My father, René, Vidame d’Orrain, was twice married. By his first wife he had one son, Simon, who subsequently succeeded to his title and estates, and was through his life my bitter enemy. By his second wife, whom he married somewhat late in life, he had two sons the elder, Anne, known as the Chevalier de St. Martin from his mother’s lands, which he inherited; and the younger, Bertrand myself.

Simon betook himself early to the Court, and we heard but little of him, and that not to his credit; St. Martin went to Italy under the banner of Brissac; and as for me, my parents yielding to the persuasion of my mother’s uncle, the Bishop of Seez, decided that I should become a Churchman, and I was forthwith packed off to Paris, and entered at the College of Cambrai, being then about seventeen years of age. Being remarkably tall and strongly built, with a natural taste for all manly exercises, it might have been expected that my books saw little of me; but, on the contrary, I found in them a pleasure and a companionship that has lasted through my life. Thus it happened that I made considerable progress. So much so that the good Bishop, my great-uncle, often flattered me with the ambitious hopes of some day filling his Episcopal chair a hope that, I need not say, was never realised.

About this time, I being nineteen years of age, things happened that entirely altered my life. My mother sickened and died. Shortly after news came of the death of my brother St. Martin, who was killed in an affair of honour at Milan. The Vidame, my father, then in his eighty-first year, and much enfeebled by old wounds, especially one he had received at Fornovo, felt that his last hours were come, and summoned my brother Simon and myself home to receive his last blessing before he died.

I hurried back as fast as possible, but when I reached Orrain I found to my astonishment the gates of the Chateau closed against me, and Simon, leaning over the battlements, bade me begone.

Overcome with this reception, I was for a space struck speechless; but at length finding voice I begged, even with tears, to be allowed to see my father. But Simon sneered back:

“You will have to take a long journey, then; either below or above I know not which,” he mocked. “Your father is dead. He has left you his curse, and the lands of St. Martin are yours. I am master here at last, thank God! And I tell you to be off! Take that pink and white face of yours back to your College of Cambrai!”

He lied, for, as I afterwards heard, my father was not dead then, but lay dying in his chamber, to which no one but Simon had access, and over which he had placed a guard of his men-at-arms, a cut-throat set of Italians whom he ever had with him.

Simon’s cruel words stung me to the quick. My blood flamed with rage, and I dared him to come forth and meet me as a man; but he only laughed all the more, and, pointing to the tree of justice outside the gate, asked how I would like to swing from one of its branches. He added that, as I was his step-brother, he would give me a high one, if I chose.

I can almost see him now as I write this, with his cruel hatchet face snarling over the parapet, his red hair, his tall, thin figure and bent back if the truth were known, Simon’s affairs of gallantry must have been few.

In brief, despite all my efforts, I was unable to see my father, who died that night asking for me.

In the hamlet of Orrain itself I could find no shelter, although the villagers knew and loved me, and this was from fear of the new Vidame. I, however, found a temporary retreat in the forest, living there like a wild beast for four days, waiting with a burning heart for a chance of meeting Simon, but he never came forth.

On the fourth day my father was buried at dead of night in the Chapel of St. Hugo of Orrain, where every Vidame of Orrain, save one, lies.

Pierrebon, now my steward, and at that time my servant, and the only companion I had with me, brought me news from the village that this was to be, and I determined to be there at all hazard. This resolution I carried out, and Simon and I met beside our father’s grave. The time and the occasion sealed my lips and stayed my hand. Even Simon spake never a word, but, when it was all over, rode off sullenly through the night back to the Chateau, his cursed Italians around him, and with the dawn started off for Paris.

This I did too. There was nothing else to be done, and I returned to my College.

I was, however, no longer in the position of a poor cadet, without means or resource. My mother’s lands of St. Martin had come to me on Anne’s death. Even my great-uncle the good Bishop agreed with me, with many sighs, that the profession of arms was more suited to my present position than the Church, but advised me to stay for a year more in College, and fortify my mind by taking the course of Philosophy.

I very willingly assented to this; but the wealthy Chevalier d’Orrain as I was called I did not take the name of St. Martin was a vastly different person from the poor cadet of the past year. I found myself courted and sought after. I began to find pleasures in life unknown to me before, and in the young man of fashion, who entered the world a year later it was hardly possible to recognise the once quiet and studious Bertrand d’Orrain.

I plunged into the dissipations of the capital. At the Court I found a patron in Monseigneur the Duc d’Enghien. My extravagance and my follies brought me many reproofs from the Bishop of Seez, but the good man’s warnings were in vain, and might have been shouted to the stars. They were certainly at times loud enough to be heard there.

