CHAPTER XXIII
WHILE TRAITORS ARE AT WORK
And now, I pray you think of Jacqueline running to the balustrade and, with glowing eyes looking over the stonework upon the perron beneath her. Jehan has caught his master as the latter touches the ground, and for the space of two or three seconds the two men stand at the top of the steps, locked in each other's arms, steadying one another. During those few seconds Messire whispers hurriedly in his faithful henchman's ears:
'De Balagny's troops from La Fère ... at all costs.... Understand?'
Jehan nods.
'Tell them to attack from the Bapaume Road, with as much clatter and shouting as may be. We'll hold on till they come. Go!'
He waits another few seconds until he sees Jehan's burly form disappear through the throng, then with a loud call, 'À moi! all you citizens of Cambray who are not cowards and traitors!' he draws his sword and faces the crowd.
He has a clear and resonant voice, which rises above the tumult. The panic-stricken throng of men and women pause mechanically in their unconsidered flight, to look on that strange apparition on the perron steps—strange, in truth; for towering up there, he looks preternaturally tall, and the black mask on his face gives him an air of mystery.
'Citizens of Cambray,' he continues lustily. 'The Spaniard is at your gate! Are you going to let the traitors have their day?'
The crowd sways towards him. Frightened as every one is, there is a momentary lull in the wild stampede, while scared, wide-eyed, pallid faces are turned towards the stranger. The runaway soldiers, too, pause, in their headlong rush. A company of pikemen stand in a compact group on the edge of the crowd, some fifty paces away from Gilles. Their captain, bonnetless, with tattered jerkin and face streaming with sweat, is in their midst. Messire sees him, and shouts to him with all his might.
'Captain of the guard, Cambray is in peril! What are you doing here?'
The man evidently wavers; he looks shamed and overcome, tries to hide himself behind his subordinates. But some one close at his elbow—Jacqueline cannot see who it is—appears to egg him on, and after an instant's hesitation he says sullenly:
'The Spaniards are on us, and——'
'Then why are you not on the Spaniards?' retorts Gilles.
'They have made a breach at Cantimpré.'
'Then where are your counter-mines?'
'Under the bastion.'
'Did you fire them?'
'No. The whole fort is crumbling already. It would tumble about our ears.'
'Then why are you not at the breach to make a rampart of your body?'
Again the man wavers. He is a soldier and a tried one, appears bewildered at his own act of treachery. It seemed at the time as if some one—some devil—had put cowardice into his heart at the very moment when courage and presence of mind were most urgently needed. The men, too, had faltered, broken most unexpectedly at the first assault, throwing down their arms. Even the gunners.... But it wouldn't bear thinking of. In truth, some devil had been at work, is at work now; for when the men and the captain, already stirred by Gilles' enthusiasm, looking ashamed and crestfallen, are on the point of cheering, a peremptory voice, laden with spite, rises from somewhere in the rear.
'Captain of the guard! I forbid you to listen to this man! He is a cheat and an impostor!'
It is de Landas, who, hidden at the back of the crowd, has seen Gilles jump down from the balcony, and scenting danger to his infamous scheme, has been at pains to force his way to the forefront of the mob. It has taken him some time and vigorous play of the elbows, for the crowd has become interested in the masked stranger—in the man whom they had nearly murdered twenty-four hours ago, but whose appearance and words to-day are distinctly inspiriting and reassuring.
De Landas has one of his favourite familiars with him—the Fleming, Maarege—and together the two men stand now, commanding and arrogant, in front of the soldiers and their captain. And they, recognizing the chief commandant of the garrison, are once more panic-stricken and dumb. Vague ideas of discipline and punishment, to which the young Spaniard had accustomed them, check their enthusiasm for the stranger.
Now de Landas has taken a step or two nearer to the captain of the guard. His eyes are aflame with fury, and his whole attitude is one of authority and of menace.
