Historical Romances: Under the Red Robe, Count Hannibal, A Gentleman of France

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER XXXIV.

  WHICH WILL YOU, MADAME?

  It was in the grey dawning of the next day, at the hour before the sunrose, that word of M. de Tignonville's fate came to them in thecastle. The fog which had masked the van and coming of night hungthick on its retreating skirts, and only reluctantly and little bylittle gave up to sight and daylight a certain thing which night hadleft at the end of the causeway. The first man to see it was Carlat,from the roof of the gateway; and he rubbed eyes weary with watching,and peered anew at it through the mist, fancying himself back in thePlace Ste.-Croix at Angers, supposing for a wild moment the journey adream, and the return a nightmare. But rub as he might, and stare ashe might, the ugly outlines of the thing he had seen persisted--nay,grew sharper as the haze began to lift from the grey, slow-heavingfloor of sea. He called another man and bade him look. "What is it?"he said. "D'you see, there? Below the village?"

  "'Tis a gibbet," the man answered, with a foolish laugh; they hadwatched all night. "God keep us from it."

  "A gibbet?"

  "Ay!"

  "It is there to hang those they have taken, very like," the mananswered, stupidly practical. And then other men came up, and staredat it and growled in their beards. Presently there were eight or tenon the roof of the gateway looking towards the land and discussing thething; and by-and-by a man was descried approaching along the causewaywith a white flag in his hand.

  At that Carlat bade one fetch the minister. "He understands things,"he muttered, "and I misdoubt this. And see," he cried after themessenger, "that no word of it come to Mademoiselle!" Instinctively inthe maiden home he reverted to the maiden title.

  The messenger went, and came again bringing La Tribe, whose head roseabove the staircase at the moment the envoy below came to a haltbefore the gate. Carlat signed to the minister to come forward; and LaTribe, after sniffing the salt air, and glancing at the long, low,misty shore and the stiff ugly shape which stood at the end of thecauseway, looked down and met the envoy's eyes. For a moment no onespoke. Only the men who had remained on the gateway, and had watchedthe stranger's coming, breathed hard.

  At last, "I bear a message," the man announced loudly and clearly,"for the lady of Vrillac. Is she present?"

  "Give your message!" La Tribe replied.

  "It is for her ears only."

  "Do you want to enter?"

  "No!" The man answered so hurriedly that more than one smiled. He hadthe bearing of a lay clerk of some precinct, a verger or sacristan;and after a fashion the dress of one also, for he was in dusty blackand wore no sword, though he was girded with a belt. "No!" herepeated, "but if Madame will come to the gate, and speak to me----"

  "Madame has other fish to fry," Carlat blurted out. "Do you think thatshe has naught to do but listen to messages from a gang of bandits?"

  "If she does not listen she will repent it all her life!" the fellowanswered hardily. "That is part of my message."

  There was a pause while La Tribe considered the matter. In the end,"From whom do you come?" he asked.

  "From His Excellency the Lieutenant-Governor of Saumur," the envoyanswered glibly, "and from my lord Bishop of Angers, him assisting byhis Vicar; and from others gathered lawfully, who will as lawfullydepart if their terms are accepted. Also from M. de Tignonville, agentleman, I am told, of these parts, now in their hands and adjudgedto die at sunset this day if the terms I bring be not accepted."

  There was a long silence on the gate. The men looked down fixedly; nota feature of one of them moved, for no one was surprised. "Whereforeis he to die!" La Tribe asked at last.

  "For good cause shown."

  "Wherefore?"

  "He is a Huguenot."

  The minister nodded. "And the terms!" Carlat muttered.

  "Ay, the terms!" La Tribe repeated, nodding afresh. "What are they?"

  "They are for madame's ear only," the messenger made answer.

  "Then they will not reach it!" Carlat broke forth in wrath. "So muchfor that! And for yourself, see you go quickly before we make a targetof you!"

