The Arm and the Darkness

by Taylor Caldwell

  De Bouillon had turned as white as death at these courageous and candid words. He was silent. But he gazed at de Tremblant with a hidden and dangerous light in his eyes. The others had listened with great excitement, fully anticipating that de Bouillon would take offense with the inevitable result. But the Duc sat motionless in his chair and only gazed at de Tremblant with the immobility of a serpent.

  Paul broke the silence. He was still pale, and now he began to tremble.

  “I implore you all to believe that I covet no extreme power for Protestantism. No disproportionately great and arbitrary power, whether secular or religious, can exist in the world without endangering the liberty and the lives of all men. But I do believe that in Protestantism is the hope of the modern world, of the present and the future, if it retains its original nobility and disinterestedness. It was the proclamation of freedom for all mankind. Let us remember this, and not be diverted into selfish desires and political expediency.”

  The dangerous air in the room had lightened somewhat, but de Bouillon still gazed at de Tremblant with that reflective and hidden menace. Paul nervously turned to the Comte Van Tets, with an imploring gesture.

  “Speak, Monsieur le Comte. Tell these gentlemen what has happened in Holland.”

  They had forgotten the Dutchman, but as he rose awkwardly and heavily, they turned to him courteously. He stood before them, embarrassed yet simple, and moving in his attitude of pleading.

  “Messieurs, le Comte de Vitry has expressed what is in my heart, in the heart of all Hollanders. I know that he does not speak intemperately. That is why I have come to you to implore your generous aid for my countrymen, for your sympathy, for your indignation and anger.

  “My words cannot express to you the full measure of the horror, death and agony which now afflicts my country under the sword and the fire of the Catholic Spaniard, who seems inspired by all the evil of his Church, all the mercilessness and cruelty of his priests.

  “There is, in the nature of my countrymen, a passion for liberty, for independence of thought and action, which is peculiar to them. The Romish Church detests this nature, for it is a challenge and a menace to that condition of servitude and docility which that Church has always recommended as a virtue in the people. Always, and forever, the Church, in its service to the powerful and the oppressor, must oppose the thoughts and the actions of free proud men, must always set its fáce against the liberation of the multitude. In no other country in Europe has she encountered such noble resistance and selfless pride as she has encountered in the Netherlands. Therefore, she has determined to destroy us, believing that in our destruction she will have exterminated the passionate heart of an awakening Europe.”

  Suddenly that phlegmatic Dutch face was enkindled, and grief, wildness and pleading blazed upon it. He extended his trembling hands to each man in turn.

  “Messieurs! In the history of every people there comes an hour when brothers cry out to brothers across borders and across seas: ‘Help us, lest we perish, and you die in our perishing!’ And this hour has come to England, to France! We of Holland implore you, you who have felt the sun of the Reformation on your faces and have turned your eyes to the liberated morrow! Will you turn from us? Will you, from your expediency, your greed, your internal hatreds, your lusts and your cowardice, close your ears to us?”

  He gazed at them with fiery eyes. “If you do, you are lost, Messieurs. You and your people. Think not that you shall save yourselves. You shall die with us.

  “Let me tell you, noble lords, what has come to Holland, in those parts which the Church, with the aid of her evil son, has conquered.”

  He could not speak for a moment, but his eyes, more fiery than ever, gleamed, sparkled and flamed in the candlelit dusk. His sincere passion, his agony, held them, and one or two at least felt shame and fear.

  He continued in a lower voice, but it had in it such vibrant power, such awfulness, that it seemed stronger and more impelling than before.

  “I beseech you to contemplate my poor country.” His voice broke for a moment, then continued, shaking yet inexorable.

  “We lived in peace. Our burghers, our mayors, our government, scoffed at the terrified warnings of those who were not blinded by complacency and a false safety. We know the unremitting hatred of the Church for all who have freed themselves from her. We saw her gleaming and macabre eye across our borders, watching endlessly through the nights of our easy slumber and our quiet harmless days. But we could not arouse those in whose hands lay the safety of Holland. It is a sad peculiarity of men that they prefer to believe the pleasant, and hate those who attempt to arouse them to the imminent awareness of unpleasantness.

