For the Cause

  Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided byGoogle Books (The New York Public Library)

  Transcriber's Notes:

  1. Page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?ei=0r4yT5jOC4Hm0QGA9ezTBw

  2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].

  FOR THE CAUSE.

  FOR THE CAUSE

  BY

  STANLEY J. WEYMAN

  _Author of "A Gentleman of France," "The House of the Wolf" "Under the Red Robe" Etc_.

  CHICAGO CHARLES H. SERGEL COMPANY

  Copyright, 1897,

  by

  CHARLES H. SERGEL COMPANY.

  CONTENTS.

  For The Cause.

  King Pepin And Sweet Clive.

  The Deanery Ball.

  The Professor and the Harpy.

  Archdeacon Hodden's Tribulation.

  FOR THE CAUSE.

  I.

  Paris had never seemed to the eye more peaceful than on a certainNovember evening in the year 1589: and this although many a one withinits walls resented the fineness of that night as a mockery, a scoff atthe pain of some and the fury of others.

  The moonlight fell on roofs and towers, on the bare open space of thePlace de Greve and the dark mass of the Louvre, and only here andthere pierced, by chance, a narrow lane, to gleam on some foul secretof the kennel. The Seine lay a silvery loop about the He de la Cite--aloop cut on this side and that by the black shadows of the Pont auChange, and the Petit Pont, and broken again westward by the outlineof the New Bridge, which was then in building.

  The city itself lay in profound quiet in the depth of the shadow. Fromtime to time at one of the gales, or in the lodge of the Chatelet, asentinel challenged or an officer spoke. But the bell of St. Germainl'Auxerrois, which had rung through hours of the past day was silent.The tumult which had leaped like flame from street to street hadsubsided. Peaceful men breathed again in their houses, and women, ifthey still cowered by the hearth, no longer laid trembling fingers ontheir ears. For a time the red fury was over: and in the narrowchannels, where at noon the mob had seethed, scarcely a stray wayfarercould now be found.

  A few however were abroad: and of these some who chanced to bethreading the network of streets between the Chatelet and the Louvre,heard behind them the footsteps of a man in great haste, and saw passthem a youth, white-faced and wearing a sword and a student's shortcloak and cap--apparently a member of the University. He for his partlooked neither to right nor left: saw not one of them, and seemed bentonly on getting forward.

  He slackened his space however near the corner of the Rue de l'ArbreSec, where it shoots out of the Rue de Bethisy, and then turning itwith a rush, caught his foot in some obstacle, and plunging forward,would have fallen violently, if he had not come against a man, whoseemed to be standing still in the shadow of the corner house.

  "Hold up!" exclaimed this person, withstanding the shock better thancould have been expected. "You should have a pretty mistress, youngman, if you go to her at this pace!"

  The student did not answer--did not seem to hear. He had staggeredagainst the wall, and still stood propping himself up by it. His face,pale before, was ghastly now, as he glared, apparently horror-struck,at something beyond the speaker. The latter, after muttering angrily,"What the plague do you go dashing about the streets like a ShroveTuesday ox for?" turned also and glanced behind him.

  But not at that to which the student's eyes were directed. Thestranger seemed constrained to look first and by preference at thelong, low casement of a house nearly opposite them. This window was onthe first floor, and projected somewhat over the roadway. There seemedto be no light in the room; but the moonlight reached it, and showed awoman's head bent on the sill--a girl's head, if one might judge fromits wealth of hair. One white wrist gleamed amid this, but her facewas hidden on her arms. In the whole scene--in the casement open atthis inclement time, in the girl's attitude of abandonment, there wassomething which stirred the nerves. It was only after a long look thatthe stranger averted his eyes, and cast a casual glance at a queer,dark object, which a few paces away swung above the street, dimlyoutlined against the sky. It was that which had fascinated hiscompanion.

  "Umph!" he ejaculated in the tone of a man who should say "Is thatall?" And he turned to the other again. "You seem taken aback, youngman!" he said. "Surely that is no such strange sight in Parisnowadays. What with Leaguers hanging Politiques, and Politiqueshanging Leaguers, and both burning Huguenots, I thought a dead man wasno longer a bogey to frighten children with!"

  "Hush, sir, in Heaven's name!" exclaimed the young man, shuddering athis words. "He was my father!"

  The stranger whistled. "He was your father, was he!" he replied moregently. "I dare swear too that he was an honest man, since the Sixteenhave done this. There, steady, friend. These are no times for weeping.Be thankful that Le Clerc and his crew have spared your home, andyour--your sister. That is rare clemency in these days, and Heavenonly knows how long it may last. You wear a sword? Then shed no tearsto rust it. Time enough to weep, man, when there is blood to be washedfrom the blade."

  "You speak boldly," said the youth, checking his emotion somewhat,"but had they hung your father before his own door----"

  "Good man," said the stranger with a coolness that bordered on thecynical, "he has been dead these twenty years."

  "Then your mother?" suggested the student with the feeble persistenceby which weak minds show their consciousness of contact with strongerones, "you had then----"

  "Hung them all as high as Haman!"

  "Ay, but suppose there were among them," objected the youth, in alower tone, while he eyed his companion narrowly, "some of the clergy,you understand?"

  "They had swung--though they had all been Popes of Rome," was theblunt answer.

  The listener shook his head, and drew off a pace. He scanned thestranger curiously, keeping his back turned to the corpse the while,but failed by that light to make out much one way or the other.Scarcely a moment too was allowed him before the murmur of voices andthe clash of weapons at the far end of the street interrupted him."The watch are coming," he said roughly.

  "You are right, and the sooner we are within doors the better," hiscompanion assented.

