In Kings' Byways Read online

  FOR THE CAUSE

  I

  Paris had never seemed to the eye more peaceful than on a certainNovember evening in the year 1591: and this although many a one withinits walls resented the fineness of the night as a mockery, as a scoffalike at the pain of some and the fury of others.

  The moonlight fell on roofs and towers, on the bare open space of thePlace de Greve, and the dark mass of the Louvre, and only here and therepierced, by chance, a narrow lane, to gleam on some foul secret of thekennel. The Seine lay a silvery loop about the Ile de la Cite--a loopcut on this side and that by the black shadows of the Pont au Change,and the Petit Pont, and broken again westward by the outline of the NewBridge, which was then in building.

  The city itself lay in profound quiet in the depth of the shadow. Fromtime to time at one of the gates, or in the vaulted lodge of theChatelet, a sentinel challenged or an officer spoke. But the bell of St.Germain l'Auxerrois, which had rung through hours of the past day, wassilent. The tumult which had leaped like flame from street to streethad subsided. Peaceful men breathed again in their houses, and women, ifthey still cowered by the hearth, no longer laid trembling fingers ontheir ears. For a time the red fury was over: and in the narrowchannels, where at noon the mob had seethed and roared, scarcely a straywayfarer could now be found.

  A few however were abroad: and of these some, who chanced to bethreading the network of streets between the Chatelet and the Louvre,heard behind them the footsteps of one in great haste. Turning, they sawpass by them a youth, wearing a sword and a student's short cloak andcap--apparently he was a member of the University. He was pale of face,and for his part looked neither to right nor left: saw not one of them,and seemed bent only on getting forward.

  He slackened his pace however near the corner of the Rue de Tirchape,where it shoots out of the Rue de Bethisy; and then turning the cornerimpulsively, he caught his foot in some obstacle, and, plunging forward,would have fallen, if he had not come against a man, who seemed to bestanding still in the shadow of the corner house.

  "Hold up!" exclaimed this person, withstanding the shock better thancould have been expected, for he was neither tall nor bulky. "You shouldhave a pretty mistress, young man, if you go to her at this pace!"

  The student did not answer--did not seem to hear. He staggered againstthe wall, and stood propping himself up by it. His face, pale before,was ghastly, as he glared, horror-struck, at something beyond thespeaker. The latter, after muttering angrily, "What the plague, then, doyou go dashing about the streets like a Shrove Tuesday ox for?" turnedalso and glanced behind him.

  But not at that to which the student's eyes were directed. The strangerseemed constrained to look first and by preference at the long, lowcasement of a house nearly opposite them. This window was on the firstfloor, and projected somewhat over the roadway. There seemed to be nolight in the room within; but the moonlight reached it, and showed awoman's head bent on the sill--a girl's head, if one might judge fromits wealth of hair. One white wrist gleamed amid the coil, but her facewas hidden on her arms and showed not. In the whole scene--in thecasement open at this inclement time, in the girl's attitude, in herabandonment, there was something which stirred the nerves. It was onlyafter a long look that the stranger averted his eyes, and cast a casualglance at a queer, dark object, which a few paces away swung above thestreet, dimly outlined against the sky. It was clear that it was thatwhich had fascinated his companion.

  "Umph!" he ejaculated in the tone of a man who should say "Is that all?"And he turned to the youth again. "You seem taken aback, young man?" hesaid. "Surely that is no such strange sight in Paris nowadays. What withLeaguers hanging Politiques, and Politiques hanging Leaguers, and bothburning Huguenots, I thought a dead man was no longer a bogey tofrighten children with!"

  "Hush, sir, in Heaven's name!" the young man exclaimed, shuddering athis words. And then, with a gesture of despair, "He was my father!"

  The stranger whistled. "He was your father, was he!" he replied moregently. "I dare swear too that he was an honest man, since the Sixteenhave done this. There, steady, my friend. These are no times forweeping. Be thankful that Le Clerc and his crew have spared your home,and your--your sister. That is rare clemency in these days, and Heavenonly knows how long it may last. You wear a sword? Then shed no tears torust it. Time enough to weep, man, when there is blood to be washed fromthe blade."

  "You speak boldly," said the youth, checking his emotion somewhat, "buthad they hung your father before his own door----"

  "Good man," said the stranger with a coolness that bordered on thecynical, "he has been dead these twenty years."

  "Then your mother?" the student suggested with the feeble persistence bywhich weak minds show their consciousness of contact with stronger ones,"you had then----"

  "Hung them all as high as Haman!"

  "Ay, but suppose there were among them some you could not hang,"objected the youth, in a lower tone, while he eyed his companionnarrowly, "some of the clergy, you understand?"

  "They had swung--though they had all been Popes of Rome," was the bluntanswer.

  The young man shook his head, and drew off a pace. He scanned thestranger curiously, keeping his back turned to the corpse the while; buthe failed by that light to make out much one way or the other. Scarcelya moment too was allowed him before the murmur of voices and the clashof weapons at the farther end of the street interrupted him. "The watchare coming," he said roughly.

  "You are right," his companion assented, "and the sooner we are withindoors the better."

  It was noticeable that throughout their talk which had lasted someminutes no sign of life had appeared in any of the neighbouring houses.Scarce a light shone from doorway or window though it was as yet butnine o'clock. In truth fear of the Sixteen and of the mob whom theyguided was overpowering Paris--was a terror crushing out men's lives.While the provinces of France were divided between two opinions, andhalf of them owned the Huguenot Henry the Fourth--now for two years therightful sovereign--Paris would have none of him. The fierce bigotry ofthe lower classes, the presence of some thousands of Spanish soldiers,and the ambition and talents of the Guise family combined at once tokeep the gates of Paris closed to him, and to overawe such of therespectable citizens as from religious sympathy in rare cases, moreoften out of a desire to see the re-establishment of law and order,would have adopted his cause. The Politiques, or moderate party, whowere indifferent about religion as such, but believed that a stronggovernment could be formed only by a Romanist king, were almostnon-existent in Paris. And the events of the past day, the murder ofthree magistrates and several lower officials--among them poor M.Portail, whose body now decorated the Rue de Tirchape--had not reassuredthe municipal mind. No wonder that men put out their lights early, andwere loth to go to their windows, when they might see a few feet fromthe casement the swollen features of a harmless, honest man, butyesterday going to and from his work like other men.