  “But Rome has struck at us, after long years of silence and treachery.”

  He clenched his hands together, and a look of horror spread over his broad ruddy, features, and he stared into space as if what he saw convulsed his soul.

  “Messieurs, I have seen the auto de fe with these eyes, in Southern Holland. I have seen the revival of the Unholy Office. I have seen men, women, little children, maidens and helpless youth, dragged to the stake, there to perish while black priests with monstrous faces sang.

  “I have seen the shut windows of those who awaited the terror in the night. I have smelled the ghastly odor of burning flesh, as the innocent perished. I have seen the peasant seized in his hut, the lord in his castle. I have seen the wasted land, the starvation of children, the last anguish of the faithful.”

  He paused again, and now he wept, wiping his tears away with the back of his great hand, with simplicity and despair.

  “Messieurs, you have said to yourself: ‘It shall not come again to France.’ I have heard Englishmen say, with stern pale lips: ‘It shall not come again to England.’ I have heard the voices of liberated men all over the breadth of Europe, crying: ‘It shall not come again to us!’ But Messieurs, I tell you in this most solemn hour, that it shall come again to all men, if they awaken not to their danger, to the horror of the Crimson Pestilence which resides on the Seven Hills of Rome, ever watchful, ever fuming with evil.

  “For wherever a tyrant shall arise, a madman who hates other men, a despoiler, a ravager, a destroyer, a luster after power, a fiend risen from the pits of hell, there shall the Church stand behind him with all her tentacles of strength and hatred, all the resources of her blind and miserable people, all the arms of her suborned princes, her blackmailed kings, all her limitless wealth.”

  He looked at the listening faces in the candlelight. And he saw the stern countenance of de Rohan, the moved eyes of de Tremblant, the tears of Paul de Vitry, the enraged lips of his friend, Arsène de Richepin. But more than all, with a failing heart, he saw the cold smile of de Bouillon. And so it was that he turned to de Bouillon with a passionate cry.

  “Monsieur le Duc! You have listened to me with scepticism and with chill withdrawal. You have said in your heart: ‘This man speaks with extravagance and fever, with ridiculous vehemence. We are civilized men. The spectre of Rome which this Dutchman would fain conjure up before us is the hysterical scream of an overwrought and intemperate nature.’

  “But let me remind Monsieur that it is the Church’s own boast that she never changes, that she is the same yesterday, today and tomorrow. The same, Monsieur, in all her ravishing hunger and cruelty, her lust and her insatiable greed for wealth and power. Do you believe she lies, Monsieur? Ah, she lies only to gain men’s confidence, in order to invade their countries under the guise of meekness and godliness!”

  He flung out his hands to all of them.

  “Aid us, Messieurs! Give help and comfort to your brothers, whether they be in Holland, in England, in Spain or in the Germanies! Reflect that you are Protestants, not only Frenchmen. Reflect that should the sun of the Reformation be quenched in Europe, a thousand years of darkness will settle again over all men. Reflect upon your children, your faith, your manhood, your freedom. All these things are in jeopardy in this hour!”

  A profou
nd silence fell over the great library, while Van Tets’ burning and imploring gaze importuned each gentleman in turn. Each eye met his steadfastly, but de Bouillon’s stare was both tranquil and oblique. Finally every man came to the Dutchman and grasped his hands with deep feeling.

  De Tremblant spoke earnestly: “Monsieur, my heart, my hand, my sword, all that I have, is yours to command. I shall go with you to England on your mission. De Buckingham is my friend. Rest assured you shall not speak to deaf ears.”

  “The thanks of my countrymen, Monsieur,” said Van Tets. “And France?”

  “I speak for the Rochellais,” said de Rohan, firmly, his eyes sparkling with vivid red lights. “Be assured we shall not betray Protestantism, even at the cost of our lives.” And he regarded de Bouillon with a dangerous look.

  De Bouillon removed his snuff box from his pocket. He was smiling reflectively to himself. He used the snuff elegantly, flourished his lace kerchief, which he used to brush away flecks of the substance from his imperial. His eyes were pale agates, shining coldly. He gazed at de Tremblant, who waited for him to speak with a hard stern countenance.

