For it was no common vengeance, no layman’s vengeance, coarse and clumsy, which the priest had imagined in the dark hours of the night, when his feverish brain kept him wakeful. To see Count Hannibal roll in the dust had gone but a little way towards satisfying him. No! But to drag from his arms the woman for whom he had sinned, to subject her to shame and torture in the depths of some convent, and finally to burn her as a witch — it was that which had seemed to the priest in the night hours a vengeance sweet in the mouth.
But the thing seemed unattainable in the circumstances. The city was cowed; the priest knew that no dependence was to be placed on Montsoreau, whose vice was avarice and whose object was plunder. To the Archdeacon’s feeble words, therefore, “We must look,” the priest retorted sternly, “not to M. de Montsoreau, reverend Father, but to the pious of Angers! We must cry in the streets, ‘They do violence to God! They wound God and His Mother!’ And so, and so only, shall the unholy thing be rooted out!”
“Amen!” the Curé of St.-Benoist muttered, lifting his head; and his dull eyes glowed awhile. “Amen! Amen!” Then his chin sank again upon his breast.
But the Canons of Angers looked doubtfully at one another, and timidly at the speakers; the meat was too strong for them. And Lescot and Thuriot shuffled in their seats. At length, “I do not know,” Lescot muttered timidly.
“You do not know?”
“What can be done!”
“The people will know!” Father Pezelay retorted “Trust them!”
“But the people will not rise without a leader.”
“Then will I lead them!”
“Even so, reverend Father — I doubt,” Lescot faltered. And Thuriot nodded assent. Gibbets were erected in those days rather for laymen than for the Church.
“You doubt!” the priest cried. “You doubt!” His baleful eyes passed from one to the other; from them to the rest of the company. He saw that with the exception of the Curé of St.-Benoist all were of a mind. “You doubt! Nay, but I see what it is! It is this,” he continued slowly and in a different tone, “the King’s will goes for nothing in Angers! His writ runs not here. And Holy Church cries in vain for help against the oppressor. I tell you, the sorceress who has bewitched him has bewitched you also. Beware! beware, therefore, lest it be with you as with him! And the fire that shall consume her, spare not your houses!”
The two citizens crossed themselves, grew pale and shuddered. The fear of witchcraft was great in Angers, the peril, if accused of it, enormous. Even the Canons looked startled.
“If — if my brother were here,” the Archdeacon repeated feebly, “something might be done!”
“Vain is the help of man!” the priest retorted sternly, and with a gesture of sublime dismissal. “I turn from you to a mightier than you!” And, leaning his head on his hands, he covered his face.
The Archdeacon and the churchmen looked at him, and from him their scared eyes passed to one another. Their one desire now was to be quit of the matter, to have done with it, to escape; and one by one with the air of whipped curs they rose to their feet, and in a hurry to be gone muttered a word of excuse shamefacedly and got themselves out of the room. Lescot and the printer were not slow to follow, and in less than a minute the two strange preachers, the men from Paris, remained the only occupants of the chamber; save, to be precise, a lean official in rusty black, who throughout the conference had sat by the door.
Until the last shuffling footstep had ceased to sound in the still cloister no one spoke. Then Father Pezelay looked up, and the eyes of the two priests met in a long gaze.
“What think you?” Pezelay muttered at last.
“Wet hay,” the other answered dreamily, “is slow to kindle, yet burns if the fire be big enough. At what hour does he state his will?”
“At noon.”
“In the Council Chamber?”
“It is so given out.”
“It is three hundred yards from the Place Ste.-Croix and he must go guarded,” the Curé of St.-Benoist continued in the same dull fashion. “He cannot leave many in the house with the woman. If it were attacked in his absence—”
“He would return, and—” Father Pezelay shook his head, his cheek turned a shade paler. Clearly, he saw with his mind’s eye more than he expressed.