'If you dare parley with this man,' he says savagely, 'you will answer for it with your life. The Spanish armies are at your gates; in a few hours they will be in this city. Your only hope of pardon for yourself, for your wife, your children and your kindred, lies in complete and immediate surrender to the will of His Majesty the King of Spain, my master and yours!'
'To hell with the King of Spain, your master!' Gilles' stentorian voice breaks in from above. 'Soldiers of Cambray!' he continues lustily, 'You have nothing to fear from the King of Spain, or from any of his minions! 'Tis you who will punish them for all their past insolence! You who will dictate to them the terms of victory!'
'You miserable varlet!' exclaims de Landas, and turns on Gilles with unbridled savagery. 'How dare you raise your voice when the King of Spain speaks through my lips? How dare you speak to all these besotted fools of victory, when in submission lies their only chance of safety? Fools!' he goes on, and turns once more to the crowd. 'Self-deluded dupes! Do you not feel the might of Spain closing in upon you? Surrender, I say! Submit! You are wretched and starved and weak. You cannot defend yourselves, and no one will come to your aid.'
'Then do I proclaim you a liar, M. de Landas!' is Gilles' firm retort. 'The armies of France are on their way for the relief of Cambray, even at this hour.'
'It is false!'
'True as I live. True as that you are a miserable traitor! True as there is a Heaven above us and as there are angels who visit this earth. Citizens of Cambray, I swear to you that the army of the King of France will be outside your city before the April sun that smiles upon your valour has sunk down to rest. So give a cheer for France, citizens of Cambray! France, your deliverer and friend!'
His sally is greeted with a gigantic outburst of cheering.
'France! France!'
The crowd has listened spellbound while the masked stranger bandied words with that bastard Spaniard, whom they had all learned to loathe long ago. His cheery voice, his confident bearing, his exultation, have already warmed their hearts. Something of their terror has vanished; they are no longer like a herd of awestruck beasts, driven aimlessly along by senseless terror. There is nothing in the world so infectious as fear, except courage and enthusiasm: and Gilles' martial figure, the proud carriage of his head, his vibrant voice and flashing sword, are there to infuse valour even in the most abject.
The captain of the guard and his men had winced before de Landas' threats. Old habits of discipline could not all in a moment be shaken off. But now they feel that the crowd is at one with them in their enthusiasm for the stranger, and also that they will be given a chance of retrieving their shameful act of cowardice of awhile ago. So, when the crowd cheers, the soldiers, despite de Landas' black looks and his brutal menaces, following their captain's lead, cheer too. They cheer until the very walls of the ancient city reverberate with the sound.
'France! France!’
Then suddenly Gilles, at the top of the perron steps, quick as lightning, runs to the nearest earthenware pot which is filled with the Madonna lilies. He plucks out a sheaf of the flowers, and with a loud cry: 'Soldiers of Cambray, rally to the standard of France! To the unconquered Flower o' the Lily!' he throws the flowers one by one to the soldiers and their captain. The men seize them as they fly through the air and fasten them to their bonnets or their belts. The crowd acclaims the spirited deed:
'Long live the flower o' the lily!' they shout.
Now Gilles is running from pot to pot. He snatches sheaf after sheaf of lilies and throws them to the crowd. The flowers are caught up with ever growing ardour, whilst every corner of the Place rings with the triumphant call: 'France! France!'
Far away the cannon is roaring, the air is rent with the sharp report of muskets and the crumbling of masonry. The translucent April sky hath taken on a lurid hue. Around the city walls the brutal enemy is already swarming; he is battering at the gates, has climbed the fortifications, run triumphantly to the assault. Awhile ago the crowd had cowered at the sound, fled terrified at his approach. Now every heart is thrilled with fervour, every soul responds to the appeal of an enthusiast, and is glowing with the hope of victory.
And de Landas, blind with fury, sees the fruits of his abominable treachery crumbling to dust before his eyes. He glowers on every one around him like a stricken bull, with rage and frenzy enkindled in his eyes. And suddenly, before any one there can guess his purpose, he has laid savage hands on the Captain of the guard, and drawing a pistol from his belt he points it at the unfortunate man's breast.
