*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68135 ***

  _Flower o' the Lily_

  _A Romance of Old Cambray_

  by Baroness Orczy



  _London Hodder and
  Stoughton and at New
  York and Toronto_





  To
  MY SON
  JOHN MONTAGU ORCZY BARSTOW
  2nd Lieut. 17th Lancers

I dedicate to you this story of the brave days of Old
Cambray, as a token of fervent prayer that the valiant
city will once again be freed from the thrall of foreign
foes by your gallant comrades in arms, as she was in
those far-off troublous times, which were so full of
heroism and of romance.

EMMUSKA ORCZY

BEARSTED, 1918.




CONTENTS

CHAP.

I How Messire Gilles de Crohin went for an
Excursion into the Land of Dreams

II How a Noble Prince practised the Gentle Art
of Procrastination

III How a Clever Woman outwitted an Obstinate Man

IV How 'Monsieur' kept his Word

V What Marguerite of Navarre did when she heard the News

VI What Monseigneur d'Inchy and Messire Gilles
de Crohin Thought of One Another

VII Why Madame Jacqueline was so Late in Getting to Bed

VIII What Became of the Lilies

IX How Messire Gilles was Reminded of a Dream

X How the Quarrel Began

XI And How it Ended

XII How Two Letters came to be Written

XIII How Madame Jacqueline was Gravely Puzzled

XIV Which Treats of the Discomfiture of M. de Landas

XV How M. de Landas Practised the Gentle Art of Treachery

XVI What News Maître Jehan brought back with Him

XVII How Messire de Landas' Treachery bore Fruit

XVIII How a Second Awakening may be more Bitter than the First

XIX What Jacqueline was Forced to Hear

XX How More than one Plot was Hatched

XXI How Some of these Succeeded--

XXII While Others Failed

XXIII While Traitors are at Work

XXIV The Defence of Cambray

XXV How Cambray Starved and Endured

XXVI What Value a Valois Prince Set upon his Word

XXVII And this is the End of my Story




CHAPTER I

  HOW MESSIRE GILLES DE CROHIN WENT FOR AN
  EXCURSION INTO THE LAND OF DREAMS


I

When Gilles de Crohin, Sire de Froidmont, received that sabre-cut
upon his wrist--a cut, by the way, which had been dealt with such
efficacy that it very nearly severed his left hand from his arm--he
swore, so I understand, both lustily and comprehensively.  I have not
a faithful record of what he did say, but from what I know of
Messire, I can indeed affirm that his language on the occasion was as
potent as it was direct and to the point.

As for the weapon which had dealt that same forceful stroke, its
triumph was short-lived.  Within the next few seconds its unconscious
career upon this earth was brought to a sudden and ignominious close:
it was broken into three separate pieces by a blow more vigorous than
even Messire Gilles himself had ever been known to deal.  The hilt
went flying sky-high above the heads of the nearest combatants; part
of the blade was ground into the mud under the heel of Messire's
stout leather boot, whilst the point itself--together with a few more
inches of cold steel--was buried in the breast of that abominable
spadassin who had thought to lay so stalwart an enemy low.

And, mind you, this would have been exceedingly satisfactory--the
life of a rascally Spaniard in exchange for a half-severed wrist--had
not some other rogue of the same ilk, who happened to be close by,
succeeded at that very instant in delivering a vigorous thrust into
the body of Maître Jehan le Bègue, the faithful friend and companion
of the Sire de Froidmont.  Whereupon Gilles, maddened with rage,
slashed and charged upon the enemy with such lustihood that for an
instant the valiant French troops, which indeed were sore pressed,
rallied about him, and the issue of the conflict hung once more in
the balance.  But alas! only for a few moments.  The Spaniards, more
numerous and undoubtedly more highly skilled in the science of arms,
soon regained the advantage, and within a few hours after that, they
were driving the Netherlander and the French helter-skelter before
them, having gained a signal and decisive victory.

This all occurred at Gembloux in Brabant, three and more years before
the events which I am about to put on record in this veracious
chronicle, and at the time when the Sire de Froidmont and his
faithful henchman, Jehan--surnamed le Bègue because he stuttered and
spluttered like a clucking hen--happened to be fighting in the
Netherlands at the head of a troop of French Protestants who had
rushed to support the brave followers of Orange against the powerful
armies of Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma; and I use the word
'happened' advisedly, because in these days the knights and gentlemen
of France--aye, and the marshals and princes of blood, far finer
noblemen and lords than was the poor Sire de Froidmont--were wont to
fight now on one side, now on the other--now on the Catholic side,
hand-in-hand with the Spaniards; now on the Huguenot, according if
they 'happened' to be in good friendship with the Queen Mother or
with the King's favourite, or with the Protestant Henry of Navarre.

On this occasion, and despite his broken wrist, Messire Gilles de
Crohin was the very last to lay down his sword before the victorious
Spaniard; nor is the expression 'lay down his sword' altogether the
right one to use, for the Sire de Froidmont never did lay down his
sword either to the Spaniards or to any other enemy, either then or
on any other occasion.  But it seems that, in addition to that
half-severed wrist, he had several and sundry wounds about his body,
and all the while that the victorious Spanish army pursued the
Netherlanders even as far as the territory of the King of France,
Messire Gilles lay as one dead, bleeding, half-frozen, and only
sufficiently conscious to curse his own fate and the disappearance of
Maître Jehan le Bègue, the most faithful servant and most expert
henchman, man ever had.  The trouble, indeed, was that Master Jehan
was nowhere within sight.


II

Now it happened that that memorable night of February, 1578, which
followed the grim fight in the valley below Gembloux, was a very dark
one.  Toward eight or nine o'clock of the evening, Messire Gilles
woke from his state of unconsciousness by feeling rough and
unfriendly hands wandering about his body.  Had I not already told
you that his language was apt to be more forceful than reverent, I
would tell you now that he utilized his first return to actuality in
sitting up suddenly and pouring forth such a volley of expletives
against the miscreants who were even then trying to divest him of his
boots, that, seized with superstitious fear, these human vultures
fled, scattered and scared, to rally again at some distance from the
spot, in order to resume their nefarious trade with less forcible
interruption.

Messire Gilles listened to their scurrying footsteps for awhile; then
with much difficulty, for he was sorely hurt and bruised, he
struggled to his feet.

The darkness lay upon the plain and wrapped in its grim pall all the
suffering, all the horror which the fiends of hatred and of
fanaticism had brought in the wake of this bloody combat.  Silence
absolute reigned in the valley, save for an occasional sigh, a moan,
a cry of pain or a curse, which rose from the sodden ground up to the
sombre firmament above, as if in protest to the God of battles
against so much misery and so much unnecessary pain.

Gilles--accustomed as he was to all these sounds--shook himself like
a shaggy dog.  Though he was comparatively a young man still, these
sounds had rung in his ears ever since, as a young lad, he had
learned how to fight beside his father's stirrup leathers, and seen
his father fall, wounded and bruised, in much the same plight as
he--Gilles himself--was at this hour.  Nor had the night any terrors
for him.  The groans of dying men no longer stirred his senses, and
only moved his heart to transient pity.  What did worry Messire
Gilles de Crohin, however, was the disappearance of Maître Jehan.

'So long as those hellish body-snatchers do not get hold of the poor
fool!' he sighed dolefully.

Just then his ear, trained of old to catch the slightest sound which
might bring a ray of hope at moments such as this, perceived above
the groanings and the sighs the distant tinkle of a bell.

'Now, Gilles, my friend,' he murmured vaguely to himself, 'collect
your scattered senses and find out exactly where you are.'

Dizziness seized him again, and he came down on one knee.

'Jehan, you dog!' he exclaimed instinctively, 'where the devil are
you?'

To which summons Maître Jehan was evidently unable to give reply, and
Messire Gilles, very sore and very much out of humour, once more
contrived to struggle to his feet.  The tinkling of that bell seemed
more insistent now; his re-awakened consciousness worked a little
more actively.

'We fought just below Gembloux,' he reflected.  'The tinkling which I
hear is the monastery bell on the heights above.  Now, if it will go
on tinkling till I have struck the right direction and see a light in
the monastery windows, I doubt not but that those worthy monks will
let me lie in the kennel of one of their dogs until I can find my way
to a more congenial spot.'

From which cynical reflection it can be gathered that Messire Gilles
had not a vast amount of faith in the hospitality of those good
Benedictines of Gembloux; which doubt on his part is scarce to be
wondered at, seeing that he had been fighting on the side of the
heretics.

'If only that ass Jehan were here!' he added, with a final despondent
sigh.

It was no earthly use for a wounded, half-fainting man to go
searching for another in the darkness on this field littered with
dead and dying.  Gilles, whom a vague instinct drove to the thought,
had soon to give up all idea of it as hopeless.  The same acute sense
of hearing which had brought to his semi-consciousness the sound of
the tinkling bell, also caused him to perceive through the murky
blackness the presence of the human vultures taking their pickings
off the dead.

Gilles shuddered with the horror of it.  He felt somehow that poor
old Jehan must be dead.  He had seen him fall by his side in the
thick of the fight.  He himself was only half-alive now.  The thought
that he might once more fall under the talons of the body-snatchers
filled him with unspeakable loathing.  He gave himself a final shake
in order to combat the numbness which had crept into his limbs in the
wake of the cold, the faintness and the pain.  Then, guided through
the darkness by the welcome tintinnabulation of the monastery bell,
he started to make his way across the valley.


III

Why should I speak of that weary, wretched tramp of a sorely-wounded
man, in the dead of night, on sharply-rising ground, and along a
track strewn with dead and dying, with broken bits of steel and torn
accoutrements, on sodden ground rendered slippery with blood?
Messire Gilles himself never spoke of it to any one, so why should I
put it on record?  It took him five hours to cover less than half a
league, and he, of a truth, could not have told you how he did it
even in that time.  He was not really fully conscious, which was no
doubt one of God's many mercies, for he did not feel the pain and the
fatigue, and when he stumbled and fell, as he very often did, he
picked himself up again with just that blind, insentient action which
the instinct of self-preservation will at times give to man.

Whenever he recalled this terrible episode in his chequered career,
it took the form in his brain of a whirl of confused memories.  The
tinkling of the bell ceased after a while, and the moans which rose
from the field of battle were soon left behind.  Anon only a group of
tiny lights guided him.  They came from the windows of the monastery
on the heights above, still so far--so very far away.  Beyond those
lights and the stillness--nothing; neither pain, nor cold, nor
fatigue, only a gradual sinking of sense, of physical and mental
entity into a dark unknown, bottomless abyss.  Then a sudden, awful
stumble, more terrible than any that had gone before, a sharp
agonizing blow on the head--a fall--a fall into the yawning
abyss--then nothing more.


IV

Everything that happened after this belongs to the world of dreams.
So, at any rate, did Messire Gilles aver.  The sensation of waking
up, of opening his eyes, of feeling sweet-smelling straw beneath his
aching body, was, of course, a dream.  The sense of well-being, of
warm yet deliciously cooling water, and of clean linen upon his
wounds was a dream; the murmur of voices around him was a dream.

Perhaps Messire Gilles would have thought that they were realities,
because all these sensations, remember, were not altogether unknown
to him.  How many times he had lain wounded and insensible during his
stormy life-career, he could not himself have told you.  He had oft
been tended by kindly Samaritans--lay or clerical; he had oft lain on
fresh, clean straw and felt that sense of well-being which comes of
complete rest after dire fatigue.  But what he had never experienced
in his life before, and what convinced him subsequently that the
whole episode had only been the creation of his fevered fancy, was
that wonderful vision of a white-robed saint or angel--good Messire
Gilles could not have told you which, for he was not versed in such
matters--which flitted ever and anon before his weary eyes.  It was
the sound of a voice, whispering and gentle, which was like the
murmur of butterflies' wings among a wilderness of roses; it was the
perfume of spring flowers with the dew fresh upon them which came to
his nostrils; it was a touch like unto the velvety petals of a lily
which now and again rested upon his brow, and above all it was a pair
of deep blue eyes, which ever and anon met his aching ones with a
glance full of gentleness and of pity.

Now, although Messire Gilles was quite willing to admit that some
angels might have blue eyes, yet he had never heard it said that they
had a tiny brown mole on the left cheek-bone--a mole which, small as
it was, appeared like a veritable trap for a kiss, and added a quaint
air of roguishness to the angelic blue eyes.

But then Gilles de Crohin, being a heretic and something of a
vagabond, was not intimately acquainted with the outward appearance
of angels.  Moreover, that wee, tantalizing mole was far removed from
the reach of his lips.

'Think you he'll recover, Messire?'

Just at that moment Gilles de Crohin could have sworn that he was
conscious and awake; but that whisper, which suddenly reached his
hazy perception, could not have been aught but a part of his dream.
He would have liked to pinch or kick himself to see if he were in
truth awake, but he was too weak and too helpless to do that; so he
lay quite still, fearful lest, if he moved, the vision of the
white-robed angel who had just made such tender inquiry after him,
would vanish again into the gloom.  Thus he heard a reply, gruff and
not over tender, which, of a truth, had nothing dreamlike about it.

'Oh, he'll recover soon enough, gracious lady.  These rascals have
tough hides, like ploughing oxen.'

Messire Gilles de Crohin, Sire de Froidmont, tried to move, for he
was impelled to get up forthwith in order to chastise the malapert
who had dared to call him a rascal; but it seemed as if his limbs
were weighted with lead--for which fact he promptly thanked his
stars, since if he had moved, those heavenly blue eyes would, mayhap,
not scan his face again so anxiously.

'Think you he fought on the side of our enemies?' the dream-voice
queried again; and this time there was an awed, almost trembling tone
in its exquisite music.

'Aye,' answered the graft one, 'of that I have no doubt.  Neither
psalter nor Holy Bible have I found about his person, and the
gracious lady should not have wasted her pity upon a spawn of the
devil.'

'He looked so forlorn and so helpless,' said the angel-voice with
gentle reproach.  'Could I let him lie there, untended in a ditch?'

'How did he get there?' retorted the real--the human--voice.  'That
is what I would wish to know.  The fighting took place over half a
league away, and if he got his wounds on the battlefield, I, for one,
do not see how he could have walked to the postern gate and deposited
himself there, just in time to be in your way when you deigned to
pass.'

'God guided him, Messire,' said the angel softly, 'so that you might
do one of those acts of goodness and of charity for which He will
surely reward you.'

Some one--a man, surely--seemed to mumble and to grumble a good deal
after that, until the human voice once more emerged clearly out of
the confused hubbub.

'Anyhow, gracious lady,' it said, 'you had best let yourself be
escorted back to your apartment now.  Messire is already fuming and
fretting after you; nor is it seemly that you should remain here any
longer.  The fellow will do quite well, and I'll warrant be none the
worse for it.  He's been through this sort of thing before, my word
on it.  His wounds will heal...'

'Even that horrid one across his wrist?' queried the white-robed
saint again.  (Gilles by now was quite sure that it was a saint, for
the tender touch upon his burning hand acted like a charm which
soothed and healed.)

'Even that one, gracious lady,' replied the swine who had dared to
speak of the Sire de Froidmont as a 'rascal' and a 'fellow.'  'Though
I own 'tis a sore cut.  The rascal will be marked for life, I'll
warrant.  I've never seen such a strange wound before.  The exact
shape of a cross it is--like the mark on an ass's back....  But it'll
heal, gracious lady ... it'll heal ... I entreat you to leave him to
me.'

Anger again rose hotly to Messire Gilles' fevered brow, whereupon
everything became more and more confused.  The darkness closed in
around him; he could no longer see things or hear them; he was once
more sinking into the dark and bottomless abyss.  He opened his eyes,
only to see a white-robed vision far, far above him, fading slowly
but certainly into nothingness.  The last thing which he remembered
was just that pair of blue eyes--the most luminous eyes he had ever
gazed into; eyes which looked both demure and tantalizing--oh, so
maddeningly tantalizing with that adorable little mole, which was
just asking for a kiss!

And the rest was silence.


V

When Gilles de Crohin, Sire de Froidmont, once more recovered
consciousness, it was broad daylight.  The slanting rays of a genial,
wintry sun had struck him full in the face, and incidentally had been
infusing some warmth into his numbed body.  He opened his eyes and
tried to visualize his position.  It took him some time.  He still
felt very giddy and very sick, and when he tried to move he ached in
every limb.  But he was not cold, and his temples did not throb with
fever.  As he groped about with his right hand, he encountered
firstly the folds of a thick woollen cloak which had been carefully
wrapped around him, and then, at a foot or so away, a pitcher and a
hunk of something which to the touch appeared very like bread.

Messire Gilles paused after these preliminary investigations, closed
his eyes and thought things out.  He had been dreaming, of that there
was no doubt, but he would be hanged, drawn and quartered if he knew
whence had come the pleasing reality of a cloak, a pitcher and a hunk
of bread.

It was some time after that, and when the sun was already high in the
heavens, that he managed to sit up, feeling the pangs of hunger and
of thirst intensified by the vicinity of that delectable bread.  The
pitcher contained fresh, creamy milk, which Messire Gilles drank
eagerly.  Somehow the coolness of it, its sweetness and its fragrance
made his dream appear more vivid to him.  The bread was white and
tasted uncommonly good.  After he had eaten and drunk he was able to
look about him.

As far as he could recollect anything, he was lying very near the
spot where he had fallen the day before--or the day before that, or a
week, or a month ago--Messire Gilles was not at all clear on the
point.  But here he was, at any rate, and there were all the
landmarks which he had noted at the time, when first his troop was
attacked by the Spaniards.  There was the clump of leafless shrubs,
trampled now into the mud by thousands of scurrying feet; there was
the group of broken trees, stretching gaunt arms up to the skies, and
beyond them the little white house with the roof all broken in--a
miserable derelict in the midst of the desolation.

He, Gilles, had been propped up against a broken tree-trunk which lay
prone upon the ground.  Underneath him there was a thick
horse-blanket, and over him the aforementioned warm cloak.  His cut
wrist had been skilfully bandaged, the wounds about his body had been
dressed and covered with soft linen, and, hidden away under the
trunk, behind where he was lying, there was another loaf of bread,
another pitcher containing water, the limbs of a roasted capon and a
pat of delicious-looking cream cheese.

The Benedictine monastery which, from the distant heights had
dominated the field of battle, was on Gilles' right.  All around him
the valley appeared silent and deserted save by the dead who still
lay forgotten and abandoned even by the human vultures who had picked
them clean.  There were no more dying on the field of Gembloux now.
Here and there a clump of rough shrubs, a broken tree with skeleton
arms stretched out toward the distance, as if in mute reproach for so
much misery and such wanton devastation; here and there the crumbling
ruins of a wayside habitation, roofless and forlorn, from which there
still rose to the wintry firmament above, a thin column of smoke.
From somewhere far away came the rippling murmur of the stream and
through it the dismal sound of a dog howling in this wilderness,
whilst overhead a flight of rooks sent their weird croaking through
the humid air.

All other sounds were stilled--the clash of arms, the call of despair
or of victory, the snorting of horses, the cries of rage and of
triumph had all been merged in the mist-laden horizon far away.  Was
it indeed yesterday, or a cycle of years ago that Gilles de Crohin
had lain just here, not far from this same fallen tree-trunk, a prey
to the ghoulish body-snatchers who, by their very act of hideous
vandalism, had brought him back to his senses?


VI

Later on in the forenoon when, having eaten some of the capon and the
cream cheese, he was able to struggle to his feet, Gilles started out
to look for his friend.

Though his thoughts and impressions were still in a state of
confusion, the possible plight of Maître Jehan weighed heavily on
Messire's soul.

He remembered where Jehan had fallen right down in the valley, not
far from the edge of the stream and close to the spot where he,
Gilles, had received that terrible blow upon his wrist, and had then
lashed out so furiously into the Spaniard in his wrath at seeing his
faithful henchman fall.

And there indeed he found him--stark naked and half-frozen.  The
human vultures had robbed him even of his shirt.  The search had been
long and painful, for in addition to his own weary limbs, Messire
Gilles had dragged the horse-blanket and the warm cloak about with
him.  He knew, alas! in what plight he would find Master Jehan--if
indeed he were fortunate enough to find him at all; and he had also
carried the pitcher half-filled with water and had thrust bread and
capon into his breeches' pocket.  Now that he had succeeded in his
quest, he laid the blanket and the cloak over the inanimate body of
his friend, moistened poor Jehan's cracked lips with the water, then
he laid down beside him and fell into another swoon.

Sometime during that long and bitter day he had the satisfaction of
hearing Master Jehan both groan and curse.  He was able to feed him
with bread and to ply him with water; and when the night came the two
of them rolled themselves up in the one blanket and kept one another
warm and comforted as best they could.

It is not my purpose to speak of the vicissitudes, of the ups and
downs which befell Messire Gilles de Crohin and his faithful Jehan
during the next few days and weeks, whilst they struggled from a
state of moribundity into one of life and vigour once again, tended
and aided now by one Samaritan, now by another; helped, too, by a
piece of gold which Messire Gilles most unaccountably found in the
inner pocket of his doublet.  He swore that he had no idea he had
ever left one there.

All that I desire to remind you of is that, as soon as he could again
struggle to his feet, he went on another quest--one that to him was
only second in importance to the search for his friend.  It was a
quest connected with the Benedictine monastery up yonder on a spur of
the Ardennes.  Messire Gilles now was quite conscious enough to
remember that the monastery had been his objective when, sorely
wounded and aching in every limb, he had started on a weary tramp
which had culminated in an exquisite dream.  To the monastery,
therefore, he meant to go, for he wished to ascertain if somewhere
near by there was a postern gate, beside which angels with blue eyes
and perfumed hands were wont to pass, and to minister to the sick and
to the weary.  Messire Gilles, you perceive, trusted a great deal to
intuition first and then to observation.  He was quite certain in his
own mind that if there was a postern gate he would come across it;
and he was equally certain that in the rough grass or the scrub close
by he would recognize traces of a sorely-wounded man falling headlong
against a very hard wall, and the footsteps of the kindly Samaritan
who, at the aforesaid angel's bidding, had carried him to shelter.

As for the angel, it was obvious of course, that such celestial
beings did not walk and would not therefore leave imprints upon the
sordid earth; still, even so, Messire Gilles clung to the vain hope
that he would see tiny footprints somewhere, such as fairies make
when they dance in a ring, and that from the very ground there would
arise the perfume of spring flowers when the dew is fresh upon them
in the morn.


VII

I may as well put it on record here and now that Gilles de Crohin,
Sire de Froidmont, after having tramped along half a league or more,
came upon the purlieus of the Benedictine monastery of Gembloux,
which is famed far and wide, and that after much exploration he did
discover a postern gate which was let into a high stone wall.  But
neither in front of that gate, nor anywhere near it, were there any
traces of Samaritans, of angels or of a wounded man.  The ground
round about that gate had at some time or another been strewn with
sand and raked over very smoothly and evenly, after which the humid
air and the rain had had their way with it.

Messire Gilles uttered a comprehensive oath.  Then he turned on his
heel and went his way.




CHAPTER II

  HOW A NOBLE PRINCE PRACTISED THE GENTLE
  ART OF PROCRASTINATION


I

Now, all that which I have related occurred during the month of
February in the year 1578--three years and more ago.

After which I come to my story.

We will leave the subject of Messire Gilles' dream, an it please you;
we will even leave that gallant if somewhat out-at-elbows gentleman
in the tap-room of the only hostelry of which the little town of La
Fère could boast, where he must needs wait for the good pleasure of
no less a personage than François Hercule, Duke of Alençon and of
Anjou--usually styled '_Monsieur_'--who was own brother to His Very
Christian Majesty, King Henry III of France, and whom Gilles de
Crohin, Sire de Froidmont, was serving for the nonce.

M. le Duc d'Alençon and d'Anjou was closeted upstairs with the Queen
of Navarre, that faithful and adoring sister who had already
committed many follies for his sake, and who was ready to commit as
many more.  What she saw to adore and worship in this degenerate and
indolent scion of the princely house of Valois, in this foppish
profligate devoid alike of morals and of valour, no historian has
ever been able to fathom.  That he had some hidden qualities that
were as noble as they have remained unknown to tradition, we must
assume from the very fact that Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, one of
the most brilliant women of that or any epoch and the wife of one of
the most dazzling and fascinating men of his day, lavished the
resources of her intellect and of her sisterly love upon that
graceless coxcomb.

Picture her now--that beautiful, clever woman--full of energy, of
vitality and of burning ambition, pacing the narrow room in the
humble hostelry of a second-rate city, up and down like some caged
and exquisite wild animal, the while that same fondly-adored brother
sat there silent and surly, his long legs, encased in breeches of
delicate green satin, stretched out before him, his not unattractive
face, framed in by an over-elaborate ruffle, bent in moody
contemplation of his velvet shoes, the while his perfumed and slender
hands fidgeted uneasily with the folds of his mantle or with the
slashings of his doublet.

On the table before him lay a letter, all crumpled and partly torn,
which Marguerite had just thrown down in an access of angry
impatience.

'By all the saints, François,' she said tartly, 'you would provoke an
angel into exasperation.  In Heaven's name, tell me what you mean to
do.'

_Monsieur_ did not reply immediately.  He stretched out his legs
still further before him; he shook his mantle into place; he smoothed
down the creases of his satin breeches; then he contemplated his
highly polished nails.  Marguerite of Navarre, with flaming cheeks
and blazing eyes, stood by, looking down on him with ever-growing
irritability not unmixed with contempt.

'François!' she exclaimed once more, evidently at the end of her
patience.

'Gently, my dear Margot; gently!' said _Monsieur_, with the
peevishness of a spoilt child.  'Holy Virgin, how you do fume!
Believe me, choler is bad for the stomach and worse for the
complexion.  And, after all, where is the hurry?  One must have time
to think.'

'Think!  Think!' she retorted.  ''Tis two days since M. d'Inchy's
letter came and he sends anon for his answer.'

'Which means,' he argued complacently, 'that there is no cause to
come to a decision for at least half an hour.'

An angry exclamation broke from Marguerite's full lips.

'My dear Margot,' said the Duke fretfully, 'marriage is a very
serious thing, and----'

He paused, frowning, for his sister had burst into ironical laughter.
'I am well aware,' he resumed dryly, 'that you, my dear, look upon it
as a cause for levity, and that poor Navarre, your husband----'

'I pray you, dear brother,' she broke in coldly, 'do not let the pot
call the kettle black.  'Tis neither in good taste nor yet opportune.
M. d'Inchy will send for his answer anon.  You must make up your mind
now, whether you mean to accept his proposal or not.'

Again _Monsieur_ remained silent for awhile.  Procrastination was as
the breath of his body to him.  Even now he drew the letter--every
word of which he probably knew already by heart--towards him and fell
to re-reading it for the twentieth time.


II

Marguerite of Navarre, biting her lips and almost crying with
vexation, went up to the deep window embrasure and, throwing open the
casement, she rested her elbow on the sill and leaned her cheek
against her hand.

The open courtyard of the hostelry was at her feet, and beyond it the
market-place of the sleepy little town with its quaint, narrow houses
and tall crow's foot gables and curious signs, rudely painted,
swinging on iron brackets in the breeze.  It was early afternoon of a
mild day in February, and in the courtyard of the hostelry there was
the usual bustle attendant upon the presence of a high and mighty
personage and of his numerous suite.

Men-at-arms passed to and fro; burghers from the tiny city, in dark
cloth clothes and sombre caps, came to pay their respects; peasants
from the country-side brought produce for sale; serving-men in drab
linen and maids in gaily-coloured kerchiefs flitted in and out of the
hostelry and across the yard with trays of refreshments for the
retinue of M. le Duc d'Anjou and of Madame la Reynede Navarre, own
brother and sister of the King of France.  Indeed, it was not often
that so great a prince and so exalted a lady had graced La Fère with
their presence, and the hostelry had been hard put to it to do honour
to two such noble guests.  Mine host and his wife and buxom daughters
were already wellnigh sick with worry, for though Madame la Reyne de
Navarre and M. le Duc, her brother, were very exacting and their
gentlemen both hungry and thirsty, not one among these, from
_Monsieur_ downwards, cared to pay for what he had.  And while the
little town seethed with soldiery and with loud-voiced gentlemen, the
unfortunate burghers who housed them and the poor merchants and
peasants who had to feed them, almost sighed for the Spanish
garrisons who, at any rate, were always well-paid and paying.

Down below in the courtyard there was constant jingling of spurs and
rattle of sabres, loud language and ribald laughter; but when the
casement flew open and the Queen of Navarre's face appeared at the
window, the latter, at any rate, was at once suppressed.  In the
shade and across a narrow wooden bench on which they sat astride, a
couple of gentlemen-at-arms were throwing dice, surrounded by a mixed
and gaping crowd--soldiers, servants, maids and peasants--who
exchanged pleasantries while watching the game.

Marguerite looked down on them for a moment or two, and an impatient
frown appeared between her brows.  She did not like the look of her
brother's 'gentlemen,' for they were of a truth very much
out-at-elbows, free of speech and curt of manner.  The fact that they
were never paid and often left in the lurch, if not actually sold to
their enemies by _Monsieur_, accounted, no doubt, for all the laxity,
and Marguerite swore to herself even then, that if ever her favourite
brother reached the ambitious goal for which she was scheming on his
behalf, one of his first acts of sovereignty should be to dismiss
such down-at-heel, out-at-elbows swashbucklers as were, for instance,
Messire Gilles de Crohin and many others.  After which vow Marguerite
de Navarre once more turned to her brother, trying to assume
self-control and calmness which she was far from feeling.  He
appeared still absorbed in the contemplation of the letter, and as he
looked up lazily and encountered her blazing eyes, he yawned
ostentatiously.

'François!' she burst out angrily.

'Well, my dear?' he retorted.

'M. le Baron d'Inchy,' she continued more quietly, 'hath taken
possession of Cambray and the Cambrésis and driven the pro-Spanish
Archbishop into exile.  He offers to deliver up the Cambrésis and to
open the gates of Cambray to you immediately, whilst M. le Comte de
Lalain will hand you over, equally readily, the provinces of
Hainault, of Flanders and of Artois.'

'I know all that,' he muttered.

'You might be Duke of Hainault and Artois,' she went on with
passionate enthusiasm.  'You might found a new kingdom of the
Netherlands, with yourself as its first sovereign lord--and you
hesitate!!!  Holy Joseph!  Holy Legions of Angels!' she added, with a
bitter sigh of pent-up exasperation.  'What have I done that I should
be plagued with such a nincompoop for a brother?'

François d'Alençon and d'Anjou laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

'The provinces are worth considering,' he said coolly.  'Cambray is
attractive, and I would not object to the Duchies of Artois and
Hainault, or even to a Kingdom of the Netherlands.  But...!'

'Well?' she broke in testily.  'What is the "but"?'

He sighed and made a sour grimace.  'There is a bitter pill to
swallow with all that sugar,' he replied.  'You appear to be
forgetting that, my very impetuous sister!'

It was Marguerite's turn to shrug her pretty shoulders.

'Bah!' she said contemptuously.  'A wife!  You call that a bitter
pill!  Jacqueline de----what is her name?'

_Monsieur_ referred to the letter.

'Jacqueline de Broyart,' he said dryly.

'Well!  Jacqueline de Broyart,' she continued, more composedly, 'is
said to be attractive.  M. d'Inchy says so.'

'A merchant must praise the goods which he offers for sale,' remarked
Monsieur.

'And even if she be ill-favoured,' retorted Marguerite dryly, 'she
brings the richest duchies in the Netherlands and the influence of
her name and family as her marriage portion.  Surely a kingdom is
worth a wife.'

'Sometimes.'

'In this case, François,' urged Marguerite impatiently.  Then, with
one of those sudden changes of mood which were one of her main
charms, she added with a kind of gentle and solemn earnestness: 'You
in your turn appear to forget, my exasperating brother, that 'tis I
who have worked for you, just as I always have done heretofore, I who
made friends for you with these loutish, ill-mannered Flemings, and
who prepared the way which has led to such a brilliant goal.  Whilst
you wasted your substance in riotous living in our beloved Paris, I
was half-killing myself with ennui in this abominable Flemish
climate, I was drinking the poisonous waters of Spa so as to remain
in touch with the governors of all these disaffected provinces and
insidiously turning their minds towards looking for a prince of the
house of France to be their deliverer and their ruler.  Now my
labours are bearing fruit.  Don John of Austria is more hated
throughout the Netherlands than he was before my coming hither, the
provinces are more wearied of the Spanish yoke--they are more ready
to accept a foreign ruler, even though he be a Catholic to boot.  You
have now but to stretch a hand, and all the golden harvest prepared
by me will fall into it without another effort on your part save that
of a prompt decision.  So let me tell you, once and for all, Monsieur
my brother, that if you refuse that golden harvest now, if you do not
accept the Baron d'Inchy's offer, never as long as I live will I
raise another finger to help you or to advance your welfare.  And
this I hereby do swear most solemnly and pray to the Virgin to
register my vow!'

The Duke, unaccustomed to his charming sister's earnestness, had
listened to her without departing from his sullen mood.  When she had
finished her tirade he shrugged his shoulders and yawned.

'How you do talk, my dear Margot!' he said coolly.  'To hear you one
would imagine that I was an incorrigible rogue, an immoral profligate
and a do-nothing.'

'Well, what else are you?' she retorted.

'A much maligned, overworked prince.'

She laughed, and despite her choler a look of genuine affection crept
into her eyes as she met the reproachful glance of the brother whom
she loved so dearly, and whose faults she was always ready to condone.

'By the Mass!' quoth he.  'You talk of having worked and slaved for
me--and so you have, I'll own--but, far from leading a dissipated
life in Paris the while, I toiled and slaved, intrigued and
conspired, too--aye, and risked my life a hundred times so that I
might fall in with your schemes.'

'Oh!' she broke in with a good-natured laugh.  'Let us be just,
Monsieur my brother.  You allowed others to toil and slave and
intrigue and conspire, and to risk their life in your cause----'

''Tis you are unjust, Margot,' he retorted hotly.  'Why, think you
then, that I was arrested by order of my brother the King, and thrown
into the dungeon of Vincennes----?'

'You would not have been arrested, my dear,' said Marguerite dryly,
'if you had not chosen to be arrested.'

'The King, our brother, does not approve of your schemes, my Margot.'

'He is the dog in the manger,' she replied.  'Though Flanders and
Hainault and the Netherlands are not for him, he does not wish to see
you a more powerful prince than he.'

'So, you see----'

'But you knew,' she broke in quickly, 'you knew four and twenty hours
before the order of your arrest was issued that the King had already
decided on signing it.  You had ample time for leaving Paris and
joining me at Spa.  Six precious months would not have been
wasted----'

'Well!  I escaped out of Vincennes as soon as I could.'

'Yes!' she retorted, once more fuming and raging, and once more
pacing up and down the room like a fretful animal in a cage.
'Procrastination!  Time wasted!  Shelving of important decisions!...'

He pointed leisurely to the letter.

'There's no time lost,' he said.

'Time wasted is always lost,' she argued.  'The tone of M. le Baron
d'Inchy is more peremptory this time than it was six months ago.
There is a "take it or leave it" air about this letter.  The
provinces are waxing impatient.  The Prince of Orange is rapidly
becoming the idol of the Netherlands.  What you reject he will no
doubt accept.  He is a man--a man of action, not a laggard----'

'But I am not rejecting anything!' exclaimed _Monsieur_ irritably.

'Then, for God's sake, François----!'

Marguerite de Navarre paused, standing for a few seconds quite still,
her whole attitude one of rigid expectancy.  The next moment she had
run back to the window.  But now she leaned far out of the casement,
heedless if the men below saw the Queen of Navarre and smiled over
her eagerness.  Her keen ears had caught the sound of an approaching
troop of men; the clatter of horses' hoofs upon the hard road was
already drawing perceptibly nearer.

'Messire Gilles!' she called out impatiently to one of the
dice-throwers, who was continuing his game unperturbed.

In a moment the man was on his feet.  He looked up and saw the
Queen's pretty face framed in by the casement-window; and a pretty
woman was the only thing on God's earth which commanded Gilles de
Crohin's entire respect.  Immediately he stood at attention,
silhouetted against the sunlit market-place beyond--a tall, martial
figure, with face weather-beaten and forehead scarred, the record of
a hundred fights depicted in every line of the sinewy limbs, the
powerful shoulders, the look of self-assurance in the deep-set eyes
and the strong, square jaw.


III

There was nothing very handsome about Messire Gilles de Crohin.  That
portrait of him by Rembrandt--a mere sketch--done some years later,
suggests a ruggedness of exterior which might have been even
repulsive at times, when passion or choler distorted the irregular
features.  Only the eyes, grey and profound, and the full lips, ever
ready to smile, may have been attractive.  In a vague way he
resembled the royal master whom he was serving now.  The features
were not unlike those of François, Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, but cast
in a rougher, more powerful mould and fashioned of stouter clay.  The
resemblance is perhaps more striking in the picture than it could
have been in the original, for the Duke's skin was almost as smooth
as a woman's, his hair and sparse, pointed beard were always
exquisitely brushed and oiled; whereas Gilles' skin was that of a man
who has spent more nights in the open than in a downy bed, and his
moustache--he did not wear the fashionable beard--was wont to
bristle, each hair standing aloof from its neighbour, whenever
Messire Gilles bridled with amusement or with rage.

Then, again, Gilles looked older than the Duke, even though he was, I
think, the younger of the two by several years; but we may take it
that neither his cradle nor his youth had been watched over with such
tender care as those of the scion of the house of France, and though
dissipation and a surfeit of pleasure had drawn many lines on the
placid face of the one man, hard fighting and hard living had left
deeper imprints still on that of the other.  Still, the resemblance
was there, and though Gilles' limbs indicated elasticity and power,
whereas those of the Prince of Valois were more slender and loosely
knit, the two men were much of a height and build, sufficiently so,
at any rate, to cause several chroniclers--notably the Queen of
Navarre herself--to aver that Gilles de Crohin's personality ofttimes
shielded that of _Monsieur_, Duke of Anjou and of Alençon, and that
Messire Gilles was ofttimes requisitioned to impersonate the master
whom he served and resembled, especially when any danger at the hand
of an outraged husband or father, or of a hired assassin lurked for
the profligate prince behind a hedge or in the angle of a dark
street.  Nor was that resemblance to be altogether wondered at,
seeing that the de Froidmonts claimed direct descent from the house
of Valois and still quartered the Flower o' the Lily on ground azure
upon their escutcheon, with the proud device: 'Roy ne suys, ne Duc,
ne Prince, ne Comte; je suys Sire de Froide Monte.'[1]  They had
indeed played at one time an important part in the destinies of the
princely house, until fickle Fortune took so resolutely to turning
her back upon the last descendants of the noble race.


[1] 'Am neither King, nor Duke, nor Prince, nor Count; am Sire de
Froide Monte.'


Marguerite of Navarre was too thoroughly a woman not to appreciate
the appearance of one who was so thoroughly a man.  Gilles de Crohin
may have been out-at-elbows, but even the rough leather jerkin which
he wore and the faded kerseymere of his doublet could not altogether
mar a curious air of breeding and of power which was not in accord
with penury and a position of oft humiliating dependence.  So,
despite her impatience, she gazed on Gilles for a moment or two with
quick satisfaction ere she said:

''Tis Monseigneur d'Inchy's messenger we hear, is it not, Messire?'

'I doubt not, your Majesty,' replied Gilles.

'Then I pray you,' she added, 'conduct him to my brother's presence
directly he arrives.'

