The Two Dianas: Volume 3 by ALEXANDRE DUMAS - HTML preview

CONCLUSION

Gabriel did not reach St. Quentin until August 16. At the entrance to the town he found Jean Peuquoy awaiting him.

"Ah, here you are at last, Monsieur le Comte!" cried the honest weaver. "I was sure that you would come! But you are too late, alas! too late!"

"What! too late?" asked Gabriel, in alarm.

"Alas! yes. Did not Madame Diane de Castro in her letter ask you to be here yesterday, the 15th?"

"To be sure," said Gabriel; "but no particular stress was laid upon the date, nor did Madame de Castro say why she desired my presence."

"Well, Monsieur le Comte," rejoined Jean, "yesterday was the day on which Madame de Castro—I should say, Sister Bénie—pronounced the words which make her a nun forever, with no possibility of returning to the world."

"Ah!" said Gabriel, turning pale.

"Whereas, if you had been at hand," continued Jean, "you might perhaps have been able to prevent what is now an accomplished fact."

"No," said Gabriel, gloomily, "no, I could not, I ought not, nor would I have attempted even to oppose that step. Providence doubtless kept me at Calais, for my heart would have broken by its helplessness in the face of her sacrificial act; and the poor, dear, afflicted soul which thus gave itself to God's service might have had to suffer more from my presence than she did when left alone at that solemn moment."

"Oh, but she was not alone," said Jean.

"Of course you were there, Jean, and Babette, and the poor and unfortunate, her devoted friends."

"We were not the only ones, Monsieur le Comte," said Jean. "Sister Bénie's mother was also with her."

"Who,—Madame de Poitiers?" exclaimed Gabriel.

"Yes, Monsieur le Comte, Madame de Poitiers herself, who, on receipt of a letter from her daughter, hastened hither from her retirement at Chaumont-sur-Loire, was present at the ceremonial yesterday, and should be with the new nun at this moment."

"Oh!" said Gabriel, in terror, "why did Madame de Castro send for that woman?"

"Why, Monseigneur, as she said to Babette, that woman is, after all, her mother."

"Alas! I begin to think I ought to have been here yesterday," said Gabriel. "If Madame de Poitiers is here, it can be with no good purpose, nor to fulfil any pious maternal duty. Let us go to the Benedictine convent, if you please, Master Jean. I am in greater haste than ever now to see Madame de Castro, for I fear that she needs me. Come, let us hurry!"

Gabriel was shown without objection into the parlor of the convent, where he had been expected since the preceding day.

Diane was waiting in the parlor with her mother. Gabriel, upon seeing her once more after so long a separation, was carried away by an irresistible impulse, and fell on his knees, pale and dejected, before the grating which separated them forever from each other.

"My sister! my sister!" was all he could say.

"My brother!" replied Sister Bénie, softly.

A tear rolled slowly down her cheek; but at the same time she smiled as the angels should smile.

Gabriel, turning his head slightly, met the gaze of the other Diane, Madame de Poitiers. She was laughing, as demons should laugh.

But Gabriel, with careless contempt for her exasperating demeanor, concentrated his regard and his thought entirely upon Sister Bénie.

"My sister!" he repeated eagerly, and with bitter anguish.

Diane de Poitiers at this point coldly remarked,—

"It is as your sister in Jesus Christ, doubtless, Monsieur, that you call by that title her who yesterday was still Madame de Castro?"

"What do you mean, Madame? Great God! what do mean?" asked Gabriel, with a shudder, as he rose to his feet.

Diane de Poitiers, without replying directly to his question, addressed her daughter:—

"The time has arrived, my child, I think, to reveal to you the secret of which I spoke yesterday, and which, in my opinion, my bounden duty forbids me to conceal from you any longer."

"Oh, what can it be?" cried Gabriel, distractedly.

