Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “What is the matter, my dear Dominic? You look ashy pale.”

  “I do not know — what — you mean—” stammered Dominic, saying which the poisoner rushed out precipitately.

  The hurry of the man’s departure, his pallor and flutter, awakened the armorer’s suspicion; but these thoughts were quickly crowded out of his mind by the sudden appearance of his son Antonicq, who ran in with flustered face and tears in his eyes, crying:

  “Oh, father! Come quick! In heaven’s name come to the Prince of Gerolstein who is just back to camp with uncle Josephin, the Franc-Taupin.”

  At this moment, Nicholas Mouche, the Admiral’s confidential equerry entered his master’s room. Not seeing the face of either Odelin or his son, both having their backs turned to the door, he cried out in surprise and alarm:

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?” But instantly recognizing the armorer and his son, for whom he entertained warm esteem, he added: “Excuse me, my dear Lebrenn, I did not recognize you at first. Excuse me. You and your son are really members of the household. Your presence here need not alarm me for my master’s safety.”

  “I brought back Monsieur Coligny’s casque,” Odelin explained, “and my son came after me. I do not yet know the cause of his excitement. See how flustered his face is! What extraordinary thing has happened, my boy?”

  “My sister — Marguerite — whom we thought lost forever — has been found—”

  “Great God!”

  “Come, father — the Prince — and my uncle — will tell you all about it — they will narrate to you the extraordinary affair—”

  “What!” exclaimed Nicholas Mouche, looking at Odelin. “Is the poor child who disappeared so long ago found again! Heaven be praised!”

  “Oh, I can not yet believe such a happy thing possible!” said Odelin, his heart beating between doubt and hope.

  “Come, father, you will know all!”

  “Adieu!” said the armorer to Nicholas, as he followed his son, no less wrought up than the young man.

  “Poor father!” mused the old equerry as he followed Odelin with his eyes. “Provided only he is not running after some cruel disappointment!” Approaching his master’s writing table to assure himself that the Admiral was supplied with ink, Nicholas’s eyes fell upon the earthen bowl. He noticed that it was full to the brim — untouched.

  “Monsieur the Admiral has not taken a single mouthful of his chicory water! Truth to say, in point of taking care of himself, the dear old hero is as thoughtless as a child! But here he is! He shall not escape a lecture;” and addressing Coligny, who now returned to his room after prayers, the equerry said in a tone of familiar reproach that his long years of service justified: “Well, Monsieur Admiral; what about your chicory water! The bowl is as full as when I brought it in early this morning—”

  “That is so,” answered Coligny with a smile. “The trouble lies with you. You make the drink so frightfully bitter that I postpone all I can the hour of gulping it down.”

  “That is an odd reason, Monsieur Admiral! Is not the bitterness of the drink the very thing that gives it virtue? Monsieur, you are going to drink it now — on the spot — and before me!”

  “Come, let us compromise — I promise you that the bowl shall be empty within the next hour. Are the horses saddled and bridled?”

  “Yes, monsieur. If we ride out this morning I shall bring along Julien the Basque and Dominic to take charge of your relay horses. The poor fellow Dominic, despite the mishap of the day before yesterday, which might have cost him dear, begged me this morning to choose him as one of the footmen to accompany you to-day, if there is to be any engagement.”

  “Dominic is a worthy servant.”

  “What else should he be? Was he not brought up in your house, monsieur, and the son of one of your oldest servants, the worthy forester of the woods of Chatillon?”

  “Oh, my dear house of Chatillon, my meadows, my woods, my vines, my grain fields, my thrifty laborers — am I ever to see you again?” remarked Coligny with a melancholic sigh. “Oh, the country life! The family life!” The Admiral remained in silent meditation for a moment, then he added:

  “Leave me alone. I have some writing to do.”

