I rode sullenly on, my eyes between
my horse’s ears. Pierrebon, who loved
to wag his tongue, once or twice tried to open a talk,
but finding his efforts useless dropped away back.
It was not possible to go fast, as the horses were
worn, and had to be saved for the stretch of nearly
six leagues that lay between us and Poitiers, which,
however, I had made up my mind to reach ere the gates
were closed for the night. Despite all our care
we were delayed by Pierrebon’s nag casting a
shoe, and this meant a stop for nearly an hour at
a small hamlet, the name of which I forget.
At length matters were righted, and we continued our
journey. The day was hot and overcast.
Towards sunset the clouds increased, and ever and
again the rumbling of thunder gave warning of an approaching
storm. We were, however, near Poitiers by this,
and could see the spires of the churches and the black
mass of the city. I drew rein for a moment to
look, and almost felt as if my task were done, when
Pierrebon exclaimed:
“Allons, monsieur! it has come!”
And with a vengeance, too. First
a few warm drops, then a blaze of lightning, a crash
of thunder, and then rain in torrents. It became
dark, and it was with the greatest difficulty that
we could find our way. But at length we reached
the Pont Joubert, and passing the Chapel of the Holy
Virgin, raised in memory of the miraculous preservation
of the city during the war of the hundred years, we
entered Poitiers. It is true we had reached
it, but it seemed as if our difficulties had only
begun. What with the darkness and the wind blowing
the rain straight in our faces, so that we could barely
see, it would have been hard for us to have found
our way anywhere, even if we knew the city, but neither
Pierrebon nor I had been in Poitiers before.
In the basement of the guard-tower flanking the gate
lights were burning, and a group of soldiers were
sitting at a table playing at dice, whilst a few stray
travellers were huddled together at the entrance, waiting,
perhaps, for the storm to pass, and continually peering
out into the darkness from their shelter, if such
it could be called. I made my way there, and
had to shout twice ere I was heard, so great was the
noise of the tempest. Finally the ancient of
the gate came up, and I asked him for the nearest
inn. He answered, civilly enough:
“’Tis but a little way,
monsieur. Go straight down the Rue du Pigeon
Blanc, past Ste. Radegonde, and the Filles
de Notre Dame, there in the place St. Simplicien ”
“But I know nothing of Poitiers.
How am I to find my way?”
To this he shrugged his shoulders
and laughed; but at this juncture a boy stepped forth
out of the group at the door and offered to guide us
to the inn. This offer I accepted, and with a
word of thanks to the ancient we went on the
last thing we heard being hoarse orders shouted out
to close the gates. Our way was lit by continuous
flashes of lightning, and by one of these, lasting
longer than usual, I saw on a hill which overlooked
the Church of Ste. Radegonde, her right hand
outstretched as if invoking a blessing on the city,
the colossal Virgin of Poitiers all shining with light light
that seemed to flame back from the statue against
the storm. So impressive was it that Pierrebon
crossed himself, and the boy sank on his knees in the
water that hummed along the street with an “Ave,
ave!”
The sight was one I have never forgotten,
and has often given me subject for reflection, so
that I am firmly convinced that even if a God did
not exist the imagination of man would conjure one
up for his worship.
It was lucky that we found a guide,
for, short as the distance was, I doubt if we would
have found our way that night to the hostel of the
Elephant, for so the inn was called. Once there
I gave the boy a coin, bidding him get something to
eat, for he looked as though he needed it, and told
him to wait, as I would require him shortly.
I determined to halt there until the storm had subsided
a little, and inquired where Montluc resided.
He had but lately come, I was informed, and was for
the present temporarily lodged in the priory of the
Capuchins. So, taking the opportunity whilst
I waited for the rain to diminish, I had some refreshment,
and attended to my arm, which was still painful.
I then made arrangements with the landlord for another
horse, as nothing would have induced me to ride my
own poor beast farther that night. This being
settled, I waited for half an hour or so, when the
storm somewhat abated, though the wind was still high,
and there was a sharp drizzle. Then mounting
the hired horse, and giving the boy a lantern I had
borrowed, I bade him guide me to the priory of the
Capuchins.
