by G. A. Henty
They threw themselves upon the fallen man, fighting and cursing to be the first to ransack his pockets; while Philip, with his two companions, moved up the lane unnoticed.
Fifty yards farther Claire stumbled, and would have fallen had not Philip caught her. Her head had fallen forward, and he felt at once that she was insensible. He placed her on a doorstep, and supported her in a sitting position, Pierre standing by. A minute later a group of men came hurrying down the street.
“What is it?” one of the group asked, as he stopped for a moment.
“It is only a woman, squeamish,” Pierre said in a rough voice. “She would come with us, thinking she could pick up a trinket or two; but, ma foi, it is hot down there, and she turned sick. So we are taking her home.”
Satisfied with the explanation, the men hurried on.
“Shall I carry her, Pierre? Her weight would be nothing.”
“Better wait a few minutes, Monsieur Philip, and see if she comes round. Our story is right enough, as long as we stop here; but people might want to know more, if they were to meet you carrying a woman.”
Some minutes passed, and then, finding that Claire remained unconscious, Philip lifted her on to his shoulder.
“We will risk it, Pierre. As long as we only meet them coming along in twos or threes, we can go on safely; for if they are inquisitive, I can set her down and speedily silence their questioning. If we see a large body coming, we can either turn down a side street or, if there is no turning at hand, can set her down again and answer as before. Every step we get, farther away from the quarter we have left, the better.”
He had carried Claire but a few hundred yards, when he felt her move. He at once set her down again, on a doorstep. In a few minutes she was able to stand and, assisted by Philip, she presently continued her course, at a slow pace. Gradually the movement restored her strength, and she said, speaking for the first time:
“I can walk alone.”
An hour later they reached the hut that they had marked out as their place of refuge. Pierre went to a corner and drew out, from under a heap of rubbish, a large bundle.
“Here is your cloak and mine,” he said, “and a change of clothes for each of us. We could not wander about the country, in this guise.”
Philip laid the cloaks down to form a sort of couch; and placed the bundle, with the rest of the things in, as a pillow.
“Now, mademoiselle,” he said, “you will be safe here until nightfall. First you must drink a glass of wine, and try and eat something. Pierre brought some up here, two days ago. Then I hope you will lie down. I will watch outside the door. Pierre will go down into the town, to gather news.”
“I will take something presently,” she said. “I could eat nothing, now.”
But Pierre had already uncorked a bottle, and Philip advised her to drink a little wine.
“You will need all your strength,” he said, “for we have a long journey before us.”
She drank a few drops.
“Do not go yet,” she said. “I must speak to you.”
Philip nodded to Pierre, who left the hut. Claire sat on the cloaks for some minutes, in silence.
“I have been thinking, Monsieur Philip,” she said at last, “and it seems to me that it would not be right for me to go with you. I am the promised wife of the Sieur de Pascal, and that promise is all the more sacred, since he to whom I gave it,”—and she paused—“is gone. It would not be right for me to go with you. You shall take me to the Louvre, where I will crave the protection of the King and Queen of Navarre.
“Do not think me ungrateful for what you have done for me. Twice now you have saved my life, and, and—you understand me, Philip?”
“I do,” he said, “and honour your scruples. One of my objects, in sending Pierre down into the town again, is to learn what has taken place at the Louvre. It may be that this fiendish massacre has extended there, and that even the King of Navarre, and the Huguenot gentlemen with him, have shared the fate of the others. Should it not be so, it would be best in every way that what you suggest should be carried out.
“As for the Sieur de Pascal, it may be that the blow, that has bereft you of your good father, may well have fallen upon him, also.”
“But many will surely escape, as we have done. It cannot be that all our friends—all those who rode in with the princes—can have been murdered.”
“Some have doubtless escaped; but I fear that the massacre will be almost universal, for it has evidently been carefully planned and, once begun, will extend not only to the followers of Navarre, but to all the Protestants within the walls of Paris.”
“Do you know aught concerning the Sieur de Pascal?” Claire asked, looking up.
Something in the tone of his voice struck her.
“I saw him fall, mademoiselle. He had made for the door of your house, doubtless with the intention of joining your father in defending it to the last; but the murderers were already there. He was attacked on the doorstep, and was surrounded, and well-nigh spent, when I saw him. I tried to reach him through the crowd but, before I could do so, he fell.
“Then, seeing that it would be but throwing away my life, and destroying all chance of saving yours, I hurried away to carry out the plan I had before formed of making my way along the roofs, and so entering your house.
“Monsieur de Pascal fell, mademoiselle, as a brave soldier, fighting against a host of foes, and in defence of yourself and your father. It was an unfortunate, though noble impulse, that led him there; for I had rubbed out the mark upon your door that served as a guide for the soldiers, and you and the count might have escaped over the roof, before any attack was made, had not his presence aroused their suspicions.”
Claire had hidden her face in her hands, as he began to speak; and he had kept on talking, in order to give her time to collect her feelings; but as she was now crying unrestrainedly, he went quietly out of the hut and left her to herself; glad that tears had come to her relief, for the first time.
An hour later the door opened behind him, and Claire called him in.
“I am better now,” she said, “I have been able to cry. It seemed that my heart was frozen, and I was like one in a terrible nightmare. Now I know that it is all true, and that my dear father is dead.
“As for Monsieur de Pascal, I am sorry that a brave soldier has been killed; but that is all. You know that I received him, as my affianced husband, simply in obedience to my father’s commands; and that my heart had no part in it. God has broken the tie, and for that, even in this time of sorrow, I cannot but feel relief.”
At this moment there was a knock at the door. Then the latch was lifted, and Pierre entered.
“What is the news, Pierre?”
“It is bad, sir. The king has, in truth, put himself at the head of the massacre; and even in the Louvre, itself, several Huguenot gentlemen have been slain, though I could not learn their names. It is said that some of them were slain in the presence of the young Queen of Navarre, in spite of her entreaties and cries. The young king and his cousin Conde are close prisoners; and it is said that they, too, will be slain, unless they embrace the Catholic faith.
“The massacre has spread to all parts of the town, and the Huguenots are everywhere being dragged from their homes and killed, together with their wives and children. It is said that the bodies of Coligny, and other Huguenot leaders, have been taken to the Louvre; and that the king and the queen mother and the ladies, as well as the gentlemen of the court, have been down to view them and make a jest of them.
“Truly, sir, Paris seems to have gone mad. It is said that orders have been sent, to all parts of France, to exterminate the Huguenots.”
Philip made a sign to Pierre to leave the hut.
“This is terrible news,” he said to Claire, “and it is now clear that the Louvre will afford you no protection. In these days, no more mercy is shown to women than to men; and at best, or at worst, you could but save your life by renouncing your faith.
”
“I had already decided,” she said quietly, “that I would not go to the Louvre. The death of Monsieur de Pascal has altered everything. As his affianced wife, with the consent of my father, the king would hardly have interfered to have forced me into another marriage; but, being now free, he would treat me as a ward of the crown, and would hand me and my estates to one of his favourites. Anything would be better than that.
“Now, of course, it is out of the question. Estates I have none; for, with the extermination of our people, their estates will be granted to others.”
“As to that, mademoiselle, they have been trying to massacre the Huguenots for years; and though, doubtless, in the towns many may fall, they will not be taken so readily in the country; and may, even yet, rally and make head again.
“Still, that does not alter the present circumstances; and I see no other plan but that I had first formed, for you to accompany me and my servant, in disguise.”
The girl stood hesitating, twining her fingers over each other, restlessly.
“It is so strange, so unmaidenly,” she murmured.
“Then, Claire,” Philip said, taking her hands in his, “you must give me the right to protect you. It is strange to speak of love, at such a time as this; but you know that I love you. As a rich heiress, and altogether above my station, even had you been free I might never have spoken; but now, standing as we do surrounded by dangers, such distinctions are levelled. I love you with all my heart, and it seems to me that God, himself, has brought us together.”
“It is surely so, Philip,” she said, looking up into his face. “Has not God sent you twice to save me? Some day I will tell you of my heart, but not now, dear—not now. I am alone in the world, save you. I am sure that my father, if he now sees us, must approve. Therefore, Philip, henceforth I am your affianced wife, and am ready to follow you to the end of the world.”
Philip stooped down, and kissed her gently. Then he dropped her hands, and she stood back a little apart from him.
“It were best that I called Pierre in,” he said. “Even in this lonely quarter some one might pass and, seeing him standing at the door, wonder who he might be.”
So saying, he opened the door and called Pierre in.
“Pierre,” he said gravely, “Mademoiselle de Valecourt is now my affianced wife.”
“That is as it should be, master,” Pierre said; and then, stepping up to Claire, who held out her hand to him, he reverently pressed it with his lips.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “my life will henceforth be at your disposal, as at that of my master. We may have dangers to face, but if anyone can get you through them, he can.”
“Thank you, Pierre,” the girl said. “It is well, indeed, that we should have with us one so faithful and attached as yourself.”
In the hours that passed before nightfall, Philip related to Claire how Pierre’s warnings had excited his uneasiness; and how the discovery of the chalk marks, on the doors, had confirmed him in his conviction that some evil was intended; and explained the steps they had taken for providing for an escape from the city.
“I have been wondering vaguely, Philip,” she said, when he had told the story, “how it was that you should have appeared so suddenly, and should have a disguise in readiness for me. But how could you have guessed that I should be ready to go with you?”
And for the first time, a slight tinge of colour came into her cheeks.
“It was scarcely a guess, Claire. It was rather a despairing hope. It seemed to me that, amid all this terror and confusion, I might in some way be able to rescue you; and I made the only preparation that seemed possible.
“I knew that you were aware that I loved you. When you told me of your engagement, I felt that you were saying farewell to me. When I thought of saving you, it was for him and not for myself; for I knew that you would never oppose your father’s wishes. I did not dream of such a general calamity as it has been. I thought only of a rising of the mob of Paris, and that perhaps an hour or two in disguise might be sufficient, until the king’s troops restored order.”
“It is very wonderful,” Claire said earnestly. “It seems, beyond all doubt, that it is God Himself who has thus given me to you; and I will not doubt that, great as the dangers may seem to be before us, He will lead us safely through them.
“You will make for La Rochelle?”
“Yes. Once there we shall be safe. You may be sure that there, at least, the cruel orders of the king will be wholly disregarded; as we may hope they will be, in many other towns in which the Huguenots are numerous; but at La Rochelle, certainly, were all the rest of France in flames, the people would remain steadfast.
“But I do not believe that the power of the Huguenots will be broken. It may be that, in the northern towns, the orders of the king will be carried out; but from thence we have obtained no aid in our former struggles. Our strength in the south will still remain and, though the loss of so many leaders and nobles, here in Paris, will be a heavy blow, I hope that the cause of the faith will speedily rally from it and make head again; just as it did when all seemed lost, after the battle of Moncontour.”
So they talked until night fell, with Pierre sitting discreetly in the corner, as far away as possible, apparently sleeping most of the time. As soon as it became perfectly dark, the bundle of clothes was taken from the hiding place and, going outside the hut, Philip and Pierre put on their ordinary attire. Claire had simply slipped on the dress prepared for her over her own, and had but to lay it aside.
After partaking of a meal, they made their way to the nearest steps leading to the top of the wall. One end of the rope was fastened to the parapet, the other was tied round Claire, and she was carefully lowered to the ground. Philip and Pierre slid down the rope after her, and they at once started across the country.
After three hours’ walking, they reached the farm where Pierre had left the horses. They left Claire a short distance away. As Pierre had seen the horses put into the stables, he knew exactly where they were. He had, on leaving them there, paid for a week’s keep; saying that he might come for them in haste, and perhaps at night, and if so he would saddle and take them off without waking the farmer.
The horses whinnied with pleasure, when Philip spoke to them. The saddles and bridles were found, hanging on a beam where Pierre had placed them; and in two or three minutes the horses were led out, ready to start. Philip had arranged his cloak behind his saddle, for Claire to sit upon; and led the horse to the place where she was awaiting them.
“All has passed off well,” he said. “No one in the farmhouse seems to have heard a sound.”
He leapt into the saddle. Claire placed her foot on his, and he swung her up behind him; and they then started at a brisk trot.
Avoiding all large towns, and stopping only at village inns, they made their way south; making long journeys each day. In the villages there was little of the religious rancour that animated the people in the towns and, after the first two days, Philip found that the news of what had occurred at Paris had not, as yet, spread. Eager questions were asked Pierre as to the grand wedding festivities at Paris; and there was, everywhere, a feeling of satisfaction at a union that seemed to promise to give peace to France.
Claire was generally supposed to be Philip’s sister; and the hostesses always did their best to make the girl, with her pale sad face, as comfortable as possible.
Fearing that a watch might have been set at the bridges, they avoided these, crossing either by ferry boats or at fords. The Loire was passed above Orleans, and as that city, Blois, and Tours all lay on the northern bank, they met with no large towns on their way, until they approached Chatellerault. They bore to the south to avoid that city and Poitiers and, on the eighth day after leaving Paris, they reached the chateau of Laville, having travelled upwards of two hundred miles.
As they crossed the drawbridge, Philip’s four retainers met them at the gate, and greeted him most warmly.
“Is the
countess in?” he asked, as he alighted.
“She is, Monsieur Philip. She has been for some days at La Rochelle, and returned yesterday. There are rumours, sir, that at Poitiers and Niort the Catholics have again, in spite of the edicts, fallen upon the Huguenots; and though the countess believes not the tale, we had a guard posted at the gate last night.”
“I am afraid it is true, Eustace,” Philip said. “Take the horses round to the stables, and see to them well. They have travelled fast.”
Taking Claire’s hand, he led her up the steps; and just as he entered the hall the countess, to whom the news of his approach had been carried, met him.
“Aunt,” he said, “I confide this lady to your loving care. It is Mademoiselle de Valecourt, now my affianced wife. I have bad news to tell you; but I pray you lead her first to a chamber, for she is sore wearied and in much grief.”
“Francois is not dead?” the countess exclaimed in a low voice, paling to the lips.
“I trust not, aunt. I have no reason for believing that he is.”
“I will wait here, Philip, with the countess’s permission,” Claire said. “It is better that you should not keep her in suspense, even for a moment, on my account.”
“I thank you, mademoiselle,” the countess said, as she led the girl to a couch. “This is but a poor welcome that I am giving you; but I will make amends for it, when I have heard what Philip has to tell me.
“Now, Philip, tell me the worst, and let there be no concealment.”
Philip related the whole story of the massacre, his tale being interrupted by frequent exclamations of horror, by the countess.
“It seems incredible,” she cried, “that a king of France should thus dishonour himself, alike by breaking his vows, disregarding his own safe conduct, and massacring those who had accepted his hospitality.
“And Francois, you say, was at the Louvre with the King of Navarre and Conde; and even there, within the walls of the royal palace, some of the king’s guests were murdered; but more than this you know not?”
“That is the report that Pierre gathered in the street, aunt. It may have been exaggerated. Everyone eagerly seized and retailed the reports that were current. But even if true, it may well be that Francois is not among those who fell. To a certain extent he was warned, for I told him the suspicions and fears that I entertained; and when he heard the tumult outside, he may have effected his escape.”