CHAPTER XXV
THE CRYPT OF ST. ETIENNE
During many generations of men the spire of St. Etienne, like a silentwitness day and night, had pointed upward to the great beyond, to theimmeasurable depths of stars, away from this world of struggle,passion, and human desire. Men had fought, schemed, died, and beenforgotten since the rising sun first turned its fane to golden fire;yet still it silently showed the small worth of earthly matters andthe limitless possibilities of the future. Jean had understood themessage ever since the first night he had crept into the great churchto sleep.
And through the fleeting hours day and night the carillon had rung outits happy, irresponsible music, now a laughing cadence which echoed inthe night air, now a low whisper like the inspiration of a child'sprayer. There was a wail of sadness in its music sometimes, but everwas it suddenly turned into a little burst of gladness. There might bepain in the city, care, and toil, and breaking hearts; but only for atime, laughed the music night and day, and Time is a little thing, andpasses as a dream. The sound had floated into many a sick-room, anangel's whisper to many a wearied soul. Jean had understood themessage of the carillon ever since he had walked in this beautifulHouse of God.
The last evening prayer had been said long since, the great west doorswere shut, the great church was silent and empty. Darkness was in itsvaulted roof, darkness about its forest of pillars, darkness along itsaisles. There was no moon to-night to send a delicate finger of lightthrough the painted windows, or to touch with mystery the great rosejewel high in the transept; only one dim mystic flame floated beforean altar, as though a spirit hovered there keeping watch through thesilent hours. Yet Jean might have seen visions to-night, thin shapesnear the tombs of the Dukes of Montvilliers and by the stone effigies,might have heard voices out of the silence.
Listen! Nothing. Only a chair which slips being insecurely set againstanother, or perhaps a bird fluttering in the roof. All is silent,silent as the grave. Listen! That is not a chair, birds' flutteringwings give no such sound as that. That is the stealthy lifting of aheavy latch, a sharp and certain sound, for the silence after it seemsso dead; and surely that is the rough grating of a slowly opened doorsomewhere in the north aisle, a small door, and one not often used,for the hinges are rusty. Then comes a long pause, one of fear it maybe at finding the great church in darkness, or is it one of caution,of keen listening to make certain that no one is about?
"Empty!" The word is spoken in a whisper, but it sounds clearly in thesilence. The rusty hinges grate again, and then there are footfalls onthe stone flags, steps that endeavor to tread softly and onlypartially succeed.
"Quite empty!" comes the whisper again. "No need for a light. Touchme, so; keep close. I will lead the way."
The door closes again, and the heavy latch stealthily falls into itsplace. One, two, three, four--how many footsteps are there, clearlyheard although they go on tiptoe? Then a sharp ringing sound thatseems to strike upward through the darkness to the very roof. The endof a scabbard unwittingly let fall upon the stone floor! Silence for amoment, then again the careful opening of a door, but no rusty hingesthis time.
"Twenty-four steps!" says a low voice, "and we may find a lanternbelow."
"They will be slow hours to morning," comes the answer.
"But we are in time. Here, close to the right, are the west doors.They will enter that way."
Then steps descending--one, two, three, four, and they grow confused;it is impossible to count them. Another pause, then again the closingof a door, so quietly that the sound might pass for fancy. Then comesthe faint music of the carillon laughing in the night. Time passes,and the schemes of men succeed or come to naught, and new life stirsupon the earth, and Death touches all in turn. Time passeth intoeternity, laughs the music.
The voice of the carillon floated at intervals into Christine'schamber, but for her there was little laughter in it. It broughtsadness, and regret, and uncertainty to her sleepless hours. She hadmade her decision, and one side of her nature applauded her; but therewas another side which shrank away from it, and whispered warnings.How many in the world before her had mistaken the false for the true,had found disaster where they had hoped to lay hold upon salvation?Christine knew Felix, but did she really understand Roger Herrick?Herrick passed in and out of her waking dreams, tormenting her. Shedreaded the coming day and what she was to do in it. Love at thiseleventh hour took forcible possession of her. Was there anything inlife worth setting in opposition to it? No, a thousand times no, camethe answer, and then again a strong purpose urged: "Yes; yourcountry." They are not the only martyrs who die for their convictions;some there are who live, having bartered all they hold most dear. Sofor Christine the hours crept all too quickly toward the new day. Outof the darkness the towers and battlements of the castle began to takegray shape in the early glimmer of the dawn. Even in the crypt of St.Etienne black nothingness began to take ghostly form, ay, and vibratewith movement too.