'If one of you dares to utter another sound, or to stir from this spot,' he shrieks out in a shrill and husky voice, 'I'll shoot this dog where he stands.'
At once the cheers immediately near him are stilled, a groan of horror and of execration rises from an hundred throats, and for the space of a few seconds the soldiers stand quite still, holding their breath; for in truth it is murder which gleams out of the young Spaniard's eyes.
'Down on your knees, you miscreant!' shouts de Landas fiercely. 'Maarege, à moi! Help me to make a clean sweep of this herd of rebels. Down on your knees, every one of you! You Flemish swine!'
'Down on your knees, M. le Marquis!' Gilles' sonorous voice rings out like a bronze bell beneath the clapper. With that rapidity which characterizes his every action, he runs down the perron steps, catches de Landas' right arm from behind and gives it such a brutal wrench that the pistol falls from the miscreant's hand and the Spaniard himself, sick with the pain, comes down on one knee.
'Out of the way, you hell-hound!' Gilles goes on mercilessly. 'There is no room for traitors in Cambray.'
He kicks the pistol on one side and throws de Landas, semi-inert, from him, as if he were a bale of noisome goods. Then he turns and, with an instantaneous gesture, has gripped de Landas' familiar by the throat.
'I'll kill every one of your gang with mine own hands,' he says in a fierce and rapid whisper, 'unless you all slink away at once like the curs that you are!'
The words are hardly out of his mouth, and Maarege, faint and sick, is bending under that powerful grip, when from somewhere overhead there comes a sudden, heart-rending cry of warning.
'Take care!'
But the warning has come just a second too late. De Landas, recovering from semi-consciousness, has succeeded in crawling on hands and knees and retaking possession of his pistol. He points it straight at his hated rival. There is a sharp report, followed by screams from the women. For a second or two Gilles remains standing just where he was, with his sinewy fingers round Maarege's throat. Then his grip relaxes; Maarege totters back, panting and half dead, whilst Gilles instinctively puts his hand to his shoulder. His jerkin is already deeply stained with blood.
De Landas gives an almost demoniacal shout of glee, which, however, is but short-lived. The soldiers, who had been cowed by his brutality a moment ago, are roused to a passion of fury now at the dastardly assault on one who has already become their idol. They fall on the recreant, regardless of his rank and power. They drag him up from the ground, wrench the pistol out of his hand and hold him there, a panting, struggling, impotent beast, breathing hatred and malediction.
'Give the word, Monseigneur,' the Captain says coolly, 'and we'll kill the vermin.' He holds the pistol to de Landas' breast, whilst his eyes are fixed on Gilles, waiting for the order to fire.
'Let the serpent be, captain,' Gilles replies quietly.
'But you are hurt, Monseigneur,' the captain urges.
'Nothing but a scratch—'tis healed already.'
Far away the cannon thunders once more. Once more a terrific explosion rends the air. Gilles, still upright, still cheery, still brimful of enthusiasm, holds his sword up high over his head, so that the April sun draws sparks of fire from its shining blade.
'To the breach, friends!' he cries. 'If breach there be! À moi, soldiers of Cambray! Form into line and to the ramparts! I'll be there before you! And you, proud citizens of a valiant city, à moi! Pick up your staves and your sticks, your chisels and your rakes! À moi! All of you, with your fists and your knees and your hearts and your minds! Remember Mons, and Mechlin and Gand! Remember your hearths! your wives! your daughters! and let the body of each one of you here be a living rampart against the foe for the defence of your homes. À moi!'
The captain gives the order, the men fall in, in straight, orderly line. On their bonnets or in their belts the white lily gleams like shining metal beneath the kiss of the April sun. From the Town Hall the bodyguard comes trooping down the perron steps. They are joined by the halberdiers who had lined the Grand' Place, by the archers from St. Géry and the musketeers from the citadel. The banners of the city guilds flutter in the breeze; fair hands and white kerchiefs are waved from windows and balconies above, and a terrific cheer for France rends the air with its triumphant echo, as the crowd begins to move slowly in the wake of the soldiers.
'Long live France!'
'Long live the Defender of Cambray!’
For a moment Gilles stands quite still, almost isolated where he is, a little dizzy with excitement and with loss of blood. An uncomfortable veil is fast gathering in front of his eyes. 'I shall have to see to this stupid scratch,' he murmurs to himself.
It had all occurred so quickly—within a brief quarter of an hour. And yet the destinies of nations had been recast during that time. Now the city fathers, the provosts, Monseigneur himself, are crowding round the one man who they feel might still save them from dishonour.
'Your Highness, we look to you,' Monseigneur is saying.
'Tell us what you wish done,' adds the Chief Magistrate.
'The Provosts await your Highness' orders,' rejoins a pompous dignitary, whilst yet another continues in the same strain: 'We are body and soul at your Highness' commands.'
Their voices come to Gilles as if from somewhere far away. They are drowned by the tumult of the beleaguered city preparing for a last stand. But the instinct of the soldier keeps him steadfast on his feet. He makes a violent effort to keep his head clear and his voice firm. He gives orders to the Chief Magistrate, the Provosts, the Mayors of the Guilds. The forts must be visited at once, the men encouraged, the officers admonished. Every hour, every minute almost is now of priceless value. The troop brought over by Messire de Balagany, encamped at La Fère cannot be here before sundown. Until then the men must stand. Oh! they must stand, Messires! Despite crumbling walls and hecatombs of dead! Let the men know that the existence of their country is hanging to-day by a thread!
The Guild of Armourers must open up its stores: pikes, lances, halberts, muskets, must be distributed to a contingent of citizens, who, though untrained, will help to strengthen the living wall. The Guild of Apothecaries must be ready with ambulances and dressings, and stretcher-bearers must work wonders so that the fighters are not encumbered by the dead.
The Chief Engineer of the city must see to barricading the streets with double rows of hurdles, or boxes, or furniture, or lumber of any sorts, with sacks filled with earth, empty carts, wagons, clothing, anything and everything that may be handy. The reservoirs of the city must be patrolled, and if it be deemed necessary, they must be opened and the water allowed to flood the low-lying streets by the river, if the enemy succeed in obtaining a foothold there. Countermines must be laid; every one must to his task, and he who does not fight must think and work and endure.
Every one obeys. One by one, the dignitaries file away to execute the orders which have been given them. They all accept the leadership of this man, whom they still believe to be the Duc d'Anjou, their future Sovereign Lord.
'Ah, Monseigneur!' exclaims d'Inchy warmly. 'I thank God on my knees that you are with us to-day, and that it is you who will defend our city—the most precious pearl in your future inheritance.'
'Your Highness must save yourself as much as possible,' comes in cordial echo from M. de Lalain. 'We could ill spare you now.'
'What would we do if Monseigneur fell?' adds another.
And then an angelic voice breaks in suddenly, saying with sweet compassion:
'Fie, Monsieur my guardian, to weary Monseigneur so! Cannot you see that he is fainting?'
But Gilles hardly hears. Tired nature is asserting her rights over him at last. He sinks wearied upon the nearest step. It seems to him as if soft arms are thrown around him, whilst others—more powerful and insistent—busy themselves dexterously with his jerkin.
It is all very vague and infinitely sweet. Soft linen is laid upon his wounded shoulder, something pungent and sweet-smelling is held to his nostrils, whilst from very far away, in the regions of dreams and of paradise, a soft voice murmurs with angelic solicitude:
'Think you it will heal?'
'Very quickly, gracious lady,' a gruff voice replies. ''Tis only a flesh wound. Excitement hath brought on a brief swoon. It is nothing.'
After which Gilles remembers nothing more.