by Eugène Sue
Odelin was uttering these last words when his son hurried into the apartment, looking sad and even bewildered. Anna Bell jumped up to meet the young man, saying: “Thank God, brother, I see you back safe and sound!”
Such was the preoccupation of Antonicq that, without answering his sister, without taking notice of her, and even gently pushing her aside, he approached his father, and taking him apart to the other end of the room, spoke to him in a low and excited voice. Painfully affected at seeing herself pushed out of the way by her brother, who seemed to have neither a word nor a look for her in response to the gladness that she expressed at his safe return from battle, the young girl imagined herself despised by him.
“Alas!” thought the maid of honor, “my brother will not forgive my past life; only a father’s heart is capable of indulgence. Great God! If my sister, my mother, were also to receive me with such disdain — perchance aversion! I would rather die than expose myself to such treatment!”
Antonicq continued to speak with his father in a low voice. Suddenly Odelin seemed to shudder, and hid his face in his hands. Profound silence ensued. Anna Bell, more and more the prey of the shyness and mistrust that conscious guilt inspires in a repentant soul, imagined herself the subject of the mysterious conversation between her father and brother. Odelin’s features, lowering and angry, betokened disgust and indignation. The words escaped him: “And yet, despite such revolting horrors, I am bound to him by a sacred bond! Oh, a curse upon the day that brought us together again! A curse upon the fatal discovery! But once I shall have fulfilled that last duty, may heaven ever after deliver me of his hated presence! Listen,” added the armorer, and again lowering his voice, he spoke to his son with intense earnestness, closing with the statement: “Such is my plan!”
The conversation was again renewed in undertones between father and son. Anna Bell had caught only fragments of her father’s remarks. She was convinced they spoke of her — and yet, only a minute before, Odelin was so lovingly indulgent towards his erring daughter. In vain did the young girl seek to fathom the cause of so sudden a change. What could the fatal discovery be that Antonicq had just imparted to his father, and seemed suddenly to incite his indignation and anger? Did she not lay her past life bare to her father in all sincerity of heart? What could she be accused of that she had not voluntarily confessed? A prey to profound anxiety, the young girl’s heart sank within her; her limbs trembled as she saw her father hurriedly take up his sword and casque, and make ready to leave with Antonicq.
The young man stepped to the couch of straw and pulled out of it a long, wide cloak of a brown material with a scarlet hood attached, such as was common among the Rochelois, and helped his father to wrap himself in it over his armor; Odelin then put on his casque, threw the hood over it, and, without either look or word to his daughter, who, trembling and with frightened eyes followed his movements, went out, followed by his son.
Long did Anna Bell weep. When her tears ran dry, the young girl turned her face to the future with sinister resolution. She considered herself an object of disgust and aversion to her brother and father. Forsaken by them, an unbridgeable abyss — honor — separated her forever from Franz of Gerolstein. Nothing was left but to die. Suddenly a flash of joy lightened her eyes, red with recent tears. She rose, stood erect, and looking about said: “Yes, to die. But to die under Franz’s eyes — to die for him, like the young page killed this very day by throwing himself in the path of the bullet that was to fell his master. The army is to return to battle. The clothes, the horse of the page who was killed to-day are all here!”
As these thoughts seethed in her mind, Anna Bell’s eyes fell upon some sheets of paper, a pen and ink in a broken cup lying on the mantlepiece. The girl took them down with a sigh:
“Oh, father! Oh, brother! Despite your contempt and aversion, my last thoughts will be of you!”
