CHAPTER IV
TWO LETTERS
After the happy ending of the complicated trial between the two Martin-Guerres, Gabriel de Montgommery disappeared again for several months, and resumed his wandering, mysterious, and apparently purposeless existence. Again he was seen and recognized in twenty different places; nevertheless, he was never far away from the neighborhood of Paris and the court, always standing back in shadow, so that he might see everything without being seen.
He awaited events; but events arranged themselves very little to his liking. The soul of the young man, entirely absorbed by one idea, did not yet see its way clear to the issue which his righteous vengeance awaited.
The only important occurrence in the world of politics during these months was the conclusion of peace by the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.
The Constable de Montmorency, jealous of the exploits of the Duc de Guise, and of the new claims to the gratitude of the nation and to his master's favor which his rival was acquiring every day, had finally extorted Henri's consent to that treaty through the all-powerful influence of Diane de Poitiers.
The treaty was signed April 3, 1559. Although concluded in the full tide of victory, it was hardly advantageous to France.
She retained the three bishoprics Metz, Toul, and Verdun, with their dependencies; she was to keep Calais for eight years only, and to pay eight hundred thousand crowns to Great Britain if the place was not restored within that period (but it never was restored, and the eight hundred thousand crowns were never paid). France regained possession of St. Quentin and Ham, and retained Turin and Pignerol in Piedmont.
But Philip II. obtained unconditional cession of the strong posts of Thionville, Marienbourg, and Hesdin. The walls of Thérouanne and Yvoy were razed. He caused the restitution of Bouillon to the bishopric of Liège, the Isle of Corsica to Genoa, and to Philibert of Savoy the greater part of Savoy and Piedmont, which had been conquered under François I.; finally, he insisted upon his own marriage with the king's daughter Élisabeth, and that the Duke of Savoy should be united to the Princess Marguerite. These terms were very advantageous for him, and he could have demanded none more favorable even after the battle of St. Laurent.
The Duc de Guise, coming back in hot haste and furious with rage from the army, warmly and not unjustly accused Montmorency of treason, and the king of fatal weakness in having thus surrendered by a stroke of the pen what the Spanish forces had failed to wrest from France after thirty years of successful fighting.
But the harm was done, and the ominous discontent of Le Balafré was of no avail to repair it.
Gabriel found no satisfaction in this state of things. His vengeance pursued the man in the person of the king, not the king to the detriment of the nation. He would have been glad to avenge himself with his country behind him, but not against her.
However, he made a note in his mind of the natural resentment of the Duc de Guise at seeing the sublime efforts of his genius paralyzed and rendered of no account by underhand intriguing.
The wrath of a Coriolanus might well, if occasion offered, serve to aid Gabriel's projects. Besides, François de Lorraine was not the only malcontent in the kingdom,—far from it.
One day Gabriel encountered near the Pré-aux-Clercs Baron de la Renaudie, whom he had not seen since the morning conference in the Rue St. Jacques.
Instead of avoiding a familiar face whenever he saw it approaching, as he had been in the habit of doing, Gabriel accosted the baron.
The two men seemed made to appreciate each other; they were much alike in more than one respect,—notably in steadfastness and energy of character. Both were born for action, and were passionately devoted to every just cause.
After exchanging salutations, La Renaudie said confidently,—
"Well, I have seen Master Ambroise Paré. You are one of us, are you not?"
"In heart, yes; but in appearance, no," Gabriel replied.
"And when may we expect that you will give yourself to our cause absolutely and without concealment?"
"I will no longer hold with you the selfish language which perhaps angered you against me," Gabriel replied. "On the other hand, I answer thus: I will be at your service when you need me, and when I no longer need you."
"That is generous, indeed!" was La Renaudie's response. "As a gentleman I admire, but as a party man I cannot hope to imitate you. However, if you but await the moment when we need the help of all our friends, know that moment has arrived."
"Pray, what has happened?" asked Gabriel.
"A secret blow is in preparation against those of the Religion. They propose to get rid of all the Protestants at once.”
