Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “A second later — and Monsieur Coligny would have been poisoned — by the potion — he was about — to drink!”

  “Great God!” cried Lanoüe, growing pale, while Nicholas Mouche trembled like an aspen leaf as he looked at his master.

  “Explain yourself, Monsieur Lebrenn!” commanded the Admiral.

  “This morning, when you were away from the room with your servants at prayer, I came in to bring back your casque. I found Dominic here.”

  “That is so,” said Nicholas Mouche; “he did not go to prayer with the rest.”

  “Without being surprised at finding Dominic in his master’s room,” Odelin proceeded, “I noticed, notwithstanding, that he was pale and confused. Later, God be blessed, I recalled the circumstance that, as I came in, I saw him quickly step away from the table on which stood the vessel which, as Nicholas afterwards told me, held the drink you take every morning, Monsieur Admiral. Into that drink, into that chicory water, Dominic dropped the poison.”

  “He!” exclaimed Coligny, horrified. “Impossible! A servant raised under my own roof since his early childhood!”

  “Oh, the wretch!” cried Nicholas Mouche. “This morning, seeing me prepare the potion, Dominic asked me to let him attend to the matter. I saw in that only a warning to be careful.”

  “My God!” put in Lanoüe, who had remained dumb with horror and indignation. “Providence can allow such crimes, only to inspire the world with execration for their perpetrators. Can such wickedness be, Monsieur Lebrenn?”

  “Dominic has confessed all. The instigators of the murder are the Duke of Anjou and the Count of La Riviere, a captain of the Duke’s guards. The temptation of a vast sum decided the assassin to undertake the deed.”

  “Oh, Catherine De Medici, your children approve themselves worthy of you! They emulate the example you have set them!” exclaimed Lanoüe.

  “But how did you discover the crime, Monsieur Lebrenn? Tell us.”

  “What I noticed this morning would have awakened my suspicions on the spot, were it not for the hurried arrival of my son and the tidings he brought me. I followed him in a great hurry. As we were passing by the inn that lies not far from my place and where the horses of Monsieur Coligny are stabled, I saw Dominic come out, riding bareback. His nag bore evidence of having been bridled in great haste. Dominic departed at a gallop. The man’s frightened looks and his hurry to get off revived my first suspicions. I ran after him calling out: ‘Hold him!’ ‘Hold him!’ My uncle, the Franc-Taupin, together with some others of his men, happened to be in the wretch’s way. They jumped at the bridle of his horse, and held him fast. As I caught up with them I shouted to him point-blank: ‘You poisoned the Admiral!’ Surprise, fear and remorse immediately drew from him a full confession of his crime. ‘It is true,’ he answered. ‘I repent it. The Duke of Anjou offered me a large sum to poison my master — I yielded — the poison was handed to me — and I returned to camp in order to commit the murder.’ The instant I heard this, I ran hither, leaving Dominic in the care of my son.”

  “Monsieur Lebrenn,” said Coligny, grasping Odelin’s hands with warmth, “It is thirty and odd years ago that I met your worthy father at one of the first councils of the reformers on Montmartre. I was then quite young, while your father, an artisan employed at the printing establishment of Robert Estienne already had rendered valiant services to the cause. It is sweet to me to owe my life to you — to you, his worthy son.”

  “The cannon!” suddenly called out Lanoüe, listening to a muffled and rumbling sound that came from afar, carried into the room by the early morning breeze, “It is the rumbling sound of approaching cannon wheels. The detonations succeed each other rapidly.”

  “Nicholas,” said Coligny, without indicating any surprise, “look at my pocket-watch. It must now be nearly ten o’clock.”

  “Yes, monsieur,” answered the equerry after consulting the watch; “it is nearly ten.”

  “La Rochefoucauld has executed my orders punctually. It shall not be long before we shall see one of his officers arrive. Lanoüe, let us be ready to jump on horseback.” And turning to his equerry: “Order the horses brought to the door of the priory. Monsieur Lebrenn, I count upon having your son at my side, as usual in action, to carry my orders.”

  “Here he is, monsieur,” answered Odelin as Antonicq entered. “Where is the wretch, my son?”

  “Father, he repeated his confession, again accusing the Duke of Anjou and the captain of the Duke’s guards with having driven him to the commission of the crime, which he seemed deeply to repent. The exasperated soldiers executed instant justice upon the poisoner. They hanged him. His corpse is now swinging from the branch of an oak.”

