Orrain
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S. Levett Yeats >> Orrain
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"He too!"
"Monseigneur! In the Chatelet, where La Mothe is. Forget not your
rights, Monseigneur!"
"I am not likely to! Here! A spare horse for Le Brusquet!" And he
sprang into his saddle.
Someone brought up a nag, Le Brusquet mounted, and the word being given
for the Chatelet they went out at a trot, the prince riding in front
between De Mouy and Albain, his hat pulled over his eyes, and in
silence.
Whilst all this was happening it fared ill enough with me. Though
felled by the blow on my head I was not stunned, only so dazed that my
recapture was an easy matter. This time no risks were taken, and with
my hands tied behind me by means of a long scarf, the other end of
which was looped round the high pommel of a trooper's saddle, I was
perforce compelled to accompany my captors as best I could, bleeding
and dizzy from my hurt.
At length we arrived at the Chatelet, followed to the very gates by the
mob. As my blurred vision saw through the moonlight those sombre
walls, citadel and prison at once, my heart sank. Hope was left behind
in those fearful oubliettes, whose sinister names carried utter despair
with them. There was the Grieche, the Barbary, the Chausse d'Hypocras,
where the prisoners, ankle deep in water, were neither able to stand
upright nor to sit; the Fosse, down which one was lowered by a rope,
and the hideous Fin d'Aise in which no man retained his sanity. So it
had come to this! And in sullen despair I stood amongst the guards,
awaiting Martines' pleasure. At first it seemed as if I were the only
prisoner; but any doubts on that point were soon set at rest, for
another unfortunate was dragged up and placed beside me. I felt rather
than saw it was La Mothe--but, unlike myself, he was not bound--and
then I heard Martines ask:
"Are these the only two prisoners?"
"Monsieur!" answered a subordinate officer.
The lieutenant of the Chatelet was not an unkindly man, and muttering
something about "hangman's work" he came up and surveyed us by the
light of the torches. Then he ordered my hands to be freed, and
drawing his subaltern aside gave him some commands in a low tone, and
went off.
As Martines turned away this person directed us to follow him, and,
surrounded by guards, we entered a vaulted passage, and after
descending and ascending many stairs found ourselves before a studded
door, so low that even a short man would have had to stoop his
shoulders to enter therein. A gaoler fumbled with the rusty lock,
which for a space resisted all his efforts; but at last it yielded, and
the door was pushed open, clanging harshly as it swung back. Beyond
lay a hideous dungeon, into which we were thrust, the officer following
us with a couple of guards, one of whom carried a lantern. The light
discovered a long and narrow prison, the ooze dripping from the walls,
and the floor slippery with slime. A single slit in the wall, no wider
than three fingers of a man's hand and about a foot in length, let in
light and air. For the rest, a stone bench and a jug full of foul
water completed the furniture of this terrible chamber. Faint and
dizzy, I made towards the bench, and sat thereon in the shadow as the
officer said:
"I must ask you to share this lodging for to-night. It is known as the
Palace," he added, with a grin, and then pulling out his tablets he
turned to La Mothe.
"Your name, monsieur."
"Godefrey de la Mothe, chaplain to Monseigneur the Duke of Bourbon
Vendome."
"And yours?"
From my seat in the shadow I answered: "Bertrand d'Orrain."
La Mothe started and half faced me, but held himself in, and the
officer, having made his note, turned his back upon us and withdrew,
followed by his men. We heard the door shut, a drawing of bolts, a
rattling of keys, and then came silence and darkness.
No!--not utter darkness; for through the narrow slit in the wall a ray
of moonlight fell, lighting the figure of La Mothe where he stood,
almost in the centre of the dungeon. He was looking towards me, his
eyes expectant and shining; but I could not speak, and sat like a stone.
At length he made a step in my direction.
"Orrain," he said, "have we met at last?"
With an effort I rose and took his outstretched hands, and in that
moment I knew that the past was bridged over and my sin forgiven.
For long we sat together on the stone bench, and La Mothe told me of
his life. How, though all thought him mortally wounded, he had rallied
at last, and, in thankfulness for his escape, resolved to devote the
remainder of his days to God. The spirit of the age fell on his mind,
keen and ecstatic at once. In every trivial event he saw the hand of
the Almighty, but he saw too the corruption around him. It was for
such as he that the light of the new faith shone with an alluring
radiance, and soon there was no voice that spoke more loudly for the
truth than that of Godefrey de la Mothe. A fatalist above all things,
even now, when everything seemed lost, he did not despair.
