Chapter 28

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 treated."

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 overall.

"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 Bellièvre. 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 _hôtel_ 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 _hôtel_ 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 Bellièvre; 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 beginning."

"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 life?"

"Maurevel."

"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 Condé 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; Condé 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 Condé 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 last breath."

"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 the massacre!"

"I still believe that to be true; but when it began, he became blood mad."

"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 Rochelle."

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 Condé and Navarre there does not appear to be a single Huguenot leader left, and it is reported that Condé has recanted in order to save his life."

"The Cause is not dead because Condé 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 life."

"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 my plans."

"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 with us."

"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 stables.

"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 an instant.

"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 our time."

"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 _Hôtel 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 again?

"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!"

L'ENVOI.

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 hearsay.

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."