CHAPTER XXXI
THE COMTE DE MONTGOMMERY
Gabriel, still kneeling beside the lifeless mass, raised his pale, bewildered countenance, and cast a glance of ominous tranquillity around him. He seemed to be questioning himself and pondering deeply; and his almost unnatural calm touched and alarmed Monsieur de Sazerac more than all the outcry and sobbing in the world would have done.
Suddenly, as if the idea that life might not be extinct had just occurred to him, he hurriedly placed his hand over the heart of the corpse.
For a moment or two he felt and listened eagerly.
"Nothing!" he then said in a firm but gentle voice, which was terrible for those very qualities; "nothing!—the heart no longer beats, but the flesh is still warm."
"What a marvellously strong constitution!" the governor muttered; "he might have lived for a long time to come."
All this time the eyes had remained open. Gabriel leaned over and closed them with reverent touch. Then he imprinted a respectful and loving kiss, the first and the last, upon the poor wasted lids, which had been wet with so many bitter tears.
"Monsieur," observed Monsieur de Sazerac, hoping to divert Gabriel from his terrifying contemplation of the inert body before him, "if the deceased was dear to you—"
"Dear to me, Monsieur!" Gabriel interrupted; "why, yes,—he was my father."
"Very well, Monsieur, if you desire to pay the last sad honors to his memory, I am directed to allow you to remove the body from this place."
"Ah, indeed!" replied Gabriel, with the same terrible calmness. "He is strictly just with me, then, and is keeping his word to me with great exactitude, I must confess. You must know, Monsieur le Gouverneur, that he swore to restore my father to me. He is restored to me: behold him! I recognize the fact that there was no undertaking to restore him to me alive."
He laughed a harsh, unpleasant laugh.
"Come, courage!" rejoined Monsieur de Sazerac. "It is time now to say adieu to him for whom you weep."
"I am doing so, as you see, Monsieur."
"Yes, but I mean that you really must leave this place at once. The air that we breathe here is not fit for human lungs, and a longer stay in this poisonous miasma might be very dangerous."
"Here is a proof of it before our eyes," said Gabriel, pointing to the body of his father.
"Come, come, we must be going!" replied the governor, taking the poor fellow's arm to force him away.
"Yes, yes, I will follow you," said Gabriel; "but for God's sake, leave me here a few moments longer!"
Monsieur de Sazerac made a sign of assent, and withdrew as far as the door, where the air was less noxious and heavy.
Gabriel, on his knees by the side of the dead man, and with head bent and hands hanging at his side, remained mute and motionless for some moments, praying or dreaming.
What said he to his dead father? Did he ask those lips, which Death's pitiless finger had closed too soon, for the solution of the enigma he was trying to unravel? Did he swear to the sainted victim that he would avenge him in this world, independently of God's vengeance in the world to come? Did he scan those already decomposing features, to conjecture what sort of man had been this father of his whom he now saw for the second time, and to dream of the peaceful and happy life that might have been in store for him under his watchful care? Did his thoughts dwell upon the past or the future; upon the affairs of this world, or the divine power of the Lord; upon vengeance or forgiveness?
The subject of this sombre communion between a dead father and his son remained forever a secret between Gabriel and his God.
Four or five minutes had passed; and breathing had become a painful and laborious task to these two men who had descended to these pestilential depths,—one in the performance of a holy duty, and the other led by an instinct of humanity.
"Again, I beg you to come away," said the kind-hearted governor to Gabriel. "It is full time that we should go up into the air."
"I am coming," said Gabriel, "I am coming."
He took his father's icy hand in his, and kissed it tenderly; he leaned over his damp and decomposing forehead, and left a kiss there, too.
All this passed without a tear. Alas! he could not weep.
"Au revoir!" said he; "au revoir!"
He rose with the same wonderfully calm and steadfast bearing and expression, whatever passions and emotions may have been rending his heart and soul.
He cast a last look at his father, and wafted a last caress to him, then followed Monsieur de Sazerac with slow and measured step.
