but the strangeness will soon
wear off, and you will be as welcome in Paris as in Rochelle. It is not
strange that at present Anjou is their favourite; you must give them
The speaker may have been right, but the hostile attitude with which
the citizens met us became stronger, when, having escorted the princes
to the palace, we broke up into small groups and rode towards our
The sullen silence gave place to angry murmurs, and even to open
threats, especially when we passed the crosses and images at the
corners of the streets without raising our hats.
“Well,” I said, as, entering the courtyard of the hotel, we gave our
animals to Jacques, “the king may desire the marriage, but it certainly
does not meet with the approval of the citizens. In truth, now that
to-day's ceremony is over, I am rather surprised to find myself alive.”
“You are not the only one, Le Blanc,” said De Guerchy, who was
entering with us; “I expected every moment to hear a cry of 'Kill the
Huguenots!' They say a bad beginning often leads to a good ending; let
us hope this will be a case in proof of it. But I wish the Admiral was
in the midst of us!”
“There lies the danger,” I said; “a pistol-shot or the stroke of a
sword, and the streets of Paris will run with blood.”
“They will,” declared Felix fiercely, “if any harm happens to our
When I came to think about these things in after days, it seemed
strange to remember how, through all the time of rejoicing and apparent
friendliness, there ran an uneasy feeling, for which even Henry's
chilling reception by the Parisians was not sufficient to account.
Our first thought in the morning and our last thought at night
centred upon the Admiral's safety. Absolutely fearless, and placing
unbounded confidence in the king's honesty, that chivalrous nobleman
behaved as if he were surrounded by loyal friends. He had consecrated
his life to the welfare of France, and no thought of self could turn
him aside from his duty.
His usual attendants were De Guerchy and Des Pruneaux, and with them
he would set out from his residence to transact his business with the
king at the Louvre. But, unknown to him, two of us always went a little
ahead, while two followed closely in the rear. We carefully avoided
drawing attention to ourselves, but our eyes sought every passer-by and
examined every window where an assassin might lurk.
Thus the time passed between hopes and fears. There was little talk
now of the war with Spain, and it began to be understood that the
subject would not be pursued until after the marriage.
Being so fully occupied we saw little of Jeanne during these days,
but one evening Felix and I started to pay her a visit. It was the
first week in August, the day had been hot, and most of the citizens
were out of doors seeking the cool air.
“One minute, monsieur!”
We were at the bottom of the steps in front of the Countess Guichy's
hotel, but, recognizing the voice, I stopped and turned.
“Is it you, L'Estang?” I said.
“Hush! It would be as well to call me D'Angely. You have been
followed here from the Rue de l'Arbre Sec. A strange man, now hiding on
the other side of the road, has been watching you for these two days
past. The populace have no love for a Huguenot gentleman.”
“What is the fellow like?” I asked.
“He keeps himself well muffled; he is about your own height and
build; that is all I can discover. But I believe he has been hired by
Cordel. Take care not to expose yourself too freely.”
“Many thanks,” I said, as he disappeared.
“'Tis almost a pity,” exclaimed Felix, “that you interfered with
your peasants. You should have let them rid you of that rascally lawyer
while they were in the mood.”
“Nonsense!” I replied, “you are talking wildly. Of course there must
be no word of this to Jeanne.”
“I am not likely to alarm her!” he replied, and ran lightly up the
The ladies were full of the approaching ceremony, and could talk of
nothing but stomachers and brilliants and gold lace and such like
stuff, without which they seemed to imply there could be no wedding at
all. The countess, who had arranged for Jeanne to form one of the young
bride's attendants, had been spending money lavishly on a wonderful
dress, and she declared laughingly that when Henry saw my sister he
would wish she could change places with Margaret; at which Felix
remarked it would certainly show his good taste.
Jeanne laughed and blushed, calling him a flatterer, but she was
very happy, and her eyes were sparkling with pleasure.
As our visit drew to a close, she contrived to whisper: “I have
heard from your English friend. A messenger from La Rochelle brought me
a letter yesterday. He is coming to see you shortly; he may be in
“Oh,” I replied, “unless he comes quickly he may have to travel as
far as Flanders; that is,” I added, slily “if he really wishes to see
“Of course he does,” she answered gaily, “and to visit Paris; he has
set his heart on seeing our capital.”
Although very fond of Roger Braund, I felt, somehow, rather sorry to
hear Jeanne's news, and, as we left the house, my comrade rallied me on
“Come,” said he briskly, “we must hurry; the Admiral does not like
our being abroad so late,” at which, remembering how persistently he
had refused to leave earlier, I laughed heartily.
The streets were for the most part deserted; but in spite of the
late hour it was not dark.
“Listen!” exclaimed Felix suddenly, “there is some one following us;
he is coming at a quick pace, as if trying to overtake us. Perhaps it
is your quixotic adventurer friend, with a further warning.”
“No,” I replied, “L'Estang is not so heavy; he is more cat-footed.
'Tis some belated wayfarer like ourselves, in a hurry to reach his
The man caught us up, gave a surly growl in response to our
“Good-night,” and passed on rapidly.
“'Tis plain that all the boors do not live in the country,” remarked
Felix, as the fellow disappeared. “I thought all Parisians were noted
for their good breeding.”
“Another mistake corrected, my friend. As we grow older—ah! After
A bullet had whizzed past my head, cutting, as I found later, the
feather stuck jauntily in my hat—for we did not choose that Anjou's
gentlemen should exhibit all the airs and graces. The shot was fired
from a low entry, and before the noise of the report had died away
Felix, who kept his wits wonderfully, darted inside.
In another instant I had joined him, and we raced together up the
“There he is!” I cried; “ah, he is climbing the wall!”
Felix being the swifter runner drew ahead, but he was too late. The
assassin, straddling the wall, struck him furiously with his arquebus,
and my comrade fell. I bent over him in an agony of fright, but he
struggled to his feet, saying, “It is all right, Edmond; he has raised
a lump on my head, nothing more; but I fear he has escaped.”
“Yes, we should only lose ourselves trying to follow him there. Are
you sure you are not hurt?”
“Quite sure. My head will ache for an hour or two, but I shall be
all right in the morning. I suppose that bullet was meant for you!”
“There can be little doubt of it. L'Estang must have had good ground
for his warning.”
“You will have to put an end to this, Edmond.”
“As soon as this marriage is over, the Admiral has promised to make
another appeal to the king. With Henry to speak a word for me as well,
I think Charles will restore my estates. At all events, there is the
Spanish war in sight, and Cordel isn't likely to follow me to
I spoke lightly, but this second attempt on my life was really a
serious matter, showing as it did that my enemy had not abandoned his
design. The next few days, however, were very busy ones, and the course
of events gave me little leisure for brooding over my own dangerous
The betrothal of the royal pair took place on August 17, at the
Louvre, and was followed by a supper and a ball. Then, according to
custom, the bride was escorted by the king and queen, the queen-mother,
monseigneur, and the leading princes and nobles to the palace of the
Bishop of Paris, where she was to spend the night.
The actual ceremony was fixed for the next day, and we at the
Hotel Coligny were up betimes. Strangely enough, the uneasy feeling
of which I have spoken had increased rather than lessened, though no
one could give any reason for this growing apprehension.
Everything was going well; there was no fresh cause for alarm, and
yet there was not a man amongst us—unless we except our noble
leader—who did not wish the day well over. He was in the highest of
spirits, looking upon the marriage as a public proof that henceforth
Charles intended to rule all his subjects with equal justice. Perhaps
The day was gloriously fine, and hours before the time announced for
the ceremony the streets were thronged with dense crowds of citizens.
On the open space in front of Notre Dame a gorgeous pavilion, in which
the marriage was to be solemnized, had been erected.
Coligny was accompanied by certain of his gentlemen, but most of us
were stationed outside the pavilion. The people glared at us
scowlingly, and even when the grand procession passed on the way to
escort Margaret from the palace they remained mute.
Yet for those who enjoy idle shows it was a pretty spectacle.
Charles, Henry, and Conde, with some idea perhaps of showing their
affection for each other, were all dressed alike, in pale yellow satin,
embroidered with silver, and adorned with pearls and precious stones.
Anjou, who was even more magnificently attired, had a set of thirty-two
pearls in his toque, while the noble dames were gorgeous in rich
brocades, and velvets interwoven with gold and silver.
“If the people had their way,” whispered Felix, as the grand
cavalcade swept by, “Henry would be going to his funeral instead of to
his marriage, and there would be few of us left to mourn him.”
From the Bishop's palace to the pavilion stretched a raised covered
platform, and presently there was a slight craning of necks, and the
citizens showed some faint interest, as the head of the bridal
procession appeared in sight.
First came the archbishops and bishops in their copes of cloth of
gold; then the cardinals in their scarlet robes, and the Knights of St.
Michael, their breasts glittering with orders; but not a cheer was
raised until young Henry of Guise appeared, when it was easy to tell
who was the favourite of the Parisians.
I regarded him with much interest. He was only twenty-two years old;
tall and handsome, with a lissom figure and an air of easy grace that
became him well. His eyes were keen and bright; he wore a light beard,
and a profusion of curly hair. Altogether, he looked a very dashing and
“There she is!” cried Felix suddenly; “do you see her? Could any one
look more lovely?”
“She is certainly magnificent.”
“Bah!” he interrupted in disgust, “you are looking at Margaret. 'Tis
Jeanne I am speaking of—your sister. Edmond, you are more blind than a
There really was some excuse for his extravagant praise, for even
amongst that galaxy of beauty Jeanne shone with a loveliness all her
own, and Felix was not the only one of my comrades to declare that she
was the most beautiful of all that glittering throng.
But the centre of attraction was Margaret herself, still only a girl
of twenty, with a beautifully clear complexion and bright black eyes
full of fire and spirit. She was truly a royal bride, gracious,
dignified, queenly Magnificent brilliants sparkled in her glossy hair;
her stomacher was set with lustrous pearls; her dress was of cloth of
gold, and gold lace fringed her dainty handkerchief and gloves.
“A magnificent creature to look at!” grunted the man next to me,
“but I would prefer my wife to be a trifle more womanly.”
At length they had all passed into the pavilion, and when the
ceremony was concluded Henry led his bride into the cathedral,
afterwards joining Coligny, Conde, and a few other Huguenot gentlemen,
who walked up and down the close, conversing earnestly together.
