CHAPTER XXXII
THE KNIGHT-ERRANT
Poor Aloyse, whose life for many years had been passed in waiting, in solitude, and in suffering, again sat two or three endless hours at the window, to see if she could not catch a glimpse of her beloved young master.
When the laborer to whom Gabriel had intrusted the letter knocked at the door, Aloyse rushed to open it. "News at last!" she thought.
News at last, indeed, and terrible news! Aloyse, after the first few lines, felt a mist coming before her eyes, and to conceal her emotion hastened to return to her own room, where she finished with much difficulty the perusal of the fatal missive, the tears streaming from her eyes the while.
However, hers was a stout heart and a valiant soul; so she collected her energies, wiped away her tears, and left her room to say to the messenger,—
"It is well! Until this evening, when I shall expect you and your companions."
André the page questioned her anxiously, but she bade him wait till the following day for answers to his questions. Until then she had enough to think of and to do.
When evening had fallen, she sent the people of the household to bed in good season.
"The master will surely not return to-night," she told them.
But when she was left alone she thought,—
"Ah! the master will return; but, alas! it will be the old master, not the young one,—it will be the dead, and not the living. For what body would he command me to see entombed in the vault of the counts of Montgommery, unless it were that of the Comte de Montgommery himself? Oh, my noble lord, for whom my poor Perrot died, have you at last gone to join your faithful servant? But have you carried your secret with you to the tomb? Oh, mystery of mysteries!—mystery and terror everywhere! But no matter! Though I know and understand nothing, though I hope not, still will I obey; it is my duty, and I will do it. Oh, my God!"
Aloyse's sorrowful revery ended in a fervent prayer. It is the habit of the human soul, when the burden of life becomes too heavy to bear, to seek help and shelter in God's bosom.
About eleven o'clock, the streets being then entirely deserted, a loud knocking was heard at the great door. Aloyse started and turned pale, but summoning all her fortitude, she took a torch in her hand, and descended to admit the men who bore the sad burden. She received with a deep and respectful salute the master who thus returned to his own house after such a long absence. Then she said to the bearers, "Follow me with as little noise as possible. I will show you the way." Going in advance with her light, she led them to the funeral vault.
When they had reached the spot, the bearers placed the coffin in one of the open tombs, and put the cover of black marble in place; then the poor fellows, who had been taught by suffering to look with holy awe upon death, removed their caps, and falling on their knees, offered a short prayer for the soul of the unknown dead.
When they had risen, the nurse led them back in silence, and on the threshold slipped into the hand of one of them the sum Gabriel had promised; whereupon they vanished like dumb spectres, without having uttered a single word.
Aloyse returned to the tomb, and passed the rest of the night on her knees, praying and weeping.
The next morning André found her pale but calm; she said to him simply,—
"My child, we must never lose hope; but it is useless for us to expect Monsieur le Vicomte d'Exmès any longer. So you must set about executing the commissions with which he charged you in case he did not return at once."
"Very well," said the page, sorrowfully. "I will start at once then to go and meet Madame de Castro."
"In the name of your absent master, I thank you for your zeal, André," said Aloyse.
The boy did as he promised, and set out the same day. He inquired for the noble traveller he was seeking at every halting-place on the road, but did not meet her until he reached Amiens.
Diane de Castro had but just arrived at that city, with the escort with which the Duc de Guise had furnished her as the daughter of Henri II. She had stopped to rest a few hours at the house of Monsieur de Thuré, the governor of the place.
As soon as Diane espied the page, she changed color; but controlling herself with an effort, she made a sign to him to follow her into the next room. When they were alone, she asked him,—
"Well, André, what have you for me?"
"Nothing but this, Madame," the page replied, handing her the package containing the veil.
"Ah, it is not the ring!" cried Diane.
That was as far as her observation went at first; but she soon collected herself somewhat, and a prey to that insatiable curiosity which makes the unfortunate eager to anticipate the extremity of their sorrow, she eagerly interrogated André.
"Did Monsieur d'Exmès intrust you, besides this, with no writing for me?"
"No, Madame."
"But surely you must have some verbal message to give me?"
"Alas!" the page replied, shaking his head, "Monsieur d'Exmès said only that he gave you back all your promises, Madame, even to that of which this veil is the pledge; he added nothing to that."
"But under what circumstances did he send you to me? Had you given him my letter? What said he after reading it? When he put this package in your hands, what did he say? Speak, André! You are devoted and faithful, I know, and my whole future depends on your answers; the very least word may serve as a guide and consolation to me in the darkness which surrounds me."
"Madame," said André, "I will tell you all that I know; but that all is very little."
"Oh, go on, speak, pray speak!" cried Madame de Castro.
André thereupon told her faithfully—omitting nothing, for Gabriel had not enjoined secrecy upon him—all that his master before his departure had charged Aloyse and himself to do, in the event that his absence were prolonged. He told of the young man's hesitation and his bitter suffering; that after reading Diane's letter he had seemed at first to be on the point of speaking, but had ended by saying nothing except a few vague and indefinite words. In fact, André kept his promise, and forgot nothing,—not a gesture, or a half-uttered word, or a failure to speak. But he had said truly that he knew scarcely anything, and his story only contributed to Diane's doubt and uncertainty.