Hervé Lebrenn, the incestuous wretch who raised a matricidal hand against his mother, Fra Hervé, the Cordelier, as he was called in the royal army, deserved but too well the reputation for a fiery preacher and leader of implacable sectarians. His sermons, lighted by a savage style of eloquence, and coupled to acts of ferocity in battle, inspired the Catholics with fanatic admiration. Wounded and made a prisoner in the course of the engagement of that day, he was taken pinioned to St. Yrieix and locked up in a dark cellar. The cellar door opened. The light of a lanthorn partially dispelled the gloom of the subterranean cell. Seated on the ground with his shoulders against the wall, Fra Hervé saw a man enter, wrapped in a brown mantle, the scarlet hood of which, being wholly thrown over his head, concealed the face of the nocturnal visitor. The visitor was Odelin Lebrenn. He closed the door behind him, placed the lanthorn on the floor, and almost convulsed with wracking emotions, silently contemplated his brother, who had not yet recognized him. Odelin saw him now for the first time since the day when, still a lad returning from Italy with Master Raimbaud, the armorer, he involuntarily witnessed the torture and death of his sister Hena and Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. Hervé also attended the solemnity of his sister’s execution, in the company of Fra Girard, his evil genius.
Odelin Lebrenn looked with mute horror upon his imprisoned brother. The lanthorn, placed upon the floor, threw upward a bright light streaked with hard, black shadows upon the cadaverous, ascetic and haggard features of Hervé. His large, bald forehead, yellow and dirty, was tied in a blood-stained bandage. The blood had flowed down from his wound, dried up on one of his protruding cheek bones, and coagulated in the hairs of his thick and matted beard. His brown and threadbare coat, patched up in a score of places, was held around his waist by a cord from which hung a chaplet of arquebus balls with a small crucifix of lead. Rusty iron spurs were fastened with leather straps to his muddy feet, shod in sandals. Fra Hervé, unable to distinguish his brother’s face, shadowed as it was by the hood of the mantle, turned his head slowly towards the visitor, and kneeling down with an expression of gloomy disdain, said in a hollow voice:
“Is it death? I am ready!”
The Cordelier thereupon bowed down his large bald head, and raising his fettered hands towards the roof of the cellar muttered in a low voice the funeral invocation of the dying. Odelin threw back his hood, took up the lanthorn, and held it so as to throw a clear light upon his face.
“Brother!” he called out to the monk in a voice that betrayed his profound emotion. “I am Odelin Lebrenn!”
Without rising from his knees, Fra Hervé threw himself back, and examined for a moment the face of Odelin. At length he recognized him, and, a sudden flash of hatred illumining his hollow eyes and an infernal smile curling his livid lips, he cried:
“God has sent you! I shall spit out the truth into the face of the apostate! Oh, that your father were also here!”
“Respect his memory — our father is dead!”
“Did he die impenitent?”
“He died in his faith!”
“He died damned!” replied Fra Hervé with a savage guffaw. “Everlastingly damned! The corruptor of my youth! The heretical leper! The sink of pestilence! Damned along with his wife! It was Thy will, Oh, God! In Thy wrath Thou didst so decree it. The flames of hell will be doubly hot to them! Forever and ever will they be face to face with the spectacle of their daughter, damned through their acts, and damned like themselves, writhing in the midst of everlasting fires!”
“Do not take upon your lips the names of our sister, the poor martyr, or of our mother, you wretched fanatic, author of all their sufferings!”
“‘Our’ mother! ‘Our’ father! ‘Our’ sister!” echoed back the monk, with an outburst of sardonic laughter. “Look at the renegate! He dares invoke bonds that are snapped, and are abhorred! Man — I have no father but the vicar of Christ! No mother but the Church! No brothers but faithful Catholics. Outside of that holy family — holy, thrice holy! — I see only savage beasts, bent in their demoniacal rage upon tearing into shreds the sacred body of my holy mother! And I kill them! I thrott
le them! I immolate them to God, the avenger! Oh, how I grieve to think that you did not fall, like the likes of you, under my heavy iron crucifix, which the Holy Father blessed! What more beautiful holocaust could I offer to the implacable anger of the Lord, than to say to Him as Abraham did on the mountain: ‘Lord! May the vapor of this blood rise to your nostrils. This blood is twofold expiatory! It is my blood, it is the blood of my family!’”
