CHAPTER XXIX
PRECAUTIONARY MEASURES
What Gabriel thought and what he suffered during those mortal hours God only knows; for when he returned to his own house he said nothing to his retainers, nor even to his nurse. From that moment began an absorbed and concentrated dumb life, so to speak,—a life all action, and very sparing of words, to which he devoted himself strictly from this time on, as if he had tacitly taken vows of silence.
Consequently, the disappointed hopes, energetic resolutions, projects of love or vengeance,—everything, in short, that Gabriel thought or dreamed, or vowed in his own heart that night remained a secret between his noble heart and his God.
Not till eight o'clock could he present himself at the Châtelet, with the ring given him by the king,—the talisman which was to open all the doors, not to him alone, but to his father.
Until six in the morning Gabriel remained alone in his room, and refused to speak with any person.
At that hour he descended to the first floor, all clad and equipped as if for a long journey. He had asked the nurse the night before to give him all the money she could get together.
The people of his household were most earnest in offering their services to him. The four volunteers who had come in his suite from Calais were foremost in placing themselves at his disposal; but he thanked them most heartily, and dismissed them, retaining only the page André, the latest comer, and his nurse Aloyse.
"My good Aloyse," he began, "I am expecting from day to day the arrival of two guests, friends of mine, from Calais,—Jean Peuquoy and his wife Babette. It may be, Aloyse, that I shall not be here to receive them; but even in my absence,—nay, especially in my absence,—I beg you, Aloyse, to make them welcome, and treat them as if they were my brother and sister. Babette already knows you well from having heard me speak of you a hundred times. She will trust in you as a daughter in her mother; so I entreat you, in the name of your affection for me, to show her a mother's tenderness and indulgence."
"I promise you I will, Monseigneur," said the kind-hearted nurse, simply; "and you know that from me those words are sufficient. Have no anxiety about your guests, for they shall want for nothing in the way of bodily comfort."
"Thanks, Aloyse," said Gabriel, pressing her hand. "Now for you, André!" said he to the page whom Madame Diane de Castro had given him. "I have certain last commissions of grave importance which I must confide to a trusty hand, and I have selected you, André, to execute them, because you take the place of my faithful Martin-Guerre."
"I am at your command, Monseigneur," said André.
"Listen carefully to what I say," continued Gabriel. "In an hour I shall leave this house alone; if I return in a short time, you will have nothing to do,—or rather, I shall have different orders to give you. But it is possible that I may not return,—not to-day, that is, nor to-morrow, nor for a long time to come—"
The nurse, in despair, raised her clasped hands heavenward imploringly. André interrupted his master.
"Pardon, Monseigneur! you say that you may not return here for a long time?"
"Yes, André."
"And am I not to accompany you?—and perhaps not to see you again for a long while?" added André, who seemed both sorrowful and embarrassed at this information.
"That may well be, no doubt," said Gabriel.
"But Madame de Castro," rejoined the page, "before I quitted her intrusted to my care a message, a letter for Monseigneur—"
"And you have never yet given it to me, André?" said Gabriel, warmly.
"Pardon me, Monseigneur," André replied; "I was instructed not to deliver it unless you were to return from the Louvre either very sorrowful or in a state of angry excitement. Only in such case Madame Diane told me to give Monsieur d'Exmès the letter, which contained what might be a warning to him and perhaps a consolation."
"Give it me, quickly, give it me!" cried Gabriel. "Advice and consolation could not arrive more opportunely, I fear."
André drew from his doublet a letter very carefully wrapped up, and handed it to his new master; Gabriel hurriedly broke the seal, and withdrew to a window recess to read it.
This is what he read:—
MY FRIEND,—Amid all the anguish and all the dreams of this last night, which separates me from you, perhaps forever, the most terrible thought which has torn my heart is this:—
It may be that, in carrying out the momentous and formidable duty which you are about to undertake with such brave heart, you may come in contact, nay, even in conflict, with the king. It may be that the unforeseen issue of your struggle will force you to hate the king, or even incite you to visit your wrath upon him.
Gabriel, I do not yet know if he is my father, but I do know that he has until now cherished me as his child. The mere dread of your vengeance makes me shudder while I write, and its accomplishment would be my death-blow.
And yet the duty which depends upon my own birth may perhaps compel me to think as you do; perhaps I, like you, may have to avenge him whom I shall hereafter know as my father upon him who has hitherto been a father to me,—frightful thought!