"Why, they scarcely take pains to hide it," replied the baron. "Antoine Minard, President of the Parliament, said boldly at a council meeting at St. Germain that it was necessary to strike a decisive blow, if they did not wish to become a sort of republic like the Swiss States."
"What! he uttered the word 'republic'?" cried Gabriel, in surprise. "Doubtless he exaggerated the danger so that an exaggerated remedy might be applied."
"Not so much," rejoined La Renaudie, in a lower tone. "He did not exaggerate very much, in truth; for we, too, have changed our views somewhat since our meeting in Calvin's chamber, and Ambroise Paré's ideas do not seem so bold to us to-day; and then, you see, they are driving us to extreme measures."
"In that case," said Gabriel, eagerly, "I may be one of you sooner than I thought."
"That is pleasant to hear," cried La Renaudie.
"In what direction must I keep my eyes?" asked Gabriel.
"Upon the parliament," said the baron, "for there the issue will be joined. The Evangelical party has a strong minority there,—Anne Dubourg, Henri Dufaur, Nicolas Duval, Eustache de la Porte, and twenty others. To the harangues which call for the vigorous prosecution of heretics, the adherents of Calvinism reply by demanding the convocation of a general council to deal with religious affairs in accordance with the terms of the decrees of Constance and Bâle. They have right on their side; therefore it will be necessary to use violence against them. But we are watching, and do you watch with us."
"Very well," said Gabriel.
"Remain at your house in Paris until you are notified that we have need of you," continued La Renaudie.
"That will be painful for me," observed Gabriel; "but I will do it, provided that you do not leave me to pine in idleness too long. You have written and talked enough, I should think, and now you ought to lay aside words for deeds."
"That is my opinion," rejoined La Renaudie. "Hold yourself in readiness, and be tranquil."
They parted, and Gabriel walked thoughtfully away.
In his thirst for vengeance, was he not allowing his conscience to go astray somewhat? Already it seemed to be driving him on toward civil war; but since events would not come to him, he must go to them.
That same day he returned to his house in the Rue des Jardins St. Paul, where he found his faithful Aloyse alone. Martin-Guerre was no longer there; André had remained with Madame de Castro; Jean and Babette Peuquoy had returned to Calais with the intention of going thence to St. Quentin, whose gates had been opened to the loyal weaver by the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis.
Thus the master's return to his lonesome abode was more melancholy even than usual. Ah, but did not the motherly old nurse love him enough for all? We despair of picturing the worthy creature's joy when Gabriel informed her that he had come to stay with her for some time in all probability. He lived in most absolute secrecy and solitude, to be sure; but he was there by her side, and very rarely left the house. Aloyse could feast her eyes on him, and wait upon him. It was a long time since she had been so happy.
Gabriel, smiling sadly upon her, envied her loving heart its happiness. Alas! he could not share it with her. His life henceforth was even to himself a terrible enigma, of which he both dreaded and longed to know the solution.
Thus his days passed in impatience and apprehension, anxious and bored for more than a month.
As he had promised his nurse, he hardly ever left the house; but sometimes in the evening he would go and prowl around the Châtelet, and on his return would shut himself up for hours at a time in the funeral vault, whither the unknown bearers had secretly brought his father's body.
Gabriel seemed to take a gloomy pleasure in going back thus to the day when the outrage had been put upon him, that he might keep up his courage with his wrath.
When he looked upon the forbidding walls of the Châtelet, but above all when he contemplated the marble tomb where the sufferings of that noble life had finally found rest, the terrible morning when he had closed the eyes of his murdered father came back to him in all its horror.
Then his hands would move convulsively, his hair stand on end, and his chest heave with passion; and he would emerge from that terrible communion with the dead with his hatred renewed and more bitter than ever.
During such moments of anguish, Gabriel regretted having allowed his vengeance to follow in the wake of circumstances, for it seemed insupportable to him to have to wait for it.
His blood boiled to think that while he was waiting so patiently his murderous enemies were triumphant and joyous. The king sat peaceably on his throne at the Louvre. The constable was growing rich on the miseries of the people, and Diane de Poitiers rioting in infamous debauchery.