Leaving the Admiral at the Louvre with a small escort, we returned
to the Hotel Coligny, discussing the great event of the day. The
citizens were slowly dispersing, and as we passed some of them muttered
violent threats against the Huguenots; others cheered for Henry of
Guise, a few raised a cheer for Monseigneur, but I did not hear a word
of welcome for the king, or for Henry of Navarre, or for our own noble
leader—the most chivalrous of them all.
[Illustration: “Some of them as we passed muttered violent
“Charles hasn't increased his popularity by this marriage!” I
“No,” said one of my comrades, “he has lost ground among the
Parisians. It will frighten him; he will be more afraid of Guise than
ever. How the fools roared for the duke! Perhaps they would like him
for king! They would find they had their master, for all his smooth
speech and courtly manners.”
“The people's coldness may do good in one way,” remarked Felix.
“Charles may rush into a war with Spain, thinking that a brilliant
victory or two would win back his popularity.”
“The war with Spain will never come about,” growled a grizzled
veteran, who had fought with Coligny on his earliest battle-field.
“Guise, the Pope, Monseigneur, and the Queen-Mother are all against it,
and Charles is just a lump of clay in their hands: they can mould him
as they please.”
“Well,” exclaimed Felix, as we entered the courtyard, “in my opinion
it's either a Spanish war, or a civil war, and Charles must take his
CHAPTER XXIV. A Mysterious Warning
It was the evening of August 20. The Louvre was brilliantly
illuminated; the gardens and the various apartments were crowded with
the beauty and nobility of France. Catholics and Huguenots mingled
together on the friendliest terms; everything pointed to peace and
goodwill. Henry of Navarre and his handsome queen were there, and so
were Monseigneur and Henry of Guise.
One could hardly think of danger in the midst of so much mirth and
gaiety, and yet, though unseen by us, the shadow of death was hovering
Felix and I had gone to the palace together, but, as he basely
deserted me for Jeanne, I was left to wander about alone. I was,
however, by no means depressed by my isolation. The lights, the music,
the beauty of the ladies, and the handsome uniforms of the men, all
filled me with the liveliest pleasure, and two hours rapidly slipped
Now and again I exchanged greetings with some cavalier whose
acquaintance I had made during my stay in the city, and amongst others
I met the Catholic officer who had befriended me on the night of my
arrival in Paris.
“This is far better than cutting each other's throats, monsieur,”
said he, with a wave of his hand. “Your Henry of Navarre has proved a
“And the king!” I responded, unwilling to be outdone in generosity.
“We must not forget his part in bringing about this happy state of
“Nor the noble Coligny's. I expect the Admiral has had more to do
with it than both the others.”
Now it was exceedingly pleasant to hear my patron praised in this
way by one of his opponents, and I began to think that after all our
prospects were less gloomy than the conversation of my comrades would
lead one to suppose.
Toward midnight I was crossing the hall in order to speak with Felix
and my sister, who were standing with the Countess Guichy and several
ladies, when I caught sight of Renaud L'Estang. He had been in
attendance upon Monseigneur, but was now at liberty. Turning aside, I
went to meet him, intending to thank him for his timely warning.
“Ah, monsieur,” said he pleasantly, “I have been looking for you. I
have something to say, and one can talk without fear in a crowded room.
But do not let people guess by your face that I am saying anything
serious. That lady,” and he glanced toward Jeanne, “is, I believe, your
“Yes,” I replied, wondering what he could say which concerned
“Listen,” he continued. “I have tried to keep the promise made to
you that miserable night in Rochelle.”
“You have more than kept your promise,” I interrupted eagerly.
“I have done what I could. It is not much, but enough perhaps to
show I am your friend. Now, ask me no questions; I cannot reply to
them; but for the love you bear your sister answer what I ask you. Can
you make an excuse to leave Paris?”
“And desert my patron?”
“No,” said he thoughtfully, “it is too much to expect from a man of
honour; but there is your servant! He is shrewd and capable, and will
fight to the death in your sister's defence.”
“Yes,” I exclaimed, “you judge him rightly.”
“Do not start; keep a smile on your face, but understand all the
time that I am speaking of a matter of life and death. Invent what
excuse you like, but to-morrow morning send Jacques to Rochelle in
charge of your sister, and let him make no delay on the road. Brush
aside all objections; do not be influenced by any one; follow my
advice, and I pledge my word that you will not regret it.”
“This is somewhat startling!” I exclaimed; “you must have some good
reasons for such advice as this. Can you not trust me?”
“Monsieur,” he replied a little bitterly, “I have already told you
that I have my own code of honour. It sounds strange from the lips of
an adventurer, does it not? But I cannot betray the man whose bread I
eat. As a matter of fact, I know nothing; to-morrow I may know
more—that is why I am speaking to-night. Now I must leave you, but I
say again with all the earnestness I possess, send your sister to
Rochelle in the morning, even if you have to force her to go!”
Raising his voice he uttered some commonplace about the brilliancy
of the scene, smiled brightly, waved his hand, and disappeared, leaving
me lost in wonder and perplexity.
What was the meaning of this strange warning? He was in deadly
earnest; of that there could be no doubt, and yet he refused to give me
the slightest clue to the mystery. But perhaps that very refusal would
help to reveal the secret! I must discuss the matter with Felix, and
meanwhile try to bear myself as if nothing had happened.
As a matter of precaution, however, I told Jeanne I had received
news from Rochelle, and that it might be necessary for her to travel to
“There is nothing at which to be alarmed,” I continued, “but we will
talk about it to-morrow. If it really becomes necessary for you to go,
I shall want you to depart without delay.”
Jeanne was a brave girl. “Do you fear danger, Edmond?” she asked.
“If there is danger, I will stay and share it with you.”
“What a queer fancy!” I exclaimed lightly. “It is just a little
matter in which you can be of assistance to the Cause”; at which she
smiled, saying, “Anything I can do for the Cause, Edmond, I will do
“Even leave Paris!” I laughed, and having driven away her fears I
Felix was very bright and joyous that night, and so merry in himself
that he failed to notice my thoughtfulness. I said nothing of
L'Estang's communication until we were alone in our room, when I told
him the story.
I had not to ask for his opinion. Almost before I had finished, he
exclaimed with decision, “Whatever this does or does not mean, Jeanne
must go to Rochelle. L'Estang has proved himself your friend; he can
have no reason for deceiving you.”
“I will answer for L'Estang's loyalty.”
“Then send Jeanne away; or, rather, take her yourself.”
“That is impossible! If there is anything in L'Estang's story, it
points to a plot against our chief. He is evidently afraid of trouble,
perhaps of fierce fighting between the two parties, and thinks my
sister would be safer out of the city.”
“He gave you no hint?”
“Not the slightest. He said he knew nothing, but had he known he
would not have betrayed his own party. We must remember that though he
has done so much for me, he belongs to the side of our opponents. It
must have cost him a struggle to tell what he did.”
“Yes,” said Felix thoughtfully, “between loyalty to his party and
friendship for you he was in a cleft stick! You will repeat the story
to our patron?”
“To what end? He has received dozens of warnings! Still, I will tell
I obtained little sleep that night; spending the hours tossing
restlessly, turning from side to side, wondering what the danger was
which had induced L'Estang to give this indirect but ominous warning.
As soon as the household began to stir, I rose and dressed, eager to
seek an interview with Coligny.
He was already dressed and busy with Des Pruneaux, but he spoke to
me graciously and with the kindly interest that he ever showed.
“You must not keep me long, Le Blanc,” he said, laying a hand on my
shoulder in his fatherly manner.
“My lord,” I replied, “you shall have my story in the fewest
possible words. I think it is of the greatest importance, but in any
case I am bound to tell you! When we were in Rochelle, I did a simple
service for one of our opponents.”
“A good deed ever brings forth good fruit, my boy.”
“It did in this instance, my lord. The man, who is in the pay of
Monseigneur, has since proved a faithful friend in connexion with my
private affairs. I owe him my life. He is, I believe deep in the
secrets of his party, but these he has never revealed, and I have never
“Quite right,” observed the Admiral.
“Since the death of Queen Joan, my sister has lived in Paris with
the Countess Guichy. Last night this strange friend of mine advised me
with the utmost earnestness to have her conveyed to Rochelle. He gave
me no reason, but from his manner I am sure he fears something terrible
is about to happen. 'Invent what excuse you like,' said he, 'but
to-morrow morning send Jacques'—that is my servant—'to Rochelle in
charge of your sister, and let him make no delay on the road.' There
must be some grave reason for his advice, my lord.”
“You have no doubt of this man's friendship?”
“Not a shadow of doubt; he has proved it to the hilt.”
“Then your sister must leave Paris promptly, and she shall carry a
letter from me to the commandant. That will furnish an excuse for her
hurried departure. I will write it immediately.”
“But, my lord,” I said hesitatingly, for it ever required some
courage to hint that he should take measures for his personal safety,
“it is of the possible peril to yourself I am thinking.”
“I do not believe there is any danger,” he replied; “but I am in the
hands of God, Le Blanc. If He, in His wisdom, and for His own good
purpose, wills that I should die at my post, I am content. Now, Des
Pruneaux shall write the letter, and after breakfast you shall take it
to your sister.”
I went out, and writing a note to Jeanne, bidding her get ready for
an early start, sent it off by Jacques.
“I wonder,” said Felix, “if your friend's warning has anything to do
with the king's fresh move. Last night twelve hundred of the guards
marched into Paris, and are quartered near the Louvre.”
“They may be wanted to overawe Guise and Anjou,” I suggested. “If
so, it was a wise step to take.”
“Yes, if so!” he agreed, but the tone of his voice did not imply
much confidence in my suggestion.
As soon as Jacques returned, I told him to prepare for a journey to
Rochelle, dwelling strongly upon the necessity for the greatest
“There is some danger threatening you,” exclaimed the trusty fellow.
“No more than there was yesterday, Jacques; but I am uneasy about my
sister, and would rather she were behind the walls of La Rochelle.”
“I do not like leaving you, monsieur.”
“You must, Jacques; there is no one else to whom I would care to
entrust my sister. But not a word to her of the real reason! She must
imagine she is doing us a service or she will not stir; so we are
sending her with a letter from the Admiral to the commandant at
When Felix and I went to the house, we were received by the
countess, who was not at all pleased by the news of Jeanne's
approaching departure. “What new conspiracy is this,” she asked, “that
you need a young girl for an ally? Have you not men enough to do your
“Ah,” laughed Felix playfully, “you wish to discover our secrets. It
is quite useless, my lady; we are proof against all your wiles; but on
her return, Mademoiselle Jeanne shall tell you herself; you won't be
able to do any mischief then!”
