The traitor's way

As the last trembling notes of the vesper bells died away, the gates of Cipierre’s house opened, and Marcilly and myself, accompanied by one of the Swiss, rode out into the square. We had judged it wise to take a man in Cipierre’s colors with us, as, in case of any accident, the fact of our being accompanied by one of the guards of the governor of Orleans might prove of advantage. Marcilly had resumed his mask. This now would not attract the attention it had done in full day, for it was a common enough custom to wear such a thing after sunset, as a protection against the inclemency of the night air.

“Are Cipierre and Sancerre to be let into our confidence?” I said in Spanish, to avoid any chance of the Swiss understanding our converse.

“I have been thinking of that a good deal,” Marcilly replied, “and it will all depend upon how far they are willing to go. Sancerre is ready enough to move, I believe—Maligny was strong in insisting on that. As for Cipierre, he may think himself bound by his office, as Captain of Orleans, not to do anything.”

“In that case we are leaning on a very doubtful support if we trust to Cipierre to get us access to the palace to-night.”

“Not so. He will do that much. He hates the Guise, and, rough soldier as he is, he loves me well. There may be a little difficulty, and I may have to use some of the diplomacy I learned in the Spanish Embassy; but we will get our interview with Catherine. Once arouse their enthusiasm, and they will be with us for good and all. Courage! We have little to fear on that score.”

We were in the Hallebarde at the time of this conversation, and the contrast, between the state of the streets on our entry into the town and now, was marked. The expiation was over, and the Loire was carrying down its sluggish current the ashes of the unfortunate victim of a ferocious bigotry. Orleans had returned to its hive, but still the excitement of the awful scene had not passed. The Hallebarde was full, and the shops had reopened, even for the short time that lay between this and the hour, nine o’clock, by which, under the edict, all lights were to be extinguished.

The street itself was dim, lit only by stray lanterns, hanging at long intervals, on ropes that ran across from house to house, but the pavement was awake to the tramp of passing feet, and men and women flitted before us like gray shadows, or stood out in bold silhouette against the lights from the doors of a cabaret, or the windows of a shop, or maybe dwelling-house. Every now and again a group of lackeys, with drawn swords and lighted torches, would pass us, escorting the litter of some court lady or priest of rank, and almost at every hundred paces we met a party of mounted men, who went by us with a clattering of arms, and a flashing of steel, while above the insistent hum of voices we often caught a word or phrase, that told us what was the one subject of conversation. They were full of what had happened, and of what was to be.

It was, however, in the Rue du Tabourg that a thing occurred that seemed to be an omen of success. We were at the spot where the Cheval Rouge crosses the Tabourg, and were for a moment arrested by a crowd gathered around the entrance to an ordinary, and extending from the door itself almost across the street. As we came up we heard a voice cry out loudly: “Imbeciles! Wait till the 10th. The expiation of our Caillaud will be nothing to that. We will see something on the 10th.” And the speaker, a tall, thin man, with projecting teeth and a wrinkled face, stood in the full glare of the light, swinging his arms over his head.

“And what will we see?” questioned a voice from the crowd.

The tall man looked around him, and into the darkness. He was about to say something, but the people answered for him:

“The Prince! The Prince dies on the 10th!”

“The Prince will not die,” answered the voice, and this time I saw as well as heard the speaker. He was on my left, in the shadow of the wall, between my horse and the door of the cabaret, and he was the jester of the Place de Martroi.

“How? Why?” exclaimed a dozen voices; but with his odd laugh the jester slipped back, and mingled with the shadow. He seemed, so suddenly did he vanish from my sight, to have melted into air.

We pushed through the crowd, who were asking each other eager questions, as to who had answered the tall man in so strange a manner, and as we got clear of them Marcilly remarked:

“The laugh I heard reminded me much of the jester we met in the Martroi.”

“It was he,” I answered; “I saw him distinctly. He was close to my nag’s head. You heard what he said?”

“That the Prince would not die on the 10th.”

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you think of it?”

“What can I think? If the fool belongs to the Court, he may have heard some gossip, and took the opportunity to repeat what he knew. If, on the other hand, it is one of those vain winds that whistle through the head of folly——”

“Excellencies, we stop here,” said the Swiss; “this is the Comte de Sancerre’s house.”