"Nay," he said, "the hour has not come for us to die. God has not
brought us together to perish." And the words carried hope with them,
even amidst the darkness and lowering prison walls. Then he knelt down
and prayed; but I could not, for my heart was raging within me.
At length he rose from his knees. "The Lord will hear and answer," he
said simply; but I made no reply, sitting with my head between my
hands, staring in front of me. So till the moon set; and I must have
slept. Suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder, and started up. It was
La Mothe.
"Hark!" he said. "Do you not hear?"
I listened. There was a distinct murmuring, the clattering of hoofs,
the neigh of a horse, and then a cry, faint but distinct:
"Vendome! Vendome! Bourbon! Notre Dame!"
We sprang to our feet. "The Lord, who preserved His chosen from out of
the land of bondage, hath heard my cry, and we are saved!" exclaimed La
Mothe, and making our way to the door we listened. All was stillness
once more, a stillness that seemed to last for hours, though it was but
for a few minutes. At last we heard the tramp of many feet, louder and
louder they grew, and then there was a rattling of chains, and our
prison door fell open, letting in a stream of light. In the blaze in
the doorway stood Vendome and Martines, and behind them a crowd of
eager faces.
"These are the prisoners, Monseigneur!" said Martines.
"And I, Antony de Bourbon-Vendome, First Prince of the Blood Royal of
France, stand here on my right and claim them. Gentlemen," and he
turned to us, "you are free; follow me!"
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE ARM OF GOD
Four days had passed since that dreadful night in the Rue des
Mathurins--days the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live.
No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that she was amongst the
prisoners who were being tried in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to
communicate with her had been in vain. This much, however, leaked out:
that owing to the whispers that had got abroad--none knew how--the
prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not of importance; but
this in itself made the matter worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock
court of justice--it could be called by no other name--every opportunity
of veiling its real purpose. In this De Mouchy was managing the trial
with great skill. The prisoners of no account--the scrivener's clerk,
the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer--got the benefit of plea and
quibble! God knows, I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal,
pronounced loudly in the name of the King's mercy, with high-flown words
about the love of the King for his people, led step by step to the real
object for which the infamous triangle worked. Already the gossips were
beginning to wag their tongues at the leniency shown. It was said in the
cabarets and public places that the memory of the tailor of St. Antoine
haunted the King, and that he and the Queen were, in secret, heretics.
At the last acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared to parade
the streets, with angry cries at being deprived of the hideous spectacle
of an expiation. "_Au feu, au feu_! Death to the Christaudins!" I
still seem to hear their voices.
And so the time was ripe for the law to claim its prey, for the shameless
three to gather in their spoil, and for an evil, vindictive woman to
accomplish her revenge. The King was at Fontainebleau, whither he had
gone, accompanied by La Valentinois and the Court. The Queen was at St.
Germain-en-Laye, and the Louvre--except for its guards--was deserted. On
the morning of the fifth day, however, the Queen returned, and although
she knew what had happened she summoned me before her to hear the story
from my lips. I found her in her study with three or four of her ladies.
Catherine looked pale and heavy-eyed, and there were hard lines about her
mouth. It was said she had never smiled since the day of the masque. I
for one am certain it was from that day her secretive nature took the
dark and devious course that led her to be what she became; but now it
was only the beginning.
I said what I had to say briefly, and when I was done the Queen looked up
at me.
"Is this all?"
I bowed in silent response, and after a pause she continued:
"I know what you would ask. I have done my best. I have written to the
King to pardon Mademoiselle de Paradis, as he forgave Madame de Rentigny.
I wrote at once, four days ago." And then she flushed to her temples as
she added: "Up to now there has been no answer. It is useless to go
myself----"
Her voice almost broke, and I looked aside, only to meet Mademoiselle
Davila's eyes. They were swimming with tears.
It was now there arose an unusual bustle in the anteroom. The doors were
thrown back, and in a loud voice the ushers announced the Duchess de
Valentinois. For a moment Diane stood in the doorway, a little crowd
behind her, and then, tall and stately, walked slowly up to the Queen and
courtesied profoundly. Catherine remained frigidly still, as though
oblivious of her presence, and amidst a dead silence Diane stood before
the Queen, a faint smile playing on her lips, her eyelids drooped to
cover the defiant fire of her glance. One might have counted ten as the
two faced each other, and then Diane spoke:
"I have come, your Majesty, from the King."