All night the waters of the river had lapped about the piers of theold stone bridge, and no light showed from the closed gateway of thecity. Men slept secure within while the sentry paced above, and nevera sound across the river alarmed him. Stars for a while werequiveringly reflected in the running water, but the sentry coulddistinguish no moving shadows on the opposite bank; and when the dawncame there was no sign of threatening danger. The city was shut up,few went in or out; the sentry did not expect to see any one comeslowly over the bridge in these early hours; and beyond, the woodswere empty and silent, growing slowly out of the night, just as he hadseen them do many a time before. So he paced his round, waiting forthe relief, and men began to stir in the guard-room below.
In a narrow street not far from the city gate was a low little tavernof somewhat evil repute. It dozed in the morning hours, stale and halfconscious as a man who has drunk heavily overnight. A sleepy youthmight unbar its doors early enough, but they might as well haveremained shut, for scarce a man passed in before noon, and few untilnight had fallen. It was after dark that it awoke to life and wasfilled with drinkers loud in quarrel and coarse oaths. Its frequentershad stumbled and cursed their way homeward last night, and thelandlord, no better than his guests, had fallen quickly into hisdrunken sleep. The narrow street had become quiet, and had remained sofor some hours. But a little before dawn there were creeping shadowsin it, which stole into door-ways and alleys, and waited. About thetime that relief came to the sentry over the gate the bars of thetavern door were unfastened, and immediately the sleepy youth wassurrounded by men threatening his life if he uttered a sound. Hisworthless existence was valuable to him, and he remained silent. Sowas it with the landlord, who was too muddled rightly to understandwhat had happened to him.
"See that no one enters," said the leader. "This retreat will hide usfor an hour or two until it is time to strike. There is a weddingto-day, at what hour does it take place?" he asked, turning to theyouth.
"Early; before noon," was the answer.
The man nodded, and was satisfied, and gave instructions to one of hiscompanions that when they left the tavern presently, he was to remainand shoot any one in the house who attempted to escape or utter asound which might betray them.
Vayenne woke from its sleep early to-day. There would be crowds in thestreets by the castle and St. Etienne, and those who came late wouldsee little. Quite early little groups began to take their way to theupper part of the city. Few besides the sick and the infirm remainedin the neighborhood of the gate, and the narrow street in which thelow tavern stood was soon deserted.
There were not many soldiers in the guard-rooms at the gate. All whocould be spared had gone on duty near the castle and the great church;and most of them could be spared. There was no danger outside thecity, and if danger should come, was not the gate strong enough to beeasily defended until help could be obtained? The Captain of the Guardhad no misgivings, and his men grumbled that it had fallen to theirlot to stay there where there was nothing to do.
The cap
tain was a young man, new to his dignity, and proud of it, orrather of himself. Perhaps never had quite so worthy a man worn theuniform so fittingly, he argued. He sat in the lower chamber of one ofthe towers, and seemed lost in admiration of the shapely leg hestretched out, tightly clothed and well booted and spurred. Throughthe open door was a glimpse of the cobbled space before the gate andthe street which led down to it; and outside the door a sentry paced,passing it at regular intervals. The captain looked up as he passed;the presence of the sentry pleasingly emphasized the dignity of hisown position, and he wondered what further reward he should attain towhen this new Duke and Duchess were firmly seated on the throne. Itwould be strange indeed if he could not find means to force himselfupon their notice, and his own advancement was their chief utility sofar as he was concerned.
"A good man, if he has wisdom in him, must always rise like a cork tothe top of the water," he mused.
Then he started hastily to his feet. There was the dull thud of aheavy blow, the beginning of a groan which was immediately smothered,and as the captain rushed to the door men met him on the threshold,and forced him back.
"A sound means death!" one man said hoarsely, "If you are wise youwill keep what bravery you have for a better cause."
"Pierre Briant!" exclaimed the prisoner.
"The same--a captain in the forces of Duke Roger. The gate is ours,the city will be ours presently. Up, men, see that none escape or givethe alarm, but treat them kindly if they will let you."
The self-satisfied young officer sank back into his chair with agroan.
"Hearten up, man," said Briant. "You have failed in a bad cause, youmay live to succeed in a good one. You're over-young to be a captain."
The man was quiet for a moment, and then he sprang from his chair.
"Don't be a fool!" said Pierre Briant, and the young captain shrankback from the gleaming revolver barrel.