“You are a saucy boy!” exclaimed the countess, pinching his ear.
“And pray, which of you is to be Jeanne's escort?”
“I am sending my servant,” I answered. “He is very trustworthy, and
will guard her with his own life.”
“Do you intend your sister to walk to Rochelle?” she asked, the
humorous twinkle coming back to her eyes.
“I am going to procure a carriage.”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” she declared emphatically. “I am
not supposed to be acquainted with your stupid plots, and your sister
shall go to Rochelle in my carriage, drawn by my horses, and driven by
my coachman. The poor beasts will probably die of the plague in that
gloomy hole, but they must take their chance. Now, do not speak! I am
not to be lectured by two giddy boys. And do not kiss me, Felix! What I
am doing is for Jeanne. Perhaps when they cut off my head for joining
in your horrid conspiracy you will be sorry. Now, have the horses put
into the carriage, while I see Jeanne.”
“She is a generous soul!” exclaimed Felix, as we left the room. “She
has many strange whims, but no one could be more loyal to a friend, and
she has grown to love Jeanne very dearly.”
“She is exceedingly kind,” I said, “and the more so since we have no
claims on her generosity.”
By the time Jacques arrived everything was ready, and we had only to
bid my sister good-bye. She bore up bravely, but the parting was a
painful one, for in our hearts both Felix and I had an uneasy feeling
that we were saying farewell to her for ever. Of this, fortunately, she
had no suspicion, and she promised the countess to return directly the
business with the commandant was finished.
“Remember,” I whispered to Jacques, as the coachman gathered up the
reins, “there must be no delay. Reach Rochelle as quickly as possible,
and keep your mistress there until I send to you. The commandant, who
will understand the real purpose of the journey, will help you.”
Jacques drew up beside the carriage; Jeanne, leaning out, fluttered
her dainty handkerchief; we waved our hands in response, and she was
“Jeanne is a brave girl and a good girl,” said the countess. “I wish
she were my daughter. And now, you two villains, who have deprived an
old woman of her only pleasure in life, leave me. I am going to my
room, where I can cry comfortably. I am not so young that tears will
spoil my eyes.”
On our way back to the Hotel Coligny we encountered
Monseigneur, with a body of his gentlemen, riding through the city.
Numerous persons were in the streets, and as he passed by, bowing and
smiling graciously, they greeted him with cheers.
“Anjou has some purpose in doing that,” remarked Felix; but I made
no answer, being occupied in watching L'Estang, who rode in the very
rear of the cavalcade. He had caught sight of me, and while still
looking straight before him he raised his hand, pointing significantly
to the west. I nodded my head, and with a smile of satisfaction he rode
“Did you notice that?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied Felix, “but without understanding.”
“The meaning was plain enough. He was asking if Jeanne had gone, and
I answered 'Yes.'“
“He takes a great interest in your sister,” said Felix a trifle
“Because she is my sister,” I replied. “Listen, the worthy citizens
are cheering for Guise now.”
“I suppose he is parading the streets as well. What a pack of fools
these Parisians are!”
“If they cheered for Coligny,” I laughed, “you would credit them
with all the wisdom under the sun. So much depends on one's point of
“Edmond! Felix! Why do you look so astonished? Do you fancy I am a
spirit? Feel my hand; that is substantial enough, is it not?” and Roger
Braund laughed heartily as he crossed the lobby of the Admiral's house
“You in Paris!” I exclaimed, after we had exchanged greetings, “when
did you arrive? How long have you been here?”
“An hour,” he replied cheerfully. “Is your sister well, Edmond?”
“Quite well, thank you. She is on the way to Rochelle; but come to
our room, where we can talk more privately.”
He accompanied us to our room, and I told him the story as it has
been set down here.
“You did right,” said he thoughtfully! “Paris just now is no place
for her. But this journey to Rochelle is a hazardous venture with only
Jacques to protect her!”
“Jacques is a man of courage and discretion!” exclaimed Felix, with
rather more heat than was necessary.
“Jacques is a brave fellow,” agreed Roger, “but he is only one man.
Edmond, with your leave, I will set out after the travellers, and
assist Jacques in guarding your sister.”
“You will have but a short stay in Paris,” remarked Felix.
“I shall return quickly to offer my sword to your chief. From
Edmond's story, I fancy he will have need of all his friends. I left my
horse at an inn; it is a fine beast, and is thoroughly rested now. I
will start immediately. No, I am not hungry; I have made a substantial
meal. I shall come straight here on my return. Good-bye to you both.
Directly I have placed Mademoiselle Jeanne in safety you will see me
We had scarcely time to answer before he had gone, and from the
window I saw him speeding along the street as if he feared the loss of
a single second would overthrow all his plans.
CHAPTER XXV. A Dastardly Deed
In the evening of that same day, the Admiral in passing to his room
inquired kindly if I had executed his commission, and appeared pleased
to learn that my sister had already started on her journey.
“I do not think it was necessary,” he remarked, “but at least no
harm can come from it, and you will feel easier in your mind.
Good-night, gentlemen; our plans are progressing favourably, and I hope
soon to have good news for you all.”
I went to bed early that night, for Felix, unlike his usual bright
self, was very gloomy and morose. I fancy he was not well pleased with
the coming of Roger Braund, and still less so with his ready offer to
escort Jeanne to Rochelle.
“What is the fellow doing here at all?” he asked. “Why can he not
stay in his own country?”
I ventured to suggest that no one put the question at Jarnac, or at
Montcontour, and that we of the Religion at least owed a great debt of
gratitude to Roger and his brave comrades. Felix seemed rather to
resent this remark, so I said no more, trusting that by another day he
would have recovered his good humour and pleasant manners.
I remember well how that memorable day began. It was Friday, August
22, and as I wakened from a long sleep the cheery rays of the morning
sun flooded the room. How little any of us in the Hotel Coligny
dreamed of what was to happen before that same sun sank to rest!
After breakfast, Des Pruneaux drew me on one side. “The Admiral
proceeds to the Louvre this morning,” he said. “De Guerchy and I attend
him; you and Bellievre will walk a little distance behind us. Be more
vigilant even than usual, for there are strange rumours abroad.”
Each trifling incident comes back to me now as vividly as if it
happened yesterday. We went to the Louvre, waited while our chief
transacted his business, and started on the journey home. Presently we
met Charles, who greeted the Admiral affectionately, and the two walked
together in the direction of the tennis-court. Des Pruneaux and De
Guerchy joined the king's attendants; Felix and I followed a few paces
in the rear.
At the court Charles and the Duke of Guise made up a match against
our patron's son-in-law, Teligny, and a gentleman whose name I did not
know. The Admiral stood watching the game for some time, but between
ten and eleven o'clock he bade the king adieu and once more started for
home. He walked between Des Pruneaux and De Guerchy, talking cheerfully
about the game, and praising the skill of the king, for Charles was
certainly an accomplished player, superior in my opinion even to Guise.
“Yes,” exclaimed Felix, to whom I passed some such remark, and who
had not altogether thrown off his bitterness of the previous day, “if
he were as good a ruler as tennis-player France might have some chance
“Well, he is making good progress even in that!” I replied
I have said that the hotel was in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, at
the corner of the Rue de Bethisy, and we were passing along the Rue des
Fosses de St. Germain, when a man approached the Admiral with what
looked like a petition. We quickened our pace, but the citizen was an
inoffensive person, and the Admiral, taking the paper, began to read,
walking on slowly the while.
He turned the corner in front of us, and was hidden for an instant
from our view, when we heard a loud report.
“Treachery!” cried my comrade, drawing his sword, and with a rush we
sped round the corner. My heart leaped into my mouth as I realized what
had happened. There was our noble chief, the truest, bravest, most
chivalrous man in France, supported in De Guerchy's arms.
Des Pruneaux, who was stanching the blood with a handkerchief,
pointed to the latticed windows of the Hotel de Retz on our
right, and, understanding it was from there the assassin had fired, we
ran across, my comrade's cries of “For the Admiral!” bringing out a
number of Huguenot gentlemen who lodged in the neighbourhood.
“This way!” I cried excitedly, “the assassin is in this house!” and
the next minute, having burst open the doors, we were swarming into the
building. Save for a deaf old woman and a horse-boy the place was
empty, and a howl of rage rose from the searchers.
Nothing could be got from the old woman, but Felix, clutching the
boy by the throat, demanded sternly “Where is the assassin? Speak, or I
will kill you!”
“The man who was upstairs has got away through the cloisters,
monsieur. I do not know him. I was only told to bring a swift horse
from my master's stables.”
“Who is your master?”
“The Duke of Guise, monsieur,” and at that another howl of
execration went up, several men shouting “Guise is the murderer! Kill
the Duke of Guise!”
“Whose house is this?” I asked.
The boy could not answer, but a voice cried out “Canon Vallemur's!
He used to be the Duke's tutor! Guise is the assassin!”
“Yes, yes! Let us kill Guise!”
“Here is the weapon,” cried one of the searchers, bringing forward
an arquebus which he had found in the window; “it has Monseigneur's
arms stamped on it; it must belong to one of his body-guard. Guise and
Anjou are the murderers!”
“Come,” exclaimed Felix, “we can do nothing here; the fellow is out
of the city by now!”
An excited crowd had gathered in front of the Hotel Coligny,
but, pushing the people roughly aside, we made our way into the
“Is he dead?” asked Felix of one of our comrades.
“No; one bullet carried off the first finger of his right hand; the
other wounded him seriously in the left arm. Pare”—the king's own
surgeon—“is attending him. They say Charles is furious, but I do not
know; all his family are accomplished actors. Were you there? Did you
see it done? Tell us all about it,” and they gathered round as Felix
described the incident and the search in the empty house.
“Guise is the real murderer!” exclaimed one angrily.
“If Charles doesn't punish them, we won't rest till we have made an
end of him and his whole stock!”
“'Tis likely he is as guilty as the rest!”
“And Coligny trusts him implicitly!”
“The Admiral is too trustful and kind-hearted! Did you hear what he
said to Des Pruneaux? 'I forgive freely and with all my heart both him
that struck me and those who incited him to do it.' If I catch the
fellow, I will tear him limb from limb!”
“Let us capture Guise and Anjou,” cried Felix, “and if the Admiral
dies hang them both.”
“Bravo, Bellievre! There's sense in that! To arms, my friends! We
will have vengeance!” and a number of the most hot-headed were rushing
out wildly when a cry arose of “Navarre! Navarre!” and, going to the
street, we saw Henry of Navarre accompanied by five or six hundred
The gallant prince was angry and excited. “What means this foul
outrage?” he cried, leaping from his horse. “Have they slain our noble
“No, no, sire; he has been shot at and wounded, but he is not dead.