  “Surely, my dear Raoul, you have reflected on your impulsive promise to accompany Monsieur le Comte to England? Our relations with England at the present are, to speak very euphemistically, not at the most cordial.”

  De Tremblant’s seamed and unhandsome face changed, became ominous. He spoke deliberately: “Monsieur le Duc is not apprehensive that England’s aid to Holland might disperse her strength, in the event that certain gentlemen might desire that aid in the furthering of their own interests?”

  De Bouillon tugged his imperial thoughtfully. Then he shrugged.

  “Let me speak openly, mon amis. Monsieur le Comte must bear with me if what I say shall offend him. The people of Holland are harborers of strange doctrines. Exceedingly dangerous doctrines for the people of France, should they hear of them. Even more dangerous doctrines than those of the violent English.”

  “The doctrines, Monsieur?” urged de Tremblant, smiling bitterly, as de Bouillon paused.

  “Ah, yes. These doctrines are dangerous to established order and privilege. They would incite the people to rebellion against authority, inspire strange desires in them, dangerous doctrines of ‘freedom.’ What will become of us, born to privilege and power? We would perish in a holocaust of braying asses. Our culture would be lost in an upheaval of swine. Culture is, and always will be, the possession of the superior, and culture can exist only in narrow and tended gardens, like rare flowers. How shall we control the people, if they are indoctrinated by revolutionary ideals? How shall we retain our power, our traditions, our established authority?”

  “With the help of God, we shall not retain them,” said de Tremblant, quietly.

  “He speaks like the Cardinal, this de Bouillon,” said Arsène, to Paul.

  De Bouillon made an elegant gesture. “Monsieur de Tremblant, I take issue with you. I cannot agree to anything which will jeopardize my position. Therefore, I cannot aid Monsieur le Comte, even in his countryman’s struggle against Philip of Spain. Let him set his hand to subduing the revolutionary doctrines of his people, before he seeks the aid of those who would be endangered by those doctrines. What! Does he actually believe that such as I would aid him?”

  “These people of the Comte’s are Protestants, as we are,” said de Tremblant, in a soft and menacing tone.

  De Bouillon shrugged again, deprecatingly.

  “They are revolutionary, Monsieur. I repeat: let the Hollanders restore authority and respect for the superior among themselves, and subdue those who rant of universal freedom and equality, and I shall reconsider.”

  De Tremblant exchanged a glowing look with the others. He turned again to de Bouillon, who was smiling slightly.

  “Monsieur le Duc has spoken plainly. Let me, also, speak plainly. The cause of Protestantism, the cause of humanity which Protestantism serves, is endangered by such as Monsieur. If Monsieur le Duc has taken offense at this, let him demand redress.”

  De Bouillon shook his head indulgently. “I quarrel only with Monsieur de Tremblant’s ideas, not with himself. I trust,” and he glanced blandly at the others, “that these gentlemen will not consider these the words of a coward.”

  The others eyed him with furious hostility. Still smiling, he bowed elaborately.

  “I am no longer welcome, because of my candor. Therefore, I shall withdraw.”

  They watched him in silence as he traversed the room to the door. On the threshold he paused, and bowed again, with deep and ironic courtesy.

  “Reflect, Messieurs. A man must first consider his own country.”

  When he had gone, de Rohan burst into obscene roars. “There is a serpent, that de Bouillon! But take heart, Monsieur Van Tets: all Frenchmen are not such as he!”

  He turned to de Tremblant. “While you two gentlemen are in England,

  I shall recruit my Rochellais.” c They shook hands with fervor.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  The Cardinal, lying supine in his bed, thoughtfully stroked his fingers, held them a moment to a shaft of thin sunlight to admire their transparency. But throughout all these delicate manoeuvres, he eyed the Duc de Bouillon with piercing intensity. It was very early in the morning, but so urgent had been the Duc’s message, that he had been admitted through the Cardinal’s private cabinet into the bedchamber. At the Duc’s haughty demand, Louis de Richepin had been dismissed, but he knew what he had to do. He retired behind the door of the cabinet, and there sat on his stool, listening not without a pang of shame at this enforced eavesdropping.