  Young Portail stole to the door of the house and knocked hurriedly. Ashe did so, he looked, with something like a shiver of apprehension, atthe window above his head. But the girl neither moved nor spoke, norbetrayed any consciousness of his presence. She might have been dead. Itwas a young man, about his own age or a little older, who, afterreconnoitring him from above, cautiously drew back the door. "Whom haveyou with you?" he whispered, holding it ajar, and letting the end of astout club be seen.

  "No one," Portail replied in the same cautious tone. And he would haveentered without more ado, and closed the door behind him had not hislate companion, who had followed him across the street like his shadow,set his foot against it. "Nay, but you are forgetting me," he saidgood-humouredly.

  "Go your way! we have enough to do to protect ourselves," cried Portail,brusquely.

  "The more need of me," was the careless answer.

  The watch were now but a few houses away, and the stranger seemeddetermined. He could scarcely be kept out without a disturbance. With anangry oath Felix Portail held th
e door for him to enter; and closed itsoftly behind him. Then for a minute or so the three stood silent in thedarkness of the damp-smelling passage, while with a murmur of voices andclash of weapons, and a ruddy glimmer piercing crack and keyhole, theguard swept by.

  "Have you a light?" Felix murmured, as the noise began to die away.

  "In the back room," replied the young man who had admitted them. Heseemed to be a clerk or confidential servant. "But your sister," hecontinued, "is distraught. She has sat at the window all day as you seeher now--sometimes looking at _it_. Oh, Felix," in a voice shaken bytears, "this has been a dreadful day for this house!"

  The young Portail assented by a groan. "And Susanne?" he asked.

  "Is with Mistress Marie, terrified almost to death, poor child. She hasbeen crouching all day beside her, hiding her face in her gown. Butwhere were you?"

  "At the Sorbonne," Felix replied, in a whisper.

  "Ah!" the other exclaimed, something of hidden meaning in his tone. "Iwould not tell her that, if I were you. I feared it was so. But let usgo upstairs."

  They went up; the stranger following, with more than one stumble by theway. At the head of the staircase the clerk opened a door and precededthem into a low-roofed panelled room, plainly but solidly furnished, andlighted by a small hanging lamp of silver. A round oak table on sixcuriously turned legs stood in the middle, and on it some food was laid.A high-backed chair, before which a sheep-skin rug was spread, and twoor three stools, made up, with a great oak chest, the furniture of theroom.

  The stranger turned from scrutinizing his surroundings, and stood atgaze. Another door had opened silently; he saw framed in the doorway andrelieved by the lamplight against the darkness of the outer room theface and figure of a tall girl; doubtless the one whom he had seen atthe window. A moment she stood pointing at them with her hand, her facewhite--and whiter in seeming by reason of the black hair which fellround it; her eyes were dilated, the neckband of her dark red gown wastorn open that she might have air. "A Provencal!" the intruder murmuredto himself. "Beautiful and a tigress."

  At any rate, for the moment, beside herself. "So you have come at last!"she said, panting, glaring at Felix with scorn, passionate scorn in wordand gesture. "Where were you while these slaves of yours did yourbidding? At the Sorbonne with the black crows! Thinking out fresh workfor them? Or dallying with your Normandy sweetheart?"

  "Hush!" he said, lowering his eyes, and visibly quailing before her."There is a stranger here."

  "There have been many strangers here to-day!" she retorted withundiminished bitterness. "Hush, you say? Nay, but I will not be silentfor you, for any! They may tear me limb from limb, but I will accusethem of this murder before God's throne. Coward! Parricide! Do you thinkI will ask mercy from them? Come, look on your work! See what the Leaguehave done--your holy League!--while you sat plotting with the blackcrows!"

  She pointed into the dark room behind her, and the movement disclosed ayounger girl clinging to her skirts, and weeping silently. "Come here,Susanne," Felix said; he had turned pale and red and shifted from onefoot to another, under the lash of the elder girl's scorn. "Your sisteris not herself. You do no good, Marie, staying in there. See, you areboth trembling with cold."

  "With cold?" was the fierce rejoinder. "Then do you warm yourselves! Sitdown and eat and drink and be comfortable and forget him! But I will noteat nor drink while he hangs there! Shame, Felix Portail! Shame! Haveyou arms and hands, and will let your father hang before his own door?"

  Her voice rang shrill to the last word audible far down the street; thatsaid, an awkward silence fell on the room. The stranger nodded twice,almost as if he said, "Bravo!--Bravo." The two men of the house castdoubtful glances at one another. At length the clerk spoke. "It isimpossible, mistress," he said gently. "Were he touched, the mob wouldwreck the house to-morrow."

  "A little bird whispered to me as I came through the streets,"--it wasthe stranger who spoke--"that Mayenne and his riders would be in townto-morrow. Then it seems to me that our friends of the Sorbonne will nothave matters altogether their own way--to wreck or to spare!"

  The Sorbonne was the Theological College of Paris; at this time it wasthe headquarters of the extreme Leaguers and the Sixteen. Mayenne andD'Aumale, the Guise princes, more than once found it necessary to checkthe excesses of the party.

  Marie Portail looked for the first time at the speaker. He sat on theedge of the chest, carelessly swinging one knee over the other; a man ofmiddle height, neither tall nor short, with well-bronzed cheeks, aforehead broad and white, and an aquiline nose. He wore a beard andmoustaches, and his chin jutted out. His eyes were keen, butgood-humoured. Though spare he was sinewy; and an iron-hilted swordpropped against his thigh seemed made for use rather than show. Theupper part of his dress was of brown cloth, the lower of leather. Aweather-stained cloak, which he had taken off, lay on the chest besidehim.

  "You are a man!" cried Marie, her eyes leaving him again. "But as forthese----"

  "Stay, mistress!" the clerk broke in. "Your brother does but collecthimself. If the Duke of Mayenne returns to-morrow, as our friend heresays is likely--and I have heard the same myself--he will keep his menin better order. That is true. And we might risk it if the watch wouldleave us a clear street."

  Felix nodded sullenly. "Shut the door," he said to his sister, the deepgloom on his countenance in sharp contrast with the excitement shebetrayed. "There is no need to let the neighbours see us."

  This time she obeyed him. Susanne too crept from her skirts, and threwherself on her knees, hiding her face on a chair. "Ay," said Marie,looking down at her with the first expression of tenderness the strangerhad noted in her. "Let her weep. Let children weep. But let men work."