Way there for Navarre! We want justice, sire!”
“By my faith, gentlemen,” exclaimed the fiery Henry, as he mounted
the stairs, “you shall have it, or Navarre shall lose its monarch.”
Save for the sick-room, where our illustrious chief lay, the whole
house was crowded with excited men. From time to time messengers
arrived bringing reports from the city, and from their accounts it
really looked as if Charles was bent on discovering and punishing the
murderer. The civic guards were mustered; the sentries at the gates
doubled; and no one was permitted to go armed into the streets.
“A blind!” cried some hotly. “There is no need to hunt for the
murderer; Charles can find him at his own table!”
“Why do we stay here?” cried Felix; “let us march to the palace and
“Let us first consult Navarre,” said another; “he must be our leader
now,” and the majority agreed with this suggestion.
About two oclock a man came running into the courtyard crying “The
king! The king!” and shortly afterwards Charles appeared, followed by
his mother and Anjou. And here I must say that few of us, after looking
at his gloomy face, believed that he had any share in the dastardly
plot against our beloved chief. We let him pass in silence, but when
Anjou came, there were many muttered threats of vengeance, and more
than one loud cry of “Assassin!”
“Monseigneur comes to gloat over his victim!” exclaimed one man, and
so intense was our anger that but for the king's presence I doubt if
Monseigneur would have left the house alive.
When the royal party had ended their visit, Henry, Conde, and other
leading members of our party held a meeting in one of the lower rooms.
Felix and I remained on duty in the ante-chamber where De Guerchy came
to fetch us.
“The King of Navarre wishes to learn the truth about the discoveries
in Vallemur's house,” he said.
The room was very crowded, and the nobles were discussing the
situation with fierce excitement.
“'Tis no time for playing like children,” De Pilles was saying, “I
tell you we are all doomed; this is but the first stroke. Let us strike
back, and strike hard.”
“I would suggest,” said his neighbour, “that we get Coligny safe to
Rochelle, and then gather all our forces.”
“We cannot move the Admiral; Pare will not answer for his life if he
“My lords,” said Teligny, “I do not think it is necessary. I am
convinced that the king has no hand in this vile outrage, and that if
we trust him he will bring the murderer to justice.”
“What!” sneered De Pilles, “execute his own brother! Or even the
Duke of Guise! You have more faith in Charles than I have!”
“Where are those gentlemen who helped to search the house?” asked
Henry. “Let them stand forward. Ah, my friend,” catching sight of me,
“I have not forgotten your face. Now let us hear the story, and why the
Duke of Guise is suspected in the matter.”
Thereupon I related all that had occurred, and at the conclusion
Henry observed gravely, “Truly there is something here for the Duke to
“Explain, sire!” cried De Pilles scornfully, “how can he explain?
Who here doubts the Duke's guilt? Let us kill him and Anjou, I say, or
they will kill us. Put no trust in Charles. They will drag him into the
“What would you have us do?” asked Henry; “overthrow the throne?”
“Ay,” answered De Pilles stoutly, “I would clear the kingdom of the
I cannot say what further arguments were used, as De Guerchy made a
sign for us to withdraw; but presently the meeting broke up, and the
cavaliers, mounting their horses, rode away, singing psalms, and vowing
to obtain justice.
“De Pilles was right!” exclaimed Felix, as we returned to the
ante-chamber; “this means war to the knife, and the sooner our leaders
give the word the better. I am thankful that your sister has left
“We owe that to L'Estang I wonder if he had any actual information
of what was about to happen? I have a mind to endeavour to find him
this evening; he will probably be at the Louvre.”
“We will go together,” said Felix, and accordingly about seven
o'clock, there being nothing for us to do, we set out.
The city was in a state of intense excitement, the streets were
thronged, and groups of men were discussing the attempt on the
Admiral's life, and praising those who had directed the plot.
“The king is too weak,” they said, “this Coligny twines him round
his finger. He should listen to Monseigneur and the Duke of Guise; they
would make an end of these Huguenots.”
Several times I had to grasp Felix by the arms, and whisper to him
to control himself, since a brawl in the streets could end only in his
death and mine. A knowledge of fence is of little service against a mob
of ruffians armed with clubs and pikes.
Approaching the Marais we heard a tremendous hubbub, and running
forward quickly beheld a number of Huguenot gentlemen gathered outside
the Hotel de Guise, waving their swords defiantly and
threatening to have justice done upon the Duke. De Pilles was at their
head, and I expected every moment to see him give the signal for an
attack on the building. Had he done so, he would have been instantly
obeyed, and perhaps we should not have had cause to mourn the horrors
of the impending tragedy.
Instead of doing so, however, he suddenly exclaimed, “To the palace!
We will demand justice from the king; he cannot deny us!” and the
Huguenots, suspicious, alarmed and rapidly losing their heads, took up
“To the palace!” they shouted; “let us see if Charles will give us
Felix, as passionate and headstrong as any of them, exclaimed, “Come
along, Edmond; we shall count two more. Let us discover if there is any
honour in the man.”
Not believing it could effect any good, I had no wish to be drawn
into the flighty venture, but as my comrade was resolute in courting
danger I was forced to accompany him.
The king was at supper when, flourishing our swords and demanding
justice, we burst into the palace. Charles behaved coolly enough, but
Anjou, who sat next to him, changed colour and trembled, while beads of
sweat stood upon his forehead.
“We demand justice, sire!” cried De Pilles, who cared no more for a
monarch than for a peasant. “If the king refuses it we will take the
matter into our own hands,” and he looked at Anjou, who averted his
“You will obtain justice, gentlemen,” answered Charles. “My word is
pledged, and I will not break it. I have assured my friend, the noble
Coligny, that the villain who shot him shall be sought out and
punished. I will not spare the guilty parties whoever they are!”
At that we gave him a round of cheers, and marched out, De Pilles
and his followers returning straight to the city. L'Estang was not
present, but seeing one of Anjou's guards I asked if he could find my
friend for me, which he did.
“The palace is not a safe place for you to-night,” said L'Estang as
he came to meet me.
“As safe as any part of the city,” I answered. “It seems I did well
in taking your advice and sending my sister away. You have heard of
this morning's dastardly crime?”
“All Paris has heard of it,” said he; “but pardon me if I say that
to-night's folly will not make the king's task any the easier.”
“Surely you do not expect us to see our leader murdered without
protest!” exclaimed Felix.
“Not at all; but there is such a thing as being over hasty. It would
have paid better to show, or to appear to show, some trust in the
“Pshaw!” cried my comrade, “for all we know Charles himself is
responsible for the deed!”
“At all events,” I said, “the plot must have been known beforehand
in the palace!”
“If you think that, because I warned you to remove your sister from
Paris, you are mistaken. Your surprise this morning was not greater
than my own. I believe that scarcely any one inside the palace knew of
what was going on.”
“But you yourself expected trouble of some kind!”
“True; and now I am sure of it. How can it be avoided? Each side is
suspicious of the other: you are angry, and justly angry, at the
assault on your chief, and you threaten vengeance even on the king. I
believe he wishes to be your friend, and you are driving him into the
arms of your enemies. Do you fancy he will care to trust himself in
your hands after to-night's mad freak? But the hour grows late, and the
streets are not safe; I will walk a short distance with you.”
“The citizens are still abroad!” I remarked after a time. “Listen!
they are cheering for Guise!”
“And there lies the trouble,” he said. “But, monsieur, I have a
private word for you. Etienne Cordel is in Paris; he can read the signs
as well as most men, and if there is a disturbance he will take
advantage of it. You are doubly in danger—first as a Huguenot and a
friend of Coligny's; next as the owner of Le Blanc. You will have to
steer skilfully to avoid both dangers!”
“You speak as if a plot to murder the Huguenots were already afoot.”
“I am aware of no plot at present,” he said, “but after to-day's
unlucky events one can be sure of nothing. Here is the corner of your
street; I will bid you good-night, and once more I repeat my warning.
Guard yourself, and sleep with your sword at your hand.”
CHAPTER XXVI. What will the King do?
The morning of August 23 broke bright and clear, but I rose from my
bed with a troubled and unquiet feeling. I had passed a restless night,
dreaming that all Paris was ablaze, and that the streets of the city
were running with blood, and I could not get rid of the thought that
some terrible calamity was about to happen.
Directly it was light the house began to fill with Huguenot
gentlemen, asking eagerly how it fared with their beloved chief. He was
still extremely weak, but Pare spoke hopefully, declaring there was no
cause for alarm, and that his illustrious patient required only rest
“In a few days he will be able to leave Paris,” said the famous
surgeon, “and his recovery is certain. I have not the slightest anxiety
This was cheering news, but as the day wore on strange and alarming
rumours began to reach us from the city. Our spies reported that the
streets were thronged with excited people, cheering for Guise and
threatening the Huguenots with death.
“There is some one behind all this,” said Felix, “some one working
in secret to stir up the passions of the citizens. Unless the king
interferes there will be a terrible outbreak shortly.”
About noon—we had not long risen from dinner—a man arrived bearing
news that, to our heated imaginations, was startling indeed. A great
meeting was taking place at the Hotel de Guise, where our
bitterest enemies had assembled. The spy brought a list of the names,
and as he recounted them one by one our feeling of uneasiness deepened.
“'Tis a plot against us,” said one, “with Guise at the head, and
Anjou secretly favouring it.”
“Are we to wait to be killed like sheep?” demanded Felix. “Have we
not swords of our own? Shall we keep them in their scabbards? Out upon
us for timid hares! We deserve to die, if we have not the courage to
strike a blow in our own defence!”
“What can we do?” asked Carnaton, who had just come from the
sick-room. “The Admiral is helpless, and Henry of Navarre is being
closely watched. We have no leaders, and it would be folly for us to
break the peace.”
“Let us wait,” laughed Felix mockingly, “till this dog of a Guise
has murdered us all! Then, perhaps, it will be time to strike.”
“The king has pledged his word to protect us,” said La Bonne; “let
us ask him to send a guard for our chief.”
“A guard for Coligny!” cried Felix in a bitter tone; “a guard for
Coligny, and a thousand Huguenot gentlemen in Paris! Let us summon our
comrades and guard our chief with our own lives!”
We spoke angrily, and many sharp words passed between us, the more
fiery of the speakers upholding Felix, the cooler and wiser ones
supporting La Bonne, and finally it was agreed to despatch a messenger
to the king.
