His manhood shrivelled within him at the thought. He shuddered. He was still shuddering, when on the shutter which masked the casement came a knock, thrice repeated. A cautious knock of which the mere sound implied an understanding.
The Syndic remained motionless, glaring at the window. Everything on a night like this, and to an uneasy conscience, menaced danger. At length it occurred to him that the applicant might be Louis, whom he had sent with the message to the Porte Neuve: and he took the lamp and went to admit him, albeit reluctantly, for what did the booby mean by returning? It was late, and only to open at this hour might, in the light cast by after events, raise suspicions.
But it was not Louis. The lamp flickering in the draught of the doorway disclosed a huge dusky form, glimmering metallic here and there, that in a trice pushed him back, passed by him, entered. It was Basterga. The Syndic shut the door, and staggered rather than walked after him to the parlour. There the Syndic set down the lamp, and turned to the scholar, his face a picture of guilty terror. “What is it?” he muttered. “What has happened? Is — the thing put off?”
The other’s aspect answered his question. A black corselet with shoulder pieces, and a feathered steel cap raised Basterga’s huge stature almost to the gigantic. Nor did it need this to render him singular; to draw the eye to him a second time and a third. The man himself in this hour of his success, this moment of conscious daring, of reliance on his star and his strength, towered in the room like a demi-god. “No,” he answered, with a ponderous, exultant smile, slow to come, slow to go. “No, Messer Blondel. Far from it. It has not been put off.”
“Something has been discovered?”
“No. We are here. That is all.”
The Syndic supported himself by a hand pressed hard against the table behind him. “Here?” he gasped. “You are here? You have the town already? It is impossible.”
“We have three hundred men in the Corraterie,” Basterga answered. “We hold the Tertasse Gate, and the Monnaye. The Porte Neuve is cut off, and at our mercy; it will be taken when we give the signal. Beyond it four thousand men are waiting to enter. We hold Geneva in our grip at last — at last!” And in an accent half tragic, half ironic, he declaimed: —
“Venit summa dies et ineluctabile tempus Dardaniae! Fuimus Troes, fuit Ilium et ingens Gloria Teucrorum! Ferus omnia Jupiter Argos Transtulit!”
And then more lightly, “If you doubt me, how am I here?” he asked. And he extended his huge arms in the pride of his strength. “Exercise your warrant now — if you can, Messer Syndic. Syndic,” he continued in a tone of mockery, “where is your warrant now? I have but this moment,” he pointed to wet stains on his corselet, “slain one of your guards. Do justice, Syndic! I have seized one of your gates by force. Avenge it, Syndic! Syndic? ha! ha! Here is an end of Syndics.”
The Syndic gasped. He was a hard man, not to say an arrogant one, little used to opposition; one who, times and again, had ridden rough-shod over the views of his fellows. To be jeered at, after this fashion, to be scorned and mocked by this man who in the beginning had talked so silkily, moved so humbly, evinced so much respect, played the poor scholar so well, was a bitter pill. He asked himself if it was for this he had betrayed his city; if it was for this he had sold his friends. And then — then he remembered that it was not for this — not for this, but for life, dear life, warm life, that he had done this thing. And, swallowing the rage that was rising within him, he calmed himself.
“It is better to cease to be Syndic than cease to live,” he said coldly.
But the other had no mind to return to their former relations. “True, O sage!” he answered contemptuously. “But why not both? Because — shall I tell you?”
“I hear — —”
“Yes, and I hear too! The city is rising!” Basterga listened a moment. “Presently they will ring the alarm-bell, and — —”
“If you stay here some one may find you!”
“And find me with you?” Basterga rejoined. He knew that he ought to go, for his own sake as well as the Syndic’s. He knew that nothing was to be made and much might be lost by the disclosure that was on his tongue. But he was intoxicated with the success which he had gained; with the clang of arms, and the glitter of his armed presence. The true spirit of the man, as happens in intoxication of another kind, rose to the surface, cruel, waggish, insolent — of an insolence long restrained, the insolence of the scholar, who always in secret, now in the light, panted to repay the slights he had suffered, the patronage of leaders, the scoffs of power. “Ay,” he continued, “they may find me with you! But if you do not mind, I need not. And I was just asking you — why not both? Life and power, my friend?”