  It was noticeable that throughout their talk which had lasted manyminutes no sign of life had appeared in any of the neighboring houses.Scarce a light shone from a window though it was as yet but nineo'clock. The fact was that fear of the Sixteen and of the mob theyguided was overpowering Paris--a terror crushing out men's lives.While the provinces of France were divided at this time between twoopinions, and half of each as a rule owned the Huguenot Henry theFourth--now for six months the rightful sovereign--for king, Pariswould have none of him. The fierce bigotry of the lower classes, thepresence of some thousands of Spanish soldiers, and the ambition andtalents of the Guise family combined at once to keep the gates ofParis closed to him, and to overawe such of the respectable citizensas from religious sympathy in rare cases, and more often out of adesire to see law and order re-established, would fain have adoptedhis cause. The Politiques, or moderate party, who were indifferentabout religion as such, but believed that a strong government couldonly be formed by a Romanist king, were almost non-existent in Paris.And the events of the past day, the murder of three judges and severallower officials--among them poor M. Portail whose body now decoratedthe Rue de l'Arbre Sec--had not reassure
d the municipal mind. Nowonder that men put out their lights early, and were loth to go totheir windows, when they might see a few feet from the casement theswollen features of a harmless, honest man, but yesterday going to andfrom his work like other men.

  Young Portail strode to the door of the house and knocked hurriedly.As he did so, he looked up with something like a shiver of nervousapprehension at the window above. But the girl neither moved norspoke, nor betrayed any consciousness of his presence. She might havebeen dead. It was a young man, about his own age or a little older,who, after reconnoitring him from above, cautiously drew back thedoor. "Whom have you with you?" he whispered, holding it ajar, andletting the end of a stout club be seen.

  "No one," Portail replied in the same cautious tone. And he would haveentered without more ado, and closed the door behind him had not hislate companion, who had followed him across the street like hisshadow, set his foot against it. "Nay, but you are forgetting me," hesaid good-humoredly.

  "Go your way! we have enough to do to protect ourselves," criedPortail brusquely.

  "The more need of me," was the careless answer.

  The watch were now but a few houses away, and the stranger seemeddetermined. He could scarcely be kept out without a disturbance. Withan angry oath Felix Portail held the door for him to enter; and closedit softly behind him. Then for a minute or so the three stood silentin the darkness, while with a murmur of voices and clash of weapons,and a ruddy glimmer piercing crack and keyhole, the guard swept by.

  "Have you a light?" Felix murmured.

  "In the back room," replied the young man who had admitted them. Heseemed to be a clerk or confidential servant. "But your sister," hecontinued, "is distraught. She has sat at the window all day as yousee her now--sometimes looking at _it_. Oh Felix, this has been adreadful day for this house!"

  The young Portail assented by a groan. "And Susanne?" he asked.

  "Is with Mistress Marie, terrified almost to death, poor child. Shehas been crouching all day by her, hiding her face in her gown. Butwhere were you?"

  "At the Sorbonne," replied Felix in a whisper.

  "Ah!" the other exclaimed, something of hidden meaning in his tone. "Iwould not tell her that, if I were you. I feared it was so. But let usgo upstairs."

  They went: with more than one stumble by the way. At the head of thestaircase the clerk opened a door and preceded them into a low-roofedpanelled room, plainly but solidly furnished, and lighted by a smallhanging lamp of silver. A round oak table on six curiously turned legsstood in the middle, and on it some food was laid. A high-backedchair, before which a sheep-skin rug was spread, and two or threestools made up with a great oak chest the main furniture of the room.

  The stranger turned from scrutinizing his surroundings, and started.Another door had silently opened; and he saw framed in the doorway andrelieved by the lamplight against the darkness of the outer room theface and figure of a tall girl. A moment she stood pointing at themwith her hand, her face white--and whiter in seeming by reason of theblack hair which fell around it--her eyes dilated, the neck-band ofher dark red gown torn open. "A Provencal!" the intruder murmured tohimself. "Beautiful and a tigress."

  At any rate, for the moment, beside herself. "So you have come atlast!" she panted, glaring at Felix with passionate scorn in word andgesture. "Where were you while these slaves of yours did your bidding?At the Sorbonne with the black crows! Thinking out fresh work forthem? Or dallying with your Normandy sweetheart?"

  "Hush!" he said quailing visibly. "There is a stranger here."

  "There have been many strangers here today!" she retorted bitterly."Hush, you say? Nay, I will not be silent. They may tear me limb fromlimb, but I will accuse them of this murder before God's throne.Coward! Do you think I will ask mercy from them? Come, look on yourwork! See what the League have done--your holy League!--while you satplotting with the black crows!"

  She pointed into the dark room behind her, and the movement discloseda younger girl clinging to her skirts, and weeping silently. "Comehere, Susanne," said Felix, who had turned pale and red under the lashof the other's scorn. "Your sister is not herself. You do no good,Marie, staying in there. See, you are both trembling with cold."

  "With cold? Then do you warm yourselves! Sit down and eat and drinkand be comfortable and forget him! But I will not eat or drink whilehe hangs there! Shame, Felix Portail! Have you arms and hands, andwill you let your father hang before his own door?"

  Her voice rang shrilly to the last word; and then an awkward silencefell on the room. The stranger nodded, almost as if he had said,"Bravo!" The two men of the house cast doubtful glances at oneanother. At length the clerk spoke. "It is impossible, mistress,"he said gently. "Were he touched, the mob would wreck the houseto-morrow."

  "A little bird whispered to me as I came through the streets,"--it wasthe stranger who spoke--"that Mayenne and his riders would be in townto-morrow. Then it seems to me that our friends of the Sorbonne willnot have matters altogether their own way."

  The Sorbonne was the Theological College of Paris; at this time theheadquarters of the extreme Leaguers and the Sixteen. Mayenne andD'Aumale, the Guise princes, more than once found it necessary tocheck the excesses of this party.

  Marie Portail looked at the last speaker. He sat on the edge of thechest, carelessly swinging one knee over the other; a man of middleheight, rather tall than short, with well bronzed cheeks, a foreheadbroad and white, and an aquiline nose. He wore a beard and moustaches,and his chin jutted out. His eyes were keen, but good-humored. Thoughspare he had broad shoulders, and an iron-hilted sword propped againsthis thigh seemed made for use rather than show. The upper part of hisdress was of brown cloth, the lower of leather. A weather-stainedcloak which he had taken off lay on the chest beside him.

  "You are a man!" cried Marie fiercely. "But as for these----"

  "Stay, mistress!" the clerk broke in "Your brother does but collecthimself. If the Duke of Mayenne comes back to-morrow, as our friendhere says is likely--and I have heard the same myself--he will keephis men in better order. That is true. And we might risk it if thewatch would give us a wide berth."