“When the troops arrive,” said Felix, “we will give them our weapons
to take care of for us!”
I did not hold altogether with my hot-headed comrade, but when in
the course of an hour or two the king's soldiers marched into the
street I began to think we had committed a serious blunder. There were
fifty of them, and at their head marched Cosseins, the Admiral's
“Faith!” exclaimed Felix, as the soldiers posted themselves in two
houses close at hand, “I have heard that Charles loves a practical
joke, but this must be one of the grimmest that even he has played!”
“He could have bettered it,” said Yolet, our beloved chief's trusty
esquire, “only by sending Guise himself!”
Presently a man, threading his way through the crowd in front of the
courtyard, ran up to Carnaton, and whispered something in his ear.
“More bad news?” said I, noticing his look of surprise.
“I fear it is not good at any rate,” he replied slowly. “Charles has
sent for Guise to the Louvre.”
“Guise at the Louvre!” cried Felix, “and we stay here with our arms
folded! Now this is downright madness!”
“It may be,” suggested La Bonne mildly, “that the king wishes to
give him orders not to break the peace.”
“It seems to me,” said Felix, “that we might employ our time better
than in inventing excuses for our enemies. This visit to the Louvre
means that Charles has gone over to the side of Anjou and Guise.”
“It may be so,” agreed Carnaton, “but we have no proof.”
“Proof!” cried my comrade with a mocking laugh, “it will be
sufficient proof when one of Anjou's troopers runs a sword through your
Carnaton was about to reply when he was summoned to attend the
Admiral, and we settled down to wait doggedly for the next piece of
information. It was not long in coming. A messenger despatched by La
Bonne returned a few minutes before three o'clock. His face was pale,
and he had a frightened look which was far from reassuring.
“Well?” exclaimed La Bonne, “what news?” “Ill news, monsieur,”
replied the man. “Guise has left the Louvre and is in the city. The
streets are crowded and the citizens are wild with excitement. He is
stirring them up against us, and they are cheering him, and crying that
the Huguenots ought not to live.”
We gazed at each other blankly; this certainly did not appear as if
Charles had given him any peaceful commands. Nor was our alarm lessened
when an hour later another spy reported that Anjou and Angouleme were
following Guise's example, and doing their best to rouse the passions
of the people.
“They are telling the citizens,” our messenger said, “that a plot to
take the king's life, and to slay Monseigneur has been discovered, and
the citizens are crying for vengeance on the Huguenots.”
“Guise and Anjou will see to it that they get their vengeance,” I
remarked, for it was no longer possible to doubt that our enemies had
determined on our destruction. We had put our trust in Charles; if he
deserted us it was all over.
“At least,” said La Bonne, “if we have to die, we will die like
“With our swords in our hands, and not in their scabbards!”
exclaimed Felix, and a fierce growl of approval greeted his words.
As the day wore to a close it became more and more plain that, as my
comrade had declared, we were like hunted animals caught in a trap. We
might sell our lives dearly, but we could not hope to fight
successfully against the royal troops and a city in arms.
Only one chance of escape presented itself. By banding together and
making a determined rush we might force a passage through the streets,
and seek safety in flight; but to do this we must abandon our
illustrious chief, whose weakness prevented him from being moved. I
hope it is needless to add that every Huguenot gentleman in Paris would
have lost his life fifty times over rather than have agreed to such a
About seven o'clock in the evening many of Navarre's gentlemen left
the house, and some of us accompanied them to the end of the street. La
Bonne having received favourable news from the palace, our alarm, in
consequence, had begun to subside, though we still remained a trifle
We were returning in a body to the hotel, Felix and I being
the last of the company, when a man slipped a paper into my hand and
“Another warning from your strange friend, I suppose,” said Felix.
I opened the paper and read hurriedly: “Bring Monsieur Bellievre
with you shortly after midnight, and meet me at the little gate of the
Louvre where I saw you before. Wrap yourselves up closely, and attract
as little attention as possible. Do not fail to come, as I have
“Are you sure this is not a second invitation from the lawyer?” my
“It appears to be L'Estang's handwriting.”
“So did the other note.”
“True, but Etienne Cordel would not bait a trap for you. He bears
you no grudge, and besides you would only be in his way!”
“Yes,” said my comrade, “there is something in that. Will you go?”
“Why not? We may learn something that will be useful to our chief.
L'Estang wishes me well, and in order to save my life he may be tempted
to disclose what he knows of Guise's conspiracy; for I feel sure there
“If it will serve the Admiral,” said Felix hesitatingly.
“It may. I cannot tell, but it is worth running a little risk to
“He has chosen an odd time and an odd place.”
“He cannot meet us in broad day, and a thousand causes may prevent
him from coming to this quarter. You must remember he is Anjou's
servant, and he will not wish to draw suspicion upon himself.”
“Very well,” said my comrade, “we will go. Carnaton and La Bonne are
on duty to-night.”
As the evening closed in the streets began to empty; our comrades
went off to their lodgings, and by nine o'clock there were few of us
left in the hotel. Teligny and De Guerchy were in the sick-room,
and with them Pare, the surgeon, and the Admiral's chaplain, Pastor
Merlin; Carnaton and La Bonne dozed in the ante-chamber, while Yolet
was posting the five Switzers who formed part of Navarre's bodyguard.
“It seems as if we shall have a quiet night, Yolet,” I remarked.
“The danger has blown over,” he answered. “Charles was frightened
into believing we intended to murder him, but the King of Navarre has
opened his eyes. The real plotters will have an unwelcome surprise in a
day or two. I heard De Guerchy telling the Admiral.”
“Oh,” said I, quite relieved by this information, “if the king keeps
firm, we have nothing to fear.”
“Trusting to the king,” remarked my comrade, who always spoke of
Charles as a puppet in the hands of his mother and brother, “is
trusting to a broken reed. For my part I hope the instant our chief is
strong enough to travel he will hasten to Rochelle. I have more faith
in a keen blade than in a king's promise,” and from Yolet's face one
would have judged he was of the same opinion.
About a quarter before midnight he came with us to open the front
gate, and to fasten it after our departure. We had told him something
of our errand, and he advised us to go to work very warily, saying, “Do
not forget that a dog isn't dead because he has ceased barking!”
We slipped into the street and he fastened the gate quietly. It was
fairly dark now, and being closely muffled in our mantles there was
little chance of our being recognized. Cossein's soldiers were
apparently asleep; no lights gleamed anywhere; the Rue des Fosses de
St. Germain was empty.
On approaching nearer the Louvre, however, we observed a body of
citizens, armed, and marching with some sort of military discipline. We
had barely time to conceal ourselves in a doorway before they came by,
so close to us that we could almost count their numbers.
“What does that mean?” asked my comrade when at last we ventured out
again. “Where are those fellows going? Edmond, I don't like the look of
that; it is suspicious.”
“On the contrary, it has helped to remove my suspicion,” I answered.
“They are under the provost's orders, and he would not dare to muster
them except by the king's instructions.”
“From which you think——?”
“That Charles is taking measures in our favour on his own account.”
“I hope you will prove a true prophet, though I do not feel very
The delay caused us to be a trifle late in keeping our appointment,
and when we reached the place of meeting no one was to be seen. For
half an hour we walked softly to and fro, keeping in the shadow of the
wall, watching keenly, and listening for the sound of a footstep.
It was strange that L'Estang should not be there, and I had a vague,
uneasy feeling that it was impossible to banish. Felix, too, became
fidgety, and at last said in a whisper, “Edmond, let us return; there
is something wrong, I am sure of it!”
“Nonsense,” I replied, more to keep up my own spirits than for any
other reason; “a hundred things may have kept the man from coming.
Besides, what is there to fear?”
“I don't know,” he admitted, “but I am certain there is mischief
afoot. It may be the darkness and the silence. Listen!” and he caught
me by the arm, “do you hear that? Horses, Edmond, and horsemen! Where
Listening intently I recognized the sounds. Soldiers were gathering
inside the grounds. Where could they be going at this time? Once more I
slipped back to the little gate, calling softly “D'Angely!” but there
was no response. The adventurer for once had failed me. I returned to
my comrade, who was now trembling with excitement.
“There is some terrible business on hand!” said he. “What can it
“Let us wait here; we may discover the secret.”
“Yes,” he answered bitterly, “when it is too late! We have all been
blind fools, Edmond, from Navarre downwards. Ah, they are coming
out—horse and foot.”
It was too dark for us to distinguish them closely, but we could
make out a group of officers riding a little ahead, a number of
troopers, and two or three score foot-soldiers. They proceeded at a
walking pace, making scarcely any sound.
“Let us follow,” whispered Felix, and he was in such a restless
state that, although unwilling to leave without having met L'Estang, I
offered no objection.
Silently, and keeping well in the shadow of the houses, we stole
after them, creeping like unquiet spirits through the streets of the
sleeping city. At first we imagined they were going to the Hotel de
Guise, and it was only on entering the Rue des Fosses de St.
Germain that the dreadful truth flashed across our minds.
“They are going to murder the Admiral!” whispered my comrade with a
groan. “Edmond, can we do nothing? Is there no way of warning La
“I fear not, we cannot get past the troops.”
Even had that been possible it would have proved of but little
service. The leaders quickened their pace; the whole body swept round
the corner; they were in front of the building; only by the roof could
any one escape; and the Admiral, alas! could not walk even across his
The blood ran cold in my veins; it seemed as if my heart had ceased
to beat. Death was calling for my beloved chief, and I was powerless to
keep the grisly visitor at bay. I felt Felix fumbling at his sword,
and, gripping him firmly by the wrist, whispered, “Keep still! What can
“Die with him!” he answered fiercely.
“Nonsense!” I said coldly, for I had no wish to see him butchered
uselessly before my eyes, “you cannot do even that! You will be slain
before you have moved three yards. And I will not let you throw your
life away. Live, my friend, live to avenge him!”
“Ah,” he whispered, “that is well said, Edmond. Take your hand off
me. I am calm enough now. Ah, they are knocking at the gate. Listen!
'In the king's name!' That is Guise's voice. Will they open, think you,
I had dragged him into a doorway, so that the troopers might not see
us, but by this time there was little danger of detection; the noise
had aroused the neighbourhood, and many citizens were already in the
“Yes,” I said, “they will think it is a messenger from Charles.
See!” for the dawn was breaking now, “there is Guise!”
“And Angouleme! And Cosseins! He has come to defend the Admiral! Let
us go nearer, Edmond; they will not bother about us!”
