The Second G.A. Henty

by G. A. Henty

  The ceremony upon the following day was a most gorgeous one. The king, his two brothers, Henri of Navarre, and Conde were all dressed alike in light yellow satin, embroidered with silver, and enriched with precious stones. Marguerite was in a violet velvet dress, embroidered with fleurs de lis, and she wore on her head a crown glittering with gems. The queen and the queen mother were dressed in cloth of gold.

  Upon a lofty platform, in front of the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Henri of Navarre with his train of Protestant lords awaited the coming of the bride; who was escorted by the king, and all the members of his court. The ceremony was performed, in sight of an enormous concourse of people, by the Cardinal Bourbon, who used a form that had been previously agreed upon by both parties. Henri then led his bride into the cathedral; and afterwards, with his Protestant companions, retired to the Episcopal Palace while mass was being said. When this was over, the whole party sat down to dinner in the Episcopal Palace.

  In the evening an entertainment was given, in the Louvre, to the notabilities of Paris; and after supper there was a masque of the most lavish magnificence. On Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday there was a continuation of pageants and entertainments. During these festivities the king had shown marked courtesy to the Admiral and the Huguenot lords, and it seemed as if he had again emancipated himself from his mother’s influence; and the hopes of the Protestants, that he would shortly declare war with Spain, were raised to the highest point.

  Although the question was greatly debated at the time, and the belief that the massacre of the Protestants was deliberately planned long beforehand by the king and queen-mother is still generally entertained, the balance of evidence is strongly the other way. What dark thoughts may have passed through the scheming brain of Catharine de Medici none can say, but it would certainly appear that it was not until after the marriage of Henri and Marguerite that they took form. She was driven to bay. She saw that, in the event of a war with Spain, the Huguenots would become all powerful in France. Already the influence of the Admiral was greater than her own, and it had become a battle of life and death with her; for Coligny, in his fearless desire to do what was right, and for the service of France, was imprudent enough over and over again to warn the king against the evil influence of the queen mother and the Duke d’Anjou; and Charles, in his fits of temper, did not hesitate to divulge these counsels. The Duke d’Anjou and his mother, therefore, came to the conclusion that Coligny must be put out of the way.

  The duke, afterwards, did not scruple to avow his share in the preparations for the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. The Duchess of Nemours, her son Henri of Guise, and her brother-in-law the Duc d’Aumale were taken into their counsels, and the plan was speedily settled.

  Few as were the conspirators taken into the confidence of the queen mother, mysterious rumours of danger reached the ears of the Huguenots. Some of these, taking the alarm, left Paris and made for their estates; but by far the greater portion refused to believe that there could be danger to those whom the king had invited to be present upon such an occasion. In another week, Coligny would be leaving, having, as he hoped, brought the king entirely round to his views; and the vast majority of the Huguenot gentlemen resolved to stay until he left.

  Pierre grew more and more serious. Francois had left the lodgings, being one of the Huguenot gentlemen whom Henri of Navarre had chosen to lodge with him at the Louvre.

  “You are getting quite unbearable, Pierre, with your long face and your grim looks,” Philip said to him on the Friday morning, half in joke and half in earnest. “Why, man, in another week we shall be out of Paris, and on our way south.”

  “I hope so, Monsieur Philip, with all my heart I hope so; but I feel just as I used to do when I was a boy living in the woods, and I saw a thundercloud working up overhead. I cannot tell you why I feel so. It is something in the air. I wish sir, oh, so much! that you would leave at once.”

  “That I cannot do, Pierre. I have no estates that demand my attention, no excuse whatever for going. I came here with my cousin, and shall leave with him.”

  “Well, sir, if it must be, it must.”

  “But what is that you fear, Pierre?”

  “When one is in a town, sir, with Catharine de Medici, and her son Anjou, and the Guises, there is always something to fear. Guise is the idol of the mob of Paris, who have always shown themselves ready to attack the Huguenots. He has but to hold up his finger, and they would be swarming on us like bees.”

  “But there are troops in the town, Pierre, and the king would punish Paris heavily, were it to insult his guests.”

  “The king is a weathercock, and goes whichever way the wind blows, monsieur—today he is with the Admiral, tomorrow he may be with the Guises.

  “At any rate, I have taken my precautions. I quite understand that, if the danger is foreseen, you will all rally round the Admiral and try to fight your way out of Paris. But if it comes suddenly there will be no time for this. At any hour the mob may come surging up the streets, shouting, as they have often shouted before, ‘Death to the Huguenots!’ Then, monsieur, fighting would not avail you. You would be unable to join your friends, and you would have to think first of your own life.

  “I have been examining the house, and I find that from an upper window one can gain the roof. I got out yesterday evening, after it was dark, and found that I could easily make my way along. The tenth house from here is the one where the Count de Valecourt lodges, and it is easy to gain access to it by a window in the roof. There will be some of your friends there, at any rate. Or we can pass down through any of the intervening houses. In the three before we reach that of the count Huguenots are lodged. The others belong to Catholics, but it might be possible to pass down through them and to go into the street unobserved.

  “I have bought for myself some rags, such as are worn by the lowest of the mob; and for you a monk’s gown and hood. These I have placed securely against a chimney on our roof.

  “I have also, monsieur,” and Pierre’s eyes twinkled, “bought the dress of a woman of the lower class, thinking that there might be some lady you might be desirous of saving.”

  “You frighten me, Pierre, with your roofs and your disguises,” Philip said, looking with wonder at his follower. “Why, man, this is a nightmare of your own imagination.”

  “It may be so, master. If it is, no harm is done. I have laid out a few crowns uselessly, and there is an end of it. But if it should not be a nightmare, but a real positive danger, you would at least be prepared for it; and those few crowns may be the saving of our lives.”

  Philip walked up and down the room for some time.

  “At any rate, Pierre, you have acted wisely. As you say, the cost is as nothing; and though my reason revolts against a belief in this nightmare of yours, I am not such a fool as to refuse to pay any attention to it. I know that you are no coward, and certainly not one to indulge in wild fancies.

  “Let us go a step farther. Suppose that all this should turn out true, and that you, I, and—and some lady—are in disguise in the midst of a howling mob shouting, ‘Death to the Huguenots!’ What should we do next? Where should we go?

  “It seems to me that your disguise for me is a badly chosen one. As a monk, how could I keep with you as a beggar, still less with a woman?”

  “When I bought the monk’s robe I had not thought of a woman, monsieur. That was an afterthought. But what you say is just. I must get you another disguise. You shall be dressed as a butcher, or a smith.”

  “Let it be a smith, by all means, Pierre. Besides, it would be safer. I would smear my face with dirt. I should get plenty on my hands from climbing over the roofs.

  “Let us suppose ourselves, then, in the mob. What should we do next?”

  “That would all depend, sir, whether the soldiers follow the Guises and take part with the mob in their rising. If so, Paris would be in a turmoil from end to end, and the gates closed. I have thought it all over, again and again; and while your worship has b
een attending the entertainments, I have been walking about Paris.

  “If it is at night I should say we had best make for the river, take a boat and drift down; or else make for the walls, and lower ourselves by a rope from them. If it is in the day we could not do that; and I have found a hovel, at present untenanted, close to the walls, and we could wait there until night.”

  “You will end by making me believe this, Pierre,” Philip said angrily, as he again walked up and down the room, with impatient steps. “If you had a shadow of foundation for what you say, even a rumour that you had picked up in the street, I would go straight to the Admiral. But how could I go and say:

  “‘My servant, who is a faithful fellow, has taken it into his head that there is danger from an attack on us by the mob.’

  “What think you the Admiral would say to that? He would say that it was next door to treason to imagine such things, and that if men were to act upon such fancies as these, they would be fit only for hospitals for the insane. Moreover he would say that, even if you had evidence, even if you had something to show that treachery was meant, he would still, in the interest of France, stay at his post of duty.”

  At this moment the door opened, and Francois de Laville entered hurriedly.

  “What is the matter, Francois?” Philip exclaimed, seeing that his cousin looked pale and agitated.

  “Have you not heard the news?”

  “I have heard nothing. I have not been out this morning.”

  “The Admiral has been shot.”

  Philip uttered an exclamation of horror.

  “Not killed, Francois; not killed, I trust?”

  “No; two balls were fired, one took off a finger of his right hand, and another has lodged in his left arm. He had just left the king, who was playing at tennis, and was walking homewards with two or three gentlemen, when an arquebus was fired from a house not far from his own. Two of the gentlemen with him assisted him home, while some of the others burst in the door of the house.

  “They were too late. Only a woman and a manservant were found there. The assassin had fled by the back of the house, where a horse was standing in waiting. It is said that the house belongs to the old Duchess of Guise.

  “It is half an hour since the news reached the palace, and you may imagine the consternation it excited. The king has shut himself up in his room. Navarre and Conde are in deep grief, for they both regard the Admiral almost as a father. As for the rest of us, we are furious.

  “There is a report that the man who was seen galloping away from the house from which the shot was fired was that villain Maurevel, who so treacherously shot De Mouy, and was rewarded by the king for the deed. It is also said that a groom, in the livery of Guise, was holding the horse when the assassin issued out.

  “Navarre and Conde have gone to Coligny. The king’s surgeon is dressing his wounds.”

  Chapter 20

  The Tocsin

  As soon as Francois had finished his account of the attempted assassination of the Admiral, he and Philip sallied out, the latter having hastily armed himself.

  “I must go back to the Louvre,” Francois said, “and take my place by the King of Navarre. He is going to see the king, and to demand permission to leave Paris at once. Conde and La Rochefoucault are going to see the king, as soon as they return from the Admiral’s, for the same purpose; as it is evident their lives are not safe here.”

  Philip made his way to the Admiral’s house in the Rue de Bethisy. Numbers of Huguenot gentlemen were hurrying in that direction; all, like himself, armed, and deeply moved with grief and indignation; for Coligny was regarded with a deep affection, as well as reverence, by his followers. Each, as he overtook others, eagerly inquired the news; for as yet most of them had learned nothing beyond vague rumours of the affair.

  Philip’s account of it increased their indignation. So it was no act of a mere fanatic, but the work of the Guises, and probably of Catharine and Anjou.

  In a short time between two and three hundred gentlemen were gathered in the courtyard and antechamber of Coligny’s house. Some walked up and down, silent and stern. Others gathered in groups, and passionately discussed the matter. This was an attack not only upon the Admiral but upon the Huguenots in general. It was the work of the Guises, ever the deadliest foes of the Reformed faith—the authors of every measure taken against them, the cause of all the blood that had been shed in the civil wars.

  One thing was certain: all must leave Paris, and prepare for a renewal of the war. But it was equally certain they could not leave until the Admiral was fit to be moved.

  “Truly he is a saint,” said one of the gentlemen, who had come down from the room where Coligny was lying. “He suffered atrociously in the hands of the surgeon, for he had come without his instruments, and amputated Coligny’s fingers with a dagger so blunt that it was only on the third attempt that he succeeded. Merlin, his minister, was by his side, with several of his most intimate friends. We were in tears at the sight of our noble chief thus traitorously struck down. He turned to us and said calmly:

  “‘My friends, why do you weep? As for me, I deem myself happy at having thus received wounds for the sake of God.’

  “Then he said that, most sincerely, he forgave the man who wounded him, and those who had instigated him to make the attack; knowing for certain that it was beyond their power to hurt him for, even should they kill him, death would be a certain passage to life.”

  An hour later Francois arrived.

  “The prince has seen the king, Philip. He is furious, and has sworn that he will inflict the most signal punishment upon the authors and instigators of the crime: Coligny had received the wound, but he himself most felt the smart. The King of Navarre told me he was sure that Charles was deeply in earnest. He feels it in a threefold sense: first, because it is the renewal of the troubles that he had hoped had been put an end to; in the second place, because Coligny is his guest; and lastly, because he has the greatest respect and confidence in him, not only believing in his wisdom, but knowing that his counsel is always sincere and disinterested.

  “He is coming to visit the Admiral himself, this afternoon, Philip. It is no use our staying here. There is nothing to be done, and no prospect of seeing the Admiral.”

  As they moved towards the entrance to the courtyard, the Count de Valecourt joined them.

  “I have just left the Admiral,” he said. “He is easier, and the king’s surgeon is of opinion that he will recover from his wounds, and possibly may be fit to travel in a litter, in another week.”

  “That is good news, indeed,” Francois said; “for the sooner we are all out of Paris, the better.”

  “There is no doubt of that,” the count agreed; “but as all say that the king is furious at this attack upon the Admiral, I do not think the Guises dare strike another blow for some time. Still, I shall be glad, indeed, when we can set forth.

  “It is certain we cannot leave the Admiral here. The villains who are responsible for the attempt will be furious at its failure, and next time they may use the weapon to which they are most accustomed—poison. Even if the king himself begged him to stay at the Louvre, until cured, Catharine de Medici is there; and I would not trust him under the same roof with her, for all my estates.

  “We have been talking it over, and all agree that we must wait until he can be moved. Inconstant as Charles is, there can be no fear of a change in his friendly intentions now. He has already closed all the gates of Paris save two, and everyone who goes in or out is closely questioned, and has to show his papers.”

  By this time, they had arrived at the door of the count’s dwelling.

  “Come in, monsieur,” he said. “My daughter is terribly upset at this attack upon the Admiral, for whom she has a profound reverence and, were she a Catholic, would, I doubt not, make him her patron saint.”

  “How is he, father?” Claire asked eagerly, as they entered the room.

  “He is better, Claire. The king’s physicia
n thinks he has every chance of recovering.”

  “God be praised!” she said earnestly. “It would indeed have been a terrible day for us all, had the assassin taken his life; and it would have seemed a mark of Heaven’s anger at this marriage of the Protestant king with a Catholic princess. What says King Charles?”

  “He is as angry as any of us; and declares that the assassin, and those who abetted him, shall be punished in the severest manner. He has visited the Admiral, and expressed his grief and indignation to him.”

  “I shall be glad to be back in Dauphiny, father. This city, with its wickedness and its violence, is hateful to me.”

  “We shall go soon, dear. The doctor hopes that, in a week, the Admiral will be well enough to be moved in a litter; and we shall all accompany him.”

  “A week is a long time, father. So much may happen in a week.”

  “There is no fear of anything happening, Claire. You must not let this sad business affect your nerves. The anger of the king is so great that you may be sure none will attempt to repeat this stroke.

  “What think you, Monsieur de Laville?”

  “I agree with you altogether, count.”

  “And you, Monsieur Philip?”

  “I see no cause for fear, count; and yet, I feel sure that it would be well to take every precaution. I acknowledge that I have no grounds whatever for my fear. I have been infected by my lackey, who is generally the lightest hearted and most reckless fellow; but who has now turned croaker, and fears a sudden rising of the mob of Paris, instigated thereto by the Guises.”

  “Has he heard anything to favour such an idea, or is it merely born of today’s outrage?”

  “No, I think he has heard nothing specific, though he may have caught up vague threats in wandering through the streets.”

  “Why, that is not like you,” the count said, smiling, “who have been through so many fights and dangerous adventures, to be alarmed at a shadow.”

  “No, count, I do not think that I am given, any more than is my lackey, to sombre thoughts; but I own that he has infected me, and I would that some precautions could be taken.”