  "We want a ladder," the clerk said, in a low voice. "And the longest wehave is full three feet short."

  "That is just half a man," remarked he who sat on the chest.

  "What mean you?" Felix asked wonderingly.

  "What I said."

  "But there is nothing on which we can rest the ladder," the clerk urged.

  "Then that is a whole man," quoth the stranger, curtly. "Perhaps two. Itold you you would have need of me." He looked from one to the otherwith a smile--a careless, reckless, self-contented smile.

  "You are a soldier," said Marie. And abruptly she fixed her eyes uponhim.

  "At times," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

  "For which side?"

  He shook his head. "For my own," he answered naively.

  "A soldier of fortune?"

  "At your service, mistress; now and ever."

  The clerk struck in with impatience. "If we are to do this," he said,"we had better set about it. I will fetch the ladder."

  He went out, and the other men followed more slowly down the stairs;leaving Marie still standing gazing into the darkness of the frontroom--she had opened the door again--like one in a trance. Some oddtrait in the soldier led him, as he passed out, to lay his hand on thehair of the kneeling child with a movement infinitely tender; infinitelyat variance with the harsh clatter with which his sword next moment rangagainst the stairs as he descended.

  The three men were going to do that which two for certain, and allperhaps, knew to be perilous. One went to it in gloom, reluctance andanger, as well as with sorrow at his heart. One bustled about nervously,and looked often behind him as if to see Marie's pale face at thewindow. And one strode out as to a ball, glancing up and down the darklane with an air of enjoyment, which not even the grim nature of histask could suppress. The body was hanging from a bar which crossed thestreet at a considerable height, and served as a stay between the gablesof two opposite houses, of which one was two doors only from the unhappyPortail's. The mob, with a barbarity very common in those days, had hunghim on his own threshold.

  The street, as the three moved into it, seemed empty and still. But itwas impossible to say how long it would remain so. Yet the soldierloitered, staring about him, as one remembering things. "Did not theAdmi
ral live in this street?" he inquired.

  "De Coligny? No. Round the corner in the Rue de Bethisy," replied theclerk, brusquely. "But see! The ladder will not reach the bar--no, notby four feet."

  "Set it against the wall then--thus," said the soldier, and having doneit himself, he mounted a few steps. Then he seemed to bethink himself.He jumped down again. "No," he exclaimed, peering sharply into the facesof one and the other, "I do not know you. If any one comes, my friends,and you leave the foot of the ladder, I shall be taken like a bird on alimed twig. Do you ascend, Monsieur Felix."

  The young man drew back. He was not without courage, or experience ofrough scenes. But the Louvre was close at hand, almost within earshot onone side, the Chatelet was scarcely farther off on the other; and bothswarmed with soldiers and the armed scourings of the streets. At anymoment a troop of these might pass; and should they detect any oneinterfering with King Mob's handiwork, he would certainly dangle in afew minutes from that same handy lamp-iron. Felix knew this, and stoodat gaze. "I do not know you either," he muttered irresolutely, his handstill on the ladder.

  A smile of surprising humour played on the soldier's face. "Nay, but youknew _him_!" he retorted, pointing upwards with his hand. "Trust me,young sir," he added significantly, "I am less inclined to mountnow--than I was before."

  The clerk intervened before Felix could resent the insult. "Steady," hesaid; "I will go up and do it."

  "Not so!" Felix rejoined, pushing him aside in turn. And he ran up theladder. But near the top he paused, and began to descend again. "I haveno knife," he said shamefacedly.

  "Pshaw! Let me come!" cried the stranger. "I see you are both goodcomrades. I trust you. Besides, I am more used to this ladder work thanyou are, and time is everything."

  He ran up as he spoke, and, standing on the highest round but one, hegrasped the bar above his head, and swung himself lightly up, so as togain a seat on it. With more caution he wormed himself along it until hereached the rope. Fortunately there was a long coil of this about thebar; and warning his companions in a whisper, he carefully, and withsuch reverence as the time and place allowed, let down the body to them.They received it in their arms; and had just loosened the noose from theneck when an outburst of voices and the tramp of footsteps at the nearerend of the street surprised them. For an instant the two stood in thegloom, breathless, stricken still, confounded. Then with a singleimpulse they lifted the body between them, and huddled blindly towardsthe door of the Portails' house. It opened at their touch, they stumbledin, and it fell to behind them. The foremost of the armed watch had beenwithin ten paces of them. The escape was narrow.

  Yet they had escaped. But what next? What of their comrade? The momentthe door was closed behind them, one at least would have rushed outagain, ay, to certain death, so strongly had the soldier's trustappealed to his honour. But they had the body in their arms; and by thetime it was laid on the stairs, a score of men had passed. Theopportunity was over. They could do nothing but listen. "Heaven helphim!" fell from the clerk's quivering lips. Pulling the door close, theystood, looking each moment to hear a challenge, a shot, the clash ofswords. But no. They heard the party halt under the gallows, and passsome brutal jest, and go on. And that was all.

  They could scarcely believe their ears; no, nor their eyes, when a fewminutes later, the street being now quiet, they passed out, and stood init shuddering. For there swung the corpse dimly outlined above them!There! Certainly there! The clerk seized his companion's arm and drewhim back. "It was the fiend!" he stammered. "See, your father is stillthere! It was the fiend who helped us!"

  But at that the figure they were watching became agitated; an instantand it slid gently to the ground. It was the soldier. "O ye gods!" hecried, bent double with silent laughter. "Saw you ever such a trick? HowI longed to kick, if it were but my toe at them, and I forbore! Fools!Did man ever see a body hung in its sword? But it was a good trick, eh?"he continued, appealing to them with a simple pride in his invention. "Ihad the rope loose in my hand when they came, and I drew it twice roundmy neck--and one arm trust me--and swung off gently. It is not every onewho would have thought of that, my children!"

  It was odd. They shook with fear, and he with laughter. He did not seemto give a thought to the danger he had escaped. Pride in his readinessand a keen sense of the humorous side of the incident possessed himentirely. At the very door of the house he still chuckled from time totime; muttering between the ebullitions, "Ah, I must tell Diane! Dianewill be pleased--at that! It was good! Very good!"

  Once in the house, however, he acted with more delicacy than might havebeen imagined. He stood aside while the other two carried the bodyupstairs; and while they were absent, he waited patiently in the bareroom below, which showed signs of occasional use as a stable. Here theclerk Adrian presently found him, and murmured some apology. MistressMarie, he said, had fainted.