And even whilst the sound of approaching horsemen drew nearer and
nearer still, and anon a great clatter upon the rough paving stones
of the courtyard announced their arrival, Marguerite turned back into
the room.  She ran to her brother's chair and knelt down beside him.
She put fond arms round his shoulders and forced him to look into her
tear-filled eyes.

'François,' she pleaded, with the tenderness of a doting mother.
'_Mon petit_ François!  For my sake, if not for yours!  You don't
know how I have toiled and worked so that this should come to pass.
I want you to be great and mighty and influential.  I hate your being
in the humiliating position of a younger brother beside Henri, who is
so arrogant and dictatorial with us all.  François, dear, I have
worked for you because I love you.  Let me have my reward!'

_Monsieur_ sighed like the spoilt child he really was, and made his
habitual sour grimace.

'You are too good to me, Margot,' he said somewhat churlishly.  'I
would you had left the matter alone.  Our brother Henri cannot live
for ever, and his good wife has apparently no intention of presenting
him with a son.'

'Our brother Henri,' she insisted, 'can live on until you are too old
to enjoy the reversion of the throne of France, and Louise de
Lorraine is still young--who knows?  The Duchies of Artois and
Hainault and the Sovereignty of the Netherlands to-day are worth more
than the vague perspective of the throne of France mayhap ten or a
dozen years hence----'

'And my marriage with Elizabeth of England?' he protested.

'Elizabeth of England will never marry you, François,' she replied
earnestly.  'She is too fanatical a Protestant ever to look with
favour on a Catholic prince.  She will keep you dangling round her
skirts and fool you to the top of her bent, but Milor of Leycester
will see to it that you do not wed the Queen of England.'

'If I marry this Flemish wench I shall be burning my boats----'

'What matter?' she retorted hotly, 'if you enter so glorious a
harbour?'

There was nothing in the world that suited _Monsieur's_ temperament
better than lengthy discussions over a decision, which could thereby
be conveniently put off.  Even now he would have talked and argued
and worn his sister's patience down to breaking point if suddenly the
corridor outside had not resounded with martial footsteps and the
jingling of swords and spurs.

'François!' pleaded Marguerite for the last time.

And the Duke, still irresolute, still longing to procrastinate, gave
a final sigh of sullen resignation.

'Very well!' he said.  'Since you wish it----'

'I do,' she replied solemnly.  'I do wish it most earnestly, most
sincerely.  You _will_ accept, François?'

'Yes.'

'You promise?'

Again he hesitated.  Then, as the footsteps halted outside the door
and Marguerite almost squeezed the breath out of his body with the
pressure of her young strong arms, he said reluctantly: 'I promise!'
Then, immediately--for fear he should be held strictly to his
word--he added quickly: 'On one condition.'

'What is that?' she asked.

'That I am not asked to plight my troth to the wench till after I
have seen her; for I herewith do swear most solemnly that I would
repudiate her at the eleventh hour--aye, at the very foot of the
altar steps, if any engagement is entered into in my name to which I
have not willingly subscribed.'

This time he spoke so solemnly and with such unwonted decision that
Marguerite thought it best to give way.  At the back of her
over-quick mind she knew that by hook or by crook she would presently
devise a plan which would reconcile his wishes to her own.

'Very well,' she said after an almost imperceptible moment of
hesitation.  'It shall be as you say.'

And despite the half-hearted promise given by the
arch-procrastinator, there was a look of triumph and of joy on Queen
Marguerite's piquant features now.  She rose to her feet and hastily
dried her tears.

There was a rap at the door.  Marguerite seated herself on a
cushioned chair opposite her brother and called out serenely: 'Enter!'




CHAPTER III

HOW A CLEVER WOMAN OUTWITTED AN OBSTINATE MAN


I

The door was thrown open and Messire Gilles de Crohin, Sire de
Froidmont, stood at attention upon the threshold.

'Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy's messenger, is it not, Messire?' asked
Marguerite of Navarre quickly, even before Gilles had time to make
the formal announcement.

'Messire de Montigny has arrived, your Majesty,' he replied.  'He
bears credentials from Monseigneur the governor of Cambray.'

'Messire de Montigny?' she said, with a frown of puzzlement.  'In
person?'

'Yes, your Majesty.'

'Has he come with a retinue, then?' broke in _Monsieur_ with his
wonted peevishness.  'There is no room in the city.  Already I have
scarce room for my men.'

'Messire de Montigny is alone, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles de
Crohin, 'save for an equerry.  He proposes to return to Cambray this
night.'

_Monsieur_ uttered a fretful exclamation, but already Marguerite had
interposed.

'We cannot,' she said curtly, 'keep Messire de Montigny on the
doorstep, my dear brother.  And you must remember that I have your
promise.'

'Holy Virgin!' was _Monsieur's_ only comment on this timeful
reminder.  'Was ever man so plagued before by a woman who was not
even his mistress, Gilles!' he added peremptorily.

'François!' admonished his sister sternly.

'_Mon Dieu_, my dear!' he retorted.  'May I not speak to Gilles now?
Gilles, who is my best friend----'

'Messire de Montigny is in the corridor,' she broke in firmly.

'I know!  I know!  Curse him!  I only wished to order Gilles--my best
friend, Gilles--not to leave me in the lurch; not to abandon me all
alone between an impetuous sister and a mulish Fleming.'

'François!' she exclaimed.  'What folly!'

'Gilles must remain in the room,' he declared, 'during the interview.'

'Impossible!' she affirmed hotly.  'Messire de Montigny might not
like it.'

'Then I'll not see him----'

Marguerite de Navarre was on the verge of tears.  Vexation,
impatience, choler, were wellnigh choking her.

'Very well!' she said at last, with a sigh of infinite weariness.  'I
pray you, Messire,' she added, turning to Gilles, 'introduce
Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy's messenger and remain in the room, as
_Monsieur_ bids you, during the interview.'


II

Messire de Montigny was a short, stout, determined-looking gentleman
who, very obviously, despite his outward show of deference to a scion
of the house of France, had received his instructions as to the
manner in which he was to deal with that procrastinating and indolent
prince.  He had clearly come here resolved to be firm and not to
yield an inch in his demands, nor to allow any further delay in the
negotiations wherewith he had been entrusted.

But with François, Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, a promise given was not
of necessity a promise kept.  No one knew that better than the sister
who adored him, and whose quasi-maternal love for him was not wholly
free from contempt.  Therefore, all the while that Messire de
Montigny was paying his devoirs to _Monsieur_ and to herself, all the
while that the preliminary flummery, the bowings and the scrapings,
the grandiloquent phrases and meaningless compliments went on between
the two men, Marguerite of Navarre was watching her brother, noting
with a sinking of the heart every sign of peevish fretfulness upon
that weak and good-looking face, and of that eternal desire to put
decisions off, which she knew in this case would mean the ruin of all
her ambitious plans for him.  At times, her luminous dark eyes would
exchange a glance of understanding or of appeal with Gilles de Crohin
who, silent and apparently disinterested, stood in a corner of the
room quietly watching the comedy which was being enacted before him.
Marguerite de Navarre, whose sense of the ridiculous was one of her
keenest attributes, could well appreciate how a man of Gilles'
caustic humour would be amused at this double-edged duel of
temperaments.  She could see how, at _Monsieur's_ perpetual
parryings, Gilles' moustache would bristle and his deep-set eyes
twinkle with merriment; and though she frowned on him for this
impertinence, she could not altogether blame him for it.  There
certainly was an element of farce in the proceedings.

'I have come for Monseigneur's answer,' Messire de Montigny had
declared with uncompromising energy.  'My brother de Lalain and M.
d'Inchy cannot, and will not, wait!'

'You Flemings are always in such a devil of a hurry!' Monsieur had
said, with an attempt at jocularity.

'We have endured tyranny for close upon a century, Monseigneur,'
retorted de Montigny curtly.  'We have been long-suffering; we can
endure no longer.'

'But, Holy Virgin, Messire!' exclaimed the Duke fretfully, 'ye cannot
expect a man to risk his entire future in the turn of a hand.'

'Monsieur le Baron d'Inchy had the honour to send a letter to
Monseigneur two months ago,' rejoined the other.  'The Provinces have
fought the whole might of Spain and of Don Juan of Austria on their
own initiative and on their own resources, for the recovery of their
ancient civil and religious liberties.  But they have fought unaided
quite long enough.  We must have help and we must have a leader.  The
Prince of Orange has his following in Holland.  We in the Cambrésis,
in Hainault and Artois and Flanders want a sovereign of our own--a
sovereign who has power and the might of a great kingdom and of
powerful alliances behind him.  'Our choice has fallen on _Monsieur_,
Duc d'Alençon and d'Anjou, own brother to the King of France.  Will
he deign to accept the sovereignty of the United Provinces of the
Netherlands and give them the happiness and the freedom which they
seek?'

With a certain rough dignity Messire de Montigny put one knee to the
ground and swept the floor with his plumed hat ere he pressed his
hand against his heart in token of loyalty and obeisance.  Marguerite
de Navarre's beautiful face became irradiated with a great joy.  Her
fine nostrils quivered with excitement and she threw a look of
triumph on Messire Gilles, who had, in his appearance just then, the
solemnity of a Puck--and one of encouragement on the beloved brother.
But _Monsieur_ looked as sullen and as gloomy as he had done before.
If there was a thing on this earth which he hated more than any
other, it was a plain question which required a plain answer.  He was
furious with Messire de Montigny for having asked a plain question,
furious with his sister for looking triumphant, and furious with
Gilles for seeming so amused.

So he took refuge in moody silence, and Messire de Montigny, with a
flush of anger on his round face, quickly rose to his feet.  Even to
one less keenly observant than was the clever Queen of Navarre, it
would have been obvious that all these obsequious marks of deference,
these genuflexions and soft words were highly unpalatable to the
envoy of Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy, governor of the Cambrésis.
They were proud folk, these Flemings--nobles, burgesses and workers
alike--and it had only been after very mature deliberation and driven
by stern necessity that they had decided to call in a stranger to aid
them in their distress.  The tyranny of the Spaniards had weighed
heavily upon them.  One by one they saw their ancient privileges
wrested from them, whilst their liberty to worship in accordance with
the dictates of their conscience was filched from them under
unspeakable horrors and tyrannies.  They had fought on doggedly,
often hopelessly, loth to call in outside aid for fear of exchanging
one oppressor for another, and a while ago they had a goodly number
of victories to their credit.  Orange had freed many provinces, and
several cities had driven the Spanish garrisons from out their gates.
M. le Baron d'Inchy had seized Cambray and the Cambrésis and driven
the Catholic Archbishop into exile.  Flemish governors were
established in Hainault, Brabant, in Artois and in Flanders; the
Dutch were the masters in Holland, Zeeland and Frise--a splendid
achievement!  For, remember that these burghers and their untrained
bands were pitted against the finest military organization of the
epoch.

But lately, the Spaniards, alarmed at these reverses, had sent fresh
troops into the Netherlands, and Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma,
their most distinguished soldier, had obtained signal victories over
the war-wearied Dutch and Flemish troops.  Since Orange had suffered
a signal defeat at Gembloux three years ago several cities had fallen
back once more under the Spanish yoke.  It was time to call in
foreign aid.  On the one hand, Elizabeth of England had given
assurances of money and of troops; on the other, Marguerite of
Navarre had made vague promises in the name of the Duc d'Alençon.  A
Catholic prince was a bitter pill to swallow for these staunch
Protestants, but when d'Inchy offered _Monsieur_ the sovereignty of
the Netherlands, with immediate possession of the Cambrésis, of
Hainault, Artois and Flanders, he had first of all
insisted--respectfully but firmly--on certain guarantees: the
guarantee which to _Monsieur's_ fastidious taste was like a bitter
pill in the sugary offer--a Flemish wife and a Protestant to
boot--one who would hold the new sovereign lord true to his promise
to uphold and protect the reformed faith.


III

"I hate being forced into a marriage!" _Monsieur_ repeated for the
third time, as he cast lowering looks upon the bowed head of M. de
Montigny.

'There is no question of force, Monseigneur,' rejoined the latter
firmly.  'M. d'Inchy, speaking in the name of our provinces, had the
honour to propose a bargain, which Monseigneur will accept or reject
as he thinks fit.'

'But this Jacqueline--er--Jacqueline----?' queried Monsieur
disdainfully.

'Jacqueline de Broyart, Dame de Morchipont, Duchesse et Princesse de
Ramose, d'Espienne et de Wargny,' broke in Messire de Montigny with
stern pride, "is as beautiful and pure as she is rich and noble.  She
is worthy to be the consort of a King.'

'But I have never seen the lady!' argued _Monsieur_ irritably.

'Jacqueline de Broyart,' retorted de Montigny curtly, 'cannot be
trotted out for Monseigneur's inspection like a filly who is put up
for sale!'

'Who talks of trotting her out?' said _Monsieur_.  '_Mon Dieu_, man!
Can I not even see my future wife?  In matters of beauty tastes
differ, and----'

'You will admit, Messire,' here interposed Marguerite quickly, seeing
that at _Monsieur's_ tone of thinly-veiled contempt frowns of anger,
dark as thunder-clouds, were gathering on Messire de Montigny's brow.
'You will admit that it is only just that my brother should see the
lady ere he finally decides.'

'Jacqueline, Madame la Reyne,' riposted de Montigny gruffly, 'is
wooed by every rich and puissant seigneur in four kingdoms.  Princes
of the blood in Germany and Austria and Spain, noble lords of England
and of France are at her feet.  She is a mere child--scarce nineteen
years of age--but she has a woman's heart and a woman's pride.  She
is my cousin's child; d'Inchy and my brother are her guardians.  They
would not allow an affront to be put upon her.'

'An affront, Messire?' queried Marguerite coldly.  'Who spoke of an
affront to the Duc d'Alençon's future wife?'

'If Monseigneur sees the child,' argued de Montigny stiffly, 'and
then turns against her, she is quite old enough to look upon that
fact as an affront.'

'The devil take you for a stiff-necked Fleming, Messire!' quoth the
Duke angrily.

'Then Monseigneur refuses?' was de Montigny's calm retort, even
though his rough voice was shaking with suppressed choler.

'No, no, Messire!' once more broke in Marguerite hastily.  'Did
Monseigneur say that he refused?'

'Monseigneur seems disinclined to accept,' rejoined de Montigny.
'And so much hesitation is a slur cast upon the honour of a noble
Flemish lady who is my kinswoman.'

'Believe me, Messire,' said Marguerite gently and with unerring tact,
determined to conciliate at all costs, 'that we of the house of
Valois hold all honour in high esteem.  Meseems that you and my
brother do but misunderstand one another.  Will you allow a woman's
wit to bridge over the difficulty?'

'If you please, Madame,' replied de Montigny stiffly.


IV

Marguerite de Navarre gave a short sigh of satisfaction.  One look of
warning only did she cast on her brother, and with an almost
imperceptible movement of finger to lip she enjoined him to remain
silent and to leave the matter in her hands.  François d'Anjou
shrugged his shoulders and smothered a yawn.  The whole matter was
eminently distasteful to him, and gladly would he have thrown up the
promised throne and be rid of all these serious questions which bored
him to tears.

De Montigny stood erect and stern; his attitude remained deferential,
but also unyielding.  He was deeply offended in the person of the
child who in his sight stood for all that was most noble and most
desirable in the Netherlands.  The indifference with which the offer
of such a brilliant alliance had been received by this Prince of
France had angered the stiff-necked Fleming beyond measure.  But
Marguerite, feeling the difficulties around her, was now on her
mettle.  None knew better than she how to make a man unbend--even if
he be a bitter enemy, which de Montigny certainly was not.

'Messire,' she said with that gentle dignity which became her so
well, 'I pray you be not angered with my brother.  He has had much to
worry him of late.  Indeed, indeed,' she continued earnestly, 'his
heart is entirely given over to your magnificent country and he is
proud and honoured to have been chosen by you as your future
Sovereign Lord.'

But to this conciliating harangue de Montigny made no reply, and
Marguerite resumed, after a slight pause.

'Perhaps you do not know, Messire, that the King of France, our
brother, hath not such goodwill towards his kindred as they would
wish, and that, fearing that _Monsieur_ would be overproud of your
offer and would nurture further ambitious plans, he did order
_Monsieur's_ arrest, thereby causing us much delay.'

'Yes, your Majesty,' replied de Montigny curtly, 'I knew all that.
But the offer hath been made to Monseigneur now--and I still await
his answer.'

'His answer is yes, Messire!' said Marguerite firmly.

'A grudging "yes," forsooth,' quoth de Montigny with an impatient
shrug of the shoulders.

'An eager "yes," an you'll believe me,' retorted Marguerite.  'All
that he asks is to see the noble Dame Jacqueline de Broyart and to
pay her his devoirs ere he is formally affianced to her.'

'Hang it all!' quoth _Monsieur_ resolutely.  'You cannot expect a man
to wed a woman whom he has never seen!'

'A man in Monseigneur's position,' retorted de Montigny gruffly,
'must do many things which humbler folk can afford to leave undone,
and I have explained my objections to that plan; so that if Madame la
Reyne hath none other to offer----'

'Nay! but I entreat you to listen to me, Messire,' urged Marguerite
with exemplary patience.  'And you, François,' she added, turning to
her brother, who at de Montigny's last words had muttered an angry
oath under his breath, 'I beg that you will let me unfold my plan ere
you combat it.  Messire,' she continued earnestly, once more
addressing the Flemish lord, 'let me assure you again that I both
understand and appreciate your objection and, on my soul I never
dreamed of suggesting that so noble and great a lady as Madame
Jacqueline de Broyart should, as you justly remark, be trotted out
for the inspection of Monseigneur, like a filly which is put up for
sale.'

'Well, then----?' retorted de Montigny.

'Tell me, Messire,' she interposed irrelevantly, 'how old exactly is
Madame Jacqueline?'

'Not yet twenty,' he replied.  'But I do not see----'

'You will in a moment,' quoth she with a smile.  'Twenty, you said?'

'Not quite.'

'And beautiful, of course?'

'Ask the men of Hainault and of Flanders,' was his proud reply.
'They will tell you how beautiful she is.'

'Twenty--not quite--and beautiful,' said Marguerite of Navarre
slowly.  'And of a romantic turn of mind, shall we say, as young
girls so often are?'

'Oh, as to that,' replied de Montigny with a puzzled frown, 'I dare
swear that she hath a romantic turn of mind.  She certainly would not
allow herself to be offered up for sale like a bundle of goods.
Therefore----'

'Easy, easy, Messire!' urged the Queen gently.  'I entreat you to
reply to my questions without choler.  Are we not both striving to
find a way out of an impasse which might wreck the very welfare of
your country and Monseigneur d'Inchy's most cherished scheme?'

De Montigny sighed impatiently.  'You are right, Madame la Reyne,' he
said grudgingly.  'I pray you continue.  I'll not lose my temper
again.  My word on it.'

'You were about to assure me, Messire,' resumed Marguerite gently,
'that Madame Jacqueline is as romantic as she is beautiful.'

'Jacqueline has been spoilt and adulated,' replied de Montigny,
determined to speak calmly.  'Poets have dedicated their verses to
her.  Musicians have sung her praises----'

'And love-sick swains have died of love for her, or sighed
impassioned tirades beneath her casement-window,' concluded
Marguerite, with a smile which was so winning that, despite himself,
after a moment or two, it found a pale reflex in de Montigny's stern
face.

'Who should know better than the Queen of Navarre,' he retorted, with
a crude effort at gallantry, 'the power which beauty wields over all
men?'

'Very well, then, Messire,' quoth she gaily.  'Listen to my plan, for
I swear 'tis a good one, since it will marry your pride to my
brother's hesitation.  I propose that _Monsieur_ le Duc d'Anjou shall
first approach Madame Jacqueline under an assumed name.  She hath
never seen him--he is totally unknown in these parts; his incognito
could therefore be easily kept up.'

'I don't quite understand,' muttered de Montigny with a frown.

'You will in a moment,' she rejoined.  'I propose, then, that
_Monsieur_ shall enact a part--the part of an unknown and noble
prince who hath become secretly enamoured of Madame Jacqueline.  I
would suggest that he should appear before her closely masked and
begin his part by sighing dolefully beneath her casement-window.
Thus, at the outset, Madame Jacqueline, being what she is--romantic
and not yet twenty--will feel an interest in this unknown swain.  Her
curiosity will be aroused, and she will not be loth to grant him the
interview for which he will have sighed and begged in all humility.'

'But that is sheer folly, Madame!' broke in de Montigny, who had been
at great pains to check his growing truculence.

'Folly?' she queried blandly.  'Why?'

'Because--because----' he argued gruffly.

'You promised on your honour, Messire,' she admonished gaily, 'that
you would not again lose your temper.'

'But the folly of it!'

'Again I ask you--why folly?'

'Jacqueline is not a foolish child.  She is not like to be taken in
by so transparent a comedy.'

'It will not be transparent, Messire.  Under my guidance the comedy
will be exceedingly well acted.  Madame Jacqueline will never know
that her love-sick swain is the Duke of Anjou.'

'Then 'tis greater folly still!'

'Ah, that I swear it is not!' retorted Marguerite de Navarre hotly.
'Your Jacqueline is not twenty--she is proud and beautiful and
romantic.  Well! give her some romance and she'll thank you for it
presently on her knees.'

'But----' protested de Montigny.

'Is not the whole thing simplicity in itself?' she broke in eagerly.
'The fame of Madame Jacqueline's beauty hath spread far and wide;
what more rational than that a noble prince--too insignificant or too
poor to enter the lists for her hand--should choose a romantic method
to approach her?  After all, what are we all striving for?  That
_Monsieur_ shall see the lovely Jacqueline without her knowing that
he proposes to woo her.  If, in addition to that, we cause the two
young people to fall in love with one another, we shall have done
well; whilst, on the other hand, if, after having seen her,
_Monsieur_ retires from the candidature, the susceptibilities of the
Flemish nation and of Madame Jacqueline will have been safeguarded.'

'How?'

'The unknown prince can vanish as mysteriously as he came.  The story
can reach Madame Jacqueline's ear that he was found killed by some
other jealous swain outside her garden-gate.'

'Folly, Madame!  Folly, I say!' protested de Montigny, perhaps a
shade less forcibly than he had done before.

'Nay, then, 'tis a blessed folly, Messire, which oft outweighs
counsels of wisdom.'

'But----'

'Ah! but me no more buts, Messire!  Ye cannot bring forth one
objection which I cannot easily combat.  Think on it!  A romantic
girl, whose life will be brightened by this pretty adventure!'

'Perchance----'

'Perchance what?'

'She fall in love with the unknown swain.'

'So much the better, when she discovers he is her future lord.'

Then, as de Montigny really appeared to be struggling between consent
and refusal, and doubt, anger, contempt, irresolution were
alternately depicted in his rugged face, she continued persuasively:

'Think, Messire, how you safeguard your niece's feelings, her just
pride, her maidenly reserve.  _Monsieur_ le Duc d'Anjou will either
himself fall madly in love with Madame Jacqueline--in which case you
will have added the leaven of passion to the stodgy dough of
matrimony--or else he'll withdraw from the candidature, unknown,
unsuspected; and the child will only have one pleasant dream the more
to add to her illusions.'

Montigny was yielding.  Who could, indeed, resist for long the
insinuating tongue of Marguerite of Navarre, the eager glitter of her
eyes, the strength of her will and of her personality.  The
sober-minded, stiff-necked and somewhat slow-witted Fleming felt
himself literally swept off his feet in this whirlpool of adventure
and of intrigue, and his language was not sufficiently glib to meet
objection with objection, to parry or to thrust in this unequal duel
of wits.  Perhaps--had he not desired so passionately the alliance
which he had been sent to conclude, had he been less firmly convinced
that a union with France would prove the salvation of his people and
of the country which he worshipped--he might have opposed an
obstinate and gruff refusal to Marguerite's subtle scheme.  But as it
was, his resistance was soon disarmed; she even managed to conquer
the irritation which _Monsieur's_ very personality had aroused in his
mind.

'We have not yet heard,' he said at last, 'what Monseigneur le duc
d'Anjou hath to say on the matter.'

'Oh!' _Monsieur_ hastened to say with mock sincerity, 'all that I
have to say is that throughout my life I have from time to time and
on many a momentous occasion, registered on oath that I would never
be affianced to a woman whom I had not previously learned to love.'

'You will own, Messire,' broke in Marguerite gently, 'that this is a
laudable sentiment.'

Nor did she think it desirable to let Messire de Montigny know that
her unreliable brother had vowed but half an hour ago that if a wife
were thrust upon him now he would, an he did not like her, repudiate
her even at the foot of the altar.  Shifty and irresponsible in most
things, she knew him well enough to understand that in matters which
affected himself and his desires, he would prove dangerous, obstinate
and cruel.

'On my soul!' added _Monsieur_ with well-assumed earnestness, 'I do
assure you, Messire, that I knew nothing of my sister's project.'

'There was no time to put it before you, François,' rejoined
Marguerite.  'It arose in my brain even while you parleyed together
with Messire de Montigny and seemed unable to come to an
understanding.'

'Then what says Monseigneur now?' reiterated the Flemish lord curtly.

'Well!' drawled _Monsieur_ in his usual indecisive way, 'I say--I say
that----'

'François!' admonished Marguerite sharply.

He felt himself driven into a corner, from which procrastination
would no longer free him.  In a manner the proposed adventure suited
his temperament, and in any case it would help to put off the final
and irrevocable decision.  Therefore he was willing to fall in with
it.  Sentimental dalliance was an art which he knew to his
finger-tips, and there was much in his sister's project which pleased
his lazy, pulpy nature.  To sigh beneath a woman's window, to woo a
woman's love with honeyed words beneath a silken mask, to plan secret
meetings and steal to lovers' trysts at dead of night, had always
been an absorbing occupation for this degenerate prince.  Now he felt
de Montigny's stern gaze fixed upon him and his sister's admonitions
rang in his ears.  He knew that he had worn her love and patience
almost to a breaking thread.  He threw a final appealing look on
Gilles de Crohin, but the latter's glance of amusement appeared as an
encouragement.  Well, Gilles would know!  Gilles would appreciate!
He, too, loved masks and casement-windows and fair women, tearful
with love.  Gilles also loved fighting, so he could do that, if any
of it barred the way to _Monsieur's_ comfort and peace.

'François!' came once more, appealing yet severe, from Marguerite of
Navarre.

'What says Monseigneur?' reiterated de Montigny for the third time.

'I say that you have left me no choice, Messire,' quoth François due
d'Anjou at last.  'It shall be as my sister desires.'


V

What was said after this is not much to the point.  Enough that de
Montigny yielded--very reluctantly, very slowly, be it admitted--but
still, he did yield, and Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, was triumphant
because she had got her way and because she would be allowed now to
weave one of those subtle and sentimental plots which was as the
breath of life to her inventive brain.  She was also triumphant
because she felt that nothing now stood in the way of the ambitious
plans which she had framed for her favourite brother.  She was
triumphant because she felt the romance which she had concocted for
his benefit would end in substantial gain for him--a richly-dowered
wife and a sovereignty as rich as a crown.  Then, at last, when she
had won Messire de Montigny over absolutely and completely with her
ready wit and her glib tongue, she extended a gracious hand to the
somewhat shamefaced Fleming.  'Ah, Messire!' she said.  'You little
realize how much you have done for your country this day!'

'I certainly have sacrificed my sanity and my better judgment,' he
said gruffly.  But he did bend the knee, and kissed the
delicately-perfumed hand.

'And Madame Jacqueline will be at Cambray?' she asked.

'She is at Cambray now,' he replied.

'Then _Monsieur_ had best repair thither right away.  You yourself
will be there, Messire?'

'Not I, alas, Madame!' he replied.  'After I have seen my brother and
d'Inchy and obtained their consent to this wild-cat scheme, I join
the army of the Prince of Orange at Utrecht.'

'But you'll see that my brother has a safe conduct and is sure of a
welcome from Monseigneur d'Inchy?'

'Oh!  d'Inchy will consent and so will my brother.  They will make
Monseigneur quite welcome,' rejoined de Montigny with a sigh.  'All
of us would do much, Madame, in order to bring about this alliance,
on which we have set our hearts.'

He was as wax now in the hands of this fascinating intriguer.  In his
heart of hearts he knew that sober reflection would come anon; he
knew that it would take much persuasion ere his brother, and the
other sober-minded Flemings who ruled the destinies of a great nation
and of a rich heiress, would finally consent to these wild and
romantic plans which had found their origin in an imaginative woman's
brain; he knew that, mayhap, when he returned to Cambray, he would
have to argue in his turn as the Queen of Navarre had argued with
him.  But in the meanwhile, now that he had given in, he was man
enough and gentleman enough to fulfil his share of the bargain
loyally and completely.

'That's brave!' exclaimed Marguerite.  'And I entreat you, lose no
time.  _Monsieur_ could start for Cambray this night.'

'Would Monseigneur go alone?' queried de Montigny.

'No, no,' broke in the Duke fretfully.  'I could not go unattended.
Think on it, Messire!  A prince of the house of France!'

'Monseigneur would not, I presume, enter Cambray incognito with a
retinue of men-at-arms,' retorted the other with a grim smile.

'No! not a retinue,' he rejoined unperturbed.  'I'll have Gilles with
me and a serving-man; that is all.'

'Gilles?'

'Gilles de Crohin, Sire de Froidmont,' interposed Marguerite, as with
a graceful gesture of the hand she indicated Gilles, who still stood
silent and impassive in the corner of the room.  'This gallant
gentleman is devoted to Monsieur's service and accompanies him
wherever he goes.'

De Montigny's sharp, scrutinizing glance swept approvingly over
Gilles de Crohin's martial figure.

'Very well then, so be it,' he said.  'I will give a safe conduct to
Monseigneur under any name he will choose to assume, and one to
Messire Gilles de Crohin, Sire de Froidmont, who will travel as his
equerry.  Is that what Madame la Reyne desires?'

'It is!  It is!' cried Marguerite joyfully.  'Ah!' she added as she
directed a reproachful glance on her brother, 'dilatoriness is not a
part of your method, Messire de Montigny!'

'_Mon Dieu_, my good Margot!' quoth _Monsieur_ tartly.  'You do not
give Messire sufficient time to breathe.'

'Who wants to breathe,' she retorted gaily, 'when the destinies of
kingdoms are at stake?  The safe conducts, Messire!  The safe
conducts, I entreat!  Why not sign them here and now?'

She jumped up from her chair, eager, young, full of vitality.  In a
moment, with her own dainty hands, she had placed ink-horn, sand, a
quill, a sheet of paper upon the table.

'The safe conduct, Messire!' she reiterated excitedly.  'I vow that
I'll don male attire and start for Cambray with my brother this
night!'

And she would have done it, too, had not prudence dictated otherwise.
Her fine, clever face, however, was well known in this part of
Belgium.  She had been at Cambray but a few weeks ago, moving heaven
and earth and stirring up those heavy Flemings to activity on behalf
of her brother.  But she would have loved to be of that adventurous
party.  The conception of it had been born in her brain; it was her
thing, her creation, her child, and she fretted at the thought that
her brother's indolence, his shiftlessness and indecision might even
yet jeopardize these glorious projects which she had formed.

'Sainte Vierge and chorus of angels, grant me patience!' she murmured
as she watched, frowning and fretful, the deliberate movements of M.
de Montigny.  The Duc d'Anjou chortled quietly to himself.  He loved
to see his impetuous sister fuming over the dilatoriness of another,
and now he gave a low cackle of delight when the Fleming first drew a
chair slowly to the table, then sat down and settled himself to
write.  He next took up the quill pen, examined it, tested it on his
thumb-nail, turned the sheet of paper over and over.  Obviously he
was not very much used to rapid caligraphy, and Marguerite's temper
was oozing out of her very finger-tips as she watched that quill pen
travelling with ponderous slowness along the paper.

'In what name shall I make out the safe-conduct?' he asked presently.

'Oh, ye gods!' exclaimed Marguerite impatiently.  'Any name,
Messire--or leave the name in blank----'

'I cannot do that,' rejoined de Montigny deliberately.  'M. d'Inchy,
who is governor of the city and of the province, would not wish it.
And since Monseigneur desires to enter Cambray incognito----'

'Any name will do,' she retorted.

'Still, I must have one----'

'Then, in God's name, make out the safe-conduct in the name of
Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, travelling with his equerry
Messire Gilles de Crohin and with his serving-man.  Will that satisfy
Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy?'

De Montigny thought the matter over for a moment or two ere he
replied, wholly unperturbed, 'I think so.'

And thus did the document stand.  A permit to enter the City of
Cambray was granted to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, to his
equerry Messire Gilles de Crohin and to his serving-man, by Edmond,
Sire de Montigny, acting on behalf of Roger, Baron d'Inchy, governor
of the province of Cambrésis, and safe conduct was assured them on
their way thither.[1]


[1] This document which Messire de Montigny made out and signed on
that memorable occasion is still preserved among the archives of the
City of Cambray.  At any rate, it was still extant in the spring of
1914, when the writer of this veracious chronicle was granted a sight
of it.  Since then the hordes of the modern Huns have swept over the
fair lands of Belgium and France.  They may have destroyed these
archives as they did so much of what had historical and romantic
interest.


'Well! you have your wish, my dear sister,' was the Duc d'Anjou's
sole comment as he saw the look of impatience on Marguerite's fair
face give place to one of triumph and of joy.




CHAPTER IV

HOW _MONSIEUR_ KEPT HIS WORD


I

When M. de Montigny--after much ponderous leavetaking--finally took
his departure, accompanied by Messire Gilles de Crohin, it is
positively averred that Marguerite, Queen of Navarre, forgot for a
moment her position and her dignity and danced around the narrow room
like a child who has had its way after much fighting and arguing.  It
is even said that she dragged her dearly-loved François up from his
chair and that, seizing both his hands, she forced him to join her in
a whirl which literally swept him off his feet, raised a cloud of
dust from the old wooden floor, and finally sent him sprawling and
dizzy, and thoroughly out of temper, up against the table, from
whence he poured a volley of abuse upon his devoted sister.

But I have oft marvelled if this story be true, for, of a truth,
there was no one there to witness these events, and Queen Margot
herself never put them on record.  But there was Messire Gilles, and
where he was at the moment I, for one, cannot say.  He did accompany
Messire de Montigny as far as the courtyard, and saw that noble
Fleming ride off with an obviously heavy heart, after what had only
been a partially successful errand.  We are not going to suppose that
Messire Gilles paused on his way back to the apartments of his
princely master in order to listen at the keyhole.  He was more like
to have kicked open the door with scant ceremony and seen the young
Queen of Navarre dancing a rigadoon in the middle of the floor with
her reluctant brother.  Certain it is, that anon he did stand there
under the lintel, coughing and spluttering as the dust caught in his
throat, and coughing so loudly, be it said, that the noise which he
made drowned some of _Monsieur's_ most sanguinary expletives.  The
next moment he had once more entered the room and closed the door
behind him; and Marguerite paused in her mad dance in order to clap
her hands gleefully together.

'Ah, Messire Gilles!' she exclaimed excitedly.  'Is it not wonderful?
Is it not great?  All arranged, and both Monsieur and that tiresome
Fleming satisfied!  Is it not a triumph, I say?'

'A triumph, indeed, your Majesty!' replied Gilles with a grim smile.
''Tis only our chief actor, methinks, who doth not look overjoyed.'

'I know,' rejoined Marguerite, with a sigh.  'But, then, Monsieur
never really looks pleased.  So I entreat you, Messire, remain with
him now and make all arrangements for the journey to-morrow.  Nay!
'twere far better you started this very night, slept and rested at
St. Quentin and arrived at Cambray the day after to-morrow.  I leave
you with Messire Gilles, François,' she added, turning to Monsieur
who, ill-humoured and still growling like a frowsy dog, was putting
his rumpled toilet in order.  'Let him make all arrangements for your
journey.  He is always of good counsel.'

'Good counsel!' muttered _Monsieur_.  'Good counsel!  I am sick to
death of good counsels.  Had I been left to myself----'

'Nothing would have happened, _c'est entendu_,' she riposted gaily.
'Nay! you'll not damp my ardour again, François; and you cannot deny
that I have satisfied M. de Montigny whilst keeping my solemn promise
to you.  So I leave you now with Messire Gilles.  The way is
prepared.  And, remember,' she added earnestly, 'that you are pledged
to me as I was to you.  I have fulfilled my share of the bargain.  If
you fail me now, I will never look upon your face again!'


II

As soon as Marguerite de Navarre had gone from the room, Gilles de
Crohin drew a folded missive from inside his doublet and handed it to
Monsieur.

'Just came by messenger from Paris,' he said curtly.

_Monsieur_ snatched eagerly at the missive.  It had been carefully
folded into a tiny compass, tied with a shell-pink ribbon and sealed
with mauve-coloured wax.  _Monsieur_ broke the seal and read the
letter.  A flush--which might have been one of pleasure, of
excitement or of anger, or of all three combined--spread over his
face.  He read the letter again, and a dark frown appeared between
his brows.  Then he looked up into the face of the one faithful
friend whom his many treacheries had not driven from his side.

'Gilles,' he said dolefully, 'I cannot go to Cambray.'

'I thought as much, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles dryly.  'That letter
is from Madame de Marquette.'

'It is, my good Gilles,' sighed _Monsieur_.  'It is!'  Then as Gilles
said nothing, he added fretfully: 'She had promised to let me know as
soon as Monsieur le Comte, her husband, would be absent from Paris.'

'Ah!' was Gilles' simple comment.  'And is M. le Comte de Marquette
absent from Paris at this moment?'

'Cooling his heels in the dungeons of Vincennes, my good Gilles,'
replied _Monsieur_ lightly.

'Ah!' uttered Gilles once more; this time without any comment.

'Yes.  I let His Majesty, my brother, know indirectly of certain
doings of Monsieur de Marquette.  I have no doubt, therefore, that
that estimable worthy is incarcerated at Vincennes by now.'

'Under a false charge of conspiracy?'

'False?  No!' retorted _Monsieur_.  'Doth he not conspire to keep his
charming wife a virtual prisoner in his own palace?'

'Therefore he is to be kept a real prisoner under a denunciation from
_Monsieur_ le Duc d'Alençon and d'Anjou,' riposted Gilles dryly.

'Oh! not a denunciation, my good Gilles!' said _Monsieur_, wholly
unperturbed.  'I only gave His Majesty a hint that M. de Marquette
was not quite so faithful a subject as one would desire.'

'And the hint has landed M. de Marquette in Vincennes rightly enough.'

'Apparently,' concluded _Monsieur_ placidly, as he held the
delicately-scented missive of Madame de Marquette to his nose.  'So
you see, my good Gilles,' he continued after a slight pause, 'how
inconvenient it will be for me to go a-wooing a ponderous Flemish
wench just now.  Madame de Marquette is so dainty, so exquisite,
so--so--what shall I say? ... What would you do, now, Gilles?' he
added, with a sudden change of tone, 'if you were in my shoes?'

'Oh, I, Monseigneur,' quoth Gilles, with a careless shrug of the
shoulders.  'Not being a prince of the blood I would probably stick
to my promise and go and woo the Flemish wench at Cambray.'

'I believe you would, you dog!' retorted _Monsieur_ with a yawn.
'And then hurry back to Paris, eh, in order to console Madame de
Marquette?'

'Possibly, Monseigneur,' concluded Gilles simply.

'Well, then, the only difference 'twixt you and me, my dear
Gilles--that is, 'twixt your moral sentiments and mine--is that I'll
hie me first to console Madame de Marquette, and having done that,
I'll--I'll----'

'Gravely offend the most devoted of sisters, Queen Marguerite of
Navarre,' broke in Gilles quickly.