  "Very well, I go," the envoy answered sullenly. "But----"

  "But what?" La Tribe cried, gripping Carlat's shoulder to quiet him."But what! Say what you have to say, man! Speak out, and have donewith it!"

  "I will say it to her and to no other."

  "Then you will not say it!" Carlat cried again. "For you will not seeher. So you may go. And the black fever in your vitals."

  "Ay, go!" La Tribe added more quietly.

  The man turned away with a shrug of the shoulders, and moved off adozen paces, watched by all on the gate with the same fixed attention.But presently he paused; he returned. "Very well," he said, looking upwith an ill grace. "I will do my office here, if I cannot come to her.But I hold also a letter from M. de Tignonville, and that I candeliver to no other hands than hers!" He held it up as he spoke, athin scrap of greyish paper, the fly-leaf of a missal perhaps. "See!"he continued, "and take notice! If she does not get this, and learnswhen it is too late that it was offered----"

  "The terms," Carlat growled impatiently. "The terms! Come to them!"

  "You will have them?" the man answered, nervously passing his tongueover his lips. "You will not let me see her, or speak to herprivately?"

  "No."

  "Then hear them. His Excellency is informed that one Hannibal deTavannes, guilty of the detestable crime of sacrilege and of othergross crimes, has taken refuge here. He requires that the saidHannibal de Tavannes be handed to him for punishment, and, this beingdone before sunset this evening, he will yield to you free anduninjured the said M. de Tignonville, and will retire from the landsof Vrillac. But if you refuse"--the man passed his eye along the lineof attentive faces which fringed the battlement--"he will at sunsethang the said Tignonville on the gallows raised for Tavannes, and willharry the demesne of Vrillac to its farthest border!"

  There was a long silence on the gate. Some, their gaze still fixed onhim, moved their lips as if they chewed. Others looked aside, mettheir fellows' eyes in a pregnant glance, and slowly returned to him.But no one spoke. At his back the flush of dawn was flooding the east,and spreading and waxing brighter. The air was growing warm; the shorebelow, from grey, was turning green. In a minute or two the sun, whoseglowing marge already peeped above the low hills of France, would topthe horizon.

  The man, getting no answer, shifted his feet uneasily. "Well," hecried, "what answer am I to take?"

  Still no one moved.

  "I've done my part. Will no one give her the letter?" he cried. And heheld it up. "Give me my answer, for I am going."

  "Take the letter!" The words came from the rear of the group in avoice that startled all. They turned as though some one had struckthem, and saw the Countess standing beside the wooden hood whichcovered the stairs. They guessed that she had heard all or nearly all;but the glory of the sunrise, shining full on her at that moment, lenta false warmth to her face, and life to eyes wofully and tragicallyset. It was not easy to say whether she had heard or not. "Take theletter," she repeated.

  Carlat looked helplessly over the parapet.

  "Go down!"

  He cast a glance at La Tribe, but he got none in return, and he waspreparing to do her bidding when a cry of dismay broke from those whostill had their eyes bent downwards. The messenger, waving the letterin a last appeal, had held it too loosely; a light air, as treacherousas unexpected, had snatched it from his hand, and bore it--even as theCountess, drawn by the cry, sprang to the parapet--fifty paces fromhim. A moment it floated in the air, eddying, rising, falling; then,light as thistle-down, it touched the water and began to sink.

  The messenger uttered frantic lamentations, and stamped the causewayin his rage. The Countess only looked, and looked, until the ripplingcrest of a baby wave broke over the tiny venture, and with its freightof tidings it sank from sight.

  The man, silent now, stared a moment, then shrugged his shoulders."Well, 'tis for
tunate it was his," he cried brutally, "and not HisExcellency's, or my back had suffered! And now," he added impatiently,"by your leave, what answer?"

  What answer? Ah, God, what answer? The men who leant on the parapet,rude and coarse as they were, felt the tragedy of the question and thedilemma, guessed what they meant to her, and looked everywhere save ather. What answer? Which of the two was to live? Which die--shamefully!Which? Which?

  "Tell him--to come back--an hour before sunset," she muttered.

  They told him and he went; and one by one the men began to go too, andstole from the roof, leaving her standing alone, her face to theshore, her hands resting on the parapet. The light breeze which blewoff the land stirred loose ringlets of her hair, and flattened thethin robe against her sunlit figure. So had she stood a thousandtimes in old days, in her youth, in her maidenhood. So in her father'stime had she stood to see her lover come riding along the sands to wooher! So had she stood to welcome him on the eve of that fatal journeyto Paris! Thence had others watched her go with him. The menremembered--remembered all; and one by one they stole shamefacedlyaway, fearing lest she should speak or turn tragic eyes on them.

  True, in their pity for her was no doubt of the end, or thought of thevictim who must suffer--of Tavannes. They, of Poitou, who had not beenwith him, knew nothing of him; they cared as little. He was a northernman, a stranger, a man of the sword, who had seized her--so theyheard--by the sword. But they saw that the burden of choice was laidon her; there, in her sight and in theirs, rose the gibbet; and,clowns as they were, they discerned the tragedy of her _role_, play itas she might, and though her act gave life to her lover.

  When all had retired save three or four, she turned and saw thesegathered at the head of the stairs in a ring about Carlat, who wasaddressing them in a low eager voice. She could not catch a syllable,but a look hard, and almost cruel, flashed into her eyes as she gazed;and raising her voice she called the steward to her. "The bridge isup," she said, her tone hard, "but the gates? Are they locked?"

  "Yes, Madame."

  "The wicket?"

  "No, not the wicket." And Carlat looked another way.

  "Then go, lock it, and bring the keys to me!" she replied. "Or stay!"Her voice grew harder, her eyes spiteful as a cat's. "Stay, and bewarned that you play me no tricks! Do you hear? Do you understand? Orold as you are, and long as you have served us, I will have you thrownfrom this tower, with as little pity as Isabeau flung her gallants tothe fishes. I am still mistress here, never more mistress than thisday. Woe to you if you forget it."

  He blenched and cringed before her, muttering incoherently.

  "I know," she said, "I read you! And now the keys. Go, bring them tome! And if by chance I find the wicket unlocked when I come down,pray, Carlat, pray! For you will have need of prayers."

  He slunk away, the men with him; and she fell to pacing the rooffeverishly. Now and then she extended her arms, and low cries brokefrom her, as from a dumb creature in pain. Wherever she looked, oldmemories rose up to torment her and redouble her misery. A thing shecould have borne in the outer world, a thing which might have seemedtolerable in the reeking air of Paris or in the gloomy streets ofAngers, wore here its most appalling aspect. Henceforth, whateverchoice she made, this home, where even in those troublous times shehad known naught but peace, must bear a damning stain! Henceforth thisday and this hour must come between her and happiness, must brand herbrow, and fix her with a deed of which men and women would tell whileshe lived! Oh, God--pray? Who said, pray?

  "I!" And La Tribe with tears in his eyes held out the keys to her. "I,madame," he continued solemnly, his voice broken with emotion. "For inman is no help. The strongest man, he who rode yesterday a master ofmen, a very man of war in his pride and his valour--see him now,and----"

  "Don't!" she cried, sharp pain in her voice. "Don't!" And she stoppedhim with her hand, her face averted. After an interval, "You come fromhim?" she muttered faintly.

  "Yes."

  "Is he--hurt to death, think you?" She spoke low, and kept her facehidden from him.

  "Alas, no!" he answered, speaking the thought in his heart. "The menwho are with him seem confident of his recovery."

  "Do they know?"

  "Badelon has had experience."

  "No, no. Do they know of this?" she cried. "Of this!" And she pointedwith a gesture of loathing to the black gibbet on the farther strand.

  He shook his head. "I think not," he muttered. And after a moment,"God help you!" he added fervently. "God help and guide you, madame!"

  She turned on him suddenly, fiercely. "Is that all you can do?" shecried. "Is that all the help you can give! You are a man. Go down,lead them out; drive off these cowards who drain our life's blood, whotrade on a woman's heart! On them! Do something, anything, rather thanlie in safety here--here!"

  The minister shook his head sadly. "Alas, madame!" he said, "to sallywere to waste life. They outnumber us three to one. If Count Hannibalcould do no more than break through last night, with scarce a manunwounded----"

  "He had the women!"

  "And we have not him!"

  "He would not have left us!" she cried hysterically.

  "I believe it."

  "Had they taken me, do you think he would have lain behind walls? Orskulked in safety here, while--while----" Her voice failed her.

  He shook his head despondently.

  "And that is all you can do?" she cried, and turned from him, and tohim again, extending her arms, in bitter scorn. "All you will do? Doyou forget that twice he spared your life? That in Paris once, andonce in Angers, he held his hand? That always, whether he stood orwhether he fled, he held himself between us and harm? Ay, always? Andwho will now raise a hand for him? Who?"

  "Madame!"

  "Who? Who? Had he died in the field," she continued, her voice shakingwith grief, her hands beating the parapet--for she had turned fromhim--"had he fallen where he rode last night, in the front, with hisface to the foe, I had viewed him tearless, I had deemed him happy! Ihad prayed dry-eyed for him who--who spared me all these days andweeks! Whom I robbed and he forgave me! Whom I tempted, and he forboreme! Ay, and who spared not once or twice him for whom he must now--hemust now----" And unable to finish the sentence she beat her handsagain and passionately on the stones.

  "Heaven knows, madame," the minister cried vehemently, "Heaven knows,I would advise you if I could."

  "Why did he wear his corselet?" she wailed, as if she had not heardhim. "Was there no spear could reach his breast, that he must come tothis? No foe so gentle he would spare him this? Or why did he not diewith me in Paris when we waited? In another minute death might havecome and saved us this."

  With the tears running down his face he tried to comfort her. "Manthat is a shadow," he said, "passeth away--what matter how? A littlewhile, a very little while, and we shall pass!"

  "With his curse upon us!" she cried. And, shuddering, she pressed herhands to her eyes to shut out the sight her fancy pictured.

  He left her for a while, hoping that in solitude she might regaincontrol of herself. When he returned he found her seated, andoutwardly more composed, her arms resting on the parapet-wall, hereyes bent steadily on the long stretch of hard sand which rannorthward from the village. By that route her lover had many a timecome to her; there she had ridden with him in the early days; and thatway they had started for Paris on such a morning and at such an houras this, with sunshine about them, and larks singing hope above thesand-dunes, and warm wavelets creaming to the horses' hoofs!

  Of all which, La Tribe, a stranger, knew nothing. The rapt gaze, theunchanging attitude only confirmed his opinion of the course she wouldadopt. He was thankful to find her more composed; and in fear of sucha scene as had already passed between them he stole away again. Hereturned by-and-by, but with the greatest reluctance, and only becauseCarlat's urgency would take no refusal.

  He came this time to crave the key of the wicket, explainingthat--rather to satisfy his own conscience and the
men than with anyhope of success--he proposed to go half-way along the causeway, andthence by signs invite a conference. "It is just possible," he added,hesitating--he feared nothing so much as to raise hopes in her--"thatby the offer of a money ransom, Madame----"

  "Go," she said, without turning her head. "Offer what you please.But"--bitterly--"have a care of them! Montsoreau is very likeMontereau! Beware of the bridge!"

  He went and came again in half-an-hour. Then, indeed, though she hadspoken as if hope was dead in her, she was on her feet at the firstsound of his tread on the stairs; her parted lips and her white facequestioned him. He shook his head.

  "There is a priest," he said in broken tones, "with them, whom Godwill judge. It is his plan, and he is without mercy or pity."

  "You bring nothing from--him?"

  "They will not suffer him to write again."

  "You did not see him?"

  "No."