"My child," continued Madame de Poitiers, calmly, "as I have told you, it was not simply to give you my blessing that I have emerged from the retirement in which I have been living for nearly two years, thanks to Monsieur de Montgommery. Pray do not consider my words ironical, Monsieur," she added in a tone of bitter irony in reply to a gesture of Gabriel's. "In truth, I am extremely obliged to you for having torn me away, with or without violence, from an impious and corrupt world. I am happy now! The divine grace has touched me, and my whole heart is filled with the love of God. To show my gratitude to you, I wish to save you from the commission of a sin,—a crime, it may be."

"Oh, what can it be?" It was Sister Bénie who asked the question now with fast-beating heart.

"My child," continued Diane de Poitiers, in her infernal, cool tones, "I imagine that I might yesterday, with a single word, have arrested upon your lips the sacred vows you were about to utter. But was it for me, miserable sinner that I am, and so happy to be free from earthly bonds,—was it for me to steal from God a soul which was about to confide itself to Him, free and pure? No! and I held my peace."

"I dare not guess! I dare not!" muttered Gabriel.

"To-day, my child," the ex-favorite resumed, "I break my silence, because I see from Monsieur de Montgommery's grief and earnestness that you still possess his entire soul. Now he must make up his mind to forget you; he must do it. But if he continues to soothe himself with the fancy that you may be his sister, the daughter of the Comte de Montgommery, he can allow his memory to return to you now and then without remorse. That would be a crime! —a crime to which I, having been converted since yesterday, do not propose to be accessory. You are not the sister of Monsieur le Comte, but are really the daughter of King Henri II., whom Monsieur le Comte so unfortunately slew in that fatal tournament."

"Oh, horror!" cried Sister Bénie, hiding her face in her hands.

"You lie, Madame!" said Gabriel, vehemently. "It must be that you lie! Where is your proof that you speak the truth?"

"Here," replied Diane de Poitiers, in a most peaceful tone, handing him a paper which she took from her bosom.

Gabriel seized the paper with trembling hand, and read it eagerly.

"It is a letter from your father," continued Madame de Poitiers, "written a few days before his death, as you see. He complains of my cruelty, as you will see again; but he submits, as you may also see, reflecting that in any event I shall soon be his wife, and that the lover will have suffered disappointment only to make the husband's happiness more pure and perfect. Oh, the words of that letter, which is signed and dated, are in no wise equivocal! Am I not right? So you see, Monsieur de Montgommery, that it would have been criminal for you to think of Sister Bénie; for you are bound by no tie of blood to her who is now the spouse of Jesus Christ. And in saving you from such impiety, I hope that I have acquitted my debt to you, and have more than repaid you for the bliss I enjoy in my solitude. We are quits now, Monsieur de Montgommery, and I have no more to say to you."

Gabriel, while this bitter, mocking speech was being delivered, had finished reading the baleful but sacred letter. It left no room whatever for doubt. It was to Gabriel like the voice of his father rising from the tomb to make known the truth.

When the wretched young man raised his wild, haggard eyes, he saw Diane de Castro lying unconscious before a prie-Dieu.

He rushed instinctively toward her; but the heavy iron bars arrested his steps.

As he turned back he saw Diane de Poitiers, and upon her lips was playing a smile of placid contentment.

Mad with grief, he took two steps toward her with uplifted hand.

But he stopped in terror at his own act; and beating his brow like an insane man, he cried simply,—

"Adieu, Diane! adieu!" and fled.

If he had remained a second more, he could not have forborne to annihilate that blaspheming mother like the viper that she was!

Outside the convent Jean Peuquoy was anxiously awaiting him.

"Do not question me! Ask me nothing!" exclaimed Gabriel at once, in a frenzy of despair.

And as honest Peuquoy gazed at him in sorrowful astonishment, he said more gently,—

"Forgive me! I fear I am almost mad. I cannot collect my thoughts, you see. It is to avoid the necessity of thinking that I propose to go, to fly, to Paris. Go with me, if you will, my friend, as far as the gate where I left my horse. But, in God's name, talk about yourself; say nothing of me or my affairs!"