  There had been a prolonged silence. Finally the Cardinal sighed. “Ah,” he murmured, and lifting his eyes, regarded the ceiling with languid fixity. The Duc, quietly garbed, sat near the bed, his pale long face, inscrutable, in shadow.

  “I congratulate Monsieur le Duc on both his loyalty and perspicacity,” continued the Cardinal at last. “This is a grave matter. I agree with Monsieur that should Frenchmen, recruited by two of the most powerful magnates in France, be sent to the aid of Holland, this would present the Habs-burgs and the Spaniard with the perfect reason to attack us. Ah,” he murmured again, “what individualistic rebels are these Frenchmen of mine! One has to admire the Germans for their dogged racial solidarity, whatever else one rightfully despises in them.”

  He continued, smiling wanly at de Bouillon: “Too, Monsieur’s point that the introduction of astounding ideas of freedom and enlightenment for the canaille would be catastrophic. I am astonished. I have long been aware of de Tremblant’s extraordinary idealism, but I believed it tempered with wit and intelligence. Men, as they age, have not been unknown to espouse strange and amazing causes. But I cannot understand de Rohan, who is a realist.”

  “I have said,” remarked de Bouillon, impatiently, “that this Dutchman hypnotized him. Had I not heard it myself, I should not have believed it.” He smiled acridly. “I swear to Monseigneur that de Rohan was literally incandescent.”

  “I should have enjoyed seeing that,” said the Cardinal, with a light laugh. “A red incandescence. Yes, that would have been edifying to see.” He daintily shaped a nail between two pinching fingers. “However, I cannot help but believe that de Rohan’s incandescence came less from a selfless fervor of soul than his own bottomless love of power. I have perceived, in my long dealings with my kind, that all ideals and revolutions which convulse mankind have their origin in one man’s fear, avarice or despair. De Rohan is without fear; he has not the intellect to experience despair. Therefore, it must be avarice. Yes, it must be avarice.”

  He mused, as de Bouillon listened with a tight and evil contraction of his lips: “I have gathered from your conversation, Monsieur le Duc, that our Dutchman has inspired in his audience a veritable lust to kill, even in our gentle de Tremblant. Now, when a man believes he kills for a noble ideal, he is in reality only trying to destroy his neighbor because that neighbor infuriates him by his racial or political differ
ences. This perplexes me. Our de Tremblant has shown no ferocity heretofore towards those who differ from him. He has often played chess with me, and is an excellent player. We have discussed many controversial things with the utmost amiability, enjoying each other’s conversation. Is it possible that in reality he has hated me, and that his passion to kill is inspired by that hatred? It must be so.”

  De Bouillon lifted his elegant hand impatiently, let it drop upon his knee with a sharp sound.

  “It pleases Monseigneur to be philosophical,” he said. “But I did not come to your Eminence to converse of subtleties. The fact remains that de Tremblant and the Dutchman must be prevented from going to England.”

  “Ah, yes,” sighed the Cardinal, gazing at him through hooded eyes. “That, certes, must be prevented. Has Monsieur any suggestions? Remember, we are not dealing with rabble or petty lords. We are dealing with a powerful magnate.”

  A look of frozen contempt stood in de Bouillon’s merciless eyes. “Monseigneur is reluctant to accomplish the inevitable?” he said.

  “On what charges can we seize de Tremblant and throw him into the Bastille, Monsieur? Ah, it annoys you that I speak so plainly. De Tremblant, it must also be remembered, is much beloved of the people of Paris. There is unrest abroad in France, ominous and strange and terrible things, and, should a cataclysm occur, those things would be precipitated. A de Tremblant in the Bastille is not a de Tremblant silenced. Monsieur must remember this. Even the King admires and loves him.”

  De Bouillon rose. He began to pace up and down the bed-chamber with silent and graceful steps, feline and swift. The Cardinal watched him, smiling covertly. Finally the Duc paused abruptly by the Cardinal’s bed, and gazed down at him with cold and virulent eyes.

  “Monseigneur, then, out of his reluctance and necessity, is willing to leave this matter in my hands? Even if de Tremblant is a most excellent chess-player?”