CHAPTER XVI
WHAT NEWS MAÎTRE JEHAN BROUGHT BACK WITH HIM
How Gilles spent the next two or three weeks he could never afterwards tell you. They were a long-drawn-out agony of body and of mind: of body, because the enforced inactivity was positive torture to such a man of action as he was; of mind, because the problem of life had become so complicated, its riddle so unanswerable, that day after day and night after night Gilles would pace up and down his narrow room in the Rue aux Juifs, his heart torn with misery and shame and remorse. The image of Jacqueline, so young, so womanly, so unsuspecting, haunted him with its sweet, insistent charm, until he would stretch out his arms toward that radiant vision in passionate longing and call to her aloud to go and leave him, alone with his misery.
He felt that, mayhap under simpler circumstances—she being a great lady, a rich heiress, and he an humble soldier of fortune—he could have torn her image from his heart, since obviously she could never become his, and he could have endured the desolation, the anguish, which after such a sacrifice would have left him finally, bruised and wearied, an old and broken man. But what lay before him now was, of a truth, beyond the power of human sufferance. A great, an overwhelming love had risen in his heart almost at first sight of an exquisite woman: and he was pledged by all that he held most sacred and most dear to play an unworthy part towards her, to deceive her, to lie to her, and finally to deliver her body and soul to that degenerate Valois Prince whom he knew to be a liar and a libertine, who would toy with her affections, sneer at her sensibilities and leave her, mayhap, one day, broken-hearted and broken-spirited, to end her days in desolation and misery.
And it was when the prospect of such a future confronted Gilles de Crohin in his loneliness that he felt ready to dash his head against the wall, to end all this misery, this incertitude, this struggle with the unsolvable problem which stood before him. He longed to flee out of this city, wherein she dwelt, out of the land which gave her birth, out of life, which had become so immeasurably difficult.
Maître Julien tended him with unwearying care and devotion, but he too watched with burning impatience for the return of Maître Jehan. There was little that the worthy soul did not guess just at this time. It had not been very difficult to put two and two together with the help of the threads which his Liege Lady had deigned to place in his hands. But Julien was too discreet to speak; he could only show his sympathy for a grief which he was well able to comprehend by showering kindness and attention on Messire, feeling all the while that he was thereby rendering service to his divinity.
Despite his horror of inaction, Gilles seldom went out during that time save at nightfall, and he had been content to let Monseigneur the governor know that he was still sick of his wounds. Indeed, those wounds inflicted upon him that night by a crowd of young jackanapes had been a blessing in disguise for him. They had proved a valid excuse for putting off the final day of decision which Monseigneur d'Inchy and his adherents had originally fixed a fortnight hence. That fortnight had long since gone by, and Gilles knew well enough that the Flemish lords were waxing impatient.
They were urging him earnestly for a decision. The pressure of the Duke of Parma's blockade upon the city was beginning to make itself felt. All access to the French frontier was now closed and it was only from the agricultural districts of the province itself that food supplies could be got into the town; and those districts themselves were overrun with Spanish soldiery, who pillaged and burned, stole and requisitioned, everything that they could lay hands on. The city of Cambray was in open revolt against her Sovereign Lord, the King of Spain, and the Duke of Parma had demanded an unconditional surrender, under such pains and penalties as would deliver the whole population to the tender mercies of a conqueror whose final word was always bloodshed and destruction.
A stout garrison, enthusiastic and determined, was in defence of the city, and there was no thought at present of capitulation in the valiant hearts of these Flemings, the comrades and equals of those who had perished in their hundreds in other cities and provinces of the Netherlands, whilst upholding their ancient rights and privileges against the greatest military organization of the epoch. There had been no thought of surrender, even though food was getting scarce and dear. Wheat and fresh meat had already become almost prohibitive for all save the rich; clothing and leather was unobtainable. The Duke of Parma was awaiting further troops yet, wherewith he proposed to invest the city from every side and to cut her population off from every possible source of supply.
This was the inexorable fact which M. le Baron d'Inchy placed before Gilles de Crohin when the latter presented himself one day at the Archiepiscopal Palace in his rôle as equerry to Monsieur.