  "A matter which afflicts you, my friend," the soldier replied with agrimace, "about as much as your master's death. Pooh, man, do not lookfierce! Good luck to you and your suit. Only if--but this is no housefor gallantry to-night--I had spruced myself and taken a part, you hadhad to look to your one ewe lamb, I warrant you!"

  The clerk turned pale and red by turns. This man seemed to read histhoughts as if he had indeed been the fiend. "What do you wish?" hestammered.

  "Only shelter until the early morning when the streets are most quiet;and a direction to the Rue des Lombards."

  "The Rue des Lombards?"

  "Yes, why not?" But though the soldier still smiled, the lines of hismouth hardened suddenly. "Why not to the Rue des Lombards?"

  "I know no reason why you should not be going there," the clerk repliedboldly. "It was only that the street is near; and a friend of my latemaster's lives in it."

  "His name?"

  The clerk started; the question was put so abruptly, and in a tone soimperious, it struck him as it were a blow. "Nicholas Toussaint," heanswered involuntarily.

  "Ay?" replied the other, raising his hand to his chin and glancing atAdrian with a look that for all the world reminded him of an old printof the eleventh Louis, which hung in a room at the Hotel de Ville--sokeen and astute was it. "Your master, young man, was of the moderateparty--a Politique?"

  "He was."

  "A good man and a Catholic? one who loved France? A Leaguer only inname?" the other continued with vividness.

  "Yes, that is so."

  "But his son? He is a Leaguer out and out--one who would rise to fortuneon the flood tide of the mob? A Sorbonnist? The priests have got hold ofhim? He would do to others as they have done to his father? A friend ofLe Clerc and Boucher? That is all so, is it not?"

  Adrian nodded reluctantly. This strange man confounded and yetfascinated him: this man so reckless and gay one moment, so wary thenext; exchanging in an instant the hail of a boon companion for the toneof a noble.

  "And is your young master also a friend of this Nicholas Toussaint?" wasthe next question, slowly put.

  "No," said Adrian, "he has been forbidden the house. M. Toussaint doesnot approve of his opinions."

  "That is so, is it?" the stranger rejoined with his former gaiety. "Andnow enough: where will you lodge me until morning?"

  "If my closet will serve you," Felix answered with a hesitation he wouldnot have felt a few minutes before, "it is at your will. I will bringsome food there at once, and will let you out if you please at five."And Adrian added some simple directions, by following which his guestmight reach the Rue des Lombards without difficulty.

  An hour later if the thoughts of those who lay sleepless under that roofcould have been traced, strange contrasts would have appeared. Was FelixPortail thinking of his dead father, or of his sweetheart in the Rue desLombards, or of his schemes of ambition? Was he blaming the crew of whomuntil to-day he had been one, or sullenly cursing those factiousHuguenots as the root of the mischief? Was Adrian thinking of his kindmaster, or of his master's daughter? Was the guest dreaming of hisnarrow escape? or r
evolving plans beside which Felix's were but theschemes of a rat in a drain? Perhaps Marie alone--for Susanne slept achild's sleep of exhaustion--had her thoughts fixed on him, who only afew hours before had been the centre of the household.

  But such is life in troubled times. Pleasure and pain come mingled, andmen snatch the former from the midst of the latter with a trembling joy,a fierce eagerness: knowing that if they wait to go a pleasuring untilthe sky be clear, they may wait until nightfall.

  When Adrian called his guest at cock-crow the latter rose briskly andfollowed him down to the door. "Well, young sir," he said, pausing aninstant on the threshold, as he wrapped his cloak round him and took hissheathed sword in his hand, "I am obliged to you. When I can do you aservice, I will."

  "You can do me one now," the clerk replied bluntly. "It is ill workhaving to do with strangers in these days. You can tell me who you are,and to which side you belong."

  "Which side? I have told you--my own. And for the rest," the soldiercontinued, "I will give you a hint." He brought his lips near to theother's ear, and whispered, "Kiss Marie--for me!"

  The clerk looked up aflame with anger and surprise; but the other wasfar gone striding down the street. Yet Adrian received an answer to hisquestion. For as the stranger disappeared in the gloom, he turned hishead and broke with an audacity that took away the listener's breathinto a well-known air,

  "Hau! Hau! Papegots! Faites place aux Huguenots!"

  and trilled it as merrily as if he had been in the streets of Rochelle.

  "Death!" the clerk exclaimed, getting back into the house, and barringthe door in a panic. "I thought so. He is a Huguenot. But if he take hisneck out of Paris unstretched, he will have the fiend's own luck, andthe Bearnais' to boot!"

  II

  When the clerk had re-mounted the stairs, he heard voices in the backroom. Felix and Marie were in consultation. The girl was a differentbeing this morning. The fire and fury of the night had sunk to a stillmisery; and even to her, for his sister's sake, it seemed over-dangerousto stay in the house and confront the rage of the mob. Mayenne might notafter all return: and in that case the Sixteen would assuredly wreaktheir spite on all, however young or helpless, who might have had to dowith the removal of the body. "You must seek shelter with some friend,"Felix urged, "before the city is astir. I can go to the University. Ishall be safe there."

  "Could you not take us with you?" Marie suggested meekly.

  He shook his head, his face flushing. It was hard to confess that he hadpower to destroy, but none to protect. "You had better go to NicholasToussaint's," he said. "You will be safe there, and he will take you in,though he will have naught to do with me."

  Marie assented with a sigh, and rose to make ready. Some few valuableswere hidden or secured, some clothes taken; and then the little party offour passed out into the street, leaving but one solemn tenant in theirhome. The cold light of a November morning gave to the lane an air,even in their eyes, of squalor and misery. The kennel running down themiddle was choked with nastiness, while here and there the upper storiesleaned forward so far as to obscure the light.

  The fugitives regarded these things little after the first shiveringglance, but hurried on their road; Felix with his sword marching on oneside of the girls, and Adrian with his club walking on the other. Askulking dog got out of their way. The song of a belated reveller drovethem for a time under an arch. But they fell in with nothing moreformidable, and in five minutes came safely to the high wooden gates ofthe courtyard in front of Nicholas Toussaint's house.