'Yes,' admitted _Monsieur_.  'I imagine that dear Margot will be in
one of her most fretting humours when she finds that I am half-way to
Paris instead of to Cambray.  She hath vowed that if I fail her now
in her schemes she'll never look on my face again.  And she
won't--for at least six months,' he added peevishly.  'Trust her for
that!  Margot is nothing if not obstinate!  And my chance of getting
a rich wife and some rich provinces of these accursed Netherlands
will have vanished for ever.  Ah, Gilles!  my good Gilles!' he
concluded, with naïve induction.  'You see what comes of it, if a man
allows himself to be overruled by women!'

'Well!' retorted the other with a careless laugh.  'Meseems that
Monseigneur hath not much cause to quarrel with his fate this time.
King of the Netherlands!' he exclaimed, and gave a long, low whistle
of appreciation.  ''Tis no small matter----'

'Bah!' rejoined _Monsieur_ with a shrug of the shoulders.  'To be a
king among these dull-witted, slow-going Flemings is not altogether
an enviable existence.  Would you care for it, Gilles?'

'Oh, I, Monseigneur?' riposted Gilles gaily.  'I have so few kingly
attributes.'

'Better to be Duc d'Alençon in Paris, eh, than King in Antwerp or in
Ghent?  Brrr!' added _Monsieur_, with a mock shudder.  'Think of the
Flemish women, my good man!'

'I have thought of them, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles dryly, 'once or
twice since we came into Flanders.'

'Well! and what did you think of them?'

'That God has fashioned uglier ones.'

'Where?'

'In many places--even in Paris.'

'Not often, Gilles.'

'I'll grant that, Monseigneur, an you command.'

'Now this Jacqueline, for instance----'

'Madame Jacqueline, Monseigneur?'

'Yes!' And Monseigneur sighed.  'I have got to marry her, Gilles, if
I wish for the sovereignty of the Netherlands.'

'Messire de Montigny hath been at pains to tell us, Monseigneur, that
Madame Jacqueline is very beautiful--very beautiful, an it please
you.'

'It would please me if she were beautiful.  But have you ever seen a
beautiful Fleming, Gilles?'

Gilles de Crohin was silent.

'Have you, Gilles?' insisted the Duke.

'Yes, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles curtly.  'Once.'

'The devil you did!  Where?'

'In the land of dreams, Monseigneur.'

'Then it could not have been Madame Jacqueline.  She is reality,
alas!  Ponderous reality, I fear!  I have got to woo her, Gilles.'

'Yes, Monseigneur.'

'Under a mask and an assumed name.'

'No better way hath yet been found for wooing a wench.'

'I shall have to sing and sigh beneath a casement, and by the light
of the moon risk breaking my neck in trying to climb up to a window.'

''Twill not be the first time Monseigneur hath done any of these
things, and with a less worthy object to boot.'

'But this time, Gilles, I might be so much better employed in
consoling Madame de Marquette for the absence of her lord.'

'Whereas, now, Monseigneur will have to send word back by the
messenger--who, by the way, still waits below--that the denunciation
against M. de Marquette was an error, and that you desire his
immediate release.'

'Gilles!' retorted _Monsieur_ coolly, 'have you become an idiot?'

'I didn't think so, Monseigneur.'

'Very well, then, do not talk as one.  M. de Marquette cannot be
better occupied than in cooling his heels at Vincennes.  I am going
to Paris, Gilles, in order to explain this to a charming grass-widow.'

'Yes, Monseigneur.  When?'

'To-night.'

'Monseigneur goes to Paris to-night?'

'Yes.  I have said so.'

'And Monseigneur means it?'

'_Mon Dieu_!  Of course I mean it!  You don't suppose that I am going
to allow that exquisite Madame de Marquette to pine away in solitude,
do you?'

'But Madame Jacqueline, Monseigneur?' protested Gilles de Crohin.
'The crown of the Netherlands----'

'Madame Jacqueline may go to the devil, Gilles, and the crown of the
Netherlands after her----'

'But, Madame la Reyne----!'

'Ah! that is another matter.  My dear sister can go to the devil if
she likes, but I cannot send her thither.  You must remain here and
explain matters to her, Gilles.'

'I, Monseigneur?' exclaimed Gilles, very much crestfallen at this
prospect.

'Yes.  Not to-night, of course.  To-morrow morning.  I shall be a
long way off by then--too far for her to run after me and bring me
back like a whipped schoolboy; which, I doubt not, she were quite
capable of doing!  Once I get to Paris, I'll take care that she does
not find me, and she'll have to pacify these tiresome Flemings as
best she can.'

Gilles de Crohin looked down for a moment or two on the sprawling
figure of the master whom he served--the long, loose limbs stretched
out lazily, the narrow shoulders decked in exquisite satin, the
perfumed beard, the delicate hands, the full, sensual lips and weak
chin and jaw which characterized this last descendant of the Valois.
But not a line of his own strong, rugged face betrayed just what he
thought, and after a while he resumed in his dry, quiet way:

'I doubt, Monseigneur, that the tiresome Flemings will allow
themselves to be pacified--nor will Madame la Reyne de Navarre, I'm
thinking,' he muttered under his bristling moustache.

'She must, and they must, my good Gilles,' riposted _Monsieur_
airily; and, with a wide gesture of his beringed hand, he appeared to
wave aside all the obstacles which threatened the even course of his
path of pleasure.  '_Mordieu_, man!  If you are going to raise
difficulties----' he said.

'The difficulties are there, Monseigneur.  I am not raising them.'

'Well, then, you will have to smoothe them down for me, that's all!
What do I pay you for?' he added roughly.

'I was not aware that Monseigneur was paying me for anything,'
replied Gilles good-humouredly; 'or had paid me anything these three
years past.'

'Then why do you serve me, I wonder?'

'I have oft wondered, too!' rejoined Gilles calmly.

'My brother Henri would pay you better; so would my brother-in-law of
Navarre.'

'That's just it, Monseigneur.  Since there is not much fighting to do
just now, other princes would pay me for doing dirty work for them,
no doubt.  But, being constituted as I am, if I have to do dirty work
for any one I would sooner not be paid for doing it.  This may sound
curious morality, but so it is.'

The Duke laughed.

'Morality?  From you, my good Gilles?'

'It does sound incongruous, does it not, Monseigneur?' said Gilles
placidly.  'A soldier of fortune, like myself, cannot of a truth
afford to have any morality.  Mine consists in forgetting the many
sins which I have committed and leaving others to commit theirs in
peace.'

'Admirable in sentiment, my friend,' concluded _Monsieur_, with a
cynical laugh.  'You will, therefore, leave me in peace to join
Madame de Marquette, if I wish?'

'How can I prevent it, Monseigneur?'

'You cannot.  But you can serve me by conciliating my sister during
my absence.'

'I will serve Monseigneur to the best of my ability.'

'Very well, then.  I start for Paris this night.'

'So Monseigneur hath already deigned to say.'

'I will let my sister understand that you and I are starting for
Cambray.  She will be overjoyed.  You will ride with me as far as
Noyon, and then under cover of the darkness you will return hither.'

'Yes, Monseigneur?'

'To-morrow, during the forenoon--not too early, remember--you will
seek audience of Her Majesty and explain to her that unavoidable
business caused me to change my mind at the eleventh hour; that I
have gone--whither you know not--but that I shall return within a few
weeks, or a few months, as soon as I have tired of my present
business, and that in the meanwhile I adjure her, as she loves me, to
keep those stodgy Flemings in a good humour.  You understand?'

'I understand, Monseigneur.'

'Of course, Madame Marguerite will fume and fret----'

'Of course.'

'She will also probably throw books, or a slipper, or a cushion at
your head----'

'Or the fire-irons, Monseigneur'

'But you won't mind that----'

'On the contrary, I shall enjoy it.'

'The more my sister frets the quicker will her choler be over.'

'The quicker, too, will the furniture of the hostel be smashed to
pieces.'

'And when she hath calmed down, you and she can sit together quietly
and make plans for the conciliation of my future loyal Flemish
subjects.'

'I shall greatly look forward to so peaceful a _tête-à-tête_.'

'Then, that's settled!' concluded _Monsieur_ airily, as he finally
rose from his chair, yawned and stretched.  '_Palsambleu!_ what a day
of it I have had!  Own to it, my good Gilles, I have well deserved a
holiday and the company of Madame de Marquette after all this
business and the scoldings and objurgations of my impetuous sister!'

'I doubt not, Monseigneur,' responded Gilles dryly, 'that Fate will,
as usual, be kind and give you the full measure of your deserts.'

'Amen to that, my friend.  Now, see to it that we get to horse within
the hour.  I'll to my dear Margot and receive her embraces and her
praises for my readiness.  And, remember,' he added warningly, just
as Gilles, turning on his heel, was striding towards the door, 'that
you will have to impress it upon Her Majesty most emphatically in
your interview to-morrow that it will be no use her trying to find
out where I am.  Madame de Marquette and I will be beyond her reach.
Between you and me, my good Gilles, I know of a cosy nest where----'

But Gilles de Crohin was apparently no longer in a mood to listen
patiently to his Royal master's rigmarole.

'What about the safe conduct?' he broke in curtly.  And he pointed to
the papers which Messire de Montigny had been at such pains to
complete.

'Oh! put it away, my good Gilles,' replied _Monsieur_ carelessly.
'Put it away!  It will be very handy a month hence, or two months, or
three, when I am ready to go and woo that very solid Flemish maid.'

Without another word, Gilles de Crohin picked up the safe-conduct,
folded it carefully and slipped it into the inner pocket of his
doublet.  Then, after a somewhat perfunctory obeisance, he strode out
of the room.

_Monsieur_ listened in complacent silence to the firm footsteps as
they gradually died away down the corridor.  Then he shrugged his
shoulders and whistled softly to himself.

'A good fellow, that Gilles,' he murmured.  'I wonder what my dear
sister will do to him to-morrow when she hears----?'




CHAPTER V

  WHAT MARGUERITE OF NAVARRE DID WHEN
  SHE HEARD THE NEWS


I

When Messire Gilles de Crohin sought audience of Her Majesty the
Queen of Navarre on the following day at noon, she had just finished
dressing.  She had been up betimes, been for a ride in the cool of
the early morning; she had broken her fast with a hearty appetite,
for she was young and full of health and vitality.  All night she had
had happy dreams.  The brother whom she loved, just as a mother loves
her most fractious and most unmanageable child, had at last been
brought to act decisively for himself; the goal of her ambitions for
him was in sight; in a very few months she--Marguerite--would have
the satisfaction of seeing him Sovereign Lord--King, perhaps--of one
of the finest countries in Europe, as powerful and more than was
brother Henri, King of France.

She woke up happy, gay as a lark, contented in mind and merry of
humour.  After her ride and her breakfast she had a rest, then she
put on a pretty gown, for she was a beautiful woman and knew the
value of clothes.  Her intention now was to remain in La Fère while
her dear brother was in Cambray and to watch over his interests until
after he had been formally betrothed to Jacqueline de Broyart.  After
that, she would proceed to Nerac to rejoin her husband.

Having dressed and dismissed her waiting-women, Marguerite de Navarre
sat down beside the open casement-window in order to indulge in
pleasant daydreams.  Five minutes later, one of her serving-men
entered in order to announce to Her Majesty that Messire Gilles de
Crohin, Seigneur de Froidmont, respectfully begged for an immediate
audience.

There are moments in life when to all the senses it appears as if a
blow of sledge-hammer power and weight has suddenly fallen upon the
brain, numbing every thought, every capability and every sentient
action.  Just such a moment was this one for Marguerite of Navarre.
That simple announcement--that Messire Gilles de Crohin desired an
audience--was the sledge-hammer blow which seemed to crush in the one
instant her entire volition and energy and to leave her unthinking,
spell-bound, a mere breathing, human machine, alive only by the power
of the eyes, which remained fixed upon the doorway wherein presently
she would see Messire Gilles.

It was quite unconsciously that she had intimated to the serving-man
that she would receive Messire de Crohin.  After that, she sat on and
gazed upon the doorway and listened as the familiar footfall
resounded along the corridor.  Something had happened, or Gilles
would not be here.  He would be on his way to Cambray with
_Monsieur_.  Strangely enough, it never occurred to Marguerite of
Navarre that some simple, easily-explained if untoward accident had
brought Messire back to La Fère.  She knew that something terrible
had happened, even before she saw Gilles standing at attention upon
the threshold.

But while the serving-man was still within earshot, she found the
courage to say quite quietly and almost naturally:

'Enter, Messire, I pray you, and close the door behind you.  You are
right welcome.'

Then, as soon as the door was closed, she added rapidly and in a
curious choked and hoarse voice:

'My brother?'  And as Gilles made no immediate reply, she continued:
'He hath met with an accident?  He is dead?'

'No!  No!' protested Gilles quickly.

'Then, what is it?' she queried.  'Speak, man, or I die of terror!'

'Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou did not go to Cambray last night, your
Majesty,' said Gilles quietly.

Marguerite frowned.  She did not understand.  The news now appeared
trivial after what she had feared.

'Not gone to Cambray?' she said slowly.  'But I saw him go--with you,
Messire.'

'We started together, your Majesty, and rode together as far as
Noyon.  Then Monseigneur went on his way and I returned hither.'

'Monseigneur went on his way?  What do you mean?  And why did you go
to Noyon, which is not on the way to Cambray?'

Gilles de Crohin sighed with impatience.  But for his respect for the
exalted lady, he would have thought her strangely dull-witted to-day.

'Monseigneur did not go to Cambray,' he reiterated slowly, like one
who is trying to infuse a lesson into the mind of a doltish child.
'He hath gone to Paris, on his way to some spot unknown to any
one--certainly unknown to me.  He will be absent weeks--perhaps
months.  He desired your Majesty to try and conciliate Monseigneur le
Baron d'Inchy and the other Flemish lords as best you can.'

Marguerite of Navarre listened to Gilles until the end.  Slowly, very
slowly, the perception of what had happened penetrated into her
brain.  Her eyes were fixed upon him, glowing with an intense inward
fire.  Gradually her breath came and went with ever-increasing
rapidity.  Her left hand, which rested on the arm of her chair,
gripped the carving with a more and more convulsive clutch.  Then
suddenly, without a cry or warning, her right hand fastened on a
heavy, unloaded pistol which lay, carelessly flung aside, upon the
table close to her, and she flung it at Gilles de Crohin's head.

He dodged, and the massive weapon struck the door behind him and fell
with a clatter to the floor.

'I could kill you,' said Marguerite de Navarre huskily, 'for bringing
me this news!'

'If killing me would bring Monseigneur back,' riposted Gilles
quietly, 'your Majesty would be more than welcome to do it.'

This sobered her, and she pulled herself together, blushing to the
roots of her hair when she realized that her hand had already seized
upon the small Italian dagger which, in accordance with the
prevailing fashion, she wore fastened to her girdle.  These were but
semi-civilized times, and the days were not very far distant when the
messenger of evil tidings was slain for his pains.  But now, when
Marguerite de Navarre encountered Gilles de Crohin's quiet,
good-humoured gaze, she dropped the little dagger and laughed almost
shamefacedly.

'I ought not to have let him out of my sight,' she said simply.

'It would have been wiser, your Majesty,' rejoined Gilles with a sigh.

'Madame de Marquette sent for him, I suppose.'  Then, as Gilles made
no reply to that, she added with sudden fierce contempt: 'And you
helped him to commit this treachery?'

'Would you have me betray the man who trusts me?' he retorted.

'He ordered you to play the farce of starting for Cambray?'

'Yes.'

'To throw dust in my eyes?'

'Yes.'

'To accompany him as far as Noyon?'

'Yes.'

'Then to return hither under cover of darkness?'

'Yes.'

'And to greet me on the morrow with the _fait accompli_?'

'Yes.'

'Holy Virgin!' she exclaimed.  'That men should be so base!'

Tears of mortification, of humiliation, of wild, passionate anger,
had risen to her eyes.  Heavy sobs choked the words in her throat.
For once in her life Marguerite of Navarre felt weak and undone and
was not ashamed of her weakness.  She had piloted the chariot of her
brother's destiny with such marvellous success up to the dizzy
heights of her own restless ambition only to see it fall crashing to
the ground through his own treachery.

'Oh, Messire Gilles!' she cried with bitter reproach; 'if only you
had served me as well as you have served my brother!'

'I would give my life in your Majesty's service now,' he rejoined
simply, 'if anything that I could do could retrieve Monseigneur's
folly.'

'If anything that you could do could retrieve Monseigneur's folly?'
murmured Marguerite slowly, laboriously, like a child repeating a
lesson.  'Alas! nothing can be done now to retrieve that, Messire.'


II

Outside, a soft-toned bell struck the midday hour.  The little
market-place beyond the courtyard lay bathed in wintry sunlight.  Men
and women were moving to and fro, stopping to chat with one another
or exchanging a hasty greeting; men-at-arms jingled their spurs upon
the uneven pavements; burghers in dark cloth surtouts flitted
solemnly across the place.  Marguerite watched with dreamy,
unconscious eyes the pulsating life of the somnolent little city.
With her, even life appeared at a standstill.  With this hideous
treachery on the part of her beloved François, with this unexpected
shattering of all her hopes in sight of goal, she felt as if she
herself no longer existed, as if some other entity had chased her
soul away--her loving, ambitious, romantic soul--and taken possession
of her body.

Gilles stood by, silent--looking down on her with infinite
compassion.  He, the poor, homeless, penniless soldier of fortune,
found it in his heart to pity this young and adulated queen.  He
would have liked to help her if he could.  But the situation was now
a hopeless impasse.  The curtain had rung up upon a brilliant drama
of glory and of satisfied ambition; but the principal actor was not
there to play his part, and the drama _must_ fail for want of him.

'Shall I go now, your Majesty?' asked Gilles at last.

But she made no reply.  She sat on in the high-backed chair, looking
out upon the world beyond.  There were happy people out there,
contented people.  People who had humble aspirations, but who saw
them fulfilled.  Better far to long for mere subsistence, to have few
and simple desires and see them satisfied, than to let one's ambition
soar to impossible heights which must for ever remain unattainable.
And Gilles remained standing some distance away from the Queen,
watching a whole world of varied emotions flitting rapidly over her
mobile face.  First came anger and despair, hot resentment and bitter
contempt.  The eyes looked steely and glittered with a fierce, inward
wrath, whilst not one line of tenderness softened the curve of the
closely set mouth.  At this stage of her grim meditations it was
obvious to the keen watcher that Marguerite de Navarre felt that she
would never quite forgive the dearly loved brother this culminating
act of treachery.

Then something of the hardness of the look went, and gave place to
one of utter hopelessness which, to Gilles who knew her buoyant
disposition, appeared quite heartrending.  It were absolutely useless
now, that look seemed to say, to try and redeem so much folly, such
black and despicable cowardice.  And there was the shameful
humiliation too, to endure, the necessary abasement before those
stiff-necked Flemish lords, those proud purists, rigid in their code
of honour.  There was the bitter acknowledgment to come that a prince
of the House of France could so vilely break his word.

But presently, even as the tears of wrath and humiliation still
glistened in Marguerite de Navarre's beautiful eyes, there crept
gradually into her face a strange look of puzzlement.  It came
slowly, very slowly, just as if Fate, having struck her blow, was
beginning to relent and to whisper words of hope.  Frowns came and
went between the pencilled brows, and inaudible whispers seemed to
come through the slightly parted lips.  Then, still quite gradually,
a glow of excitement spread over the face, the eyes shone less
sombre, a ray of light, like unto a faint smile, played round the
corners of the lips.

Then Marguerite de Navarre turned her pretty head and fixed her eyes
upon Gilles.  And he who stood by, listening and watching, heard
distinctly that her lips murmured the two little words: 'Why not?'

A quarter of an hour had gone by.  Both the actors in this
palpitating little interlude had lost count of time--Gilles gazing
pityingly, almost remorsefully, on the Queen, and she, thinking,
thinking, wrestling with Fate, unwilling even now to give in.

And all the while she was looking on Gilles with a puzzled frown,
whilst her lips kept on murmuring, as if unconsciously: 'Why not?'


III

'Messire de Crohin,' said Marguerite of Navarre at last.  'You said
just now that you would give your life in my service if anything that
you could do at this hour would retrieve Monsieur's folly.  Did you
mean all that you said, Messire?'

Gilles smiled.  'I am not a Royal prince, Madame,' he said simply.
'I cannot afford the luxury of playing with my word.  'Tis all I
have.'

She sighed and looked on him with those appealing yet compelling eyes
of hers, which had such marvellous power to bend poor, feeble man to
her will.

'Oh! but do repeat what you said, Messire,' she said naïvely.  'If
you only knew how I long for an assurance of fidelity from one who is
really a man!'

'I do repeat then, your Majesty, what I said before,' rejoined Gilles
solemnly; 'that I would give my life in your service if aught that I
can do will retrieve Monseigneur's folly.'

She seemed to drink in his simple words as if they were nectar to her
soul--her soul, which was thirsting for loyalty, for service, for
strength and truth.  Then she said quietly:

'I'll put you to the test, Messire.'

'If your Majesty pleases,' he replied.

'I pray you,' she then resumed, speaking very quietly and with slow
but firm emphasis, 'to listen in silence and to the very end to what
I am going to say.  However surprised or--or--unwilling you may feel,
do not raise any objections till after I have told you of the scheme
which I have just evolved in my mind, and which I firmly believe will
yet retrieve our family honour and secure for my brother the throne
of the Netherlands.  God knows,' she added with a bitter sigh, 'that
he hath not deserved that you or I should still be working for him!
But when a prince of the House of Valois breaks his word, the shame
of it bears upon us all.'

She paused, and in accordance with her desire Gilles remained silent,
listening.

'Messire Gilles,' resumed Marguerite after awhile.  'There is, so I
am told, Valois blood in your veins.  That blood hath given you a
glibness of tongue, at times wholly out of keeping with your
adventurous temperament.  It has also given you--so gossip
avers--that persuasive eloquence which tickles pleasantly the ear of
women.  In temperament and in bearing Nature hath favoured you more
generously than she did my brother.  This perhaps is the only
possible hitch in the plan which I have devised.'

Gilles frowned.  It was his turn now to be exceedingly puzzled.

'It has been arranged, Messire--and to this the Flemish lord gave his
consent--that _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon shall woo his
future wife under a mask--under a mask,' she reiterated slowly.
'Ah!' she exclaimed, seeing that Gilles had suddenly given an
involuntary gasp.  'I see that already you understand!  There is
something that you can do, Messire, to retrieve _Monsieur's_ folly.
You can act the rôle which I had assigned to him.  You can don a mask
and woo Madame Jacqueline from beneath her casement window.  How oft
in the past years have you impersonated your princely master in a
less avowable cause?  How many blows and sabre-cuts have you received
on his behalf whilst he pursued some less worthy adventure?  Nay! you
cannot deny that.  I know so much of what my dear brother would
conceal from me.  It can be done, Messire Gilles,' she added eagerly.
'It can be done, if you will loyally and faithfully serve me to this
end.'

She paused, breathless and excited, and with glowing eyes fixed upon
Gilles de Crohin as if to probe his very soul and to extract from him
not only a consent, of which she was already assured, but the same
enthusiasm for her scheme which she felt herself.

'Messire Gilles!' she exclaimed.  'It can be done!  And now, in
Heaven's name, I pray you, speak!  I can endure your silence no
longer!'

Gilles smiled at her quaint inconsequence.  Then he passed his
toil-worn hand through his rumpled hair.  His look of utter
bewilderment was so ludicrous that, despite her anxiety, Marguerite
could not help but laugh.

'Oh, Messire Gilles!' she cried.  'If you only knew how comical you
look!'

'Comical, Madame?' retorted Gilles with a growl.  'So would you look
comical if you were suddenly confronted with so wild a proposition!'

'Wild, Messire?' riposted the Queen.  ''Tis the Flemish lords who
would be wild if my inventive brain had not conceived the
proposition.'

'But, Madame----' protested Gilles feebly.

'But, Messire,' retorted the Queen, mimicking the unfortunate man.
'Tell me,' she added more soberly, 'have you or have you not
impersonated _Monsieur_ before now?'

'Well!' murmured Gilles, 'I confess that I...'

'There was the affair with Monsieur de Ravache, for instance,' she
continued firmly.  'The sword-thrust which that invincible duellist
received in a certain affair of honour last June was openly
attributed to _Monsieur_; but those who were in the know have averred
that it was Messire Gilles de Crohin, and not the Duc d'Anjou, who
fought Monsieur de Ravache that night.'

Gilles shrugged his shoulders and Marguerite went on glibly:

'And in the fracas in a low booth outside Arras, when an irate father
and three bellicose brothers vowed vengeance against the princely
lover of an over-trusting wench, was it indeed _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou
who, beneath a mask and cloak, kept half a dozen sturdy swordsmen at
bay for close on half an hour?  Or was it not rather Messire Gilles
de Crohin who fought single-handed thus valiantly, even while
_Monsieur_, disguised and furtive, found safety in flight?'

'Your Majesty, I protest,' broke in Gilles firmly, 'that rumour is
nearly always a lying jade----'

'Bah!' quoth Marguerite lightly.  'I'll challenge you to deny either
of these tales on your oath.  And there is the story of the
jeweller's daughter, and that of Madame de Franqueville.  The latter,
I believe, is still under the impression that M. le Duc d'Anjou is
the most ardent lover and the most chivalrous foe in France and that
he wears about his person all the evidences of a hard and adventurous
life.  But why argue, Messire?' she continued impatiently.  'Even if
you had never in your life impersonated the shifty prince whom you
serve, I would ask you to do it now for his sake as well as for mine
own.'

'But, in the name of all the saints in the calendar!' exclaimed
Gilles with an air of laughable helplessness, 'how is it all going to
be done?  I shall be seen ... recognized ... the fraud exposed within
the first few hours ... and our second state will be distinctly worse
than our first.'

'Exposed?' rejoined the Queen coolly.  'Who by?  _Monsieur_ hath
never been in Cambray.  Who should be acquainted with his appearance?
And, moreover, there will be the mask to ward off any untoward or
chance recognition.'

'But hath your Majesty thought of Messire de Montigny?' retorted
Gilles dryly.  'He hath just spent half an hour in Monseigneur's
presence and is not blind, I imagine.  A mere mask would not deceive
him.'

'Ah!  I thought that you would mention Messire de Montigny,' riposted
Marguerite triumphantly.  'Have you forgotten that he said he would
only just have time to see his brother and M. d'Inchy in Cambray, as
he was on his way to join the army of the Prince of Orange at
Utrecht?'

'He may return at any time.'

'He may,' said Marguerite calmly.  'I did not say,' she added with a
significant little smile, 'that there would be no risks, no dangers,
connected with the undertaking.  If you fear to affront them, Messire
... why, there's nothing more to be said.'

Marguerite de Navarre was far too clever not to know that in uttering
the word 'danger' she would be playing her trump card.  'Gilles'
objections were suddenly dissolved like smoke in thin air.  He
laughed and said good-humouredly:

'That was a clever move, Madame!  I hated the affair until you spoke
of danger.'

'And now?' she queried, smiling.

'Now?  Now?' he said.  'I merely repeat: how is it going to be done?'

'In exactly the same manner in which the affair, say, with Madame de
Franqueville was conducted,' she replied.

'But there we had an object to attain, Madame--a none too avowable
one, I own, but still an object.  But here ... suppose I sigh beneath
Madame Jacqueline's window effectually?  Suppose she falls in love
with her unknown swain?  Suppose she grants him an interview?....  We
should still be where we now are!  'Tis Monseigneur who will have to
marry Madame Jacqueline de Broyart--not I.'

'Do not trouble your head about that, good Messire,' retorted
Marguerite dryly.  'We only want to gain time.  You do your wooing;
I'll see that _Monsieur_ is there to wed.'

'But----'

'Oh!  I know him well enough,' she continued with an impatient sigh.
'His present caprice--I suppose it is Madame de Marquette--will not
last a week.  At the end of a sennight or less he will come back
fawning to me, satiated, bored and repentant, ready to do
anything--even to marry Madame Jacqueline blindfolded--in order to
regain my good graces.  All that we want,' pleaded Marguerite with a
sudden softening of her voice and of her whole attitude, 'is to gain
time--a few days' time, Messire--while I go hunting for my faithless
brother.  I cannot go and tell Monseigneur de Lalain and M. le Baron
d'Inchy that _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou of the princely House of Valois
hath fled from his obligations.  Those obligations must be fulfilled
at all costs, Messire ... at all costs, you understand?  Nominally,
Monsieur must be in Cambray within three days, and you must keep
Madame Jacqueline amused and happy until I send you word that
_Monsieur_ is on his way--ready to take your place.'

'But----' murmured Gilles again, in a final attempt at protest.

She, however, would not allow him to get in a word edgewise now.

'When Monseigneur arrives,' she went on with eager volubility, 'you,
Messire, will give up your dual rôle, become once again the one and
only Sire de Froidmont.  When _Monsieur_ appears unmasked before his
promised bride, we must see to it that plenty of padding do
supplement his somewhat narrow shoulders and sunken chest, for Madame
Jacqueline and her entourage will have been accustomed by then to
your broad stature, Messire; but no one will have seen the face of
the masked swain.  Oh, Messire Gilles!  Messire Gilles!' she
exclaimed, clasping her hands together with a gesture of passionate
entreaty.  'With a little thought, a little care and a little luck,
it can all be done so easily if you will but consent!  Say yes,
Messire! and the prayers of a harassed Queen and a doting sister will
bring blessings down upon your loyal head!'


IV

The tears were in Marguerite de Navarre's eyes as she extended an
appealing hand to Gilles de Crohin.  He, poor wretch, had not much
choice.  His loyalty had been requisitioned in such terms that he
could not refuse.  And, remember, that Gilles de Crohin, the soldier
of fortune, was nothing if not adventurous.  Deep down in his heart
something was already stirring which tickled his imagination and
fired his ardent blood.  Like a war-horse scenting battle, he scented
excitement, danger, hair-breadth escapes, sword-thrusts given and
received--all of which was to him the very essence of life.  And
there was something exceedingly pleasant, too, in the gratitude of
this beautiful and accomplished woman--a Queen indeed, in the highest
acceptance of the word.

Messire Gilles' life had been very dull and dreary of late.  He had
set out once--very long ago and when he was a mere lad--to carve out
his own fortune in the world.  Penniless, and bearing a noble name
which the penury of two generations had somewhat tarnished, he
dreamed, when he was still in his teens, that Fate reserved something
very glorious and very wonderful for him.  A decade and more had gone
by since then, and Messire Gilles had found that the cornucopia of
Fate held more thistles than roses for him.  The wars now were so
inglorious; the days of chivalry had gone, never to return.  The
princes in high places, whom adventurers such as he were destined to
serve, had nothing to offer for devoted allegiance save a miserable
pittance often withheld.

As a matter of fact, Messire Gilles de Crohin had of late been
heartily sick of life.  The spirit of adventure that glowed within
him was gradually becoming somnolent.  He felt that even his blood
would become sluggish in time if he dragged on this uneventful
existence in the wake of an indolent and dissolute prince.

Then, in the midst of all this dreary dullness, came this ray of
sunshine--an adventure such as he, Gilles, had not dreamed of since
his boyhood--an adventure proposed to him by the fairest lips in
Europe--which would bring all the excitement with it for which he
yearned so passionately.  No wonder that every objection seemed to
him all at once to be futile, every obstacle mere child's play.

And Marguerite, keen and clever, saw at once that he was wavering,
just as de Montigny had done yesterday.  Long before either of these
two men realized themselves that they were yielding, she _knew_ that
she had gained her point.

'You gave me your word, Messire,' she said gently.

'And I'll not go back on it, Madame,' he replied.

'Yet you hesitate!'

'Your pardon, Madame,' he rejoined with a smile.  'I was only
bewildered.'

'Then you consent?' she exclaimed joyfully.

He shrugged his shoulders with his habitual easy-going good-humour.

'Madame gives me no choice,' he said.  'I cannot go back on my word.'

He bent the knee and kissed the gracious hand which was extended to
him.  Marguerite's eyes were still bathed in tears.

'If anything that I can do,' reiterated Gilles de Crohin solemnly,
'will retrieve Monseigneur's folly I'll do it.'

'Ah!' she riposted gently.  'But 'tis your solemn oath I want,
Messire Gilles.'

'My word of honour, Madame,' he retorted bluntly, 'hath always been
found sufficient.'

'Nay! your oath!' she insisted, pleading once more.  'A solemn,
binding oath!  One,' she added naïvely, 'which, if broken, would land
you in hell.'  Then, as a sudden scowl gathered on Gilles' brow, she
continued in a tone of sadness and self-pity: 'Do not be angered,
Messire.  I know you for a loyal gentleman and have no doubt that, to
you, your word is as good as your oath.  But I have been so oft
deceived, so oft befooled, that a man's word of honour hath lost its
value in mine eyes.  Can you blame me, remembering what I am
suffering now?'

Gilles' sense of humour saved the situation.  His word of honour had
of a truth never been doubted, but in face of this sorely outraged
woman, he could not take offence.

'What oath shall I take,' he queried, with a good-humoured smile,
'that will satisfy the Queen of Navarre?'

'On your immortal soul, Messire,' she said solemnly; 'on your hopes
of salvation; on all that you hold most precious and most dear, swear
to me that you will serve me in this matter as I shall direct you,
and until I myself do release you from this bond.'

He drew his cross-hilted sword and held it fixed before his eyes.
Then he placed his right hand upon the hilt and said with solemn
earnestness: 'I swear.'

Marguerite gave a quick sigh of content.  She watched Gilles with
evident satisfaction as he rose to his feet, sheathed his sword and
then stood before her in all his picturesque ruggedness, a perfect
presentment of a man, strong, reliable--oh! above all, reliable!!!

'Now, Madame,' said 'Gilles finally, 'will you deign to tell me just
what I am to do?'


V

For an hour and more after that, these two--veritable conspirators
now--sat together, the Queen of Navarre talking and explaining
eagerly and Gilles listening; for of a truth he was still rather
bewildered at the proposition and at the part which he would have to
play in it.  Not that the rôle itself was unfamiliar to him.  He had
played it often enough, as Marguerite had very shrewdly said, and in
far less avowable causes; but never for any length of time.  It had
been a matter of fighting a duel or meeting an inconvenient
interlocutor; a matter of stepping into his Royal master's shoes for
half an hour or so, and as oft as not under cover of a dim light.
But now he would have to sustain the part for days--weeks,
perhaps--never forgetting, always on the alert, always fearful lest a
word, a gesture, an inflexion of the voice, should betray him.  And
he had sworn so solemnly on what he held most sacred and most dear
that he would see the business through!  Ye gods! but it was a hard
proposition for a simple-minded soldier of fortune to tackle!

Marguerite of Navarre, however, was for laughing away every
difficulty which stood in her path.

'It has got to be done, Messire!' she said more than once, and with
ever-increasing earnestness.  'For the honour of France and of her
Royal House.'

She began by giving Gilles more money than he had ever seen before,
taking purse after purse of gold from her private coffer and watching
him as, puzzled and confused, he stowed these away in the inner
pockets of his doublet and breeches.

'I haven't earned all this yet,' he muttered ruefully.

'You will want it,' she rejoined.  'You are a prince, remember, and
though you will be travelling incognito, you must live like a prince.'

But the question of clothes was the most difficult one to settle.
Gilles de Crohin possessed none save those in which he stood up at
this moment: a well-worn doublet of faded kerseymere, a stout jerkin
and cloth trunks.  His hose showed a multiplicity of darns, and his
boots, though stout and solid, were not exactly suited to a lady's
drawing-room.

'Time is too short to fashion new ones,' said Marguerite
thoughtfully; 'even if this little town did boast of silken materials
and Court tailors; which it certainly does not!'

'It certainly doth appear in the light of an insurmountable
difficulty,' rejoined Gilles with a hopeful sigh.

'No difficulty is insurmountable, Messire, when the honour of France
is at stake,' she retorted with a frown.

'But----'

'What hath _Monsieur_ done with his wardrobe?' asked Marguerite.  'He
always travels with trunk-loads of frippery.'

'Monseigneur left all his clothes here and most of his jewellery.  I
am to convey them to his house in Paris when an opportunity occurs.'

'Very well,' she rejoined firmly; 'we must find what you want among
them.'

'But----' he broke in once more, disconcerted at the suggestion.

'But what?'

'The trunks are locked.'

'I'll break them open,' she rejoined simply.  'Have no fear, Messire;
I am taking all the responsibility of this affair upon my shoulders.'

'But I cannot strut about in another man's clothes!' protested Gilles
dolefully.

'Why not?'

'Because ... because ... _parbleu!_ because they would not fit me!'

Marguerite smiled.  Then she threw another admiring glance on Gilles'
massive figure.

'My brother is very nearly as tall as you are, Messire, she said,'
even though not quite so broad.  I have two very skilful seamstresses
who will adjust _Monsieur's_ doublets across your splendid shoulders.
With his love of slashings and puffings, such alterations are very
easily done.'

'But the boots----' protested Gilles again.

'You have the small foot, Messire,' she replied dryly, 'which you
inherit from your Valois ancestor.'

'The Lord help me, your Majesty!' he exclaimed piteously.  'You have
thought of everything, and I am a puppet in your august hands.'

'Therefore I entreat you not to argue any further,' she retorted
gaily, 'or I shall think that you are repenting of your bargain--and
of your oath.'

Which suggestion caused Gilles to cease from further protests, even
though he did express a hope that Her Majesty's seamstresses would
not make gossip all about the town that he--the Sire de
Froidmont--was going to walk about in another man's clothes.

'My women never gossip,' said Marguerite dryly, after which she
abruptly changed the subject.  'And now tell me,' she said.  'A man
like you must have a friend, a comrade or a servant--some one, in
fact, who would be faithful and trustworthy.  You will want a
companion on your journey.  Messire, have you such a friend?'

'Aye! that I have,' replied Gilles fervently, his whole face beaming
with joy at thought of having his faithful Jehan with him in this mad
expedition.

'One who would serve you faithfully?' she continued.

'To the death, your Majesty.'

'And cleverly?' she insisted.  'You will both have to keep your wits
about you.'

Gilles smiled.  'Maître Jehan,' he said, 'hath no wits to speak of,
Madame; but he hath a heart of gold and muscles of steel.  Nature
hath forced him to hold his tongue, for he stutters like a clucking
hen.  He is invaluable for circumventing an inopportune visitor or
misunderstanding an imperative command.  We have fought side by side
these past ten years and have nearly bled to death or been frozen to
death together before now.  Jehan will do for me what I would do for
you, Madame.'

'You are lucky, Messire,' rejoined Marguerite simply, 'to have such a
friend.  And I,' she added, with an engaging smile,' to have such an
one, too.  Maître Jehan shall journey to Cambray with you as your
serving-man.  With his prowess and your own invincible courage and
strength, the very thought of failure appears treasonable.  Ah,
Messire Gilles!' she continued eagerly, 'I beg of you to cast all
doubts aside!  Have no fear, I entreat you--no fear of failure or of
gossip!  And, above all, trust me!  Trust me, Messire, that whatever
happens, I will not leave you in the lurch.  Only trust me!  Trust
me!  You shall not suffer through serving me!  On the faith of
Marguerite of Navarre!'

She gave him her hand again, and through tears of emotion gave him a
glance of appreciation and of confidence.  Gilles had no more
resistance left in him; and as he looked into those lovely eyes which
had already played such havoc with men's wills and with men's hearts,
he sighed with resignation and with only a transient thought for the
morrow.  None knew better than the Sire de Froidmont the exact value
of promises made by princes or by women.  To-day Marguerite of
Navarre's clever mind and warm heart were filled with enthusiasm for
this new scheme of hers; a week hence, mayhap, she would have thought
of something else, and Gilles--as like as not--would indeed be left
to bear the brunt of failure.