  Felix nodded sullenly. "Shut the door," he said to his sister, thedeep gloom on his countenance contrasting with the excitement shebetrayed. "There is no need to let the neighbors see us."

  This time she obeyed him. Susanne too crept from her skirts, and threwherself on her knees, hiding her face on the chair. "Ay!" said Marielooking down at her with the first expression of tenderness thestranger had noted in her. "Let her weep. Let children weep. But letmen work."

  "We want a ladder," said the clerk in a low voice. "And the longest wehave is full three feet short."

  "That is just half a man," remarked he who sat on the chest.

  "What do you mean?" asked Felix wonderingly.

  "What I said."

  "But there is nothing on which we can rest the ladder," urged theclerk.

  "Then that is a whole man," quoth the stranger curtly. "Perhaps two. Itold you you would have need of me." He looked from one to the otherwith a smile; a careless, self-contented smile.

  "You are a soldier," said Marie suddenly.

  "At times," he replied, shrugging his shoulders.

  "For which side?"

  He shook his head. "For my own," he answered naively.

  "A soldier of fortune?"

  "At your service, mistress; now and ever."

  The clerk struck in impatiently. "If we are to do this," he said, "wehad better see about it. I will fetch the ladder."

  He went out and the other men followed more slowly, leaving Mariestill standing gazing into the darkness of the outer room--she hadopened the door again--like one in a trance. Some odd trait in thesoldier led him, as he passed out, to lay his hand on the hair of thekneeling child with a movement infinitely tender; infinitely atvariance with the harsh clatter with which his sword next moment rangagainst the stairs as he descended.

  The three men were going to do that whi
ch two certainly, and perhapsall, knew to be perilous. One went to it in gloom, anger as well assorrow at his heart. One bustled about nervously, and looked oftenbehind him as if to see Marie's pale face at the window. And onestrode out as to a ball, glancing up and down the dark lane with anair of enjoyment, which not even the grim nature of his task couldsuppress. The body was hanging from a bar which crossed the street ata considerable height, serving as a stay between the gables of twoopposite houses, of which one was two doors only from the unhappyPortails'. The mob, with a barbarity very common in those days, hadhung him on his own threshold.

  The street as the three moved up it, seemed empty and still. But itwas impossible to say how long it would remain so. Yet the soldierloitered, staring about him, as one remembering things. "Did not theAdmiral live in this neighborhood?" he inquired.

  "De Coligny? Yes. Round the corner in the Rue de Bethisy," replied theclerk brusquely. "But see! The ladder will not reach the bar--no, notby four feet."

  "Set it against the wall then--thus," said the soldier, and havingdone it himself he mounted a few steps. But then he seemed to bethinkhimself. He jumped down again. "No," he exclaimed, peering sharplyinto the faces of one and the other, "I do not know you. If any onecomes, my friends, and you leave the foot of the ladder I shall betaken like a bird on a limed twig. Do you ascend, Monsieur Felix."

  The young man drew back. He was not without courage, or experience ofrough scenes. But the Louvre was close at hand, almost within earshoton one side, the Chatelet was scarcely farther off on the other; andboth swarmed with soldiers and brutal camp-followers. At any moment atroop of them might pass; and should they detect any one interferingwith King Mob's handiwork, he would certainly dangle in a very fewminutes from some handy lamp-iron. Felix knew this, and stood at gaze."I do not know you either," he muttered irresolutely, his hand stillon the ladder.

  A smile of surprising humor played on the soldier's face. "Nay, butyou knew _him!_" he retorted, pointing upwards with his hand. "Trustme, young sir," he added significantly, "I am less inclined to mountnow than I was before."

  The clerk intervened before Felix could resent the insult. "Steady,"he said; "I will go up and do it."

  "Not so!" Felix rejoined, pushing him aside in turn. And he ran up theladder. But near the top he paused, and began to descend again. "Ihave no knife," he said shamefacedly.

  "Pshaw! Let me come!" cried the stranger. "I see you are both goodcomrades. I trust you. Besides, I am more used to this ladder workthan you are, and time is everything."

  He ran up as he spoke, and standing on the highest round but one hegrasped the bar above his head, and swung himself lightly up, so as togain a seat on it. With more caution he wormed himself along it untilhe reached the rope. Fortunately there was a long coil of it about thebar; and warning his companions in a whisper, he carefully, and withsuch reverence as the time and place allowed, let down the body tothem. They received it in their arms; and were loosening the noosefrom the neck when an outburst of voices and the noise of footsteps atthe nearer end of the street surprised them. For an instant the twostood in the gloom, breathless, stricken, still, confounded. Then witha single impulse they lifted the body between them, and huddledblindly to the door. It opened at their touch, they stumbled in, andit fell to behind them. The foremost of the party outside had beenwithin ten paces of them. A narrow escape!

  Yet they had escaped. But what next? What of their companion? Themoment the door shut behind them they would have rushed out again, ay,to certain death, so strongly had the soldier's trust appealed totheir confidence. But they had the body in their arms; and by the timeit was laid on the stairs, a score of men had passed. The opportunitywas over. They could do nothing but listen. "Heaven help him!" fellfrom the clerk's quivering lips. Pulling the door ajar, they stood,looking each moment to hear a challenge, a shot, the clash of swords.But no. They did hear the party halt under the gallows, and pass somebrutal jest, and go on. And that was all.

  They could scarcely believe their ears; no, nor even their eyes, whena few minutes later the street being now quiet, they passed out, andstood in it shuddering. For there still swung the corpse dimlyoutlined above them! There! Certainly there! The clerk seized hiscompanion's arm and drew him back. "It was the fiend!" he stammered."See, your father is still there! It was the fiend who helped us!"

  But suddenly the figure they were watching became agitated; anotherinstant and it slid gently to the ground. It was the soldier. "O yegods!" he cried, bent double with silent laughter. "Saw you ever sucha trick? How I longed to kick if it were but my toe at them, and Iforbore! Fools that they were! Did man ever see a body hung in itssword? But it was a good trick, eh?" appealing to them with a simplepride in his invention. "I had the rope loose in my hand when theycame, and I drew it twice round my neck--and one arm trust me--andswung off gently. It is not every one who would have thought of that,my children."

