Four days had passed since that dreadful
night in the Rue des Mathurins days
the memory of which can never be effaced whilst I live.
No tidings were obtainable of mademoiselle, save that
she was amongst the prisoners who were being tried
in secret by De Mouchy, and all efforts to communicate
with her had been in vain. This much, however,
leaked out: that owing to the whispers that had
got abroad none knew how the
prisoners, with the exception of one or two, were not
of importance; but this in itself made the matter
worse for mademoiselle, and gave the mock court of
justice it could be called by no other name every
opportunity of veiling its real purpose. In
this De Mouchy was managing the trial with great skill.
The prisoners of no account the scrivener’s
clerk, the poor shopkeeper, the small mercer got
the benefit of plea and quibble! God knows,
I did not grudge them that! But each acquittal,
pronounced loudly in the name of the King’s mercy,
with high-flown words about the love of the King for
his people, led step by step to the real object for
which the infamous triangle worked. Already the
gossips were beginning to wag their tongues at the
leniency shown. It was said in the cabarets
and public places that the memory of the tailor of
St. Antoine haunted the King, and that he and the
Queen were, in secret, heretics. At the last
acquittal the cruel mob of Paris had actually dared
to parade the streets, with angry cries at being deprived
of the hideous spectacle of an expiation. “Au
feu, au feu! Death to the Christaudins!”
I still seem to hear their voices.
And so the time was ripe for the law
to claim its prey, for the shameless three to gather
in their spoil, and for an evil, vindictive woman to
accomplish her revenge. The King was at Fontainebleau,
whither he had gone, accompanied by La Valentinois
and the Court. The Queen was at St. Germain-en-Laye,
and the Louvre except for its guards was
deserted. On the morning of the fifth day, however,
the Queen returned, and although she knew what had
happened she summoned me before her to hear the story
from my lips. I found her in her study with three
or four of her ladies. Catherine looked pale
and heavy-eyed, and there were hard lines about her
mouth. It was said she had never smiled since
the day of the masque. I for one am certain
it was from that day her secretive nature took the
dark and devious course that led her to be what she
became; but now it was only the beginning.
I said what I had to say briefly,
and when I was done the Queen looked up at me.
“Is this all?”
I bowed in silent response, and after a pause she
continued:
“I know what you would ask.
I have done my best. I have written to the
King to pardon Mademoiselle de Paradis, as he forgave
Madame de Rentigny. I wrote at once, four days
ago.” And then she flushed to her temples
as she added: “Up to now there has been
no answer. It is useless to go myself ”
Her voice almost broke, and I looked aside, only to
meet Mademoiselle
Davila’s eyes. They were swimming with
tears.
It was now there arose an unusual
bustle in the anteroom. The doors were thrown
back, and in a loud voice the ushers announced the
Duchess de Valentinois. For a moment Diane stood
in the doorway, a little crowd behind her, and then,
tall and stately, walked slowly up to the Queen and
courtesied profoundly. Catherine remained frigidly
still, as though oblivious of her presence, and amidst
a dead silence Diane stood before the Queen, a faint
smile playing on her lips, her eyelids drooped to
cover the defiant fire of her glance. One might
have counted ten as the two faced each other, and
then Diane spoke:
“I have come, your Majesty, from the King.”
Catherine’s eyebrows arched,
and a swift, lightning glance of hatred passed between
the two. Then Diane’s lids drooped again,
and her soft, flute-like voice continued:
“The King kisses your Majesty’s
hands, and says there is much wind and rain at Fontainebleau,
but that he has slain three boars and five stags.”
“He has slain three boars and
five stags,” repeated the Queen in an even monotone,
and turning to Madame de Montal, who stood behind her
chair, she said bitterly: “Why does not
somebody cry, ’God save the King!’?”
“All France cries that, your
Majesty,” said Diane. “And further,
the King once again kisses your Majesty’s hands,
and has received your gracious letter in regard to
Mademoiselle de Paradis.” And now her voice
hardened to steel, and she dropped the studied courtesy
of her address. “That letter has been submitted
to the council, and the King has decided to let the
law take its course. God will not be insulted
longer in this realm.”
It is impossible to conceive the insolent
malice that was thrown into La Valentinois’
glance and voice, and the mockery of her bow, as she
made this speech. And grey-haired Madame de
Montal, gazing steadily at her, said:
“Madame, you speak to the Queen!”
“No, Montal,” and Catherine
rose, her face white as death, “you mistake;
it is the Queen who speaks to me.” And
without so much as a glance in the direction of the
Duchess she turned and left the apartment, followed
by her ladies.