Leaving the shelter of the doorway we mingled with the crowd,
pressing close upon the heels of the troops. For several minutes we
waited in breathless suspense; then the gate was opened; there was a
wild rush; a cry of warning, stifled suddenly, rang out, and the
troopers surged into the courtyard.
“That was La Bonne's voice,” I said with a shudder, “he has learned
the value of a king's promise.”
Drawing our mantles up to our faces, we ran with the rest to the
courtyard. Already the house was filled with soldiers, and several
shrieks of agony told us that they were killing even the poor servants.
We heard sterner shouts also, and hoped in our hearts that Carnaton,
Yolet, and the few Switzers were making Guise's butchers pay dearly for
their cruel treachery.
Guise and Angouleme had not entered the house; they were standing in
the courtyard, beneath the window of the Admiral's room, awaiting the
completion of the brutal work. We heard the crashing of timber, the
cries of the Switzers, and then the tramp of feet up the stairway.
Suddenly the sound ceased, and Felix, turning to me, whispered,
“They have broken into his room!”
An awful silence fell upon us in the courtyard as we stood there
waiting for the end of the ghastly tragedy.
CHAPTER XXVII. The Day of the
I always think of this incident in my life with a certain amount of
shame; yet even now I cannot see in what I failed. My comrade and I
would have spent our lives freely in the Admiral's defence, but what
could we do? To fight our way through that mob of soldiers was
impossible; we could not have taken two steps without being killed.
And yet—and yet—perhaps it would have been the nobler part to have
died with our chief! I remember the look on Roger Braund's face when he
heard the story—an expression that plainly asked, “How comes it then
that you are still alive?”
If we did indeed act the coward's part the blame must rest on my
shoulders; but for me Felix would have flung himself at the troopers
and died with the old battle-cry “For the Admiral!” on his lips. It was
I who, regarding such sacrifice as sheer folly, kept him back, though
my blood boiled and my heart ached at what was going forward.
Presently a man wearing a corslet and waving a sword dyed red with
blood appeared at the window of the sick-room. “It is done, my lord!”
cried he lustily, “it is all over.”
“Where is the body?” asked Guise brutally. “Monseigneur d'Angouleme
will not believe unless he sees the body.”
I was beside myself with grief and passion; yet even at that awful
moment I gripped Felix tightly, bidding him control himself. “We must
live, and not die!” I whispered.
Behm, and Cosseins, and a trooper in the dark green and white
uniform of Anjou's guard approached the window, half dragging, half
carrying a lifeless body. Raising it up, they flung it, as if it were
the carcase of a sheep, into the courtyard, Behm exclaiming, “There is
your enemy; he can do little harm now!”
“Yes, it is he,” said Guise, spurning the dead hero with his foot,
“I know him well. We have made a good beginning, my men; let us finish
the business. Forward, in the king's name!”
Our cry of agony was drowned by the shouting of the troopers, and
the next moment we were swept with the rest of the crowd from the
courtyard into the narrow street. Suddenly, as if it were a signal, the
great bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois began to toll; other bells in the
neighbourhood clanged and clashed, and mingling with their sounds were
the fierce cries of “Kill the Huguenots! Kill! Kill!”
Felix turned to me with a look of horror. “It is a planned
massacre!” he exclaimed, “our comrades will be murdered in their beds!”
We were borne along helplessly in the midst of the crowd. In all the
world, I think, no one could have ever beheld a more fearful spectacle.
The men and women were mad with passion; their faces were as the faces
of fiends; already some of their weapons were wet with blood. Each had
a white band bound round the arm, and most of them wore a white cross
in their caps.
Guise and Angouleme rode off with their troopers to carry on the
terrible work elsewhere, and they bade the citizens slay and spare not.
Crash went the doors of the houses where the Huguenots lived; shrieks
of despair and cries of “Kill! Kill!” rose on the air; the glare of
numerous torches lit up the hideous scene.
“Drag them out!”
“Death to the Huguenots!”
“Burn the houses!”
“Long live the Duke of Guise!”
“Throw them from the windows!”
“Kill the whole brood!”
Very soon the street was dotted with dead bodies. The unhappy
people, roused from sleep by the yells of the mob, could offer but
little resistance; they were slain in their beds, or escaped from the
murderers only to be killed in the streets.
But every one did not die tamely. At one spot we saw about a dozen
of our comrades, some only half dressed, standing shoulder to shoulder,
with their backs to the wall and holding the mob at bay. At this sight
Felix, wrapping his mantle round his left arm and drawing his sword,
ran toward them, crying defiantly, “Coligny! Coligny! For the Admiral!”
It was a daring venture, and yet no more, dangerous than remaining
in the crowd, where we must shortly have been discovered.
“Coligny! Coligny!” shouted the fighters by the wall, and the very
sound of the name inspired them with fresh courage. One of the ruffians
pushed at Felix with his pike, but he, with a vigorous stroke, clave
him from the shoulder, and our comrades cheered again as the rascal
“This way, Bellievre,” they cried; “this way, Le Blanc! Where is the
“Murdered!” answered Felix bitterly, “and thrown like a dog into the
courtyard of his own house.”
His words sent a thrill of horror through the little band. Coligny
murdered! Their noble chief done to death by a pack of human wolves!
Their eyes flashed fire; they set their teeth hard, and one, a strong,
sturdy fellow from Chatillon, crying “Vengeance for Coligny!” sprang at
the howling mob. Three times his blade gleamed in the air, and each
time it descended a man fell.
“Three for Coligny!” he cried grimly, springing back to his place.
It was a fearful conflict, chiefly because we had no hope. We could
fight to the death, but there was no escape. The men with the pikes
rushed at us repeatedly; we beat them off, and the heap of their slain
grew steadily larger, but we had lost two of our number, and were worn
with fatigue. And presently from the rear of the mob there arose a
shout of “Anjou! Anjou!” as if Monseigneur himself or some of his
troopers had arrived to complete our destruction.
“Let us defend the house!” exclaimed Felix, “we can kill more from
the inside!” and the rest agreed.
The door of the house to which my comrade pointed had been smashed;
the building itself contained no one but the dead. We worked our way
along, keeping the mob at bay with our swords, until we were all in
shelter; then they came with a terrific rush, but the foremost were
wounded or slain, and their bodies blocked the entrance.
“Drag the furniture into the passage!” cried Felix; but we had not
the time. Roused to desperation by their losses, the mob surged through
the doorway, trampling upon their fallen comrades, screaming “Kill the
Huguenots!” flinging themselves upon us with a fury we could not
Back we went to the foot of the stairs, where not more than two men
could stand abreast; the passage was packed with a swaying, struggling
mass that forced a way by its own weight. “Kill! Kill!” they screamed,
and we answered with defiant shouts of “Coligny! Coligny! For the
They gained the lowest stair, and then another; it was evident we
could not hold out much longer, but the knowledge had no effect on our
courage. As Felix said, we could die but once. On the landing at the
top of the stairs were two rooms, but our numbers were not strong
enough to garrison them both. There were only seven of us left, and not
“The end is close now,” cried my comrade, “but we will die hard for
the honour of the Admiral.”
“Well said, Bellievre!” and once more the familiar battle-cry
“Coligny! Coligny! For the Admiral!” rang out.
[Illustration: “Coligny! Coligny! For the Admiral!”]
“Good-bye, Edmond. I am glad Jeanne is safe.” “Farewell, Felix. Ah!”
Our two comrades nearest the door were down, and the angry mob, lusting
for blood, burst into the room. We numbered five now, and a minute
“For the Admiral!” cried Felix, running a man through the chest, but
before he could withdraw his sword a violent blow from a club struck
him to the ground.
We were three now, all faint, weary, and wounded. We were entirely
at the mercy of our assailants. They leaped at us, brandishing their
weapons, and yelling exultingly.
“Coligny! Coligny” I shouted in defiance. Crash! I was down, and
almost immediately afterwards the noise and the shouting died away. I
was dimly conscious of some one bending over me, and then knew no more.
I opened my eyes in a small room almost bare of furniture. I was
lying dressed, on a bed; my head was bandaged; every muscle of my body
ached with pain. Forgetting what had happened, I called for Jacques,
and then for Felix, but by degrees the sickening events of the awful
tragedy came back to my memory.
Getting down from the bed, I crossed the room slowly and cautiously,
and tried the door; it was fastened from the outside. I went back to
the little window for the purpose of looking into the street. It was
crowded with people wearing white crosses in their hats and white bands
round their arms.
Then, for the first time, I noticed that some one had tied a white
band round my arm. I tore the accursed emblem off, and trampled it
underfoot, in a fit of childish rage.
The citizens were dancing, shouting, and yelling like maniacs. They
were armed with clubs and pikes and swords, and one could see the clots
of blood clinging to the deadly weapons. I stood at the window
horrified, yet fascinated by the dreadful sight. A soldier, evidently
an officer of high rank, rode past cheering and waving a blood-stained
sword. I caught sight of his face, and recognized Marshal Tavannes.
Directly afterwards, a man chased by human bloodhounds from the
shelter of a neighbouring house darted into the midst of the crowd. He
twisted and doubled, running now this way, now that, like a hunted
hare. The assassins struck at him fiercely as he ran, holding his hands
above his head to protect himself.
A blow from a club struck one arm, and it dropped to his side,
broken. He turned sharply; a ruffian pricked him with his knife; he
staggered forward, lurched, swayed to and fro, and finally fell. I
closed my eyes in order not to see the end of the ghastly tragedy.
Presently a cart rumbled slowly along. Men and women danced round
about it, shouting and jeering, and brandishing their pikes and clubs.
The clumsy vehicle was packed with human beings, bound hand and foot,
and tied, as far as I could see, two together. They lay in a confused
heap, some of them wounded and bleeding.
I wondered in a dull sort of way where they were being taken. I
learned later that they were flung one and two at a time into the
Seine, while their savage enemies watched them drown.
Sick at heart, and stricken with horror, I lay down again upon the
bed. My misery was so intense that I cared nothing about my own fate.
Coligny was dead; I had seen Felix killed before my eyes; most of the
gallant gentlemen who had been my true and loyal comrades were
slain—what mattered it whether I lived or died? Strangely enough,
perhaps, I did not even ask myself how I had escaped the awful
Shortly after noon, the door was opened, and some one entered the
room. I expected to see a ruffian with a blood-red pike; my visitor was
a pale but pretty woman, carrying a bowl of soup.
“Drink this, monsieur,” she said, “it will give you strength. Renaud
will return in the evening.”