We rode into the courtyard, and dismounting, gave our horses to the lackeys who came to meet us. As we ascended the stairway Marcilly remarked:

“This is the house that Agnes Sorel lived in. It came to Sancerre with his wife, and old de Beuil has lived here since her death. Though of the first nobility, and a faithful servant of the King, he is now never seen in Paris. He went out as the Guise came in.”

“I confess I am curious to meet him—the one peer of France, the one knight of the King’s Order, who refused in full Council to sign the death-warrant of the Prince.”

“Hum! I don’t know that the King’s Order is much of an honor now, though you and I both hold it. They have given it to every Italian bravo, or sneaking Lorrainer that can boast of having a grandfather—truly, Tiercelin said well when he called it the Collar of all the Beasts.”

As he spoke we were shown into a small room, where, close to the fireplace, covers were laid for four. There was no one in the room when we entered, and while Marcilly sank wearily on to a seat, I leaned against the window, now watching the gray night outside, and the dim twinkling of the lamps in the city, then turning my eyes in idle curiosity, on the quaint tapestry and old arms with which the walls were hung.

We had not, however, to wait above a few minutes. Then we heard voices in eager converse, the door opened, and Sancerre and the Captain of Orleans entered with a warm welcome and excuses for keeping us waiting. Louis de Beuil, Comte de Sancerre, was at that time nearly seventy years of age. In person he was tall and thin, with a pale face, bright blue eyes, and a white beard that fell half-way down his chest. He was dressed in black, and walked with a slight stoop. Cipierre, on the other hand, though he counted as many years as Sancerre, was in marked contrast to him. I can picture him now standing before me, a gray old wolf, with his square jaw, short, bristling moustache, and closely cut beard.

“Monsieur de Vibrac,” said Sancerre, as he shook me by the hand, “believe me, I welcome you here; but you come to a city which ought to be in sackcloth.”

Cipierre tugged at his moustache, and glanced from Marcilly to me, as he cut in, with a short laugh:

“Ste. Croix! If I did my duty, nephew, both you and monsieur here ought to be on your way to the Hôtel de Ville. What grasshopper did you get into your head, to put yourself into the lion’s jaws as you have?”

To tell the truth, I began to feel a trifle uncomfortable at this sudden change of manner in the vicomte, but Jean replied calmly:

“How, monsieur? You would send us to the Hôtel de Ville, who come to offer our swords to the King? Believe me, they will be more useful than our heads sticking on the spikes of the Porte Royale.”

Cipierre laughed once more. “Let me tell you, you would be safer in the Hôtel de Ville than out of it.”

“With Monsieur Sarlaboux to guard us! My uncle, you are too kind! I little thought that Cipierre would ever serve the Guise.”

The shot told, and the brown cheek of the old soldier became brick red.

“Mordieu! I serve the Guise! Since when? If the King, or even Madame Catherine, would but lift a finger, I—yes I, mordieu!——”

Here Sancerre interrupted him, and, placing his hand on Cipierre’s shoulder, said with his quiet voice:

“Steady, old friend! Even our heads are shaking. Be careful lest they fall! Come, messieurs! Let us to supper. The blood runs cold at my age, and I need something to warm it. And you, too, gentlemen, I doubt not, are famished.”

For some little time the conversation confined itself to the event of the day, but when at last we were alone with the wine, Sancerre said, with a look at Cipierre:

“Messieurs, we are alone now, and these walls are deaf, so we can speak freely. Let me tell you that the air of Orleans is unhealthy at present. Take my advice and go with the dawn.”

“But, monsieur, we came, as I said, to offer our swords to the King.”

“The King,” said Cipierre, “will soon need no earthly sword to protect him. He is dying.”

“Dying! Is it as bad as that?”

“Yes, Monsieur de Vibrac. It is a matter of days only, I fear, and after that—well, I am an old man, and I have served them for fifty years; but with his death it is an end to the Valois.”

“Monsieur, how can that be? There are the other Princes.”

“Leaves drop from a dead tree, monsieur.”

“And to compare it with other things, I have known an eagle take a lamb before.”

It was Marcilly who spoke, and, at this reference to the crest of Guise, Cipierre swore under his moustache; and I went on with the talk, saying:

“It appears to me that the eagle must reckon with Bourbon.”