The favourite looked around her, a
smile of triumph on her lips; but with the exception
of myself the cabinet was empty, though a murmuring
crowd filled the rooms without. It was then,
and only then, she realised that the victory was not
all hers, and felt the sting of the Parthian arrow
shot by the Queen. Her cheeks burned red, and
I saw the hand that held her fan tremble like a leaf
in the wind. Then with an effort she recovered
herself, and with another glance at me, full of superb
disdain, swept from the room. As for me, my
last hope had vanished, and I stood as in a dream,
staring at the pattern on the carpet before me.
How long I stood thus I do not know, but at last,
from within the Queen’s apartments, I heard
someone weeping heard even through the closed
door and drawn curtains. It all but unmanned
me; and then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and looking
up saw De Lorgnac.
“Orrain,” he said, “come with me.”
There was that in his eyes and voice which could not
be mistaken.
“What has happened?” I asked hoarsely,
though I well knew what he meant.
“Come,” he said, “be
brave! You are a man, and as a man I tell you,
you need all your courage now. The Court is
thrown open, and in an hour De Mouchy delivers his
sentence. The harlot of France is by his side ”
And he stopped, almost breaking down.
“Lorgnac, I am going there.”
“It is useless. Le Brusquet is there.
Come with me!”
But I turned on him fiercely.
“I am going,” I repeated, and, perhaps,
he read what was in my heart, for he put his arm through
mine.
“Come, then. I will come with you.”
True and tried friend though he was
I shook him off roughly, and hurried into the streets
like a madman. How I reached the Hotel de Ville
I cannot tell! I seemed to have made the passage
in darkness; but at last I found myself there, pressing
through the ever-increasing crowd that thronged the
entrance to the trial chamber; and finally, passing
the doors, I took my stand in the gallery reserved
for spectators.
With burning eyes I looked upon the
scene beneath me. Camus had just concluded his
evidence, and was bowing to the court, a smile on his
traitor’s face as he listened to some words of
compliment addressed to him by De Mouchy. Simon,
the man I wanted, was nowhere to be seen, though my
eyes, fierce with hatred, searched for him everywhere.
But on a seat beside the judge was La Valentinois
herself, radiantly beautiful, now fluttering her fan,
now sniffing daintily at her vinaigrette, as she bent
her frosty glance on the prisoners. One was old
Ferrieres. Like a dying man, he leaned back
in a chair that had been provided for him, for his
wounds left him no strength to stand. His eyes
were closed. He seemed to have fainted, and
was oblivious of what was going on around him, whilst
death had already set its seal upon his haggard and
drawn face. Mademoiselle stood by his side,
a hand resting on his chair. For one brief second
our eyes met, and she smiled at me a brave
smile and I bent my head in sorrow, for
I could not look. It needed not the cry of the
ushers in the court for silence. Every tongue
was still. There was not a whisper, not a movement,
for all felt that the supreme moment had arrived.
De Mouchy bent over his papers. I heard them
rustling; and then La Valentinois, leaning forward,
said something to him in a low voice. There
was a word to an usher, and once more the insupportable
silence.
In a little we heard the steady tramp
of feet. Nearer and nearer the sound came.
A side door in the body of the court was opened, and
a third prisoner was brought in and placed before
the judge. Craning forward I looked. It
was De Ganache; but how changed from the once
brilliant cavalier. His figure was stooped and
bent, his once dark hair was white, his face wrinkled
as that of an old man, and in his shifty, unsettled
glance glared the fires of madness. He did not
seem to realise where he was, but began to laugh vacantly,
but the laugh died away to a frozen look as his gaze
fixed itself on La Valentinois.
“Diane,” he cried in a
terrible voice as he stretched his arms out towards
her, “it was for your sake!”
But she, his destroyer, scarce glanced
at him from her place on the judgment seat.
“He is quite mad!” And
with a musical laugh she leaned back, and picking
out a comfit from a little jewelled box began to nibble
at it daintily as De Ganache’s hands fell helplessly
to his sides.
And now De Mouchy spoke. “Monsieur
De Ganache, do you recognise the prisoners
there?”
De Ganache followed his glance;
a shiver went through him, and as he looked a red
flush mounted to his forehead. Never had I seen
a man look so before, and, thank God! never after.
Unspeakable shame and hopeless despair were sealed
upon his face. His lips grew livid, and twice
the question was repeated ere he forced himself to
answer.
“Yes.”
I held my breath and listened.