The worthy weaver, as much to comply with Gabriel's wish as to try to distract his thoughts, went on to tell how Babette was marvellously well, and had recently presented him with a young Peuquoy,—a splendid fellow; how their brother Pierre had established himself in business as an armorer at St. Quentin; and how, only the month before, they had had news from Martin-Guerre, by a Picardy trooper returning home, and had learned that he was still happy with his reformed Bertrande.

But it must be confessed that Gabriel, who was, as it were, made blind and deaf by his grief, did not understand and only partly heard this joyous narration.

However, when he and Jean Peuquoy arrived at the Paris gate, he warmly pressed the honest burgher's hand.

"Adieu, my friend," said he. "Thanks for your affectionate kindness. Remember me most kindly to all your loving circle. I am glad to know that you are happy; think sometimes in your prosperity of me in my wretchedness."

And without waiting for any other response than the tears which shone in Jean's eyes, Gabriel mounted his horse, and set off at a gallop.

When he reached Paris (as if fate had determined to overwhelm him with affliction of every sort at once), he found that Aloyse, his dear nurse, had died, after a short illness, without having seen him again.

The next day he called upon Admiral de Coligny.

"Monsieur l'Amiral," said he, "I know that the persecutions and religious wars will soon begin anew, despite all the efforts to prevent them. Understand that henceforth I can offer to the Reformed cause not only my heart, but my sword as well. My life is good for nothing except to serve you; so take it, and spare it not. Moreover, in your ranks I can best defend myself against one of my enemies, and finish the punishment of the other."

Gabriel had in his mind the queen-regent and the constable.

It is needless to say that Coligny enthusiastically welcomed the invaluable auxiliary whose courage and vigor had been put to the proof so many times.

The count's history from that moment is identical with that of the religious wars which drenched the reign of Charles IX. with blood.

Gabriel de Montgommery played a terrible part in those wars; and at every momentous crisis the mere mention of his name drove the color from the cheeks of Catherine de Médicis.

When, after the massacre at Vassy in 1562, Rouen and the whole of Normandy openly declared themselves for the Huguenots, the Comte de Montgommery was named as the principal author of this uprising of an entire province.

The same year the Comte de Montgommery was at the battle of Dreux, where he performed prodigies of valor.

It was he, they said, who wounded with a pistol-ball the Constable de Montmorency, who commanded in chief, and would have made an end of him if the Prince de Porcien had not sheltered the constable and received him as a prisoner.

Every one knows that a month after this battle, where Le Balafré had wrested victory from the constable's unskilful hands, the noble Duc de Guise was treacherously murdered before Orléans by the fanatic Poltrot.

Montmorency, relieved of a rival, but also deprived of his ally, was less fortunate at the battle of St. Denis in 1567 than at that of Dreux.

The Scotchman Robert Stuart called upon him to surrender. He replied by striking him across the face with the flat of his sword, whereupon some one fired a pistol at him (the constable); the ball pierced his side, and he fell, mortally wounded.

Through the stream of blood which obscured his sight he thought that he recognized the features of Gabriel.

The constable breathed his last the following day.

Although he had now no direct personal foes, the Comte de Montgommery did not lessen the force of his blows. He seemed invincible and immortal.

When Catherine de Médicis asked who had compelled Béarn to submit to the King of Navarre, and had caused the Prince of Béarn to be recognized as general-in-chief of the Huguenots, the answer was—Montgommery.

When, on the day following the massacre of St. Bartholomew (1572), the queen-mother, in her thirst for vengeance, inquired, not as to those who had perished, but as to those who had escaped, the first name mentioned was—Montgommery.

Montgommery threw himself into Rochelle with Lanoue. The town sustained nine fierce assaults, and cost the royal army forty thousand men. In the capitulation which ensued, it retained its freedom; and Gabriel was allowed to depart, safe and sound.

He then made his way into Sancerre, which was besieged by the governor of Berri. He was well skilled, our readers will remember, in the defence of beleaguered towns. A handful of Sancerrois, with no other arms than iron-shod clubs, held out for four months against a body of six thousand soldiers. When at last they capitulated, they obtained the same terms granted at Rochelle,—liberty of conscience and immunity of person.

