CHAPTER XII
THE CLEVERNESS OF STUPIDITY
Let us in imagination pass over sixty leagues of space and two weeks of time, and return to Calais toward the close of November, 1557.
Twenty-five days had not elapsed since Vicomte d'Exmès's departure when a messenger from him presented himself at the gates of the English city.
This man asked to be taken to the governor, Lord Wentworth, that he might place in his hands the ransom of his former prisoner.
This messenger seemed to be extremely awkward, and very imprudent; for it was of no use to show him which way to go. Twenty times he passed without entering the great gate which they almost split their throats in their endeavors to point out to him, and he stupidly persisted in knocking at disused posterns and gates; so that the idiot actually made almost the complete circuit of the exterior fortifications of the place.
At last, by dint of directions, each more exact than the last, he consented to allow himself to be put upon the right course; and so great was the power, even in those far-off days, of the magic words, "I have ten thorn sand crowns for the governor," that as soon as rigorous precautions had been observed, and the man had been searched, and Lord Wentworth's orders taken, the bearer of so considerable a sum was readily allowed to enter the city.
Decidedly the Golden Age is the only one in history that was not an age of money!
This stupid envoy of Gabriel lost his way again more than once in the streets of Calais before he succeeded in finding the governor's mansion, which was pointed out to him, however, every hundred paces by some compassionate soul. He seemed to have an idea that he ought to ask every party of guards that he met where he could find Lord Wentworth, and then he would hasten in the direction indicated.
After wasting an hour in traversing a space which should have occupied ten minutes at most, he succeeded at last in reaching the governor's residence.
He was ushered almost immediately into the presence of Lord Wentworth, who received him with his air of accustomed gravity, which seemed almost to be positively gloomy on this occasion.
When he had explained the purpose of his mission and had placed a bag filled with gold upon the table, the Englishman asked,—
"Did Vicomte d'Exmès simply instruct you to hand me this money, and add no message for me?"
Pierre (so the messenger was called) looked at Lord Wentworth with an open-mouthed astonishment which did little credit to his natural talents.
"My Lord," said he at last, "I have no commission to execute with you except to hand you the ransom. At least my master gave me no further instructions; and I do not understand—"
"Oh, it's all right!" Lord Wentworth interposed with a disdainful smile. "I see that Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès has become more reasonable since I last saw him. I congratulate him that such is the case. The air of the court of France induces forgetfulness! so much the better for those who breathe it!"
He muttered beneath his breath as if speaking to himself,—
"Indeed, the power to forget is often the better half of happiness!"
"Has my Lord any message to send to my master?" rejoined the messenger, who seemed to listen with a very careless and stupid air to these melancholy asides of the Briton.
"I have nothing to say to Monsieur d'Exmès, since he sends no word to me," retorted Lord Wentworth, dryly. "You may say to him, however, if you choose, that for another month—that is, until January 1, do you understand-I shall be at his service in both my capacities, as a gentleman and as governor of Calais. He will understand."
"Until January 1?" Pierre repeated. "I will tell him, my Lord."
"Very good! here is your receipt, my friend, and a trifle besides, as a slight recompense for the tedium of your long journey. Take it, pray!"
The man, who seemed at first to have some scruples, thought better of them, and accepted the purse that Lord Wentworth offered him.
"Thanks, my Lord," said he. "Will my Lord grant me still another favor?"
"What is that?" asked the governor.
"Vicomte d'Exmès contracted another debt during his stay here, to one of the citizens of the town, named—what was his name?—Pierre Peuquoy, whose guest he was."
"Well?" said Lord Wentworth.
"Will my Lord allow me to seek out this Pierre Peuquoy presently, to repay the amount he advanced?"
"To be sure," said the governor. "I will send some one to show you his house. Here is your passport to leave Calais. I should be glad to allow you to remain here a few days; but the regulations strictly forbid our entertaining a stranger, especially a Frenchman. Adieu, then, my friend, and a pleasant journey to you!"
"Adieu, my Lord, with many thanks."
On leaving the governor's house, the messenger, not without going astray a dozen times, made his way to Rue du Martroi, where our readers may remember that Pierre Peuquoy the armorer dwelt.
Gabriel's envoy found Pierre Peuquoy in his workshop more cast down even than Lord Wentworth in his palace. He was received with marked indifference by the armorer, who mistook him at first for a mechanic.
But when the new-comer announced himself as having come on behalf of Vicomte d'Exmès, the good burgher's face suddenly brightened up.
"From Vicomte d'Exmès!" he cried.
Then turning to one of his apprentices, who was within hearing, putting things to rights in the shop, he said carelessly,—
"Quentin, leave us and tell my cousin Jean that a messenger from Vicomte d'Exmès has arrived."
The discomfited apprentice left the room to obey his master's orders.
"Now you can speak, my friend," rejoined Pierre Peuquoy, eagerly. "Oh, we were sure that the noble lord would not forget us! Speak at once, I beg! What do you bring us from him?"
"His compliments and gratitude, this purse of gold, and these words, 'Remember the 5th!' which he said you would understand."
"Is that all?" asked Pierre Peuquoy.
"Everything, Master. They are very exacting in this neighborhood," thought the messenger. "They scarcely seem to care for good golden crowns; but they have some mysterious secrets which the Devil himself could not understand."
"There are three of us in this house," continued the armorer; "my cousin Jean and my sister Babette as well as myself. You have executed your commission so far as I am concerned; but have you no other for Babette or Jean?"