'His Highness must see for himself,' d'Inchy said firmly, 'how impossible it is for us to wait indefinitely on his good pleasure. No one can regret more than I do the unfortunate circumstances which have brought His Highness down to a bed of sickness; and because of those circumstances—in which, alas! I, as Monseigneur's host, had an innocent share—I have been both considerate and long-suffering in not trying to brusque His Highness in his decision. But Parma is almost at our gates, and Orange is leading his own army from victory to victory. We gave in to Monseigneur's caprice when matters did not appear so urgent as they are now; time has come when further indecision becomes a rebuff.'
To these very just reproaches Gilles had no other answer save silence. Ill-versed as he was in the art of diplomacy, he did not know how to fence with words, how to parry this direct attack and to slip out of the impasse in which he was being cornered.
Jehan had been gone a fortnight, and still there was no answer from the Queen of Navarre!
'Monseigneur hath a delicate constitution,' he said somewhat lamely after awhile. 'He suffers grievously from his wounds and hath been delirious. It were unwarrantable cruelty to force a decision on him now.'
'So do our people suffer grievously,' retorted d'Inchy roughly. 'They suffer already from lack of food and the terror of Parma's armies. And,' he added with a touch of grim irony, 'as to His Highness' delicate constitution, meseems that if a man can hold six young gallants for half an hour at the sword's point, he hath little cause to quarrel with the constitution wherewith Nature hath endowed him.'
'Even the strongest man can be prostrated by fever.'
'Possibly. But there is no longer any time for procrastination, and unless I have His Highness' final answer at the end of the week, my messenger starts for Utrecht to meet the Prince of Orange.’
When Gilles had taken his leave of Monseigneur the Governor that afternoon, he felt indeed more perplexed than he had been before. Until Madame la Reyne's letter came, he felt that he could not pledge Monsieur's word irrevocably. When he thought over all the events which had finally landed him in face of so stupendous a problem his mind hung with dark foreboding on the Duc d'Anjou's cynical pronouncement: 'If any engagement is entered into in my name to which I have not willingly subscribed, I herewith do swear most solemnly that I would repudiate the wench at the eleventh hour—aye! at the very foot of the altar steps!' And Gilles, as he hurried along the interminable corridors of the Palace, was haunted by the image of Jacqueline—his flower o' the lily—tossed about from one ambitious scheme to another, subject to indifference, to aversion, to insults; unwanted and uncared for save for the sake of her fortune and the influence which she brought. It was monstrous! abominable! Gilles felt a wild desire to strangle some one for this deed of infamy, since he could not physically come to grips with Fate.
At the top of the stairs he saw Jacqueline coming towards him, and, whether it was the effect of his imagination or of his guilty conscience, certain it was that she seemed moody and pale. He stood aside while she walked past him; but though his whole being cried out for a word from her and his every sense yearned for the sound of her voice and a glance from her eyes, she did not stop to speak to him, only gave him a kind and gracious nod as she went by.
And after he had watched her dainty figure till it disappeared from his view, he took to his heels and ran out of the Palace and along the streets, like one who is haunted by torturing ghosts. It seemed to him that malevolent voices were hooting in his ear, that behind walls or sheltering doorways, there lurked hidden enemies or avenging ghosts, who pointed fingers of scorn at him as he ran past.
'There goes the man,' those accusing voices seemed to say, 'who would deliver an exquisite lily-flower to be crushed in the rough and thoughtless hands of an avowed profligate! There goes the man who, in order to attain that end, is even now living a double life, playing the part of a liar and a cheat!'
Self-accusation tortured him. He hurried home, conscious only of a desire to hide himself, to keep clear of her path, whom he was helping to wrong. He paid no heed to the real hooting that followed him, to the menacing fists that were levelled at him from more than one street-corner, wherever a few idlers had congregated or some poor, wretched churls, on the fringe of want, had put their heads together in order to discuss their troubles and their miseries. He did not notice that men spat in his trail, that women gathered their children to their skirts when he hurried past, and murmured under their breath: 'God punish the Spanish spy!’
Twenty days went by ere Jehan returned—twenty days that were like a cycle of years to the unfortunate watcher within the city. Maître Jehan arrived during the small hours of the morning, drenched to the skin, having swum the river for a matter of a league or more to avoid the Spanish sentries, and finally, after having skirted the city walls, had climbed them at a convenient spot under cover of darkness, being in as great danger from the guard at the gates as he had been from the enemy outside. He had then lain for an hour or two, hidden in the Fosse-au-Pouilleul, the most notorious and most comprehensive abode of thieves and cut-throats known in any city of Flanders. But the letter which Madame la Reyne de Navarre had given him for Messire, with the recommendation not to part with it to any one else save with his life, was still safe in its leather sheath inside the pocket of his doublet.