“Hoc est corpus,” the other muttered, his dreamy gaze on the table. “If he met us then, on his way to the house and we had bell, book, and candle, would he stop?”
“He would not stop!” Father Pezelay rejoined.
“He would not?”
“I know the man!”
“Then—” but the rest St. Benoist whispered, his head drooping forward; whispered so low that even the lean man behind him, listening with greedy ears, failed to follow the meaning of his superior’s words. But that he spoke plainly enough for his hearer Father Pezelay’s face was witness. Astonishment, fear, hope, triumph, the lean pale face reflected all in turn; and, underlying all, a subtle malignant mischief, as if a devil’s eyes peeped through the holes in an opera mask.
When the other was at last silent, Pezelay drew a deep breath.
“’Tis bold! Bold! Bold!” he muttered. “But have you thought? He who bears the—”
“Brunt?” the other whispered, with a chuckle. “He may suffer? Yes, but it will not be you or I! No, he who was last here shall be first there! The Archdeacon-Vicar — if we can persuade him — who knows but that even for him the crown of martyrdom is reserved?” The dull eyes flickered with unholy amusement.
“And the alarm that brings him from the Council Chamber?”
“Need not of necessity be real. The pinch will be to make use of it. Make use of it — and the hay will burn!”
“You think it will?”
“What can one man do against a thousand? His own people dare not support him.”
Father Pezelay turned to the lean man who kept the door, and, beckoning to him, conferred a while with him in a low voice.
“A score or so I might get,” the man answered presently, after some debate. “And well posted, something might be done. But we are not in Paris, good father, where the Quarter of the Butchers is to be counted on, and men know that to kill Huguenots is to do God service! Here” — he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously— “they are sheep.”
“It is the King’s will,” the priest answered, frowning on him darkly.
“Ay, but it is not Tavannes’,” the man in black answered with a grimace. “And he rules here to-day.”
“Fool!” Pezelay retorted. “He has not twenty with him. Do you do as I say, and leave the rest to Heaven!”
“And to you, good master?” the other answered. “For it is not all you are going to do,” he continued, with a grin, “that you have told me. Well, so be it! I’ll do my part, but I wish we were in Paris. St. Genevieve is ever kind to her servants.”
CHAPTER XXIX. THE ESCAPE.
In a small back room on the second floor of the inn at Angers, a mean, dingy room which looked into a narrow lane, and commanded no prospect more informing than a blind wall, two men sat, fretting; or, rather, one man sat, his chin resting on his hand, while his companion, less patient or more sanguine, strode ceaselessly to and fro. In the first despair of capture — for they were prisoners — they had made up their minds to the worst, and the slow hours of two days had passed over their heads without kindling more than a faint spark of hope in their breasts. But when they had been taken out and forced to mount and ride — at first with feet tied to the horses’ girths — they had let the change, the movement, and the open air fan the flame. They had muttered a word to one another, they had wondered, they had reasoned. And though the silence of their guards — from whose sour vigilance the keenest question drew no response — seemed of ill-omen, and, taken with their knowledge of the man into whose hands they had fallen, should have quenched the spark, these two, having special reasons, the one the buoyancy of youth, the other the faith of an enthusiast, cherished the flame. In the breast of one ind
eed it had blazed into a confidence so arrogant that he now took all for granted, and was not content.
“It is easy for you to say ‘Patience!’” he cried, as he walked the floor in a fever. “You stand to lose no more than your life, and if you escape go free at all points! But he has robbed me of more than life! Of my love, and my self-respect, curse him! He has worsted me not once, but twice and thrice! And if he lets me go now, dismissing me with my life, I shall — I shall kill him!” he concluded, through his teeth.
“You are hard to please!”
“I shall kill him!”
“That were to fall still lower!” the minister answered, gravely regarding him. “I would, M. de Tignonville, you remembered that you are not yet out of jeopardy. Such a frame of mind as yours is no good preparation for death, let me tell you!”