What did this mean? Ferrieres still lay back
in his semi-trance, oblivious of all things; but mademoiselle
moved forward and looked at De Ganache, ineffable
pity in her eyes. And now came the next question.
“They are known to you as Christaudins?”
One glance at mademoiselle and De
Ganache shrank back; but her voice rang out clear
and sweet, for she, with all of us, mistook the reason
of De Ganache’s terrible emotion.
“Deny it not, De Ganache! Be not
afraid.”
But with a cry De Ganache put
his hands to his face and turned aside. A woman
began to sob amongst the spectators, and someone dropped
a sword with an angry clash on the parquet.
Once more the strident voices of the ushers arose,
and after a little silence was restored.
De Mouchy was about to put yet another
question when La Valentinois interposed.
“It is enough,” she said;
“I but wanted to confront them. Let him
have his reward.”
De Mouchy smiled, and bending forward
addressed De Ganache.
“Gaston de Ganache, Vicomte
de Ganache and Les Barres, you stand convicted
a heretic and traitor, and for crimes such as yours
the laws of God and man have but one punishment.
But bearing in mind the services you have rendered
by denouncing your fellow-conspirators and discovering
their secrets to the King’s most trusty servants,
Simon, Vidame d’Orrain, and myself,
the King at the intercession of Madame the Duchess
de Valentinois has in his gracious mercy spared your
life on condition that you quit France within four
and twenty hours. Monsieur, you are free.”
As these astonishing words fell from
the judge’s lips words that branded
De Ganache with unutterable infamy the
miserable man looked around him like an animal at
bay; and then, a madness coming upon him, he broke
out into peal after peal of harsh, mirthless laughter laughter
that seemed to come from the grave and beyond; and,
laughing thus, they led him away. When he was
gone De Mouchy pointed to Ferrieres as he said to a
warder:
“Arouse him!”
They dragged the fainting man to his
feet, and he stood limply between two gaolers; and
then the judge asked:
“Prisoners, is there anything you would like
to say?”
And mademoiselle answered for both, in a low but distinct
voice:
“Nothing. We confess we
are of the true faith, and we are willing to die for
it. As to our having conspired against the King we
are innocent!”
And as she spoke some strange idea
must have passed through the wandering brain of Ferrieres.
Half in delirium, he looked about him, and with a
supreme effort, standing free of the warders, he called
out in a loud, fever-strung voice:
“Vive lé Roi!”
It was one of those moments when the
sympathy of a crowd can be caught by a word.
Small and mean-looking as he was there was something
so forlorn and hopeless in the gallant cry of the
doomed man that all hearts were touched. A low,
responsive murmur broke from the spectators, and then
with one voice they too shouted:
“Vive lé Roi!”
They heard it outside the
multitude who thronged the stairways, the courtyards,
and the Place de Greve. And they too yelled with
brazen lungs, and the roar of their voices came to
us through the open windows, with the sunbeams that
lit the shadows of the vast and gloomy hall.
Never did subjects hail their king in a moment more
sad.
Ferrieres had sunk back in a crumpled
heap, and mademoiselle was leaning over him in womanly
sympathy; but the guards thrust her aside, and held
up the dying man once more to hear, if he could, his
sentence. The tumult sank away, and once more
there was silence. La Valentinois sat still,
watching the prisoners behind her fan; and then De
Mouchy, in a speech that was dignified and impressive
even to me who knew the unheard-of guilt of the man,
passed the last sentence of the law. The sin
of the prisoners was amply proved. It was against
the King, and, he bent his head, against the Church
of God. The King had already shown his mercy all
men had seen and felt it but the wrath of
God had shown itself in the disasters that had smitten
the land, and France must be purged clean of the sin
of heresy. As for the judge, the laws, and, in
chief, the Edict of Compiègne, gave him no power to
mitigate the punishment of wretches so guilty as these
who stood now before him. And so Diane, Demoiselle
de Paradis, and Jean, Sieur de Ferrieres,
were condemned to be drawn two days hence on hurdles
to the Place Maubert, there to suffer the greater
torture and the less, and there to have their bodies
consumed by fire, as Almighty God would hereafter consume
their souls.
And then, amidst an awed hush, the
blasphemer who sat upon the judgment seat made a sign
to the guards to remove the prisoners, and, bending
down, began slowly to gather up his papers.
As the terrible words fell from De
Mouchy’s lips I was for the moment overcome,
and the immense hall seemed to swim before me, so that
I had to support myself by holding to the railings
of the gallery.