By the time that the first grey streak of dawn had touched the tall spires of the ancient city with its wand of silver, the letter was in Gilles de Crohin's hands, and the two friends were sitting side by side in the narrow room of the dreary hostelry, whilst Gilles felt as if a load of care had been lifted from his shoulders.
'Your news, my good Jehan? Your news?' he reiterated eagerly; 'ere I read this letter.'
But Jehan, by dint of broken words and gestures, indicated that the letter must be read first.
So, while he partook of the solid breakfast which Maître Julien had placed before him, Gilles read the letter which the gracious Queen had sent to him. It ran thus:
'Highly Honoured Seigneur,
'My Faithful and Loyal Friend!
'The present is to tell You that all is well with our schemes. I have seen Monsieur, who already is wearied of Madame de Marquette, and like a School boy who has been whipped for disobedience, is at this moment fawning round my Skirts, ready to do anything that I may command. Was I not right? I prophesied that this would be so. Thus Your labours on My behalf have not been in fain. And now I pray you to carry through the matter to a triumphant conclusion. In less than three months Monsieur will be Sovereign Lord of the Netherlands, with the hand of the Flemish Heiress as a priceless additional guerdon. In the meanwhile, as no doubt You know already, the Armies of the Duke of Parma lie between Us and Cambray. Monsieur is busy collecting together the necessary Forces to do battle against the Spaniards. He is prepared to enter Cambray in triumph, to marry the Lady blindfolded, since You say that She is adorable; in fact He is in the best of moods and consents to everything which I desire. Meanwhile, Messire de Balagny, who is Chief of Monsieur's camp, is on his way with full details of our projects for the final defeat of the Spaniards. He has a small troop with him, whom he will leave at La Fère until after he hath spoken with You. I urge You, Messire, in the meanwhile to entreat M. le Baron d'Inchy not to surrender the City to the Duke of Parma. I pray You to assure Him—in Your name as Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon—that the whole Might of France, of which Messire de Balagny's small troop is but the forerunner, is at Your beck and call; that You will use it in order to free the Netherlands from the Spanish yoke. Tell him that the next few months will see the final overthrow of King Philip's domination in the Netherlands and a prince of the house of France as their Sovereign Lord. Say anything, promise anything, Messire! I swear to You that Monsieur is prepared to redeem any pledge You may enter into in his Name. Then, when Messire de Balagny arrives in Cambray, You can make this Your excuse for quitting the City, nominally in order to place Yourself at the head of Your armies. Messire de Balagny, who is in My confidence, will then remain, not only to take command of the Garrison and help with his small troop to defend the City from within, but also as a guarantee for Monsieur's good faith. See how splendidly I have thought everything out, how perfectly events are shaping themselves for the success of Our schemes! Patience a brief while longer, Messire! Your time of trial is drawing to an end! Confess that it hath not been a very severe ordeal and that You have derived much enjoyment from mystifying some of those over obtuse Flemings. I count with pleasure and impatience upon Your arrival in La Fère very shortly, where the gratitude of a sorely tried Queen will be awaiting You. If You now help me to carry the affair through to a triumphant close, I vow that on the day that Monsieur makes his state entry into Cambray there will be naught that You can ask of Me and which if in My power to give that I would not bestow with a joyful heart upon you.
'Until then, I remain, Messire,
'Your earnest Well-Wisher,
'Marguerlte de Navarre.
'Given in Paris, under My hand and seal this 27th day of March 1581.’
The letter fell from Messire Gilles' hand unheeded on to the floor. He was staring straight out before him, a world of perplexity in his eyes. Maître Jehan tried in vain to fathom what went on behind his master's lowering brow. Surely the news which he had brought was of the most cheering and of the best. The present humiliating position could not now last very long. Messire de Balagny was on his way, and within a few days—hours, perhaps—he and Messire could once more resume those happy, adventurous times of the past. And yet it seemed as if Messire was not altogether happy. There was something in his attitude, in the droop of his listless hands, as if something bright and hopeful had just slipped out of his grasp—which to Jehan's mind was manifestly absurd.
So he shrugged his wide shoulders and solemnly picked up the fallen letter and pressed it back into Messire's hand. The action roused Gilles from his gloomy meditations.