  At this moment a Huguenot officer covered with dust appeared at the threshold of the door. Monsieur Coligny said to him:

  “I was waiting for you. Is the skirmish opened? Are all doing their duty well?”

  “Yes, monsieur. A few companies of the royal army answered our attack, and have crossed the stream that covered their front.”

  “Monsieur La Rochefoucauld must have feigned a retreat towards the hill of Haut Moulin, behind which are massed the twenty cavalry squadrons of the Prince of Gerolstein. Have all my orders been executed?”

  “Yes, monsieur. At the very moment that he despatched me to you, Monsieur La Rochefoucauld was executing the retreat. The Prince was in command of his cavalry. All the forces are in line of battle.”

  “All goes well,” observed Coligny to Lanoüe; “I ordered the Prince’s squadrons not to dismask and charge until the royal troops, drawn into disorder by their pursuit of our men, shall have arrived at the foot of the hill. We may expect a good result.”

  “Monsieur La Rochefoucauld also ordered me to make an important communication to you. From some royalist prisoners we learned this morning that the Queen and the Cardinal arrived in the camp of the Duke of Anjou.”

  Upon hearing of Catherine De Medici’s arrival, the Admiral reflected for an instant, then drew near the table, dashed a few words down on a sheet of paper and handed it to the officer, saying:

  “Monsieur, return at your fastest, and deliver this order to Monsieur La Rochefoucauld.” And addressing Lanoüe as the officer left on the wings of the wind on his errand: “The presence of the Queen in the royal camp may suggest to Marshal Tavannes the idea of engaging in a decisive action. Come, my friend,” he added, leaving the chamber, “I wish to consult with the Princes of Orange and Nassau before taking horse.”

  CHAPTER V.

  FAMILY FLOTSAM.

  ALMOST IMMEDIATELY UPON the arrival of Monsieur La Rochefoucauld’s aide at the Admiral’s quarters, Odelin Lebrenn and Antonicq hastened to reach their lodgings, where Anna Bell awaited them. The meeting between father and daughter was delayed through the discovery of the crime that Coligny was to be the victim of.

  Odelin Lebrenn had set up his armorer’s establishment on the ground floor of a house in St. Yrieix which the inhabitants had abandoned. Franz of Gerolstein, together with several noblemen of his suite and their pages, occupied a set of rooms on the floor above, below them being also the quarters of Odelin, his son and the Franc-Taupin. A straw couch, large enough to accommodate the three, stood at the rear of the apartment. Near a wide, open fireplace lay the hammers, the anvil and the portable forge requisite for the armorer’s work. Day was now far advanced. Since morning Anna Bell had not left the lodging. Seated on a wooden bench, and her head reclined upon her hands, she expectantly turned her ears from time to time toward the street. The recent agonizing bustle of the camp was now followed by solitude and silence. All the troops, a few companies excepted that were left in charge of the baggage, had marched out beyond the burg and its entrenchments, in order to form in battle array about one league from the Admiral’s headquarters, he having prepared for a possible general engagement.

  Odelin Lebrenn’s first interview with Anna Bell was both tender and painful. The father found again his daughter, once dearly be
loved and long wept as lost. But he found her soiled with the title of maid of honor of Catherine De Medici! With distressing frankness the wretched girl confessed to her father the disorders of her past life. Anna Bell was just finishing her narrative when the general call to arms resounded. Antonicq went to his post beside Monsieur Coligny, after listening to the revelations of his sister; a few minutes later Odelin also, yielding to the imperious voice of duty, left his weeping daughter, to join the cavalry squadron in which he served as volunteer.

  Left alone, Anna Bell fell a prey to cruel anxieties. Her father, her brother and Franz of Gerolstein were about to run the dangers of a battle. The confession wrung from her lips by a terrific necessity seemed to render all the more profound, all the more grievous the love of the young girl for the Prince. Now less than ever did she expect her affection to be returned. Still she experienced a sort of bitter consolation in the thought that Franz of Gerolstein was no longer ignorant of her passionate devotion, and that, in order to save him from poison, she risked her own life. The chaos of distressing thoughts, now rendered all the more painful by her uneasiness for those whom she loved, plunged Anna Bell into inexpressible agony. She counted the hours with increasing anxiety. Toward night the roll of drums and blare of trumpets resounded from afar. The young girl trembled and listened. Presently she could distinguish the approaching tramp of horses’ hoofs, and not long thereafter she heard them stop before the lodging. Running to the door, she opened it in the hope of seeing her brother and father. Instead, she saw a page in the livery of the Prince of Gerolstein holding a second horse by the reins.

