We reined up on the edge of a shelving
bank, and the Mable swirled before us. Beyond
the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile
higher upstream, lay Richelieu. Late though it
was there were many lights still burning, and now
and then a fitful flare, that made the houses stand
out redly for a moment, led me to think that the place
was occupied by troops or marauders; and if so, the
result would in either case be the same for the town,
or for ourselves if we ventured thither. It must
be remembered that the King’s Writ was waste-paper
here. All that was ill was loose in the land,
and though Montpensier from the north and Montluc
from the south struck with heavy hands, the Christaudins or
Huguenots, as they called them held all
the country from the chalks of Chatellerault to Saumur,
and from Fontenaye to Thouars and La Mothe St. Heraye.
Craning forward from the saddle I
looked in the direction of the town, muttering to
myself: “It may be out of the frying-pan
into the fire.” And as I did so mademoiselle
exclaimed:
“Monsieur, why do we stay?
That is Richelieu; and they follow us. Cross,
cross!”
I made no answer; but Pierrebon dismounted,
and placed his ear to the ground.
“No one follows,” he said
after a little, rising to his feet; “they have
had enough, these accursed bandits.” And
with this he mounted once more.
“But why stay? See! there
is the house of the Bailiff of Muisson that
tall one where the lights are burning at the windows.”
“The Bailiff keeps late hours,
mademoiselle.” And even as I spoke a bright
flame suddenly flashed out, a ruddy light lit the walls,
and the distant shouting of many voices came to our
ears.
“See!” I went on, “they
are cooking a late supper with the doors. They
will make breakfast with the rafters.”
“What is happening? Oh! what an awful
night this is!”
“What is happening, mademoiselle,
I cannot tell; but it seems we have only escaped a
great danger to meet with another. Richelieu
is full of armed men. Who they are we do not
know. At any rate, for your sake if for nothing
else, we will risk no more. We will cross, and
make for Razines. There we will wait for daylight.
Come!”
Leaning forward I took her horse by
the bridle and we entered the stream.
“Courage!” said Pierrebon,
who rode at her right; “courage, mademoiselle!
It is not deep.”
And she laughed, for she was not afraid,
though the water bubbled and hissed around us, and
once or twice the horses staggered and swayed, as
though they would have fallen. Finally we made
the passage, and reached the opposite shore.
Once there I led them at a trot along the white,
dusty track. We were in the angle formed by the
Mable and the Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes
towards the sea, the country still retains, with a
roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness
of La Marche. Far south was a dreary plain, but
around us the land billowed into low hillocks, that
stood over long stretches of stunted forest.
We rode in silence, except when now
and again I spoke a word of warning in regard to the
state of the road, or to regulate the pace. I
began to wonder how long mademoiselle would hold out;
and my doubts were soon set at rest. It was
whilst crossing the almost dry bed of one of the small
streams, spreading like veins over the country, that
she suddenly reined up.
“I cannot go farther,”
she said faintly; and calling a halt I looked around
me. A little distance from the track, which wound
before us amongst the glistening stones, lay a dark
grove of trees. I pointed at them.
“We will rest there, mademoiselle.
’Tis barely fifty paces; bear up till then!”
And dismounting I walked by the side of her horse.
Short as the distance was I was in
doubt if she would hold out, and as I glanced at her
I saw even by the moonlight how white and drawn was
her face, and then she began to sway in her seat.
Calling to Pierrebon to take the reins of her horse
I tried to hold her in the saddle, but, feeling her
slipping, I put my unhurt arm around her and lifted
her to the ground. For a little space she stood
as one dazed, leaning against me with closed eyes,
and then with an effort recovered herself and drew
back.
“I am able to walk, monsieur I how
far is it?”
“Only a step now.”
And, still supporting her, I led her onward until
we reached the trees.
“We are here, mademoiselle.”
And taking her into the shade of a huge walnut-tree
I flung my cloak on the grass, and made her sit thereon,
whilst we hedged her around with saddlery. It
was done as quickly as we could, and the tired girl
leaned back against the saddles utterly wearied and
exhausted. I stood watching her for a little,
and then with a whispered word to Pierrebon about
the horses stepped aside. I could do no more;
but my heart was heavy within me, for I feared the
result of exposure for her.
A few yards off a withered tree stood
apart, an outcast from its fellows. The thought
struck me as I went up to it, and tapped the decayed
trunk with my fingers: “You and I, my friend we
have seen our past, and are out of the pale now.”