“You know,” Blondel answered, breathing quickly. How he hated the man! How gladly would he have laid him dead at his feet! For if the fool stayed here prating, if he were found here by those who within a few moments would come with the alarm, he was himself a lost man. All would be known.
That was the fear in Blondel’s mind; the alarm was growing louder each moment, and drawing nearer. And then in a twinkling, in two or three sentences, Basterga put that fear into the second place, and set in its seat emotions that brooked no rival.
“Why not both?” he said, jeering. “Live and be Syndic, both? Because you had the scholar’s ill, eh, Messer Blondel? Or because your physician said you had it — to whom I paid a good price — for the advice?” The devil seemed to look out of the man’s eyes, as he spoke in short sentences, each pointed, each conveying a heart-stab to its hearer.
“To whom — you gave?” Blondel muttered, his eyes dilated.
“A good price — for the advice! A good price to tell you, you had it.”
The magistrate’s face swelled till it was almost purple, his hands gripped the front of his coat, and pressed hard against his breast. “But — the pains?” he muttered. “Did you — but no,” with a frightful grimace, “you lie! you lie!”
“Did I bribe him — to give you those too?” the other answered, with a ruthless laugh. “You have alighted on it, most grave and reverend sage. You have alighted on the exact fact, so clever are you! That was precisely what I did some months back, after I heard that you, being fearful as rich men are, had been to him for some fancied ill. You had two medicines? You remember? The one gave, the other soothed your trouble. And now that you understand, now that your mind is free from care, and you can sleep without fear of the scholar’s ill — will you not thank me for your cure, Messer Blondel?”
“Thank you?” the magistrate panted. “Thank you?” He stepped back two paces, groping with his hands, as if he sought to support himself by the table from which he had advanced.
“Ay, thank me!”
“No, but I will pay you!” and with the word Blondel snatched from the table a pistol which he had laid within his reach an hour earlier. Before the giant, confident in his size, discovered his danger, the muzzle was at his breast. It was too late to move then — three paces divided the men; but, in his haste to raise the pistol, Blondel had not shaken from it the handkerchief under which he had hidden it, and the lock fell on a morsel of the stuff. The next moment Basterga’s huge hand struck aside the useless weapon, and flung Blondel gasping against the wall.
“Fool!” the scholar cried, towering above the baffled, shrinking man whose attempt had placed him at his mercy. “Think you that Cæsar Basterga was born to perish by your hand? That the gods made me what I am, I who carry to-night the fortunes of a nation and the fate of a king, that I might fall by so pitiful a creature as you! Ay, ’tis the alarm-bell, you are right. And by-and-by your friends will be here. It is a wonder,” he continued, with a cruel look, “that they are not here already; but perhaps they have enough to fill their hands! And come or stay — if they be like you, poor fool, weak in body as in wit — I care not! I, Cæsar Basterga, this night lord of Geneva, and in the time to come, and thanks to you — —”
“Curse you!” Blondel gasped.
“
That which I dare be sworn you have dreamt of being!” — the scholar continued with a subtle smile. “The Grand Duke’s alter ego, Mayor of the Palace, Adviser to his Highness! Yes, I hit you there? I touch you there! Oh, vanity of little men, I thought so! “He broke off and listened, as sharp on one another two gun-shots rang out at no great distance from the house. A third followed as he hearkened: and on it a swelling wave of sound that rose with each second louder and nearer. “Ay, ’tis known now!” Basterga resumed, in a tone more quiet, but not less confident. “And I must go, my dear friend — who thought a minute ago to speed me for ever. Know that it lies not in hands mean as yours to harm Cæsar Basterga of Padua! And that to-night, of all nights, I bear a charmed life! I carry, Syndic, a kingdom and its fortunes!”