Catherine's eyebrows arched, and a swift, lightning glance of hatred
passed between the two. Then Diane's lids drooped again, and her soft,
flute-like voice continued:
"The King kisses your Majesty's hands, and says there is much wind and
rain at Fontainebleau, but that he has slain three boars and five stags."
"He has slain three boars and five stags," repeated the Queen in an even
monotone, and turning to Madame de Montal, who stood behind her chair,
she said bitterly: "Why does not somebody cry, 'God save the King!'?"
"All France cries that, your Majesty," said Diane. "And further, the
King once again kisses your Majesty's hands, and has received your
gracious letter in regard to Mademoiselle de Paradis." And now her voice
hardened to steel, and she dropped the studied courtesy of her address.
"That letter has been submitted to the council, and the King has decided
to let the law take its course. God will not be insulted longer in this
realm."
It is impossible to conceive the insolent malice that was thrown into La
Valentinois' glance and voice, and the mockery of her bow, as she made
this speech. And grey-haired Madame de Montal, gazing steadily at her,
said:
"Madame, you speak to the Queen!"
"No, Montal," and Catherine rose, her face white as death, "you mistake;
it is the Queen who speaks to me." And without so much as a glance in
the direction of the Duchess she turned and left the apartment, followed
by her ladies.
The favourite looked around her, a smile of triumph on her lips; but with
the exception of myself the cabinet was empty, though a murmuring crowd
filled the rooms without. It was then, and only then, she realised that
the victory was not all hers, and felt the sting of the Parthian arrow
shot by the Queen. Her cheeks burned red, and I saw the hand that held
her fan tremble like a leaf in the wind. Then with an effort she
recovered herself, and with another glance at me, full of superb disdain,
swept from the room. As for me, my last hope had vanished, and I stood
as in a dream, staring at the pattern on the carpet before me. How long
I stood thus I do not know, but at last, from within the Queen's
apartments, I heard someone weeping--heard even through the closed door
and drawn curtains. It all but unmanned me; and then I felt a hand on my
shoulder, and looking up saw De Lorgnac.
"Orrain," he said, "come with me."
There was that in his eyes and voice which could not be mistaken.
"What has happened?" I asked hoarsely, though I well knew what he meant.
"Come," he said, "be brave! You are a man, and as a man I tell you, you
need all your courage now. The Court is thrown open, and in an hour De
Mouchy delivers his sentence. The harlot of France is by his side----"
And he stopped, almost breaking down.
"Lorgnac, I am going there."
"It is useless. Le Brusquet is there. Come with me!"
But I turned on him fiercely. "I am going," I repeated, and, perhaps, he
read what was in my heart, for he put his arm through mine.
"Come, then. I will come with you."
True and tried friend though he was I shook him off roughly, and hurried
into the streets like a madman. How I reached the Hotel de Ville I
cannot tell! I seemed to have made the passage in darkness; but at last
I found myself there, pressing through the ever-increasing crowd that
thronged the entrance to the trial chamber; and finally, passing the
doors, I took my stand in the gallery reserved for spectators.
With burning eyes I looked upon the scene beneath me. Camus had just
concluded his evidence, and was bowing to the court, a smile on his
traitor's face as he listened to some words of compliment addressed to
him by De Mouchy. Simon, the man I wanted, was nowhere to be seen,
though my eyes, fierce with hatred, searched for him everywhere. But on
a seat beside the judge was La Valentinois herself, radiantly beautiful,
now fluttering her fan, now sniffing daintily at her vinaigrette, as she
bent her frosty glance on the prisoners. One was old Ferrieres. Like a
dying man, he leaned back in a chair that had been provided for him, for
his wounds left him no strength to stand. His eyes were closed. He
seemed to have fainted, and was oblivious of what was going on around
him, whilst death had already set its seal upon his haggard and drawn
face. Mademoiselle stood by his side, a hand resting on his chair. For
one brief second our eyes met, and she smiled at me--a brave smile--and I
bent my head in sorrow, for I could not look. It needed not the cry of
the ushers in the court for silence. Every tongue was still. There was
not a whisper, not a movement, for all felt that the supreme moment had
arrived. De Mouchy bent over his papers. I heard them rustling; and
then La Valentinois, leaning forward, said something to him in a low
voice. There was a word to an usher, and once more the insupportable
silence.