“He will not kill us!” Tignonville cried. “He knows better than most men how to avenge himself!”
“Then he is above most!” La Tribe retorted. “For my part I wish I were sure of the fact, and I should sit here more at ease.”
“If we could escape, now, of ourselves!” Tignonville cried. “Then we should save not only life, but honour! Man, think of it! If we could escape, not by his leave, but against it! Are you sure that this is Angers?”
“As sure as a man can be who has only seen the Black Town once or twice!” La Tribe answered, moving to the casement — which was not glazed — and peering through the rough wooden lattice. “But if we could escape we are strangers here. We know not which way to go, nor where to find shelter. And for the matter of that,” he continued, turning from the window with a shrug of resignation, “’tis no use to talk of it while yonder foot goes up and down the passage, and its owner bears the key in his pocket.”
“If we could get out of his power as we came into it!” Tignonville cried.
“Ay, if! But it is not every floor has a trap!”
“We could take up a board.”
The minister raised his eyebrows.
“We could take up a board!” the younger man repeated; and he stepped the mean chamber from end to end, his eyes on the floor. “Or — yes, mon Dieu!” with a change of attitude, “we might break through the roof?” And, throwing back his head, he scanned the cobwebbed surface of laths which rested on the unceiled joists.
“Umph!”
“Well, why not, Monsieur? Why not break through the ceiling?” Tignonville repeated, and in a fit of energy he seized his companion’s shoulder and shook him. “Stand on the bed, and you can reach it.”
“And the floor which rests on it!”
“Par Dieu, there is no floor! ’Tis a cockloft above us! See there! And there!” And the young man sprang on the bed, and thrust the rowel of a spur through the laths. La Tribe’s expression changed. He rose slowly to his feet.
“Try again!” he said.
Tignonville, his face red, drove the spur again between the laths, and worked it to and fro until he could pass his fingers into the hole he had made. Then he gripped and bent down a length of one of the laths, and, passing his arm as far as the elbow through the hole, moved it this way and that. His eyes, as he looked down at his companion through the falling rubbish, gleamed with triumph.
“Where is your floor now?” he asked.
“You can touch nothing?”
“Nothing. It’s open. A little more and I might touch the tiles.” And he strove to reach higher.
For answer La Tribe gripped him. “Down! Down, Monsieur,” he muttered. “They are bringing our dinner.”
Tignonville thrust back the lath as well as he could, and slipped to the floor; and hastily the two swept the rubbish from the bed. When Badelon, attended by two men, came in with the meal he found La Tribe at the window blocking much of the light, and Tignonville laid sullenly on the bed. Even a suspicious eye must have failed to detect what had been done; the three who looked in suspected nothing and saw nothing. They went out, the key was turned again on the prisoners, and the footsteps of two of the men were heard descending the stairs.
“We have an hour, now!” Tignonville cried; and leaping, with flaming eyes, on the bed, he fell to hacking and jabbing and tearing at the laths amid a rain of dust and rubbish. Fortunately the stuff, falling on the bed, made little noise; and in five minutes, working half-choked and in a frenzy of impatience, he had made a hole through which he could thrust his arms, a hole which extended almost from one joist to its neighbour. By this time the air was thick with floating lime; the two could scarcely breathe, yet they dared not pause. Mounting on La Tribe’s shoulders — who took his stand on the bed — the young man thrust his head and arms through the hole, and, resting his elbows on the joists, dragged himself up, and with a final effort of strength landed nose and knees on the timbers, which formed his supports. A moment to take breath, and press his torn and bleeding fingers to his lips; then, reaching down, he gave a hand to his companion and dragged him to the same place of vantage.
They found themselves in a long narrow cockloft, not more than six feet high at the highest, and insufferably hot. Between the tiles, which sloped steeply on either hand, a faint light filtered in, disclosing the giant rooftree running the length of the house, and at the farther end of the loft the main tie-beam, from which a network of knees and struts rose to the rooftree.