But these were just the vicissitudes which were wont to attend the
career of a soldier of fortune these days.  A dazzling prize or a
gibbet might await the adventurer at the end of his goal.  For the
nonce, Gilles had sworn to serve this gracious lady and to redeem the
unpardonable folly of a faithless prince, and with a careless shrug
of the shoulders he left the future in Dame Fortune's hands.

'I will give you an autograph letter,' resumed Marguerite more
quietly after awhile, 'for M. le Baron d'Inchy, governor of Cambray,
and one for Maître Julien at the hostelry of "Les Trois Rois."  These
will serve as your credentials in addition to the safe-conducts which
Messire de Montigny delivered to _Monsieur_.  You have those, I hope.'

'Yes, Madame,' replied Gilles.  'Monseigneur left them with me.  If
your Majesty deigns to remember, they were e'en made out in my name.'

'In the name of Messire Gilles de Crohin, the equerry and of
Monseigneur le prince de Froidmont!' she exclaimed gleefully.
'Indeed, I mind it well!  You will not even have to change your name,
Messire; and the title shall be yours, an' you desire it, when my
brother is King of the Netherlands.'

Gilles shrugged his shoulders.  'Oh! a title, Madame...!' he said
lightly.

'I know!  I know!' she riposted, with the volubility of intense
excitement.  'I know your proud device: "Roy ne suys, ne Prince, ne
Duc, ne Comte.  Je suys Sire de Froide Monte."  Ah, Messire Gilles!
you were fated to belie that device!  Prince de Froidmont--'tis no
mean title.'

'I prefer that of Friend of the Queen of Navarre,' he said simply.

'You are that indeed, Messire, and more,' she rejoined solemnly.
'Ah! if my brother were only like you, what glorious destiny would
have been his!'

'Our destinies are of our own making, Madame,' he retorted.

'You have started to carve them out for yourself now, Messire Gilles,
on the tablets of my memory.'

'Then may God and the Fates favour me!'

'The Fates?' she cried gaily.  'Why, you and I have conquered the
Fates, Messire.  Will you deny that they are our handmaidens now?'




CHAPTER VI

  WHAT MONSEIGNEUR D'INCHY AND MESSIRE GILLES DE
  CROHIN MUTUALLY THOUGHT OF ONE ANOTHER


I

And three days later, an' it please you, Messire Gilles presented
himself, his safe-conduct and his faithful Jehan at the Porte de
Cantimpré.

The safe-conduct being made out in the name of Monseigneur le Prince
de Froidmont, his equerry, Messire Gilles de Crohin, and his
serving-man, the absence of one of the three personages was casually
commented on by the Captain of the Guard.

'My equerry hath fallen sick on the way,' explained Gilles airily.
'He lies at a village inn close by and will come as soon as may be.'

It was at once arranged that whenever the equerry did present himself
at the gate, Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont was immediately to be
apprised of his arrival so that he might at once stand guarantee for
the man's identity.  Needless to say that no such equerry existed,
nor does the Captain of the Guard appear to have worried his head
over so small a matter.  But, anyway, Gilles now was inside Cambray,
the scene of his coming adventure, and I can assure you that on this
first occasion--it was late evening then and a cold, drizzling rain
was blurring every outline of the picturesque city--Gilles did not
stride about the streets with that careless jauntiness which
characterized his usual demeanour.

After some searchings and many wanderings through the most
unfrequented portions of the city, Messire did finally espy the Rue
aux Juifs, at one end of which there dangled on a ricketty iron
bracket a half-obliterated sign that still bore the legend 'Les Trois
Rois' in black paint on a crimson ground and three dabs of pink
paint, surmounted by dabs of yellowish paint, which might still pass
muster as kingly faces surmounted by their crowns.  Now, if you
remember, the Rue aux Juifs in Cambray is a narrow street which runs
behind the Place aux Bois, and links the latter with the Porte Notre
Dame.  Owing to the elaborate corbelling of the old houses on either
side, it appeared far narrower in the year 1581 than it does
to-day,[1] and the hostelry so pretentiously styled 'Les Trois Rois'
was of the humblest description.


[1] In the spring of 1914.


Gilles was satisfied to find it so.  He liked its seclusion and had
never been _difficile_ in the matter of his creature comforts.
Secrecy and mutual confidence were the greatest desiderata for the
moment in the pursuit of his adventure, and he knew enough about the
exquisite Queen of Navarre that if any male creature who dwelt within
'Les Trois Rois' had come within the magic circle of her fascination,
that man would go through fire and water, torture and hell itself, in
order to serve her.

So he knocked boldly at the ricketty front door of the humble
hostelry.  A young man, thin and pale, wearing a long doublet of dark
woollen stuff and a black cap above his scanty yellow hair, opened
the door and bade him welcome.  He had a lanthorn in his hand and
held it high above his head, surveying the stranger with that
pathetic air, half-fear, half-entreaty, wherewith the very poor are
wont to regard those who might bring about a small measure of change
in their misery.

Gilles at once presented the letter which Madame la Reyne de Navarre
had given him for his prospective host.  The young man glanced at the
latter, recognized the signature, and at once his almost
cadaverous-looking face became transfigured.  His hollow eyes took on
a glow of joy, his cheeks assumed a warm hue, his long, bony hands
clutched the welcome missive as an idolater might clutch the relic
which he worshipped.

There was no doubt that Messire Gilles would be made welcome--and
right welcome--in the humble hostelry.  Not only would discretion be
assured him, but also unswerving devotion, of which indeed he might
presently stand in sore need.

'My mother,' stammered the youth, after he had recovered from his
primary emotion, 'is bedridden now, alas! but I will do my best to
serve you, Messire, and your henchman, to the best of my ability.  I
will tend you and wait on you, and whatever this humble abode hath to
offer is entirely at your disposal.  My liege lady commands,' he
added, drawing up his spare frame with the air of a devotee in the
presence of his hero.  'I will obey her in all things!'

We will not say that Gilles was exactly gratified to hear that the
hostess of 'Les Trois Rois' was bedridden and would be unable to
attend on him, but it is certain that he was not grieved.  With this
young enthusiast alone to attend on him and to share the secret of
his adventure, he was as secure from untimely discovery as it was
possible under the circumstances to be.


II

At eleven o'clock the next morning, Gilles sent word round to
Monseigneur the governor of the Cambrésis that he would wait on him
within the hour.  Together with this message he sent the sealed
letter wherein the Queen of Navarre commended her dear brother
François, Duc d'Anjou, to the good graces of Monseigneur the governor.

At the hour when the messenger arrived, M. le Comte de Lalain, who
was governor of Flanders and one of d'Inchy's closest associates, was
closeted with the latter in one of the stately rooms of the
Archiepiscopal Palace where M. d'Inchy had taken up his abode after
he had dispossessed the Archbishop and taken possession of the city.
D'Inchy, obviously nervy and anxious, quickly dismissed the
messenger; then he turned to de Lalain and, throwing the Queen's
letter across the table to him, he said briefly: 'Well, he has come!'

De Lalain in his turn read the letter through.  Then he sighed.

'Yes,' he said.  'He, at any rate, seems determined to carry the
adventure through.'

'I hope to God that we have done right,' rejoined d'Inchy.  'The
whole thing, now that it is upon us, appears to me more foolish than
ever it did before.'

'And there is no drawing back now, unfortunately.'

'The whole affair is in God's hands,' quoth d'Inchy sententiously.

'In the hands of an irresponsible and dissolute prince,' said the
other moodily.  'I blame de Montigny for having consented so readily.'

'Then you must blame yourself too, my friend,' retorted d'Inchy
dryly.  'You, too, consented, and so did I....'

'I know that well enough!  Like yourself, de Montigny and I acted for
the best, though I for one could even now with zest strike that
Valois Prince in the face for this insult upon our ward.'

But d'Inchy apparently was all for a conciliating attitude and a
cheerful view of the situation.

'Do not,' he said lightly, 'let us use grandiloquent words, my dear
de Lalain.  There is no insult in a man's desire to see the woman
whom he is asked to wed.  For the time being Jacqueline will hold
herself aloof.  She will appear little in public, and then only
wearing a mask.  After a few days, if affairs seem to be shaping to
our satisfaction, we can always allow a certain degree of intimacy.
Jacqueline is so beautiful that we really run no risk of refusal.
And,' he added with a quick sign of finality, 'in any case we had no
choice.'

'Alas, no!' rejoined de Lalain ruefully.  'For of a truth I cannot
bring myself to believe in Orange as the saviour of the Netherlands.
He thinks that he can rally the burghers and the mass of the people
to his standard.  But I doubt it.  And if he fails in his present
campaign we shall all fall into a veritable abyss of humiliation and
dependence on those abominable Spaniards--far worse than ever before.'

'And all our friends think the same, as you well know, my good de
Lalain,' continued d'Inchy firmly.  'An alliance with a prince of the
House of France is safer than a submission to the leadership of
Orange.  We want the help of France; we want her well-trained armies,
her capable generals, the weight of her wealth and influence to drive
the Spaniards out of our provinces.  Elizabeth of England promises
much but holds little.  She is on the side of Orange.  I am on the
side of France.'

'So am I, my good d'Inchy,' rejoined de Lalain; 'else I had never
consented to the Queen of Navarre's madcap scheme.'

'Nor I,' concluded d'Inchy with the solemn earnestness of political
fanaticism.  'So why all these misgivings, my good friend?'

'Was it fair to the girl?' murmured the other almost involuntarily.
'Monsieur is as fickle as he is unprincipled.  Had we the right to
toy with a woman's heart--a young girl's--our kinswoman----?'

'You wrong Jacqueline by such doubts, my friend.  She is not a child
nor yet an irresponsible girl.  She knows that her person and her
fortune are powerful assets in the future of her country.  She is a
patriot, and will never allow sentiment to overrule her duty.'

Perhaps de Lalain would have liked to continue the argument.
Obviously his conscience was smiting him a little now that the
curtain had actually rung up on the first act of the foolish
adventure.  The ill-fame of the Valois prince had preceded him long
ago.  De Lalain knew--and so did d'Inchy, so did de Montigny--that
_Monsieur_ was both profligate and faithless.  He, like the others,
had entered into a bargain with one whom they could never trust.  Was
it fair?  Was it just?  Would God's blessing descend upon the
proposed Kingdom of the Netherlands if its foundations rested on so
infamous a base?  And yet de Lalain, though conscious of that vague
feeling of remorse, had no thought of turning back.  Even now, as a
tall, masked figure appeared under the lintel of the door in the wake
of the usher, and then stepped boldly into the room, he made a great
effort to control his resentment.  Though his hand ached to drag the
mask away from the man's face, to try and read him eye to eye, his
reason re-asserted itself, re-adjusted his thoughts and his
sentiments.  'This,' it whispered insistently, 'this man who has come
to Cambray masked and disguised, is a prince of the House of France.
If he approve of the beautiful Flemish heiress and consents to take
her for wife, the future of the Netherlands is assured, even though
he were twenty times as base as he is depicted.'

And reason gained the victory.  D'Inchy already had gone a few steps
forward in order to greet his exalted visitor.  De Lalain composed
himself too, even paid an involuntary tribute of admiration to that
tall and martial-looking figure which enshrined, so rumour had it, a
soul that was both weak and false.


III

And Messire Gilles de Crohin, the penniless soldier of fortune, the
mountebank set to play an unworthy part, was greeted by these two
proud Flemish nobles with all the respect due to a prince of the
House of France.  And indeed there was nothing mean or humble about
his appearance even though he had come to Cambray with only one man
to serve him, and that man a rough and uncouth soldier with a
ludicrous stutter which would at once have provoked the gibes of
Monseigneur, the governor's servants, but for the fact that Maître
Jehan's fists appeared as hard and harder than their heads, and that
his temper was so hot that he had already put the first scoffers to
flight by the mere rolling of his eyes.  He was standing at this
precise moment immediately behind his master, and as soon as the
usher had withdrawn and the door been closed, he slipped quite
unostentatiously into the nearest corner and remained there, with his
eyes fixed on Messire like a faithful watch-dog, silent and keen.

The two Flemish lords had also waited until the usher had
disappeared; then only did they make obeisance, with all the
ceremonious empressment which the presence of a Royal personage
demanded.

Let us admit at once that Gilles looked magnificent in Monsieur le
Duc d'Anjou's splendid clothes--doublet and trunks of fine satin,
slashed and puffed after the latest fashion; hose of Italian silk and
short mantle of Genoa velvet, exquisitely embroidered in dull silver
and gold, the whole of that sombre bottle-green hue specially
affected by _Monsieur_ and a miracle of the dyer's subtle art.  He
had ruffles at neck and wrist of delicate Mechlin lace, wore a mask
with a frill of black lace pendant from it, which effectually hid the
whole of his face, and at his side a rapier which obviously hailed
from Toledo.  Altogether a splendid prince!  And it was difficult
indeed to credit the rumours which averred that he had undermined his
constitution by high living and drinking and a life of profligacy and
excess.

He received the greetings of the Flemish lords with just the
necessary measure of gracious condescension, and through the slits of
his mask he was studying with keen anxiety what might be hidden
behind those stolid and stern faces and the frowning glances
wherewith two pairs of eyes were steadfastly regarding him.

D'Inchy waited in dutiful respect till _Monsieur_, Duc d'Anjou, was
pleased to be seated; then he said:

'Monseigneur understood, I hope, how it was that we did not present
our respects to you in person.  Such a ceremony would have set the
tongues of our town gossips wagging more furiously than before.'

Already, it seemed that the presence of the stranger inside Cambray
had created some comment.  In these days, when the Spanish armies
swarmed all over the province, when plots and counter-plots were
being constantly hatched in favour of one political side or another,
strangers were none too welcome inside the city.  There was the
constant fear of spies or of traitors, of emissaries from Spain or
France or England, of treason brewed or brewing, which might end in
greater miseries yet for any unfortunate province which was striving
for its own independence and the overthrow of Spanish tyranny.
Gilles, listening with half an ear to Monseigneur d'Inchy's elaborate
compliments, was inwardly marvelling whether spies had not already
come upon his track and would upset the Queen of Navarre's plans even
before they had come to maturity.  He had a curious and exceedingly
uncomfortable sensation of unreality, as if these two stern-looking
Flemings were not actual personages but puppets moved by an unseen
hand for the peopling of his dreams.  He answered the elaborate
flummeries of the governor with a vague: 'I thank you, Messire.'
Then he added a little more coherently: 'I understood everything,
believe me, and must again thank you for acceding to my wishes and to
those of my sister, the Queen of Navarre.'

'Our one desire, Monseigneur,' continued d'Inchy stiffly, and still
speaking very deferentially, 'our one desire is to see the
sovereignty of the Netherlands secure in your keeping.'

Gilles roused himself.  It was no use and ill policy to boot to allow
that feeling of unreality to dominate his mood so utterly.  If he let
himself drift upon these waves of somnolence he might, with one
unguarded word, betray the grave interests which had been committed
to his care.

'That is understood, Messire,' he said dryly.  'Messire de Montigny
put the whole matter before me and before my sister of Navarre.  We
both fell in readily with your schemes.  As for me, you know my
feelings in the matter.  I only asked for delay and consideration ere
I pledged myself irrevocably to so grave an affair.'

'And we, equally readily, Monseigneur,' asserted de Lalain, 'do place
ourselves entirely at your service.'

After which preliminary exchange of compliments, the Flemings were
ready to discuss the matter in all its bearings.  All the arguments
which had been adduced by de Montigny when the proposed marriage was
being discussed before the Queen of Navarre, were once more dished up
for the benefit of _Monsieur_.  Gilles played his part with as much
ease as his want of experience would allow; but he was a soldier and
not a courtier, ill-versed too in the art of guarded speeches.  He
fumed and fretted over all these pourparlers quite as much and more
than _Monsieur_ would have done, and once or twice he caught sight
through the slits of his mask of certain glances of puzzled
wonderment which passed between the two men at a more than usually
rough retort which had escaped his lips.

Half an hour drew its weary length along while the discussion
proceeded, and it was at the very end of that time that M. le Baron
d'Inchy said quite casually:

'Of course, you, Monseigneur, will understand that since you choose
to do your wooing under a mask, our ward, Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart, Dame de Morchipont, Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse, will
not appear in public either, save also with a mask covering her face.'

Now Madame la Reyne de Navarre had not thought of this eventuality,
and indeed if it had truly been _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou who had
received this ultimatum, he would undoubtedly have then and there
turned on his heel and left these mulish Flemings to settle their own
affairs as they wished.  But Gilles had sworn to see the business
through.  Left to himself in this difficulty, he was for the moment
puzzled, but never tempted to give up the game.  The two Flemish
lords appeared so determined, and with it all so pleased, with their
counter-stroke, that any kind of argument would only have ended
either in humiliating acquiescence or in the breaking off of the
negotiations then and there.  The latter being of course unthinkable,
Gilles thought it best to take this part of the adventure as lightly
as he had taken the rest.

''Tis hard for a man to woo a maid whose face he is not allowed to
see,' he said, by way of protest.

'Oh, Monseigneur is pleased to jest!' was d'Inchy's calm rejoinder.
'It was agreed that you should come to Cambray and see the noble lady
who holds in her dainty hand the sovereignty of the Netherlands for
her future lord; but, as Messire de Montigny had the honour to tell
you, Madame Jacqueline de Broyart is not going to be trotted out for
any man's inspection--be he King or Emperor, or Prince--like a filly
that is put up for sale.'

'But man----' retorted Gilles, nettled by the Flemish lord's coolness.

'I crave Monseigneur's pardon,' broke in d'Inchy with perfect outward
deference; 'but we must remember that Monseigneur also is here for
inspection.  If Madame Jacqueline refuses the alliance, neither I nor
my co-guardian would dream of forcing her choice.'

'That is understood, Messire,' rejoined Gilles coldly.  'And I have
set myself the task of wooing the lady with ardour, so as to win her
affection as well as her hand.'

'Oh, Monseigneur....' protested the Fleming with a deprecating smile.
'That is hardly the position, is it?  You have reserved unto yourself
the right to withdraw.  Well, we arrogate that same right for our
ward.'

'A just arrogation, Messire,' riposted Gilles.  'But why the mask?'
he added blandly.

'If Monseigneur will woo Madame definitely and openly,' replied
d'Inchy firmly, 'she will not wear a mask either.  But then there can
be no question of withdrawal if she consents.'

Now, to woo Madame Jacqueline definitely and openly was just the one
thing Gilles could not do.  So there was the difficulty and there the
cunning and subtlety of these Flemish lords, who had very cleverly
succeeded in getting _Monsieur_ into a corner and in safeguarding at
the same time the pride and dignity of the greatest heiress in
Flanders.  Gilles would have given all the worlds which he did not
possess for the power to consult with Madame la Reyne de Navarre over
this new move on the part of the Flemings.  But, alas! she was far
away now, flying across France after her faithless brother, hoping
soon to catch him by the tails of his satin doublet and to drag him
back to the feet of the rich heiress whom that unfortunate Gilles was
deputed to woo and win for him.  And Gilles was left to decide for
himself, which he did with a 'Very well, Messire, it shall be as you
wish!' and as gracious a nod and bow to these two obstinate men as he
could bring himself to perform; for, of a truth, he would gladly have
given each a broken head.

Thus the actual discussion of the affair was ended.  After that,
there were only a few minor details to talk over.

'You two gentlemen,' Gilles said after a slight pause, during which
he had been wondering whether it were a princely thing to do to rise
and take his leave.  'You two gentlemen are alone in the secret of
this enterprise?'

'For the moment, yes,' replied d'Inchy guardedly.  'But others will
have to know ... some might even guess.  I shall have to explain the
matter to my private secretary, and one or two members of my Privy
Council have certain rights which we could not disregard.'

'And what about Messire de Montigny?' queried Gilles warily.

'He hath gone to Utrecht to join the Prince of Orange.'

'When doth he return?'

'Not before the summer.'

A short, quick sigh of relief escaped Gilles' lips.  At the back of
his mind there had always lurked the ever-present fear of one who
wilfully deceives his fellow-men--the fear of being found out.  In
this, Montigny was the greatest, nay! the only danger.  With him out
of the way, the chances of discovery became remote.

'To every one else, then, Messire,' he continued more firmly, 'I
shall pass as the Prince de Froidmont.'

'To every one else, Monseigneur,' replied d'Inchy.

'To Madame Jacqueline de Broyart?'

'Certainly, Monseigneur.'

'She hath no suspicions?'

'None.'

'Doth she know that it is your desire she should become the wife of
the Duc d'Anjou ... that she should become my wife, I mean?'

'No, Monseigneur; she does not.'

'Then I have a clear field before me!' he exclaimed gaily.

'A clear field, Monseigneur,' broke in de Lalain firmly, 'for two
weeks.'

'Two weeks?' retorted Gilles with a quick frown.  'Why only two
weeks?'

'Because,' said the other with solemn earnestness, 'because the Duke
of Parma's armies are already swarming over our province.  If they
should invest Cambray we could not hold out alone.  Monseigneur must
be ready by then to support us with influence, with men and with
money.  If you turned your back on us and on the proposed alliance
with a Flemish heiress, we should have to look once more to Orange as
our future Lord.'

'I understand,' rejoined Gilles dryly.  ''Tis an "either--or" that
you place before me.'

Then, as d'Inchy remained respectfully silent, M. de Lalain broke in
abruptly:

'Think you, Monseigneur, that the people of the Netherlands, after
all that they have suffered in intolerance and religious persecution,
would accept a Catholic sovereign unless his wife, at least, were of
_their_ nation and of their faith?'

A sharp retort hovered on Gilles' lips; already a curt 'Pardi,
Messire----' had escaped him, when suddenly he paused, listening.  A
loud ripple of laughter, merry, sunny, girlish, rang out clearly from
beyond the monumental doors, rising in its joyous cadence above the
oppressive silence and solemnity of this gloomy Palace and the grave
colloquy of Monsieur d'Inchy and his colleagues.  Only for a moment,
and the laughter died away again, making the silence and solemnity
seem more gloomy than before.  It seemed to Gilles as if it all were
part of that same dream, that it was really intangible and
non-existent, just like these sober seigneurs, like himself, like the
whole situation which had landed him--Gilles de Crohin--into the
midst of this mad adventure.

He threw back his head and laughed in hearty echo.  The whole humour
of the situation suddenly struck him with the full force of its
irresistible appeal.  Life had been so dull, so drab, so uneventful
of late!  Here was romance and excitement and gaiety; a beautiful
maid--Gilles had become suddenly convinced that she was
beautiful--some blows; some knocks; a master to serve; a beautiful,
sorrowing Queen to console; spurs to be won and a fortune to be made!

'And, by Heaven, Messire!' he exclaimed lightly, 'The God of Love
shall favour me.  Your ward is exquisite and I am very susceptible.
What are two weeks?  'Tis but two seconds a man requires for losing
his heart to a beautiful wench.  And if the fickle god fails me,' he
added with a careless shrug of the shoulders, 'well, where's the
harm?  After this--this romantic episode, shall we say?--Madame
Jacqueline will either be Duchesse d'Anjou et d'Alençon, a happy and
worshipped bride, or the Prince de Froidmont will disappear from her
ken as unobtrusively as he came.  And you, Messeigneurs,' he
concluded lightly, 'will have to offer the sovereignty of the
Netherlands to one who is worthier than I.'

Neither d'Inchy nor de Lalain appeared to have anything to say after
that.  They were both looking moody--even forbidding--for the moment,
though they bowed their heads in humble respect before this prince
whose light-heartedness jarred upon their gravity.

And here the matter ended for the nonce.  Gilles took leave of his
stiff-necked hosts and returned to 'Les Trois Rois,' having declared
most solemnly that he must have time to prepare himself for so
strange a wooing.  A masked wench; think on it!  It changed the whole
aspect of the situation!  A respite of four days was, however, all
that was respectfully but firmly granted to him for this preparation,
and Messire Gilles spent the next few hours in trying to devise some
means whereby he could outwit the Flemish lords and catch sight of
Madame Jacqueline ere he formally set out to woo her.  Of a truth,
the dull-witted and stodgy Flemings whom _Monsieur_ affected to
despise, had not much to learn in the matter of finesse and diplomacy
from the wily Valois!  This counter-stroke on their part was a real
slap-in-the-face to the arrogant prince who was condescending to an
alliance, of which every other reigning house in Europe would have
been proud.




CHAPTER VII

WHY MADAME JACQUELINE WAS SO LATE IN GETTING TO BED


I

Old Nicolle, restless and cross, was fidgeting about the room,
fingering with fussy inconsequence the beautiful clothes which her
mistress had taken off half an hour ago preparatory to going to
bed--clothes of great value and of vast beauty, which had cost more
money to acquire than good Nicolle had ever handled in all her life.
There was the beautiful gown which Madame had worn this evening at
supper, fashioned of black satin and all slashed with white and
embroidered with pearls.  There was the underdress of rich crimson
silk, worked with gold and silver braid; there were the stockings of
crimson silk, the high-pattened shoes of velvet, the delicately
wrought fan, the gloves of fine chamois skin, the wide collarette
edged with priceless lace.  There was also the hideous monstrosity
called the farthingale--huge hoops constructed of whalebone and of
iron which, with the no less abominable corset of wood and steel, was
intended to beautify and to refine the outline of the female figure
and only succeeded in making it look ludicrous and ungainly.  There
were, in fact, the numberless and costly accessories which go to the
completion of a wealthy lady's toilet.

Madame had divested herself of them all and had allowed Nicolle to
wrap a woollen petticoat round her slender hips and to throw a shawl
over her shoulders.  Then, with her fair hair hanging in heavy masses
down her back, she had curled herself up in the high-backed chair
beside the open window--the open window, an it please you! and the
evening, though mild, still one of early March!  Old Nicolle had
mumbled and grumbled.  It was ten o' the clock and long past bedtime.
For awhile she had idled away the hour by fingering the exquisite
satin of the gown which lay in all its rich glory upon the carved
dowry chest.  Nicolle loved all these things.  She loved to see her
young mistress decked out in all the finery which could possibly be
heaped up on a girlish and slender body.  She never thought the silks
and satins heavy when Jacqueline wore them; she never thought the
farthingale unsightly when Jacqueline's dainty bust and shoulders
emerged above it like the handle of a huge bell.

But gradually her patience wore out.  She was sleepy, was poor old
Nicolle!  And Madame still sat squatting in the tall chair by the
open window, doing nothing apparently save to gaze over the courtyard
wall to the distance beyond, where the graceful steeple of St. Géry
stood outlined like delicate lace-work against the evening sky.

''Tis time Madame got to bed,' reiterated the old woman for the
twentieth time.  'The cathedral tower hath chimed the quarter now.
Whoever heard of young people not being abed at this hour!  And
Madame sitting there,' she added, muttering to herself, 'not clothed
enough to look decent!'

Jacqueline de Broyart looked round to old Nicolle with amusement
dancing in her merry blue eyes.

'Not decent?' she exclaimed with a laugh.  'Why, my dear Colle,
nobody sees me but you!'

'People passing across the courtyard might catch sight of Madame,'
said Nicolle crossly.

'People?' retorted Jacqueline gaily.  'What people?'

'Monseigneur had company to-night.'

'They all went away an hour ago.'

'Then there are the varlets and maids----'

'E'en so,' rejoined Jacqueline lightly, 'my attire, meseems, is not
lacking in modesty.  I am muffled up to my nose in a shawl and----
Oh!' she added with a quick sigh of impatience, 'I am so comfortable
in this soft woollen petticoat.  I feel like a human being in it and
not like a cathedral bell.  How I wish my guardian would not insist
on my wearing all these modish clothes from Paris!  I was so much
more comfortable when I could don what I most fancied.'

'Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy,' said Nicolle sententiously, 'knows
what is due to your rank, Madame, and to your wealth.'

'Oh! a murrain upon my rank and upon my wealth!' cried the young girl
hotly.  'My dear mother rendered me a great disservice when she bare
me to this world.  She should have deputed some simple, comfortable
soul for the work, who could have let me roam freely about the town
when I liked, run about the streets barefooted, with a short woollen
kirtle tied round my waist and my hair flying loose about my
shoulders.  I could have been so happy as a humble burgher's daughter
or a peasant wench.  I do so loathe all the stiffness and the
ceremony and the starched ruffles and high-heeled shoes.  What I want
is to be free--free!--Oh!----'

And Jacqueline de Broyart stretched out her arms and sighed again,
half-longingly, half-impatiently.

'You want to be free, Madame,' muttered old Nicolle through her
toothless gums, 'so that you might go and meet that masked gallant
who has been haunting the street with his music of late.  You never
used to sigh like this after freedom and ugly gowns before he
appeared upon the scene.'

'Don't scold, old Colle!' pleaded the girl softly.  And now her arms
were stretched towards the old waiting-woman.

Nicolle resisted the blandishment.  She was really cross just now.
She turned her back resolutely upon the lovely pleader, avoiding to
look into those luminous blue eyes, which had so oft been compared by
amorous swains to the wild hyacinths that grow in the woods above
Marcoing.

'Come and kiss me, Colle,' whispered the young charmer, 'I feel so
lonely somehow to-night.  I feel as if--as if----'

And the young voice broke in a quaint little gasp which was almost
like a sob.

In a moment Nicolle--both forgiving and repentant--was kneeling
beside the high-backed chair, and with loving, wrinkled hands holding
a delicate lace handkerchief, she wiped the tears which had gathered
on Jacqueline's long, dark lashes.

'My precious lamb, my dove, my little cabbage!' she murmured
lovingly.  'What ails thee?  Why dost thou cry?  Surely, my pigeon,
thou hast no cause to be tearful.  All the world is at thy feet;
every one loves thee, and M. de Landas--surely the finest gentleman
that ever walked the earth!--simply worships the ground thy little
foot treads on.  And--and'--added the old woman pitiably--'thy old
Colle would allow herself to be cut into a thousand pieces if it
would please thee.'

Whereupon Jacqueline broke into a sudden, gay and rippling laugh,
even though the tears still glistened on her lashes.

'I shouldn't at all enjoy,' she said lightly, 'seeing my dear old
Colle cut into a thousand pieces.'

'Then what is it, my beloved?'

Jacqueline made no reply.  For a few seconds she remained quite
silent, her eyes fixed into nothingness above old Colle's head.  One
would almost have thought that she was listening to something which
the old woman could not hear, for the expression on her face was
curiously tense, with eyes glowing and lips parted, while the poise
of her girlish figure was almost rigidly still.  The flame of the wax
candles in the tall sconces flickered gently in the draught, for the
casement-window was wide open and a soft breeze blew in from the west.

'Come, my cabbage,' pleaded Nicolle as she struggled painfully to her
feet.  'Come and let thy old Colle put thee to bed.  Thou must be
tired after that long supper party and listening to so much talking
and music.  And to-morrow yet another banquet awaits thee.
Monseigneur hath already desired thy presence----'

'I don't want to go to another banquet to-morrow, Colle,' sighed the
young girl dolefully.  'And I am sick of company and of scrapings and
bowings and kissing of hands--stupid flummery wherewith men regale me
because I am rich and because they think that I am a brainless
nincompoop.  I would far rather have supper quietly in my room every
night--quite alone----'

But old Colle evidently thought that she knew better than that.
'Heu! heu!' she muttered with a shrug of the shoulders, accompanied
by a knowing wink.  'What chance wouldst thou have then of seeing M.
de Landas?'

'I hardly can speak with M. de Landas during those interminable
banquets,' rejoined Jacqueline with a sigh.  'My guardian or else M.
de Lalain always seem in the way now whenever he tries to come nigh
me.'

'I'll warrant though that M. de Landas knows how to circumvent
Monseigneur,' riposted the old woman slyly.  Like so many of her sex
who have had little or no romance in a dull and monotonous life,
there was nothing that old Colle enjoyed more than to help forward a
love intrigue or a love adventure.  M. de Landas she had, as it were,
taken under her special protection.  He was very handsome and liberal
with money, and in his love-making he had all the ardour of his
Southern blood, all of which attributes vastly appealed to old Colle.
The fact that Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy did not altogether favour
the young man's suit--especially of late--lent additional zest to
Nicolle's championship of his claims.

'Even so,' said Jacqueline with sudden irrelevance, 'there are
moments when one likes to be alone.  There is so much to think
about--to dream of----'

'I know, I know,' murmured the old woman crossly.  'Thy desire is to
sit here half the evening now by the open window, and catch a deathly
ague while listening to that impudent minstrel who dares to serenade
so great a lady.'

She went on muttering and grumbling and fidgeting about the room,
unmindful of the fact that at her words Jacqueline had suddenly
jumped to her feet; eyes blazing, small fists clenched, cheeks
crimson, she suddenly faced the garrulous old woman.

'Nicolle, be silent!' she commanded.  'At once!  Dost hear?'

'Silent?  Silent?' grumbled the woman.  'I have been silent quite
long enough, and if Monseigneur were to hear of these doings 'tis old
Nicolle who would get the blame.  As for M. de Landas, I do verily
believe that he would run his sword right through the body of the
rogue for his impudence!  I know....  I know,' she added, with a tone
of spite in her gruff voice.  'But let me tell thee that if that
rascally singer dares to raise his voice again to-night----'

She paused, a little frightened at the fierce wrath which literally
blazed out of her mistress's eyes.

'Well?' said Jacqueline peremptorily, but in a very husky voice.
'Why dost thou not finish?  What will happen if the minstrel, whose
singing hath given me exquisite joy these three nights past, were to
raise his heavenly voice again?'

'Pierre will make it unpleasant for him, that's all!' replied the old
woman curtly.

'Pierre?'

'Yes; Pierre!  M. de Landas' serving-man.  I told him to be on the
look-out, outside the postern gate, and--well!--Pierre has a strong
fist and a heavy staff, and...'

In a moment Jacqueline was by Nicolle's side.  She seized the old
woman by the wrist so that poor Colle cried out with pain, and it was
as the very living image of a goddess of wrath that the young girl
now confronted her terrified serving-maid.

'Thou hast dared to do that, Nicolle?' she demanded in a choked and
quivering voice.  'Thou wicked, interfering old hag!  I hate thee!'
she went on remorselessly, not heeding the looks of terror and of
abject repentance wherewith Colle received this floodgate of
vituperation.  'I hate thee, dost hear?  And if Pierre doth but dare
to lay hands on that exquisite singer I'll ask M. de Landas to have
him flogged--yes, flogged!  And I'll never wish to see thy face
again--thou wicked, wicked Colle!'

Mastered by her own emotion and her passionate resentment, Jacqueline
sank back into a chair, her voice broken with sobs, and tears of
genuine rage streaming down her cheeks.  Nicolle, quite bewildered,
had stood perfectly still, paralysed in fact, whilst this storm of
wrathful indignation burst over her devoted head.  In spite of her
terror and of her remorse, there had lingered round her wrinkled lips
a line or two of mulish obstinacy.  The matter of the unknown singer,
who had not only ventured to serenade the great and noble Dame
Jacqueline, Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse and of several other
places, just as if she were some common burgher's wench with a none
too spotless reputation, had not ended with a song or two: no! the
malapert had actually been impudent enough last night to scale the
courtyard wall and to stand for over half an hour just below Madame's
window (how he knew which was Madame's window Satan, his accomplice,
alone could tell!) singing away to the accompaniment of a twangy
lute, which she--Nicolle--for one, could never abide.

Fortunately, on that occasion Madame Jacqueline had been both modest
and discreet.  She had kept well within the room and even retired
into the alcove, well out of sight of that abominable rascal; but she
would not allow Colle to close the window and had been very angry
indeed when the old woman with a few gruff and peremptory words had
presently sent the malapert away.

That was yesterday.  And now this outburst of rage!  It was
unbelievable!  Madame Jacqueline of a truth was hot-tempered and
passionate--how could she help being otherwise, seeing that she had
been indulged and adulated ever since, poor mite of three, she had
lost both father and mother and had been under the guardianship of
Monseigneur d'Inchy and of half a dozen other gentlemen.  Never,
however, had Colle seen her quite like this, and for such a worthless
cause!  Colle could scarce credit her eyes and ears.  And alas! there
was no mistaking the flood of heartrending weeping which followed.
Jacqueline sat huddled up in her chair, her face buried in her hands,
sobbing and weeping as if her heart would break.


II

All the obstinacy in the worthy old soul melted away in an instant,
giving place to heartrending remorse.  She fell on her knees, she
took the small feet of her adored mistress in her hands and kissed
them and wept over them and cried and lamented tearfully.

'Lord God, what have I done?' she called out from the depths of her
misery.  'My dove, my cabbage!  Look at me--look at thy old Colle!
Dost not know that I would far sooner bite my tongue out than say one
word that would offend thee?  My lamb, wilt not look at Colle?--I
vow--I swear that I'll die here on the spot at thy feet, if thou'lt
not smile on me!'

Gradually as the old woman wept and pleaded, Jacqueline became more
calm.  The sobs no longer shook her shoulders, but she still kept her
face hidden in her hands.  A few minutes went by.  Colle had buried
her old head in the young girl's lap, and after a while Jacqueline,
regally condescending to forgive, allowed her hand to fall on the
bowed head of the repentant sinner.

'I'll only forgive thee, Colle,' she said with solemn earnestness,
'if Pierre doth not lay a finger upon that heavenly singer--but, if
he does----'

Colle struggled to her feet as quickly as her stiff joints would
allow.

'I'll go and find the varlet myself,' she said fiercely, ready to
betray with cowardly baseness the confederate of awhile ago, now that
she had propitiated the mistress whom she adored.  'M. de Landas hath
not yet left the Palace, and if Pierre dares but raise his hand
against that mal--hem!--against the noble singer whom thou dost
honour with thine attention, well! he'll have to reckon with old
Colle; that is all!'

With Jacqueline de Broyart--who in herself appeared the very
embodiment of spring, so full of youth, of grace and of vitality was
she--sunshine and storm came in rapid succession over her moods, just
as they do over the skies when the year is young.  Already her eyes,
bathed in tears of rage awhile ago, were glistening with pleasure,
and her lips, which had pouted and stormed, were parted in a smile.

'Go, Colle!' she said eagerly.  'Go at once, ere it be too late and
that fool Pierre----'

The words died upon her lips.  The next instant she had jumped down
from her chair and run to the window.  From some distance down the
street there had come, suddenly wafted upon the wings of the wind,
the sound of a voice singing the well-known verses of Messire de
Ronsard:

  'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose
    Qui ce matin avait desclose
  Sa robe de pourpre au soleil
    A point perdu cette vesprée
  Les plis de sa robe pourprée
    Et son teint au vostre pareil.'[1]


[1] 'Mignonne, come see if the rose
      That this morning did unclose
    Her purple robe to the sun
      Hath not ere this evening lost
    Of those purple petals most
      And the tint with your tint one.'

(Translation by Mr. Percy Allen.  _Songs of Old France_.)


Jacqueline knelt upon the window-seat, but she could see nothing, so
she turned back piteously to murmur to old Colle: 'Oh!  if I could
only see him!'

The old woman, after the experience of the past few minutes, was
ready to do anything, however abject, to further her mistress' desire.

'Put on thy mask, my pigeon,' she said, 'and then lean well out of
the window; but not too far, for fear M. de Landas should happen to
be passing in the courtyard and should see thee with thy hair down.
No, no!' added the old hypocrite obsequiously, 'there is no harm in
listening to so sweet a singer.  I'll get thy purse, too, and thou
canst throw him a coin or two.  No doubt the poor fellow is
down-at-heels and only sings to earn his supper.'