In a little we heard the steady tramp of feet. Nearer and nearer the
sound came. A side door in the body of the court was opened, and a third
prisoner was brought in and placed before the judge. Craning forward I
looked. It was De Ganache; but how changed from the once brilliant
cavalier. His figure was stooped and bent, his once dark hair was white,
his face wrinkled as that of an old man, and in his shifty, unsettled
glance glared the fires of madness. He did not seem to realise where he
was, but began to laugh vacantly, but the laugh died away to a frozen
look as his gaze fixed itself on La Valentinois.
"Diane," he cried in a terrible voice as he stretched his arms out
towards her, "it was for your sake!"
But she, his destroyer, scarce glanced at him from her place on the
judgment seat.
"He is quite mad!" And with a musical laugh she leaned back, and picking
out a comfit from a little jewelled box began to nibble at it daintily as
De Ganache's hands fell helplessly to his sides.
And now De Mouchy spoke. "Monsieur De Ganache, do you recognise the
prisoners there?"
De Ganache followed his glance; a shiver went through him, and as he
looked a red flush mounted to his forehead. Never had I seen a man look
so before, and, thank God! never after. Unspeakable shame and hopeless
despair were sealed upon his face. His lips grew livid, and twice the
question was repeated ere he forced himself to answer.
"Yes."
I held my breath and listened. What did this mean? Ferrieres still lay
back in his semi-trance, oblivious of all things; but mademoiselle moved
forward and looked at De Ganache, ineffable pity in her eyes. And now
came the next question.
"They are known to you as Christaudins?"
One glance at mademoiselle and De Ganache shrank back; but her voice rang
out clear and sweet, for she, with all of us, mistook the reason of De
Ganache's terrible emotion.
"Deny it not, De Ganache! Be not afraid."
But with a cry De Ganache put his hands to his face and turned aside. A
woman began to sob amongst the spectators, and someone dropped a sword
with an angry clash on the parquet. Once more the strident voices of the
ushers arose, and after a little silence was restored.
De Mouchy was about to put yet another question when La Valentinois
interposed.
"It is enough," she said; "I but wanted to confront them. Let him have
his reward."
De Mouchy smiled, and bending forward addressed De Ganache.
"Gaston de Ganache, Vicomte de Ganache and Les Barres, you stand
convicted a heretic and traitor, and for crimes such as yours the laws of
God and man have but one punishment. But bearing in mind the services
you have rendered by denouncing your fellow-conspirators and discovering
their secrets to the King's most trusty servants, Simon, Vidame d'Orrain,
and myself, the King at the intercession of Madame the Duchess de
Valentinois has in his gracious mercy spared your life on condition that
you quit France within four and twenty hours. Monsieur, you are free."
As these astonishing words fell from the judge's lips--words that branded
De Ganache with unutterable infamy--the miserable man looked around him
like an animal at bay; and then, a madness coming upon him, he broke out
into peal after peal of harsh, mirthless laughter--laughter that seemed
to come from the grave and beyond; and, laughing thus, they led him away.
When he was gone De Mouchy pointed to Ferrieres as he said to a warder:
"Arouse him!"
They dragged the fainting man to his feet, and he stood limply between
two gaolers; and then the judge asked:
"Prisoners, is there anything you would like to say?"
And mademoiselle answered for both, in a low but distinct voice:
"Nothing. We confess we are of the true faith, and we are willing to die
for it. As to our having conspired against the King--we are innocent!"
And as she spoke some strange idea must have passed through the wandering
brain of Ferrieres. Half in delirium, he looked about him, and with a
supreme effort, standing free of the warders, he called out in a loud,
fever-strung voice:
"_Vive le Roi_!"
It was one of those moments when the sympathy of a crowd can be caught by
a word. Small and mean-looking as he was there was something so forlorn
and hopeless in the gallant cry of the doomed man that all hearts were
touched. A low, responsive murmur broke from the spectators, and then
with one voice they too shouted:
"_Vive le Roi_!"
They heard it outside--the multitude who thronged the stairways, the
courtyards, and the Place de Greve. And they too yelled with brazen
lungs, and the roar of their voices came to us through the open windows,
with the sunbeams that lit the shadows of the vast and gloomy hall.
Never did subjects hail their king in a moment more sad.
