CHAPTER XXII
TWO APPEALS
Since the fatal tournament Gabriel had led a calm and retired but gloomy life. This man of energetic movement and action, whose days had formerly been so filled with life and excitement, now seemed to take delight only in solitude and forgetfulness.
He never appeared at court, never saw a friend, and scarcely ever left his house, where he passed the long, sad, and dreamy hours with his faithful old nurse Aloyse and the page André, who had come back to him when Diane de Castro had taken her sudden flight to the Benedictine convent at St. Quentin.
Gabriel, still a young man in years, had grown old from grief. He brooded over the past, and had no longer any hope.
How many times during those months, each of which was years long, had he regretted that he was still alive! How many times did he wonder why the Duc de Guise and Mary Stuart had placed themselves between him and the anger of Catherine de Médicis, and had laid upon him the bitter burden of life! What had he to do on earth? What was he good for? Could the tomb be any more barren of result than this existence in which he was languishing,—if, indeed, it could be called an existence!
There were moments, however, when his youthful vigor rose in protest in spite of himself.
Then he would stretch his arms and raise his head and gaze at his sword. At such times he would have a vague feeling that his life was not ended, but that there was still a future for him, and that hours of hot fighting, and perhaps of victory, might sooner or later enter again into his destiny.
In view of everything, however, he could see only two chances of returning to the life of action for which he was best fitted,—a foreign war or religious persecution.
If France, if the king, should find themselves involved in some new war, undertaken for conquest, or to repel invasion, the Comte de Montgommery told himself that his youthful ardor would at once return, and that it would be pleasant for him to die as he had lived,—fighting.
And then how glad he would be to pay the involuntary debt he owed the Duc de Guise and young King François!
Again Gabriel would reflect that it would be a glorious thing to die in defence of the new truths which had shed their light upon his soul during the later days. The cause of the Reformation—in his eyes the cause of justice and liberty—was also a noble and saintly cause to serve.
The young count read assiduously the controversial books and sermons which then abounded. He burned with excitement over the great principles revealed in lofty and soul-stirring words by Luther, Melanchton, Calvin, Theodore de Bèze, and so many others. The books of all these untrammelled thinkers had fascinated and convinced him, and drawn him on to adopt their principles. He would have been proud and happy to sign the attestation of his faith with his blood.
It was always the noble instinct of this noble heart to devote his life to some person or some cause.
Not long since he had risked his life a hundred times to save or to avenge, it might be his father or his beloved Diane,—oh, memories forever bleeding in that wounded heart!—and now, in default of those cherished beings, he would have been glad to struggle in defence of sacred ideas,—
His country in his father's place; his religion in place of his love.
Alas, alas! it is in vain to talk, for it is not the same thing; and enthusiasm for abstract principles can never equal, either in its suffering or its delight, the enthusiasm of fondness for our fellow-creatures.
But yet for one or the other of these two causes, the Reformation or France, Gabriel would have been content to sacrifice his life; and he relied upon one of them to bring about the desired termination of his career.
On the morning of the 6th of March Gabriel was leaning back in his chair in the corner of his fireplace, brooding over the thoughts which had become his very life, when Aloyse brought in to him a messenger, booted and spurred and covered with mud, as if he had just travelled a long way.
It was a rainy morning.
The courier had just arrived from Amboise, under a strong escort, the bearer of several letters from Monsieur le Duc de Guise, lieutenant-general of the kingdom.
One of the letters was addressed to Gabriel, and its contents were as follows:—
MY DEAR COMPANION,—I am writing this to you in great haste, with neither leisure nor possibility of explaining myself. You told the king and myself that you were devoted to us, and that if ever we were in need of your devoted service, we had only to call upon you.
We do call upon you to-day.
Set out at once for Amboise, where the king and queen are now installed for some weeks. I will tell you on your arrival in what way you can be of use.
It is always understood that you are quite at liberty to act or to hold aloof. Your zeal is too valuable for me to wish to make a bad use of it, or compromise you. But whether you are with us or prefer to remain neutral, I should think I was neglecting a duty if I failed to have confidence in you.
Come, therefore, in all haste, and you will be, as always, most welcome.
Your affectionate friend,
FRANÇOIS DE LORRAINE.
Amboise, the 4th March, 1560.
P.S. Herewith is a safe-conduct, for use in case you should be questioned en route by some royal troop.
The messenger from the Duc de Guise had already departed to execute his other commissions when Gabriel finished the letter.
The eager youth rose at once, and said without hesitation to the nurse,—
"Good Aloyse, call André, please, and tell him to have the dapple-gray saddled and to prepare my travelling wallet."
"Are you going away, Monseigneur?" the good woman asked.
"Yes, nurse, to Amboise, within two hours."
There was nothing more to be said; and Aloyse, without a word, went sadly from the room to see that her young master's orders were carried out.
But while his preparations were being made, behold, another messenger appeared, and demanded to speak with the Comte de Montgommery alone.
He made no commotion, and, unlike his predecessor, had no escort. He came in silently and very modestly, and without uttering a sound, handed Gabriel a letter which he had in charge.
Gabriel started as he thought that he recognized him as the same who had formerly brought him La Renaudie's invitation to attend the Protestant meeting in the Place Maubert.
It was in fact the same man; and the letter bore the same signature. It said:—
FRIEND AND BROTHER,—I did not wish to leave Paris without having seen you; but I had no time, for events came thick and fast, and hurried me on. I must go now, and have not even pressed your hand, nor have I told you our plans and our hopes.
But we know that you are with us, and I know what manner of man you are.
With such as you there is no need of preparation, of meetings, and speech-making,—a word is sufficient.
This is the word: We need you. Come.
Be at Noizai near Amboise by the 10th or 12th of this month of March. You will find there your brave and noble friend De Castelnau. He will tell you what is going on, for I dare not trust it to paper.
It is agreed that you are in no wise bound; that you have a perfect right to stand apart; and that you may always abstain from acting with us without incurring the least suspicion or receiving the slightest reproach.
But in any event come to Noizai, I will meet you there, and we will seek your advice, if we cannot have your assistance.
Then, too, can anything be accomplished by our party unless you are informed with regard to it?
So adieu till we meet at Noizai. We rely upon your presence, at all events.
L. R.
P.S. If any troop of our friends should fall in with you en route, our password is, once more, Genève, and our countersign, Gloire de Dieu!
"In an hour I set out," said Gabriel to the silent messenger, who bowed and took his leave.
"What does all this signify?" Gabriel asked himself when he was alone; "and what is the meaning of these two appeals coming from parties so hostile, and appointing a rendezvous at almost the same place? But it makes no difference at all! My obligations toward the omnipotent duke and toward the oppressed Reformers are equally certain. My duty is to set out at once. Then come what come may! However difficult my position may become, my conscience knows well that I shall never turn traitor."
An hour later Gabriel began his journey, accompanied only by André.
But he hardly foresaw the extraordinary and terrible alternative by which his loyal soul was to be confronted.