  It was odd. They still shook with fear, and he with laughter. He didnot seem to give a thought to the danger he had escaped. Pride in hisreadiness and a keen sense of the humorous side of the incidententirely possessed him. At the very door of the house he stillchuckled from time to time; muttering between the ebullitions, "Ah, Imust tell Diane! Diane will be pleased!"

  Once inside, however, he acted with more delicacy than might have beenexpected. He stood aside while the other two carried the bodyupstairs; and himself waited patiently in the bare room below, whichshowed signs of occasional use as a stable. Here the clerk Adrianpresently found him, and murmured some apology. Mistress Marie, hesaid, had fainted.

  "A matter which afflicts you, my friend," the soldier replied with agrimace, "about as much as your master's death. Pooh, man, do not lookfierce! Good luck to you. Only if--but this is no house for gallantryto-night--I had spruced myself, you had had to look to your ewe lamb!"

  The clerk turned pale and red by turns. This man seemed to read histhoughts as if he had indeed been the fiend. "What do you wish?" hestammered.

  "Only shelter until the early morning when the streets are most quiet;and a direction to the Rue des Lombards."

  "The Rue des Lombards?"

  "Yes, why not?" But though the soldier still smiled, the lines of hismouth hardened suddenly. "Why not to the Rue des Lombards?"

  "I know no reason why you should not be going there," replied theclerk boldly. "It was only that the street is near; and a friend of mylate master's lives in it."

  "His name?"

  The clerk started; the question was put so abruptly, and in a tone soimperious. "Nicholas Toussaint," he answered involuntarily.

  "Ay?" replied the other, raising his hand to his chin meditatively andglancing at Adrian with a look that for all the world reminded him ofan old print of the eleventh Louis, which hung in a room at the Hotelde Ville. "Your master, young man, was of the moderate party--aPolitique?"

  "He was."

  "A good man and a Catholic? one who loved France? A Leaguer only inname?" he continued with vividness.

  "Yes, that is so."

  "But his son? He is a Leaguer out and out--one who would rise tofortune on the flood tide of the mob? A Sorbonnist? The priests havegot hold of him? He would do to others as they have done to hisfather? A friend of Le Clerc and Boucher?"

  Adrian nodded reluctantly. This strange man confounded and yetfascinated him: this man so reckless and gay one moment, so wary thenext: exchanging in an instant the hail of a boon companion for thetone of a noble.

  "And is your young master also a friend of this Nicholas Toussaint?"was the next question.

  "No," said Adrian, "he has been forbidden the house. M. Toussaint doesnot approve of his opinions."

  "Ha! That is so, is it," rejoined the stranger with his former gayety."And now enough: where will you lodge me until morning?"

  "If my closet will serve you," Felix answered with a hesitation hewould not have felt a few minutes before, "it is at your will. I willbring some food there at once, and will let you out if you please a
tfive." And Adrian added some simple directions, by following which hisguest might reach the Rue des Lombards without difficulty.

  An hour later if the thoughts of those who lay sleepless under thatroof could have been traced, some strange contrasts would haveappeared. Was Felix Portail thinking of his dead father, or of hissweetheart in the Rue des Lombards, or of his schemes of ambition? Washe blaming the crew of whom until to-day he had been one, or sullenlycursing those factious Huguenots as the root of the mischief? WasAdrian thinking of his kind master, or of his master's daughter? Wasthe guest dreaming of his narrow escape? or revolving plans besidewhich Felix's were but the schemes of a rat in a drain? Perhaps Mariealone--for Susanne slept a child's sleep of exhaustion--had herthoughts fixed on him, who so few hours before had been the centre ofthe household.

  But such is life in troubled times. Pleasure and pain come mingledtogether, and men snatch the former even from the midst of the latterwith a trembling joy; knowing that if they wait to go a pleasuringuntil the sky be clear, they may wait until nightfall.

  When Adrian called his guest at cock-crow the latter rose briskly andfollowed him down to the door. "Well, young sir," he said on thethreshold, as he wrapped his cloak round him and took his sheathedsword in his hand, "I am obliged to you. When I can do you a service,I will."

  "You can do me one now," replied the clerk bluntly, "It is ill workhaving to do with strangers in these days. You can tell me who youare, and to which side you belong."

  "Which side? I have told you--my own. And for the rest," continued thesoldier, "I will give you a hint." He brought his lips near theother's ear, and whispered, "Kiss Marie--for me!"

  The clerk looked up aflame with anger, but the other was already gonestriding down the street. Yet Adrian received an answer to hisquestion. For as the stranger disappeared in the gloom, he brokeout with an audacity that took the listener's breath away into awell-known air,

  "Hau! Hau! Papegots! Faites place aux Huguenots!"

  and trilled it as if he had been in the streets of Rochelle.

  "Death!" exclaimed the clerk, getting back into the house, and barringthe door, "I thought so. He is a Huguenot. But if he takes his neckout of Paris unstretched, he will have the fiend's own luck, and theBearnais' to boot!"

  II.

  When the clerk went upstairs, again, he heard voices in the back room.Felix and Marie were in consultation. The girl was a different beingthis morning. The fire and fury of the night had sunk to a stillmisery: and even to her it seemed over dangerous to stay in the houseand confront the rage of the mob. Mayenne might not after all returnyet: and in that case the Sixteen would assuredly wreak their spite onall, however young or helpless, who might have had to do with theremoval of the body. "You must seek shelter with some friend," Felixproposed, "before the city is astir. I can go to the University. Ishall be safe there."

  "Could you not take us with you?" Marie suggested meekly.

  He shook his head, his face flushing. It was hard to confess that hehad power to destroy, but none to protect. "You had better go toNicholas Toussaint's," he said. "He will take you in, though he willhave nothing to do with me."

  Marie assented with a sigh, and rose to make ready. Some few valuableswere hidden or secured, some clothes taken; and then the little partyof four passed out into the street, leaving but one solemn tenant intheir home. The cold light of a November morning gave to the lane anair even in accustomed eyes of squalor and misery. The kennel runningdown the middle was choked with nastiness, while here and there theupper stories leaned forward so far as to obscure the light.

  The fugitives regarded these things little after the first shiveringglance, but hurried on their road; Felix with his sword, and Adrianwith his club marching on either side of the girls. A skulking dog gotout of their way. The song of a belated reveller made them shrinkunder an arch. But they fell in with nothing more formidable untilthey came to the high wooden gates of the courtyard in front ofNicholas Toussaint's house.

  To arouse him or his servants, however, without disturbing theneighborhood was another matter. There was no bell; only a heavy ironclapper. Adrian tried this cautiously, with little hope of beingheard. But to his joy the hollow sound had scarcely ceased whenfootsteps were heard crossing the court, and a small trap in one ofthe gates was opened. An elderly man with high cheek bones and curlygray hair looked out. His eyes lighting on the girls lost theirharshness. "Marie Portail!" he exclaimed. "Ah! poor thing, I pity you.I have heard all. I only returned to the city last night or I shouldhave been with you. And Adrian?"

  "We have come," said the young man respectfully, "to beg shelter forMistress Marie and her sister. It is no longer safe for them to remainin the Rue de l'Arbre Sec."

  "I can well believe it," cried Toussaint vigorously. "I do not knowwhere we are safe nowadays. But there," he added in a different tone,"no doubt the Sixteen are acting for the best."

  "You will take them in then?" said Adrian, with gratitude.

  But to his astonishment the citizen shook his head, while an awkwardembarrassment twisted his features. "It is impossible!" he saidreluctantly.

  Adrian doubted if he had heard aright. Nicholas Toussaint was knownfor a bold man; one whom the Sixteen disliked, and even suspected ofHuguenot leanings, but had not yet dared to attack. He was a dealer inNorman horses, and this both led him to employ many men, recklessdaring fellows, and made him in some degree necessary to the army.Adrian had never doubted that he would shelter the daughter of his oldfriend; and his surprise on receiving this rebuff was extreme.

  "But, Monsieur Toussaint--" he urged--and his face reddened withgenerous warmth as he stood forward. "My master is dead! Foullymurdered! He lies who says otherwise, though he be of the Sixteen! Mymistress has few friends now to protect her, and those of small power.Will you send her and the child from your door?"

  "Hush, Adrian," cried the girl, lifting her head proudly, yet layingher hand on the clerk's sleeve with a tender touch of acknowledgmentthat brought the blood in redoubled force to his cheeks. "Do not pressour friend overmuch. If he will not take us in from the streets, besure he has some good reason to offer."

  But Toussaint was dumb. Shame--a shame augmented tenfold by theclerk's fearlessness--was so clearly written on his face, that Adrianuttered none of the reproaches which hung on his lips. It was Felixwho came forward, and said contemptuously, "So you have grownstrangely cautious of a sudden, M. Toussaint?"

  "Ha! I thought you were there, or thereabouts!" replied thehorse-dealer, regaining his composure at once, and eyeing him withstrong disfavor.

  "But Felix and I," interposed Adrian eagerly, "will fend forourselves."

  Toussaint shook his head. "It is impossible," he said surlily.

  "Then hear me!" cried Felix with excitement. "You do not deceive me.It is not because of your daughter that you have forbidden me thehouse, and will not now protect my sister! It is because we shalllearn too much. You have those under your roof, whom the crows shallpick yet! You, I will spare for Madeline's sake; but your spies I willstring up, every one of them by----" and he swore a frightful oathsuch as the Romanists used.

  Toussaint's face betrayed both fear and anger. For an instant heseemed to hesitate. Then exclaiming "Begone, parricide! You would havekilled your own father!" he slammed the trap-door, and was heardretreating up the yard with a clatter, which sufficiently indicatedhis uneasiness.

  The four looked at one another. Daylight had fully come. The noise ofthe altercation had drawn more than one sleepy face to neighboringcasements. In a short time the streets would be alive with people, andeven a delay of a few minutes might bring immediate danger. Theythought of this; and moved away slowly and reluctantly, Susanneclinging to Adrian's arm, while Felix strode ahead scowling. When theyhad placed, however, a hundred yards or so between themselves andToussaint's gates, they stopped, a chill sense of desolation upon mostof them. Whither were they to go? Felix urged curtly
that they shouldseek other friends. But Marie declined. If Nicholas Toussaint darednot take them in, no other of their friends would. She had given uphope, poor girl, and longed only to get back to their home, and thestill form, which it now seemed to her she should never have deserted.

  They were standing discussing this when a cry caused them to turn. Agirl was running hatless along the street towards them; a girl talland plump of figure in a dark blue robe, with a creamy slightlyfreckled face, a glory of wavy golden hair about it, and great grayeyes that could laugh and cry at once, even as they were doing now."Oh, Marie," she exclaimed taking her in her arms; "my poor littleone! Come back! You are to come back at once!" Then disengagingherself, with a blushing cheek and more reserve she allowed Felix toembrace her. But though that young gentleman made full use of hispermission, his face did not clear. "Your father has just turned mysister from his door, as he turned me a month ago," he said bitterly.

  Poor girl, she quailed; looking at him with a tender upward glancemeant for him only. "Hush!" she begged him. "Do not speak so of him.And he has sent to fetch them back again. He says he cannot keep themhimself, but if they will come in and rest he will see them safelydisposed of later. Will not that do?"

  "Excellently, Miss Madeline," cried Adrian gratefully. "And we thankyour father a thousand times."

  "Nay but--" she said slyly--"that permission does not extend to you,"

  "What matter?" he said stoutly.

  "What matter if Marie be safe you mean," she replied demurely. "Well,I would I had so gallant a--clerk," with a glance at her own handsomelover. "But come, my father is waiting at the gate for us." Yetnotwithstanding that she urged haste, she and Felix were the last toturn. When she at length ran after the others her cheeks betrayed her.

  "I can see what you have been doing, girl," her father cried angrily,meeting her just within the door. "For shame, hussy! Go to your room,and take your friends with you." And he aimed a light blow at her,which she easily evaded.

  "They will need breakfast," she persisted bravely. She had seen herlover, and though the interview might have had its drawbacks--bestknown to herself--she cared little for a blow in comparison with that.

  "They will take it in your room," he retorted. "Come, pack, girl! Iwill talk to you presently," he added, with meaning.

  The Portails drew her away. To them her room was a haven of rest,where they felt safe, and could pour out their grief, and let her pityand indignation soothe them. The horror of the last twenty-four hoursfell from them. They seemed to themselves to be outcasts no longer.