Ferrieres had sunk back in a crumpled heap, and mademoiselle was leaning
over him in womanly sympathy; but the guards thrust her aside, and held
up the dying man once more to hear, if he could, his sentence. The
tumult sank away, and once more there was silence. La Valentinois sat
still, watching the prisoners behind her fan; and then De Mouchy, in a
speech that was dignified and impressive even to me who knew the
unheard-of guilt of the man, passed the last sentence of the law. The
sin of the prisoners was amply proved. It was against the King, and, he
bent his head, against the Church of God. The King had already shown his
mercy--all men had seen and felt it--but the wrath of God had shown
itself in the disasters that had smitten the land, and France must be
purged clean of the sin of heresy. As for the judge, the laws, and, in
chief, the Edict of Compiegne, gave him no power to mitigate the
punishment of wretches so guilty as these who stood now before him. And
so Diane, Demoiselle de Paradis, and Jean, Sieur de Ferrieres, were
condemned to be drawn two days hence on hurdles to the Place Maubert,
there to suffer the greater torture and the less, and there to have their
bodies consumed by fire, as Almighty God would hereafter consume their
souls.
And then, amidst an awed hush, the blasphemer who sat upon the judgment
seat made a sign to the guards to remove the prisoners, and, bending
down, began slowly to gather up his papers.
As the terrible words fell from De Mouchy's lips I was for the moment
overcome, and the immense hall seemed to swim before me, so that I had to
support myself by holding to the railings of the gallery.
La Valentinois had risen, and was leaning forward looking hard at Diane,
as if expecting some cry, some appeal for mercy; but at the last words of
De Mouchy mademoiselle had bent her head in silent prayer, and then her
calm, pure eyes met those of the wicked woman before her, and rested on
her for a moment with a grave pity in them, as she said in a clear voice:
"Madame, God has already taken one of us beyond your reach." And she
pointed to Ferrieres. "As for me, His mercy will come to me too, I pray;
and may He forgive you as I, who am to die, forgive you now."
It was truth she spoke. A hand more powerful than aught earthly had
rescued Ferrieres, and he was dead. He had passed as he stood there,
held by the warders, and the lifeless figure, with its glazed eyes
staring into the unknown, was only kept from falling by the supporting
hands around it. Even De Mouchy paled; and La Valentinois, who had
striven to meet mademoiselle's look with her cruel laugh, shrank back and
covered her face with her hand. And now the guards closed around their
prisoners, the living and the dead, and they passed from my sight.
In a moment the tension was relaxed, and a hundred voices were raised at
once, discussing the sentence, the news of which had already gone forth;
and outside the multitude began to hoot and groan and cheer.
A man seized me by the cloak. "A just sentence, was it not, monsieur?"
he asked. And then went on: "A pity the old fox died; but it will be a
good expiation, almost as good as that of Clinet and De Luns--_cujus
regio, ejus religio_," he babbled on, airing his Latin; but I drove the
fool from me with a curse, and wonder to this day if he ever knew how
near he was to death.
La Valentinois had arisen, and, followed by De Mouchy and half a dozen
others, was making her way to the exit, all parting before her as though
she were the Queen. Now was my chance. Simon had escaped me for to-day;
but De Mouchy--he at least was within my reach--and with my hand to my
poniard I pressed down the steps of the gallery, but near the door was
hemmed in by the crowd. Try as I would it was impossible to get through,
and a barrier was put up, which made matters hopeless. There as I stood
in impotent rage I saw over the heads of the crowd La Valentinois
entering her coach. She was followed by De Mouchy. The guards closed
around. There was a cheer, and they were gone. It was then that a cold
hand touched my wrist, and a voice whispered in my ear:
"There are two days yet; do nothing rash!"
I turned swiftly, and saw Le Brusquet at my elbow, and behind him the
tall figure of De Lorgnac; unknown to me he had followed me here.
"Come with us!" he said; and I made no answer, but did as I was bidden,
and placing me between them we went back together to the Louvre. Once in
Le Brusquet's apartments the reaction set in, and flinging myself in a
chair I covered my face with my hands--for the first time in my life I
had broken down utterly.
After a while I somewhat recovered myself. Lorgnac was standing with his
back to me, looking out of the window, and Le Brusquet was by my side, a
glass of cordial in his hand.
"Drink this," he said. "Remember there are two days yet; and God's arm
is long."
Mechanically I drank, and as I held the glass in my hand Le Brusquet
removed his cloak. In doing this something dropped, and stooping he
picked it up. It was a packet of letters, tied with a red ribbon. With
a glance of contempt at it he flung it on the table in front of De
Lorgnac, who had joined us, saying as he did so:
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