'Well, my good Jehan!' he said with a grim laugh, which grated very unpleasantly on faithful Jehan's ears. 'If the rest of your news is as good as that contained in Madame la Reyne's letter, you and I will presently find ourselves the two luckiest devils in Flanders.'
Jehan nodded. 'I have n-n-n-no f-f-f-further news,' he blurted out. 'Messire de B-b-b-b-balagny was at La F-f-f-fère when I was th-th-there.'
'With a strong troop?'
Jehan nodded dubiously.
'A couple of hundred men?'
'Or s-s-s-s-so,' retorted Jehan.
'But he himself will be within sight of Cambray to-day?'
'A-a-a-at this hour.'
'And inside the city to-morrow?'
Jehan nodded again.
'And Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou?'
'In P-p-p-p-aris: ready to st-st-st-start.'
'He does not mean to play a double game this time?'
'No-n-n-n-no-no!' came in rapid and vigorous protest from Maître Jehan.
'Then the sooner I secure his bride for him, the better it will be for Madame la Reyne's schemes,' concluded Gilles dryly. Then suddenly he jumped to his feet, gave a deep sigh, and stretching out his arms with a gesture of impatience and of longing, he said: 'If we could only vacate the field without further ado, honest Jehan! and let Fate do the rest of the dirty work for us!'
His hand as it fell back came in contact with his sword, which was lying across the table; not the exquisite Toledo rapier, the gift of a confiding Queen, but his own stout, useful one, which he had picked up some three years ago now, after his own had been broken in his hand on the field of Gembloux. There it lay, the length of its sheath in shadow; but the slanting rays of the early morning sun fell full upon the hilt, which was shaped like a cross. With it in his hand, with that cross-hilt before his eyes, Gilles de Crohin had sworn by all that he held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business through and would not give it up, until Marguerite of Navarre herself gave him the word. And these were days when the sworn word was a thing that was sacred above all things on this earth; and as Gilles himself had said it on that same memorable occasion, he was not a prince and he could not afford to toy with his word—it was the only thing he possessed. Therefore, though more than one historian, notably Enguerrand de Manuchet, has chosen to cast a slur upon Gilles de Crohin for his actions, I for one do not see how he could have acted otherwise and kept his honour intact. He was pledged to Marguerite de Navarre, had pledged himself to her with eyes open and full knowledge of the Duc d'Anjou's character. To have turned back on his promise, to have broken his word to the Queen, would have been the act of a perjurer and of a coward. He could at this precise moment have walked out of Cambray, that we know. The Duke of Parma's armies at the time that Balagny succeeded in reaching Cambray only occupied that portion of the Cambrésis which adjoined the French frontier. On the West the way lay open, and the whole world on that side was free to the soldier of fortune, even though he would have been forced, after such a course of action, to shake the dust of France for ever from his feet.
But he chose to remain. He chose to continue the deception which had been imposed upon him, even though it involved the happiness of the woman he loved, even though it meant not only to relinquish her to another man, but to a man who was wholly unworthy of her.
Far be it from the writer of this veracious chronicle to excuse Gilles de Crohin in what he did. I do not wish to palliate, only to explain. Far be it from me, I say, to run counter to Messire de Manuchet's learned opinion. But the history of individuals as well as that of nations has a trick of seeming more clear and more proportionate when it is viewed through the glasses of centuries, and it is just possible—I say it in all humility—that Messire de Manuchet, who in addition to being a very capable historian was also a firm adherent of the policy of a French alliance for the sorely stricken Netherlands, felt aggrieved that Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, the fairest heiress in Flanders, did not after all wed Monsieur Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, own brother to the King of France, and did not thereby consolidate that volatile Prince's hold upon the United Provinces, and that the learned historian hath vented his disappointment in consequence on the man who ultimately failed to bring that alliance about.
That, of course, is only a surmise. Messire de Manuchet's history of that stirring episode was writ three hundred years ago: he may have been personally acquainted with the chief actors in the palpitating drama—with d'Inchy and Jacqueline de Broyart, with Gilles de Crohin and the Marquis de Landas; even with the Queen of Navarre and Monsieur Duc d'Anjou. He may also have had his own peculiar code of honour, which was not the one laid down by Du Guesclin and Bayard, by Bussy d'Amboise and Gilles de Crohin, and all the protagonists of chivalry.