She looked mournfully at the black veil, the lone messenger from her lover, and the true symbol of her destiny. It seemed as if she were questioning its sombre folds, and seeking help and counsel from them.
"One of two things must have happened," she said to herself. "Either Gabriel has learned that he is really my brother, or he has lost all hope of ever penetrating the fatal mystery. I have only to choose between these two calamities. Yes, it must be so, and I have no more illusions on which I can feed my hope. But ought not Gabriel to have spared me this cruel uncertainty? He gives me back my word; but why? Oh, why does he not confide to me what is going to become of him, and what he means to do? Ah, this silence terrifies me more than all the anger and all the threats in the world!"
Diane questioned her very soul to know whether she would do better to follow her first plan, and enter some convent in Paris or the Provinces, never to leave its walls again; or whether it was not her duty to return to court, try to see Gabriel once more, and beg him to tell her the truth as to what had occurred and as to his future plans, and whatever happened, to watch over the life of the king, her father, which might perhaps be in danger.
Of her father? But was Henri II. her father? Might she not prove herself to be the impious and guilty daughter of her real father in trying to impede the righteous vengeance which strove to punish or even to slay the king? A frightful alternative!
But Diane was a woman, and an affectionate and noble-hearted woman. She said to herself that in any event there might be repentance for anger, but that no one could repent of having forgiven; and so, carried away by her naturally kindly disposition, she determined to return to Paris, and until she should have reassuring news of Gabriel and his designs, to remain by the king's side to safeguard and defend him. Even Gabriel himself might have need of her intervention, who could say? When she should have saved the two beings who were dearest of all on earth to her, it would be time to take refuge in God's bosom.
Having determined upon this course, Diane, the brave-hearted, hesitated no longer, but continued her journey to Paris.
She reached her destination three days later, and went at once to the Louvre, where she was welcomed by Henri with unfeigned delight and a wealth of affection truly paternal.
But, in spite of all her endeavors, she could not force herself to adopt any except a sorrowful and cold demeanor in receiving these proofs of fondness; and the king himself, remembering Diane's affection for Gabriel, oftentimes felt embarrassed and moved in his daughter's presence. She reminded him of certain matters which he would have much preferred to forget.
Thus he no longer dared to mention her alliance to François de Montmorency, which had been formerly projected, and so Madame de Castro's mind was at rest upon that point at least.
She had, however, many other subjects of anxiety. Neither at the Montgommery mansion, nor at the Louvre, nor in fact anywhere, was any definite news of Gabriel to be had.
The young man had in a certain sense disappeared.
Days and weeks and whole months rolled by, and Diane in vain made inquiries directly and indirectly; no one could say what had become of Gabriel.
Some persons thought that they had met him, always sombre and gloomy. But no one had spoken to him; the suffering soul which they had taken for Gabriel had always shunned them, and vanished at their first attempt to approach him. Moreover, no two agreed as to the locality where they had encountered Vicomte d'Exmès. Some said at St. Germain, some at Fontainebleau, others at Vincennes, and some even located him in Paris. What reliance could be placed upon such contradictory reports?
Yet many of them were right. For Gabriel, spurred on by a terrible remembrance and by still more terrible thoughts, could not remain two days in the same place. A never-ending need of action and movement drove him from a locality as soon as he arrived there. On foot or in the saddle, in town or country, he must always be in motion, pale and forbidding in appearance, and like Orestes of old haunted by the Furies.
His wanderings, too, kept him always out-of-doors; and he never entered within the walls of a house except when driven by absolute necessity.
On one occasion, however, Master Ambroise Paré, who had come back to Paris, his patients being all cured, and hostilities somewhat relaxed in the North, was surprised by a visit at his own house from his old acquaintance Vicomte d'Exmès. He received him with the deference due to one of gentle birth and the cordiality with which one welcomes a friend.
Gabriel, like a man newly returned from foreign lands, interrogated the surgeon upon matters which everybody knew all about.
Having in the first place asked him about Martin-Guerre, who, thoroughly cured, was probably on his way to Paris at that time, he questioned him about the Duc de Guise and the army. In that quarter matters had progressed marvellously. Le Balafré was before Thionville; Maréchal de Thermes had taken Dunkirk; Gaspard de Tavannes had taken possession of Guines and the province of Oie. In fact, the English no longer held one foot of ground in the whole kingdom, as François de Lorraine had sworn should be the case.
Gabriel listened with grave face, and apparently with little interest, to this good news.
"I am obliged to you, Master," he said to Ambroise Paré; "I rejoice to learn that our enterprise at Calais will not be without enduring results for France, at all events. Nevertheless it was not curiosity to hear of these matters which was my principal reason for coming to you. Master, long before I came to admire you for your great skill at the bedside of the wounded, I remember that certain words I heard you speak moved me deeply; it was one day last year in the little house on the Rue St. Jacques. Master, I have come to talk with you about these matters of religion, which your keen insight has penetrated so to the core. You have definitively embraced the cause of the Reformed religion, I suppose?"