Jean Peuquoy the weaver entered the shop just in time to hear Gabriel's messenger reply,—
"I have nothing to say to anybody but you, Master Pierre Peuquoy, and to you I have said all that I was commanded to say."
"Very well! You see, brother," said Pierre, turning to Jean, "Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès is grateful to us; he returns our money with all due promptitude. Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès sends this message to us, 'Remember!' but he himself does not remember!"
"Alas!" sighed a weak, piteous voice behind the curtain.
It was poor Babette, who had heard all.
"One moment," rejoined Jean, who persisted in hoping against hope. "My friend," he continued, addressing the messenger, "if you are of Monsieur d'Exmès's household, you must know one of his retainers and your fellow-servant named Martin-Guerre?"
"Martin-Guerre? Yes, to be sure, Martin-Guerre, the squire. Yes, I know him, Master."
"Is he still in Monsieur d'Exmès's service?"
"He is."
"Did he know that you were coming to Calais?"
"He did know it," the man replied. "He was present, I remember, when I left Monsieur d'Exmès's house. He accompanied me with his—with our master as far as the city-gate, and saw me well on my way."
"And did he give you no message for me, or for any one in this house?"
"Nothing at all, I tell you again."
"Now don't lose your patience, Pierre," continued Jean. "My friend, perhaps Martin-Guerre enjoined upon you to deliver your message privately? But you may as well understand that all precautions are of no avail. We know the truth now. The suffering of—the person to whom Martin-Guerre owes reparation has opened our eyes to everything; so you may speak freely before us. And yet if you still have some doubts upon this point, we will withdraw; and the person to whom I alluded, and whom Martin-Guerre indicated to you, will come and talk with you privately at once."
"By my faith!" said the messenger, "I swear to you that I don't understand one word of all your talk."
"That is enough, and you may as well be content, Jean," cried Pierre Peuquoy, whose eyes were inflamed with anger. "By the memory of my father, Jean! I cannot conceive what pleasure you can take in dwelling upon the insult which has been put upon us."
Jean sadly bowed his head without speaking, for there was only too much reason in what his cousin said.
"Will you be kind enough to count this money?" asked the messenger, who was rather ill at ease in the part he was playing.
"It is not worth the trouble," said Jean, who was more composed, though no less depressed than Pierre. "Take this for yourself, my friend. I will bring you food and drink as well."
"Thanks for the money," returned the envoy, who seemed, nevertheless, decidedly loath to take it. "As for eating and drinking, I am neither hungry nor thirsty, for I breakfasted at Nieullay. I must take my leave at once, for your governor has forbidden my making a long stay in the city."
"We will not detain you, then, my friend," said Jean. "Adieu! Say to Martin-Guerre—but no! we have nought to say to him. Say to Monsieur d'Exmès that we are grateful to him, and that we will remember the 5th. But we hope that he, as well, will remember."
"Listen to me a moment," added Pierre Peuquoy, emerging for the time from his gloomy meditation. "You may also say to your master that we will continue to await him for another month. In that space of time you will be able to return to Paris, and he to send some one hither; but if the present year comes to an end without our hearing from him, we shall believe that his heart has ceased to remember, and we shall be as sorry for him as for ourselves. An upright and honorable gentleman, who is so sure in his memory of money loaned, ought to remember still more tenaciously secrets intrusted to him. With that, my friend, adieu."
"May God keep you!" said Gabriel's messenger, as he rose to depart. "All your questions and all your messages shall be faithfully reported to my master."
Jean Peuquoy accompanied the man to the door, while Pierre remained despondently in his corner.
The lounging messenger, after making many a détour, and losing his way many more times in this perplexing city of Calais, where he had so much difficulty in finding his way about, at last reached the principal gate, showed his passport, and was allowed to pass through after being carefully searched.
He walked for three quarters of an hour at a quick pace without a halt, and did not slacken his gait until he was fully a league from the city.
Then he permitted himself a short rest, and sitting on a patch of turf, seemed to be lost in thought, while a satisfied smile shone in his eyes and lurked about his lips.
"I don't know what there is in that city of Calais," he mused, "to make each man more melancholy than his neighbor, and more mysterious. Wentworth seemed to have an account to settle with Monsieur d'Exmès, and the Peuquoys surely have some grudge against Martin-Guerre. But what have I to do with that? I am not sad, by any means! I have what I want and what I need! Not a stroke of the pen, and not a scrap of paper, it is true; but everything is impressed upon my memory, and with the aid of Monsieur d'Exmès's plan I can easily reproduce the whole place, which has such a depressing effect upon others, but the memory of which makes me equally light-hearted."
In his imagination he ran over all the streets and boulevards and fortified positions, to which his affected stupidity had led him so conveniently.
"It is all there," said he, "as plain and clear as though I had it before my eyes at this moment. The Duc de Guise will be well pleased. Thanks to this little expedition, and to the invaluable suggestions of the captain of his Majesty's Guards, we may bring our dear Vicomte d'Exmès, also his squire, and with a strong force at their back, to the rendezvous appointed by Lord Wentworth and Pierre Peuquoy for a month hence. In six weeks, with the help of God, and favorable circumstances, we shall be masters of Calais, or I will lose my name there!"
And our readers will agree that the latter alternative would indeed have been calamitous, when they learn that this name was that of Maréchal Pierre Strozzi, one of the most celebrated and skilful engineers of the sixteenth century.
After a few moments' rest, Pierre Strozzi resumed his journey, as if he were in great haste to be back at Paris. He thought much about Calais, but very little about its inhabitants.