I often met Simon, now Vidame d’Orrain. He was high in favour with the Dauphin, who succeeded to the throne as Henri II., and his mistress, Diane de Poitiers, whom he made Duchess of Valentinois. By tacit consent there was an armed peace between us, though I well knew he would take any chance that might arise to my injury. As it was, we met, and passed each other without greeting, and in silence, ever with black looks, and hands on the hilts of our swords.

My acres began to diminish and the woods of St. Martin to go down. Things, in fact, were going from bad to worse, when war with the Emperor broke out afresh, and I was amongst the first of those who volunteered under Enghien for the Italian campaign. There I did my part, and shared in the day of Cerisolles as a captain in the Light Horse of Monsieur de Randan. Then, on the peace, back to Paris once more and the old life; with this difference, that now there was no restraining hand over me, for my great-uncle was dead. He left me his blessing, his copy of “Plutarch’s Lives,” and thirty crowns of the sun all his fortune for, though Bishop of Seez, he was a true shepherd of God, and laid up for himself all his treasures on high.

It was impossible that things could go on much longer without disaster, and the death murder, rather of that gallant prince the Duc d’Enghien deprived me of a protector upon whom I could always rely. This, followed by an unfortunate duel, the circumstances of which will be detailed later, precipitated matters. The Edict of Fontainebleau served as a weapon to my enemies, and it was put in force with the utmost rigour against me. My principal accuser was my unnatural step-brother the Vidame d’Orrain. He went so far as to charge me with aiding and harbouring the members of the New Heresy, and the discovery of a small leaflet printed at Geneva amongst my books was held to be sufficient proof against me. The affair of the duel I might have lived through, but this meant death. I took refuge in flight; it was the only course. I was condemned in my absence by the Chambre Ardente to the extreme penalty, and what remained of my property was given to Simon, who shared it with Diane, the mistress of the King.

Thus at five and twenty I found myself an exile, and penniless. One friend alone remained to me, and this was a young man of Orrain called Pierrebon, whom I have mentioned before. Through good and ill he adhered to me with ancient fidelity, and he lives still, honoured and trusted by all who know him.

Together we sought a refuge in the Low Countries, and there I learned the first great lesson of my life, and that was to live by honest work. For five years I labored, until I had amassed sufficient to give me a small estate of about fifty écus.

During those five years so many things had happened I myself was so changed that I began to think that I and my affairs had been consigned to oblivion, and that I might safely return to France. One day I was seized with an uncontrollable desire to see my native land once again. I determined to do so then and there, and a fortnight later, accompanied by Pierrebon, I was in Paris.

I had every reason to confirm the opinion I had formed, that I and my doings had been forgotten. In the humble class to which I now belonged no one had ever heard of the Chevalier d’Orrain. Here in Paris I felt I was safe, and I consequently determined to fix my abode in the great city. I hired an apartment in the Rue des Lavandières, and established myself there, giving out that I was a fencing-master. No pupils came; but at any rate there was peace and contentment. I formed no acquaintances except one, a certain Camus, a glove-maker, who had an apartment above mine. For some reason or other this man forced himself upon me, and though at first I repulsed his attentions he would not be denied, and I grew to tolerate him. He was possessed of extraordinary learning, and, under the guise of his ostensible calling, plied another terrible trade those who know the story of Jeanne of Navarre will know what I mean.

This I was unaware of at the time; but, despite myself, the man’s conversation interested me, so that I occasionally yielded to his importunities, and visited him for an hour or so after supper, when we passed the time in discussion.

In this manner close upon six years elapsed, until I myself had almost forgotten in the Bourgeois Broussel the name I assumed the once brilliant Chevalier d’Orrain. Pierrebon alone knew my secret, and he was as silent as the grave. At times the honest fellow would speak hopefully of a good day to come; but I poured cold water on that, and, pointing to my lute and my copy of “Plutarch’s Lives,” was wont to say that there was enough happiness there for my life without seeking to reopen the past or delve into the future.

One night I remember it well; it was the night of Pentecost, in the year 1555 I went up, at Camus’ request, to his apartment. I had not seen the old man for some time, and our talk was longer than usual. By some chance we began to discuss poisons, and Camus opened the stores of his curious knowledge. He had studied, he said, with a strange smile, the works of the Rabbi Moses bin Maimón, and was possessed of antidotes for each of the sixteen poisons; but there was one venom, outside the sixteen, the composition of which he knew, but to which there was no antidote. On my inquiry he stated that this was the poison used by the Borgia, and it was prepared as follows:

A bear having been caught, it was made to swallow a draught of Acqua di Borgia. On this beginning to take effect the bear was suspended head downwards. Whilst the animal was in convulsions there poured from his mouth a foamy stream. This, collected in a silver vessel and securely bottled, was the Borgia venom, and to this there was no antidote.

I made some remark of horror, and he laughed a dry, crackling laugh, and rose from his seat.

“I will show you,” he said, and was moving towards a press when we were startled by a cry from the street a cry for help:

“A moi! A moi!”