On we went, the wind and rain in our
faces. By good luck the lantern held out, though
its light was not much better than that of a glowworm.
We picked our way through narrow streets swimming with
water, past gutters babbling like mountain streams,
and made a snail’s progress through that infernal
night. Now and again a broad sheet of lightning
blazed athwart the darkness, showing the black and
uneasy clouds overhead, and giving a momentary glimpse
of tall, ghostly towers, of gabled roofs and pointed
windows, and of houses that seemed to lean forward
and form arcades, below which the crooked, glistening
streets wound. As we were passing a large church I
found out later that it was St. Croix the
bells began to sound compline, and then from every
steeple and spire in the city the chime was echoed,
and borne across the night in strange sweetness by
the storm. My little guide made his way bravely,
and at length it seemed an age we
reached the priory of the Capuchins. Lights
were burning everywhere, and there was a huge log
fire spluttering at the gate, which was still open.
The arched passage beyond the gate, which led to
the forecourt, was full of men, not hooded Capuchins,
but men-at-arms, and it was easy to see that the priory
had been turned into a camp. I explained that
I bore despatches from Paris for M. de Montluc, and
the words acted like magic. I was told to leave
my horse to the boy, and was led along the galleries
that bounded the cloisters of the forecourt.
They were full of men, but all orderly and quiet,
as may be imagined with Montluc at hand. At length
we reached the hall, and there I was asked to wait
until the General was informed of my arrival.
All dripping and wet as I was, and unheeding the
glances cast at me by those who were there, I sat down
on a bench near the fireplace, in which, on account
of the damp, a fire had been lit, and glowered into
the flames, the blue smoke rising in little columns
from my drenched clothes. No one spoke to me,
nor did I address anyone, and I was struck by the
extraordinary silence that was preserved. Men
spoke in whispers, and even when a man-at-arms passed,
his step was as light as that of a monk.
“Monsieur,” said a voice,
“will you have the goodness to follow me?”
I looked up, and saw an officer wearing
the red and white sash of Randan’s Light Horse,
my old comrades, and the sight of the colours after
so many years affected me to such a degree that at
first I was unable to move, and the officer had to
repeat his request. Then I arose, and followed
him up what seemed an interminable stair. At
last we halted before a door, and here to the knock
we heard a sharp “Enter.” Stepping
in, I found myself before Montluc, and apologised
for appearing in the drenched condition I was in.
He took no notice of me, however, but kept walking
up and down the cabinet like a tiger. He was
in demi-mail, the collar of the Order at his neck,
and as he paced the room with a halting step I observed
with interest and respect the great soldier who in
forty years of glorious service had but twice seen
the Court. His defence of Siena was still ringing
through Europe; but back upon that one saw the field
of Pavia, the campaign in Naples, the defence of Marseilles,
the siege of Perpignan, and the glorious campaign
of Italy, which ended in the crown of Cerisolles, and
where, but for him, the day was lost. I had
served at Cerisolles myself; but though I had seen
Montluc I had never known him. Years had, however,
seemed to make no impression upon him; and, tall and
lean, with long grey moustaches, and glittering, grey-green
eyes, he looked like a fierce and starving cat as
he restlessly limped to and fro.
At last he suddenly stopped, and,
resting a hand on the hip broken at Chieri, asked
me abruptly:
“I am told you have brought despatches from
Paris?”
“Monsieur!” And taking
out the packet I had been entrusted with I handed
it to him.
He received it in silence, and sitting
down at a table littered with papers examined the
seals. Then drawing his poniard he was about
to cut open the packet when he arrested himself, saying:
“I see it is from the Queen.”
“Monsieur, it was given to me
by her Majesty herself, and when you have read it
I have a message for you.”
“The Queen must trust you.”
“She has in this case, monsieur.”
He smiled grimly, and opened the packet.
As he read his face assumed so malign and fierce
an aspect that I had little difficulty in persuading
myself of the truth of the stories of savage cruelty
that I had heard of him. When he had finished
he set down the paper, and asked calmly enough:
“Your message, monsieur?”
