CHAPTER VI
IN WHICH MARTIN-GUERRE'S CHARACTER BEGINS TO BE
REHABILITATED
"My death!" ejaculated Martin, turning pale at Dame Aloyse's terrible words.
"Oh, God be merciful unto me!" cried the peasant, as soon as he cast his eye upon the squire.
"Can it be that my other self is dead? God be praised!" said Martin. "Am I at last relieved from this continual changing back and forth? Bah! On the whole, upon reflection, I should be a little sorry if it is so, but still reasonably satisfied. Why don't you speak, friend? Speak!" he added, addressing himself to the bewildered peasant.
"Ah, Master," replied the latter, when he had looked closely at Martin and touched him with his hands, "how does it happen that you are here before me? I swear to you, Master, that I came as quickly as a man could come to do your errand, and earn the ten crowns; and unless you came in the saddle, Master, it is absolutely impossible for you to have passed me on the road, and in that case I must have seen you."
"To be sure; but, my good fellow, I never saw you before," said Martin-Guerre; "and yet you talk as if you knew me!"
"As if I knew you!" said the stupefied peasant. "Do you mean to say that you didn't send me here to say that Martin-Guerre had been hanged and was dead?"
"What! Martin-Guerre! Why, I am Martin-Guerre."
"You? Impossible! How could you have told of your own hanging?" rejoined the peasant.
"But why, where, and when did I tell you of such an atrocity?" asked Martin.
"Must I tell you the precise facts now?" said the peasant.
"Yes, everything."
"Notwithstanding the fact that you made up a story for me to tell."
"Yes; never mind that now."
"Well, then, since your memory is so short, I will tell you everything. So much the worse for you if you force me to do it! Six days ago, in the morning, I was at work hoeing my field—"
"Before you go any further, where is your field?" asked Martin.
"Do you want me to tell you the real truth, Master?" said the peasant.
"Why, of course I do, you beast!"
"Well, then, my field is behind Montargis! I was at work when you came along the road, with a travelling-bag on your back."
"'Well, well, my friend," said you, 'what are you doing? Come, why don't you speak?'
"'I am hoeing, Master. I am ready to answer your questions.'
"'How much does this work of yours pay you?'
"'Year in and year out, about four sous a day.'
"'Would you like to earn twenty crowns in two weeks?'
"'Oh, oh!'
"'Say yes or no.'
"'Yes, indeed, I should.'
"'Well, you must go at once to Paris. By making good speed, you will arrive in five or six days, at the latest. Ask your way to Rue des Jardins St. Paul, and find the house of Vicomte d'Exmès. It is to that house that I want you to go. The viscount will not be there; but you will find a good old soul called Aloyse, his nurse; and this is what you must say to her. Now, listen carefully! You will say: "I am from Noyon" (Noyon, you understand, not Montargis),—"I am from Noyon, where one of your acquaintances was hanged a fortnight since. His name was Martin-Guerre." (Be sure to remember that name Martin-Guerre). "Martin-Guerre has been hanged, after being robbed of the money he had about him, so that he might not complain of the robbery. But before he was taken to the gallows Martin-Guerre had time to beg me to come and let you know of his ill-fortune, so that, as he said, you might provide a new supply of money for his master's ransom. He promised me that you would give me ten crowns for my trouble. I waited until he was hanged, and then I came away."
"'There, that is what you are to say to the good woman. Do you understand?' you asked me.
"'Yes, Master," I replied; 'only you said twenty crowns in the first place, and now you only speak of ten.'
"'Fool!' said you, 'here are the other ten in advance.'
"'Very good,' I rejoined. 'But suppose this Aloyse asks me to describe the appearance of Martin-Guerre, for I never saw him, and I ought to be able to tell how he looks.'
"'Look at me.'
"I looked at you.
"'Very well; now you can describe Martin-Guerre, as if it were myself.'"
"How strange!" muttered Gabriel, who had been listening to this narration with most profound attention.
"Now," continued the peasant, "I am here, Master, ready to repeat the lesson you taught me (for you said it to me twice, and I know it by heart), and I find you here before me! It is very true that I loitered on the road, and drank up your ten crowns in the roadside cabarets, because I expected soon to have the other ten in my pocket; but at all events I am within the time you fixed. You gave me six days, and it was just six days ago that I left Montargis."
"Six days!" said Martin-Guerre, sadly and thoughtfully. "I came through Montargis six days ago! I was on the road to my own province six days ago! Your story is extremely probable, my friend," he continued, "and I believe it implicitly."
"But no!" Aloyse eagerly interposed, "this man is evidently a liar, when he claims to have talked with you at Montargis six days ago, for you have not been out of these doors for twelve days."
"Very true," said Martin; "but my number two—"
"Then again," continued the nurse, "he says that it is only a fortnight since you were hanged at Noyon; while according to your own words it was a month ago."
"Yes, it certainly was," said the squire; "I was thinking when I woke this morning that it was just a month to-day. However, my other self—"
"Oh, nonsense!" cried the nurse.
"It seems to me," Gabriel interposed, "that this man has finally put us upon the right track."
"Oh, indeed you are not mistaken, kind sir," said the peasant. "Shall I receive my ten crowns?"
"Yes," said Gabriel; "but you must leave your name and address with us. We may have need of your testimony some day. I begin to detect some very evil doings, although my suspicions are not yet clearly defined."
"But, Monseigneur—" Martin began to remonstrate. Gabriel interrupted him sharply. "Enough of that!" said he. "Do you see to it, good Aloyse, that this man goes his way content. This matter shall be attended to in due time. But, do you know," he added, lowering his voice, "that I may perhaps have to take my revenge for treachery to the master before I deal with the treachery to the squire."
"Alas!" muttered Aloyse.
"It is now eight o'clock," continued Gabriel. "I shall not see my good people until my return; for I must be at the doors of the Louvre when they are opened. Even though I may not be able to obtain an audience of the king until noon, I can at least have some conversation with the admiral and Monsieur de Guise."
"And when you have seen the king, you will return here at once, will you not?" asked Aloyse.
"At once; don't you be anxious about me, my good nurse. Something seems to tell me that I shall come out victoriously from all these dark plots which intrigue and impudence are weaving around me."
"Indeed you will, if God heeds my earnest prayer," said Aloyse.
"I go," rejoined Gabriel. "You remain here, Martin, for I must go alone. Come, come, my good fellow, we shall justify you and deliver you from your other self in good time; but you see I have another justification and another deliverance to accomplish first of all. To our speedy meeting, Martin! au revoir, nurse!"
Each kissed the hand which the young man extended. Then he left the house, alone and on foot, wrapped in a great cloak, and with a grave and haughty mien directed his steps toward the Louvre.
"Alas!" thought the nurse, "even so I once saw his father depart, and he never returned."
Just as Gabriel, after crossing the Pont au Change, was walking through the Place de Grève, he noticed a man, enveloped like himself in a cloak, which was however of coarser material, and more carefully held in place than his own. More than that, this man was evidently trying to conceal his features beneath the broad brim of his hat.
Gabriel, although he thought at first that he recognized the figure and carriage of a friend, nevertheless pursued his way; but the unknown, as soon as he saw Vicomte d'Exmès, gave a sudden start, and after seeming to hesitate for a moment, stopped suddenly and said very cautiously, "Gabriel, my friend!"
At the same time he half disclosed his face, and Gabriel saw that he had not been mistaken.
"Monsieur de Coligny!" he exclaimed, without however raising his voice. "You here! and at this hour!"
"Hush!" said the admiral. "I confess that just at this moment I have no desire to be recognized and spied upon and followed. But when I saw you, my dear friend, after so long a separation, and so much anxiety on your account, I could not resist the temptation to accost you and grasp your hand. How long have you been in Paris?"
"Only since this morning," said Gabriel; "and I was on my way to see you at the Louvre first of all."
"Oh, well," said the admiral, "if you are not in too great haste, just walk a few steps with me. You must tell me what you have been about during your long absence."
"I will tell you all that I can tell the most loyal and devoted of friends," Gabriel responded. "But first, Monsieur l'Amiral, I know you will allow me to ask you a question on a subject which is of more interest to me than anything else in the world."
"I can imagine what that question will be," said the admiral. "But ought you not to be quite as well able to forecast my reply to it, my dear friend? You propose to ask me, do you not, whether I kept my promise to you,—whether I told the king of the glorious and indispensable part which you had in the defence of St. Quentin?"
"No, Monsieur l'Amiral," Gabriel replied; "really that is not what I was about to ask you; for I know, and have learned to trust in your word, and I am perfectly certain that your first thought on your return to Paris was to fulfil your promise, and to declare generously to the king, and to the king alone, that my efforts counted for something in St. Quentin's long resistance. In fact, I have no doubt that you exaggerated my small services in your narration to his Majesty. Yes, Monsieur, I know all that without asking. But what I do not know, and what it is of the greatest moment that I should know, is the reply of Henri II. to your kind words."
"Alas! Gabriel," said the admiral, "Henri made no other reply than to ask me what had become of you. I was very much puzzled what to tell him. The letter you left for me on your departure from St. Quentin was very far from explicit, and only reminded me of my promise. I told the king that I knew you had not fallen, but that you had been made prisoner in all probability, and from a feeling of delicacy had not wanted to inform me of it."
"And to that the king—?" asked Gabriel, eagerly.
"The king said, my dear friend: 'That is well!' and a smile of satisfaction hovered upon his lips. Then, when I was enlarging upon the magnificence of your feats of arms, and upon the obligations which you had laid upon France and her king, 'Enough of that!' Henri interposed, and haughtily changing the subject of conversation, compelled me to speak of something else."
"Yes, that is just as I supposed it would be," said Gabriel, with bitter irony.
"Courage, my friend!" rejoined the admiral. "Do you not remember that at St. Quentin I warned you that it was not safe to rely upon the gratitude of the great ones of the world?"
"Oh, yes!" said Gabriel, threateningly; "it was all very well for the king to choose to forget when he hoped that I was dead or in prison; but when I remind him of my rights, as I propose to do very soon, he will find that he has got to remember."
"And suppose his memory persists in being defective?" asked Monsieur de Coligny.
"Monsieur l'Amiral," said Gabriel, "when one has undergone an insult, one applies to the king to see justice done. When the king himself offers the insult, one has no resource but to apply to God for vengeance."
"I imagine, too," the admiral rejoined, "that if it should be necessary, you would constitute yourself the instrument of the divine vengeance."
"You have said it, Monsieur."
"In that case," Coligny resumed, "there is no better place nor time than the present to remind you of a conversation we once had on the subject of the persecuted religion, when I spoke to you of a sure means of punishing kings, while serving the cause of truth at the same time."
"Oh, yes! our conversation was just in my mind," said Gabriel. "My memory does not fail me, you see. I may at some time resort to your means, Monsieur,—against Henri's successors perhaps, if not against himself, since your remedy is equally efficacious against all kings."
"That being so," the admiral continued, "can you give me an hour of your time now?"
"The king does not receive till noon; my time belongs to you until that hour."
"Come with me where I am going, then," said the admiral. "You are of gentle birth, and I have seen your character put to the proof, so I will demand no oath from you. Promise me simply that you will preserve absolute silence as to the people you are about to see, and the things that you hear."
"I promise not to lisp a word," said Gabriel.
"Follow me, then," said the admiral, "and if you meet with injustice at the Louvre, you will at least have your revenge in your own hands in advance; follow me."
Coligny and Gabriel crossed the Pont au Change and the Cité, and were swallowed up in the labyrinth of lanes and alleys which then existed in the neighborhood of Rue St. Jacques.