And humble, fussy, still snivelling, Nicolle shuffled across the
room, found the satin mask and brought it to her mistress.
Jacqueline fixed it over her face; then she leaned as far out of the
window as she dared to do without fear of falling out.  And, if M. de
Landas saw her, why! he would be so gladdened at the sight that he
would have no ear for a mere street musician, whilst
she--Jacqueline--was just now in so soft a mood that if M. de Landas
happened to scale the wall to her casement-window--as he had more
than once threatened to do--she would return his kisses in a way that
she had never done before.

For she was deeply in love with M. de Landas, had been for years.
She had plighted her troth to him when she was a mere child, and she
loved him--oh yes! she loved him very, very much, only...


III

There was the width of the courtyard and the tall wall between
Jacqueline and the street where stood the singer whom she so longed
to see.  She had caught sight of him yesterday when, to Nicolle's
horror, he had boldly scaled the wall and then had lingered for nigh
on half an hour beneath her window, singing one merry song after
another, till her young heart had been filled with a new joy, the
cause of which she herself could not quite comprehend.

She had watched him unseen, fearful lest some of the serving-men
should see him and drive him away.  Fortunately Chance had been all
in favour of her new romance.  M. de Landas was on duty at the Forts
that night; her guardian was still closeted with some other grave
seigneurs, and the serving-men were no doubt too busy to trouble
about a harmless minstrel.  As for the wenches about the place, they
had stood about in the doorways, listening with delight at the
impassioned songs and gaping in admiration at the splendid bearing of
the unknown cavalier.

Thus the singer had stood in the courtyard for some considerable
time, his martial figure silhouetted against the clear, moonlit sky,
his voice rising and falling in perfect cadence to the accompaniment
of a soft-toned lute, whilst Jacqueline, hidden within the shadow of
the window-embrasure, listened spellbound, her whole youth, her
ardent, loving soul exultant at this romance which was taking birth
at her feet.

And now he had come back, and the very night seemed to bid him
welcome.  It was still quite early in March, yet the air was soft as
spring.  All day the birds had been twittering under the eaves, and
on the west wind had come wafted gently the scent of budding almond
blossom and of the life-giving sap in the branches of the trees.

The stately city with its towers and steeples and cupolas lay bathed
in the light of the honey-coloured moon.  Far away on the right, the
elegant church of Saint Géry up on the Mont-des-Boeufs seemed like a
bar of silver which attached old Cambray to the star-studded
firmament above, and around it were grouped the tall steeples of St.
Martin, St. Waast and St. Aubert, with the fine hexagon of Martin et
Martine which crowned the Town Hall; whilst, dominating this forest
of perfect and rich architecture, was the mass of the cathedral close
by, with its tall pointed steeple, its flying buttresses, its
numberless delicate pinnacles picked out as by a fairy hand against
the background of deep azure.

But Jacqueline de Broyart had for the nonce no eyes for all that
beauty.  What cared she if the wintry moon outlined all these lovely
heights with delicate lines of silver?  What cared she if the shadows
of stately edifices appeared full of a golden glow by contrast with
the cold blue of the lights?  Her eyes were fixed, not on the tower
of St. Géry nor on the steeple of Notre Dame: they rested upon that
high and cruel wall which hid the unknown singer from her sight.

'Mignonne!' he sang out gaily.  'Allons voir la rose----'

'Oh!' sighed Jacqueline with passionate longing.  'If I only
could----!'

And her fancy went soaring into a world of romance--a world far away
from the sordid strifes, the political intrigues, the quarrels of
to-day; a world wherein men were all handsome and brave and women
were all free to grant them their hand to kiss, to listen to their
songs, to reward their prowess, to receive their homage unfettered by
convention--a world, in fact, such as Messire de Froissart had
chronicled and of which Messire Villon had sung so exquisitely.

Then suddenly Jacqueline's dreams were rudely interrupted, as was
also the song of the unseen minstrel.  Loud voices were raised and
there was a clash which made Jacqueline's very heart turn cold in her
bosom.

'Colle!' she cried excitedly.

But Colle had shuffled out of the room some little while ago, in
search of Pierre, no doubt, whom evidently she had failed to find.
And out there behind that cruel wall the rough hands of that
abominable varlet were being laid on the precious person of the
unsuspecting minstrel.  Jacqueline felt literally paralysed both with
terror and with wrath.  Colle had spoken of Pierre's stout arm and
still stouter stick, but there was also the possibility of M. de
Landas himself being about, and then--oh, then! ... Ye heavens above!
anything might happen! ... Oh! the wicked, wicked old woman and that
execrable Pierre! ... and ... and of course M. de Landas' jealousy
was sometimes terrifying!

'God in Heaven!' sighed Jacqueline.  'I entreat Thee to protect him!'

The noise of the scuffle in the street became louder and louder.
There were cries of rage as well as of pain.  Blows were evidently
raining freely--on whom?  My God, on whom?  Then, from further up the
street, came the sound of running footsteps as well as the stern
voice of the night watchmen hurrying to the scene.  Jacqueline would
have bartered some years of her life to see what was going on the
other side of the wall.  Only a minute or two had gone by: to the
young girl it had seemed like hours of suspense.  And now these
people all rushing along, no doubt in order to give a hand to
Pierre--to fall on the unarmed minstrel--to lay hands upon him--to
belabour him with sticks--to wound or hurt him--to----

Jacqueline uttered a loud cry of horror.  It was the echo of one of
terror, of pain and of rage which came from the other side of the
wall.  The next moment a dark mass appeared over the top of the wall,
silhouetted against the moonlit sky.  To Jacqueline's straining eyes
it seemed like the body of a man which, for the space of a brief
second, seemed to hover in mid air and then fell with a dull thud
upon the paving-stones of the courtyard below.

Jacqueline closed her eyes.  She felt sick and faint.  To her ears
now came the sound of loud groans and vigorous curses.  And then--oh,
then!--loud laughter and the last bar of the interrupted song--a
sound indeed which caused her at once to open her eyes again;
whereupon she, too, could have laughed and sung for joy.  The inert
mass still lay in a heap at the foot of the wall; Jacqueline could
vaguely discern its outline in the gloom, whilst up on the top of the
wall, astride, hatless, lute in hand, sat the masked minstrel with
his head turned gazing toward her window.

She clapped her hands with glee, and he, with a loud cry of
'Mignonne!' swung himself down from the wall and ran across the
courtyard until he came to a halt just beneath her window, and even
in the dim light of this wintry moon Jacqueline thought that she
could see his eyes glowing through the holes in the mask.

It was all so joyous, so gay, so romantic; so different--ah! so very,
very different--to the dreary monotony of Jacqueline's daily
existence!  This masked and unknown minstrel!  His daring, his
prowess, aye! his very impudence, which laughed at high walls and
defied an army of varlets!  There was Pierre moaning and groaning,
disarmed and helpless, having been tossed over the wall just as if he
were a bale of cumbersome goods!  Serve him right well, too, for
having dared to measure his valour against that of so proud a
cavalier!  Pierre was not hurt--oh, Jacqueline was quite sure that he
was not hurt!  Nothing, nothing whatever, was going to be wrong on
this lovely, glorious evening!  No!  Pierre would soon be healed of
his wounds; but it was ludicrous to see him stretched out just there,
where he thought he could lay the noble singer low!

'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose,' sang the mysterious minstrel; and
Jacqueline's young heart, which was filled with the joy of romance,
the exquisite rapture of ideals, suddenly ached with a passionate
longing for--for what?  She did not know.  She had had so many things
in life: riches, beauty, adulation, aye! and the love of a man whom
she loved in return.  But now it seemed to her as if, in spite of all
that, in spite of M. de Landas and his love, she had really lacked
something all the time--something that was both undefinable and
mystic and yet was intensely and vividly real, something that would
fill her life, that would satisfy her soul and gladden her heart, in
a way that M. de Landas' love, his passionate kisses, had never
succeeded in doing hitherto.

And somehow all this longing, all this thirst for a still-unknown
happiness, seemed personified in the singer with the tall, broad
stature and the mellow voice; it was embodied in the honey-coloured
moon, in the glints of silver and gold upon the steeples of Cambray,
in the scent of the spring and the murmurs of the breeze.  Jacqueline
pressed her hands against her heart.  She was so happy that she could
have cried.

Beside her on the window-sill stood a tall vase fashioned of Dutch
clay.  It was filled with tall-stemmed Madonna lilies, which had been
produced at great cost in the hot-houses belonging to her own estate
in Hainault.  Their powerful scent had filled the room with its
fragrance.  Without thought or hesitation, Jacqueline suddenly pulled
the sheaf out of the vase and gathered the flowers in her arms.  The
tender, juicy stems were wet and she took her embroidered
handkerchief out of her pocket and wrapped it round them; then she
flung the whole sheaf of lilies out of the window and watched to see
them fall, bruised and sweet-smelling, at the minstrel's feet.

Then, half-ashamed, laughing a little hysterically, but thoroughly
happy and excited, she drew quickly back into the room and hastily
closed the casement.


IV

When, ten minutes or so later, Nicolle came back, shame-faced,
remorseful and not a little frightened, she was surprised and
delighted to find her young mistress sitting quite composedly in a
high-backed chair in the centre of the room, the window closed, and
the lady herself quite eager to go to bed.

'Thou hast been gone a long time, Colle,' said the young girl
carelessly.  'Where hast thou been?'

Old Colle sighed with relief.  The Lord be praised!  Madame had
evidently seen and heard nothing of that vulgar scuffle which had
ended in such disaster for poor Pierre, and in such a triumph for the
impudent rascal who had since disappeared just as quickly as he came.

'I just went round to see that those wenches were all abed and that
their lights were safely out,' replied the old woman with brazen
hypocrisy.

'And didst speak to Pierre on the way?' queried Jacqueline, who had
assumed the quaintest possible air of simple ingenuousness.

'Aye!' replied the old woman dryly.  'I spoke to Pierre.'

'What did he say?'

'Nothing of importance.  We talked of to-morrow's banquet.'

'To-morrow's banquet?'

'Do not feign surprise, my pigeon,' rejoined old Colle, who was
decidedly out of humour.  'I even asked thee to-night, before taking
off thy gown, if thou wouldst wear that one or another on the morrow.'

'I remember,' replied Jacqueline with a yawn, 'I said that I did not
care what I wore, as I hated banquets, and company and bowings
and----'

'But Monseigneur said that the banquet to-morrow would be for a
special occasion.'

'When did he say that?'

'A moment or two ago--to Pierre.'

'And what will the special occasion be to-morrow?'

Nicolle looked mysterious.

'Maybe,' she said, 'that it is not altogether unconnected with
Monseigneur de Landas.'

'Why with him?' asked Jacqueline eagerly.

'Oh!  I am only putting two and two together, my cabbage,' replied
old Colle with a sly wink.  'There is talk of distinguished guests in
Cambray, of betrothals, and ... and ...

'Betrothals?'

'Why, yes.  Thou art nearly twenty, my pigeon, and Monseigneur, thy
guardian, will have to make up his mind that thou wilt marry sooner
or later.  I always thought that he did favour Monseigneur de Landas,
until----'

'Until what?' queried Jacqueline impatiently.

'There are so many rumours in the air,' replied Colle sententiously.
'Some talk of the Duc d'Anjou, who is own brother to the King of
France.'

Jacqueline made a little moue of disdain.

'Oh!  _Monsieur_!' she said carelessly.

'A very great and noble prince, my pigeon.'

'I am tired of great and noble princes.'

'But Monseigneur, the Duc d'Anjou...'

'Is one of the many, I suppose, who want my fortune, my family
connexions, the Sovereignty of the Netherlands.  Bah!' she added with
an impatient sigh.  'They sicken me!'

'A great lady, my cabbage,' said Nicolle solemnly, 'cannot follow the
dictates of her heart like a common wench.'

'Why!' exclaimed Jacqueline.  'Methought thou wast all for M. de
Landas!'

'So I am, my pigeon, so I am!' rejoined the old woman.  'He is a very
distinguished gentleman, who loves thee ardently.  But if there's one
who is own brother to the King of France....'  And old Colle gave an
unctuous sigh when she spoke the exalted name.

'Bah!' retorted Jacqueline with a careless shrug of the shoulders.
'There are others too!  And no one can force me into a marriage
whilst my heart is pledged to M. de Landas.'

'No, no!  Thank God for that!' assented Colle piously.  'As for the
others ... well! their name is legion ... some of them will be at the
banquet to-morrow....  There is the Marquis de Hancourt, a
fine-looking youth, and that horrid German prince whom I cannot
abide!  The English lord hath gone away, so they say, broken-hearted
at thy refusal; but there's the Spanish duke, whose name I cannot
remember, and Don José, own son to the Emperor....  As for that
stranger----' she added with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.

'The stranger?' queried Jacqueline lazily.  'What stranger?

'Well, I don't know much about him.  But Pierre, feeling crestfallen,
did admit that Monseigneur chided him severely for having shown a
want of respect to a gentleman who ought to have known better than to
pretend to be a street musician.'

But Jacqueline appeared all of a sudden to have lost interest in the
conversation.  'Ah!' she said with well-assumed indifference, 'then
the street musician of awhile ago was a gentleman in disguise?'

'Aye! so Pierre said--the fool!' quoth old Colle unblushingly.
'Monseigneur was very angry with him when he heard of the altercation
with the singer, threatened to speak of the matter to M. de Landas
and have Pierre flogged or dismissed for his interference.  Then he
hinted that the stranger, far from being a street musician, was a
foreign seigneur of high degree, even if of scanty fortune.'

'Oh!' commented Jacqueline carelessly.

'And he e'en ordered Pierre to go and apologize most humbly to the
stranger, who it seems is lodging in a very poor hostelry known as
"Les Trois Rois," just close to the Porte Notre Dame.'

Jacqueline ostentatiously smothered a yawn.

'I think I'll go to bed now, Colle,' she said.

But Colle's tongue, once loosened, could not so easily be checked.

'Town gossip,' she went on with great volubility, 'has been busy with
that stranger for the past two days.  'Tis said that he is styled
Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont; though what a prince should be
doing in a shabby hostel in that squalid quarter of the city I, for
one, do not know--nor why he should be going about masked and cloaked
through the city in the guise of a vagabond.'

'Perhaps the vagabond is no prince after all,' suggested Jacqueline.

'That's what I say,' asserted Colle triumphantly.  'And that's what
Pierre thought until Monseigneur told him that if he did not go at
once and offer his humble apologies he surely would get a flogging,
seeing that the Prince de Froidmont would actually be a guest at the
banquet to-morrow, and would of a certainty complain to M. de Landas.'

'A guest at the banquet!' exclaimed Jacqueline involuntarily.'

'Aye!' assented Colle.  'Didst ever hear the like!  But he must be a
distinguished seigneur for all that, or Monseigneur would not bid him
come.'

'No, I suppose not,' said Jacqueline with perfect indifference.  'The
Prince de Froidmont?' she added with a little yawn.  'Is that his
name?'

'So the town gossips say,' replied Colle, who was busy just then in
wrapping the bed-gown round her young mistress's shoulders.

'And he comes to the banquet to-morrow?'

'So Monseigneur said to Pierre.'

Jacqueline said nothing more for the moment, appeared to have lost
all interest in the masked musician and in Pierre's misdeeds.  She
stretched out her arms lazily while vigorous old Colle picked her up
as if she were a baby and carried her--as she was wont to do every
night--to her bed.

She laid her down upon the soft feather mattress and spread the fine
coverlets over her.  The alcove wherein stood the monumental bedstead
was in semi-darkness, for the light from the wax candles in the
sconces about the room failed to penetrate into the recess.  But that
semi-darkness was restful, and for awhile Jacqueline lay back against
the pillows, with eyes closed, in a state of that complete well-being
which is one of the monopolies of youth.  Nicolle, thinking that
Madame would be dropping off to sleep, made a movement to go; but
Jacqueline's small white hand had hold of the old woman's bony
fingers, and old Colle, abjectly happy at feeling the pressure,
remained quite still, waiting and watching, gazing with doglike
devotion on the lovely face--lovely in repose as it was when the
light of gaiety and roguishness danced in the blue eyes.

After a few minutes of this silent beatitude, Jacqueline opened her
eyes and said in a dreamy voice, half-asleep:

'Tell me, Colle, which is my prettiest gown?'

And Nicolle--herself more than half-way to the land of Nod--roused
herself in order to reply: 'The white one with the pearls, my pigeon.'

She was sufficiently awake to feel quite happy at the thought that
Madame was suddenly taking an interest in her clothes, and continued
eagerly: 'It hath an underdress of that lovely new green colour which
hath become the mode of late, and all embroidered with silver.
Nothing more beautiful hath ever been fashioned by tailors' art, and
in it Madame looks just like an exquisite white lily, with the
delicate green stem below.'

'Well then, Colle,' rejoined Jacqueline dreamily, 'to-morrow evening
I will wear my white satin gown with the pearls and the underdress of
green and silver, and Mathurine must study a new way of doing my hair
with the pointed coif which they say is so modish now in France.  I
will wear my stockings of crimson silk and my velvet shoes, and round
my neck I'll wear the ropes of pearls which my dear mother did
bequeath to me; in my ears I'll have the emerald earrings, and I'll
wear the emerald ring upon my finger.  I wish I had not that ugly
mole upon my left cheek-bone, for then I could have had one of those
tiny patches of black taffeta which are said to be so becoming to the
complexion....'

She paused, and added with quaint wistfulness: 'Think you, Colle,
that I shall look handsome?'

'As lovely as a picture, my dear one,' said Nicolle with enthusiasm.
'As exquisite as a lily; fit only to be the bride of a King.'

Jacqueline gave a quick sigh of satisfaction, after which she allowed
Colle to give her a kiss and to bid her a final 'good night.'

And even as she fell gradually into the delicious and dreamless sleep
of youth, her lips murmured softly: 'I wonder!'




CHAPTER VIII

WHAT BECAME OF THE LILIES


I

Gilles had spent four days at the hostelry of 'Les Trois Rois,' and
here he would have liked to remain indefinitely and to continue the
sentimental romance so happily begun beneath the casement-windows of
the Archiepiscopal Palace.  With the light-heartedness peculiar to
most soldiers of fortune, he had during those four days succeeded in
putting his rôle out of his mind.  Though he had not yet caught sight
of Madame's face at her window, he quite thought that he would do so
in time, and already he had received more than one indication that
his singing was not unwelcome.  The casement had been deliberately
thrown open when he had scaled the courtyard wall, and had resumed
his song immediately beneath the window which he had ascertained
belonged to Madame's private apartment.  He had felt, even though he
did not actually see, that some one was listening to him from up
there, for once he had perceived a shadow upon the casement curtain,
and once a hand, small and delicate, had rested upon the window-sill.
Gilles would have continued this wooing--aye! perhaps have brought it
to a happy conclusion, he thought--without being forced to assume
another personality than his own: a thing which became more and more
abhorrent to Messire Gilles' temper, now that the time for starting
the masquerade in earnest was drawing nigh.

'We could make ourselves very happy here, honest Jehan,' he had said
to the faithful companion of his many adventures.  'Waited on by that
silent and zealous youth, who of a truth looks like the very ghost of
silence and discretion.  With judicious economy, the money which a
gracious Queen hath placed in our hands would last us a year.  It
seems a pity to fritter it all away in a few weeks by playing a rôle
which is detestable and unworthy.'

'B-b-b-but----' stammered old Jehan.

'You are quite right,' broke in Gilles gravely.  'Your argument is
very sound.  The money, my friend, was given unto us in order to play
a certain rôle, and that rôle we must now play whether we like it or
not, on pain of being branded as vagabonds and thieves.'

'V-v-v-very----' stammered poor Jehan.

'As you say,' remarked Gilles dryly, 'I have always found you of good
counsel, my friend.  Very likely--that is what you would say, is it
not?--very likely, unless we played our parts as Madame la Reyne de
Navarre did direct, Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy would discover the
fraud and have us both hanged for our pains.  And if the hangman did
happen to miss us, Madame Marguerite would certainly see to it that a
gibbet was ready for us somewhere in France.  So for this once, I
think, mine honest Jehan, we must take it that honesty will be the
best policy.'

'O-o-o-only th-th-th-that----'

'Quite so!' assented Gilles, 'only that in this case we cannot
contrive to remain honest without being dishonest, which is a
proposition that doth gravely disturb my mind.'

'Th-th-th-the o-o-o-only----'

'Hold your tongue, friend Jehan,' broke in Gilles impatiently.
'Verily, you talk a great deal too much!'


II

And now, at the very close of the fourth day, Messire Gilles made
noisy irruption into the tiny room which he occupied in the hostelry
of 'Les Trois Rois.'  Maître Jehan--after the stormy episode outside
the postern gate wherein he had taken part--was in the room, waiting
for his master.

Gilles was in the rarest of good humour.  As soon as he had closed
the door behind him, he threw his plumed toque and the lute upon the
table and, sitting down on the narrow paillasse which was his bed, he
fell to contemplating a bunch of white lilies which he had in his
hand.  The stems of these lilies were carefully wrapped in an
embroidered handkerchief, but they hung their bruised, if still
fragrant, heads in a very doleful manner.

Gilles laughed softly to himself.  Then he held the flowers out at
arm's length and called out gaily to Jehan:

'Congratulate me, honest Jehan!' he said.  'The first act of our
adventurous comedy is over.  The curtain has rung down on a veritable
triumph!  I have received a token!  ... I have captured the first
bastion in the citadel of the fair one's heart!  Give me a week, and
I hold the entire fortress for and on behalf of _Monsieur_ Duc
d'Anjou, our august master!'

'Th-th-th-then you h-h-h-have----'

'No, I have not seen her, my good man.  All that fine fight outside
the walls, the complete discomfiture of our assailants, my perilous
position inside the courtyard, from whence a reinforcement of varlets
might easily have put me to flight, did not win for me even a glimpse
of the lady.  But her window was wide open this time, and I could see
her shadow flitting past the casement.  Then suddenly these lilies
were flung at me.  They were crushed and bruised against the pavement
as they fell; but they are a token, friend Jehan, and you cannot deny
it!  Madame Jacqueline's heart is already touched by the song of the
unknown troubadour, and he hath but to present himself before her to
be graciously received.'

'B-b-b-b-but----' said Jehan with grave solemnity.

'That's just it!' broke in Gilles with a laugh.  'You have a way, my
friend, of hitting the right nail on the head.  As you say, the four
days' respite which have been granted to us have now expired, and we
have not yet seen the future Duchesse d'Anjou face to face.'

'N-n-n-not yet!  Th-th-th-that----'

'That is the trouble, I grant you.  There is that infernal
masquerade; and of a truth, I am more convinced than ever that the
reason why those noble mynheers are so determined that Madame shall
not show her face ere I have irrevocably committed myself--I--that
is, the Duc d'Anjou--that is----  Oh, my God!' he exclaimed.  'What a
tangle!!  Well, as I was saying....  By the way, what was I saying
just now?'

'Th-th-th-that----'

'Of course!  You incorrigible chatterbox!  I would have explained my
meaning before now if you had not talked nineteen to the dozen all
the time!  I mean that I have completely changed my mind, and that I
have become convinced that Madame Jacqueline is as ugly as sin, else
those wily Dutchmen would not be so anxious to cover up her face.'

'Th-th-th-therefore----' asserted Jehan stoutly.

'Therefore, my good man, good fortune is in our debt.  She did not
favour me with a sight of the lady ere I meet her in my official
capacity.  But Madame Jacqueline hath given me a token: she is
prepared to love me, and I am still in the dark as to whether she
squints or is pitted with pock-marks.  A terrible position for any
man to be in!' he sighed dolefully, 'even though he is out a-courting
for a friend.'

'B-b-b-but----'

'You mean well, my friend,' quoth Gilles, who fell to contemplating
the bunch of faded lilies with a rueful expression of face.  'You
mean well, but you talk too much, and thus I am thrown on mine own
resources for counsel in an emergency.  As for arguments!  Why, you
would argue the devil's horns from off his head!  Still,' he added,
as he finally flung the lilies away from him with a careless gesture
of indifference, 'still, in spite of what you say, I must stick to my
bargain.  Those mulish mynheers will not grant us any further delay,
and to-morrow I am pledged to appear at the governor's banquet--yes,
even I!--_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, own brother to the King
of France, and you as my faithful servitor.'

'N-n-n-not a m-m-minute t-t-too soon,' Maître Jehan managed to blurt
out quickly whilst Gilles had paused for breath.

'Ah! there you are wrong, my friend,' retorted Gilles.  'For my
taste, the dénouement is coming along at far too rapid a pace.
To-morrow, already our troubles will begin--peace will know us no
more.  I for one will never rightly know who I am; nor will I know
who it is who will know who I am not.  Oh, my Lord!' he added in mock
despair, as he rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in
his hands.  'My head will split ere I have done!  Tell me, Jehan, who
I shall be to-morrow.'

'T-t-t-to-morrow,' stammered Jehan with painful earnestness,
'you--you--you----you will b-b-b-b-be----'

'Own brother to His Majesty the King of France,' said Gilles, 'and as
great blackguard as ever disgraced a Royal house.  To Monseigneur the
governor, and maybe also to some of his friends, I shall be a Royal
prince.  To others, and notably to Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, I
shall be the Prince de Froidmont--an insignificant and penniless
seigneur who only dares approach the far-famed heiress under cover of
a mask, having fallen desperately in love with her.  Ah, Jehan!
Jehan!' he added with mock solemnity, 'thou art of a truth a lucky
devil!  Thou canst keep thine own name, thine own rank, even thine
own ludicrous stutter: whereas I,--what shall I be?  A mime!  A
buffoon!  And what's more, a fraudulent varlet, pledged to deceive an
innocent wench into the belief that her future lord is both
sentimental and amorous and can sing the love ditties writ by Messire
de Ronsard with passable tunefulness....  Ye gods, Jehan, hast ever
heard _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou--the real one, I mean--sing?'

'N-n-n-no!' objected Jehan in pious horror, for he did not like to
hear so exalted a personage derided.

'Then hast ever heard the barn-door rooster calling to his favourite
hen?'

'S-s-s-s-sometimes!'

'Well!' quoth Gilles lightly, 'so have I.  And I prefer the barn-door
rooster!  And now to bed, friend Jehan,' he added as he jumped to his
feet.  'To-morrow is the great day!  Didst take my letter to the
governor's palace?'

'I d-d-d-did.'

'And didst see Monseigneur the governor himself?'

Jehan nodded affirmatively.

'Gave him my letter?'

Another nod from Jehan.

'Did he look pleased?'

A shrug of the shoulders this time.

'Said he would be honoured to see Monseigneur le Duc d'Alençon et
d'Anjou at the banquet to-morrow?'

Once again a nod.

'Then to bed, chatterbox!' concluded Gilles gaily, 'for to-morrow I
begin my career as a low, deceitful hound, fit only for the gibbet,
which I dare swear is already prepared for me!'


III

Jehan helped his master to undress.  He pulled off the heavy boots
and laid aside the cloth jerkin, the kerseymere trunks and worsted
hose.  Then, when Messire Gilles lay stretched out upon the hard
paillasse, honest Jehan bade him a quiet good night and went off
carrying the guttering candle.  For one candle had to do duty for two
customers, or even at times for three, at the hostel of 'Les Trois
Rois.'  These were not days of luxurious caravanserai: eight square
feet of floor space, a tiny leaded window, a straw paillasse, perhaps
a table and a rickety chair, made up the sum total of a furnished
bedroom, if destined for a person of quality.  Men like Maître Jehan
had to be content with the bare boards and a horse-blanket outside
their master's door, or behind a wooden partition set up inside the
latter's room.

Jehan went off, then, with the candle, and Gilles de Crohin remained
in almost total darkness, for the light of the moon failed to
penetrate through the narrow aperture which went by the name of
window.  For a long time Messire Gilles lay motionless, staring into
the gloom.  Vague pictures seemed to flit before his gaze: the
unknown girl whom he was pledged to woo appeared and disappeared
before him, now walking across his line of vision with stately
dignity, now dancing a wild rigadoon like some unruly country wench;
but always, and with irritating persistence, wearing a mask which he
longed to drag away from her face.  Then he saw pictures of fair
Marguerite of Navarre, imperious yet appealing, and of his own
cross-hilted sword, upon the sacred emblem of which he had pledged
himself to an ugly deception; Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, indolent and
vapid, dressed in that ludicrous green satin suit, came and mocked
him through the darkness.

Gilles de Crohin, wearied with all these phantasmagoria, began
tossing restlessly upon his hard bed, and as he did so he flung his
arm out over the coverlet and his hand came in rough contact with the
floor.  And there, close to his touch, was something soft and
velvety, the drooping, fading lilies which an unknown lady of high
degree had flung out to him and which he had so carelessly tossed
aside.  His hand closed tightly upon the flowers, crushing the last
spark of life out of the fragrant blossoms, and even as he did
so--quite unconsciously and mechanically--an unpleasant pang of
remorse shot right through his heart.  Was this unconscious act of
his a presage of the cruel rôle which he had set out to play?  Would
the young soul of an innocent girl droop and wither beneath his
careless touch?

Very gently now Gilles, turning on his side, gathered the flowers
together and drew them towards him.  Something of their fragrance
still lingered in the bruised petals.  Gilles got out of bed.  His
eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, or perhaps something of
the radiance of the moonlit night had penetrated into the narrow
room.  Gilles could see his way about, and he remembered that in the
further corner there had stood a pitcher filled with fresh water.
With infinite precaution he unwound the handkerchief from around the
stems and then dropped the flowers one by one into the pitcher.
After awhile he picked up the handkerchief.  It was nothing now but a
damp and sodden little ball, but it smelt sweetly of lilies and of
lavender.  Gilles marvelled if the lady's initials and coronet were
embroidered in the-corner.  He felt with his fingers in order to make
sure; but he was too inexperienced in such matters to arrive at any
definite conclusion, so with a sudden impulse which he would not have
cared to analyse, he searched the darkness for his doublet, and
having found it he thrust the damp little rag into its breast-pocket.

Then, with a laugh at his own folly and a light shrug of the
shoulders, he went back to bed.  This time he fell at once into a
dreamless sleep.




CHAPTER IX

HOW MESSIRE GILLES WAS REMINDED OF A DREAM

I

In Maître C. Calviac's treatise on the manners and tone of good
society, which he published in the year 1560[1] for the guidance of
those who desired to frequent the company of the Great, we are told
that 'when we enter the presence of exalted personages, we must walk
on the tips of our toes, incline our body and make a profound
obeisance.'  And further, Maître Calviac goes on to explain the many
different modes of saluting, which we might adopt for the occasion:
'Firstly,' he says, 'we can uncover our right hand, with it lower our
hat by stretching the arm down along our right thigh and leaving our
left hand free.  Secondly, we can regard humbly and reverentially the
exalted one whom we desire to salute.  Thirdly, we can lower our gaze
and advance our right foot whilst drawing the left one slightly back.
We can also take off the glove from our right hand, incline our body,
and after nearly touching the ground with our hand, carry our fingers
to our lips, as if in the act of imprinting a kiss upon their tips.'


[1] La Civile Honnêteté, par C. Calviac.  Paris 1560.  in-12.


Finally, our accomplished monitor tells us that the embrace is yet
another form of salute which cannot, however, be practised save
between persons of equal rank or those who are bound to one another
by ties of kinship or of especial friendship.  In that case, the most
civil manner of thus saluting is for each to place the right hand on
the top of the other's shoulder and the left hand just below, and
then present the left cheek one to the other, without touching or
actually kissing the same.

We may take it that Monseigneur le Baron d'Inchy, governor of the
province of Cambrésis, being an exalted personage himself and closely
connected by family ties with Madame Jacqueline de Broyart--whose
guardian and protector he was--did adopt the latter mode of
salutation when, at eight o'clock precisely of the following evening,
he presented himself before his young ward for the purpose of
conducting her to the State dining-room, where a banquet in honour of
several distinguished guests was already spread.  We may take it, I
say, that Monseigneur the governor did take off his right-hand glove,
advance his right foot and walk on the tips of his toes; that he did
place one hand on Madame Jacqueline's shoulder, whilst she did the
same to him, and that they each presented the left cheek to one
another in accordance with the laws of propriety laid down by Maître
Calviac.

Monseigneur was accompanied by a young man whose manners and
demeanour were even more punctilious and ceremonious than those of
his companion.  The airs and graces wherewith he advanced in order to
greet Madame Jacqueline would have done honour to a Grand Master at
the Court of the Spanish King.  And, indeed, many did aver that M. le
Marquis de Landas had Spanish blood in his veins, and that, though he
was a Netherlander by birth, and a Protestant by practise, he was a
Spaniard and a Papist by tradition--which fact did not tend to make
him popular in the Cambrésis, where the armies of Alexander Farnesse,
Duke of Parma, were already over-running the villages, rumour being
rife that they were about to threaten Cambray.

'Twas well said of M. le Marquis de Landas that none knew better than
he how to turn a compliment.  Perhaps that same strain of Spanish
blood in him had given him glibness of tongue and the languorous look
in the eyes which had rendered many a favoured lady proud.  He was
known to be of exalted lineage but not endowed with fortune,
connected too with some of the noblest families both in Flanders and
in Spain, and had lately come to the Cambrésis as aide-de-camp to his
kinsman, the baron d'Inchy, who had promptly given him command of the
garrison of Cambray.

So much for facts that were known.  But there were rumours and
conjectures, not altogether false, it seems, that M. de Landas was a
suitor for Madame Jacqueline's hand--one of the many, of course; for
her hand was sought far and wide.  She would bring a rich dowry as
her marriage portion to any man who was lucky enough to win her, and
also the influence of her Flemish kinsmen, who had already boldly
asserted that the Sovereignty of the Netherlands would go with the
hand of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart.

Many favoured the French alliance; others preferred the Netherlander
with the strain of quasi-royal Spanish blood in him.  The Marquis de
Landas would prove a useful link between the Spaniards and the
Netherlanders, would know how to smoothe many difficulties, calm the
obstinate temperament of the Dutch and gloss over the tyranny of
their masters.  He had suave manners and a persuasive tongue, useful
in politics.  The ladies of Cambray at once adored him: his olive
skin, his dark hair which clustered in heavy waves above the well-cut
oval of his face, his large brown, velvety eyes, were all destined to
please the fair sex.  He wore a silky moustache and the small,
pointed beard on his chin, and his cheeks were of a blue-black colour
all down where the barber shaved him every day.  Whene'er he gazed on
a young and pretty woman his eyes would assume an amorous expression
and his lips were curved and of a bright cherry-red, like those of a
girl.


II

Between Jacqueline and her young kinsman there had sprung just that
kind of love which is made up of passion on the one side and innocent
devotion on the other.  At first it had flourished almost
unopposed--ignored, probably, as being of no importance.  Monseigneur
d'Inchy's plans for his ward had been both immature and vague, for,
until a year or so ago Jacqueline had a brother living--Jan, a couple
of years older than herself, who was the owner of the rich
Netherlands duchies and on the point of taking unto himself a wife.
But, with the death of that brother, Jacqueline at once became a
personage of vast importance.  She had remained the sole possessor of
the princely heritage and thereby a pawn in the political game in
which the Sovereignty of the Netherlands was the priceless guerdon.

Monseigneur d'Inchy's plans began to mature: ineligible and obscure
suitors were quickly given the cold shoulder and an imaginary barrier
was drawn around Madame Jacqueline into the inner circle of which
only scions of kingly or great princely houses were allowed to enter.
Jacqueline's dowry rendered her a fit mate even for a King.

Even M. de Landas, more highly connected than most, backed too by his
Royal Spanish kindred, found that his position as an approved suitor
had suddenly become gravely imperilled.  Monseigneur d'Inchy no
longer looked on him as an altogether desirable mate for the richest
heiress in the Netherlands, now that one of the sons of the Emperor,
a reigning German duke, and the brother of the King of France, were
among those who had entered the lists for her favours.

But, as is nearly always the case in such matters, the boy and girl
affection ripened, with this growing opposition, into something more
ardent and more passionate.  M. de Landas, who hitherto had dallied
with his pretty cousin just to the extent that suited his wayward
fancy, suddenly realized that he was very deeply enamoured of her;
jealousy did the rest, transforming transient sentiment into
impetuous and exacting fervour.

As for Jacqueline, though she was no longer a mere child, she was
totally inexperienced and unversed in the knowledge of human
hearts--not excepting her own.  She loved de Landas dearly, had loved
him ever since he first began to speak of love to her.  It is so
difficult for a girl, as yet untouched by searing passion, to
distinguish between sentimental affection and the love which fills a
life.  Landas whispered amorous, tender, flattering words in her ear,
had fine, flashing eyes which, with their glance of bold admiration,
were wont to bring the warm blood to her cheeks.  He had a way with
him, in fact, which quickly swept her off her feet in the whirlpool
of his infatuation, long before she had learned that there were other
streams whereon she could have launched her barque of life, with a
greater certainty of happiness.

Her heart was touched by his ardour, even though her senses were not
fully awakened yet; but she yielded to his caresses with a girlish
surrender of self, not realizing that the thrill of pleasure which
she felt was as ephemeral as it was shallow.  She admired him for his
elegant manners, which he had acquired at the Spanish Court, for they
stood out in brilliant contrast to the more uncouth Flemish ways;
whilst his admiration for her was so unbounded that, despite herself,
the young girl felt enraptured by his glowing looks.

To-night she knew that she was beautiful, and that consciousness lent
her a quaint air of dignity and self-possession.  An unwonted
excitement which she could not account for caused her eyes to shine
like stars through the slits of her mask.  De Landas could only gaze
in rapt wonderment at the vision of radiant youth and loveliness
which stood before him in the person of Jacqueline de Broyart.

'You are more adorable to-night than ever, my beloved,' he contrived
to whisper to her behind Monseigneur d'Inchy's back.  'And I am
thankful that Monseigneur's orders have decreed that so much beauty
shall remain hidden from unworthy eyes.'

Monseigneur, it seems, just caught these last few words, but mistook
their exact meaning.  'All the ladies, my dear de Landas,' he said
somewhat tartly, 'who belong to our circle will appear masked at all
future public functions until I myself do rescind this order.'

'I was not complaining, Messire,' retorted de Landas dryly.  'On the
contrary, I, as a devoted friend, have reason to rejoice at the
order, seeing that several strangers will be at your banquet this
night, and it were certainly not seemly for ladies of exalted rank to
appear unmasked before them.'

He paused awhile, noting with pleasure that his bold glance had
brought a glow to Jacqueline's delicate throat and chin.  Then he
murmured softly:

''Tis only when the strangers have departed that we, who have the
privilege of intimacy, can call on the ladies to unmask.'

'Even you, my dear de Landas,' broke in d'Inchy curtly, 'must be
content to wait until I decide to grant you special favours.  Shall
we go below, Madame?' he added, turning to Jacqueline.  'The banquet
is spread for nine o'clock.'

Jacqueline, who had scarce uttered a word since the gentlemen entered
the room, appeared almost as if she were waking from a trance.  Her
eyes had a vague, expectant look in them which delighted de Landas,
for his vanity at once interpreted that look as one caused by his
presence and his own fascination.  But now that she encountered her
guardian's cold, quizzical glance, the young girl pulled herself
together, laughed lightly and said with a careless shrug of her
pretty shoulders:

'Nay, then, Monseigneur; 'twill not be my fault if we are late, for
I've been dressed this past half-hour, and oh!' she added with a mock
sigh of weariness, 'Ye gods!  How bored I have been, seeing that I
detest all these modish Parisian clothes almost as much as I do a
mask, and have chafed bitterly at having to don them.'