He seemed to swell with the thought, and in comparison of the sickly man scowling darkly on him from the wall, he did indeed look a king, as he turned to the door, flung it wide and passed into the passage. With only the street door between him and the hub-bub that was beginning to fill the night, he could measure the situation. He had stayed late. The beat of many feet hastening one way — towards the Porte Tertasse — the clatter of weapons as here and there a man trailed his pike on the stones, the roar of rising voices, the rattle of metal as some one hauled a chain across the end of the Bourg du Four and hooked it — sounds such as these might have alarmed an ordinary man who knew himself cut off from his party, and isolated among foes.
But Basterga did not quail. His belief in his star was genuine; he was intoxicated with the success which he fancied lay within his grasp. He carried Cæsar and his fortunes! was it in mean men to harm him? Nay, so confident was he, that when he had opened the door he stood an instant on the threshold viewing the strange scene, and quoted with an appreciation as strange —
“At domus interior gemitu miseroque tumultu Miscetur, penitusque cavae plangoribus aedes Femineis ululant; ferit aurea sidera clamor” —
from his favourite poet. After which without hesitation but also without hurry he turned and plunged into the stream of passers that was hurrying towards the Porte Tertasse.
He had been right not to quail. In the medley of light and shadow which filled the Bourg du Four and the streets about the Town Hall, in the confusion, in the rush of all in one direction and with one intent, no one paid heed to him, or supposed him to belong to the enemy. Some cried “To the Treille! They are there! To the Treille!” And these wheeled that way. But more, guided by the sounds of conflict, held on to the point where the short, narrow street of the Tertasse turned left-handed out of the equally narrow Rue de la Cité — the latter leading onwards to the Porte de la Monnaye, and the bridges. Here, at the meeting of the two confined lanes, overhung by timbered houses, and old gables of strange shapes, a desperate conflict was being fought. The Savoyards, masters of the gate, had undertaken to push their way into the town by the Rue Tertasse; not doubting that they would be supported by-and-by, upon the entrance of their main body through the Porte Neuve. They had proceeded no farther, however, than the junction with the Rue de la Cité — a point where darkness was made visible by two dim oil lamps — before, the alarm being given, they found themselves confronted by a dozen half-clad townsfolk, fresh from their beds; of whom five or six were at once laid low. The survivors, however, fought with desperation, giving back, foot by foot; and as the alarm flew abroad and the city rose, every moment brought the defenders a reinforcement — some father just roused from sleep, armed with the chance weapon that came to hand, or some youth panting for his first fight. The assailants, therefore, found themselves stayed; slowly they were driven back into the narrow gullet of the Tertasse. Even there they were put to it to hold their ground against an ever-increasing swarm of citizens, whom despair and the knowledge that they were fighting on their hearths, for their wives, and for their children, brought up in renewed strength.
In the Tertasse, however, where it was not possible to outflank them, and no dark side-alley, vomiting now and again a desperate man, gave one to death, a score could hold out against a hundred. Here then, with the gateway at their backs — whence three or four could fire over their heads — the Savoyards stood stubbornly at bay, awaiting the reinforcements which they were sure would come from the Porte Neuve. They were picked troops not easily discouraged; and they had no fear that aught serious had happened. But they asked impatiently why D’Albigny with the main body did not come; why Brunaulieu with the Monnaye in his hands did not see that the time was opportune. They chafed at the delay. Give the city time to array itself, let it recover from its first surprise, and all their forces might scarcely avail to crush opposition.
It was at this moment, when the burghers had drawn back a little that they might deliver a decisive attack, that Basterga came up. Fabri the Syndic had taken the command, and had shouted to all who had windows looking on the lane to light them. He had arrayed his men in some sort of order and was on the point of giving the word to charge, when he heard the steps of Basterga and some others coming up; he waited to allow them to join him. The instant they arrived he gave the word, and followed by some thirty burghers armed with half-pikes, halberds, anything the men had been able to snatch up, he charged the Savoyards bravely.
In the narrow lane but four or five could fight abreast, and the Grand Duke’s men were clad in steel and well armed. Nevertheless Fabri bore back the first line, pressed on them stoutly, and amid a wild mêlée of struggling men and waving weapons, began to drive the troop, in spite of a fierce resistance, into the gate. If he could do this and enter with them, even though he lost half his men, he might save the city.