The capture was accomplished in silence and without bloodshed; eventhe sentry over the gate had been seized and gagged before he had timeto utter a cry. He had heard men ascending the winding stairs, but hadonly thought of the relief coming earlier than he had expected.
The soldiers of the guard were gathered together in one room withtheir captain, and Briant explained the situation, after disarmingthem.
"My men have orders to fire upon the first who cries out or tries toescape," he said. "They are all men fresh from fighting on thefrontier, where they have learned to obey orders without question."
So Pierre Briant carried out the instructions which Herrick had givenhim a few hours since in the house by the wall. The gate had beensecured silently, and a messenger was sent across the bridge to thewoods, where Lemasle lay with a strong force.
"Tell him the gate is ours and the wedding is before noon," saidBriant.
Lemasle and many of his men had entered the city, and crowded into theguard-rooms at the gate, or stood close in side streets so as not toattract the attention of any one who might be loitering in theneighborhood, when a carriage came down the street and toward thegate. It was stopped by the sentries placed there by Lemasle.
The Countess Elisabeth, who was the only occupant, produced an orderpermitting her to leave Vayenne. It was signed by Christine deLiancourt and Count Felix.
"Madame, you cannot pass."
"But there is the order."
Lemasle came forward, and looked at the paper.
"Only the Duke's signature is of any value, madame."
"But Count Felix has----"
"I speak of Duke Roger, madame," said Lemasle, "and he has givenorders that none shall pass out of the gates to-day."
"But Duke Roger----"
"Is in Vayenne," said the captain.
A sharp exclamation burst from her lips, and then the Countess wasthoughtful for a moment. As she leaned forward to give a direction tothe coachman, Lemasle interrupted her.
"Pardon, madame, but I must detain you. It is not yet generally knownthat the Duke has entered the city, and secrecy is still necessary.You shall be made as comfortable as possible in one of theguard-rooms here until we know the Duke's will."
The carriage was drawn into a side street, the coachman and footmanwere warned and added to the prisoners in the lower guard-room, whilethe Countess was shut in a little room in the tower of the gateway.She was powerless to help Felix any more.
Long before noon the streets about the castle and St. Etienne werecrowded. Even with the soldiers at the castle there were not very manyin the city, and in some places the crowd grew disorderly. Ugly littlerushes were made for more commanding positions, or out of purewantonness; little control could be exercised, and the Count'scarriage had threaded its way to the great west doors of St. Etiennewith difficulty. A few cheers had greeted him as he passed, but thecrowd seemed chiefly enthusiastic about its own pleasure.
The great church was full. Lights burned upon and before the highaltar. Music, now tremulous, now deeply thundering, rolled along theaisles. Priests and choir waited in the chancel, and alone, a strikingfigure, stood Father Bertrand.
In the porch by the great doors stood Felix, waiting for the newDuchess, his bride. Ceremonial demanded that he should meet her there,that together they should pass to the altar. Near him stood deBornais, and one or two others of importance in Vayenne. It was plainthat both the Count and de Bornais were ill at ease. Christine waslong in coming, and they fretted at the delay.
Behind them was a small, fast-shut door. Perhaps neither of them knewthat it opened upon the steps leading down to the crypt.
Lucille sat opposite to Christine in the carriage, which slowly madeits way through the crowd. The shouting now was loud enough, for thepeople of Vayenne, high and low, had always loved Christine deLiancourt. Very beautiful she looked, but very pale, and never a smileplayed about her lips as she bowed to this side and to that. It was nohappy bride who slowly passed on to St. Etienne.
"She is coming," whispered Felix.
Father Bertrand moved slowly toward the altar, the music crashed out,and the cheers from without rose louder and louder, sounding even tothe crypt below.
The carriage with its guard, chiefly de Bornais' men, halted, and asChristine descended Felix went forward to meet her, followed by thosewho had stood beside him. For a moment the porch was empty, and thenthe crypt door burst open. A strange figure in scarlet and greenrushed out, a dozen men following close behind him.
"Long live the Duke!" he cried.
Felix turned sharply, and Christine looked up to meet the steady eyesof Roger Herrick. There was the sharp ring of steel. The men behindhim stood with drawn swords in their hands.
"So we return to find treason," said Herrick. "Mademoiselle, you aremy prisoner, and will return to the castle. Arrest Count Felix and deBornais." And then raising his voice he cried: "Let him who daresdispute the will of the Duke!"
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