"Yes, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Ambroise Paré, firmly. "The correspondence which the great Calvin was kind enough to enter into with me has removed my last doubts and my last scruples. I am now the most thoroughly devoted reformer of them all."
"Well, then, Master," said Gabriel, "will you not share your knowledge with a neophyte of the best intentions? I speak of myself. Will you not strengthen my doubting faith, as you would put in place a broken limb?"
"It is my duty to comfort and relieve the souls of my fellow-creatures as well as their bodies, when I can do so," said Ambroise Paré. "I am quite at your service, Monsieur d'Exmès."
For more than two hours they talked together, Ambroise ardent and eloquent, Gabriel calm and sorrowful, but a docile pupil.
At the end of that time Gabriel rose, and said to him, as he warmly pressed his hand,—
"Thanks! This conversation has done me much good. Unfortunately The time has not yet come when I can openly declare myself one of your number. It is necessary that I should wait yet a little while, even in the best interests of the Religion itself. Otherwise my conversion might well expose your holy cause to persecution some day, or to calumny at least. I know what I am saying. But now I understand, thanks to you, Master, that you and your fellows are really marching in the right path, and from this moment, believe that I am with you in heart, if not bodily. Adieu! Master Ambroise, adieu! We shall soon meet again."
Gabriel, without further elucidation of his words, took his leave of the surgeon-philosopher, and left the house.
In the early days of the following month,—May, 1558,—he appeared for the first time since his mysterious departure at his own home in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul.
There were new-comers there. Martin-Guerre had returned a fortnight previously, and Jean Peuquoy and his wife Babette had been living there for three months.
But God had not decreed that Jean's devotion should be put to the final test, nor perhaps that Babette's fault should go wholly unpunished. A few days before, she had been prematurely delivered of a dead child.
The poor mother had wept bitterly, but had bowed her head in humble acceptance of a grief which seemed like an expiation to her repentant heart; and as Jean Peuquoy had generously offered his sacrifice to her, so she in her turn for his sake resigned herself to the hand of God.
Moreover, the comforting affection of her husband and Aloyse's motherly encouragement did not fail the sweet child in her affliction.
Martin-Guerre, with his wonted good-humor, did his best to console her.
One day, as the four were sitting in friendly converse together, the door opened, and to their great amazement and still greater joy the master of the house, Vicomte d'Exmès himself, suddenly appeared, walking slowly and with a grave and sober face.
Four exclamations were heard as one; and Gabriel was quickly surrounded by his two guests, his squire, and his nurse.
When their first transports of delight had subsided, Aloyse began eagerly to question him whom in words she called her lord and master, but who was always her child in the language of her faithful heart.
What had become of him during his long absence? What did he mean to do now? Did he not intend at last to remain among those who loved him so dearly?
Gabriel laid a finger on his lips, and with a mournful but firm glance, imposed silence upon Aloyse's loving anxiety.
It was clear that he did not choose to explain his movements in the past or in the future, or that he could not.
But he took his turn at asking questions of Jean and Babette about their own affairs. Had they wanted for anything? Had they any recent intelligence of their good brother Pierre at Calais?
He tenderly expressed his sympathy for Babette, and tried to comfort her so far as it is possible to comfort a mother who is weeping for her child.
Thus Gabriel passed the remainder of the day amid his friends and his retainers, always kind and affectionate toward them, but never for an instant shaking, off the melancholy which overshadowed him like a black pall.
As for Martin-Guerre, who never once took his eyes off his dear master, found again at last, Gabriel spoke with him and inquired about his health with much interest. But throughout the whole day he never breathed a word of the promise he had made him months before, and seemed to have forgotten the engagement he had entered into to punish the wretch who had stolen his name and his honor, and had persecuted poor Martin with impunity for so long.
Martin himself was too respectful and too unselfish to direct his master's mind to the subject.
But when it was evening Gabriel rose, and said in a tone which admitted neither contradiction nor remonstrance, "I am obliged to leave you now."
Then turning to Martin-Guerre, he added,—
"My good Martin, I have been busy in your behalf during my travels, and unknown as I was, I have inquired and investigated; and I believe that I have at last found traces of the real truth of the matter in which you are interested; for I have not forgotten my engagement with you, Martin."
"Oh, Monseigneur!" cried the squire, overjoyed and embarrassed at the same time.
Gabriel continued, "I say again, I have collected sufficient proofs to justify me in believing that I am on the right track. But now I must have your assistance, my friend. At the end of this week, start for your own province, but do not go directly there. Be at Lyons one month from to-day. I will meet you there at that time, and we will take measures for acting together."
"I will do as you say, Monseigneur," said Martin-Guerre; "but shall I not see you again, meanwhile?"
"No, no, I must be alone henceforth," Gabriel replied, vigorously. "I am going away again now; and do not try to hinder me, for it would simply cause me needless pain. Adieu, my dear friends. Martin, remember,—at Lyons, a month hence."
"I will await you there, Monseigneur," said the squire.
Gabriel took leave with great warmth of Jean Peuquoy and his wife, pressed Aloyse's hands in his, and without seeming to notice the good soul's grief, set out once more to resume that wandering life to which he seemed to have condemned himself.