On their way to the upper regions he asked to be shown the dark, cold cell where the prisoner had passed so many years of sorrow and despair, and which he, Gabriel, had once entered without embracing his father.
He spent a few moments there of silent meditation, and eager, though hopeless, interest.
When he and the governor had ascended to light and life once more, Monsieur de Sazerac could not repress a shudder of horror and pity as the daylight fell upon the features of the young man, whom he invited to his own room; for his chestnut locks had become silvery white.
After a short interval he said to him, in a voice trembling with emotion,—
"Is there nothing I can do for you now, Monsieur? You have but to ask, and I shall be more than happy to gratify any wish of yours with which my duties do not conflict."
"Monsieur," replied Gabriel, "you told me that I should be allowed to render the last honors to the dead. This evening I shall send some bearers here; and if you will kindly have the body placed in a coffin, and allow them to take it away, they will see that the prisoner is interred in the tomb of his ancestors."
"It shall be done, Monsieur," replied Monsieur de Sazerac; "but I must warn you that one condition was imposed upon the granting of this privilege."
"What was that, Monsieur?" asked Gabriel, coldly.
"That you should, in accordance with your agreement, cause no scandal or disturbance."
"I will keep that promise, too," said Gabriel. "The men will come by night, and without any knowledge as to the burden they are carrying will transport the body to the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, to the funeral vault of the counts of—"
"Pardon, Monsieur!" the governor interposed hurriedly; "I do not know the prisoner's name, nor is it my wish or my duty to know it. I have been compelled by the obligations of my office and the word I have given to maintain silence with you upon many matters; and you should be quite as reserved with me."
"But I for my part have nothing to conceal," replied Gabriel, proudly. "It is only the guilty who wish to cover their tracks."
"While you are only one of the unfortunates," said the governor. "After all, that is not much better, is it?"
"Besides," continued Gabriel, "I have already surmised the matters about which you have kept silence; indeed, I could tell you myself. For instance, this powerful individual who came here last evening, and who wished to talk with the prisoner so that he might make him speak—well, I could tell you almost the exact words of the talisman which finally induced my father to break silence,—the silence whereon depended the feeble remnant of his life, for which he had up to that time struggled bravely with his murderers."
"What! you say that you know?" said Monsieur de Sazerac, in amazement.
"I am sure of it," was Gabriel's reply. "The individual in question said to the poor old man, 'Your son lives!' or, perhaps, 'Your son has covered himself with renown!' or, again, 'Your son is coming to set you free!' He spoke to him of his son, at all events—the villain!"
The governor let fall an exclamation of astonishment.
"And at the mention of his son," continued Gabriel, "the wretched father, who had up to that time succeeded in restraining himself even before his most implacable foe, could not overcome a joyful impulse, and though he had remained dumb under all the provocation of his hatred, cried for joy when his love was awakened. Tell me, Monsieur, do I say truly?"
The governor bent his head without replying.
"It must be true, since you deny it not," Gabriel continued. "You can see how fruitless was your endeavor to conceal from me what this influential man said to the wretched captive. And as for the name of this all-powerful person, it was in vain also for you to pass that over in silence. Do you wish that I should name him to you?"
"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" cried Monsieur de Sazerac, earnestly. "We are alone, it is true, but be careful. Are you not afraid?"
"I have already told you," said Gabriel, "that I have nothing to fear. Well, then, Monsieur, this man's name was Monsieur le Connétable, Duc de Montmorency. The executioner's mask has fallen off, you see."
"Oh, Monsieur!" ejaculated the governor, looking fearfully around.
"As to the prisoner's name and mine," pursued Gabriel, calmly, "those you do not know. But there is no reason why I should not tell them to you. Moreover, you may have already met me, and may meet me again during your life; then, too, you have been kind and considerate in this supreme moment of my existence; and when you hear my name in men's mouths, as may very well be the case within a few months, it will be well that you should know that he of whom they are talking is the same whom you have made your debtor to-day."