  The equerry left the room. Monsieur Coligny stepped slowly towards the table, drew a campstool near, and sat down upon it. With his forehead resting on his hand he remained long lost in revery, musing to himself:

  “Why should this thought have come to me to-day, more than any other day? I know not. God inspires me. Let us listen to His warnings. At any rate, it is well to have our accounts clear with heaven. Besides, it is my duty to answer before God and men the accusations that are preferred against me. It is my duty to answer the capital and defaming sentence that has been hurled against me and mine.”

  Taking a scroll from the table, the Admiral read:

  “As the principal author of and leader in the conspiracy and rebellion gotten up against the King and his State, the said Sieur of Coligny is sentenced to be hanged and strangled upon the Greve Square, and subsequently to be exposed from the gibbet of Montfaucon. His goods revert to and are confiscate by the King. His children are declared forfeit of their noble rank, infamous, and disqualified from holding office or owning any property in the kingdom. Fifty thousand gold ecus are promised to whomsoever will deliver the said Sieur of Coligny, dead or alive. The children of his brother Dandelot are likewise declared infamous.”

  Coligny flung back upon the table the scroll containing the extract of the royal decree, registered in the Parliament of Paris on May 27, 1569, and raising his tearful eyes heavenward, exclaimed in accents of profound grief:

  “My poor and good brother! They killed you treacherously by poison! Your children are orphans, with none but myself for their support — and now a price is set upon my own life! To-day, to-morrow, in battle, or otherwise, God may call me to Him! Oh, let me at least carry with me the consolation that my own and my brother’s orphans will remain entrusted to worthy hands!”

  Coligny remained long absorbed in meditation. He then took a sheet of paper, a pen, and again concentrating his thoughts, proceeded to write his testament:

  Of all His creatures, God has created man the most worthy. Accordingly, it is man’s duty, during his life, to do all he can to glorify the Lord, render evidence of his faith, set a good example to his fellows, and, to the extent of his powers, leave his children in comfort, if it has pleased God to afford him any.

  Although our days are numbered before God, nothing is more uncertain than the hour when it will please Him to call us away. We must keep ourselves so well prepared that we may not be taken by surprise. For this reason I have decided to draw up the present writing, in order that those who may remain behind me, may hear my intentions and know my wishes.

  In the first place, after invoking the name of God, I make to Him a summary confession of my faith, imploring Him that the same may serve me at the hour when it shall please Him to call me away, because He knows that I make this confession with my heart and affection, and in the full sincerity of my soul.

  I believe in what is contained in the Old and the New Testament, as being the true word of God, to which and from which nothing may be added or taken away, as it orders us. Lastly, I seek in Jesus Christ and through Him alone my salvation and the remission of my sins, according as He has promised. I subscribe to the confession of faith of the Reformed Church in this kingdom. I wish to live and die in this faith, judging myself happy, indeed, if I must suffer on that account.

  I know I am accused of having attempted against the life of the King, of the Queen, and of messeigneurs the King’s brothers; I protest before God that I never had the wish or the intention of doing so. I am also accused of ambition, on account of my having taken up arms with the Reformers; I protest that only the interest of religion, and the necessity of defending my own life and the lives of my family made me take up arms. Upon this head I confess that my greatest guilt lies in not havin
g resented the injustices and the murders perpetrated upon my brothers. I had to be driven to take up arms by the dangers and the plots of which I myself was the object. But I also say it before God, I have endeavored by all means available to pacify, fearing nothing so much as civil war, and foreseeing that the same would carry in its wake the ruin of this kingdom, whose preservation I have ever desired. I write this because, ignorant of the hour when it will please God to call me away, I do not wish to leave my children with the brand of infamy and rebellion.

  I have taken up arms, not against the King, but against those whose tyranny compelled the Reformers to defend their lives. I knew in my heart that they often acted against the wishes of the King, according to several letters and instructions that prove the fact. I know I must appear before the throne of God and there receive judgment. May He condemn me if I lie when I say that my warmest desire is to see the King served in all purity, obedient to his orders, and that the kingdom of France be preserved. On these conditions I would gladly forget all that concerns me personally — injuries, insults, outrages, confiscation of my estates — provided the glory of God and public tranquility are assured. To that end I am determined to occupy myself to my last breath. I wish this to be known, in order not to leave a wrong impression concerning myself after my death.