  To arouse him or his servants without disturbing the neighbourhood wasanother matter. There was no bell; only a heavy iron clapper. Adriantried this cautiously, with little hope of being heard. To his joy thehollow sound had scarcely ceased when footsteps were heard crossing thecourt, and a small trap in one of the gates was opened. An elderly manwith high cheek bones and curly grey hair looked out. His eyes lightingon the girls lost their harshness. "Marie Portail!" he exclaimed. "Ah!poor thing, I pity you. I have heard all. I returned to the city lastnight only, or I should have been with you. And Adrian?"

  "We have come," said the young man, respectfully, "to beg shelter forMistress Marie and her sister. It is no longer safe for them to remainin the Rue de Tirchape."

  "I can well believe it," cried Toussaint, vigorously. "I do not knowwhere we are safe nowadays. But there," he added in a different tone,"no doubt the Sixteen are acting for the best."

  "You will take them in then?" said Adrian with gratitude.

  But to his astonishment the citizen shook his head, while an awkwardembarrassment twisted his features. "It is impossible!" he said.

  Adrian doubted if he had heard aright. Nicholas Toussaint was known fora bold man; one whom the Sixteen disliked, and even suspected ofHuguenot leanings, but one too whom they had not yet dared to attack. Hewas a dealer in Norman horses, and this both led him to employ many men,reckless daring fellows, and made him in some degree necessary to thearmy. Adrian had never doubted that he would shelter the daughter of hisold friend; and his surprise on receiving this rebuff was extreme.

  "But, Monsieur Toussaint--" he urged--and his face reddened withgenerous warmth as he stood forward. "My master is dead! Foullymurdered! He lies who says otherwise, though he be of the Sixteen! Mymistress has few friends to protect her, and those of small power. Willyou send her and the child from your door?"

  "Hush, Adrian," the girl interposed, lifting her head proudly, yetlaying her hand on the clerk's sleeve with a touch of acknowledgmentthat brought the blood in redoubled force to his cheeks. "Do not pressour friend overmuch. If he will not take us in from the streets, be surehe has some good reason to offer."

  But Toussaint was dumb. Shame--a shame augmented tenfold by the clerk'sfearlessness--was so clearly written on his face, that Adrian utterednone of the reproaches which hung on his lips. It was Felix who cameforward, and cried contemptuously, "So you have grown strangely cautiousof a sudden, M. Toussaint?"

  "Ha! I thought you were there, or thereabouts!" the horse-dealerreplied, regaining his composure at once, and eyeing him with strongdisfavour.

  "But Felix and I," Adrian exclaimed eagerly, "will fend for ourselves."

  Toussaint shook his head. "It is impossible," he said surlily. "Quiteimpossible!"

  "Then hear me!" Felix interposed with excitement. "You do not deceiveme. It is not because of your daughter that you have forbidden me thehouse, and will not now protect my sister! It is because we shall learntoo much. It is because you have those under your roof, whom the crowsshall pick--yet! You, I will spare for Madeline's sake; but your spies Iwill string up, every one of them by----" and he swore a frightfuloath, such as the Romanists used.

  Toussaint's face betrayed both fear and anger. For an instant he seemedto hesitate. Then exclaiming, "Begone, parricide! You would have killedyour own father!" he slammed the trapdoor, and was heard retreating upthe yard with a haste and clatter which indicated his uneasiness.

  The four looked at one another. Daylight had fully come. The noise ofthe altercation had drawn more than one sleepy face to the window. In ashort time the streets would be alive with people, and even a delay of afew minutes might bring destruction. They thought of this; and movedaway slowly and reluctantly, Susanne clinging to Adrian's arm, whileFelix strode ahead scowling. But when they had placed a hundred yards orso between themselves and Toussaint's gates, they stopped, a chill senseof desolation upon them. Whither were they to go? Felix urged that theyshould seek other friends and try them. But Marie declined. If NicholasToussaint dared not take them in, no other of their friends would. Shehad given up hope, and longed only to get back to their home, and thestill form, which it seemed to her she should never have deserted.

  They were standing discussing this when a cry caused them to turn. Agirl was running hatless along the street; a girl tall and plump offigure, with a creamy slightly freckled face, a glory of waving goldenhair upon her shoulders, and great grey eyes that could laugh and
cry atonce, even as they were doing now. "My poor Marie," she exclaimed,taking her in her arms; "my poor little one! Come back! You are to comeback at once!" Then disengaging herself, with a blushing cheek, sheallowed Felix to embrace her. But though that young gentleman made fulluse of his permission, his face did not clear. "Your father has justturned my sister from his door," he said bitterly, "as he turned me amonth ago."

  She looked at him with a tender upward glance meant for him only."Hush!" she begged him. "Do not speak so of my father. And he has sentto fetch them back. He says he cannot keep them himself, but if theywill come in and rest he will see them safely disposed. Will not thatdo?"

  "Excellently, Miss Madeline," Adrian cried with gratitude. "And we thankyour father a thousand times."

  "Nay, but--" she said slyly--"that permission does not extend to you."

  "What matter?"

  "What matter if Marie be safe you mean," she replied demurely. "Well, Iwould I had so gallant a--clerk," with a glance at her own handsomelover. "But come, my father is waiting at the gate for us." And sheurged haste, notwithstanding which she and Felix were the last to turn.When she at length ran after the others her cheeks betrayed her.

  "I can see what you have been doing, girl," her father cried, meetingher within the door. "For shame, hussy! Go to your room, and take yourfriends with you." And he aimed a light blow at her, which she easilyevaded.

  "They will need breakfast," she persisted. She had seen her lover, andthough the interview might have had its drawbacks--best known toherself--she cared little for a blow in comparison with that.

  "They will take it in your room," he retorted. "Come, pack, girl! Pack!I will talk to you presently," he added, with meaning.

  The Portails drew her away. To them her room was a haven of rest, wherethey felt safe, and could pour out their grief, and let her pity andindignation soothe them. The horror of the last twenty-four hours beganto fall from them. They seemed to themselves to be outcasts no longer.

  In the afternoon Toussaint reappeared. "On with your hoods," he criedbriskly, his good humour re-established. "I and half a dozen stout ladswill see you to a place where you can lie snug for a week."

  Marie asked timidly about her father's funeral. "I will see to it,little one," he answered. "I will let the curate of St. Germain know.He will do what is seemly--if the mob let him," he added to himself.

  "But, father," cried Madeline, "where are you going to take them?"

  "To Philip Boyer's."