“Blood! Always blood!” echoed Odelin, shivering with disgust and horror. “Hervé, blood has intoxicated you. Like so many other priests, you are the prey of a savage frenzy. A bloodthirsty dementia has dethroned your reason. I have for you the pity that a furious madman inspires. After a desperate resistance you fell into the power of a corps of Protestant horsemen. My son was among them; he identified you by the mournful celebrity that surrounds your name. His companions were of a mind to kill you on the spot. He obtained from them a postponement of your execution under the pretext that your death would be more exemplary before the assembled ranks of our soldiers. My son’s views prevailed. You were taken to this place, to this cellar belonging to the priory occupied by Admiral Coligny, who, thanks to God, escaped this day being poisoned, escaped the latest abominable crime planned against him. You were taken to this cell. My son just notified me of your capture and of his desire to save you. I share his wishes — seeing that, unfortunately, we are both children of one father. But for that I would have left you to your fate. Your religion commands you to kill me; mine commands me to save you. I shall untie your hands; you shall throw this mantle over your shoulders and lower the hood over your head. My son is the only watchman. He offered to the sentinel placed on guard over you to take his place. The offer was accepted. We shall leave this cell together. The Rochelois mantle will conceal your frock and remove suspicion. You will follow me. I am known to all the people and soldiers whom we may meet in crossing the courtyard of the Admiral’s house. I hope to secure your flight with the aid of this disguise. That duty, a sacred one to me, I fulfil in the name of our parents who are no more — in the name of those cherished beings who loved us so dearly.”
“Oh, God, the Avenger!” exclaimed Hervé with savage exaltation. “Ever does Thy anger strike Thy enemies with blindness! Themselves they break the chains of their immolators! Themselves they deliver themselves defenseless into the hands of their implacable enemies!”
And stretching out his fettered hands to his brother, the monk added:
“Oh, thou vile instrument of the King of Kings! Free these hands from their bonds! There is still work for them to do in cropping the bloody field of heresy! There are still supporters of Satan for these hands to exterminate!”
Calm and sad, Odelin loosed the fetters from Fra Hervé’s hands. Hardly did the monk regain the free use of his arms than, darting a tiger’s look at his brother, he took two steps back, seized the heavy string of leaden balls that hung from his girdle, swung it like a sling, and, before his liberator, who stood stupefied at the brusque assault, had time to protect himself, smote him several times on the head with the heavy chaplet. Although considerably deadened by Odelin’s casque, the violent blows staggered the armorer. For a moment he seemed to reel on his feet, but instantly recovering himself, he drew his sword at the very moment that Fra Hervé returned to the charge. Odelin parried the blows, and, cutting with a back-stroke the string that held the balls, caused them to slip off and roll down at the feet of the monk. Odelin immediately threw his sword aside, but carried away with rage and indignation, he dashed upon his brother, seized him by the throat, threw him to the ground and pinned him down with his knees upon his chest. In this struggle, Fra Hervé, weakened by his wound, had the disadvantage. He furiously bit Odelin’s hand. The pain drew a piercing cry from Odelin. The noise was heard by Antonicq, who stood on guard at the outside of the door. The young man rushed in and saw his father at close quarters with the monk, who, in his rage, kept his teeth in Odelin’s flesh and sought, after having penetrated to the bone, to crush his brother’s thumb between his teeth. Exasperated at the sight, Antonicq picked up his father’s sword and dealing with the handle of the weapon a crushing blow upon Fra Hervé’s cheek, knocked in several of his teeth and compelled him to release his prey. Odelin rose. Panting with fury and exhausted by the violence of the struggle, the Cordelier sank upon his knees; tore off the bandage from his head, thereby leaving a deep, gaping wound exposed; and trembling with silent, savage rage, sought to staunch the blood that poured in streams out of his mouth.
“My son, look at that monk,” observed Odelin to Antonicq with a broken voice. “There was a time when that man was full of tenderness and respect for my father and mother. He cherished my sister and me. Brought up like myself in the practice of justice, and gifted with exceptional intelligence, he was the joy, the pride, the hope of our family. Look at him now; shudder; there you see him the handiwork of the infamous clergy of the papacy!”