  I request and order that my children be always brought up to the love and fear of God; that they continue their studies up to the age of fifteen, without interruption. I hold those years to be better employed in that manner than if they are sent to a court, or placed in the suite of some seigneur. Above all do I request their tutors never to allow them to keep bad or vicious company. We are all too much inclined to evil, by our own nature. I request that my children be frequently reminded of this, in order that they may know that such is my desire, as I have often expressed it to them myself.

  I request that my children be brought up with those of my brother Dandelot, as he himself expressed in his testament the wish that they should be. That the ones and the others take for their example the warm and fraternal friendship that always existed between my brother and myself.

  Loving all my children equally, I expect that each will receive as my successors that which is accorded to them by the usages of the country where my estates are situated (if the confiscation with which they are attainted cease). I request that the jewelry belonging to my deceased wife be equally divided between my two daughters.

  I desire that my eldest son take the name of Chatillon; Gaspard, my second son, the name of Dandelot; and Charles, the third, that of La Breteche.

  I request Madam Dandelot, my sister-in-law, to keep near her my two daughters, so long as she may remain in widowhood. Should she marry again, I request Madam La Rochefoucauld, my niece, to take charge of them.

  Having learned that they burned down the college founded by me at Chatillon, I desire and expect that it be re-built, because it is a public good with the aid of which God may be honored and glorified.

  I order that my servants and pensioners be paid all that may be due to them on the day of my decease, and do grant them, besides, a year’s wages. In recognition of my great satisfaction with Lagrele, the preceptor of my children, for the care he has bestowed upon them, I bequeath to him one thousand francs. To Nicholas Mouche and his wife Joan, in reward of their good offices to me and my deceased wife, I bequeath five hundred francs, and an annual stipend of seventeen measures of wheat during their lives, because they have so many children.

  When it shall please God to call me away, I desire, if it be possible, that my body be taken to my Chatillon home, to be there interred beside my wife, without any funeral pomp or other ceremony than that of the Reformed religion.

  And in order that the above provisions be carried out, I request Monsieur the Count of Chatillon, my brother; Monsieur La Rochefoucauld, my nephew; and Messieurs Lanoüe and Saragosse, to be the executors of these my last wishes. Above all do I recommend to them the education and instruction of my children. I consecrate them to the service of God, entreating them to cause my children always to deport and guide themselves by His holy spirit, and to so behave that their actions contribute to His glory, to the public welfare, and to the pacification of the kingdom. I pray to God to be pleased with the benediction that I bestow upon my children, to the end of attracting upon them the blessing of heaven.

  As to myself, offering to the Lord the sacrifice of Jesus Christ in the redemption of my sins, I pray to Him that He may receive my soul and grant to it the blessed and eternal life that awaits the resurrection of the body.

  Finally, I request Messieurs La Rochefoucauld, Saragosse and Lanoüe, to be the tutors and guardians of my children.

  Coligny was just finishing this testament, every line of which breathed sincerity, straightforwardness, wisdom, modesty, the tenderest of domestic virtues, faith in the holiness of his cause, love for France, and horror of civil war, when Monsieur Lanoüe entered the room with indignation stamped upon his features. He held an open letter in his hand, and was about to address Coligny, when the Admiral forestalled him, saying:

  “My friend, I have just written your name at the foot of my testament, requesting you and Monsieur La Rochefoucauld kindly to accept the office of guardians to my children, and those of my brother;” and extending his hand to Lanoüe: “You accept, do you not, this mark of my friendship and confidence? Brought up under your eyes, my nephews and my children, if it please God, will be honorable men and women.”

  “Monsieur,” answered Lanoüe with profound emotion, “in heart, at least, I shall be worthy of the sacred mission that you honor me with.”