La Valentinois had risen, and was
leaning forward looking hard at Diane, as if expecting
some cry, some appeal for mercy; but at the last words
of De Mouchy mademoiselle had bent her head in silent
prayer, and then her calm, pure eyes met those of
the wicked woman before her, and rested on her for
a moment with a grave pity in them, as she said in
a clear voice:
“Madame, God has already taken
one of us beyond your reach.” And she
pointed to Ferrieres. “As for me, His mercy
will come to me too, I pray; and may He forgive you
as I, who am to die, forgive you now.”
It was truth she spoke. A hand
more powerful than aught earthly had rescued Ferrieres,
and he was dead. He had passed as he stood there,
held by the warders, and the lifeless figure, with
its glazed eyes staring into the unknown, was only
kept from falling by the supporting hands around it.
Even De Mouchy paled; and La Valentinois, who had
striven to meet mademoiselle’s look with her
cruel laugh, shrank back and covered her face with
her hand. And now the guards closed around their
prisoners, the living and the dead, and they passed
from my sight.
In a moment the tension was relaxed,
and a hundred voices were raised at once, discussing
the sentence, the news of which had already gone forth;
and outside the multitude began to hoot and groan and
cheer.
A man seized me by the cloak.
“A just sentence, was it not, monsieur?”
he asked. And then went on: “A pity
the old fox died; but it will be a good expiation,
almost as good as that of Clinet and De Luns cujus
regio, ejus religio,” he babbled on, airing
his Latin; but I drove the fool from me with a curse,
and wonder to this day if he ever knew how near he
was to death.
La Valentinois had arisen, and, followed
by De Mouchy and half a dozen others, was making her
way to the exit, all parting before her as though
she were the Queen. Now was my chance.
Simon had escaped me for to-day; but De Mouchy he
at least was within my reach and with my
hand to my poniard I pressed down the steps of the
gallery, but near the door was hemmed in by the crowd.
Try as I would it was impossible to get through,
and a barrier was put up, which made matters hopeless.
There as I stood in impotent rage I saw over the
heads of the crowd La Valentinois entering her coach.
She was followed by De Mouchy. The guards closed
around. There was a cheer, and they were gone.
It was then that a cold hand touched my wrist, and
a voice whispered in my ear:
“There are two days yet; do nothing rash!”
I turned swiftly, and saw Le Brusquet
at my elbow, and behind him the tall figure of De
Lorgnac; unknown to me he had followed me here.
“Come with us!” he said;
and I made no answer, but did as I was bidden, and
placing me between them we went back together to the
Louvre. Once in Le Brusquet’s apartments
the reaction set in, and flinging myself in a chair
I covered my face with my hands for the
first time in my life I had broken down utterly.
After a while I somewhat recovered
myself. Lorgnac was standing with his back to
me, looking out of the window, and Le Brusquet was
by my side, a glass of cordial in his hand.
“Drink this,” he said.
“Remember there are two days yet; and God’s
arm is long.”
Mechanically I drank, and as I held
the glass in my hand Le Brusquet removed his cloak.
In doing this something dropped, and stooping he
picked it up. It was a packet of letters, tied
with a red ribbon. With a glance of contempt
at it he flung it on the table in front of De Lorgnac,
who had joined us, saying as he did so:
“There are De Ganache’s
letters. I had almost forgotten them.”
The packet had fallen on the table,
almost under De Lorgnac’s eyes. Half unconsciously
he let his glance rest upon it, and then a strange
expression came into his face, and holding up the letters,
he asked Le Brusquet, with apparent unconcern:
“You have not looked at the writing, have you?”
“Not I! I dare swear ’tis
some woman. Nothing else would be tied with
red ribbon and scented with musk. Throw the thing
away. It is too thick with memories of that
traitor. My God! I did not think earth
held so foul a villain.”
But Lorgnac took no notice of his
last words, only the hand holding the packet began
to shake a little as he said slowly:
“As it happens, I know the writing well. It is a woman’s hand--”
Both Le Brusquet and I turned on him,
the same thought in our hearts.
“She!” I said,
and half rising from my seat; but with an exclamation
Le Brusquet snatched the packet from De Lorgnac’s
hand. In a moment the letters were opened, and
he was reading them with feverish haste. There
were four letters in all, and when he had done he looked
at us, and there was the light of hope in his eyes.
“Speak, man!” And I gripped
him by the arm. “I cannot bear this longer!”
“It is God’s providence,”
he said solemnly as he grasped my hand. “Orrain,
take heart! We win! Read these and
you too, Lorgnac! When you have read we must
to the Queen at once.”