“Renaud!” I exclaimed, “do you mean Renaud L'Estang? Do I owe my
life to him?”
“He is a brave man,” she answered, “he saved your life at the risk
of his own; but I must go again. Do not make any sound, monsieur. If
the citizens were aware of your being here they would murder us.”
She went out and fastened the door, leaving me to drink the soup at
my leisure. So, it was Renaud L'Estang who had saved me. Truly that
little action of mine in Rochelle had borne good fruit.
Several times during the afternoon I returned to the window
overlooking the narrow street, but toward evening I lay down and slept,
and when a noise at the door wakened me the room was nearly dark.
“Monsieur,” a voice exclaimed, “are you awake? Do not be alarmed; it
Hearing me move, he closed the door softly, and came across to the
bed. “You are better,” he said, “I am glad of that, as you must leave
Paris. I have saved your life thus far, but it will be impossible to do
so much longer. Cordel has discovered that you are alive, and his
fellows are searching for your hiding-place. You must go to Rochelle at
once; that is your only place of safety.”
“It is easy to say 'Go to Rochelle,'“ I answered a trifle bitterly,
“but how is it to be done? The streets are filled with my enemies who
will kill me without mercy, and the gates, no doubt, are strictly
“Yes,” he replied slowly, “the sentries have been doubled, still it
is not impossible to get through, while to stay here means death. For
the sake of your sister you should endeavour to live.”
“What do you propose?” I asked.
“I have a pass from Monseigneur in my pocket. The officer on duty is
commanded to let myself and Louis Bourdonais leave the city without
question or delay. For the time being you are Louis Bourdonais. As soon
as the night becomes darker I will bring a carriage to the house, you
will enter, and we will drive to the gate of St. Jacques. Unless you
are recognized there is no danger.”
“And if I am?”
“Then,” said he, “I fear you will share the fate of your friends.”
He shrugged his shoulders carelessly, saying, “Have no fear for me;
I can easily make my peace with Monseigneur.”
There seemed to me something cowardly in this running away from
danger, but L'Estang mocked at my scruples.
“What can you do?” he asked. “At present there is no Huguenot party.
The Admiral, Teligny, La Rochefoucalt, De Guerchy, all are dead; Henry
of Navarre and Conde are both prisoners, and may be put to death at any
moment; your particular friend, Bellievre, is slain—I would have saved
him for your sake, but was too late. Now, if you stay in Paris, one of
two things will happen. You will be discovered here, when every person
in the house will be murdered; or you will venture into the street and
be clubbed to death in less than five minutes.”
“I do not wish to drag you into danger.”
“There is no danger to me,” he answered rather brusquely, “unless
you are obstinate.”
“Then I will go with you.”
“Very good,” he replied, as coolly as if we were about to embark on
an enterprise of the most ordinary kind. “I will make my preparations
and return in a short time.”
He went out softly, and I sat on the side of the bed thinking sadly
over the information he had brought. There was no Huguenot party; there
were neither leaders nor followers. The assassins had not only lopped
the branches but had uprooted the tree. Even Conde and Henry of Navarre
were not safe from the royal vengeance! The horror pressed upon me
heavily; even now I could scarcely realize the full extent of the
I still sat brooding when L'Estang came again, this time bringing a
light. He noticed the white band on the ground, and, stooping, picked
it up. “It may be disagreeable,” he said, “but it is necessary; it has
saved your life once. Remember you are Louis Bourdonais, and he would
not refuse to wear it.”
“'Tis horrible!” I cried, turning from the badge with loathing.
“That may be, but it is a safeguard you cannot afford to despise.
Lean on me; you are weaker than I thought.”
He supported me across the room, down the stairway, and so to the
door of the house, in front of which a carriage was drawn up. The
coachman wore Anjou's livery—a device of L'Estang's, since the
equipage did not belong to Monseigneur—and the crowd stood around
L'Estang, fearful lest any of the lawyer's spies should be there,
helped me into the carriage quickly, jumped in himself, and told the
driver to whip up his horses. The worst of the massacre was over, but
the citizens having tasted blood thirsted for more, and, though the
hour was so late, they were roaming about in bands shouting for
vengeance on the Huguenots.
Our carriage being compelled to proceed slowly, I had ample
opportunity to note the traces of the awful tragedy. Every house where
a Huguenot had lived was wrecked; in many instances the window-sills
were smeared with blood, and dead bodies still lay thick in the
streets. I shut my eyes tightly, while my whole body was convulsed by a
shudder of horror.
“Monsieur, we are at the gate. Turn your head to the left, so that
the officer may not see your face easily. If he asks questions,
remember you are Louis Bourdonais of Monseigneur's household.”
“Halt! Who goes there?”
My companion looked out. “We are on Monseigneur's private business,”
he exclaimed. “Here is his pass. Be quick, if you please, we are in a
The officer took the paper and examined it closely, “Where is Louis
Bourdonais?” he asked.
“Here!” I said, bracing myself with an effort.
“I wish Monseigneur knew his own mind!” he grumbled, “my orders were
to let no one through!”
“Shall we go back and ask him to write down his reasons for the
change?” asked L'Estang; but the officer was already giving
instructions for the opening of the gate, and in a few minutes we were
outside the walls.
CHAPTER XXVIII. Farewell France!
“The danger is over!” exclaimed my companion as we left the city
behind us; “lean back on the cushions and try to sleep.”
“There are several questions I wish to ask first.”
“I will answer them in the morning, when you have rested, but not
now,” he said firmly.
He had brought a number of cushions and rugs, and he tended me as
carefully as if I had been a delicate woman. And yet he was in the pay
of the brutal Anjou, and perhaps his own hands were not innocent of the
blood of my slain comrades!
It might have been that he guessed something of the thoughts passing
through my mind, for he exclaimed suddenly, “There is one thing I would
say, monsieur. This massacre is none of my seeking, and through it all
my sword has never left the scabbard except in your defence. The mercy
once shown to me I have shown again.”
“You are a good fellow, L'Estang,” I murmured, “and I thank you.”
After that I fell asleep and in spite of the jolting of the carriage
did not waken until the sun was high in the heavens.
“You have wakened in time for breakfast,” said my companion, who
appeared not to have slept at all; “in a few minutes we shall arrive at
an inn where I intend to halt. I am known there, and we shall be well
We stayed a couple of hours, during which time fresh horses were
procured and harnessed to the carriage, while the coachman removed
Monseigneur's favours from his hat, and covered his livery with a blue
“Now,” I said, when the journey was resumed, tell me why you asked
us to meet you at the Louvre, and then failed to keep the appointment!”
“I will answer the last part of the question first; the explanation
is very simple. Monseigneur needed my attendance, and when I was able
to leave him it was too late.”
“You intended to give us warning of this horrible conspiracy?”
“No, I could not betray my patron, but I intended to save you and
Monsieur Bellievre. I felt sure you would not leave your leader; I
should have despised you if you had.”
“And rightly, too.”
“So,” he continued, “I arranged to carry you off by force, and keep
you shut up until the danger was past. Monseigneur, without intending
it, disturbed my plans. Guessing you would return to Coligny's hotel
I followed as quickly as possible with a few rascals who would do my
bidding, and ask no questions. You were not there.”
“The troopers reached the hotel before us,” I explained.
“I guessed what had happened, and searched the streets. Finally I
reached the house where you had taken refuge. I was too late for
Monsieur Bellievre; he was dead.”
“As true a heart as beat in France!” I said.
“Yes,” agreed L'Estang, “he was a gallant youngster. Turning from
him I saw you fall, and ran across the room. The mob recognized me as
Monseigneur's attendant, or it would have gone hard with you. Even as
it was—but there, do the details matter? I got you away at last to the
room I had prepared; then it was necessary to return to my patron.”
I endeavoured to thank him, but he would hear nothing, saying, “A
promise to the dead is sacred, monsieur.”
“Charles may not be a strong king,” I remarked some time later, “but
he plays the hypocrite vastly well. One would have thought from his
visit to the Admiral that he was devoured by grief.”
“He was both sorry and angry at the attempt on Coligny's life; it
was not his work.”
“But surely he must have given orders for the massacre!”
“Afterwards, monsieur. At first I do not believe that even Guise
meant to do more than kill Coligny and a few of the most powerful
leaders. But they were blinded by panic; carried away by their own
fears, and they swept Charles into the same stream.”
“The world will say the horrible tragedy was planned from the
“The world may be right, but I hardly think so. No one, monsieur,
can be more cruel than a panic-stricken man.”
“Who was it,” I asked, “that made the first attempt on the Admiral's
“The king's assassin!”
“The same man; but he did not receive his orders from Charles; on
that point I feel certain.”
“Henry of Navarre still lives,” I said after a time.
“Yes; he and Conde have been spared so far.”
“And their gentlemen? They were lodged with their chiefs in the
Louvre; surely they have not been slain?”
“Monsieur, I will tell you the story, so that you may understand how
utterly helpless you are. Every one in the palace went to bed that
night, restless and excited, afraid and yet not knowing of what they
were afraid. As soon as day broke, Henry descended the staircase; Conde
was with him, and they were followed by their gentlemen.”
“They must have numbered two hundred!”
“About that number. At the foot of the staircase Henry and Conde
were arrested and disarmed. Their gentlemen were called by name, and
they stepped one by one into the courtyard.”
“Yes,” I said, as he hesitated.
“The courtyard was filled with Swiss guards. Your colleagues died
bravely, monsieur, some of them defiantly, taunting the king with their
“The king!” I cried in astonishment, “where was the king?”
“Looking from an upper window.”
“Yet you endeavoured to make me believe he was not responsible for
“I still believe that to be true; but when it began, he became blood
“De Pilles was at the Louvre!”
“De Pilles is dead! Except Navarre, who cannot help even himself,
you have not a single friend left. You cannot return to Le Blanc, and
wherever you go you will be hunted down by Cordel's assassins. He can
strike at you now without fear, and he will do so. He has the promise
of your estates, and a strong hope of a patent of nobility. You cannot
leave Rochelle, and even there you will not be safe.”
“Your comfort is but cold,” I said, forcing myself to laugh.
“I want you to see the truth in all its nakedness, so that you may
not feed yourself with false hopes,” he replied soberly.
“After what has happened in Paris there is little chance of my doing
that; but I must have time to think; I must consult with my friends at
By this time the news of the fearful massacre on the day of St.
Bartholomew had spread far and wide; the whole country was wild with
excitement, and in the various towns through which we passed the
unhappy Huguenots were being hounded mercilessly to death. Thanks,
however, to L'Estang, I was never in any danger, and at length we
arrived at the gates of what had become a veritable city of refuge.