"I shall be most happy," said Monsieur de Sazerac, "to learn that fate has not continued to be so relentless toward you."
"Oh, such questions have no more interest for me!" said Gabriel, gravely. "But, in any event, let me tell you that since my father's death last night in this prison I am the Comte de Montgommery."
The governor of the Châtelet stood as if turned to stone, and could find no word to say.
"And now, adieu, Monsieur," added Gabriel; "adieu. Accept my warmest thanks; may God protect you!"
He saluted Monsieur de Sazerac, and left the gloomy precincts of the prison with a firm step.
But when the fresh air and the bright light of day recalled him to himself, he stayed his steps a moment, dizzy and tottering. The actuality of life came too suddenly upon him as he emerged from that hell.
However, as the passers-by began to look askance at him, he asserted his will, and walked away from the deathly spot.
In the first place he bent his steps to a lonely corner of the Place de Grève. There he took out his tablets, and wrote these words to his nurse:—
MY GOOD ALOYSE,—Do not expect me, for I shall not return to-day. I must be alone for a time, to move about, and think, and wait. But have no anxiety about me; I shall surely see you again.
This evening arrange matters so that everything will be quiet in the house at an early hour. You alone must sit up, and open the door to four men who will knock at the great door a little before midnight, when the street is deserted.
I ask you personally to conduct these men, laden as they will be with a sorrowful but priceless burden, to the family burial-vault; point out to them the open tomb in which they must place him whom they will have in charge, and watch carefully the preparations for the interment; then, when they are at an end, give each of the men four golden crowns, guide them back to the door without noise, and return at once to the tomb to kneel and pray as you would for your master and your father.
I will pray also at the same hour, but far away from the spot. It must be so. I feel that the sight of that tomb might excite me to reckless and violent deeds, and I must ask counsel rather from God in solitude.
Au revoir, dear Aloyse, au revoir. Remind André of his commission to Madame de Castro, and do not yourself forget my guests, Jean and Babette Peuquoy. Au revoir, and God be with you!
GABRIEL DE M.
Having written this letter, Gabriel sought and found four men of the people,—laborers, that is to say.
He gave each of them four crowns in advance, and promised them as many more. In order to earn their wages, one of them was to take a letter to its address immediately; then, all four were to present themselves at the Châtelet a little before ten that same evening, to receive at the governor's hands a coffin, and convey it secretly and silently to the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, to the same house to which the letter was addressed.
The poor workmen overwhelmed Gabriel with their gratitude, and as they left him, in high glee over the windfall, they promised to fulfil his orders to the letter.
"Well, I have at least made four honest fellows happy," said Gabriel, with sorrowful pleasure, if we may be allowed the expression.
Then he pursued a course which led him out of the city, and on his way he passed the Louvre. Wrapped in his cloak, and with arms folded upon his breast, he stood for some moments gazing at the royal abode.
"Now it is for us two to settle our account," he muttered, with a glance of defiance. He resumed his journey, and as he went along there recurred to his memory the horoscope which Master Nostradamus had written long ago for the Comte de Montgommery, and which, in the master's own words, he had found by a remarkable coincidence to be exactly appropriate for his son, according to the laws of astrology,—
"En joûte, en amour, cettuy touchera
Le front du roy,
Et cornes ou bien trou sanglant mettra
Au front du roy.
Mais le veuille ou non, toujours blessera
Le front du roy.
Enfin, l'aimera, puis, las! le tuera
Dame du roy."
Gabriel reflected that curious prediction had already been fulfilled from point to point in his father's case; for the Comte de Montgommery in his youth had wounded King François I. in the face with a burning brand, and had afterward been King Henri's rival in love, and had been slain only the evening before by that very "lady of the king," who had loved him.
Up to that time Gabriel also had been loved by a queen,—Catherine de Médicis.
Would his destiny too be realized to the end? Would his vengeance or his fate decree that he should overthrow and wound the king "in the tilting-field?"
If that should happen, it would be a matter of indifference to Gabriel whether the king's lady who had loved him should slay him sooner or later.