With this I sat down on one of the huge roots, that
coiled like monstrous serpents at my feet, and leaning
my head against the tree prepared to wait for the dawn.
My arm, where Simon’s sword
had touched me, now began to remind me that it needed
attention. A low whistle brought Pierrebon to
my side, and the injury was looked to by such light
as the moon gave. Fortunately it was but a slight
flesh wound, and an improvised bandage soon gave relief.
So, resting it in a sling out of my scarf, I leaned
back once more, and bade Pierrebon go and sleep.
For an hour or more I sat thus, watching
and thinking. At last, rising slowly, I cautiously
stepped up to mademoiselle and looked. She was
asleep; but so still did she lie, so pale and white
did she look, that I thought for a terrible moment
that she was dead, and bent over her, placing my hand
close to her lips to feel if she breathed. She
moved uneasily as I did so, and I came back to my
tree and to my thoughts. Finally, as the moon
was sinking, I too slept, and as I slept I dreamed.
I saw myself once more riding towards Orrain, and
not alone, for mademoiselle was by my side.
As we rode out of the pine-woods the Chateau stood
before us. There was the square keep, with its
pepper-box towers, and bartizans overhanging the moat.
There were the grey ramparts tapestried in ivy, and
the terraced gardens, where the peacocks sunned themselves.
All around us were happy faces, and joyous voices
welcoming us home the home to which I had
so long been dead; and it was mine now, and more besides and
then I awoke with a start and looked around
me. It was all so real.
“Tush!” I exclaimed, “have
I slipped back into the days of enchantment and the
fay Mélusine?” And rising I saw it was
touching dawn, for the east was red, and the morning
star, Maguelonne the shepherd’s star,
as we call it in our hills was burning
bright. Mademoiselle and Pierrebon were still
asleep, and it was too early yet to awaken them.
It would be time enough when the sun rose, and in the
meanwhile I began to reflect upon the best means of
bestowing mademoiselle in safety. Razines was
so near to Richelieu that if the latter were occupied
by marauders they would hardly have left the little
hamlet alone, unless, indeed, they were Huguenots
who were in Richelieu. In which event Razines,
which was known to be touched with the new heresy,
would probably be unharmed. This, however, did
not make things any the better for us. I made
up my mind that the best course would be to take mademoiselle
on with me to Poitiers, and there hand her over to
some responsible person until her friends could be
told of her. The very thought of this, however,
jarred on me somehow, and I caught myself building
castles in Spain again. “Come,” I
said to myself, “at your age, mon ami,
you should know better than to go off dreaming at the
sight of a pretty face and the sound of a sweet voice.”
And then I laughed aloud at the thought that I knew
but half her name that at any rate would
be remedied soon. So, rising, for it was time
now, I softly awoke Pierrebon and mademoiselle, and
in a short while we were once more on our way through
the low hills that stretched through Lencloitre.
It was necessary at all hazards that
we should get some food, as well for the horses as
ourselves, and when we had gone a little way we saw
Razines lying to our left. Here I halted, and,
moving my party into cover behind some trees, I explained
the position, and begged mademoiselle to remain with
Pierrebon, whilst I went forward to the village to
see how matters stood, adding that, if I did not return
within a short time, her best course would be to go
on to Poitiers with Pierrebon, and place herself in
a convent there until she could write to her friends.
“Monsieur,” she answered,
her colour rising, “you have risked enough for
me already. I will not permit you to do this.
If you go to Razines I go too.”
I was delighted with her courage;
but though I pressed her hard to do what I asked she
was firm in her resolve. In this matter, however,
I had no intention of yielding, and we might have
been there half the day had we not seen coming up
the road a couple of villagers with some cattle.
“We can at least inquire from
them,” I suggested, and she laughed.
“At the first sight of you,
monsieur, they will be off. Let me go!”
And suiting action to words she rode out towards the
peasants. There was truth in her words, for
as she rode out of the trees one of the yokels fled
at once, but the other, seeing it was a woman, held
his ground. A moment after they were in converse,
and I saw a broad grin on the man’s face.
Then mademoiselle beckoned to us, and we came forth.
On our appearance the peasant seemed inclined to follow
his friend’s example; but we somehow managed
to reassure him, and gathered that, except for a small
party of harmless travellers who were at the Green
Man, Razines was empty.
“You are luckier than they are
at Richelieu, my friend,” I said.