'You would not have been bored, Madame,' riposted de Landas with
elaborate gallantry, 'had you but glanced once or twice into your
mirror, for then you would have been regaled with a sight which,
despite the cruel mask, will set every man's heart beating with joy
to-night!'

She received his formal compliment more carelessly than was her wont,
and he, quick to note every shade of indifference or warmth in her
demeanour, frowned with vexation, felt a curious, gnawing pang of
jealousy assail him.  Jacqueline was so young, so adulated, so very,
very beautiful!  This was not the first time of late that he had
asked himself whether he could hope to enchain her lasting affection,
as he had done her girlish fancy ... and had found no satisfactory
answer to the bitterly searching question.  But she, equally quick to
note his moods, quite a little in awe of his outbursts of jealousy,
which she had learned to dread, threw him a glance which soon turned
his moodiness into wild exultation.  After which, Jacqueline turned
to Nicolle, who was standing by, gazing on her young mistress in rapt
adoration.

'Give me my fan and gloves, dear Colle,' she said.

And when Colle had given her these things, she put on her gloves and,
holding her fan in one hand and the edge of her satin skirt with the
other, she made a low curtsey before her guardian, looking shy and
demure in every line of her young figure, even though the mask hid
the expression of her face.

'Does my appearance,' she asked, 'meet with Monseigneur's approval?'

The answer was so obvious that M. d'Inchy--who was somewhat nervy and
irritable this evening--said nothing but a sharp, 'Come, Jacqueline!'
Whereupon she placed her hand upon his left arm, and without glancing
again in her lover's direction, she walked sedately across the room.


III

The dining hall on the floor below was brilliantly lighted for the
occasion.  At one end of it three tables had been laid for eighty-two
guests; they were spread with fine linen and laden with silver dishes
and cut glass.

In the centre of the room the company was already assembled:
gentlemen and ladies whom Monseigneur, governor of Cambray and the
Cambrésis, desired to honour and to entertain.  They had entered the
room in accordance with their rank, those of humble degree first--one
or two of the more important burghers of the town and their wives,
members of the municipal council and mayors of the various guilds.
The gentlemen of quality followed next, for it was necessary, in
accordance with usage, that persons of lower rank should be present,
in order to receive those who stood above them in station.

It would be a laborious task to enumerate all the personages of
exalted rank who filed into the stately hall, one after another, in a
veritably brilliant and endless procession.  The Magistrate--elected
by the Governor--was there as a matter of course, so was the Provost
of the City, and one or two of the Sheriffs.  Naturally, the absence
of the Archbishop and of the higher clergy detracted somewhat from
the magnificence of the pageant, but Monseigneur d'Inchy had taken
possession of the city, the province and the Palace, and the
Archbishop was now an exile in his own diocese.  On the other hand,
the Peers and Seigneurs of the Province were well represented: we
know that Monseigneur de Prémont was there, as well as Monseigneur
d'Audencourt and Monseigneur d'Esne and many other wealthy and
distinguished gentlemen and their ladies.

Most of the ladies wore masks, as did many of the men.  This mode had
lately become very general in Paris, and the larger provincial towns,
who desired to be in the fashion, were never slow in adopting those
which hailed from the French capital.  The custom had its origin in
the inordinate vanity of the time--vanity amounting to a vice--and
which hath never been equalled in any other epoch of history.  Women
and men too were so vain of their complexions and spent so much upon
its care, used so many cosmetics, pastes and other beautifiers, that,
having accomplished a veritable work of art upon their faces, they
were loth to expose it to the inclemencies of the weather or the
fumes of tallow candles and steaming food.  Hence the masks at first,
especially out of doors and during meals.  Afterwards, they became an
attribute of good society.  Ladies of rank and fashion wore them when
strangers were present or when at a ball they did not desire to
dance.  To remove a mask at the end of a meal or before a dance was a
sign of familiarity or of gracious condescension: to wear one became
a sign of exalted rank, of high connexions and of aloofness from the
commoner herd of mankind.  Whereupon those of humbler degree promptly
followed suit.


IV

When M. le Baron d'Inchy entered the dining hall, having Madame
Jacqueline de Broyart on his arm and followed by M. le Marquis de
Landas, the whole company was assembled in order to greet the host.

Jacqueline's entry was hailed with an audible murmur of admiration
and a noisy frou-frou of silks and satins, as the men bowed to the
ground and the ladies' skirts swept the matting of the floor.  The
murmur of admiration increased in boldness as the young girl went
round the company in order to welcome her friends.

And, indeed, Jacqueline de Broyart fully deserved that admiration.
As you know, Messire Rembrandt painted her a year or so later in the
very dress in which she appeared this night--a dress all of
shimmering white satin and pearls, save for the peep of delicate
green and silver afforded by the under-dress, and the dark crimson of
her velvet shoes and silk stockings.  The steel corset encased her
young figure like a breastplate, coming to a deep point well below
the natural waist, whilst round her hips the huge monstrosity of the
farthingale hid effectually all the natural grace of her movements.
In Rembrandt's picture we see the dainty face, round and fresh as a
flower, with the nose slightly tip-tilted, the short upper lip and
full, curved mouth; we also see the eyes, large and blue, beneath the
straight brow--eyes which had nothing of the usually vapid expression
of those that are blue--eyes which, even in the picture, seem to
dance with merriment and with joy, and to which the tiny brown mole,
artfully placed by nature upon the left cheek-bone, lent an
additional air of roguishness and of youth.

To-night, her girlish figure was distorted by hoops of steel, but
even these abominations of fashion could not mar the charm of her
personality.  Her figure looked like an unwieldy bell, but above the
corset her shoulders and her young breasts shone like ivory set in a
frame of delicate lace; her blue eyes sparkled with unwonted
excitement, and beneath the flickering light of innumerable wax
candles her hair had gleams of coppery gold.

But, above all, there was in Jacqueline de Broyart the subtle and
evanescent charm of extreme youth and that delicious quality of
innocence and of dependence which makes such an irresistible appeal
to the impressionable hearts of men.  Just now, she was feeling
peculiarly happy and exhilarated, and, childlike, being happy herself
she was prodigal of smiles: the small element of romance which had so
unaccountably entered into her life with the advent of the mysterious
singer had somehow made the whole world seem gay and bright in a way
which de Landas' passionate and exacting love had never succeeded in
doing.  It had dissipated the pall of boredom and ceremonious
monotony which was as foreign to Jacqueline's buoyant nature as was
the corselet to her lissom figure.  The light of mischief and frolic
danced in her eyes, even though at times, for a moment or two, de
Landas, who observed her with the keenness and persistence of a
jealous lover, would detect in her manner a certain softness and
languor which made her appear more alluring, more tantalizing
perhaps, then she had ever been.

As she entered the room, she gave a quick and comprehensive glance on
the assembled company.

'Tell me, Monseigneur,' she whispered in her guardian's ear, 'has the
stranger arrived?'

'The stranger?' retorted d'Inchy.  'What stranger?'

'Pardi!  Monsieur le Prince de Froidmont,' she said.  'Who else?'

'Oh!' replied d'Inchy with well-assumed indifference, 'the Prince de
Froidmont has certainly arrived before now.  He is not a person of
great consequence.  Why should you be interested in him, my dear
Jacqueline?'

To this Jacqueline made no answer, looked down her nose very
demurely, so that only her blue-veined lids could be seen through the
slits of her mask.  She drew up her slim figure to its full height,
looked tall and graceful, too, despite that hideous farthingale.
Friends crowded round her and round Monseigneur the governor, and she
was kept busy acknowledging many greetings and much fulsome flattery.
M. le Marquis de Landas never swerved from her side.  He, too, wore a
mask, but his was a short one which left the mouth and chin free, and
all the while that other men--young ones especially--almost fought
for a look or a smile from the beautiful heiress, his slender hand
was perpetually stroking and tugging at his moustache--a sure sign
that his nerves were somewhat on edge.


V

Monseigneur d'Inchy left his ward for a moment or two in the midst of
all her friends and admirers and drew Monseigneur de Lalain into a
secluded portion of the room.

'Well!' he began curtly, as soon as he felt assured that there were
no eavesdroppers nigh.  'He is here.'

'Yes!' said de Lalain, also sinking his voice to a whisper.  'He came
early, as one who is of no account, and at once mixed with the
throng.'

'You were here when he arrived?'

'No.  But I came soon after.'

'Was there much curiosity about him?'

'Naturally,' replied de Lalain.  'Our good bourgeois of Cambray do
not often have the chance of gossiping over so mysterious a
personality.'

'But did they receive him well?'

De Lalain shrugged his shoulders and, by way of reply, pointed to the
further end of the room, where a tall figure, richly though very
sombrely dressed and wearing a mask of black satin, stood out in
splendid isolation from the rest of the crowd.

Gilles, from where he stood, caught de Lalain's gesture and d'Inchy's
scrutinizing look.  He replied to both by a scarce perceptible
obeisance.  His keen eyes under the shield of the mask had already
swept with a searching glance over the entire company.  Strangely
enough, though the success of his present adventure was bound up in a
woman, it was the men's faces that he scanned most eagerly at first.
A goodly number of them wore masks like himself, but when he drew
himself up for a moment to his full height with a movement that was
almost a challenge, he felt quite sure in his own mind that he would
at once detect--by that subtle instinct of self-preservation which is
the attribute of every gambler--if danger of recognition lurked
anywhere about.

He himself had never been to Cambray, it is true, and he was a knight
of such humble degree that it was not very likely that, among this
assembly of Flemish notabilities, some one should just happen to know
him intimately enough to denounce him as the adventurer that ne
really was.  Still, the danger did exist--enough of it, at any rate,
to add zest to the present situation.  Light-hearted and careless as
always, Gilles shrugged his broad shoulders and turned his attention
to the ladies.

Here, though there also was suspicion, there was undoubtedly keen
interest.  Over the top of Monseigneur d'Inchy's head Gilles could
see at the end of the room the group of ladies, gay in their
brilliantly-coloured satin dresses and their flashing jewels, like a
swarm of butterflies, and standing as closely together as their
unwieldy hoops would allow.  He felt that at least a score pairs of
eyes were fixed upon him through the narrow slits of satin masks, and
that murmured comments upon him and his appearance, conjectures as to
his identity and his rank, flew from many a pair of lovely lips.

Right in the very centre of that group was a woman all dressed in
white, with just a narrow peep of pale green showing down her skirt,
which gave to her person the appearance of a white lily on its stem.
Something immature about the shoulders and the smooth, round
neck--something shy yet dignified about the poise of the head,
suggested youth not yet fully conscious of its beauty and its power,
while the richness of her attire and of her jewels proclaimed both
wealth and high position.  Murmurs and remarks among the gentlemen
around him soon made it clear to Gilles that this was the lady whom
he had been sent to woo.  Agreeably thrilled by the delicate curves
of her throat and breast, he thought that he might spend some very
pleasant hours in sentimental dalliance with so fair a maid.

'We must have that mask from off your face, madonna,' he said to
himself; 'and not later than this night!  In affairs of the heart,
even by proxy, one does not like to venture in the dark.'

So intent was he on his own meditations that he failed to note the
approach of a young cavalier, dressed in rich garments of sober
black, who suddenly addressed him in a slightly ironical tone, which
however appeared intended to be friendly.

'You seem to be a stranger here, Messire,' the young cavalier said
lightly.  'Can I be of any service?'

He spoke French very fluently but with a slight guttural accent,
which betrayed Spanish blood and which for some unexplainable reason
grated unpleasantly on Gilles de Crohin's ear.

'Oh, Messire!' replied the latter quietly, 'I pray you do not waste
your time on me.  I am a stranger, it is true; but as such, the
brilliant picture before me is full of interest.'

'You are visiting Cambray for the first time?' asked the other, still
with an obvious effort at amiability.

'For the first time--yes, Messire.'

'In search of fortune?'

'As we all are, methinks.'

'Cambray is scarce the place to find it.'

'Is that your experience of it, Messire?'

De Landas frowned and a sharp retort obviously hovered on his lips.
He appeared morose and captious about something; probably the fact
that Jacqueline had evinced an extraordinary interest in the masked
stranger had acted as an irritant on his nerves.

But already Gilles appeared to have completely forgotten his
presence, had only listened with half an ear to the Spaniard's
laboured amenities.  For the nonce he was vaguely conscious that
through the slits of her mask, the lily-like maid kept her eyes fixed
very intently upon him.

'Monseigneur the governor,' de Landas was saying just then, 'desires
your presence, Messire.  He wishes you to pay your respects to the
noble Dame Jacqueline de Broyart.'

The name acted like magic on Gilles' temper.  He pulled himself
together and with a cool 'At your service, Messire!' he followed de
Landas across the room.


VI

The presentation had been made.  It was very formal and very distant;
it even seemed to Gilles as if Jacqueline had somewhat ostentatiously
turned away from him as soon as he had gone through the ceremonious
bowings and kissing of hand which convention demanded.  For a moment
or two after that, M. d'Inchy kept him in close converse, whilst de
Landas, evidently reassured by Jacqueline's indifference toward the
stranger, appeared much more amiable and serene.  But the young
Spaniard's mind was apparently still disturbed.  He studied the other
man with an intentness which, in those days of fiery and quarrelsome
tempers, might almost have been construed into an insult.  He
appeared to chafe under the man's cool confidence in himself and M.
d'Inchy's obvious deference towards one who outwardly was of no
account.

Gilles took no further notice of him; but, as he would have told you
himself, he felt an atmosphere of hostility around him, which
appeared to find its origin in de Landas' attitude.  D'Inchy, aided
by de Lalain, did his best to dissipate that atmosphere, but
evidently he, too, felt oppressed and nervy.  Unversed in the art of
duplicity, he was making almost ludicrous efforts to appear at his
ease and to hide his profound respect for a prince of the House of
France under a cloak of casual friendliness--an elephantine effort
which did not deceive de Landas.

Gilles alone appeared unconscious of embarrassment.  His mind was not
properly enchained either to M. d'Inchy's difficulties or to the
young Spaniard's growing enmity.  His thoughts were for ever breaking
bounds, turning at every moment to the girlish figure in the unwieldy
hoops and the white satin gown, whose merry laugh was like the
twittering of robins in the early days of spring.  Even at this
moment his attention had been arrested by a little episode which
occurred at the end of the room, where she was standing.  A little,
sudden cry of pain rang out from beneath one of the satin masks.
Some one had evidently been hurt--a prick from a pin, perhaps, or a
toe trodden on.  Anyhow, there was the cry, and Messire Gilles would
have thought nothing more of it only that the next moment a girlish
voice reached his ear--a voice quite tearful and trembling with
compassion.

'Think you it will heal?' the voice said tenderly.

And then it appeared to Gilles as if something in his brain had
suddenly been aroused, as if memory--a vague, dreamy memory--had
become quickened and like some intangible sprite had taken a huge
leap backwards into some dim and remote past which the brain itself
was still unable to reach or to seize upon.  It was not a
recollection, nor yet a definite thought; but for one moment Gilles
remained absolutely still and was conscious of a curious, swift
beating of his heart, and a still more strange, choking sensation in
his throat.

The whole episode had occurred within the brief compass of half a
dozen heart-beats, and Gilles, when he looked once more on
Monseigneur d'Inchy, still saw that same look of perplexity upon the
Fleming's face, whilst from the group of ladies in the distant part
of the room there came only the same confused murmur of voices of
awhile ago.

So Gilles sighed, thinking that his excited fancy had been playing
him an elusive trick.

And the next moment the loud clanging of a bronze bell proclaimed to
the assembled guests that the banquet was ready to be served.




CHAPTER X

HOW THE QUARREL BEGAN


I

Monsieur le Baron D'Inchy took his seat at the head of the principal
table; beside him sat his ward, Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, who had
M. le Comte de Lalain on her left.  Gilles sat some little way down
one of the side tables.  Outwardly, he was a person of no
importance--a stranger, travelling incognito and enjoying for the
time being the hospitality of Monseigneur the governor.  Maître
Jehan, watchful and silent, stood behind his master's chair.  The
tables had been lavishly and sumptuously laden with good things: a
perpetual stream of butlers, pages and varlets had walked in and out
of the hall, bringing in dish after dish and placing them upon the
boards.

The company sat down amidst much laughter and facetious conversation,
and, we take it, every intention of enjoying their host's good cheer.
And, of a truth, it was a brilliant assembly, a veritable
kaleidoscope of colours, an almost dazzling sparkle of jewels.  The
dark doublets worn by the men acted as foils to the vivid satins worn
by the ladies.  The host and his principal guests had high-backed
chairs to sit on, but every one else sat on low stools, set very far
apart so as to give plenty of room for the display of the ladies'
dresses and their monstrous farthingales.  Indeed, the men almost
disappeared between the billows of satin-covered hoops and the huge
lace collars, the points of which would tickle their nose or scratch
their ear or even get into their eye.

While the serving-men and wenches went the round of the tables with
serviettes over their shoulders and silver ewers and basins in their
hands, offering to the guests tepid water perfumed with orange
flower, with myrtle, lavender and rosemary, for washing their hands,
Gilles de Crohin was watching Jacqueline de Broyart.  From where he
sat, he could see her dainty head above a forest of silver
dish-covers.  She had not removed her mask; none of the ladies would
do that till, mayhap, after the banquet was over, when conviviality
and good cheer would breed closer intimacy.  To Gilles' senses,
rendered supersensitive by his strangely adventurous position, it
seemed as if that piece of black satin, through which he could only
perceive from time to time the flash of glowing eyes, rendered
Jacqueline's personality both mysterious and desirable.  He was
conscious of an acute tingling of all his nerves; his own mask felt
as if it were weighted with lead; the fumes of rich soups and sauces,
mingled with those of wine and heady Flemish ale, appeared to be
addling his brain.  He felt as if he were in a dream--a dream such as
he had never experienced before save once, when, sick, footsore and
grievously wounded, he had gone on a brief excursion to Paradise.

Gilles did not know, could not explain it satisfactorily to himself,
why the remembrance of a far-off, half-forgotten dream-voice came,
with sweet persistency, between him and reality, a voice tender and
compassionate, even whilst a pair of eyes, blue as the firmament on
an April morning, seemed to be gazing on him through the slits in the
mask.


II

It would have been difficult for any stranger who happened to have
landed in Cambray, unacquainted with the political circumstances of
its province, to have realized, at sight of Monsieur le gouverneur's
table, that the Spanish armies were even then ravaging the Cambrésis,
and that provisions in the city were becoming scarce owing to the
difficulties which market-gardeners and farmers had of bringing in
their produce.  Gilles, who had been in the service of a Royal prince
of France and who had oft risen from the latter's table with his
stomach only half filled, was left to marvel at the prodigality and
the sumptuousness of the repast.  Indeed, one of the most interesting
documents preserved until recently in the archives of the city of
Cambray, is the account of this banquet which M. le Baron d'Inchy,
governor of the Cambrésis, gave ostensibly in honour of the
notabilities of the province, but which, I doubt not, was really in
honour of _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, brother of the King of
France, who we know was present on the occasion, under a
well-preserved incognito.

And the menu!  Ye gods who preside over the arts of gastronomy, what
a menu!  Eighty-two persons sat down to it, and of a truth their
appetite and their digestion must have been of the staunchest, else
they could never have grappled successfully with half the contents of
the dishes which were set before them.  Three separate services, an'
it please you! and each service consisting of at least forty
different dishes all placed upon the three tables at once, with the
covers on; then, at a given signal, the covers removed, and the
guests ready to help themselves as they felt inclined, using their
knives for the purpose, or else those curiously shaped pronged tools
which Monseigneur d'Inchy had lately imported out of England, so the
town gossips said.

Ye gods, the menu!  For the first service there were no fewer than
eight centre dishes, on each an _oille_--that most esteemed feat of
gastronomic art, in which several succulent meats, ducks, partridges,
pigeons, quails, capons, all had their part and swam in a rich sauce
flavoured with sundry aromatic substances, pepper and muscat, thyme,
ginger, basil and many sweet herbs.  Oh, the _oille_, properly
cooked, was in itself a feast!  But, grouped around these noble
dishes were tureens of partridges, stewed with cabbage; tureens of
fillets of duckling; several pigeon pies and capons in galantine;
fillets of beef with cucumbers and fricandeaus of lard; and such like
insignificant side dishes as quails in casserole and chickens baked
under hot cinders--excellent I believe!

After the platters and dishes had become empty, the first service was
removed, clean cloths spread upon the tables--for by this time the
first ones had become well spattered with grease--and perfumed water
once more handed round for the washing of hands.  Knives were washed
too, as well as the forks--the few of them that were used.  Then came
the second service.  Breasts of veal this time, larded and braised,
formed the centre dishes and the minor adjuncts were fowls garnished
with spring chickens and hard-boiled eggs, capons, leverets, and
pheasants garnished with quails: there were sixteen different kinds
of salads and an equal number of different sauces.

Again the service was removed and clean cloths laid for the third
service.  A kind of dessert--little things to pick at, for those who
had not been satisfied.  Such little things as boars' heads--twelve
of them--which must have looked magnificent towering along the centre
of the table; omelettes à la Noailles--the recipe of which, given in
a cookery book which was printed in the beginning of the sixteenth
century, does suggest something very succulent--dishes of baked
custards, fritters of peaches, stewed truffles, artichokes and green
peas, and even lobsters, sweetbreads and tongues!

Such abundance is almost unbelievable, and where all the delicacies
came from I, for one, do not pretend to say.  They were there, so
much we know, and eighty-two ladies and gentlemen must have consumed
them all.  No wonder that, after the first few moments of formal
ceremonies--of bowings and scrapings and polite speeches--tongues
quickly became loosened and moods became hilarious; wine too and
heady Flemish ales were copiously drunk--not a little of both was
spilled over the fine linen cloths and the rich dresses of the
ladies.  But these little accidents were not much thought of these
days; fastidiousness at meals had not yet come to be regarded as a
sign of good breeding, and a high-born gentleman was not thought any
the worse of for vulgar and riotous gorging.

A very little while ago, M. d'Inchy himself--a man of vast wealth and
great importance--would have been quite content to help himself with
his fingers out of his well-filled platters and to see his guests
around his board doing the same.  But ever since the alliance with
France had been discussed by his Council, he had desired to bring
French manners and customs, French fashions in dress, French modes of
deportment, into this remote Belgian province.  Indeed, he was even
now warmly congratulating himself that he had quite recently imported
from England for his own use some of those pronged tools which served
to convey food to the mouth in a manner which still appeared strange
to some of his guests.  The civic dignitaries of Cambray and more
than one of the Flemish nobles assembled here this night looked with
grave puzzlement, even with disapproval, at those awkward tools which
had so ostentatiously, they thought, been placed beside their
platter: French innovations, some of them murmured contemptuously, of
which they certainly did not approve; whereupon they scrambled
unabashed with their fingers in the dishes for their favourite
morsels.


III

Jacqueline, silent at first, began after awhile to chatter merrily.
Monsieur de Landas, who sat opposite to her, having lately come from
Paris, she begged earnestly for all the latest gossip from the Court.
Madame la Reyne de Navarre?  What was she like?  Jacqueline had heard
such marvels of her grace and of her intellect.  And the Duc d'Anjou?
Was he as handsome as women averred?  And was he--was he really such
a rogue as irate husbands and brothers would have every one believe?
Then she wanted to know about the fashions.  Were hoops really
growing in size or had a revulsion of feeling set in against them,
and what was the latest mode for dressing the hair?  Was it true that
the new green dye specially invented by _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou was so
unhealthy to the wearer that many mysterious deaths had already
followed its introduction?

And all the while that she talked she affected to eat heartily; but
Gilles, who was watching her, saw that she scarce touched a morsel,
only played with her fork, the use of which was evidently still
unfamiliar to her.  From time to time she seemed to pause in her
chatter in order to gaze across the table in the direction where he
sat silent and absorbed, somewhat isolated, as if shunned by the rest
of the company; and whenever she did so it seemed to him as if her
eyes called to him through the slits of that mysterious mask.  After
awhile, that call seemed so insistent that Gilles had the greatest
difficulty in the world to force himself to sit still.  He wanted to
jump up and to go and sit near her, force her to remove that
forbidding mask and let him see just what kind of a face was
concealed behind it.

By now, you see, his imagination had once more veered right round and
he had quite made up his mind that she was fair to look upon.  The
length of the table which separated him from her obsessed his mood,
till he felt a perfect fever of desire and impotence coursing through
his veins.  And with this tingling of the nerves came a sense of
jealousy.  He could not see the man with whom Jacqueline was
conversing so animatedly, had only given passing attention to
Monsieur de Landas when the latter had spoken with him.  But gossip
had already reached his indifferent ear that M. le Marquis de Landas
had--at any rate at one time--been an approved suitor for the hand of
the rich heiress, whereupon Messire Gilles became satisfied within
himself that that unpleasant feeling of dislike, which he was feeling
toward the other man, was solely on account of _Monsieur_ Duc
d'Anjou, his master, over whose interests vis-à-vis that same
heiress, he--Gilles--was set here to watch.

Still Jacqueline chattered away, and quite ten minutes had gone by
since she had cast a glance in Gilles' direction.  So he felt curious
as well as angered and leaned forward in order to get a better view
of Monsieur de Landas.  He let his eyes travel along the line of
faces which he saw for the most part only in profile: men and women,
some old, some young, some grave and sober, others frivolous, rowdy,
not a little vulgar, thought the fastidious Sire de Froidmont, who
had Valois blood in his veins and had seen a good deal of the
super-civilization of Paris.  All of them appeared intent on
devouring huge slabs of meat, and licking their fingers for the last
drops of sauce.  All, that is, except one--the man with whom
Jacqueline was conversing so gaily; a young man, with masses of wavy
black hair, a blue chin and an oval face, which he kept resolutely
turned toward Madame Jacqueline.

'The favoured lover,' mused Gilles.  'The possibly dangerous enemy of
_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, and spoiler of Madame la Reyne's best laid
schemes.'

The young man ate very little, but he drank copiously.  When he was
not looking at Jacqueline he appeared to be staring moodily before
him and bit furiously at his nails.

'Attention, friend Gilles!' Messire said to himself.  'There's the
rock against which you may well bruise your head presently if you are
not careful.  Madame Jacqueline may, for aught I know, have a fancy
for that amorous, olive-complexioned swain, who, as soon as I begin
to take the centre of the stage--as take it I must--will become, a
fierce and cunning enemy.  I shall have to see to it that Madame's
fancy for him turns to indifference.  After that, beware, friend
Gilles!  Satan hath no finer henchman than a rejected lover.'


IV

As the banquet drew to its close there was little gravity or decorum
left around the festive board.  Even the oldest and the gravest had
yielded to the delights of untrammelled gorging.  The food was
excellent, the wines beyond praise; every one knew every one else;
they were all friends, companions together, allied by political or
business interests--in many cases by blood.  The veneer of
civilization as shown by sober manners had not yet come to be thought
more necessary than good cheer and conviviality.

The heat in the room had become oppressive.  The smoke from
innumerable wax candles made a blue haze overhead, a veil of mist
which hid the high, vaulted ceiling and caused the lights to flicker
dimly.  The men had cast aside their mantles and loosened their
sword-belts; the ladies used their plumed fans vigorously.  There was
little left on the table even of the elaborate dishes pertaining to
the third service: platters and silver épergnes were for the most
part empty; only now and again some one would lean over and
desultorily pick at a piece of lobster or a truffle--an excuse,
mayhap, for washing down the highly-spiced food with another bumper
of wine.

Conversation, loud jests--some of them both ribald and coarse--flew
over and across the tables, loud calls were made to friends who sat
far away.  The time had come for casting off the last shred of
ceremonial decorum which stood in the way of unbridled hilarity.  The
ladies, at the instance of their respective cavaliers, had cast aside
their masks one by one, and their comely faces appeared, crimson and
steaming even beneath the thick layers of cosmetics.

Jacqueline was one of the few who remained quite calm and cool.  She
plied her fan with lazy grace and kept on her mask--despite the
earnest, whispered entreaties of M. de Landas and of a group of young
gallants who had gathered round her.

Gilles had already made up his mind to go.  He felt stifled under his
mask and the heat of the room, the heady fumes of wine and food
rendered him stupid and dizzy.  There appeared to be no chance of his
being able to approach Jacqueline again, short of provoking a quarrel
with her Spanish watch-dog, which Gilles would have thought impolitic
to do.  On the whole, he thought that it would be best to retire for
the nonce from the scene.  His day had not been altogether
unsuccessful: it was the fifth since his arrival in Cambray, and
surely Madame la Reyne de Navarre would by now be on the track of her
truant brother.  Gilles' probation could not last many days longer,
and in the meanwhile he had definitely made up his mind that
_Monsieur's_ future bride was adorable, and that she already evinced
a more than passing interest in the masked stranger who had serenaded
her so boldly from beneath her casement-window.

Not a bad beginning, thought Messire, as he gave a wink to Jehan to
follow him and rose from his seat.  The moment which he chose
appeared a favourable one: the etiquette of the supper table was
considerably relaxed; those of Monseigneur's guests who wished to do
so had taken to moving about from place to place, according as they
desired to speak with friends; whilst some who wished to hold private
converse together, or who were on the point of leaving, actually
walked out of the room.

This was Gilles' opportunity.  Just then Monseigneur d'Inchy rose
also.  Monsieur le Prince d'Eremberghe and his lady were about to
take their leave.  They were personages of vast importance and the
host desired to do them special honour.  Accompanied by de Lalain, he
escorted his departing guests to the door, and thence, having the
Princess on his arm, he went out into the antechamber, followed by de
Lalain and the Prince.  He had not noticed Gilles, and the latter
stood for a moment or two in the centre of the room, alone with
Jehan, and momentarily undecided.  He surveyed the group at the head
of the table with a critical frown: the young gallants--there were
six of them--were crowding round Madame, some leaning across the
table, others pressing close to her chair.  She may have been amused
at the platitudes wherewith they were regaling her; she may have
enjoyed their conversation and M. de Landas' ardent glances--she may
have done all that, I say, and thought no more of the man standing
there alone in the middle of the room than if he had been one of her
lacqueys.  But, as chance would have it--or was it indeed Gilles'
compelling look which drew her own?--certain it is that she turned
her head in his direction and that he _felt_ that she was regarding
him quizzically, searchingly, through the eye-slits of her mask.

Quickly he gave a few whispered instructions to his faithful Jehan;
then he calmly strode across the room.

Monseigneur the governor was still absent: his seat beside Madame
Jacqueline was empty.  Gilles walked up the length of the table--no
one heeded him--and before any one--least of all M. de Landas--was
aware of his intention, sat down quite coolly on M. d'Inchy's vacant
chair, immediately next to Jacqueline.


V

If you can imagine a cannon ball exploding in the very centre of that
festive board, you will have some dim idea of the effect produced
upon M. d'Inchy's guests by this manoeuvre.  Every head was at once
turned in that direction, for M. de Landas and his friends had
uttered an exclamation that was almost ludicrous in its bewildered
wrath.

The ladies round the supper tables could not do more than utter
shrill little screams of disapproval, and many of the men were, alas!
too deep in their cups to do aught save mutter bibulous imprecations
against the malapert.  A few rose and ran to give the weight of their
moral and social support to de Landas, who had already jumped to his
feet and appeared ready to make of this incident a quarrel--and that
quarrel, his own.  Of a truth, it was de Landas who had been most
grievously insulted.  The vacant chair beside Madame Jacqueline could
only be taken by an intimate friend such as he.  Already his hand was
on his sword-hilt; his eyes, somewhat dimmed by the effect of copious
libations, were rolling with unbridled fury; beneath his mask a hot
flush had risen to his forehead, whilst below the curly masses of his
dark hair his ears appeared white and shiny like wax.  Unfortunately,
he, like several other gentlemen present here this night, had drunk a
vast quantity of Burgundy and Rhenish wine, not to mention several
bumpers of excellent Flemish ale, and when choler came to mingle with
the fumes of so much heady liquor, M. de Landas on rising, turned
very giddy and had to steady himself for a moment or two against the
table.

Just at that moment a veritable pandemonium reigned in the stately
banqueting hall.

'The insolence!' said some of the ladies to the accompaniment of
piercing little shrieks.

'A stranger!'

'A prince from Nowhere at all!'

'Bah!  A Prince!'

'A mere fortune hunter!'

'Probably a Spanish spy!'

'Only a Spaniard would have such insolence!'

'Such impudence passes belief!'

The men--those who could speak coherently--sent encouraging calls to
de Landas:

'Seize him by the collar, M. le Marquis!'

'Throw him out!'

'Have him kicked out by the varlets!'

Enough noise, in fact, to break the drum of a sensitive ear.  But
Gilles appeared superbly unconscious of the storm which was brewing
round him.  He had his back to M. de Landas, leaned an elbow on the
table and faced Madame Jacqueline as coolly as if he had been invited
by every one here to pay her his respects.

Jacqueline, demure and silent, was smiling beneath her mask.  To look
at her, you would have sworn that she was stone-deaf and heard
nothing of the tumult around her.

It soon raged furiously.  M. de Landas had quickly recovered himself.
His towering rage helped to dissipate the fumes of wine and ale which
had somewhat addled his brain, and backed by all his friends he made
preparation to throw the malapert to the tender mercies of M.
d'Inchy's varlets, and as a preface to the more forcible proceeding,
he turned in order to smite the impudent stranger in the
face--turned, and found himself confronted by a short,
square-shouldered man, with a round head and fists held clenched on a
level with a singularly broad chest.

The man stood between Gilles and M. de Landas; he had the table on
his right and the monumental mantelpiece on his left, and behind him
was the tall carved oak back of the chair on which Gilles was
sitting--all equally strong barriers to the young Marquis' bellicose
intentions.

'Out of the way, lout!' shouted de Landas furiously, and would have
seized Maître Jehan by the collar but for the fact that it was a very
difficult thing indeed to seize Maître Jehan by any portion of his
squat person unless he chose to allow so unceremonious a proceeding,
and just now he was standing guard between a number of enraged
gentlemen and the back of his master's chair--a trying position,
forsooth, for any man of Maître Jehan's prowess, for ... well! he
would not have dared to lay hands on such a great gentleman as was M.
le Marquis; but, against that, M. le Marquis had no chance of laying
hands on Maître Jehan either.


VI

And all the while, Gilles sat so near to Jacqueline that his knees
touched the hoops of her skirt.  Instinctively she drew her own chair
back with that same little demure air which was apparent in every one
of her movements, even though her face was concealed by the mask.

'An' you move an inch further, fair one,' he said boldly, 'I vow that
I shall be ready to commit a crime.'

'You are committing one now, Messire,' retorted Jacqueline.  'A crime
against decorum, by sitting in my guardian's place.'

'Then I'll no longer sit--I'll kneel at your feet,' he riposted, and
made a movement as if to push away his chair.

'Heaven forbid!' she exclaimed lightly.  'M. de Landas would kill
you!'

'I am not so easily killed,' he rejoined.  'And M. de Landas is, for
the moment, engaged with my man.'

'Who is getting sorely pressed, Messire!' cried Jacqueline with
sudden, eager excitement.  'Will you not go to his aid?'

She had caught sight of Jehan, standing with his back to his master's
chair, fists levelled, shoulders squared, defying not only M. de
Landas but a crowd of other gentlemen, who had rushed forward to
support their friend.

'Not before you have promised to unmask, fair one,' Gilles said
calmly.

'I?' she exclaimed, now really staggered by his cool impudence.  'You
are dreaming, Messire!'

'I think I am, Madame,' he replied; 'therefore I must have your
promise ere I wake.'

'You are presumptuous!'

'Just now you said that I was dreaming.  A man who dreams is a man
asleep--and a man asleep is too helpless to be presumptuous.'

'That is sophistry, Messire,' she retorted.  'And while you parley
thus idly, your man is in serious danger through the wrath of these
gentlemen.'

'My good Jehan's danger is not so pressing as mine.  He hath my
orders to hold these gentlemen at arm's length until I give the word,
whilst Monseigneur d'Inchy may be back any moment before I wake up
from my dream.'

'Oh!' she urged now with well-feigned alarm.  'But your poor man
cannot stand long before these gentlemen, and you, Messire, will
surely not allow him to receive all those knocks which are intended
for you!'

'I have received many a score which were intended for him,' retorted
Gilles with a laugh.  'Jehan and I have long ceased to reckon up
accounts.  Your promise, fair one,' he pleaded; 'ere Monseigneur
return to place a spoke in my wheel!'

She felt now as if she were trapped, no longer combated his desire,
but merely appeared anxious to gain time until her guardian came to
release her from the strange, compelling power of this man, who was
arrogating unto himself rights which could only be claimed by a
friend or lover.

'Oh, mon Dieu!' she exclaimed agitatedly, half rising from her chair
in her eagerness to catch sight of Jehan.  'He cannot long parry the
attack----'

'Your promise, fair one,' he insisted quietly, 'to let me see your
sweet face to-night!  I swore it to myself just now, when you threw
me a glance across the room, that I would look into your eyes
untrammelled.  Your promise!--or I vow that I'll do something
desperate!'

'Heavens above!' she exclaimed, keeping her attention deliberately
fixed on Maître Jehan.  'If he should strike one of these
gentlemen--he--a mere servant!...'

'If he does,' riposted Gilles lightly, 'I will take up his quarrel,
with this token tied to my sword-hilt.'  And from the inner pocket of
his doublet he drew a tiny, perfumed rag, held it in his hand and
waved it with an ostentatious flourish for her to see.

She gave a quick, involuntary little cry of alarm: 'My handkerchief!'

'Undoubtedly, fair one!' he said coolly.  'It hath your initials and
crown embroidered in the corner!  Think you Messire de Landas' choler
will cool at sight of it?'

Her forehead, her tiny ears, her neck and chin, everything that he
could see of her dainty face, had become suffused with a warm blush.

'Messire!' she said firmly, 'I command you to give me back that
handkerchief, which you stole unawares.'

'It was flung at me with a sheaf of lilies, which, alas! have
withered.  'Tis my right hand which shall wither ere I part from the
handkerchief.'

'My handkerchief!' she reiterated impatiently.

'Only with my life!  But it shall lie for ever hidden against my
heart if you will promise...'

'Messire, you are committing a base and unworthy act!'

'I know it,' he said with a smile.  'But I must have that promise.'

'Promise of what?' she asked breathlessly, driven into a corner by
his obstinacy.

'To let me look straight into your eyes to-night,' he said,
'unfettered by that hideous mask.'

He leaned forward so that his face now was quite close to hers, and
he could feel her quick breath against his cheek.

'No, no!' she said with a little gasp.  'My guardian--and--and M. de
Landas----'

'Very well!' he said dryly, and began quietly winding the little rag
around his sword-hilt.

'Messire!' she said in a peremptory tone, through which a note of
appeal, if not of genuine alarm this time, could be distinctly
perceived.

'Promise!' he reiterated relentlessly.

Just then she caught sight of de Landas, who, flushed with choler,
was thrusting somewhat wildly at Maître Jehan.  She thought that his
eyes were constantly wandering in her direction and that he was
vainly trying to get near her, past his sturdy opponent, who was
guarding the approach to his master's chair with all the fierceness
of a Cerberus.  Somehow, at sight of de Landas thus fighting with
almost savage violence, she lost her head for the moment.  Of a
truth, the matter of the handkerchief might lead to a very bitter
quarrel between her lover and this stranger.  A very bitter
quarrel--and worse!  De Landas was wont to lose all self-control when
jealous rage had hold of him, was as quick with his dagger as with
his rapier!  And here was this tantalizing troubadour calmly
preparing to flaunt upon his sword-hilt the handkerchief which bore
her name and coronet.  He looked up and caught the sparkle of her
eyes.

'Promise!' he insisted quite coolly.

And she--very reluctantly--murmured: 'Very well; I promise!'

'To-night!' he insisted.

'No!--no!' she protested.  'Not to-night!'

'To-night!' he reiterated firmly, smiled at her too beneath his mask
as if in triumph--Oh, the insolence of him!--and continued to toy
with the compromising bit of white rag.

If only Monseigneur would return!  There was nothing for it but to
acquiesce.  De Landas even then looked the very image of wild and
unreasoning fury.  Jacqueline shuddered and murmured a quick: 'Very
well!  To-night!  I promise!'

Gilles gave an equally quick sigh of satisfaction.

'When?' he asked.

But before she could reply, there came a loud curse from Jehan.  He
had been seized round the legs by two varlets, even while he was
engaged in warding off the blows which were aimed at his head by half
a dozen gallants.  It was when he came down with a dull thud upon his
knees and felt that he could no longer stand between his master and
these evil-intentioned gentlemen that he gave forth a prolonged and
uproarious stutter:

'The d-d-d-d-d----'

Gilles jumped to his feet.  In less than three completed seconds he
was round by the side of Jehan, had kicked the two varlets out of the
way and interposed his massive person between his faithful henchman
and the seething group of bellicose gallants.

'Silence, chatterbox!' he said coolly to Jehan.  'These seigneurs are
not here to listen to your perorations.  Anything that must be said
can be referred to me.'

He had one hand on the elegant hilt of his Spanish rapier; the other
rested on the shoulder of Maître Jehan, who had struggled very
quickly to his feet.  His mocking glance, veiled by the black satin
mask, swept coolly over de Landas and his friends.

'Insolent!' exclaimed one of the men.

'Unmask the spy!' cried out another.

'Leave the rogue to me!' quoth de Landas, who was getting beside
himself with rage.

Already half a dozen swords were drawn.  Every one who had been drunk
before became sobered in the instant; those who had remained sober
felt suddenly drunk with choler.  Some of the ladies thought it best
to scream or to feign a swoon, others made a rush for the door.  No
one dared to come nigh, for de Landas was a man who was not good to
trifle with when his ire was aroused.  But those who were not taking
part in the quarrel were certainly not eyeing the stranger with any
degree of benevolence, and Jacqueline felt more than she actually
heard the adverse comments made upon this Prince de Froidmont--so he
was styled, it appeared--who had come no one knew whence and who
seemed to arrogate unto himself privileges which only pertained to
favoured friends.

Thus a wide circle was formed at one end of the room, leaving at the
other, in splendid isolation, the group which was made up of half a
dozen young gallants standing in threatening attitudes in front of
the masked stranger, who now had his henchman on one side of him and
on the other the monumental mantelpiece, in which the fire had been
allowed to die down.

'Out of the way, malapert!' cried de Landas savagely to Gilles, as he
advanced towards him with sword clutched and eyes that glowed with a
fierce flame of unbridled wrath.  His desire was to reach Jacqueline,
who stood a little way behind Gilles, near the table, watching in an
attitude of tense excitement the progress of this quarrel, and with
an eye on the door through which she hoped every moment to see her
guardian reappear.

But, quick as lightning, Gilles had barred the way.  He appeared
highly amused and perfectly at his ease, laughed boldly in M. de
Landas' heated face; but would not let him pass.

It was easy to perceive that he was enjoying this quarrel, loved to
see the glint of those swords which threatened him even while they
promised to vary the monotony of this sentimental adventure.  He had
not drawn his own.  In France, fighting in the presence of ladies was
thought highly unseemly.  These Flemings were different, very
uncouth, not a little brutal and abominably hot-headed.  Well! the
quarrel once begun would of a surety not end here and now, even
though M. d'Inchy were to return and peremptorily order it to stop.
There was something in M. de Landas' sullen and defiant attitude
which delighted Gilles: and when half a dozen irate gentlemen shouted
hoarsely, 'Out of the way!' he laughed and said:

'Impossible, Messeigneurs!  'Tis for you to retire.  Our gracious
hostess will grant me the favour of unmasking.  An' I am much
mistaken, she will not do the same for you.'

'Madame Jacqueline,' retorted de Landas hotly, 'will not unmask
before the first jackanapes who dares to approach her unbidden.'

'Ah! but I am not unbidden,' riposted Gilles gaily.  'Have I not told
you that Madame will deign to unmask ere I bid her good-night?'

'Insolent coxcomb!' shouted the other excitedly.

'A spy!' cried one of the others.

'Tear off his mask, de Landas!  Let us see the colour of his skin!'

'An impudent rogue!' added a third.

'M. le Marquis de Landas,' here interposed Jacqueline peremptorily,
'you forget that M. le Prince de Froidmont is our guest.'

'Oh!' retorted de Landas with a sneer, 'if he is under the protection
of the ladies...'

'Under no protection save that of my sword, Messire!' broke in Gilles
carelessly.  'And that will be entirely at your service as soon as I
have taken leave of our fair hostess.'

'Nay! that you shall not do!' riposted de Landas.  'Your impudent
assertion of awhile ago has put you outside the pale.  You shall not
take your leave!  'Tis we who'll throw you out; unless you relieve us
of your company now--at once!'

'Well said, de Landas!' came in an approving chorus from the irate
group of de Landas' friends.

'We'll throw him out!' cried some of them.  'Leave him to us.'

'A spy!' came from others.

'Now, Messire--whoever you may be,' concluded de Landas with ironic
emphasis, 'will you go willingly or shall my friends and I----'

'For shame, Messire!' broke in Jacqueline loudly and firmly.  'You
are six against one----'

'So much the better!' riposted de Landas with a harsh laugh.  'At
him, friends!'

'Madame,' said Gilles, turning to Jacqueline with perfect calm, 'your
promise will remain for ever unredeemed if these gentlemen succeed in
throwing me out of the room; for this, I vow, they cannot do while I
am alive.'

'Jacqueline,' interposed de Landas impulsively, 'I forbid you to
unmask before this man.'

He had guessed her purpose, for already her hand was raised towards
her mask; and so enraged was he that she should thus yield to this
stranger whom already he had come to hate, that he forgot himself,
lost all self-control, and said just the one word which decided
Jacqueline.  At the word 'forbid,' she drew herself up to her full
height and faced her lover with calm and hauteur.

'There is nothing,' she said coolly, 'that any one here has the right
to command or forbid.'  Then she turned to Gilles: 'I'll bid you
good-night now, Messire, and can but offer to you--a stranger--my
humble apologies in mine and my guardian's name for the uncouth
behaviour of my countrymen.'

'Jacqueline!' exclaimed de Landas with a hoarse cry of rage.

But even before this final protest had reached her ear, she had
extended one hand to Gilles and with the other slowly detached the
mask from her face.  He had stooped very low in order to kiss her
finger-tips; when he straightened out his tall figure once more he
was face to face with her.

He never spoke a word or made a sign.  He did not look into her eyes
at first, though these were as blue as the skies in Southern France;
he did not gaze at the delicate mouth with the deep corners and the
roguish smile, or at the chiselled, slightly tip-tilted nose with the
sensitive nostrils that were quivering with excitement.  No! all that
Messire Gilles gazed on at the moment was a tiny brown mole which
nestled tantalizingly on the velvety cheek, just below the left eye.
And for that moment he forgot where he was, forgot the storm of
enmity which was raging around him, the unworthy rôle which he had
set out to play for the deception of a confiding girl.  He lost count
of time and of space and found himself once more lying on cool,
sweet-smelling straw, with a broken wrist and an aching head, and
with a vision as of an angel in white bending over his fevered brow
and murmuring in tones of exquisite compassion, 'Think you it will
heal?'

And as he gazed on that little mole, that veritable kissing-trap
which had tantalized him long ago, his lips murmured vaguely:

'My dream!'


VII

Of course the little interlude had all occurred within a very few
seconds: the kiss upon the soft, warm hand, the look upon that
roguish face, the swift and sudden rush of memory--it had all
happened whilst poor M. de Landas was recovering from the shock of
Jacqueline's cold rebuke.  Her stern taunt had come down on him like
a hammer-blow upon the head; he felt dazed for a moment; speechless,
too, with a white rage which was too great at first for words.  But
that kind of speechless fierceness seldom lasts more than a few
seconds.  Even as Gilles de Crohin was quietly collecting his
scattered senses and Jacqueline, vaguely puzzled, was readjusting her
mask in order to be able to gaze on him unobserved, marvelling why he
should have murmured 'My dream!' and looked so strangely at her, de
Landas had recovered some measure of self-control.  The anger which
he felt against the stranger was no longer impetuous and ebullient;
it had become cold and calculating, doubly dangerous and more certain
to abide.

He put up his sword, motioned to his friends to do likewise--which
they did, murmuring protestations.  They were itching to get at the
stranger who had triumphed so signally over them all.  But de Landas
was waiting with apparent calm whilst Gilles took leave of
Jacqueline.  This Gilles did with all the ceremony which etiquette
demanded.  He still felt dazed with the strange discovery which he
had just made, the knowledge that the dream which he had only
cherished as a vague memory was a living, breathing, exquisite
reality.  Ye gods! how exquisite she was!

But he had no excuse for lingering--had, on the other hand, a wild
desire to be alone, in order to think, to remember and to dream.  So,
having bowed his last farewell, he turned to go, and found de Landas
barring his way.

'You will pay for this outrage, Messire,' said the latter in a quick
whisper through his set teeth.

'Whenever you please,' replied Gilles imperturbably.

'To-night----'

'Surely not while ladies are present,' broke in Gilles quietly.

''Tis in Madame's presence,' retorted de Landas roughly, 'whom you
have insulted, that I and my friends----'

'Messire!' protested Jacqueline firmly.

'Ah! a valorous half-dozen then?' rejoined Gilles lightly.  'I see
that you--and your friends, Messire--have no intention of taking any
risks.'

'Our intention is to tear that mask off your impudent face and make
you lick the dust at Madame Jacqueline's feet.'

'And mine,' riposted Gilles gaily, 'is to collect a trophy of half a
dozen masks--yours, Messire, and those of your friends--on the point
of my sword and to place these with my homage at Madame Jacqueline's
feet.'

'Insolent!'

'I therefore am completely at your service, gentlemen,' concluded
Gilles, with an ironical bow directed at his opponents.  'Whenever,
wherever you please.'

'Here and now!' broke in de Landas, whose self-control--never of long
duration--had already given way.  'At him, friends!  And, by Satan,
we'll teach this malapert a lesson!'

It was in vain that Jacqueline tried to interpose; in vain that the
ladies about the room screamed and swooned, that the men even began
loudly to protest.  Neither de Landas nor his friends were in a state
to hear either commands or protests.  All decorum, chivalry,
breeding, was thrown to the winds.  Hatred had descended like an ugly
night-hawk upon these young gallants, and with her frowzy, sable
wings had enveloped their brain and hearts till they were deaf to the
most elementary dictates of honour.  With de Landas, a wild,
insensate jealousy had fanned that hatred to a glowing brazier of
unreason and of madness.  He saw--or thought he saw--that Jacqueline
displayed unwonted interest in this stranger, that her eyes followed
his movements with anxiety not unmixed with admiration.  And de
Landas became conscious of a red veil before his eyes and of a
furious desire to humiliate that man first and to kill him after.

'At him, friends!' he called again hoarsely.  'We'll teach him a
lesson!'

It was most fortunately at this very moment, and when the tumult was
at its height, that Monseigneur d'Inchy re-entered the room.  Just
for a second or two he did not pay much heed to the noise.  In these
days, when political and religious controversies oft raged with
bitter acrimony, it was not very unusual that a hot quarrel marred
the close of a convivial gathering.  D'Inchy at first did not do more
than glance round the room, to see if his interference was really
necessary.  Then, to his horror, he realized what was happening, saw
_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, own brother to the King of France and future
Sovereign Lord of the Netherlands, standing in the midst of a group
of young hotheads, who were actually threatening Monseigneur the
governor's exalted guest!

And de Landas, that impetuous quarrelsome young coxcomb, was talking
of giving _Monsieur_ a lesson!  It was unbelievable!  Appalling!
D'Inchy was a middle-aged man, but it was with a degree of vigour
which many young men might have envied that he pushed his way through
the jabbering and gesticulating throng of men and women, right across
the room to the top of the table, where he arrived just in time to
avert what would indeed have been a terrible calamity.

'By Heaven, M. de Landas,' he interposed stoutly, ''tis I will teach
you and these gentlemen a lesson which you are not like to forget!'

And, regardless of de Landas' and his friends' glowering looks, he
pushed his way to Gilles' side and stood facing that angry little
crowd who, suddenly abashed, drew back a step or two, muttering
wrathful expletives.  Monseigneur, of course, was their host and an
old man; but why should he interfere and spoil what promised to be
really fine sport?

'M. le Prince de Froidmont is my guest,' M. d'Inchy went on calmly.
'Who quarrels with him, insults me and my house.'

A real sigh of relief came from Madame Jacqueline.  Already, at sight
of her guardian, she had felt reassured, and now he had voiced just
what she had wished to say all along.  She felt grateful to him for
this and for his dignified attitude, and with a pretty, clinging
gesture, sidled up to him and took hold of his arm.

What could the young gallants do?  They were helpless for the moment,
even though still raging with choler.  De Landas tried to look as if
nothing of importance had happened, even though from beneath his mask
he shot a last glance of hatred and menace at his unperturbed enemy.
The others quickly followed suit and for the moment the incident was
at an end.  Fortunately it was not likely to have unpleasant
consequences, for already Gilles had interposed with his habitual
good-humour.

'Your pardon, Monseigneur,' he said.  'These--these gentlemen and I
had no intention of insulting one another.  We were only having a
little argument, and as your hospitality hath been over-lavish, we
became somewhat heated; that is all!'

'Somewhat heated!' riposted d'Inchy gruffly.  'With mine own ears I
heard M. le Marquis Landas here...'

'Yes, that's just it!' broke in Gilles imperturbably.  'M. de Landas
and I were indulging in a friendly argument, which your presence,
Monseigneur, at once rendered futile.'

M. d'Inchy sighed with relief.  Gilles' coolness was contagious; even
de Landas ceased to growl and the others to mutter.  Thank Heaven!
the quarrel was fizzling out like an unfanned flame, and in any case
Monsieur was taking the situation with perfect good-humour.  D'Inchy,
bent, as always, on conciliation, smiled with impartial blandness on
every one, whilst Jacqueline, silent and demure now as if nothing had
happened, was once more looking straight down her nose.  D'Inchy took
hold of her hand, which still rested upon his arm, and patted it
gently with an indulgent, fatherly caress.

'Then all is for the best, Messeigneurs,' he said, 'and with your
leave my ward will now take her leave of you.  I fear me that your
friendly argument has somewhat fatigued her.  By the way,' he added
lightly, 'you have not yet told me what that argument was about.'

'Oh!' rejoined Gilles with a quiet smile, 'we only argued as to whose
should be the privilege of placing a trophy at the feet of our fair
hostess.'

'A trophy?  What trophy?'

'Oh, something quite insignificant.  A--a mask--or half a dozen----'

'Just like so many 'prentices a-quarrelling,' said d'Inchy with gruff
good-humour.  'A mask or half a dozen, forsooth!  You'd far better
all be going to bed now.  Madame cares nothing for your masks or your
trophies.  She is too tired for any such nonsense.  Eh, Jacqueline?'

'Not too tired, Monseigneur,' replied Jacqueline demurely, 'to forgo
the pleasure of bidding you good-night ere you go to rest.'

'There, you see, gentlemen,' rejoined d'Inchy gaily, 'that age has
certain privileges which youth seeks for in vain.  Whilst you go
moodily, unsatisfied, to bed, the fairest of the fair will be sitting
with her old guardian in his living-room, prattling away on the
events of this night, quizzing you all, I'll warrant; laughing at
your quarrels and your trophies.  Is that not so, my dear? ... One
mask or half a dozen! ... Are they not like children, these gallants,
with their senseless quarrels?  But there, while women are beautiful,
men will quarrel for their favours--what?'

And he looked down with fatherly pride on the golden head which was
kept so resolutely bent.

'C'est entendu, Monseigneur,' replied Jacqueline softly.  'I'll come
to your living-room as usual and bid you good-night after all our
guests have departed.'

Far be it from me even to hint that, as she said this, Jacqueline
threw more than a cursory glance on Gilles or on M. de Landas, for
nothing could have looked more demure, more dignified and aloof than
she did at this moment, when, having spoken, she bowed with stiff
grace to the group of gentlemen before her.  And even Maître Calviac
would have felt that he was a mere bungler in the matter of bowings
and scrapings if he could have seen these gallants responding to
Madame's salute; the right leg outstretched, the left foot kept back,
the hand almost touching the floor with a wide sweep of the arm, then
brought back to the lips as for an imaginary kiss.

The next moment Jacqueline had turned and presently could be seen,
still with that same stiff grace, receiving the adieux of her
guardian's guests.  She held her small head very erect and with one
hand plied her fan with lazy nonchalance, whilst the other was
perpetually being extended to those whose privilege it was to kiss it.

As for the group of young gallants--well! they had the immediate
future to look forward to.  True, that for the nonce they were
forbidden to continue the quarrel for fear of incurring their host's
displeasure; but it was only a matter of putting off the happy hour
when one could be even with that insolent stranger.  De Landas turned
with a significant gesture and a knowing wink to his friends.  After
that, the small group dispersed and ostentatiously mingled with the
rest of the departing crowd.

D'Inchy, before he left Gilles' side, managed to murmur fulsome
apologies.

'I do assure Monseigneur,' he whispered earnestly in Gilles' ear,
'that these young jackanapes will not be tempted to repeat their
impudence, and that I...'

'And that you, Messire,' broke in Gilles a little impatiently, 'are
entirely innocent of any intention of offending me.  That is, of
course, understood.  Believe me,' he added gaily, 'that the little
incident was more than welcome as far as I am concerned.  Your lavish
hospitality had made us all drowsy.  M. de Landas' aggressive temper
brought life and animation into the entertainment.  I, for one, am
grateful to him for the episode.'

Five minutes later he too had taken leave of his host.  Jacqueline he
did not see again.  She was entirely surrounded by friends.
Nevertheless, he left the banqueting hall in a state of exhilaration,
and as he passed through the doors between the rows of Monseigneur's
obsequious serving-men, they all remarked that Monsieur le Prince de
Froidmont was humming a lively tune, the words of which appeared to
be:

  'Les plis de sa robe pourprée
    Et son teint au vostre pareil!'




CHAPTER XI

AND HOW IT ENDED


I

When Gilles de Crohin found himself alone with Maître Jehan in the
corridor which led straight to the main entrance hall, he paused for
a moment, irresolute, wondering what he had best do.  That there had
been murder in the eyes of that gallant Marquis de Landas no one
could doubt for a moment, and there lay a long stretch of dark
streets and narrow lanes between the Archiepiscopal Palace and the
safe shelter of 'Les Trois Rois.'

But you cannot imagine Messire Gilles de Crohin quaking even for a
moment at the thought.

'Careful we must be,' he said in a whisper to his faithful _alter
ego_; 'for my choleric friend will not, I imagine, be above lying in
wait for us within the shelter of a convenient doorway, and I should
ill serve the cause of the Queen of Navarre by getting spiked between
the shoulders at such an early stage of the proceedings.  But between
that and showing that gallant Spaniard a clean pair of heels and
foregoing the pleasure of threading his mask on my blade, there is a
world of difference; eh, my good Jehan?'

'Above all things,' he added to himself, under his breath, so that
even Jehan could not hear, 'I must find out whether a certain
provoking glance, which flashed from out a pair of the most adorable
blue eyes I have ever seen, were intended for me or not.'

And his thoughts flew riotously back to Jacqueline--Jacqueline, his
dream, his tantalizing, exquisite dream--Jacqueline of the blue eyes
and the captivating mole--Jacqueline of the roguish smile and the
demure glance.

'I wonder, now!' he murmured softly.  Had she perchance meant to give
him a hint?  Had she thrown him a warning glance?  Gilles just then
could have sworn that she had done both when she spoke of
Monseigneur's living-room, where she would sit prattling after the
last of the guests had departed.

'Did she mean me to take refuge there against de Landas' murderous
intentions?' he asked himself.  But the supposition did not appear
likely.  Gilles was no coxcomb and had not had many dealings with
women during the course of his chequered career; but he had an innate
respect for them, and would not credit Jacqueline--proud, demure,
stately Jacqueline--with the intention of offering a gratuitous
rendezvous to an unknown gallant.  Rather was her glance intended for
de Landas--the assignation was for him: 'perhaps,' thought Messire
Gilles with a vague stirring of hope in his heart, 'perhaps with a
view to keeping that fiery lover of hers out of harm's way, till I
myself was safely abed.'

Be that as it may, the most elementary dictates of prudence demanded
that he should go back to his hostelry before his enemies had time to
concoct any definite plans for his undoing.  So, calling to Jehan to
follow him, he found his way quickly out of the Palace.

It was raining heavily just then; the streets were dark and, after a
while, quite deserted.  Gilles and Jehan, keeping a sharp look-out
around them, walked rapidly and kept to the middle of the streets.
Fortunately for them both, they had had plenty of leisure in the last
four days to wander through the intricate by-ways of the Flemish
city.  They knew the lay of the land pretty well by now, and at this
moment when the thought of a possible _guet-apens_ was foremost in
their minds, they were able to outwit any potential assassin who
might be lurking on the direct route by going to the hostelry along
devious ways usually unfrequented by strangers.

Thus it took them nearly half an hour to reach 'Les Trois Rois,' and
Jehan, for one, was heartily congratulating himself that those
murderous gentlemen had been comfortably thrown off the scent and
were mayhap cooling their tempers somewhere in the cold and the wet,
when, just as they entered the porch of the hostelry, a shadowy
figure detached itself from out the gloom.

Gilles was already prepared with a quick, 'Qui va là?' but the figure
proved inoffensive-looking enough: a woman, wrapped in a mantle and
hood from head to foot.  She had a small roll of paper in her hand,
and this she held out timidly to Gilles.

'Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?' she inquired under her breath.

'Myself,' replied Gilles curtly.  'What is it?'

He took the paper and unrolled it.  By the light of a small lanthorn
which hung just inside the porch he saw that it was a letter--just a
few lines--written in a small, pointed hand, and signed with the
letter 'J.'

'Jacqueline!' he murmured, bewildered--so dazed that it took him some
time before he was able to read.  At last he deciphered the brief
message.



    'I do entreat you, Messire,' it ran, 'to return to the palace
    within the hour.  Nay! I do not entreat, I command!  Go to the
    postern Gate: you will find it unlatched.  Then cross the
    Courtyard till you come to a door on the left of the main
    Perron--this will be unlocked.  You will find yourself in one of
    the chief Corridors which give on the grand Staircase.  Remain
    there concealed, and await further Orders.'



A strange enough missive, of a truth, and one, no doubt, which would
have made an older and more prudent man pause ere he embarked on so
dubious an adventure.  But Gilles de Crohin was neither old nor
prudent, and he was already up to his neck in a sea of adventure
which had begun to submerge his reason.  Even before he had folded up
the paper again and slipped it into the inner pocket of his doublet,
he had made up his mind that no power on earth, no wisdom or warning,
would deter him from keeping the tryst.  Did I think to remind you
that he was no coxcomb?  Well! he certainly was absolutely free from
personal vanity, and it was not his self-conceit which was stimulated
by the mysterious message; rather was it his passion for adventure,
his love for the unforeseen, the unexpected, the exhilarating.  The
paper which he hid so tenderly inside his doublet had a delicious
crisp sound about it, which seemed to promise something stimulating
and exciting to come.

'Run up, Jehan,' he called to his man.  'I follow you.  Let me get
out of these damnable slashed and puffed rags--these velvet shoes and
futile furbelows.  Up, man!  I follow in a trice!  We have not done
with adventure yet to-night.'

Then he turned, with a piece of silver in his hand ready to reward
the bearer of such joyful tidings.  But the messenger had disappeared
into the night as quietly, as mysteriously as she had come.


II

Less than half an hour later, Gilles de Crohin once more found
himself within the precincts of the Archiepiscopal Palace.  He had
been so quick in changing his clothes and so quick in covering the
distance which separated him from the trysting place, that he had no
occasion to use the postern gate or the small door which had been
indicated to him.  The great entrance portals were still wide open
when he arrived; some of the corridors still thronged with
people--guests of Monseigneur and their servants on the point of
departure--whilst others appeared entirely deserted.  At one point,
Gilles caught sight of M. de Landas taking elaborate leave of a group
of ladies.  He had his usual circle of friends around him, who--a
moment or two later--followed him out of the Palace.

Gilles, with Jehan close behind him, kept well within the shadows,
away from the throng.  He had exchanged his elaborate and rich
costume for a suit that was both plain and sombre; he had washed the
perfume out of his hair and the cosmetics from off his hands.  He
felt unfettered in his movements now and in rare good humour.  The
only thing which he had borrowed from his former accoutrement was the
magnificent Toledo rapier, which, after a moment's hesitation, he had
buckled into his own sword-belt.  It had been a parting gift from
Madame la Reyne de Navarre and was a miracle of the steel-worker's
art; supple as velvet, it would bend point to hilt like a gleaming
arc and when it caught a ray of light upon its perfect edge, it
flashed a thousand coloured rays like a streak of vivid lightning in
a storm-laden sky.

Jehan, on the other hand, was not altogether at his ease.  Having
less cause to feel exhilarated, he had a greater mistrust of the
mysterious missive, had vainly tried to argue prudence where his
master would only hearken to folly.  But he had never succeeded in
getting beyond a laboured: 'I th-th-th-think----'  Upon which, he was
peremptorily ordered to hold his tongue, even while Messire went
merrily singing to face this questionable adventure.

At one point Gilles stopped in order to speak to a serving-man, asked
him to tell him where was Monseigneur's private apartments, and when
the man appeared to hesitate--for indeed he did not like to give this
information to a stranger--Messire had seemingly lost his temper, and
the man, trembling in his shoes, had stammered out the necessary
directions.  Monseigneur's private apartments and those of the
household were in the right wing of the Palace.  This was reached by
mounting the grand staircase, then continuing along the main corridor
which connected the different portions of the vast building, until
the wing containing the living-rooms was reached.  No one, the man
went on to explain, slept in this portion of the Palace, which held
only the reception rooms and one of the chapels; but there were
always night-watchmen about the place to see that no malefactors were
about.

Whilst the man spoke, Jehan felt as if his eyes were searching him
through and through.  The worthy soul was liking this adventure less
and less every moment.

Indeed, very soon after this all the corridors became deserted.
Singly, in pairs, or in groups, all Monseigneur's guests and their
servants had taken their departure.  For awhile the varlets and
wenches belonging to the household were busy clearing up the disorder
and the débris attendant on so large a gathering and on so copious a
supper, and one could hear them jabbering and laughing in the distant
dining hall or in the offices down below.  Then that noise, too,
became stilled, and one felt that this portion of the vast Palace was
indeed completely uninhabited.

Up at the Town Hall, the belfry of Martin et Martine had just chimed
the midnight hour.  Messire Gilles and his faithful Jehan found
themselves in the vast hall at the foot of the grand staircase, and
the main entrance with its monumental gates was then immediately
behind them.  A strange stillness reigned all around: the great
Palace seemed here like a city of the dead.

Jehan vainly tried to protest once more.  For what was Messire
waiting, he wondered.  Surely it was unwise and worse to linger here
now, when every one had gone and all servants were abed.  Presently,
of course, the night-watchmen would be making their rounds.  Jehan
had a swift and exceedingly unpleasant foreboding that he and his
master would be ignominiously turned out! and then God alone knew in
what rows and quarrels they would be involved, or how hopelessly they
would jeopardize their own position; not to speak of the Queen of
Navarre's cherished scheme.  Poor Jehan would have given five years
of his life and half his savings for five minutes' glib speech with
his master.


III

Even at this very moment, Jehan's vague terrors took on a definite
form.  Footsteps and voices raised in merry converse were heard,
resounding from the distance, and the next instant two serving-men
carrying torches came leisurely down the corridor in the direction of
the hall.  Immediately behind them walked Monseigneur the Governor,
who had Madame Jacqueline on his arm.  Jehan felt as if his heart had
stopped its beating; his knees shook under him, whilst tiny drops of
perspiration rose at the roots of his hair.

Ye gods! if they were discovered now!  They would be under grave
suspicion of evil intent ... burglary ... assassination....  There
had been talk at the banquet of 'spy' and 'Spaniard.'  Jehan's scanty
hair stood up on end with horror.

Fortunately, Messire was equally aware of danger, gave a quick glance
round, and perceived a door close beside him on the right.  This part
of the hall was, equally luckily, in shadow.  There was also just
sufficient time to reach the door, to open it, and to step
incontinently behind it, closing it again noiselessly.  Phew! it had
been a narrow escape!

The footsteps and the voices came rapidly nearer; a minute or two
later they passed within a foot of the door behind which Gilles and
Jehan were crouching, hardly daring to breathe.  The glint of the
torches could be distinctly seen through a narrow chink between two
panels, as well as the shimmer of Madame's white satin gown.  There
were but a few inches of wood and a foot of floor-space between
Messire and shameful discovery, and Maître Jehan fell to wondering
what particular form of torture would be applicable to a man who was
found lurking at dead of night in the dark, and with obviously evil
designs on the life or property of the governor of a Flemish province.

Thank Heaven and all the protecting angels, however, the footsteps
passed by, and presently were heard ascending the main staircase, and
whilst Maître Jehan was feeling as if his whole body would melt in a
sea of cold perspiration, Madame Jacqueline's rippling laughter came
only as an echo from a considerable and comparatively safe distance.

After awhile Gilles ventured to open the door very cautiously.  A
faint murmur of people stirring came from very far away; the
shuffling footsteps of the torch-bearers died away in the distant
corridors.

And once more all was still.


IV

Gilles gave vent to his feelings by a long-drawn-out 'Phew!' of
obvious relief; but the next moment he said, quite coolly:

'Pardi, my good Jehan! but we did not want to be caught hiding in
this place like a couple of malefactors, did we?' and made
straightway to re-open the door.  Jehan seized him by the arm and
clung to him with all his might.

'Why shouldn't we st-st-st-stay here?' he urged almost glibly.

Gilles shrugged his shoulders.  'Why not, indeed?' he retorted.
'Something has got to happen presently,' he added carelessly.
'Somebody has got to come.  If it is not Madame Jacqueline--and,
honestly, my good Jehan, I have small hopes of that--If it is not
Madame, then----'

He paused and frowned.  For the first time a sharp suspicion had
crossed his mind.  Had he proved himself to be a vanity-ridden
coxcomb after all?  Should not the most elementary prudence have
dictated....?  Bah! whatever prudence had dictated, Gilles would not
have listened.  He was out for adventure!  Whether gallant or
dangerous he did not care!  Once more he shrugged his broad shoulders
and unconsciously his slender hand gripped the hilt of his splendid
Spanish sword.

He threw a quick glance around him.  Through the open door, the huge
metal lamps which illumined the hall beyond threw a wide shaft of
golden light into the room where he and Jehan had found such welcome
refuge.  It appeared to be something of a boudoir or library, for the
shaft of light revealed rows of books, which lined the walls all
round.  There was a window at the far end of the room, and that was
closely curtained, and there was no other door save the one through
which the two men had entered.  The fire in the large open hearth had
been allowed to die down.  A massive desk stood not far from the
window, and there were a few chairs about and a small, iron-bound
coffer.  Papers littered the desk and a finely wrought candelabra
hung from the ceiling.

'The room,' said Gilles lightly, 'looks as if it had been closed for
the night.  There is no reason why we should not await here the
future course of events.'  He drew one of the chairs into a
comfortable position and sat down, then added: 'I do not know, of
course, how long we may have to cool our heels in this place, until
the writer of the mysterious epistle chooses to explain his or her
commands.  I am beginning to think, as you do, my friend, that the
missive should have been signed with an "L" rather than with a "J".
What say you?'

'Aye!  Aye!' muttered Jehan.

'Well, 'tis no matter!  I'd as soon meet mine ebullient friend of the
languorous eyes to-night as to-morrow, and inside this deserted
Palace as out there in the rain.  And a little sword-play would be
very stimulating after the sentimental dalliance of the last few
days.'

'H'm!' murmured Jehan equivocally.

'In the meanwhile, there is no reason why we should not have a rest.
I confess to feeling rather sleepy.  Just take a last look at the
corridor,' concluded Gilles, as he stretched his long limbs out
before him.  'And if you are satisfied that all is well, come and
join me in an excursion to the land of Nod.'

Jehan went to the door as he was told and peered cautiously to right
and left of him.  Seeing nothing suspicious, he went as far as the
great hall to listen if all was clear and still.  It was whilst he
was gone that something arrested Gilles' attention.  Furtive
footsteps this time--a number of them--moving stealthily along the
corridor.  With a quick gesture, he adjusted the mask over his
face--instinct led him to do that first and foremost; then he jumped
to his feet and went to the door, but had no time to step across the
threshold, for the next instant a compact group of moving figures
emerged straight in front of him out of the gloom, intercepting him
and barring the way.

'À moi, Jehan!' he called aloud.

But it was too late.  From the hall beyond there came the sound of a
vigorous scuffle.  Jehan, caught unawares, was putting up a good
fight seemingly against heavy odds; but he could no longer reach his
master--whilst some half-dozen gentlemen, all wearing masks, were
pushing their way into the room.

'We've run our fox to earth at last, Messeigneurs,' came with a
mocking laugh from out this dense and aggressive-looking group.  'And
without cooling our heels in the wet--what?  I told you that this
would be the better plan.  His own egregious vanity hath led him
straight into our trap and 'tis mighty fine sport that we'll have
with this abominable spy, without fear of interruption.'

It was the voice of M. de Landas, unmistakable owing to the slight
guttural pronunciation of the French language peculiar to his Spanish
blood.  Before Gilles could forestall him, he and his friends were
all around him: six of them, fine young gallants--those who had
supported de Landas in the quarrel after the banquet.

Gilles surveyed them all with a rapid glance, measured his own
position, which of a truth was not an advantageous one.  The light
from the lamps in the hall fell, through the open doorway, full upon
him, whilst his aggressors appeared only like a dense mass in the
heart of the shadow.  They were evidently intent on forcing him back
into the room; their movements appeared like part of a concerted plan
of action, to get him into a corner where they could more comfortably
hold him at their mercy.

Gilles realized his position, the danger in which he stood and his
best chance of defence, with the unerring rapidity of a born soldier.

'It must have taken a huge effort of intelligence, Messire,' he said
ironically, 'to concoct this pretty plan.  What was there in an open
challenge to frighten so many stalwart gallants?'

He gave ground, retreated into the room while he spoke.  De Landas
and his friends pressed in closely after him.

'I have yet to learn,' retorted the young Spaniard with a sneer,
'that you are worthy of crossing swords with one of us.  You may
draw, an' you have a mind; but you cannot escape the lesson which I
and my friends have vowed to administer to you, and which, forsooth,
you have so richly deserved.'

''Tis no use,' he added with an intaking of the breath like an angry
snake, ''Tis no use calling for help.  The night-watchmen are in my
pay: my own men have settled with your servant, and no sound short of
an earthquake could reach the distant wing of the Palace where
Monseigneur and his household are abed.'

He drew his sword, and his friends immediately did likewise.  Still
they advanced, the solid phalanx of them, and so cunningly that
Gilles was kept in the shaft of light whilst they remained under
cover of the shadow.

'A murder!' said Gilles quietly.

'A lesson, first and foremost,' was de Landas' curt reply.  'After
that, we shall see.'

'What shall we see, Messire?' riposted Gilles with a mocking laugh.
'A Spanish cavalier stooping to assassination----?'

'Who spoke of assassination?' queried one of the gallants.

'Why else are you here?' retorted Gilles, 'the six of you, whilst
half a dozen or more of your varlets are overpowering my man outside,
after ye have bribed or threatened the watchmen into silence?
Methinks it looks uncommonly like projected murder.'

'Whatever it is,' broke in de Landas savagely, 'it will be a lesson
which you are not like to forget.'

'The lesson of how to lay an ignoble trap for an unsuspecting foe?  A
lesson, indeed, in which the teacher is well-versed in infamy.  The
assignation; the forged signature!  The watchmen bribed, a dozen of
you to attack two men, and, as you say, the wings of the Palace where
our host and his servants lie abed, well out of earshot.  My
compliments, M. de Landas!  I have met much knavery in my time, but
none, I think, quite so cleverly devised.  France, it seems, hath
still a great deal to learn from Spain, and----'

He had not yet drawn in response to the other's challenge, but
stepped back and back until he was almost up against the desk at the
far end of the room.  Then, suddenly, with a movement so swift that
his antagonists were taken completely unawares, he skipped behind the
desk and with a push of his strong arms threw it down straight at his
assailants, forcing them in their turn to give ground or the massive
piece of furniture would have fallen on the top of them.  As it was,
it came to the ground with a crash, the noise as it fell being to a
certain extent subdued by the thickness of the matting which covered
the floor.

When de Landas and his friends recovered from the suddenness of this
unexpected shock, positions for them were unpleasantly reversed.
They were now in full light, a good target for an experienced
swordsman, whilst Messire le Prince de Froidmont lurked somewhere in
the shadow.  Fortunately he was comfortably outnumbered, and his
henchman quite helpless by now; to disarm him and give him the long
promised chastisement was only a question of time.

'And I have sworn,' cried de Landas spitefully, 'to deposit at Madame
Jacqueline's feet the mask which still hides his impudent face.'

Gilles, however, was determined to sell his life or his discomfiture
dearly.  He had not been slow in consolidating his new position.
Losing not one second of precious time, he drew the overthrown desk
close to him, picked up a couple of chairs that were close by, then
reached out for two or three more, piled these up over and around the
desk, and by the time de Landas and his crowd had recovered their
bearings and returned to the attack, he was magnificently ensconced
behind a barricade of heaped-up furniture, and, having drawn his
sword, was ready for defence.

'Now, Messeigneurs,' he said with those same mocking tones which had
already exasperated de Landas beyond endurance, 'see to it that you
escape well-merited chastisement; for, on my oath, I swear that 'tis
I who will deposit half a dozen masks at Madame Jacqueline's feet ere
I give you a chance of carrying out that nice little murder plot
which was destined to cover six stalwart seigneurs with glory.'

De Landas gave a harsh laugh.

'Your ruse will not protect you,' he said, 'though I confess 'twas
well manoeuvred.  À moi, friends!  'Twill not be the first time that
you have aided me in extirpating noisome vermin from its hidden
burrow.  You, La Broye, and du Prêt, hold the right; Herlaer and
Maarege the left; de Borel, you and I wherever we are needed, and en
avant.  At him, friends!  No barricade on earth nor protecting
darkness shall save him from the punishment which he hath so richly
deserved.  At him, and unmask the rogue, so that I can at last smite
the impudent spy in the face!'

De Borel, young, impetuous, a fiery nincompoop, easily led by the
nose by his more brilliant friend, was not slow in following the lead
given him.  He and Herlaer made a swift rush for the improvised
barricade whilst de Landas attacked in the centre and the others,
with equal vigour, both on right and left.  They thrust their swords
somewhat wildly through the interstices provided by the legs of the
chairs which towered above the overturned desk, lunged blindly into
the darkness, for they could not see their opponent.  For a few
minutes all was confusion--the din of clashing steel, the hoarse
cries of the assailants, and Gilles' ironical taunts as he parried
all these aimless thrusts with the coolness of a consummate
swordsman--all merged into a chaotic uproar.  The next moment,
however, Herlaer went down, and then de Borel, each with a deep gash
in the leg, which had ripped up the flesh from the ankle to midway up
the calf.