  "What!" the girl cried in much surprise. "His house is small and Philipand his wife are old and feeble."

  "True," answered Toussaint. "But his hutch is under the Duchess's roof.There is a touch of _our great man_ about Madame. Mayenne the crowdneither overmuch love, nor much fear. He will die in his bed. But withhis sister it is a word and a blow. The Sixteen will not touch aughtthat is under her roof."

  The Duchess de Montpensier was the sister of Henry Duke of Guise, Henrythe Scarred, _Our great man_, as the Parisians loved to call him. He hadbeen assassinated in the ante-chamber of Henry of Valois some two yearsbefore this time; and she had become the soul of the League, having moreof the headstrong nature which had made him popular, than either of hisbrothers, Mayenne or D'Aumale.

  "I see," said Madeline, kissing the girls, "you are right, father."

  "Impertinent baggage!" he cried. "To your prayers and your needle. Andsee that while we are away you keep close, and do not venture into thecourtyard even."

  She was not a nervous girl, and she was used to be alone; but the bare,roomy house seemed lonely after her father and his party had set out.She wandered to the kitchen where the two old women-servants werepreparing, with the aid of a turnspit, the early supper; there shelearned that only old Simon, the lame ostler, was left in the stables,which stood on either side of the courtyard. This was not re-assuringnews: the more as Madeline knew her father might not return for anotherhour. She went thence to the long eating-room on the first floor, whichran the full depth of the house, and had one window looking to the backas well as several facing the courtyard. Here she opened the door of thestove, and let the cheery glow play upon her.

  Presently she grew tired of this, too, and moved to the rearward window.It looked upon a narrow lane, and a dead wall. Still, there was a chanceof seeing some one pass, some stranger; whereas the windows which lookedon the empty courtyard were no windows at all--to Madeline.

  The girl had not long looked out before her pale complexion, which thefire had scarcely warmed, grew hot. She started, and glanced nervouslyinto the room behind her; then looked out again. She had seen, standingin a nook of the wall opposite her, a figure she knew well. It was thatof her lover, and he seemed to be watching the house. Timidly she wavedher hand to him, and he, after looking up and down the lane, advancedto the window. He could do this safely, for it was the only window inthe Toussaints' house which looked that way.

  "Are you alone?" he whispered, looking up at her.

  She nodded.

  "And my sisters? I am here to learn what has become of them."

  "Have gone to Philip Boyer's. He lives in one of the cottages on theleft of the Duchess's court."

  "Ah! And you? Where is your father?" he murmured.

  "He has gone to take them. I am alone; and two minutes ago I wasmelancholy," she added, with a smile that should have made him happy.

  "I want to talk to you," he replied. "May I climb up if I can,Madeline?"

  She shook her head, which of course meant, no. And she said, "It isimpossible." But she smiled; and that meant, yes. Or so he took it.

  There was a pipe which ran up the wall a couple of feet or so on oneside of the casement. Before she understood his plan, or that he was inearnest, he had gripped this, and was halfway up to the window.

  "Oh, take care," she cried. "Do not come, Felix. Do not come. My fatherwill never forgive you!" Woman-like she repented, when it was too late.But he did not listen, he came on, and when his hand was stretched outto grasp the sill, all her fear was lest he should fall. She seized hiswrist, and helped him in. Then she drew back. "You should not have doneit, Felix," she said, drawing back from him with reproof in her eyes.

  "But I wanted to see you so much," he urged, "and the glimpse I had ofyou this morning was nothing."

  "Well, you may come to the stove and warm yourself--a moment. Oh! howcold your hands are, my poor boy! But you must not stay. Indeed you mustnot!" And she cast terrified glances at the door.

  But stolen moments are sweet and apt to be long drawn out. She had agreat deal to say, and he had a great deal it seemed to ask--so much toask indeed, that gradually a dim sense that he was asking about otherthings than herself--about her father and the ways of the house, andwhat guests they had, came over her.

  It chilled her. She drew away from him, and said, suddenly, "Oh, Felix!"and looked at him.

  Nothing more. But he understood her and coloured; and tried to ask, butasked awkwardly, "What is the matter?"

  "I know of what you are thinking," she said with grave sorrow. "And itis base of you, it is cruel! You would use even me whom you love--toruin my friends!"

  "Hush!" he answered, letting his gloomy passion have vent for themoment, "they are not your friends, Madeline. See what they have donefor me. It is they, or the troubles they have set on foot, that havekilled my father!" And he swore--carried away by his mistakenresentment--never again to spare a Huguenot save her father and oneother.

  She trembled and tried to close her ears. Her father had told her ahundred times that she could not be happy with a husband divided fromher by a gulf so wide. She had said to him that it was too late. She hadgiven Felix her heart and she was a woman. She could not take it back,though she knew that nothing but unhappiness could come of the match.

  "God forgive you!" she cried in that moment of strained insight; andsank in her chair as though she would weep.

  He fell on his knees beside her with words of endearment; for he hadconquered himself again. And she
let him soothe her, and would gladlyhave believed him. She had never loved him more than now, when she knewthe price she must pay for him. She closed her eyes--for the moment--tothat terrible future, that certain future; and he was holding her in hisarms, when without warning a heavy footstep began to ascend the stairs.

  They sprang apart. If even then he had had presence of mind, he mighthave reached the window. But he hesitated, looking in her startledeyes, and waiting. "Is it your father?" he whispered.

  She shook her head. "He cannot have returned. We should have heard thegates opened. There is no one in the house," she murmured faintly,listening while she spoke.

  But still the footsteps came on: and stopped at the door. Felix lookedround him with eyes of despair. Close beside him, just behind the stove,was the door of a closet. He took two strides, and before he or she hadthought of the consequences, he was in the closet. Softly he drew thedoor to again; and she sank terrified on a chair, as the door of theroom opened.

  He who came in was not her father but a man of thirty-five, a strangerto her. A man with a projecting chin. His keen grey eyes wore at themoment of his entrance an expression of boredom and petulance, but whenhe caught sight of her, this passed, as a cloud from the sky. He cameacross the floor smiling. "Pardon me," he said--but said it as if nopardon were needed, "I found the stables--insupportably dull. I set outon a voyage of discovery. I have found my America!" And he bowed in astyle which puzzled the frightened girl.