Catherine de Médicis viewed with ever-growing fury the continual escapes of her old unconquerable foe.

Montgommery left Poitou, which was in a blaze, and returned to Normandy to rekindle the flames which were subsiding there.

Setting out from St. Lo, within three days he had taken Carentan and despoiled Valognes of all her supplies. All the Norman nobility ranged themselves under his standard.

Catherine de Médicis and the king at once put three armies in the field, and proclaimed the ban and the arrière-ban in Mans and in Perche. The royal forces were led by the Duc de Matignon.

This time Montgommery no longer fought individually. Lost in the ranks of the Reformers, he devoted himself to thwarting Charles IX., and had his army, as the king had his.

He formed an admirable plan, which bade fair to assure him a brilliant victory.

He left Matignon besieging St. Lô with his whole force, secretly quitted the town, and made his way to Domfront. There François du Hallot was to join him with all the cavalry of Bretagne, Anjou, and the Caux country. With these forces he proposed to fall unexpectedly upon the royal army before St. Lô, which, being thus caught between two fires, would be annihilated.

But treachery conquered the unconquerable. An ensign warned Matignon of Montgommery's secret departure for Domfront, whither he was accompanied by only forty horsemen.

Matignon cared much less about reducing St. Lô than about capturing Montgommery; so he left the siege in charge of one of his inferior officers, and hastened to Domfront with two regiments of foot, six hundred horse, and a strong artillery force.

Any other than Gabriel de Montgommery would have surrendered without entering upon a resistance sure to be of no effect; but he, with his forty men, determined to show a bold front to that army.

In De Thou's history the incredible narrative of that siege may be read.

Domfront held out for twelve days, during which time the Comte de Montgommery made seven furious sallies; at last, when the walls of the town, riddled and tottering, were practically in the enemies' hands, Gabriel abandoned them, but only to ensconce himself in what was called the Tower of Guillaume de Bellême, and fight on.

He had only thirty men with him.

Matignon ordered to the assault a battery of five pieces of heavy artillery, a hundred cuirassiers, seven hundred musketeers, and a hundred pikemen.

The attack lasted five hours; and six hundred cannon-shot were fired into the old donjon.

In the evening Montgommery had but sixteen men left; but he still held out. He passed the night working at the breach like a common laborer.

The assault began again with daybreak. Matignon had received reinforcements during the night, and had under his command around the tower of the Bellême donjon and its seventeen defenders fifteen thousand soldiers and eighteen pieces of artillery!

The courage of the besieged did not fail; but their powder was exhausted.

Montgommery, rather than fall into the hands of his enemies alive, determined to fall upon his own sword; but Matignon sent him a flag of truce, the bearer of which swore in the name of his chief "that his life should be spared, and he should be allowed to depart."

Montgommery thereupon gave himself up, trusting to the oath. He should have remembered the fate of Castelnau.

On the same day he was sent to Paris in fetters. Catherine de Médicis at last had him in her power. It was by treachery, to be sure; but what mattered that? Charles IX. was dead; and pending the return of Henri III. from Poland she was queen-regent and omnipotent.

Montgommery was dragged before parliament, and condemned to death June 26, 1574.

For fourteen years he had been fighting against the wife and children of Henri II.

On the 27th of June, the Comte de Montgommery—to whom, in mere refinement of cruelty, the extraordinary torture had been applied—was carried to the scaffold and beheaded. His body was subsequently drawn and quartered.

Catherine de Médicis was present at the execution.

Thus closed the career of that extraordinary man,—one of the noblest and bravest souls that the sixteenth century had seen. He had never risen above the second rank, but had always shown himself worthy of a place in the first. His death fulfilled to the letter the predictions of Nostradamus,—

"Enfin, l'aimera, puis las! le tuera

Dame du roy."

Diane de Castro did not survive him. She had died the year before, abbess of the Benedictines of St. Quentin.

THE END.