Here, with many expressions of good-will on both sides, we parted,
L'Estang to return to Paris, and I to enter the grief-stricken town.
Numbers of fugitives thronged the streets; everywhere one saw groups of
men, and weeping women, and frightened children who had abandoned their
homes in terror.
I proceeded slowly and haltingly, being still extremely weak, and
many a curious glance was directed toward my bandaged head. Expecting
to find Jeanne at my aunt's house, I went there first, and in the
courtyard saw two horses saddled and bridled as if for a journey. I
stopped a moment to speak to the servant, when a voice exclaimed
joyfully, “'Tis he! 'Tis Monsieur Edmond!” and Jacques came running
out, his face beaming with delight.
“We were coming in search of you,” he cried. “Monsieur Braund is in
the house, bidding mademoiselle farewell. She is terribly alarmed on
your account; she believes you to be dead. She blames herself bitterly
for leaving you in Paris. Is the news true, monsieur? Is it really true
that the noble Coligny has been murdered?”
“Yes,” I answered sadly, “it is too true. But you shall hear all
about it later; I must go to my sister.”
Roger was endeavouring to comfort her, but on seeing me she broke
from him and ran across the room, crying, “Edmond! Edmond!” as if she
could scarcely credit the evidence of her senses.
“Did you think I was a ghost, Jeanne?” I asked laughingly. “'Tis I,
Edmond, and very much alive, I assure you. Come, let me dry those
tears; you will spoil your pretty eyes.”
“Oh, Edmond,” she gasped, “I thought you were killed! And you have
been wounded! Your head is bandaged.”
“I have had a very narrow escape, Jeanne; but here I am, and there
is no need for any more sorrow on my account.”
“And Felix?” she cried, “has he escaped too? Where have you left
him? Ah, he is dead! I am sure of it! I can read it in your face!”
“Yes,” I answered sadly, “there have been terrible doings in Paris,
and Felix is among the slain.”
“And he was so brave and good!” she sobbed. “Poor Felix! Tell me
about it, Edmond.”
When she had become more composed I related the story just as it had
happened, but softening down the more brutal parts lest her grief
should break out afresh. She was silent for a little while, but
presently she said, “The Cause is ruined, Edmond!”
“Yes,” I admitted, reluctantly, “with all our leaders slain, or in
the hands of the king, we are powerless. And now, my dear Jeanne, you
had better go to your room and rest a while.”
“But you are hurt!” she exclaimed anxiously.
“The wound is not serious, and it has been skilfully dressed.
However, Roger shall fetch a surgeon.”
“And you need food,” she said, “you are weak and faint. It is you
who need rest, and I will take care of you.”
“Very well,” I said, thinking it would be better perhaps if she had
something to occupy her mind, “you shall nurse back my strength.”
Now that the excitement of the journey had passed I felt, indeed,
painfully weak, and for several days kept to my bed, being waited upon
by Jeanne and Roger, while Jacques slept at night in my chamber.
One morning toward the end of the week Roger came as usual to sit
with me. Jeanne was in the room, but she disappeared quickly, her
pretty cheeks covered with blushes.
“You have frightened Jeanne away!” I exclaimed, laughing.
“She knows that I wish to have a talk with you,” he answered, and
upon my word he began to blush like an overgrown boy.
“One would fancy it a matter of some importance!”
“Of the greatest importance,” he replied earnestly, “since it
affects all your future life. Do you realize that unless you desert
your faith, and go to mass, your career is ruined? Your account of the
massacre was under rather than over the mark. With the exception of
Conde and Navarre there does not appear to be a single Huguenot leader
left, and it is reported that Conde has recanted in order to save his
“The Cause is not dead because Conde has forsaken it.”
“No,” agreed Roger, “but it is dead nevertheless. Henry is a
prisoner in Paris; the Huguenots are scattered and dispirited; they
have no leaders, no arms, no money; there is not a single district in
which they are not at the mercy of the king's troops. Already the Paris
massacre has been repeated in several towns.”
“Well,” I said, wondering whither all this tended.
“You yourself cannot leave Rochelle except at the risk of your
“Because of Cordel?”
“Because of Cordel. He means to possess your estates; he has a
powerful patron in Anjou, and you cannot obtain the ear of the king.”
“'Twould do me little service if I could!”
“What will you do in Rochelle?”
“I shall not stay here long; I shall sail to our colony in America,
where one can at least worship God in peace.”
“Yes,” he said musingly, “you can do that”; and then as if the
thought had but just occurred to him, “it will be a terribly rough life
for Jeanne—I mean for your sister.”
“I had forgotten Jeanne. Well, that plan must be given up.”
“There is one way out of the difficulty,” he continued, coming
finally to the point toward which he had been leading. “I am rich, and
my own master. I have a good estate in England.”
“Yes,” I said, leaving him, rather ungenerously, to flounder through
as best he could.
“I love your sister,” he blurted out. “I wish to make her my wife.
Do you object to having me for a brother, Edmond?”
Now, I was very fond of my English friend; he was a gallant
gentleman, and the soul of honour. To be quite frank, I had once hoped
that Jeanne would marry Felix, but he, poor fellow, was dead.
I gave Roger my hand, saying, “There is no one living to whom I
would rather trust my sister's happiness. Besides, that gets rid of all
our difficulties at once. With you to protect Jeanne, I can carry out
“Not so fast, Edmond,” he interposed. “Jeanne is willing to be my
wife, but she is not willing to part from you. She still blames herself
for leaving you in Paris, though that, of course, is nonsense. She
could not have done you any good.”
“Most probably, had she stayed, both of us would have been killed.
However, to return to our point; I cannot ask you to cross the ocean
“It is unnecessary,” said he, smiling cheerfully; “I can ask you to
cross the Channel with me. No, don't speak yet. The scheme has several
advantages. You will be out of Cordel's way, and yet close at hand.
Things are bound to change. The king may die, or Henry of Navarre may
obtain greater influence. He cannot be kept a prisoner all his life,
and the time may come when he is once more at the head of an army. That
will be your opportunity. A few days will take you across the water,
and with Navarre as your friend—for he is not likely to go back on his
pledged word—you can hope for justice.”
“There is something in that,” I said thoughtfully.
“There is everything, my dear fellow. Now, on the other hand, by
sailing to the New World, you will cut yourself off from France for
ever; and lose all chance of regaining your estates. The rascally
lawyer will be left to enjoy his stolen property in peace.”
This was an argument that touched me nearly, and Roger, perceiving
the effect it produced, harped upon it so strongly that at last I
agreed to accompany him to his English home. There was, however, still
my servant to be considered, but Roger declared merrily there was
plenty of room for Jacques, who should be given the charge of the
“And,” added the generous fellow, “I shall be the gainer by that,
for he is a splendid judge of horses!” which was perfectly true.
I had a talk with Jacques the same evening and asked him to give me
his opinion freely on the subject. The honest fellow did not hesitate
“Go with Monsieur Braund by all means,” said he. “As long as the
King of Navarre remains a prisoner you can do nothing, but directly he
is free you will have a chance of settling accounts with this Cordel.
To go to the New World will be to acknowledge yourself beaten.”
“You are right, Jacques,” I said; “we will stay in England, and bide
“It will come, monsieur, be assured of that; and then let Etienne
Cordel look out for himself.”
We were still talking about the lawyer when Roger came in, bringing
a note that had been left by a stranger at the Hotel Coligny. It
was addressed to me, and I recognized the handwriting immediately.
“'Tis from L'Estang,” I said; “what can he have to say?”
“Open it and see,” suggested Roger merrily, “that is the easiest way
of finding out!”
The contents were brief, but they made me bite my lips hard. “Cordel
has been granted the Le Blanc estates, and in all likelihood a patent
of nobility will be made out in a few weeks. His assassins are still
seeking for you.”
“Well,” said Roger, “as it happens, they will seek in vain, and when
they do find you, they may be sorry for the discovery.”
Now that my decision was made, I felt anxious to get away, hoping
that new scenes and new faces might blunt the misery which L'Estang's
letter had caused me. Roger was also desirous to return immediately,
and, as there was a vessel timed to sail in a few days, he arranged
that we should take our passage in her.
It was a beautiful September morning when we went on board, and as
the ship moved slowly from the harbour I took a sad farewell of my fair
but unhappy country. Stronger men might have laughed at my weakness,
but my eyes were dim as, leaning over the vessel's side, I watched the
receding shore. Who could foretell if I should ever behold my own land
“Courage, monsieur!” whispered Jacques; “we shall return.”
“Yes,” I replied, with a sudden glow of confidence, “we shall
return; let us hold fast by that!”
My story as I set out to tell it really ends on the day when the
White Rose left the harbour of Rochelle, but those who have
followed my fortunes thus far may not take it amiss if I relate very
briefly the upshot of my adventures.
Concerning Jeanne and her English husband there is little to tell.
Happy, it is said, is the country that has no history, and their lives
were one long happiness, passed in their beautiful home, surrounded by
friends, and blessed by the presence of little children.
For four years I stayed with them, until, indeed, the joyful news of
Henry's escape from Paris sent me, accompanied by the faithful Jacques,
in hot haste to France, where the offer of my services was gladly
accepted by the great Huguenot chief.
“The dawn is long in coming, Le Blanc,” he said kindly; “but it will
come at last.”
It would take too long to tell you of the years of strife, of our
marches and countermarches, of our defeats and victories, of how we
changed from hope to despair, and from despair to hope, until on that
memorable field of Ivri we smote our enemies hip and thigh, and broke
the League that had brought so much misery on the country.
It was at Ivri, right at the moment of triumph, I lost Jacques, who,
through good and ill, had followed my fortunes with a loyalty and
devotion that no man ever exceeded, and fell just when I had the power
to reward his services.
Renaud L'Estang I rarely met after my return. He served his patron
faithfully and well, and on Anjou's death joined the household of the
Duke of Guise, who held him in high esteem. He was, I believe, slain in
one of the numerous skirmishes, but even that I learned only by
In spite of my vaunts and boastings Etienne Cordel enjoyed his
ill-gotten gains for several years, and then it was not to me, but to a
higher judge he had to render his account.
But when Henry of Navarre became King of France, the estates of Le
Blanc were restored to their rightful owner, and in the old castle
to-day, hung in the place of honour, is the sword which Henry gave me
at Arnay-le-Duc, and on which he has graciously caused to be inscribed,
“From Henry of Navarre to the Sieur Le Blanc.”