“Oh, it is horrible!” exclaimed Antonicq, hiding his face in his hands. And, suddenly startled by the sound of a distant tumult that reached the depth of the cell across the profound silence of the night, the young man listened for a moment and said: “Father, do you hear that noise? The troops are on the march. The cavalry is moving.”
“Yes,” answered Odelin, listening in turn. “The Admiral must have decided to surprise the royalist army before daybreak. The forces will be shortly on the march. You remain on guard at the door of the cellar. This prisoner is the object of so much hatred that they are likely to come for him any moment, to put him to death before we deliver battle. His cell will be found empty. You will answer that the man was my brother and that I wished him to escape punishment. Before mounting your horse, come for me at my lodging. We left your poor sister there. Our sudden departure must have seemed strange to her, and may have caused her anxiety. In my confusion I never thought of giving her a word of comfort. Let us make haste.”
And throwing his Rochelois cloak to Fra Hervé, Odelin continued:
“If you care to escape death, put that cloak on and come. Towards you, and despite yourself, I shall act as a brother.”
“And I will pursue you with revengeful hatred, apostate!” answered the monk with implacable resentment, rising to his feet and donning the cloak. “The Lord delivers me through your hand. He has His purpose. I shall be the exterminator of your heretical kin! March — lead my way out — save me! God orders it — obey!”
Thanks to the disguise of Fra Hervé, who was wrapped in a Rochelois cloak like a large number of Protestant volunteers, Odelin succeeded in aiding him to escape from the grounds of the priory where he was a prisoner. The two thereupon crossed the streets of St. Yrieix, these being crowded with soldiers hastening in silence to their several posts. Intending to surprise the enemy in the morning by a forced night march, the Admiral ordered the assembly of the forces to be done without beat of drum. Odelin and Fra Hervé saw not far from them the Franc-Taupin and the Avengers of Israel as they crossed the road on their way to the prison of the Cordelier whom they were to execute. A few minutes later, led by his brother to the furthest end of the camp, Fra Hervé vanished in the dark, taking long strides, and hurling threats of vengeance and anathema at his liberator.
Odelin hastened to return to his own lodging in order to comfort his daughter and embrace her before going to battle. Anna Bell had vanished. The room was empty. There was a letter left by her upon the armorer’s anvil.
CHAPTER VI.
THE BATTLE OF ROCHE-LA-BELLE.
THE PROTESTANT ARMY, about twenty-five thousand strong, marched out of St. Yrieix in profound silence at about one o’clock in the morning. The black and sinuous line of battalions and squadrons was hardly distinguishable from the surrounding darkness of the night, lighted only by the scintillations of the stars. The column followed the winding of the whitish road which was lost to sight in the distant horizon in the direction towards Roche-la-Belle, the royalist encampment. The measured step of the foot soldiers, the sonorou
s tramp of the cavalry, the clinking of the armors, the jolting and rumbling of artillery wheels — all these noises merged into one muffled and solemn sound. Scouts, alert with eye and ear, and pistol in hand, preceded the vanguard. At the head of the vanguard rode Admiral Coligny, with two young men, one on either side — Henry of Bearn, the son of the brave Joan of Albert, Queen of Navarre, and Condé, a son of the Prince of Condé, whom Montesquiou assassinated. Other Protestant leaders, among them Lanoüe and Saragosse, followed in the Admiral’s suite. On that morning the Admiral rode a superb silver-grey Turkish horse that was wounded under him at Jarnac, and which he preferred to all other mounts. A light iron mail covered the neck, chest and crupper of the spirited steed. Coligny himself wore his habitual armor of polished iron devoid of ornament. His strong high boots reached up as far as his cuisses. His floating white and wire-sleeved cloak allowed his cuirass to be seen. His old battle sword hung from his belt. The butts of his long pistols peeped from under his saddle-bow. He rode bowed down by years, sorrows and the trials of so many campaigns. His venerable head seemed to bend under the weight of his casque. He guided his horse with his left hand. His right, gloved, reclined upon his cuisse. Suddenly he straightened up in the saddle, reined in his horse, and said in a grave voice: