by G. A. Henty
“‘This is my lady,’ I said to myself and, keeping some distance behind and on the opposite side of the road, I followed her.
“She soon turned off into a side street. Once or twice she paused, looked into a shop, hesitated, and then went on again. You may be sure I marked the spots, and was not surprised to find that, in each case, it was an apothecary’s before which she had hesitated.
“At last, after looking round again timidly, she entered one; and when I came up, I also went in. She gave a nervous start. I asked to be supplied with a pot of salve for a wound, and the man helped me from one he had just placed on the counter before him. I paid for it, and left.
“Two or three minutes later, I saw her come out. Whatever she had bought, she had hidden it under her cloak. Up to this time she had walked fast, but she now loitered, and looked at the wares displayed on the stalls.
“‘You are in no hurry to go back,’ I said to myself. ‘You have got what you wanted, and you do not wish to attract attention, by returning to the palace after so short an absence.’
“At last, when she was in a quiet spot, I walked quickly up to her.
“‘Mademoiselle,’ I said, taking off my hat, ‘I am a friend of the gentleman for whom you have bought that salve, and other matters.’
“She became very white, but she said stoutly:
“‘I don’t know what you are talking about, sir; and if you molest a modest young woman in the streets, I shall appeal to the town constables for protection.’
“‘I repeat,’ I said, ‘that I am a friend of the gentleman for whom you have just bought the materials for dressing his wounds. I am the servant of his cousin, the Chevalier Fletcher; and the name of your patient is Count Francois de Laville.’
“She looked at me, stupefied with astonishment, and stammered:
“‘How do you know that?’
“‘It is enough, mademoiselle, that I know it,’ I said. ‘My master and I have come to Paris, expressly to find Monsieur de Laville; and when we have found him, to aid him to make his escape. Do not hesitate to confide in me, for only so shall we succeed in the object of our journey.’
“‘What is your master’s Christian name?’ she asked, still doubtful.
“‘It is Philip,’ I said.
“She clasped her hands together.
“‘The good God be praised!’ she exclaimed. ‘It was of Philip he spoke, when he was so ill. He was unconscious. Surely it is He that has sent you to me. It has been terrible for me to bear my secret, alone.’
“‘Let us walk farther,’ I said, ‘before you tell me more. There are too many people passing here; and if they notice the tears on your cheeks, they may suspect me of ill treating you, and may ask troublesome questions.’
“After a few minutes’ walk, we came to a quiet square.
“‘Let us sit down on this stone seat,’ I said. ‘We can talk freely here. Now, tell me all about it.’
“‘I am one of the bedmakers of the palace, and it fell to me to sweep the room occupied by the Count de Laville. Once or twice he came in, while I was there, and spoke pleasantly; and I thought what a handsome fellow he was, and said to myself what a pity it was that he was a heretic. When that terrible night came, we were all aroused from our sleep, and many of us ran down in a fright to see what was the matter. We heard shouts, and cries, and the clashing of swords.
“‘As I passed Monsieur de Laville’s room, the door was open. I looked in. Three soldiers lay dead on the floor, and near them the count, whom I thought was also dead. I ran to him, and lifted his head, and sprinkled water on his face from a flagon on the table. He opened his eyes, and made an effort to get to his feet. I was frightened out of my life at it all, and I said to him:
“‘“What does it all mean, monsieur?”
“‘“It is a massacre,” he said, faintly. “Do you not hear the firing in the streets, and the din in the palace? They will return and finish me. I thank you for what you have done, but it is useless.”
“‘Then I thought for a moment.
“‘“Can you walk, monsieur?”
“‘“Barely,” he replied.
“‘“Lean on my shoulder, monsieur,” I said. “I will help you up the stairs. I know of a place where you may lie concealed.”
“‘With great difficulty I helped him up a staircase that was but little used, and got him to the top. Several times he said: “It is of no use; I am wounded to death!” but he still held on.
“‘I slept in a little garret in the roof, with two other servants, and at the end of the passage was a large lumber store. It was into this that I took him. Nobody ever went there, and it was safe, except in case of special search. I laid him down, and then moved some of the heavy cabinets and chests, at the farther end, a short distance from the wall, so that there would be space enough for him to lie behind them. Here I made a bed, with some old cushions from the couches; got him into the place, first bandaging his wounds, as well as I could in the faint light that came in through a dormer window. I fetched a jug of water from my room, and placed it beside him; and then moved the furniture, so as to close up the spot at which he had entered. Against it I piled up tables and chairs; so that, to anyone who did not examine it very closely, it would seem that the heavy furniture was against the wall.
“‘There he has been, ever since. Two or three times a day I have managed to steal away from my work, to carry him water and food that I brought from the kitchen, when we went down to our meals. For a time, I thought he would die; for four days he did not know me. He talked much to himself and, several times, he mentioned the name of Philip, and called upon him to aid him against the murderers. Fortunately he was so weak that he could not speak much above a whisper, and there was no fear of his voice being heard.
“‘The day after I hid him, the whole palace was searched to see if any Huguenots were concealed. But up in the attics they searched but carelessly, seeing that we slept three or four in each room, and no one could well be hidden there without all knowing it. They did enter the lumber room. But I had carefully washed the floor where he had lain and, as I could not get out the stains of blood, I pushed some heavy chests over them.
“‘I was in my room when they searched the lumber room, and my heart stood still until I heard them come out, and knew that they had found nothing.
“‘For the last ten days, the count has gained strength. His wounds are still very sore and painful, but they are beginning to heal. I have bought wine for him, and can always manage to conceal enough food, from the table, to suffice for his wants. He can walk now, though feebly; and spoke to me but today about making his escape.
“‘It would be easy enough to get him out of the palace, if I had a lackey’s attire for him. I could lead him down private staircases till near the door from which we come out of the palace. But I had little money, for I had sent off most of my wages to my mother, only a day or two before the royal wedding. Still, we might have managed that; I could have borrowed some, on some pretence or other.
“‘He is, however, too weak to travel, and the effort to do so might cause his wounds to burst out afresh; but now that his cousin has come, all will be well.’
“‘Where is he wounded?’ I asked.
“‘He has four wounds. One is on the head; another on the neck; one is a stab in the body, that must have narrowly missed his heart; and the other is a sword thrust, through his arm.
“‘But how, monsieur, did you know,’ she asked, ‘that it is I who have hidden the count?’
“I told her that I had been watching for four days, feeling sure that the count was hidden in the palace; but hers was the first face that showed anxiety, and that, when I saw her buying salve at the apothecary’s, I felt sure that it was she who was sheltering the count.”
“And have you arranged anything, Pierre?” Philip asked anxiously.
“Only this much, sir, that tomorrow evening, as soon as it is dark, she will leave the palace with Monsieur Francois.
That will give us plenty of time to make our plans, which will be easy enough. We have but to take an apartment, and bring him up into it. No one need know that there are more than ourselves there, and we can nurse him for a few days, until he is fit to ride.
“Then we have only to get him a disguise like that in which we entered. We can hide him in the wood, go on to where we hid our clothes, put them on instead of our disguises, enter Saint Cloud, go on to Versailles, fetch the three horses, and return to him—with, of course, a suit of clothes for himself.”
There was no difficulty in hiring two rooms in a quiet street. Suits of clothes suitable for a court lackey were purchased, and these were given by Pierre to the girl, when she came out in the afternoon. Philip had accompanied Pierre to meet her.
“My good girl,” he said, “I cannot tell you how deeply I feel the kindness that you have shown my cousin. You have risked your life to save him; and that, I am sure, without the smallest thought of reward. Still, so good an action must not pass without acknowledgment, though no money can express the amount of our gratitude to you.”
“I do not want to be paid, sir,” she said. “I had no thought of money.”
“I know that,” Philip replied; “but you must allow us to show our gratitude, in the only way we can. In the first place, what is your name?”
“Annette Riolt, sir.”
“Well, Annette, here are fifty crowns in this purse. It is all that I can spare, at present; but be assured the Countess de Laville will send you, at the first opportunity, a sum that will be a good dot for you, when you find a husband. If the messenger by whom it is sent asks for you by your name, at the door of the palace by which you usually leave it, will he obtain access to you?”
“Yes, sir. The porter at the door knows me; and if he should be changed, whoever is there will inquire of the maids, if he asks for Annette Riolt, one of the chamber women in the north wing of the palace.”
“Very well, Annette. You may rely that a messenger will come. I cannot say how soon; that must depend on other circumstances. Where do you come from?”
“From Poitiers, sir. My parents live on a little farm called La Machoir, two miles north of the city.”
“Then, Annette, the best thing for you to do is to leave your present employment, and to journey down home. It will be easy to send from La Rochelle to Poitiers, and unless the place is besieged, as it is likely to be before long, you will soon hear from us. Probably the messenger will have visited the farm before you reach it.”
“I will do that, sir,” the girl said gratefully. “I never liked this life, and since that terrible night I have scarcely had any sleep. I seem to hear noises and cries, just as they say the king does, and shall be indeed glad to be away.
“But I cannot come out with the count, this evening. We only get out once in five days, and it was only as a special favour I have been let out, now. I will come with him to the door, talking with him as if he were a lackey of my acquaintance.”
At the hour agreed upon Philip and Pierre, stationed a few yards from the door, saw a man and woman appear. The girl made some laughing remark, and then went back into the palace. The man came out. He made two quick steps and then stumbled, and Philip ran forward, and grasped him firmly under the arm.
“You were just in time, Philip,” Francois said, with a feeble laugh, “another step and I should have been down. I am weaker than I thought I was, and the fresh air is well-nigh too much for me.
“I have had a close shave of it, Philip; and have been nearer death, in that attic up there, than I ever was on a field of battle. What a good little woman that was! I owe my life to her.
“It is good of you coming here to find me, old fellow. You are always getting me out of scrapes. You remember that affair at Toulouse.
“Thank you, Pierre, but mind, that arm you have got hold of is the weak one.
“Now, how far have we got to go, Philip? For I warn you, I am nearly at the end of my strength.”
“We will get into a quiet street first, Francois, and there you shall have a drink, from a flask of excellent wine I have here. Then we will help you along. You can lean as heavily as you like upon us. You are no great weight, now; and anyone who notices us helping you will suppose that we are conveying a drunken comrade to his home.”
But in spite of all the assistance they could give him, Francois was terribly exhausted when he reached the lodging. Here Philip and Pierre bandaged his wounds, far more securely and firmly than his nurse had been able to do; and the next morning, when he awoke, he declared himself ready to start at once.
It was a week, however, before Philip would hear of his making such an effort; but by that time, good eating and drinking had done so much for him that he thought he would be able to stand the fatigue of the journey, and the next morning they started. Disguised as peasants, they passed out through the gates unquestioned. Francois was left in the wood, with the clothes they had purchased for him. The others then went on and found their bundles undisturbed, obtained their three horses at Versailles and, riding back, soon had Francois mounted.
The wound on his head was so far healed that it was no longer necessary to bandage it, and although he looked pale and weak, there was nothing about him to attract special notice. They journeyed by easy stages south, lengthening the distances gradually as Francois gained strength; and riding fast, towards the end, so as to reach La Rochelle before an army, under Marshal Biron, sat down before it.
It was evening when they arrived, and after putting up their horses they made their way to Monsieur Bertram’s. Philip mounted the stairs, leaving Francois to follow him, slowly.
“I shall not take more than two or three minutes to break the news, but I must prepare your mother a little, Francois. She has not said much, but I know she had but little hope, though she bore up so bravely.”
The countess was sitting, with Claire and the merchant’s daughter. It was the first time Philip had seen Mademoiselle de Valecourt, since they first arrived at La Rochelle. She was dressed now in deep mourning. A flush of bright colour spread over her face, as Philip entered.
As in duty bound, he turned first to the countess and saluted her affectionately; and then turned to Claire, and would have kissed her hand, but the countess said:
“Tut, tut, Philip, that is not the way to salute your betrothed.”
And Philip, drawing her to him, kissed her for the first time since they had betrothed themselves to each other in the hut in Paris; and then saluted Mademoiselle Bertram.
“We have been under no uneasiness respecting you, Philip,” the countess said; “for Claire and myself both look upon you as having a charmed life. Has your mission been successful?”
“It has, aunt, beyond my hopes. And first, I must ask your pardon for having deceived you.”
“Deceived me, Philip! In what way?”
“My mission was an assumed one,” Philip said; “and in reality, Pierre and I journeyed to Paris.”
A cry broke from the countess’s lips.
“To Paris, Philip! And your mission has been successful? You have heard something?”
“I have done more, aunt, I have found him.”
“The Lord be praised for all His mercies!” burst from the lips of the countess, and she threw herself on Philip’s neck, and burst into a passion of tears, the first she had shed since he brought the news from Paris.
“Courage, aunt,” Philip whispered.
He glanced towards the door. Claire understood him, and ran to open it. Francois came quietly in.
“Mother,” he said, and the countess, with a cry of joy, ran into his arms.
The French army appeared before the town on the following day, and the siege was at once commenced. With Marshal Biron were the dukes of Anjou and Alencon, the King of Navarre, and the Prince of Conde, who had been compelled to accompany him.
The siege made little progress. The defences were strong, and the Huguenots were not content only to repel assaults, but mad
e fierce sallies, causing a considerable loss to the besiegers.
To the surprise of the defenders, they heard that the Count de la Noue had arrived in camp, with a mission from the king. He had remained a captive, in the camp of the Duke of Alva, after the surrender of Mons; and so had happily escaped the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. He had then been released, and had gone to France to arrange his ransom.
The king, who was now tormented with remorse, sent for him; and entreated him, as a personal favour, to go as his Commissioner to La Rochelle, and to endeavour to bring about a cessation of hostilities, authorizing him to grant almost any terms. De la Noue undertook the task unwillingly, and only upon condition that he would be no party to inducing them to surrender, unless perfectly satisfied with the guarantees for the observance of any treaty that might be made.
When a flag of truce came forward, and announced that Monsieur de la Noue had arrived on the part of the king, the news was at first received with incredulity. Then there was a burst of indignation, at what was considered the treachery of the count. He was refused permission to enter the town but, after some parleying, a party went out to have an interview with him outside the gate.
The meeting was unsatisfactory. Some of the citizens pretended that they did not recognize De la Noue, saying that the person they knew was a brave gentleman, faithful to his religion, and one who certainly would not be found in a Catholic camp.
A few days later, however, the negotiations were renewed. The count pointed out that they could not hope, finally, to resist the whole force of France; and that it would be far better for them to make terms, now, than when in an extremity. But he was able to give no guarantees that were considered acceptable by the citizens.
De la Noue’s position was exceedingly difficult. But at last the citizens perceived that he was still loyal to the cause; and as he had, beforehand, received the king’s authority to accept the governorship of the town, the people of La Rochelle agreed to receive him in that position, provided that no troops entered with him.