  “Monsieur,” asked Anna Bell anxiously of the lad, “what news of the battle?”

  “There was no battle, mademoiselle, only a lively engagement of outposts. The royalists were worsted,” and swallowing a sigh, while tears appeared in his eyes, he added, “but unfortunately my poor comrade Wilhelm, one of the Prince of Gerolstein’s pages, was killed in the skirmish. I am leading back his horse.”

  “And the Prince?” inquired Anna Bell, nervously. “He has not been wounded?”

  “No, mademoiselle. I am riding ahead of monsieur; he is returning with his squadrons,” answered the page, alighting from his horse, and his sighs and sobs redoubled, while the tears rolled down his cheeks.

  At ease on the score of Franz of Gerolstein’s life, Anna Bell had some words of consolation for the afflicted page. “I am sorry for you,” she said; “to lose a friend at your age.”

  “Oh, mademoiselle. I loved him so dearly — he died so valiantly! An arquebusier was taking aim at the Prince. Wilhelm threw himself in front and received the ball in his chest. He dropped, never to rise again.”

  “Generous lad!” exclaimed Anna Bell, and silently she thought: “To die for Franz! Under his own eyes. That is a death to be envied!”

  “Poor Wilhelm!” continued the page sadly, “his last words were for his mother. He asked me, if ever I return home again, to carry to her a sash that she embroidered for him, and which he left at our lodging together with his gala suit.”

  The lad’s words seemed to have suggested an unexpected line of thought to Anna Bell, when she suddenly saw Odelin from a distance, returning at full gallop in the company of other horsemen. She cried: “There is father! Thank God, he is not wounded. But where is brother?”

  Not daring, out of a sense of modesty, to be seen by the strangers who accompanied her father, Anna Bell stepped back into the room. Odelin led his horse to a stable where also the horses of Franz of Gerolstein were kept, and hastened back to join his daughter in the house. The girl ran to him, kissed his hands respectfully several times, and said:

  “Thank heaven, father, you are safe and sound — but brother, dear Antonicq, did he also come off scathless?”

  “You may feel at ease,” answered Odelin, embracing his daughter, “Antonicq is not wounded. Together with other volunteers he is escorting a number of prisoners to places of safety in the camp. Poor child, great must have been your anxiety since I left you. Come to your father’s arms!”

  “Oh, I counted the hours — the minutes—”

  “Let me embrace you again — and yet again,” said Odelin with tears in his eyes, and fondly holding her in his arms. “Oh, divine power of happiness! It brings with it the balm of forgetfulness of the past! I have found you again — dear child! In one day, years of sorrow are blotted out!”

  Hardly able to repress her tears, Anna Bell responded unrestrainedly to Odelin’s caresses. His ineffable clemency was not belied.

  “Father,” she said, “would you have me disarm you while we wait for Antonicq? Your cuirass must tire you. Let me unbuckle it.”

  “Thank you, child,” the armorer answered, as he stepped to a lanthorn that hung from the wall, and lighted the same to dispel the shadows that began to invade the apartment. He then took off his casque, loosened his belt, and returned to his daughter: “But I shall remain armed. The Admiral issued orders that the troops rest a few hours, take supper, and hold themselves ready to march at a minute’s notice.”

  “My God — is there another battle pending?”

  “I do not know the projects of Admiral Coligny; all I know — and that is all that is of importance to me — I know we have a few hours to ourselves. Sit down there, dear child, so that the light of the lanthorn may fall upon your face — I wish to behold you at my leisure. This morning tears darkened my eyes almost continuously.”

  And after contemplating Anna Bell for a while with tender and silent curiosity, Odelin resumed:

  “Yes, your sweet beauty is such as your charming little girl’s face gave promise of. Oh! how often did I not leave my anvil and drop my hammer to fondle your blonde head! Your hair has grown darker. In your infancy you were as blonde as my sister Hena. Many a line in your face recalls hers. She and I resembled each other. But your beautiful brown and velvety eyes have remained the same — neither in color nor shape have they changed. I find the dimple still on your chin, and the two little ones on your cheeks each time you laughed, they also are still there — and you were always laughing — my dear, dear child!”