  In the afternoon Toussaint reappeared. "On with your hoods," he criedbriskly, his good humor re-established. "I and half a dozen stout ladswill see you to a place where you can lie snug for a week."

  Marie asked timidly about her father's funeral. "I will see to it,little one," he answered. "I will let the curate of St. Germain know.He will do what is seemly--if the mob let him," he added to himself.

  "But father," cried Madeline, "where are you going to take them?"

  "To Philip Boyer's."

  "What!" cried the girl in much surprise. "His house is small andPhilip and his wife are old and feeble."

  "True," answered Portail. "But his hutch is under the Duchess's roof.There is a touch of _our great man_ about Madame. Mayenne the crowdneither overmuch love, nor much fear. He will die in his bed. But withhis sister it is a word and a blow. And the Sixteen will not touchaught that is under her roof."

  The Duchess de Montpensier was the sister of Henry Duke of Guise,Henry the Scarred, _Our great man_, as the Parisians loved to callhim. He had been assassinated in the antechamber of Henry of Valoisjust a twelvemonth before this time; and she had become the soul ofthe League, having more of the headstrong nature which had made himpopular, than had either of his brothers, Mayenne or D'Aumale.

  "I see," said Madeline, kissing the girls, "you are right, father."

  "Impertinent baggage!" he cried. "To your prayers and your needle. Andsee that while we are away you keep close, and do not venture into thecourtyard."

  She was not a nervous girl, but the bare, roomy house seemed lonelyafter the party had set out. She wandered to the kitchen where the twoold women-servants were preparing, with the aid of a turnspit, theearly supper; and learned here that only old Simon, the lame ostler,was left in the stables, which stood on either side of the courtyard.This was not reassuring news: the more as Madeline knew her fathermight not return for another hour. She took refuge at last in the longeating-room on the first floor; which ran the full depth of the house,and had one window looking to the back as well as several facing thecourtyard. Here she opened the door of the stove, and let the cheeryglow play about her.

  But presently she grew tired of this, and moved to the rearwardwindow. It looked upon a narrow lane, and a dead wall. Still, therewas a chance of seeing some one pass, some stranger; whereas thewindows which looked on the empty courtyard were no windows at all--toMadeline.

  The girl had not long looked out before her pale complexion, which thefire had scarcely warmed, grew hot. She started, and looked into theroom behind her nervously: then looked out again. She had seenstanding in a nook of the wall opposite her, a figure she knew well.It was that of her lover, and he seemed to be watching the house.Timidly she waved her hand to him, and he, after looking up and downthe lane, advanced to the window. He could do this safely, for it wasthe only window in the Toussaints' house which looked that way.

  "Are you alone?" he asked softly, looking up at her.

  She nodded.

  "And my sisters?" he continued.

  "Have gone to Philip Boyer's. He lives in one of the cottages on theleft of the Duchess's yard."

  "Ah! And you? Where is your father, Madeline?" he murmured.

  "He has gone to take them. I am quite alone; and two minutes ago I wasmelancholy," she added, with a smile that should have made him happy.

  "I want to talk to you," he replied gravely. "May I get up if I can,Madeline?"

  She shook her head, which of course meant no. And she said, "It isimpossible." But she still smiled.

  There was a pipe which ran up the wall a couple of feet or so on oneside of the casement. Before she well understood his purpose, or thathe was in earnest he had gripped this and was halfway up to thewindow.

  "Oh, do take care," she cried. "Do not come, Felix. My father will beso angry!" Woman-like she repented now, when it was too late. Butstill he came on, and when his hand was stretched out to grasp thesill, all her fear was only lest he should fall. She seized his wrist,and helped him in. Then she drew back. "You should not have done it,Felix," she said severely.

  "But I wanted to see you so much, Madeline," he urged, "and theglimpse I had of you this morning was nothing."

  "Well then, you may come to the stove and warm yourself, sir. Oh! howcold your poor hands are, my boy! But you must not stay."

  But stolen moments are sweet and apt to be long drawn out. She had agreat deal to say, and he had a great deal, it seemed, to ask--so muchto ask indeed, that gradually a dim sense that he was thinking ofother things than herself--of her father and the ways of the house,and what guests they had, came over her.

  It chilled her to the heart. She drew away from him, and said,suddenly, "Oh, Felix!" and looked at him.

  Nothing more. But he understood her and colored; and tried to ask, butasked awkwardly, "What is the matter, dearest?"

  "I know what you are thinking of," she said with grave sorrow, "Oh! itis too bad! It is base of you, cruel! You would use even me whom youlove to ruin my friends!"

  "Hush!" he answered, letting his gloomy passion have vent for themoment, "they are not your friends, Madeline. See what they have donefor me. It is they, or the troubles they have set on foot, that havekilled my father!" And he swore solemnly--carried away by his mistakenresentment--never again to spare a Huguenot save her father and oneother.

  She trembled and tried to close her ears. Her father had told her ahundred times that she could
not be happy with a husband divided fromher by a gulf so impassable. She had said to him that it was too late.She knew it. She had given Felix her heart and she was a woman. Shecould not take it back, though she knew that nothing but unhappinesscould come of it.

  "God forgive you!" she moaned in that moment of strained insight; andsank in her chair as though she would weep.

  He fell on his knees by her with a hundred words of endearment, for hehad conquered himself again. And she let him soothe her. She had neverloved him more than now, when she knew the price she must pay for him.She closed her eyes--for the moment--to that terrible future, and hewas holding her in his arms, when without warning a heavy footsteprang on the stairs by the door.

  They sprang apart. If even then he had had presence of mind, he mighthave reached the window. But he hesitated, looking in her startledeyes. "Is it your father?" he whispered.

  She shook her head. "He cannot have returned. We should have heard thegates opened. There is no one in the house," she murmured faintly.

  But still the footsteps came on: and stopped at the door. Felix lookedround in despair. Close beside him, and just behind the stove was thedoor of a closet. He took two strides, and before he or she hadthought of the consequences, was within it. Softly he drew the door toagain; and she sank terrified on a chair, as the door of the roomopened.

  He who came in was a man of thirty-five, a stranger to her. A man witha projecting chin. His keen gray eyes wore at the moment of hisentrance an impatient expression, but when he caught sight of her,this passed away. He came across the floor smiling. "Pardon me," hesaid--but said it as if no pardon were needed, "I found the stablesinsupportably dull. I set out on a voyage of discovery. I have foundmy America!" And he bowed in a style which puzzled the frightenedgirl.

  "You want to see my father?"' she said tremulously. "He----"

  "Has gone to the Duchess's. I know it. And very ill-natured it was ofhim to leave me in the stable, instead of intrusting me to your care,mistress. La Noue," he continued, "is in the stable still, asleep on abundle of hay, and a pretty commotion there will be when he finds Ihave stolen away!"

  Laughing with an easy carelessness that struck the citizen's daughterwith fresh astonishment, the stranger drew up the big armchair, whichwas commonly held sacred to M. Toussaint's use, and threw himself intoit; lazily disposing his booted feet in the glow which poured from thestove, and looking across at his companion with open and somewhat boldadmiration in his eyes. At another time she might have been offended:or she might not. Women are variable. Now her fears lest Felix shouldbe discovered dulled her apprehension.

  Yet the name of La Noue had caught her ear. She knew it well, as allFrance and the Low Countries knew it in those days, for the name ofthe boldest and staunchest warrior on the Huguenot side.

  "La Noue?" she murmured, misty suspicions beginning to take form inher mind.

  "Yes, pretty one," replied he laughing. "La Noue and no other. DoesBras-de-fer pass for an ogre here in Paris that you tremble so at hisname? Let me----"

  But whatever the proposition he was going to offer, it came tonothing. The dull clash of the gates outside warned both of them thatNicholas Toussaint and his party had returned. A moment later a hastytread sounded on the stairs; and an elderly man wearing a cloak burstin upon them.

  His eyes swept the room while his hand still held the door, and it wasclear that what he saw did not please him. He came forward stiffly,his brows knitted. But he said nothing; seeming uncertain andembarrassed.

  "See!" the first comer said, looking quietly up at him, but notoffering to move. "Now what do you think of your ogre? And by therood, he looks fierce enough to eat babes! There, old friend," hecontinued speaking to the elder man in a different tone, "spare yourlecture. This is Toussaint's daughter, and as staunch I will warrantas her father."

  The old noble--he had but one arm she saw--still looked at her withdisfavor. "Girls have sweethearts, sire," he said shrewdly.

  For a moment the room seemed to go round with her. Though somethingmore of reproach and playful defence passed between the two men, shedid not hear it. The consciousness that her lover was listening toevery word and that from this moment La Noue's life was in his hands,numbed her brain. She sat helpless, hardly aware that half a dozen menwere entering, her father one of them. When a lamp was called for--itwas growing dark--she did not stir: and Toussaint, not seeing her,fetched it himself.

  But by the time he came back she had partly recovered herself. Shenoted that he locked the door carefully behind him. When the lamp wasset on the table, and its light fell on the harsh features of the men,a ray passed between them, and struck her pale face. Her father sawher.

  "By heaven!" he cried furiously. "What does the wench here?" No oneanswered; but all turned and looked at her where she cowered backagainst the stove. "Go, girl!" Toussaint cried, beside himself withpassion. "Begone! and presently I will----"

  "Nay, stop!" interposed La Noue. "Your daughter knows too much. Wecannot let her go thus."

  "Knows too much? How?" and the citizen tossed his head like a bullbalked in his charge.

  "His majesty----"

  "Nay, let his majesty speak for himself--for once," said the man withthe gray eyes--and even in her terror and confusion Madeline saw thatall turned to him with a single movement. "Mistress Toussaint did butchat with La Noue and myself, during her father's absence. But sheknows us; or one of us. If any be to blame it is I. Let her stay. Iwill answer for her fidelity."

  "Nay, but she is a woman, sire," some one objected.

  "Ay, she is, good Poulain," and he turned to the speaker with asingularly bright smile. "So we are safe, for there is no woman inFrance would betray Henry of Bourbon!"

  A laugh went round. Some one mentioned the Duchess.

  "True!" said Henry, for Henry it was, he whom the Leaguers called theBearnais and the Politiques the King of Navarre, but whom latergenerations have crowned as the first of French kings--Henry theGreat. "True! I had forgotten her. I must beware of her gold scissors.We have two crowns already, and want not another of her making. Butcome, let us to business without ceremony. Be seated, gentlemen; andwhile we consider whether our plans hold good, Mistress Toussaint--"he paused to look kindly at the terrified girl--"will play the sentryfor us."

  Madeline's presence within a few feet of their council-board was soonforgotten by the eager men sitting about it. And in a sense she forgotthem. She heard, it is true, their hopes and plans, the chief a schemeto surprise Paris by introducing men hidden in carts piled with hay.She heard how Henry and La Noue had entered, and who had brought themin, and how it was proposed to smuggle them out again; and manydetails of men and means and horses; who were loyal and whodisaffected, and who might be bought over, and at what price. She eventook note of the manner of each speaker as he leaned forward, andbrought his face within the circle of light, marking who were known toher before, substantial citizens these, constant at mass and market,and who were strangers; men fiercer-looking, thinner, haughtier, morerestless, with the stamp of constant peril at the corners of theireyes, and swords some inches longer than their neighbors'.

  She saw and heard this and reasoned dully on it. But all the time hermind was paralyzed by a dreadful sense of some great evil awaitingher, something with which she must presently come face to face, thoughher faculties had not grasped it yet. Men's lives! Ah, yes, men'slives! The girl had been bred in secret as a Huguenot. She had beentaught to revere the great men of the religion, and not the weaknessof the cause, not even her lover's influence had sapped her loyalty toit.

  Presently there was a stir about the table. The men rose. "Then thatarrangement meets your views, sire," said La Noue.

  "Perfectly. I sleep to-night at my good friend Mazeau's," the kinganswered, "and leave to-morrow about noon by St. Martin's gate. Yes,let that stand."