  “May people some day be able to say of my children and nephews: ‘They have the virtues of Lanoüe!’ God will then have granted my last prayer. I entrust this testament to your hands, my friend. Keep it safe.”

  “It is not sealed, monsieur.”

  “Both my friends and my enemies are free to read it. What a man says to God men may hear,” replied the Admiral with ancient loftiness. “Here I am now, settled with myself,” the noble soldier proceeded to say; “now let us consider the military preparations for the day.”

  “Oh, what a war!” cried Lanoüe. “No, it is war no longer; it is treachery; it is assassination! I have a letter from Paris. They send me a copy of a missive to the Duke of Alençon from his brother, in the Maurevert affair.”

  “The cowardly assassin of Mouy?”

  “Yes, the cowardly assassin Maurevert, who came to our camp with the mask of friendship, and who, profiting by the darkness of night and the defenselessness of Mouy asleep, stabbed him to death, and immediately took flight. Listen, Admiral, listen now to this! This is what Charles IX, the present King of France, writes to his brother:

  “To my brother the Duke of Alençon.

  “My brother, in reward for the signal service rendered to me by Charles of Louvier, Sieur of Maurevert, the bearer of these presents, it being he who killed Mouy, in the way that he will narrate to you, I request you, my brother, to bestow upon him the collar of my Order, he being chosen and elected by the brothers of the said Order a member of the same; and furthermore to see to it that he, the said Maurevert, be gratified by the denizens and residents of my good city of Paris with some worthy present IN KEEPING WITH HIS DESERTS, while I pray God, my brother, that He keep you under His holy and worthy protection.

  “Done at Plessis-les-Tours, the 1st day of June, 1569.

  “Your good brother

  “CHARLES.”

  The Admiral listened stupefied.

  “Never,” observed Lanoüe after reading the royal schedule, “never yet was the glorification of assassination carried further than this! Oh, Monsieur Admiral, you often made the remark— ‘You, as well as I and so many others, are attached by heart and principle, if not to the King, still to the Crown.’ But this house of Valois will yet cover itself with so many crimes that it will inspire hatred for monarchy. Do we not already see springing up the desire for a federal republic, lik
e the federated Swiss cantons? The desire already has spread among many men of honorable purposes, and it gains new supporters every day.”

  Nicholas Mouche appeared at this moment at the threshold of the door. “I wager,” he said to himself, “that the wholesome drink of chicory water still lies forgotten.” And approaching his master, he added: “Well, Monsieur Admiral, the hour has elapsed!”

  “What hour?” asked Coligny, whose thoughts were absorbed in the painful reminiscences awakened by Lanoüe’s words, “what do you mean?”

  “Your morning drink!” answered the trusty equerry; and turning from his master: “Monsieur Lanoüe, I entreat you; join me in making the Admiral listen to reason. He knows that his surgeon, Monsieur Ambroise Paré, strongly recommended to him chicory water when in the field, because the Admiral often is twelve and fifteen hours at a stretch on horseback, without once taking off his boots. Well, he refuses to follow the orders of his physician.”

  “You hear the complaint of your worthy servant, Monsieur Admiral,” remarked Lanoüe smiling. “I agree with him; he is right. You should follow the orders of Master Ambroise Paré.”

  “Come, come — it shall be as Monsieur Nicholas wishes,” said Coligny, taking the bowl from the table. He looked at the greenish color of the decoction with visible repugnance, and carried the bowl to his lips.

  At that very instant Odelin Lebrenn rushed into the chamber, dashed the earthen vessel from Coligny’s hands and crushed it under his feet, crying:

  “Thank God! I arrived in time!”

  Lanoüe, Nicholas Mouche and Coligny were stupefied. Breathless with excitement and winded from a long and rapid run, Odelin Lebrenn leaned with one hand against the table. He made a sign that he wished to speak but could not yet. Finally he stammered out: