If the discovery that Tignonville had fallen into her husband’s hands had not sufficed to crush her, Count Hannibal’s tone must have done so. The shoot of new life which had raised its head after those dreadful days in Paris, and — for she was young — had supported her under the weight which the peril of Angers had cast on her shoulders, died, withered under the heel of his brutality. The pride which had supported her, which had won Tavannes’ admiration and exacted his respect, sank, as she sank herself, bowed to her horse’s neck, weeping bitter tears before him. She abandoned herself to her misery, as she had once abandoned herself in the upper room in Paris.
And he looked at her. He had willed to crush her; he had his will, and he was not satisfied. He had bowed her so low that his magnanimity would now have its full effect, would shine as the sun into a dark world; and yet he was not happy. He could look forward to the morrow, and say, “She will understand me, she will know me!” and, lo, the thought that she wept for her lover stabbed him, and stabbed him anew; and he thought, “Rather would she death from him, than life from me! Though I give her creation, it will not alter her! Though I strike the stars with my head, it is he who fills her world.”
The thought spurred him to further cruelty, impelled him to try if, prostrate as she was, he could not draw a prayer from her.
“You don’t ask after him?” he scoffed. “He may be before or behind? Or wounded or well? Would you not know, Madame? And what message he sent you? And what he fears, and what hope he has? And his last wishes? And — for while there is life there is hope — would you not learn where the key of his prison lies to-night? How much for the key to-night, Madame?”
Each question fell on her like the lash of a whip; but as one who has been flogged into insensibility, she did not wince. That drove him on: he felt a mad desire to hear her prayers, to force her lower, to bring her to her knees. And he sought about for a keener taunt. Their attendants were almost out of sight before them; the sun, declining apace, was in their eyes.
“In two hours we shall be in Angers,” he said. “Mon Dieu, Madame, it was a pity, when you two were taking letters, you did not go a step farther. You were surprised, or I doubt if I should be alive to-day!”
Then she did look up. She raised her head and met his gaze with such wonder in her eyes, such reproach in her tear-stained face, that his voice sank on the last word.
“You mean — that I would have murdered you?” she said. “I would have cut off my hand first. What I did” — and now her voice was as firm as it was low— “what I did, I did to save my people. And if it were to be done again, I would do it again!”
“You dare to tell me that to my face?” he cried, hiding feelings which almost choked him. “You would do it again, would you? Mon Dieu, Madame, you need to be taught a lesson!”
And by chance, meaning only to make the horses move on again, he raised his whip. She thought that he was going to strike her, and she flinched at last. The whip fell smartly on her horse’s quarters, and it sprang forward. Count Hannibal swore between his teeth.
He had turned pale, she red as fire. “Get on! Get on!” he cried harshly. “We are falling behind!” And riding at her heels, flipping her horse now and then, he forced her to trot on until they overtook the servants.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE BLACK TOWN.
It was late evening when, riding wearily on jaded horses, they came to the outskirts of Angers, and saw before them the term of their journey. The glow of sunset had faded, but the sky was still warm with the last hues of day; and against its opal light the huge mass of the Angevin castle, which even in sunshine rises dark and forbidding above the Mayenne, stood up black and sharply defined. Below it, on both banks of the river, the towers and spires of the city soared up from a sombre huddle of ridge-roofs, broken here by a round-headed gateway, crumbling and pigeon-haunted, that dated from St. Louis, and there by the gaunt arms of a windmill.
The city lay dark under a light sky, keeping well its secrets. Thousands were out of doors enjoying the evening coolness in alley and court, yet it betrayed the life which pulsed in its arteries only by the low murmur which rose from it. Nevertheless, the Countess at sight of its roofs tasted the first moment of happiness which had been hers that day. She might suffer, but she had saved. Those roofs would thank her! In that murmur were the voices of women and children she had redeemed! At the sight and at the thought a wave of love and tenderness swept all bitterness from her breast. A profound humility, a boundless thankfulness took possession of her. Her head sank lower above her horse’s mane; but this time it sank in reverence, not in shame.
Could she have known what was passing beneath those roofs which night was blending in a common gloom — could she have read the thoughts which at that moment paled the cheeks of many a stout burgher, whose gabled house looked on the great square, she had been still more thankful. For in attics and back rooms women were on their knees at that hour, praying with feverish eyes; and in the streets men — on whom their fellows, seeing the winding-sheet already at the chin, gazed askance — smiled, and showed brave looks abroad, while their hearts were sick with fear.
For darkly, no man knew how, the news had come to Angers. It had been known, more or less, for three days. Men had read it in other men’s eyes. The tongue of a scold, the sneer of an injured woman had spread it, the birds of the air had carried it. From garret window to garret window across the narrow lanes of the old town it had been whispered at dead of night; at convent grilles, and in the timber-yards beside the river. Ten thousand, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand, it was rumoured, had perished in Paris. In Orleans, all. In Tours this man’s sister; at Saumur that man’s son. Through France the word had gone forth that the Huguenots must die; and in the busy town the same roof-tree sheltered fear and hate, rage and cupidity. On one side of the party-wall murder lurked fierce-eyed; on the other, the victim lay watching the latch, and shaking at a step. Strong men tasted the bitterness of death, and women clasping their babes to their breasts smiled sickly into children’s eyes.
The signal only was lacking. It would come, said some, from Saumur, where Montsoreau, the Duke of Anjou’s Lieutenant-Governor and a Papist, had his quarters. From Paris, said others, directly from the King. It might come at any hour now, in the day or in the night; the magistrates, it was whispered, were in continuous session, awaiting its coming. No wonder that from lofty gable windows, and from dormers set high above the tiles, haggard faces looked northward and eastward, and ears sharpened by fear imagined above the noises of the city the ring of the iron shoes that carried doom.
Doubtless the majority desired — as the majority in France have always desired — peace. But in the purlieus about the cathedral and in the lanes where the sacristans lived, in convent parlours and college courts, among all whose livelihood the new faith threatened, was a stir as of a hive deranged. Here was grumbling against the magistrates — why wait? There, stealthy plannings and arrangements; everywhere a grinding of weapons and casting of slugs. Old grudges, new rivalries, a scholar’s venom, a priest’s dislike, here was final vent for all. None need leave this feast unsated!
It was a man of this class, sent out for the purpose, who first espied Count Hannibal’s company approaching. He bore the news into the town, and by the time the travellers reached the city gate, the dusky street within, on which lights were beginning to twinkle from booths and casements, was alive with figures running to meet them and crying the news as they ran. The travellers, weary and road-stained, had no sooner passed under the arch than they found themselves the core of a great crowd which moved with them and pressed about them; now unbonneting, and now calling out questions, and now shouting, “Vive le Roi! Vive le Roi!” Above the press, windows burst into light; and over all, the quaint leaning gables of the old timbered houses looked down on the hurry and tumult.
They passed along a narrow street in which the rabble, hurrying at Count Hannibal’s bridle, and often looking back to read his face, had much ado to
escape harm; along this street and before the yawning doors of a great church whence a breath heavy with incense and burning wax issued to meet them. A portion of the congregation had heard the tumult and struggled out, and now stood close-packed on the steps under the double vault of the portal. Among them the Countess’s eyes, as she rode by, a sturdy man-at-arms on either hand, caught and held one face. It was the face of a tall, lean man in dusty black; and though she did not know him she seemed to have an equal attraction for him; for as their eyes met he seized the shoulder of the man next him and pointed her out. And something in the energy of the gesture, or in the thin lips and malevolent eyes of the man who pointed, chilled the Countess’s blood and shook her, she knew not why.
Until then, she had known no fear save of her husband. But at that a sense of the force and pressure of the crowd — as well as of the fierce passions, straining about her, which a word might unloose — broke upon her; and looking to the stern men on either side she fancied that she read anxiety in their faces.
She glanced behind. Boot to boot, the Count’s men came on, pressing round her women and shielding them from the exuberance of the throng. In their faces too she thought that she traced uneasiness. What wonder if the scenes through which she had passed in Paris began to recur to her mind, and shook nerves already overwrought?
She began to tremble. “Is there — danger?” she muttered, speaking in a low voice to Bigot, who rode on her right hand. “Will they do anything?”
The Norman snorted. “Not while he is in the saddle,” he said, nodding towards his master, who rode a pace in front of them, his reins loose. “There be some here know him!” Bigot continued, in his drawling tone. “And more will know him if they break line. Have no fear, Madame, he will bring you safe to the inn. Down with the Huguenots?” he continued, turning from her and addressing a rogue who, holding his stirrup, was shouting the cry till he was crimson. “Then why not away, and—”
“The King! The King’s word and leave!” the man answered.
“Ay, tell us!” shrieked another, looking upward, while he waved his cap; “have we the King’s leave?”
“You’ll bide his leave!” the Norman retorted, indicating the Count with his thumb. “Or ‘twill be up with you — on the three-legged horse!”
“But he comes from the King!” the man panted.
“To be sure. To be sure!”
“Then—”
“You’ll bide his time! That’s all!” Bigot answered, rather it seemed for his own satisfaction than the other’s enlightenment. “You’ll all bide it, you dogs!” he continued in his beard, as he cast his eye over the weltering crowd. “Ha! so we are here, are we? And not too soon, either.”
He fell silent as they entered an open space, overlooked on one side by the dark façade of the cathedral, on the other three sides by houses more or less illumined. The rabble swept into this open space with them and before them, filled much of it in an instant, and for a while eddied and swirled this way and that, thrust onward by the worshippers who had issued from the church and backwards by those who had been first in the square, and had no mind to be hustled out of hearing. A stranger, confused by the sea of excited faces, and deafened by the clamour of “Vive le Roi!” “Vive Anjou!” mingled with cries against the Huguenots, might have fancied that the whole city was arrayed before him. But he would have been wide of the mark. The scum, indeed — and a dangerous scum — frothed and foamed and spat under Tavannes’ bridle-hand; and here and there among them, but not of them, the dark-robed figure of a priest moved to and fro; or a Benedictine, or some smooth-faced acolyte egged on to the work he dared not do. But the decent burghers were not there. They lay bolted in their houses; while the magistrates, with little heart to do aught except bow to the mob — or other their masters for the time being — shook in their council chamber.
There is not a city of France which has not seen it; which has not known the moment when the mass impended, and it lay with one man to start it or stay its course. Angers within its houses heard the clamour, and from the child, clinging to its mother’s skirt, and wondering why she wept, to the Provost, trembled, believing that the hour had come. The Countess heard it too, and understood it. She caught the savage note in the voice of the mob — that note which means danger — and, her heart beating wildly, she looked to her husband. Then, fortunately for her, fortunately for Angers, it was given to all to see that in Count Hannibal’s saddle sat a man.
He raised his hand for silence, and in a minute or two — not at once, for the square was dusky — it was obtained. He rose in his stirrups, and bared his head.
“I am from the King!” he cried, throwing his voice to all parts of the crowd. “And this is his Majesty’s pleasure and good will! That every man hold his hand until to-morrow on pain of death, or worse! And at noon his further pleasure will be known! Vive le Roi!”
And he covered his head again.
“Vive le Roi!” cried a number of the foremost. But their shouts were feeble and half-hearted, and were quickly drowned in a rising murmur of discontent and ill-humour, which, mingled with cries of “Is that all? Is there no more? Down with the Huguenots!” rose from all parts. Presently these cries became merged in a persistent call, which had its origin, as far as could be discovered, in the darkest corner of the square. A call for “Montsoreau! Montsoreau! Give us Montsoreau!”
With another man, or had Tavannes turned or withdrawn, or betrayed the least anxiety, words had become actions, disorder a riot; and that in the twinkling of an eye. But Count Hannibal, sitting his horse, with his handful of riders behind him, watched the crowd, as little moved by it as the Armed Knight of Notre Dame. Only once did he say a word. Then, raising his hand as before to gain a hearing —
“You ask for Montsoreau?” he thundered. “You will have Montfaucon if you do not quickly go to your homes!”
At which, and at the glare of his eye, the more timid took fright. Feeling his gaze upon them, seeing that he had no intention of withdrawing, they began to sneak away by ones and twos. Soon others missed them and took the alarm, and followed. A moment and scores were streaming away through lanes and alleys and along the main street. At last the bolder and more turbulent found themselves a remnant. They glanced uneasily at one another and at Tavannes, took fright in their turn, and plunging into the current hastened away, raising now and then as they passed through the streets a cry of “Vive Montsoreau! Montsoreau!” — which was not without its menace for the morrow.
Count Hannibal waited motionless until no more than half a dozen groups remained in the open. Then he gave the word to dismount; for, so far, even the Countess and her women had kept their saddles, lest the movement which their retreat into the inn must have caused should be misread by the mob. Last of all he dismounted himself, and with lights going before him and behind, and preceded by Bigot, bearing his cloak and pistols, he escorted the Countess into the house. Not many minutes had elapsed since he had called for silence; but long before he reached the chamber looking over the square from the first floor, in which supper was being set for them, the news had flown through the length and breadth of Angers that for this night the danger was past. The hawk had come to Angers, and lo! it was a dove.
Count Hannibal strode to one of the open windows and looked out. In the room, which was well lighted, were people of the house, going to and fro, setting out the table; to Madame, standing beside the hearth — which held its summer dressing of green boughs — while her woman held water for her to wash, the scene recalled with painful vividness the meal at which she had been present on the morning of the St. Bartholomew — the meal which had ushered in her troubles. Naturally her eyes went to her husband, her mind to the horror in which she had held him then; and with a kind of shock — perhaps because the last few minutes had shown him in a new light — she compared her old opinion of him with that which, much as she feared him, she now entertained.
This afternoon, if ever, within the last few hours, if at all
, he had acted in a way to justify that horror and that opinion. He had treated her — brutally; he had insulted and threatened her, had almost struck her. And yet — and yet Madame felt that she had moved so far from the point which she had once occupied that the old attitude was hard to understand. Hardly could she believe that it was on this man, much as she still dreaded him, that she had looked with those feelings of repulsion.
She was still gazing at him with eyes which strove to see two men in one, when he turned from the window. Absorbed in thought, she had forgotten her occupation, and stood, the towel suspended in her half-dried hands. Before she knew what he was doing he was at her side; he bade the woman hold the bowl, and he rinsed his hands. Then he turned, and without looking at the Countess, he dried his hands on the farther end of the towel which she was still using.
She blushed faintly. A something in the act, more intimate and more familiar than had ever marked their intercourse, set her blood running strangely. When he turned away and bade Bigot unbuckle his spur-leathers, she stepped forward.
“I will do it!” she murmured, acting on a sudden and unaccountable impulse. And as she knelt, she shook her hair about her face to hide its colour.
“Nay, Madame, but you will soil your fingers!” he said coldly.
“Permit me,” she muttered half coherently. And though her fingers shook, she pursued and performed her task.
When she rose he thanked her; and then the devil in the man, or the Nemesis he had provoked when he took her by force from another — the Nemesis of jealousy, drove him to spoil all.
“And for whose sake, Madame?” he added, with a jeer; “mine or M. de Tignonville’s?” And with a glance between jest and earnest, he tried to read her thoughts.
She winced as if he had indeed struck her, and the hot colour fled her cheeks.
“For his sake!” she said, with a shiver of pain. “That his life may be spared!” And she stood back humbly, like a beaten dog. Though, indeed, it was for the sake of Angers, in thankfulness for the past rather than in any desperate hope of propitiating her husband, that she had done it!
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 391