But the Savoyards, though they gave back, gave back slowly. Within twenty paces of the gate the advance wavered, stopped, hung an instant. Of that instant Basterga took advantage. He had moved on undetected, with the rearmost burghers: now he saw his opportunity and seized it. He flung to either side the man to right and left of him. He struck down, almost with the same movement, the man in front. He rushed on Fabri, who in the middle of the first line was supporting, though far from young, a single combat with one of the Savoyard leaders. On him Basterga’s coward weapon alighted without warning, and laid him low. To strike down another, and turning, range himself in the van of the foreigners with a mighty “Savoy! Savoy!” was Basterga’s next action; and it sufficed. The panic-stricken burghers, apprised of treason in their ranks, gave back every way. The Savoyards saw their advantage, rallied, and pressed them. Speedily the Italians regained the ground they had lost, and with the tall form of their champion fighting in the van, began to sweep the towns-folk back into the Rue de la Cité.
But arrived at the meeting of the ways, Basterga’s followers paused, hesitating to expose their flank by entering this second street. The Genevese saw this, rallied in their turn, and for a moment seemed to be holding their own. But three or four of their doughtiest fighters lay stark in the kennel, they had no longer a leader, they were poorly armed and hastily collected; and devoted as they were, it needed little to renew the panic and start them in utter rout. Basterga saw this, and when his men still hung back, neglecting the golden opportunity, he rushed forward, almost alone, until he stood conspicuous between the two bands — the one hesitating to come on, the other hesitating to fly.
“Savoy!” he thundered, “Ville gagnée! The city is ours! Cowards, come on!” And waving his halberd above his head, he beckoned to his followers to advance.
Had they done so, had they charged on the instant, they had changed all for him, and perhaps all for Geneva. But they hung a moment, and the next, as in shame they drew themselves together for the charge, their champion stooped forward with a shrill scream. The next instant he received full on his nape a heavy iron pot, that descending with tremendous force from a window above him, rolled from him broken into three pieces.
He went down under the blow as if a sledge-hammer had struck him; and so sudden, so dramatic was the fall — his armour clanging about him — that for an instant the two b
ands held their hands and stood staring, as indifferent crowds stand and gaze in the street. A dozen on the patriots’ side knew the house from which the marmite fell, and marked it; and half as many saw at the small window whence it came the grey locks and stern wrinkled face of an aged woman. The effect on the burghers was magical. As if the act symbolised not only the loved ones for whom they fought, but the dire distress to which they were come, they rushed on the foreign men-at-arms with a spirit and a fury hitherto unknown. With a ringing shout of “Mère Royaume! Mère Royaume!” — raised by those who knew the old woman, and taken up by many who did not — they swept the foe, shaken by the fall of their leader, along the narrow Tertasse, pressed on them, and, still shouting the new war-cry, entered the gateway along with them.
“Mère Royaume! Mère Royaume!” The name rang savagely in the groining of the arch, echoed dully in the obscurity in which the fierce struggle went on. And men struck to its rhythm, and men died to it. And men who heard it thus and lived never forgot it, nor ever went back in their minds to that night without recalling it.
To one man, flurried already, and a coward at heart, the name carried a paralysing assurance of doom. He had seen Basterga fall — by this woman’s hand of all hands in the world — and he had been the first to flee. But in the lane he tripped over Fabri, he fell headlong, and only raised himself in time to gain the gateway a few feet in front of the avenging pikes. Still, he might escape, he hoped to escape, through the gate and into the open Corraterie. But the first to reach the gates had taken in hand to shut them, and so to prevent the townsfolk reaching the Corraterie. One of the great doors, half-closed, blocked his way, and instinctively — ignorant how far behind him the pike-points were — he sprang aside into the guard-room.
His one chance now — for he was cut off, and knew it — lay in reaching the staircase and mounting to the roof. A bound carried him to the door, he grasped the handle. But a fugitive who had only a second before saved himself that way, took him for a pursuer, dragged the door close and held it — held it in spite of his efforts and his imprecations.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 432