Tignonville, who seemed possessed by unnatural energy, stayed only to put off his boots. Then “Courage!” he panted, “all goes well!” and, carrying his boots in his hands, he led the way, stepping gingerly from joist to joist until he reached the tie-beam. He climbed on it, and, squeezing himself between the struts, entered a second loft, similar to the first. At the farther end of this a rough wall of bricks in a timber-frame lowered his hopes; but as he approached it, joy! Low down in the corner where the roof descended, a small door, square, and not more than two feet high, disclosed itself.
The two crept to it on hands and knees and listened. “It will lead to the leads, I doubt?” La Tribe whispered. They dared not raise their voices.
“As well that way as another!” Tignonville answered recklessly. He was the more eager, for there is a fear which transcends the fear of death. His eyes shone through the mask of dust, the sweat ran down to his chin, his breath came and went noisily. “Naught matters if we can escape him!” he panted. And he pushed the door recklessly. It flew open; the two drew back their faces with a cry of alarm.
They were looking, not into the sunlight, but into a grey dingy garret open to the roof, and occupying the upper part of a gable-end somewhat higher than the wing in which they had been confined. Filthy truckle-beds and ragged pallets covered the floor, and, eked out by old saddles and threadbare horserugs, marked the sleeping quarters either of the servants or of travellers of the meaner sort. But the dinginess was naught to the two who knelt looking into it, afraid to move. Was the place empty? That was the point; the question which had first stayed, and then set their pulses at the gallop.
Painfully their eyes searched each huddle of clothing, scanned each dubious shape. And slowly, as the silence persisted, their heads came forward until the whole floor lay within the field of sight. And still no sound! At last Tignonville stirred, crept through the doorway, and rose up, peering round him. He nodded, and, satisfied that all was safe, the minister followed him.
They found themselves a pace or so from the head of a narrow staircase, leading downwards. Without moving, they could see the door which closed it below. Tignonville signed to La Tribe to wait, and himself crept down the stairs. He reached the door, and, stooping, set his eye to the hole through which the string of the latch passed. A moment he looked, and then, turning on tiptoe, he stole up again, his face fallen.
“You may throw the handle after the hatchet!” he muttered. “The man on guard is within four yards of the door.” And in the rage of disappointment he struck the air with his hand.
“Is he looking this way?”
“No. He is looking down the passage towards our room. But it is i
mpossible to pass him.”
La Tribe nodded, and moved softly to one of the lattices which lighted the room. It might be possible to escape that way, by the parapet and the tiles. But he found that the casement was set high in the roof, which sloped steeply from its sill to the eaves. He passed to the other window, in which a little wicket in the lattice stood open. He looked through it. In the giddy void white pigeons were wheeling in the dazzling sunshine, and, gazing down, he saw far below him, in the hot square, a row of booths, and troops of people moving to and fro like pigmies; and — and a strange thing, in the middle of all! Involuntarily, as if the persons below could have seen his face at the tiny dormer, he drew back.
He beckoned to M. Tignonville to come to him; and when the young man complied, he bade him in a whisper look down. “See!” he muttered. “There!”
The younger man saw and drew in his breath. Even under the coating of dust his face turned a shade greyer.
“You had no need to fear that he would let us go!” the minister muttered, with half-conscious irony.
“No.”
“Nor I! There are two ropes.” And La Tribe breathed a few words of prayer. The object which had fixed his gaze was a gibbet: the only one of the three which could be seen from their eyrie.
Tignonville, on the other hand, turned sharply away, and with haggard eyes stared about the room. “We might defend the staircase,” he muttered. “Two men might hold it for a time.”
“We have no food.”
“No.” Suddenly he gripped La Tribe’s arm. “I have it!” he cried. “And it may do! It must do!” he continued, his face working. “See!” And lifting from the floor one of the ragged pallets, from which the straw protruded in a dozen places, he set it flat on his head.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 393