But while doubt and darkness still hide the solution of this terrible enigma from my sight, while I am still ignorant on which side my hatred belongs and on which my love, Gabriel, I implore you,—and if you have loved me, you will obey me, Gabriel,—respect the person of the king.
I can reason now, without passion at least, if not without emotion; and I feel, yes, I am sure, that it is not for man to punish man, but for God.
So, dear friend, whatever happens, do not try to take from the hands of God the prerogative of chastisement, even to strike a criminal.
If he whom I have until now called my father is guilty, and being only human, he may be, do not be his judge, far less his executioner. Have no fear; the Lord will judge him, and the Lord will avenge you more terribly than you could do yourself. Leave your cause fearlessly to His justice.
Unless God makes you the involuntary and, in some sort, fatal instrument of His pitiless justice; unless He makes use of your hand in your own despite; unless you strike the blow unwillingly and without wishing it,—Gabriel, do not constitute yourself his judge, and above all things do not with your own hand carry out the sentence.
Do this for love of me, my friend. In mercy's name I ask it; and it is the last prayer and the last despairing cry to your heart from
DIANE DE CASTRO.
Gabriel read the letter twice from beginning to end; but meanwhile, André and the nurse could detect no sign of emotion on his pale face save the mournful smile which had become so familiar there.
When he had refolded Diane's letter and hidden it in his breast, he remained silent for a time, with bent head and in deep thought.
Then, as if awaking from a dream,—
"It is well," he said aloud. "The orders I have to give you, André, are not changed; and if, as I was saying, I do not soon return, whether you learn anything about me, or whether you do not hear my name mentioned, whatever happens or does not happen, remember my words,—this is what you are to do."
"I am listening, Monseigneur," said André, "and I will obey you in every detail; for I love you, and am your devoted servant."
"Madame de Castro," said Gabriel, "will be at Paris within a few days. Make arrangements to be informed of her arrival as soon as possible."
"It will be very easy to do that, Monseigneur."
"Go to her at once if you can," continued Gabriel, "and deliver this sealed package from me. Take especial care not to lose it, André, although it contains nothing of value to any one else,—a lady's veil, nothing more. But no matter! Do you yourself deliver this veil to her in person, and say to her—"
"What shall I say, Monseigneur?" asked André, seeing that his master was hesitating.
"No, say nothing to her," Gabriel resumed, "except that she is free, and that I give back to her all her promises, even that of which this veil is the pledge."
"Is that all, Monseigneur?" asked the page.
"That is all," said Gabriel. "But, André, if nothing has been heard of me, and you see that Madame de Castro is a little anxious, you may add—But for what good? No, add nothing, André. Ask her, if you choose, to take you back into her service. Otherwise, come back here and await my return."
"That is to say, Monseigneur, that you will surely come back?" asked the nurse, with tears in her eyes. "But when you said that perhaps we should not hear any more of you—"
"Perhaps that would be best, dear Mother," said Gabriel, "that you should hear nothing of me. In any event, hope for the best, and await my return."
"Hope, when you have disappeared from all eyes, even from those of your poor nurse! Ah, it is very hard to hope!" replied Aloyse.
"But who said that I should disappear?" returned Gabriel. "Ought I not to provide for every contingency? For my own part, never fear; whatever precautions I may take I rely upon embracing you again very soon, Aloyse, with all the gratitude of my heart. That is most probable; for Providence is a kind and loving mother to him who implores her protection. Did I not begin, too, by saying to André that all my injunctions to him would probably be useless and void in the almost certain event of my return to-day?"
"May God bless you for those dear words, Monseigneur!" cried poor Aloyse, moved beyond expression.
"Have you no other orders to give, Monseigneur, to be executed during your absence?—which may God make of brief duration!" asked André.
"Wait a moment," said Gabriel, as a thought seemed suddenly to occur to him. Seating himself at a table, he wrote the following letter to Coligny:—
MONSIEUR L'AMIRAL,—I propose to instruct myself in the principles of your religion, and you may count me as one of you after to-day.
Whatever may be the instrument of my conversion, whether your persuasive words or some other motive, I, nevertheless, devote irrevocably to your cause and that of the oppressed religion my heart, my life, and my sword.
Your very humble companion and good friend,
GABRIEL DE MONTGOMMERY.
"Deliver this as well, if I fail to return," said Gabriel, handing the letter sealed to André. "And now, my dear friends, I must say adieu, and leave you. The time has come."
Half an hour later Gabriel knocked with trembling hand at the great door of the Châtelet.