“Then Richelieu is taken?”
“Apparently so.”
“Hola! for Monsieur de Ganache!”
And he flung his cap in the air. “Ha,
monsieur, the Vicomte passed here but yesterday evening,
with sixty lances at his back, to hang the Guidon.
Has he done so?”
“I know not,” I answered;
and turning to mademoiselle, said: “We have
had a lucky escape.”
“Indeed! How, monsieur?”
“Because M. de Ganache
is known to be one of the fiercest of the Huguenot
leaders, and spares nothing.”
“We have to thank those who
made him so, monsieur; and at any rate he has spared
Razines.”
I looked at her in surprise.
Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were hot, and I
could scarce forbear a smile at the thought that it
was a little rebel I had in my charge, and turning
the talk, said:
“We may go on to the Green Man
in safety, I think.” And, bidding Pierrebon
give the yokel a coin, we pressed forwards. It
was not, however, without another careful scrutiny
that I led the way into the village, where we were
soon within the doors of the inn. It was a poor
place, but host and hostess were kindly; and did the
best they could. In the public room was the party
of travellers whom the peasant had mentioned.
They consisted of a gentleman and his wife, whose
dress and air betokened them people of rank, whilst
a little apart, at the lower end of the room, were
one or two others their servants.
The glitter of a sapphire ring on the stranger’s
hand attracted my attention, and it was as if he noticed
the casual glance I cast at it, for he turned his
hand so as to hide the ring. This set me observing
him more narrowly, and though it was years since I
had seen him I was certain it was the Cardinal of
Chatillon. It was Odet de Coligny himself, not
a doubt of it, and the lady was the noble woman who
had sacrificed so much for his sake. He had
married her prince of the Church though
he was and had openly thrown in his lot
with those of the New Faith.
They in their turn looked at us with
interest as we entered, and on seeing mademoiselle
the lady looked as if she knew her, and seemed as
if she were about to speak, but Chatillon said something
in a low voice which restrained her. On the
other hand, mademoiselle seemed flurried, and kept
her face averted. I could not but think they
knew each other; but it was no time to ask questions,
so I said nothing, but quietly set about arranging
for our comforts. Mademoiselle retired to her
room at once, the landlady fussing after her, and
after having assisted Pierrebon to see to the horses
I myself went to rest. I must have slept for
a good four hours, and on awakening found it was high
noon. Down I came, and entering the public room
of the inn found it empty. I went on towards
the stables, where Pierrebon was still asleep near
the horses. There was no sign of mademoiselle,
and thinking she was still resting I let Pierrebon
alone, and returning into the inn sat near a window,
awaiting my charge’s appearance. Had I
been alone I would have pressed on to Poitiers, and
reached it by nightfall; but as it was it would be
better to wait till well on in the afternoon, when
mademoiselle, being refreshed, would no doubt be able
to travel. We should halt at Miribeau for the
night, and make Poitiers the next day. So I let
some time go past, and then, feeling dull, called to
the host, and invited him to share a bottle of wine
with me. He came, as it seemed, somewhat unwillingly;
but soon we were in talk, and, for something to say,
I inquired about the other travellers. Here his
embarrassment increased, and he stammered out that
they had gone on to Richelieu about two hours ago;
and then, as if taking a sudden resolution, fumbled
in his pocket, and drew forth a letter, which he handed
to me, saying: “For you, monsieur.”
I tore open the cover, and read:
“MONSIEUR, I owe
you so much that I know not how to thank you or how
to explain my leaving you as I do now. I feel
sure you would like to know that I am going of my
own free will, and with friends. Monsieur, we
will meet again I know, and then, perhaps, I shall
be in a position to show you that I can be grateful.
DIANE.”
I read to the end without a word,
and glanced at my host. He saw and understood
the question in my eyes.
“Mademoiselle gave it to me
with her own hands. I I could not
prevent her leaving,” he added, with fear in
his voice. The poor wretch was almost overcome
with terror at the thought that I might turn against
him in my wrath.
“Thank you; that is enough.”
And crushing the letter in my hand I rose and walked
out. I was hurt and indignant, but after a little
I cooled down. After all, her proper place was
with her friends. I had but helped her on her
way, and there was an end of it. So I swallowed
my ill-humour as best I could, and, to his astonishment,
making the landlord of the inn a present of the horse
we had taken at Le Jaquemart, Pierrebon and I
went on our way.