I told him, he taking it down word
for word, and placing the paper carefully in a drawer,
out of which he drew a parchment roll.
“You see this, monsieur?
It is my patent as lieutenant of the South.
After nearly forty years of service it was given to
me. I have held it a month and now it
is waste-paper.” And with that he flung
it into the drawer, which he shut with a clash.
“They have need of me in Italy
again, they say; and when I am gone, mark my words,
these psalm-singing Huguenots, these Chrysostoms, whom
I have made skip like the hills in their own hymn,
will be in Poitiers in a week.” And he
laughed harshly as he went on: “They fear
I shall turn against them, and throw in my lot with
these others I Blaise de Montluc!
Tell them I am a soldier of my King, that I am but
a poor gentleman of the South, who when his time is
done will hang up his sword in his Chateau of Estillac,
and die there, unless God answers his prayer and lets
him die on the field.”
I saw before me the sudden breaking
of great hopes, and, as I then thought, the ruin of
a great career, and stammered out: “Monsieur,
you will soon be back.”
He smiled, and then, as if pushing
all aside from his mind: “This will at
any rate make a chapter of my commentaries. I
am writing them in the style of Caesar, whom I hope
to surpass in this. At present, I have carried
them as far as the sieges of Parma and La Mirandole
by the armies of the Holy Father and the Emperor.”
With this he pointed at a pile of manuscript that
lay on the table, as he added, with true Gascon conceit:
“It is better that they who make history should
write it rather than leave it to some scoundrel clerk,
as I hear Vieilleville is doing.”
He seemed to have forgotten his misfortune
in the contemplation of his writing, and on my applauding
his sentiment, he, looking at my arm, which was still
in its sling, asked how I had hurt it. I told
him briefly, and he listened in silence, until I gave
him information of De Ganache and the Huguenots
at Richelieu. Then he stopped me.
“Are you sure they were there last night?”
“Yes, and probably till late to-day.”
“Then we will have most of them
here as our guests, monsieur, in a couple of days
at the latest. I want De Ganache badly,
and would like much to finish with him ere they finish
with me.”
I thought of Diane, and in my heart
sent up a prayer that, on this occasion at least,
the Huguenots might escape Montluc’s claws; and
the General went on:
“I see, monsieur, the Queen
has recommended you as one to be trusted entirely and
the Queen is not easily deceived. You are, she
says, a citizen of Paris, and have borne arms where?”
“In the Milanese, monsieur.
I was at Cerisolles with Monsieur d’Enghien.”
“Good! And after that?”
“I did not serve, monsieur.”
We looked hard at each other, and
a dry but not unkindly smile sat on his lips.
“Would you care to see Italy again?”
“If the Queen has no further need for me I am
ready.”
“We will leave it so, then.
In the meantime, you may, perhaps, have a little
commission to execute for me, or rather for the Queen.
That will keep you employed until you finally decide.
It may need using your sword. Does your wound
trouble you?”
“It will be healed in less than a week.”
“Well, go now and rest. You are being
lodged here, of course?”
“I have secured a lodging at the Elephant, monsieur.”
“Then to-morrow you must come
here. I will see to that, for I like to lay
hands on a man when I want him.” And with
this he struck a gong, and the officer who had brought
me in appeared.
“Sarlaboux,” said the
General, “let Monsieur Broussel be conducted
safely to his inn, and see that no harm befalls him.”
I was about to take my leave when Montluc stopped
me.
“A word! That little
story of yours in connection with your wound, monsieur,
has interested me. I will give it a place in
my commentaries.” And he took up his pen
as I retired, followed by Sarlaboux.
I may add that, many years after,
it was my good fortune to see a copy of the old Marshal’s
commentaries, which had been made for his brother,
Monseigneur the Bishop of Valence. By some strange
chance, for he rarely forgot anything, he had omitted
my story, nor was there any mention of the secret
communication I made to him; and, perhaps, this was
due to design. He was a great soldier and a great
man, whose life may be summed up in the motto of his
house: Deo duce, ferro comité.