“The good Duke! The sweet Prince! The Church’s pillar! Guise! The good Guise!”

Through the open window the shouts, near and far, invaded the quiet class-room of the Sorbonne. It was empty, save for the Professor of Eloquence, one Dr. Anatole Long, and a certain vagrant bluebottle which, with the native perversity of its tribe, sought out the only shut square of glass (bottle-green, by way of distinction) and buzzed loudly all over it.

The Professor thumbed the discourse of the day on “Peace as the Characteristic Virtue of the Christian Faith.” It was a favourite lecture with him. He had used it as exposition, homily, exhortation; and had even on one occasion ventured to deliver it before the Venerable the Conclave of the Sorbonne itself.

Professor Anatole sighed as he listened to the ringing shouts outside, the clatter of steel on peaceful educational stairways, and when through the open windows, by which the early roses ought to have been sending up their good smell, there came a whiff of the reek of gunpowder, the excellent Anatole felt that the devil was loose indeed.

It was the great Day of Barricades, and all Paris was in arms against the King, royal, long-descended, legitimate and worthless.

“Rebellion rank rebellion,” groaned the Professor; “no good will come of it. Balafre, the Scarred One, will get a dagger in his throat one day. And then then there will be a great killing! The King is too ignorant to forgive!”

“Ah, what is that?”

A noise of guns crashed, spat, and roared beneath the window which gave on to the narrow street. Professor Anatole rose hastily and went to the casement, worried a moment with the bar-fastening (for the window on that side was never unhasped), opened it, and looked forth. Little darting, shifting groups of lads in their dingy student cloaks, were defending themselves as best they might against a detachment of the King’s Royal Swiss, who, on the march from one part of the city to another, had been surprised at the head of the narrow Street of the University.

An old man had somehow been knocked down. His companion, a slim youth in a long, black cape, knelt and tried to hold up the failing head. The white beard, streaked with dark stains, lay across his knees. Now the Professor of Eloquence, though he lectured by preference concerning the virtues of peace, thought that there were limits even to these; so, grasping his staff, which had a sword concealed in the handle, of cunning Venice work, ran downstairs, and so found himself out on the street.

In that short period all was changed. The Royal Swiss had moved on. The battling clerks had also vanished. The narrow Street of the University was blank save for the old man who lay there wounded on the little, knobbed cobble-stones, and the slim, cloaked youth bending over him.

Professor Anatole does not remember clearly what followed. Certain it is that he and the lad must have carried the wounded man up the narrow stair. For when Anatole came a little to himself they were, all the three of them, in his wide, bare attiring-chamber, from which it was his custom to issue forth, gowned and solemn, in the midst of an admiring hush, with the roll of his daily lecture clasped in his right hand, while he upheld the long and troublesome academic skirts with the other.

But now, all suddenly, among these familiar cupboards and books of reference, he found himself with a dying man or rather, as it seemed, a man already dead. And, what troubled him far more, with a lad whose long hair, becoming loosened, floated down upon his shoulders, while he wept long and continuously, “Oh oh oh my father!” sobbing from the top of his throat.

Now Professor Anatole was a wise man, a philosopher even. It was the day of mignons. The word was invented then. King Henry III. had always half-a-dozen or so, not counting D’Epernon and La Joyeuse. That might account for the long hair. But even a mignon would not have cried “Ah ah ah!” in quick, rending sobs from the chest and diaphragm.

He, Anatole Long, Professor of Eloquence at the Sorbonne, was in presence of a great difficulty the greatest of his life. There was a dead man in his robing-room, and a girl with long hair, who wept in tremulous contralto.

What if some of his students were minded to come back! A terrible thought! But there was small fear of that. The rascals were all out shouting for the Duke of Guise and helping to build the great barricades which shut in the Swiss like rats in a trap. They were Leaguers to a man, these Sorbonne students for fun, however, not from devotion.

Yet when he went back to the big empty class-room to bethink himself a little (it was a good twenty years since he had been accustomed to this sort of thing), lo! there were two young fellows rooting about among the coats and cloaks, from the midst of which he had taken his sword-cane when he ran downstairs.

“What are you doing there?” he cried, with a sudden quick anger, as if students of eloquence had no right in the class-room of their own Professor. “Answer me, you, Guy Launay, and you, John d’Albret!”

“We are looking for ” began Guy Launay, the son of the ex-provost of the merchants, a dour, dark clod of a lad, with the fingers of a swordsman and the muscles of a wrestler. He was going to say (what was the truth) that they had come up to look for the Professor’s sword-cane, which they judged might be useful against the King’s folk, when, of instinct far more fine, his companion, called the Abbe John, nephew of the great Leaguer Cardinal, stopped him with a swift sidelong drive of the elbow in the ribs, which winded him completely.

“We have come to listen to your lecture, master!” he said, bowing low. “We are sorry indeed to be a little late. But getting entangled in the press, it was impossible for us to arrive sooner. We ask your pardon, dear master!”

Under his breath the Abbe John confided to his companion, “Evidently old Blessings-of-Peace has carried that sword-stick off into his retiring-room for safety. Let him begin his lecture. Then in five minutes he will forget about everything else, and you or I will sneak in and bag it!”

“You you mean,” said Launay; “I should move about as silently as a bullock on a pontoon bridge!”