  “Oh! how happy those days must have been to me!” murmured the young girl, as she recalled with bitter sorrow the hours of her innocent childhood. “I then was near you, father, and near mother — and besides—”

  Anna Bell could not finish the sentence. The distressed girl broke down sobbing.

  “Heaven and earth!” cried up the armorer, whose features, shortly before illumined with happiness, now were overcast with grief. “To think that you had to beg your bread! My poor child — perhaps beaten by the gypsy woman who kidnapped you from the loving paternal roof!”

  “Father,” replied the poor girl with a look of profound grief, “those days of misery were not my worst days. Oh, that I had always remained a beggar!”

  “I understand your thoughts, unhappy child! Let us drop those sad recollections!” And stamping the floor furiously Odelin added: “Oh, infamous Queen! Thou art the monster who debauched my child! A curse upon thee and thy execrable brood!” After a painful silence, Odelin proceeded abruptly: “Do! I conjure you! Let us never again return to the past. Let us endeavor to bury it in everlasting oblivion!”

  “Alas, father, even if your clemency were to forget, my conscience will ever remember. It will every day remind me that I am a disgrace to my family. Oh, God! My cheeks tingle with shame at the bare thought of meeting my sister — and mother!”

  “Your mother! You know not the depths of a mother’s love, indulgence and compassion. You return to her soiled, but repentant, and your mother will forgive. Besides, you are not guilty — you are the victim of, not the accomplice in, your past life. Your heart has remained pure, your instincts honest and lofty; your tears, your remorse, your apprehensions prove it to me. No, no! Be not afraid. Your mother and sister will receive you with joy, with confidence. I am certain henceforth your life will be ours, pure, modest, industrious! Oh, I know it — it is only that
that causes my heart to bleed, and my pity for you to redouble; you are never to experience the austere yet sweet joys of a wife — and a mother!”

  Odelin remained for a moment steeped in silent rumination. After a pause he proceeded:

  “It is the severe punishment for a sin that it is allowed to none but your own family to absolve you of. But your sister’s children will be your own. Your brother also is to marry. Cornelia, his sweetheart, is worthy of our affection. You will silence the cravings of your own heart in loving their children as you would have done your own. They will also love you. You will spend your life near them and us. Come, take a father’s word for it — the domestic hearth is an inexhaustible source of consolation for the sorrowful — an inexhaustible source of sweet joys and healthy pleasures.”

  These warm and affectionate words moved Anna Bell so profoundly that, dropping down upon her knees before her father, she covered his hands and face with kisses and tears; and raising her eyes up to him, and contemplating him with a kind of respectful admiration, “Oh, father!” she exclaimed, “living image of God! Your goodness and compassion are like only unto His!”

  “Because you suffer, my poor child,” replied Odelin, his eyes moist with tears. And raising his daughter from the floor and placing her beside him, he put his arm around her and covered her with renewed caresses.

  “It is because you are to suffer still more — it is because you love — it is because you are bound to love — and without hope!” the armorer proceeded with solemnity. “Only this once, and never again shall I mention this painful love. If I, your father, touch upon such a subject with you, the reason is that it is impossible for me to blame the choice of your heart. Franz of Gerolstein, by the strength of his character, the generosity of his sentiments, the loftiness of his whole life, deserves to be loved passionately. Alas, but for that unhappy past, your love needed not be hopeless. Only a few hours ago, speaking about you at a halt made by our troops, Franz of Gerolstein remarked to me: ‘Oh, that honor, the only barrier I may never leap, should separate me forever from your daughter!’ It was not a hollow consolation the Prince was offering me. I know Franz’s contempt for distinctions of rank. Moreover we are of the same blood, our family comes from one stock; but that fatal past — that is the unbridgeable abyss that separates us forever from the Prince. That is why you inspire me with so much pity. Yes, you are all the more endeared to me because you suffer, and by reason of your future sufferings, poor dear child, so guiltless of the sins you have committed!” added Odelin with renewed tenderness. “But be brave, be brave, my child! Your hopeless love is at least honorable and pure; you can nourish it without shame, in the secret recesses of your heart. I shall say not another word upon that ill-starred passion. When you are back among us and, although surrounded by our affection, I shall see you at times lost in revery, sad, and moist of eye, believe me, poor distressed soul, your father will sympathize with your grief; each tear you drop will fall upon my heart.”