  "You want to see my father?" she stammered, "He----"

  "He has gone to the Duchess's. I know it. And very ill-natured it was ofhim to leave me in the stable, instead of entrusting me to your care,mistress. La Noue," he continued, "is in the stable still, asleep on abundle of hay, and a pretty commotion there will be--when he finds Ihave stolen away!"

  Laughing with an easy carelessness that struck the citizen's daughterwith fresh astonishment, the stranger drew up the armchair, which wascommonly held sacred to M. Toussaint's use, and threw himself into it;lazily disposing his booted feet in the glow which poured from thestove, and looking across at his companion with admiration in his boldeyes. At another time she might have been offended by the look: or shemight not. Women are variable. Now her fears lest Felix should bediscovered dulled her apprehension.

  Yet the name of La Noue had caught her ear. She knew it well, as allFrance and the Low Countries knew it in those days, for the name of oneof the boldest and stanchest soldiers on the Huguenot side.

  "La Noue?" she murmured, misty suspicions beginning to take form in hermind.

  "Yes, pretty one," he replied, laughing. "La Noue and no other. DoesBras-de-fer pass for an ogre here in Paris that you tremble so at hisname? Let me----"

  But whatever the proposition he was going to offer, it came to nothing.The dull clash of the gates outside warned both of them that NicholasToussaint and his party had returned. A moment later a hasty treadsounded on the stairs; and an elderly man wearing a cloak burst in uponthem.

  His eyes swept the room while his hand still held the door; and it wasclear that what he saw did not please him. He came forward stiffly, hisbrows knitted. But he said nothing; he seemed uncertain and embarrassed.

  "See!" the first comer said, looking quietly up at him, but not offeringto move. "Now what do you think of your ogre? And by the rood he looksfierce enough to eat babes! There, old friend," he continued, speakingto the elder man in a different tone, "spare your lecture. This isToussaint's daughter, and as staunch I will warrant as her father."

  The old noble--he had but one arm, she saw--still looked at her withdisfavour. "Girls have sweethearts, sire," he said shrewdly.

  For a moment--at that word--the room seemed to go round with her. Thoughsomething more of reproach and playful defence passed between the twomen, she heard not a syllable of it. The consciousness that her loverwas listening to every word, and that from this moment La Noue's lifewas in his hands, numbed her brain. She sat helpless, hardly aware thathalf a dozen men were entering, her father one of them. When a lamp wascalled for--it was growing dark--she did not stir: and Toussaint, whohad not seen her, fetched it himself.

  By the time he came back she had partly recovered her wits. She notedthat her father locked the door with care before he set the lamp on thetable. As its light fell on the harsh features of the men, a ray passedbetween two of them, and struck her pale face. Her father saw her andstared in astonishment.

  "By heaven!" he cried. "What does the wench here?" No one answered; butall turned and looked at her where she cowered back against the stove."Go, girl!" Toussaint cried, beside himself with passion. "Begone! andpresently I will deal with you!"

  "Nay, stop!" La Noue interposed. "Your daughter knows too much. Wecannot let her go thus."

  "Knows too much? How?" and the citizen tossed his head like a bullbalked in his charge. "What does she know?"

  "His majesty----"

  "Nay, let his majesty speak for himself--for once," said the man withthe grey eyes; and even in her terror and confusion Madeline saw thatall turned to him with a single movement. "Mistress Toussaint did butchat with La Noue and myself, during her father's absence. True, sheknows us; or one of us. But if any be to blame it is I. Let her stay. Iwill answer for her fidelity."

  "Nay, but she is a woman, sire," some one objected.

  "Ay, she is, good Poulain," and Henry turned to the speaker with asingularly bright smile. "So we are safe; for there is no woman inFrance would betray Henry of Bourbon!"

  A laugh went round. Some one mentioned the Duchess.

  "True!" said Henry, for Henry it was, he whom the Leaguers called theBearnais and the Politiques the King of Navarre, but whom latergenerations have crowned as the first of French kings--Henry the Great."True! I had forgotten her. I must beware of her golden scissors. Wehave two crowns already, and want not another of her making. But come,let us to business without farther delay. Be seated, gentlemen; beseated without ceremony: and while we consider whether our plans holdgood, Mistress Toussaint--" he paused and turned, to look kindly at theterrified girl--"will play the sentry for us."

  Madeline's presence within a few feet of their council-board was soonforgotten by the eager men who sat round the table. And in a sense sheforgot them. She heard, it is true, their hopes and plans, of which thechief, and that which brought them together to-day, was a scheme tosurprise Paris by introducing men hidden in carts laden with hay. Sheheard how Henry and La Noue had entered, and who had brought them in,and how it was proposed to smuggle them out again; and many details ofmen and means and horses; and who were loyal and who disaffected, andwho might be bought over, and at what price. She even took note of themanner of each speaker as he leaned forward, and brought his face withinthe circle of light, marking who were known to her before, substantialcitizens these, constant at mass and market; and who were strangers, menfiercer looking, thinner, haughtier, more restless, with the stamp ofconstant peril at the corners of their eyes, and swords some incheslonger than their neighbours'.

  She saw and heard all this, and more, and reasoned dully on it. But allthe time her mind was paralysed by the numbing sense of one great evilawaiting her, of something with which she must presently come face toface, though her faculties had not grasped it yet. Men's lives! Ah, yes,men's lives! The girl had been bred a Huguenot. She had been taught torevere the men of the religion, the men whose names were householdwords; and not the weakness of the cause, not even her lover'sinfluence, had sapped her loyalty to it.

  Presently there was a stir about the table. Some of the men rose. "Thenthat arrangement meets your views, sire?" said La Noue.

  "I think it is the better suggestion. Let it hold. I sleep to-night atmy good friend Mazeau's," the king answered, turning to the person henamed; "and leave to-morrow about noon by St. Martin's gate. That isunderstood, is it? Then let it stand so."

  He did not see--none of them saw--how the girl in the shadow by thestove started; nor did they mark how the last trace of colour fled fromher cheeks. She
was face to face with her fate now, and knew that herown hand must work it out. The men were separating. Henry had risen andwas bidding farewell to one and another; until no more than four or fivebeside Toussaint and La Noue remained with him. Then he prepared himselfto go, and girt on his sword, talking earnestly the while. Still engagedin low converse with one of the strangers, he walked slowly, lighted byhis host to the door; he had forgotten to take leave of the girl. Inanother minute he and they would have disappeared in the passage, when ahoarse sound escaped from Madeline's lips.