“The account is almost made up,” said Sancerre; “the ambition of Catherine and the folly of the Constable have played well into the hands of Guise. The Bourbon is a dead legend, unless a miracle were to happen. Navarre is a fool and a sot. Montpensier has been bought with the pears of Touraine, and La Roche-sur-Yonne with the quinces of the Orléanais. There remains only Condé, and his head falls on the 10th. After that, Cipierre, you and I, and all of us, must bend the knee to King Francis the Third.”

“Never!” exclaimed Cipierre; “never!” and he struck his open palm on the table. “Why! I remember Claude of Lorraine a mere gentleman of the Court—and his son King! Never!”

“Why should not the miracle happen?” It was Jean who spoke, and our eyes met. His face had paled a little, and the hand which held his goblet shook, but the moment had come. I saw he was about to risk a hazard and waited, unquiet and troubled.

“I do not follow you,” said Sancerre, whilst Cipierre turned a questioning eye on his nephew.

“Messieurs,” he began, “I and my friends have come here and placed our lives in your hands, not in idle recklessness, but because we have a great work to do. I have said, placed our lives in your hands, but from you I know we are safe; and we know, too—all France knows—that the King has no servants more loyal than de Beuil of Sancerre, and the head of my house. Is it not as I say?”

Neither made reply. Cipierre kept pulling at his moustache, and Sancerre’s white forehead wrinkled slightly; but his keen blue eyes said “Go on,” and Jean continued:

“We have just seen that between the Guise and the throne there is but one life to be reckoned with. How it has come to that, you know as well as I do. We have, in short, just discussed it, and it is needless to go over the same ground again. Now, gentlemen, are we to sit still and see Louis of Bourbon die?”

“It is the King’s order,” said Cipierre, drily.

“And that sentence has been confirmed by the Estates of France, to their eternal disgrace,” added Sancerre.

“I had thought that five thousand swords would have flashed from their scabbards ere a prince of the blood died at the nod of Guise.”

“The flashing is over, monsieur, and the gutters of Amboise still run red. The Guise have won the game, curse them!” said Cipierre.

“On the contrary, there are still a few cards for us,” replied Marcilly. He had risen from his chair and was standing at the table now, the light full on his resolute features.

“My lords!” he went on solemnly, “we all know the issue at stake. We all know, too, that there are times when one or two devoted men have done what was thought to be impossible. Vibrac and I have come to attempt this, and we ask your help. I see before me one in whose veins runs the blood royal of France. I see before me a soldier of the days of Pavia and Cerisoles, the head of my house, whose battle cry is ‘For my Honor and my King!’ Do I appeal to them in vain?”

“What can we do?” asked Cipierre. “Are we to open the windows and call out ‘A Condé?! A Condé!’ Think you that the town will rise? Guise is Lieutenant-General of the kingdom. He has two thousand lances at his back. He holds the King and Madame Catherine in the hollow of his hand. No, the wine is drawn, messieurs, and there is nothing left but the drinking.”

“Then, my lords, you appear to think that we must stand still and look on while Guise makes his last stroke! That we, Frenchmen, should sit in our balconies, while the Lorrainers keep our streets! You risk nothing by joining us. In any case, if Guise wins, it is ruin, if not death to us all. Let me tell you one thing more. It is possible that the Constable may move at once, and the Admiral is already raising Poitou; yet again, Catherine is now with us, and another still—the Queen herself.”

“Mary of Scotland—the niece of Guise!” exclaimed Cipierre, while Sancerre smiled quietly, as he said: “You are well informed, Marcilly.”

“You see,” continued Marcilly, taking no note of the interruptions, “that we still have some cards, and if we can save the Prince, the Guise lose their game totally. Vibrac and I are here to do that, and, my lords, we seek but your aid to see the Queen-Mother and the King to-night, for there is no time to lose.”

He resumed his seat, and for the moment there was a silence. Cipierre toyed with his glass, and Sancerre leaned back, stroking his beard. All at once he rose, with a smile on his face, and, turning toward the vicomte, said:

“Cipierre, old friend, will I tell you what we are going to do? We now go to take these two gentlemen to the palace. We now go to bear two good swords to the King. We now go to awake my friend. We have been asleep. We would be traitors to our blood and our honor if we refused our help, and if the worst comes to the worst, we are both old enough to have learned how to die. Gentlemen, I am with you,” and he turned to us. “Give me your hands.”

“Mordieu!” burst out Cipierre, “and mine too. Come what may!”