This state of things could not last. Since God's vengeance was sleeping, and the sufferings of the oppressed were growing daily greater, Gabriel determined that he would do without the help of God or man, or rather that he would constitute himself the instrument of divine justice and of human wrath.
Thereupon, carried away by an irresistible impulse, he would place his hand on the hilt of his sword, and make a motion as if to go and seek his revenge.
But then his conscience would awake and remind him of Diane de Castro's letter, written at Calais, in which his beloved had implored him not to undertake to chastise with his own hand, and not to strike even the guilty unless he were to do it involuntarily, and by the will of God.
Then he would read again that affecting missive, and involuntarily let his sword fall back into its scabbard. Stricken with remorse, he would resign himself once more to wait.
Gabriel was one of those men who are born for action, but have not executive ability. His vigor and energy were marvellous when supported by an army, or a small party, or even one great man; but he was not fitted by nature to carry out extraordinary achievements alone, even for a good object, and still less when they were to end in a crime. He was neither a powerful prince nor a startling genius by birth, and the power and the will to take the initiative were equally lacking in him.
When beside Coligny, and again when with the Duc de Guise, he had accomplished marvellous exploits. But now, as he had given Martin-Guerre to understand, his task was a very different one; instead of having enemies to fight in the open field, he had to chastise a king, and there was no one to assist him in that fearful work.
Nevertheless he still relied upon the same men who had formerly lent him their powerful aid,—Coligny the Protestant, and the ambitious Duc de Guise.
A civil war for the defence of religious truth, a revolution to assist in the triumph of a great genius,—such were the objects of Gabriel's secret hopes. The death or deposition of Henri II., or at all events his punishment, would be the result of either of the uprisings. Gabriel would show himself in the second rank, but as one worthy to be in the first. He would faithfully keep the oath he had sworn to the king himself; he would visit his perjury upon his children and his children's children.
If these two chances failed him, then he would have no other resource but to leave everything to God.
But it seemed at first as if these two chances were not likely to fail him. One day, it was the 13th of June, 1559, Gabriel received two letters almost at the same time.
The first was handed to him about five o'clock in the afternoon by a mysterious individual, who refused to deliver it except to himself in person, and would not deliver it to him until he had compared his features with the details of an exact description.
This letter read as follows:—
FRIEND AND BROTHER,—The hour has come; the persecutors have thrown away their masks. Let us thank God! Martyrdom leads to victory.
This evening at nine o'clock call at the house with a brown door, Number 11 Place Maubert.
You must strike three blows upon the door at regular intervals. A man will open it and will say to you, "Do not enter, for you cannot see clearly." You will reply, "I have my light with me." He will then lead you to a stairway with seventeen steps, which you must ascend in darkness. At the top another acolyte will thus accost you, "What do you seek?" Reply, "What is right." You will then be shown into an unfurnished room where some one will whisper in your ear the password, "Genève," to which you will reply with the counter-sign, "Gloire." Thereupon you will be at once conducted to those who have need of you to-day.
Till this evening, friend and brother, prudence and courage. Burn this letter.
L. R.
Gabriel called for a lighted lamp, burned the letter in the messenger's presence, and replied simply,—
"I will be there."
The man bowed and withdrew.
"Well," said Gabriel, "at last the Reformers are losing their patience."
About eight o'clock, as he was still deep in thought concerning La Renaudie's summons, Aloyse entered his room with a page in the Lorraine livery.
He brought a letter which read thus:—
MONSIEUR AND DEAR FRIEND,—I have been six weeks at Paris, having taken my leave of the army, where there was nothing more for me to do. I am assured that you also nave been at home for some time. Why have I not seen you? Have you forgotten me in these days of short memories and ingratitude? No, I know you too well; it is impossible.
Come to me, pray. I will expect you, if you please, to-morrow morning at ten in my apartments at the Tournelles.
Come, if only that we may condole with each other on the profit that has been made of our success.
Your very affectionate friend,
François de Lorraine.
"I will be there," said Gabriel to the page.
When the boy had withdrawn,—
"Well, well," he thought, "the ambitious man too is awake."
Thus encouraged by a twofold hope, he set out a quarter of an hour later for the Place Maubert.