  He did not see--none of them saw--how the girl in the shadow by thestove started; nor did they mark how the last trace of color fled fromher cheeks. Madeli
ne was face to face with her fate, and knew that herown hand must work it out. The men were separating. Henry badefarewell to one and another, until only three or four beside Toussaintand La Noue remained with him. Then he prepared himself to go, andgirt on his sword, talking earnestly the while. Still engaged in lowconverse with one of the strangers, he walked slowly lighted by hishost to the door, forgetting to take leave of the girl. In anotherminute he and they would have disappeared in the passage, when ahoarse cry escaped from Madeline's lips.

  It was little more than a gasp, but it was enough for men whose nerveswere strained. All--at the moment they had their backs to her, theirfaces to the king--turned swiftly. "Ha!" cried Henry at once, "I hadforgotten my manners. I was leaving my most faithful sentry without aword of thanks, or a keepsake by which to remember Henry of France."

  She had risen, and was supporting herself--but she swayed as shestood--by the arm of the chair. Never had her lover been so dear toher. As the king approached, the light fell on her face, on heragonized eyes, and he stopped short. "Toussaint!" he cried sharply."Your daughter is ill. Look at her!" But it was noticeable that helaid his hand on his sword.

  "Stay!" she cried, the word ringing shrilly through the room. "You arebetrayed! There is some one--there--who has heard--all! Oh, sire,mercy! mercy!"

  As the last words passed the girl's writhing lips she clutched at herthroat: seemed to fight a moment for breath: then with a stifledshriek fell senseless to the ground.

  A second's silence. Then a whistling sound as half a dozen swords weresnatched from the scabbards. The veteran La Noue sprang to the door:others ran to the windows and stood before them. Only Henry--after aswift glance at Toussaint, who pale and astonished, leaned over hisdaughter--stood still, his fingers on his hilt. Another second ofsuspense, and before any one spoke, the cupboard door swung open, andFelix Portail, pale to the lips, stood before them.

  "What do you here?" cried Henry, restraining by a gesture those whowould have flung themselves upon the spy.

  "I came to see her," Felix said. He was quite calm, but a perspirationcold as death stood on his brow, and his distended eyes wandered fromone to another. "You surprised me. Toussaint knows that I was hersweetheart," he murmured.

  "Ay, wretched man, to see her! And for what else?" replied Henry, hiseyes, as a rule, so kindly, bent on the other in a gaze fixed andrelentless.

  A sudden visible quiver--as it were the agony of death--shot throughPortail's frame. He opened his mouth, but for a while no sound came.His eyes sought the nearest sword with horrid intentness. He gasped,"Kill me at once, before she--before----"

  He never finished the sentence. With an oath the nearest Huguenotlunged at his breast, and fell back, foiled by a blow from the King'shand. "Back!" cried Henry, his eyes flashing as another sprangforward, and would have done the work. "Will you trench on the King'sjustice in his presence? Sheath your swords, all save the Sieur de laNoue, and the gentlemen who guard the windows!"

  "He must die!" cried several voices, as the men still pressed forwardviciously.

  "Think, sire! Think what you do," cried La Noue himself, warning inhis voice. "He has the life of every man here in his hand? And theyare your men, risking all for the cause."

  "True," replied Henry, smiling; "but I ask no man to run a risk I willnot take myself."

  A murmur of dissatisfaction burst forth. Several drew their swordsagain. "I have a wife and child!" cried one recklessly, bringing hispoint to the thrust. "He dies!"

  "He does not die!" exclaimed the King, his voice so ringing throughthe room that all fell back once more; fell back not so much becauseit was the King who spoke as in obedience to the voice which twomonths before had rallied the flying squadrons at Arques, and yearsbefore had rung out hour after hour and day after day above the longstreet fight of Cahors. "He does not die!" repeated Henry, lookingfrom one to another, with his chin thrust out, "I say it. I! And thereare no traitors here!"

  "Your majesty," said La Noue after a moment's pause, "commands ourlives."

  "Thanks, Francis," Henry replied instantly changing his tone. "And nowhear me, gentlemen. Think you that it was a light thing in this girlto give up her lover? She might have let us go to our doom, and wenone the wiser! Would you take her gift and make her no requital? Thatwere not royal. And now for you, sir"--he turned to Felix who wasleaning half-fainting against the wall--"hearken to me. You shall gofree. I, who this morning played the son to your dead father, give youyour life for your sweetheart's sake. For her sake be true. You shallgo out alive and safe into the streets of Paris, which five minutesago you little thought to see again. Go! And if you please, betrayus, and be damned! Only remember that if you give up your king andthese gentlemen who have trusted you, your name shall go down thecenturies--and stand for treachery!"

  He spoke the last words with such scorn that a murmur of applausebroke out even among those stern men. He took instant advantage of it."Now go!" he said hurriedly. "You can take the girl there with you.She has but fainted. A kiss will bring her to life. Go, and besilent."

  The man took up his burden and went, trembling; still unable to speak.But no hand was now raised to stop him.

  When he had disappeared La Noue turned to the king. "You will not nowsleep at Mazeau's, sire?"

  Henry rubbed his chin. "Yes; let the plan stand," he answered. "If hebetray one, he shall betray all."

  "But this is madness," urged La Noue.

  The king shook his head, and smiling clapped the veteran on theshoulder. "Not so," he said. "The man is no traitor: I say it. And youhave never met with a longer head than Henry's."

  "Never," assented La Noue bluntly, "save when there is a woman in it!"

  The curtain falls. The men have lived and are dead. La Noue, theHuguenot Bayard, now exist only in a dusty memoir and a page ofMotley. Madame de Montpensier is forgotten; all of her, save hergolden scissors. Mayenne, D'Aumale, a verse preserves their names.Only Henry--the "good king" as generations of French peasants calledhim--remains a living figure: his strength and weakness, his sins andvirtues, as well known, as thoroughly appreciated by thousands now asin the days of his life.

  Therefore we cannot hope to learn much of the fortunes of people soinsignificant--save for that moment when the fate of a nation hung ontheir breath--as the Portails and Toussaints. We do know that Felixproved worthy. For though the attack on Paris on the ninth ofNovember, 1589, failed, it did not fail through treachery. And we knowthat he married Madeline, and that Adrian won Marie: but no more.Unless certain Portals now living in the north of Ireland, whoseancestors came over at the time of the Revocation of the Edict ofNantes, are their descendants. And certainly it is curious that inthis family the eldest son invariably bears the name of Henry, and thesecond of Felix.