With his eye ever on the carefully-shut door of his private chamber, and his ear cocked for the sound of sobbing, the Professor moved slowly to his reading-desk. For the first time in his life he regretted the presence of students in the class-room. Why why could they not have stayed away and dethroned anointed kings, and set up most Catholic princes, and fought for the Holy League and the pleasure of clouting heads? That was what students of the Sorbonne seemed to be for in these latter days. But to come here, at the proper hour, to take notes of a lecture on the Blessings of Peace, with the gun-shots popping outside, and dead men no, somehow he did not care to think of dead men, nor of weeping girls either! So at this point he walked solemnly across the uneven floor and turned the key in the door of his robing-room.

Instantly the elbow of Guy Launay sought the side of the Abbe John, called alternatively the Spaniard, and made him gasp.

“D’ye see that?” whispered Guy, “the old rascal has locked the door. He suspects. Come, we may as well trip it. We shan’t get either the sword-cane nor yet the pistols and bullets on the top of the guard-robe. My milk-brother, Stephen, saw them there when he took his week of chamber-valeting Old Peace-with-Honour!”

“Screw up your mouth tight!” said the Abbe John politely; “a deal of nonsense will get spread about otherwise. I will attend to everything in the room of Old Blessings-of-Peace!”

“You!”

“Yes, I wait and see. Get out your tablets and take notes spread your elbows, man! Do as I do, and the blessing of Saint Nicholas of Padua be upon all thieves and rascals of whom we are two choice specimens!”

“Speak for yourself, Spaniard!” spluttered the other, having accidentally sucked the wrong end of his pen; “my uncle is not a cardinal, and as to my father ”

“He sells hanks of yarn, and cheats in the measurement!”

“I dare you to say so, you left-hand prince, you grease-spot on the cardinal’s purple you ”

“That will do,” said the Abbe John calmly; “to-morrow I will give you thwacks when and where you like. But now listen, mark, learn, and in any case keep our good Master Anatole from so frequently glancing at that door. One would think he had the devil shut up within!”

“Impossible quite impossible; he is loose and exceedingly busy outside there! Listen to the shots,” said Guy, inclining an ear to the window.

Crack crack! Bang!

The windows rattled.

“Hurrah for the People’s Duke! Down with the King! Death to the Huguenots! to the Barbets! to the English! Death! Death! Death!”

“Lively down there I wish we were up and away!” mourned the son of the ex-provost of the merchants, “but without arms and ammunition, what can fellows do?”

“As sayeth the Wise Man” the voice of the Professor of Eloquence began to quicken into its stride “’all her main roads are pleasant roads; and her very by-paths, her sentiers, lead to peace!’”

“If we could only get at those pistols and things!” murmured Guy Launay. “I wager you a groat that the old man is mistaken! Oh, just hearken to them outside there, will you? Peace is a chafing-dish. War is the great sport!”

“Down with the King! Bring along those chains for the barricade! Students to the rescue!”

Then came up to their ears the blithe marching song, the time strongly marked:

“The Guises are good men, good men,
The Cardinal, and Henry, and Mayenne, Mayenne!
And we’ll fight till all be grey
The Valois at our feet to-day,
And in his grave the Bearnais
Our chief has come the Balafre!”

“Keys of Sainted Peter!” moaned Guy Launay, “I cannot stand this. I am going down, though I have no better weapon than a barrel-stave.”

And he hummed, rapping on the inscribed and whittled bench with his fingers, the refrain of the famous League song:

“For we’ll fight till all be grey
The Valois at our feet to-day,
In his deep grave the Bearnais
Our chief has come the Balafre!”

But Professor Anatole did not hear. He was in the whirl of his exposition of the blessings of universal peace. The Church had always brought a sword, and would to the end. But Philosophy, Divine Philosophy, which was what Solomon meant peace was within her walls, prosperity, etc.

And by this time the Spaniard, otherwise the Abbe John, was crawling stealthily towards the locked door. Guy Launay, on the contrary, was breathing hard, rustling leaves, taking notes for two, both elbows working. The Master was in the full rush of his discourse. He saw nothing, knew nothing. He had forgotten the robing-room in the affirmation that, “In the midst of turmoil, the truly philosophic may, and often does, preserve the true peace the truest of all, peace of mind, peace of conscience.”

Bang!

There was a tremendous explosion immediately under the window.

“The King’s men blowing up a barricade!” thought the Abbe John, with his hand on the great flat key, but drawing back a little. “If that does not wake him up, nothing will.”

But the gentle, even voice went on, triumphing the periods so familiar to the lecturer ringing out more clearly than ever. “Wars shall cease only when Wisdom, which is God, shall prevail. Philosophy is at one with Religion. The Thousand Years shall come a thousand times over and on the earth shall reign ”

The key gritted in the lock. The Abbe John disappeared behind the heavy curtain which hid the door of the robing-room.

The next moment he found himself in the presence of a man, lying rigidly on the Professor’s table, all among the books and papers, and of the fairest young girl the Abbe John had ever seen, gently closing eyes which would never more look out upon the world.

Within, the Professor’s voice droned on, discoursing of peace, righteousness, and eternal law. The great Day of the Barricades rattled and thundered without. Acrid blasts of sulphurous reek drove into the quiet room, and the Abbe John, speechless with amazement, looked into the wet eyes of this wonderful vision the purest, the loveliest, the most forlorn maid in France.