  It was not so much a cry as a groan, but it was enough for men whosenerves were strained to the breaking point. All--at the moment they hadtheir backs to her, their faces to the king--turned swiftly. "Ha!" Henrycried on the instant, "I had forgotten my manners. I was leaving my mostfaithful sentry without a word of thanks, or a keepsake by which toremember Henry of France."

  She had risen, and was supporting herself--but she swayed as shestood--by the arm of the chair. Never had her lover been so dear toher; never had his faults seemed so small, his love so precious. As theking approached, the light fell on her face, on her agonized eyes, andhe stopped short. "Toussaint!" he cried sharply, "your daughter is ill.Look to her!" But it was noticeable that he laid his hand on his sword.

  "Stay!" she cried, the word ringing shrilly through the room. "You arebetrayed! There is some one--there!" she pointed to the closet--"who hasheard--all! All! Oh, sire, mercy! mercy!"

  As the last words passed the girl's writhing lips she clutched at herthroat: she seemed to fight a moment for breath, for life: then with astifled shriek fell in a swoon to the ground.

  A second's silence. Then a whistling sound as half a dozen swords weresnatched from the scabbards. The veteran La Noue sprang to the door:others ran to the windows and stood before them. Only Henry--after aswift glance at Toussaint, who, pale and astonished, leaned over hisdaughter--stood still, his fingers on his hilt. Another second ofsuspense, and before any one spoke, the cupboard door swung slowly open,and Felix Portail, pale to the lips, stood before them.

  "What do you here?" cried Henry, restraining by a gesture those whowould have instantly flung themselves upon the spy.

  "I came to see her," Felix said. He was quite calm, but a perspirationcold as death stood on his brow, and his dilated eyes wandered from oneto another. "You surprised me. Toussaint knows--that I was hersweetheart," he murmured.

  "Ay, wretched man, you came to see her! And for what else?" Henryreplied, his eyes, as a rule, so kindly, bent on the other in a gazefixed and relentless.

  A sudden visible quiver--as it were the agony of death--shot throughPortail's frame. He opened his mouth, but for a while no sound came. Hiseyes sought the nearest sword with a horrid side-glance. "Kill me atonce," he gasped, "before she--before----"

  He never finished the sentence. With an oath the nearest Huguenot lungedat his breast, and fell back foiled by a blow from the king's hand."Back!" cried Henry, his eyes flashing as another sprang forward, andwould have done the work. "Will you trench on the King's justice in hispresence? Sheath your swords, all save the Sieur de la Noue, and thegentlemen who guard the windows!"

  "He must die!" several voices cried; and two men still pressed forwardviciously.

  "Think, sire! Think what you do," cried La Noue himself, warning in hisvoice. "He has in his hand the life of every man here! And they are yourmen, risking all for the crown."

  "True," Henry replied smiling; "but I ask no man to run a risk I willnot take myself."

  A murmur of dissatisfaction burst forth. Several who had sheathed, drewtheir swords again. "I have a wife and child!" cried one, bringing hispoint to the thrust. "He dies!"

  "He dies!" cried another following his example. And the two pressedforward.

  "He does not die!" exclaimed the King, his voice so ringing through theroom that all fell back once more; fell back not so much because it wasthe king who spoke as in obedience to the voice which two years beforehad rallied the flying squadrons at Arques, and years before that hadrung out hour after hour and day after day above the long street fightof Cahors. "He does not die!" repeated Henry, looking from one toanother, with his chin thrust out, and his eyes glittering. "Francespeaks, dare any contradict. Surely, my masters, there are no traitorshere!"

  "Your majesty," said La Noue after a moment's pause, "commands ourlives."

  "Thanks, Francis," Henry replied, instantly changing his tone. "And nowhear me, gentlemen. Think you that it was a light thing in this girl togive up her lover? She might have let us go to our doom, and we none thewiser! Would you take her gift and make her no requital? That were notjust! That were not royal! That cannot the King of France do! And nowfor you, sir"--he turned with another manner to Felix, who was leaninghalf-fainting against the wall--"hearken to me. You shall go free. I,who this morning played the son to your dead father, I give you yourlife for your sweetheart's sake. For her sake be true. You shall go outalive and safe into the streets of Paris, which five minutes ago youlittle thought to see again. The girl you love has ransomed you: gotherefore and be worthy of her. Or if I am wrong, if you still willbetray me--still go! Go to be damned to all eternity! Go, to leave aname that shall live for centuries--and stand for treachery!"

  He spoke the last words with such scorn that a murmur of applause brokeout even among those stern men. He took instant advantage of it. "Nowgo!" he said hurriedly. "You can take the girl with you. She has butfainted. A kiss will bring her to life. Go, and, as you love, besilent."

  The man took up his burden and went, trembling; still unable to speak.But no hand was now raised to stop him.

  When he had disappeared, La Noue turned to the king. "You will not nowsleep at Mazeau's, sire?"

  Henry rubbed his chin. "Yes; let the plan stand," he answered after abrief pause. "If he betray one, he shall betray all."

  "But this is madness," La Noue urged.

  The King shook his head, and smiling, clapped the veteran on theshoulder. "Not so," he said. "The man is no traitor: I say it. And youhave never met with a longer head than Henry's."

  "Never," assented La Noue bluntly, "save when there is a woman in it!"

  * * * * *

  The curtain falls. The men have lived and are dead. La Noue, theHuguenot Bayard, now exists only in a dusty memoir and a page of Motley.Madame de Montpensier is forgotten; all of her, save her goldenscissors. Mayenne, D'Aumale, a verse preserves their names. OnlyHenry--the "good King," as generations of French peasants calledhim--remains a living figure: his strength and weakness, his sins andvirtues, as well known, as thoroughly appreciated by thousands now as inthe days of his life.

  It follows that we cannot hope to learn much of the fortunes of peopleso insignificant--save for that moment when the fate of a nation hung ontheir breath--as the Portails and Toussaints. We do know that Felixproved worthy. For though the attack on Paris which was planned atToussaint's house, failed, it did not fail through treachery. And weknow that Felix married Madeline, and that Adrian won Marie: but nomore. Unless certain Portails now living in various parts of the world,whose ancestors left France at the time of the Revocation of the Edictof Nantes, are their descendants. And certainly it is curious that inthese families it is not rare to find the eldest son bearing the name ofHenry, and the second of Felix.