The front of the desk happened to be kidney-shaped, and it was
through the aperture formed by that front as it lay on its beam end
that Gilles' sword had suddenly darted out once and then again, like
some vicious snake, with maddening rapidity and stealth, inflicting
the sharp flesh wounds which had so disconcerted his assailants.
They, entirely taken unawares, irritated by this attack from a wholly
unforeseen quarter, not only fell back with some precipitancy, but
also with a marked cooling off of their primary ardour.  They had
come straight from a festive gathering, were wearing silk hose and
low shoes of velvet, and at this moment were wishing that their
ankles had been protected by substantial leather boots.  Somewhat
sulkily they set to to staunch their wounds with their lace-edged
handkerchiefs.  De Landas watched them with a scowl, giving the while
a short respite to his opponent--the latter, of a truth, well
ensconced behind his barricades, was more difficult to get at than
had at first been supposed.

There ensued a hasty council of war.  Herlaer, limping, was
despatched for reinforcements.  The varlets who had effectually dealt
with Jehan might as well come and lend a hand to dress their masters'
wounds.  Jehan, indeed, lay prone upon the flagstones of the hall,
having apparently succumbed to a blow on the head, of which one of
those same varlets was even now boasting with inordinate vainglory to
his companions, when they were all incontinently called away to
attend upon the young seigneurs.

De Landas in the meanwhile had returned to the assault.  Leaving
Herlaer and de Borel in the hands of their henchmen, he called the
others lustily to him.

'À moi, du Prêt, Maarege, La Broye!' he cried.  'Beware of the fox's
underground burrow, and en avant!'

He had espied the small coffer, seized it by one of its handles and
dragged it across the floor.  Aided by Maarege, they succeeded in
placing it in position so as to block the aperture below the
barricade.  Now there was no longer any danger from that quarter; the
enemy was getting foiled at every turn.  And with renewed valour they
once more rushed to the assault.

Gilles now was on his feet, ensconced in the angle of the wall, so as
to allow his sword arm full play; and indeed, in his skilful hands
the magnificent Toledo blade seemed like a living, breathing thing--a
tongue of steel which darted in and out of the improvised barricade,
forward, to right, to left, parry, en garde, thrust, lunge--out of
the darkness, now and then only catching a glint of light upon its
smooth surface, when it would flash and gleam like a streak of vivid
lightning, to subside again, retire, disappear into the gloom, only
to dart out again more menacing, more invincible than before.

And every time that this tongue of living flame shot out of the
darkness it left its searing trail behind.  Maarege was bleeding from
the shoulder, du Prêt from the thigh; La Broye had a gash across the
forehead, and de Landas' forearm was torn from the wrist to the
elbow.  On the other hand, de Landas' sword was also stained with
blood.  He gave a cry of triumph.

'À moi, de Borel!  Herlaer!' he called to the other two.  'At the
barricades, while we keep the rogue busy.  He cannot hold out much
longer!'

And, indeed, the combat was far too unequal to last.  One man against
six, and his only ally was the darkness.  That too was failing him,
for his assailants' eyes were becoming accustomed to the gloom.  They
were able to descry him more easily than before, and there was not a
mean swordsman amongst them, either.  Even now, under cover of a
vigorous onslaught made by de Landas and his three seconds, de Borel
and Herlaer--their wounds temporarily dressed--rushed for the
barricade and dragged first one chair and then the other away, and
finally succeeded in throwing the two others right into Gilles' legs,
thus hampering the freedom of his movements.  True, that during this
rapidly executed manoeuvre, de Borel received a gash across the cheek
and Herlaer a thrust in the arm; but the solitary fighter's position
had been rendered decidedly more precarious.

'Throw up your hands, you fool!' exclaimed de Landas with grudging
admiration at his opponent's swordsmanship.  'Unmask, and go your
way, and we will call quits over this affair!'

Gilles' only reply to the taunt was an ironical laugh.  The chairs
encumbered his legs, but his sword arm was free, and he had once been
counted the finest swordsman in France.  Attack and parry again,
thrust and en garde--six blades menaced him, and he, ensconced in the
dark angle, kept the six of them at bay!  Now du Prêt's sword, with a
vigorous blow, was knocked clean out of his hand; anon Maarege's
blade was broken in two close to the hilt.

Confusion now reigned supreme.  Fight and excitement had whipped up
the blood of all these young gallants till a perfect fury of hatred
for the invincible opponent drew a blood-red, veil-like mist before
their eyes.  The frantic desire to kill was upon them; their wounds
no longer ached, their arms felt no weariness; the breath came with a
hissing sound through their quivering nostrils.  Now Maarege and La
Broye succeeded in further demolishing the barricade, dragging away
the table, overthrowing the chairs, making the way clear to right and
left of these for a concerted attack upon the foe.  Gilles, quick as
a bird that scents an attack, skipped over the obstacle, darted to
the right, where the curtained window was, and shadows still hung
dark, almost impenetrable.

Already he was en garde again, close to the window this time--seemed
still fresh and full of vigour though bleeding from more than one
wound.  He loved this fight, as a hungry man loves the first morsel
of food which a kindly hand places before him; loved it for its
excitement--one of the keenest he had ever sustained.  De Landas'
fury stimulated him, maddened jealousy was so obviously its
mainspring; and Gilles felt as if he were fighting for the possession
of Jacqueline.  His fine Toledo blade filled him with joy--at this
very moment it pierced de Borel's thigh as easily as it would have
done a pat of butter.

'There's for one of you!' exclaimed Gilles in triumphant exhilaration.

De Borel was now out of action, and La Broye was weakening
perceptibly; but du Fret had recovered his sword and Maarege was
brandishing the broken stump of his rapier, whilst de Landas, drunk
with jealousy and with rage, returned to the assault again and again,
heedless of his wounds.  The room was a mass of wreckage.  Overturned
furniture, broken débris, scraps of silken doublets and velvet
mantles, shoulder knots, tassels and bits of priceless lace, littered
the floor; the matting in places showed dark crimson stains and had
become slippery under the ceaseless tramp of feet.  With his
barricade all tumbled about him, Gilles was more open to attack, for
there were still four of them at least against him, and they pressed
him closely enough just now.

'At him, friends!' de Landas contrived to shout, in a voice rendered
husky with exhaustion.  'At him!  The rogue is weakening rapidly!
One more effort, and we have him!'

'Nay, by God!  Ye have not!' exclaimed Gilles lustily, and parried
with dazzling skill an almost simultaneous attack from de Landas and
Herlaer on one side and Maarege and du Prêt on the other.  They fell
on him with redoubled energy, wellnigh frenzied by the seeming
invincibility of their foe, their own impotence.  They had thought to
make sure of victory, had come in their numbers to administer
humiliation and correction, and now were half crazy with impending
defeat.  And so vigorous became their attack, so determined were they
to bring that hated foe to his knees, that it seemed for the moment
as if he must succumb, as if only some sort of magic could save him.

But for a man of Gilles' temperament there could be no such thing as
defeat.  Defeat for him meant humiliation, which he could not
tolerate, and the failure of Madame la Reyne's cherished plan.  He
was not only defending his life now, but her schemes and her
happiness.  His perfect blade accomplished miracles of defence; again
and again his enemies returned to the charge.  But that blade lived;
it breathed; it palpitated with every thrust and every parry, swifter
than lightning's flash.  Now it was du Prêt's turn to stagger under a
slashing cut on the shoulder, whilst La Broye was almost swooning
with loss of blood.

'For two!  And for three!' cried Gilles with a laugh.  'Three more of
you, and I have done!'

With a cry of rage de Landas turned to the serving-men who, appalled
by the fury of this combat, were cowering together in a far corner of
the room, hardly daring to breathe.

'Here, Jan!' he shouted hoarsely.  'Peter!  Nikolas!  All of you!
Seize that man!  Fall on him!  Seize him!  At him!  At him, I say!'

For just the fraction of a second the men shrank away still further
into the angle of the room, terrified at the uncontrolled rage which
had prompted the monstrous and cowardly command.  They hesitated but
only for one instant, and during that instant there was breathing
time for all.  But the next, egged on by de Landas' threatening
commands, they gathered themselves together and came forward at a
rush.

Gilles at once saw this new, this unexpected source of danger.  The
utter cowardice of this fresh attack lent him strength and power to
act.  With one of those swift, masterful gestures of his which were
as unexpected as they were unerring, he threw aside his sword and
seizing one of the heavy chairs which lay prone close by, he raised
it above his head and brandishing it like a gigantic swivel he stood
there, towering, menacing, breathing hatred too now against the
dastardly foe who could thus outrage every canon of chivalry and of
valour.

He struck out with the heavy chair, to right, to left.  The varlets
paused, really terrified.  De Landas egged them on, prodded them with
his sword.  He had wandered so far now on the broad road of infamy,
he was ready to go on to its ignominious end.

'Fall on him, Jan!  Nikolas!  All of you, you abominable knaves!' he
cried huskily.  'Fall on him; or by Satan, I'll have you all hanged
to-morrow!'

He beat them with the flat of his sword, kicked them and struck at
them with his fist, till they were forced to advance.  The heavy
chair came down with a crash on the head of one man, the shoulder of
another.  There were loud curses and louder groans; but numbers were
telling in the end.  One more assault, one more rush, and they were
on him.  Then Gilles, as if by instinct, felt the folds of the heavy
window curtain behind him.

To gain one second's time, he threw the chair straight at the compact
mass of men, disconcerting the attack; then with both hands he seized
the curtain, gave it a mighty wrench which brought it down in a
heaped up medley of voluminous folds and broken cornice, and threw
the whole mass of tangled drapery on his onrushing foes.  De Landas,
who was in the forefront of the aggressors, was the first to lose his
footing.  Already weak with loss of blood, he stumbled and fell,
dragging one or two of the varlets with him.  The edge of the cornice
struck du Prêt on the head and completed the swoon which had already
been threatening him, whilst Maarege, dazed, uncomprehending, stared
about him in a state of semi-imbecility.

The other knaves, paralysed by some kind of superstitious fear, gazed
on him open-mouthed while Gilles, still moved only by the blind
instinct of self-preservation, extricated himself from his
newly-improvised stronghold.

His first instinctive act was to stoop in order to pick up his sword
again.  A momentary lull--strange and weird in its absolute stillness
had succeeded the wild confusion of awhile ago.  Gilles staggered as
he straightened out his tall figure once more, was at last conscious
that even his splendid endurance had been nigh to breaking point.
There was a mist before his eyes, through which he could vaguely
perceive a cowering group of lacqueys quite close to him, huddled up
together almost at his feet in the gloom; others, whose vague forms
could be discerned under the fallen tapestry: further on, de Borel,
lying helpless beside Herlaer; Maarege still clutching his broken
sword; La Broye in a swoon, lying across the upturned desk, and de
Landas, half-sitting, half-reclining, on an overthrown chair,
obviously struggling against dizziness, his hand outstretched, with
convulsed fingers that still threatened and pointed at the hated foe.

For the moment Gilles could not move.  The mask on his face scorched
his brow and cheeks as if it had been made of hot iron, and yet,
though he longed to tear it off, his arm, from sheer exhaustion,
refused him service.  He longed to get out of that door, to find
Jehan; but his limbs felt as if they were weighted with lead: his
very brain was in a state of torpor.


V

Just then, through that semi-conscious state, he heard swift
footsteps approaching down the main staircase, then across the hall.
The serving-men, almost blind with terror, heard them too, crouched
yet closer together in the gloom.  They dragged themselves along the
floor, nearer to Gilles, as if for protection.  Experience had taught
the poor wretches that, whatever else happened, they would be made to
suffer for all that had occurred.  True, they deserved all that they
would get, for they too had played an ignoble part; but whatever else
happened there would be floggings or worse for them.  Their employers
were too weak now to protect them even if they would.  M. le Marquis,
enraged at defeat, would perhaps be the first to give his men away.
So they gathered round Gilles now--round the man whom they had helped
almost to murder.  They clung to him in their sheer, unreasoning
cowardice--the instinct to get behind something that was still
stalwart and strong.  They crawled away into the shadow, out of sight
of Monseigneur's serving-men if these should come, of the
night-watchmen or of the Palace guard if they appeared upon the scene.

Thus Gilles, when he tried to move towards the door, could not do so
because of that cringing mass of humanity that clung,
terror-stricken, round his legs.  He was too utterly weary to kick
them all aside, so he remained quite still, listening to those
approaching footsteps.  One of these he could have sworn to--heavy,
and with a slight dragging of the feet--which could only have
belonged to Jehan.  He tried to call to his faithful henchman, but
his throat was so dry he could not utter a sound.

The footsteps were quite close now, and through the open doorway he
could see that a new and flickering light threw every nook of the
corridor into bold relief.  A torch-bearer was coming along; other
lighter footsteps followed, and anon it seemed as if a woman's satin
skirts swept the marble floor with its melodious frou-frou.

Gilles now was in a trance-like state on the borders of
unconsciousness, a state wherein the body's utter exhaustion seems to
render the mental perceptions abnormally acute.  He could only stand
and gaze at the open doorway; but he knew that in a very few seconds
she would appear.  He knew that it was she who was coming: she and
Jehan.  Old Jehan had found her and brought her along, and now that
he--Gilles--was weary and sick she would minister to him and tend him
as she had done that night, long ago, in what still seemed to him so
like a dream.

The next moment the second half of the folding door was flung open
and a torch, held aloft by a serving-man, threw a flood of light into
the room.  Immediately afterwards, under the lintel of the door,
Jacqueline appeared, just as Gilles had expected her to do, like a
vision of the angel of peace, in her shimmering white satin gown,
with the pearls round her neck and her crown of golden hair.  She had
no mask on, and even through the veil which seemed to hang before
Gilles' eyes he could see that tantalizing little brown mole which
gave such exquisite, roguish charm to her face and made of the angel
vision a living, perfect piece of adorable womanhood.

Jacqueline de Broyart was not the sort of woman who would faint at
sight of blood.  Her country had suffered too much and too long for
her to have remained ignorant and detached from all the horrors which
perpetual warfare against tyranny and intolerance had sowed broadcast
upon the land.  She had ministered to the sick and tended, the
wounded ever since her baby hands had been strong enough to apply a
bandage.  But at sight of this disordered room, of the ghastly faces
of these men--ghastly above their blood-stained masks--of de Landas'
weird, convulsive gesture, of Maarege's attitude of vacant
imbecility, of all the litter of stained floor and soiled bits of
finery, she recoiled with an involuntary cry of horror.  The recoil,
however, was only momentary; the next, she had come forward quickly,
a cry of pity this time upon her lips.  Her first thought was for de
Landas--the friend, the playmate, the lover.  She hurried to him,
hardly looked on Gilles, who could not move or call, who tried not to
stagger or to fall headlong at her feet.

Now Jacqueline had her arms round her lover, his head rested against
her shoulder, soiling the white satin of her gown with ugly crimson
stains.  But that she did not heed.  She could not conjecture what
had happened!  That stuttering, stammering creature, himself half
dazed and bruised, had found his way to Monseigneur's living-room,
had in incoherent language implored her to come.  Monseigneur
happened to be absent from the room at the moment, had gone to give
orders to one of his servants.  Jacqueline was alone, sitting by the
hearth waiting for him when the creature came.  She knew him for the
henchman of the Prince de Froidmont, the man who had fought so
valiantly to defend his master awhile ago in the banqueting hall.
She could see that he was hurt and in grave distress and gathered
from his confused stammer that something awful was happening
somewhere in the Palace.  She followed him without any hesitation,
and now through that medley of hideous sights which confronted her in
this room, the most vivid thing that struck her gaze was de Landas'
convulsive gesture, pointing at Gilles.

Already, with a few quick words, she had despatched the torchbearer
for assistance.

'Go, Anselm!' she said, 'and rouse Nicolle and two of my women.  Tell
them some gentlemen are hurt and that I order them to come hither at
once and to bring all that is necessary for the dressing of wounds.
And--stay!' she added in a tone of peremptory command.  'Not a word
to Monseigneur or to his men--you understand?'

The man nodded in quick comprehension, fixed the torch into the
wall-bracket and went.  As soon as he had gone Jacqueline turned back
to de Landas, pillowed his aching head upon her bosom and held his
poor, trembling hand in her strong, warm grasp.  Then only did she
turn to look on Gilles.

He appeared unhurt, or nearly so.  True, his doublet was stained--he
might have received a scratch--and he bore about his person that
unmistakable air of a fighting man who has been in the thick of a
fight; but amongst these other fallen and fainting men he alone was
standing--and standing firmly, on his feet.  And he had a group of
men around him, all of whom were quite obviously unhurt.  They looked
like his henchmen, for they crowded close behind him, looking up to
him as to their master.

So, whatever had happened--and Jacqueline gave an involuntary shudder
at the thoughts and conjectures which were crowding into her
brain--whatever else had happened, the stranger had had plenty of
minions and varlets with him to defend him, even if he had been set
upon by de Landas and his friends.

It were easy to blame Jacqueline for the utterly false interpretation
which she had put on what she saw; but de Landas was the friend, the
playmate, and--yes!--the lover; whilst Gilles was only a stranger and
an adventurer at best.  Strangers were both feared and hated these
days in this unfortunate, stricken country, that was tyrannized over
and cowed by conquerors of alien blood; and though Jacqueline was
shrewd enough to suspect de Landas and his companions of the
treachery which they had indeed committed, yet in her mind she
half-excused him on the plea that the Prince de Froidmont had been
unchivalrous and timid enough to have his person guarded by a gang of
paid varlets.  Thus it was that the look which she threw on Gilles
was both contemptuous and unpitying.

'I pray you, Messire,' she said coldly, 'to leave my guardian's
house, ere I call to him to demand of you an explanation which I
imagine you are not prepared to give.'

Her words, her look, were so different to what Gilles had expected
that, for the moment, he remained absolutely speechless.  He
certainly had not his wits entirely about him, or he would not, after
that one moment of silence, have burst into a harsh and prolonged
laugh.

'Messire!' reiterated Jacqueline, more peremptorily, 'I have desired
you to go, and to take your varlets along with you, ere they swoon
with the excess of their terror.'

'Your varlets!'  Gilles laughed more loudly than before--indeed, he
felt that he could no longer stop himself from laughing now until he
dropped down dead on the floor.  Jacqueline was leaning over de
Landas and saying something to him which he--Gilles--could not very
well hear, but her whole attitude, the look wherewith she regarded
the wounded man, sent such a pang of insensate jealousy through
Gilles' heart that he could have groaned aloud with the misery of it.

'I entreat you, my beloved,' de Landas murmured more audibly after
awhile, 'to go back to your apartments.  This is no place for you,
and my friends and I will struggle homewards anon.'

'I cannot leave you like this, José!' she broke in firmly.  'Not
while--while that man and his varlets are here!'

Ye gods! the humour of the situation!  No wonder that Gilles could
not cease laughing, even though his side ached and his head felt like
splitting with pain.  But he obeyed her commands, peremptorily
ordered the cowering group of knaves to go; and they, thankful to
escape, rushed helter-skelter for the door.  Probably they never
understood what the noble lady had been saying, and they were too
stupid with terror to say aught in protest.  Whether M. le Marquis de
Landas, who had employed them for this night's work, would pay them
liberally on the morrow, as he had promised, or have them flogged for
failing to murder the stranger, still remained to be seen.  For the
moment, they were only too thankful to escape with their skins whole.
Jehan, who much against his will had been forced to remain at
attention behind the door, relieved his feelings by giving each of
them a vigorous kick ere they started to run madly down the corridor.

While the last of them was stumbling over the threshold Gilles
managed to pull himself together sufficiently to stop that paroxysm
of ungovernable laughter.

'Have no fear, Madame,' he contrived to say with moderate coherence
and a full measure of contemptuous irony, 'I'll not harm M. le
Marquis de Landas or his five gallant friends, on mine honour!  All
that remains for me to do now is to collect the half-dozen masks
which I swore awhile ago to place as a trophy at your feet.'

'I forbid you, Messire,' she retorted coldly, 'to pursue this callous
jest any further.'

'Jest?  It was no jest, Madame!  I swore to unmask these gentlemen,
and----'

'And took good care to protect yourself against their wrath by a
crowd of ruffianly bullies!  The victory--if, indeed, there be
one--doth not redound to the credit of Messire le Prince de
Froidmont.'

'Even so, I must redeem my pledge,' he riposted in a tone quite as
cool now as hers.  'So, by your leave----'

She watched him, fascinated--somewhat like a hare might watch the
playful antics of a tiger--with blue eyes opened wide in wonder and
horror, as he went lightly from one man to the other and with deft
fingers removed their masks, then threaded them by the eye-slits
along the length of his sword.  De Borel never moved--he was quite
unconscious, and La Broye only groaned and tried to turn away.  But
both Herlaer and du Prêt struggled in feeble self-defence, and
Maarege, still clutching his broken rapier, made futile efforts to
lunge at Gilles.  But they too were faint from exhaustion and loss of
blood, and Gilles, who had himself well in hand, had strength enough
for his self-imposed task.  Jacqueline never moved.  Protests against
this outrage were obviously of no avail, and physically she had not
the strength to intervene.  But when he finally turned to de Landas,
she interposed with all her might, with the motherly instinct of a
bird, striving to protect its mate.

'I forbid you, Messire!' she cried.

But even before the words were out of her mouth, de Landas with a
hoarse cry of pent-up rage had struggled to his feet.  With convulsed
hands he fell heavily on Gilles, gripping him by the throat.
Jacqueline could not suppress the cry of horror which rose to her
lips: these two wounded men, one of them in the last stages of
exhaustion, fighting and tearing, at grips with one another, like
beasts convulsed in a desperate struggle for life.

But that same struggle could not help but be brief.  De Landas was
vanquished even before his last futile effort had fully matured.  A
minute or two later he was on his knees.  Gilles held him down with
one hand and with the other detached the mask from his face.  He had
thrown down his sword when de Landas attacked him with his hands.
The row of masks had slid down the blade; they now lay in a mass upon
the matting, right at Jacqueline's feet.  De Landas' mask went to
join the rest, and Gilles coolly picked up his sword.  The light from
the torch was full on him.  Jacqueline still watched him, speechless
and fascinated.  It seemed as if she could not detach her eyes from
him--his masked face, his broad shoulders, his hands; above all, his
hands--the left one wherewith he tossed de Landas' mask at her feet;
and the right, which clutched that exquisitely fashioned rapier with
so much conscious power.

In a vague, dreamy kind of way, she noted how slender and nervy were
those hands, despite their outward roughness and toil-worn look--the
hands of a soldier, very obviously.  The Prince de Froidmont must
have been in many a bloody fray; had been wounded too on the left
wrist--a severe cut.  The scar gleamed white against the bronzed hue
of the flesh.  Jacqueline gazed on, strangely stirred.  The scar was
a very peculiar one, shaped like a cross, and at the time must almost
have severed the wrist from the arm.  She only remembered having once
seen a similar wound, which must have left just such a peculiar scar.
That was some three years ago, after that awful fight near Gembloux.
Her brother Jan, since dead, was at the time lying sick at the
monastery close by.  She had wandered out for a breath of fresh air,
feeling weary and desperately anxious.  She was a mere child then,
just past her sixteenth year.  Outside the postern gate she and
Nicolle had espied a soldier, lying wounded and unconscious on the
ground.  Nicolle had gone for help and two of the good monks had
carried the poor man into the monastery.  The leech who waited on Jan
had tended him, and afterwards Jacqueline had ordered him to be
transported back on the abandoned battle-field, where mayhap his
comrades would presently find him; and she had seen that he was
provided with food and with a pitcher of water, for she had been so
sorry--so very sorry for him.

All that had happened three years ago, and Jacqueline had never
thought on the matter again until now.  Strange that the scar on
Messire le Prince de Froidmont's wrist should so remind her of that
little incident which had occurred in the monastery near Gembloux.
Strange also that Messire should stand before her now and be
searching her face with that intent glance of his, which she could
feel right through the slits of his mask.  He caught her looking at
him so inquiringly and she straightway averted her gaze; but not
before she had noted that with a quick gesture he had suddenly pulled
the sleeve of his doublet well over his hand.

Gilles abruptly made for the door.  But close to the threshold he
turned and looked once more on Jacqueline.  He could no longer see
her face now, for she was stooping to de Landas, supporting him with
her strong young arms.  She had given one glance at the half-dozen
masks which lay there on the floor where he had thrown them down.
One or two were stained, others torn.  She gave a shudder of horror
and buried her face on de Landas' shoulder!  Gilles could see that at
sight of those things she had at last given way to tears and that
convulsive sobs were shaking her lovely shoulders.

He felt a miserable brute--a callous ruffian who, for the sake of
despicable vainglory, had done just the last thing that broke down
this valiant woman's magnificent fortitude.  A wave of self-contempt
swept over him.  He had meant to justify himself, to tell her that,
far from being a common braggart who employed paid spadassins to save
his own skin, he and his one faithful henchman had been set upon by
her lover and his friends aided by half a dozen varlets to boot.  He
had meant to challenge de Landas to deny this truth, to force an
avowal from his lips or from those of the young coxcombs who had
played such a cowardly rôle in this night's work.

Yes, he had meant her to know the truth--the truth which would have
shown her her lover and her friends in their true light.  But when he
saw those exquisite shoulders shaken with sobs, when he heard the
pitiful little moans which at last found their way to her lips, he
felt that he could not add yet another sorrow to the heavy burden
which was weighing that golden head down.  Now he was something of a
knave in her sight; if she learned the truth from his lips he would
become a cur in his own.

And, bidding Jehan to follow him, Gilles de Crohin hurried out of the
room.




CHAPTER XII

HOW TWO LETTERS CAME TO BE WRITTEN


I


    'Madam la Reyne,' wrote Gilles the self-same night ere he laid
    down to rest, 'I entreat you to seek out Monseigneur le duc
    d'Anjou at once.  Matters have occurred which might endanger the
    whole Success of this Enterprise.  Madame Jacqueline is
    beautiful, exquisite, the most perfect Woman that ever graced a
    princely husband's house.  So let Monseigneur come at once,
    Madame la Reyne, at once, I beg of you most humbly! and do
    entreat you to send me word by Maître Jehan when I may expect him.

    'I am, your Majesty's
      'Most Obedient and Most Faithful Servant,
            'Gilles de Crohin.'



He felt more calm, more at peace with himself when he had written
this letter, and allowed Jehan now to undress him and to attend to
his wounds.  They were not serious, certainly not so serious as many
others which he had sustained in the past and recovered from without
much trouble.  But, somehow, this time he felt in a fever, the paltry
scratches seemed unaccountably to throb, and his temples ached nigh
to splitting.

Jehan, stolid and disapproving, pulled off his master's boots, took
off doublet and hose with care and dexterity, but without making any
attempt at conversation.  What went on behind his low, square
forehead could easily be conjectured: a towering rage against his own
halting speech, which had prevented his proclaiming the truth before
Madame Jacqueline, warred with a certain vague terror that Messire
was angered with him for having brought Madame upon the scene.

But Messire apparently was too tired to scold.  With unusual meekness
he allowed Jehan to wash and dress that cut he had in the shoulder,
and the one which had penetrated the fleshy part of his thigh.
Maître Jehan was skilful in such matters.  His father had been an
apothecary at Grenoble and had taught the youngster something of the
art of drugs and simples, until the latter's roving disposition had
driven him to seeking fortune abroad.  He still knew, however, how to
minister to a wounded man, how to stem the flow of blood, and apply
healing bandages.  All this he did now in silence, and with the
loving care engendered by his passionate affection for the master
whom he served, the friend to whom he owed his life.

And all the while Gilles lay quite quiescent, so passive and patient
that Jehan felt he must be very sick.  Anger, self-contempt,
self-reproach, had brought a heavy frown between his brows.
Jacqueline's adorable image gave him a heart-ache more difficult to
bear than any physical pain.  For a long while he kept his eyes
resolutely closed, in order to shut out the vision of a golden head
and a demure, tantalizing face, which seemed to mock at him from out
the dark angle of the room.  It was only when Jehan had finished his
ministrations and in his turn was ready to go to bed that he woke
once more to the realities of life.

'Thou art a good soul, Jehan,' he murmured, with the first return to
well-being brought about by the good fellow's restoratives.

'And you a mightily foolish one!' thought Jehan within himself, while
he merely stuttered a moody: 'Aye--aye!'

'To-morrow morning,' continued Gilles; 'or rather, this morning--for
'tis past midnight now--thou'lt start for La Fère----'

'F-f-f-for La F-f-f----'

'For La Fère.  Thou'lt take thy safe-conduct and this letter which I
have just written for Madame la Reyne de Navarre.'

'B-b-b-but----'

'Hold thy tongue till I have finished.  If Madame la Reyne hath
perchance left La Fère, thou'lt follow her whithersoever she may have
gone.'

'And if-f-f-f----'

'There is no "if" about the matter, my good Jehan,' quoth Gilles with
a sigh and in a tone of unwonted firmness.  'Thou must find Madame la
Reyne, and if she be not in La Fère then thou must follow her to
Paris, or to Pau, or to the outermost ends of the earth; for Madame
la Reyne must have my letter as soon as ever possible or the
consequences for her, for me, for us all would be disastrous.'

Jehan made no further attempt at conversation.  He only nodded his
head in obedience and understanding.

'Madame la Reyne,' continued Gilles after a moment's pause, 'will, I
doubt not, send me a letter in reply.  I need not tell thee, Jehan,
to guard both my letter and her reply with thy life.'

'N-n-no!' said Jehan with sudden glibness.  'You n-n-need not
t-t-tell me that.'

'The letter would give us all away if it fell in alien hands.  It
must be destroyed, and thou too, honest Jehan, ere it leave thy
hands.'

Jehan made a sign of comprehension, which Gilles evidently
understood, for he continued more easily:

'Then get some rest now, Jehan, for thou must start as soon after
daybreak as possible.  And in God's name,' he added with a weary
sigh, 'return with the answer within the week, or maybe thou'lt find
my body rotting upon the gallows somewhere in the town.'

Jehan shrugged his wide shoulders.  This meant that he thought his
master must be slightly delirious, else he would never have spoken
such rubbish.  He took the letter which Gilles had folded into as
small a compass as possible, and slipped it underneath his doublet
and his shirt, against his skin.  Then he tapped his breast and
looked reassuringly on his master.  Gesture and look conveyed all
that he desired, and Gilles was satisfied.

He knew that he could trust Jehan as he would himself.  With a final
sigh which was almost one of content, he turned over on his side and
went to sleep.


II

But faithful Jehan le Bègue did not go to sleep that night.  Not
until the late hours of the morning did he do that, and by then he
was half a league away out of Cambray.  As soon as he had seen his
master lying in comparative comfort, he picked up the guttering
candle and, walking cautiously on the tips of his toes, he went
downstairs.  Immediately under the stairs there was a narrow
cupboard, and here upon the bare boards, rolled up In a blanket,
Maître Julien was wont to sleep--of late with one eye open and one
ear ready prepared to catch the slightest sound, since his
liege-lady, the exquisite Queen of Navarre, had constituted him the
guardian of Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont.

Even now, at the first sound of those cautious footsteps, Julien was
awake, and when, a minute or two later, Jehan peered into the narrow
cupboard, he met the youth's eyes staring at him, glowing with that
look of alertness and wariness which is peculiar to small animals at
bay.  He had raised himself on his elbow, but Jehan could see that
underneath the ragged coverlet Julien's hand was grasping a pistol.

'F-f-f-friend,' he stuttered in a gruff whisper, 'g-g-get up.
M-m-monseigneur's service,' he added significantly.

In a trice Julien was up.

'What is it?'

Jehan made several animated gestures, indicative of writing.

'Follow me,' rejoined Julien briefly.

He took the candle from Jehan and together the two men went into the
room opposite, which served as taproom for the few guests who
honoured 'Les Trois Rois' with their custom.

There was a long, narrow table at one end of the room.  On this
Julien placed the candle; then from a small cupboard in the wall he
took paper, pen, sand and inkhorn, and placed these also upon the
table.

There ensued then a long, whispered consultation between these two
men.  Julien with infinite patience gradually drew from Maître Jehan,
bit by bit, almost word for word what he required.  Ah! if Maître
Jehan could only have put his wishes down on paper, matters would
have been quite easy; but calligraphy was one of the arts which that
worthy had never mastered in his youth, and which he certainly had
not practised for the past twenty years.  But what knowledge could
not accomplish, that a boundless devotion on both sides contrived to
do this night.  Perspiration stood out in great beads upon Jehan's
forehead, there was a deep frown of perplexity upon his brow as he
stammered out laborious instructions to Julien.  There was a strong
vein of dogged obstinacy in his composition and a certain sound was
still ringing in his ear, which spurred him to desperate efforts to
make himself understood.  It was the sound of Messire's weird
laugh--harsh and uncontrolled--when Madame had taunted him with
having a number of paid ruffians round him to help him in the fight
against all those noble assassins.  Paid ruffians, forsooth!  Madame
should know the truth, even if Maître Jehan's brain gave way under
the terrible strain of making that cheesy-faced Julien understand
what he wanted.

And Julien, intent, ghastly pale in his eagerness, listened with ear
and mind and eyes and every sense strained to breaking point, to find
sense and coherence in Jehan's stammering.  For two hours these two
men sat face to face with the guttering candle between them, glaring
into one another's face, as if each would tear out the other's
innermost brain and knead it to his will.

But at last Julien understood.  By dint of broken monosyllables and
emphatic gestures, Jehan had made it clear to him what had happened,
and Julien, suddenly motioning the other to be silent, was at last
able to put pen to paper.



    'Most noble and gracious Seigneur,' he wrote, 'the writer is only
    a poor servant and you are a great and Puissant Lord; but I will
    tell you the Truth about what happened this night.  Messire was
    set upon by six Noblemen, and the Writer was set upon by six
    Knaves.  Messire was taken unawares and so was I.  I feigned dead
    dog because I wanted to go and fetch help.  Then the knaves were
    called away to help in the Murder of Messire, and I went to call
    Madame.  Twelve against two, Monseigneur!  Was that right?  And
    Messire fought them all single-handed.  This is the truth so help
    me God and I am Monseigneur's

    'Most humble and obedient Servant,
        'Jehan: servant to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont.'


When Julien had finished writing the letter he read it through aloud
to Jehan three times; then, when the latter expressed himself
completely satisfied with it, he folded it and Jehan slipped it
inside his doublet, beside the one which Messire had given him.

After which, he took up the candle again and bade Maître Julien
'good-night.'  He did not thank Julien, because he knew quite well
that what the latter had done had given him infinite happiness to do.
Every gesture, every look in the young man's face had proclaimed that
happiness.  In serving Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, he had
indirectly served the goddess whom he worshipped from afar.  His pale
face still irradiated with joy, he went back to his poor, hard bed,
to dream that She was smiling on him for his devotion to Her wishes.

And Jehan went straightway to his master's room.


III

The pale rays of a wintry moon came creeping in through the narrow
casement-window.  A lovely night had succeeded the drenching rain of
awhile ago.  Messire lay quite still upon his bed, but when Jehan
crept close up to him he saw that his eyes were wide open.

'What's the matter, Jehan?' Gilles asked, when he saw his faithful
henchman standing before him, booted and fully dressed.

'I can't sl-sl-sl-sleep,' replied Jehan unblushingly, 's-s-so I'll
g-g-g-go now.'

'At once?'

Jehan nodded.

'Can you get your horse at this hour?'

Jehan nodded again.

'You have your safe-conduct?--the letter?'

More vigorous nods from Jehan.

'Take what money you want from there.'  And Gilles with a jerk of the
head indicated the valise which contained his effects.

Jehan knelt on the floor beside the valise and turned over his
master's belongings.  He took a small purse containing some gold,
which he slipped into the pocket of his breeches; then he selected a
fresh doublet, hose and mantle for Messire to wear and carefully
folded and put away the tattered garments which had suffered so much
damage during the fight.  Oh!  Maître Jehan was a tidy valet when he
gave his mind to such trivial matters, and just now his mind was
sorely exercised over Messire's future plight when he would be
deprived of the services of so efficient a henchman.

Messire watched all his doings with much amusement.

''Tis not the first time that I shall be servantless, my good man,'
he said lightly.  'And of a truth I have been too much pampered in
that way of late.  I still know how to dress myself and how to clean
my boots--Aye!' he added, catching Jehan's look of reproach, 'and how
to tend to these silly scratches which the very unskilful blades of
M. de Landas and his friends did inflict upon my body.'

With a gesture of genuine affection he put out his hand, and good old
Jehan took it in both his rough brown ones.  When Gilles withdrew his
hand again he noticed that there was a warm, wet spot upon it, whilst
Jehan turned away very quickly, wiping his nose with the sleeve of
his doublet.

But not another word was spoken by either of these two men--master
and servant, friends and comrades--who understood one another to the
last secret thought and the innermost heartbeat.

A moment or two later, Jehan had blown out the candle and was gone,
and Gilles, lying on the narrow paillasse, wide awake, listened while
he could hear his faithful servant's heavy footstep stumping along
the corridor and down the stairs.

The wintry moon shed a weird, cold light into the narrow room, upon
his valise, the elegant doublet which Jehan had so carefully laid
out, the bottle of sedative, the fresh bandages, the pots of salve
laid close to his hands.  A heavy sigh rose involuntarily to his
lips.  Life appeared very difficult and very complicated just then.
It had been so extraordinarily simple before: fighting for the most
part, starving often, no cares, no worries, no thought for the
morrow; then the axe finally laid to the root of life, somewhere on a
battlefield, when Destiny had worked her will with the soldier of
fortune.

But now----!  And there was faithful Jehan, dragged too, and
innocently, into this adventure, involved in an episode which might
find the gallows for its conclusion.  Gilles, listening, could hear
his henchman's raucous stutter, rousing the echoes of the squalid
little hostelry.  Anon there was much scuffling and shuffling, doors
opening and shutting, calls from Jehan and calls from Julien; then
for awhile only distant and confused sounds of people stirring.  Ten
minutes or a quarter of an hour later the tramp of a horse's hoofs
upon the cobblestones, more calls and some shouting, a good deal of
clatter, the final banging of a heavy door--then nothing more.

And Gilles turned over, trying to get to sleep.  In his hand he held,
tightly clutched, a small, white, sweet-scented rag--a tiny ball of
damp cambric; and ever and anon he raised that ball to his lips ...
or to his eyes.  But he could not get to sleep.




CHAPTER XIII

HOW MADAME JACQUELINE WAS GRAVELY PUZZLED


I

Old Nicolle and the women had known how to hold their tongues, so had
Madame Jacqueline's torch-bearer.  Indiscretion these days, where the
affairs of noble gentlemen were concerned, was apt to bring terrible
reprisals in its train.  And above all, M. le Marquis de Landas was
not a gentleman to be trifled with.  If he desired secrecy, secrecy
he would have, and woe betide the unfortunates who had not known how
to hold their tongue.

Nicolle, aided by Maria and Bertine--two of Madame's most trustworthy
serving-maids--had done their best to tend the wounds of the noble
seigneurs, while the torch-bearer was despatched to their respective
houses to summon immediate assistance.  Messire de Borel was wealthy,
owned horses and had an army of servants; the Comte du Prêt lived in
a fine palace on the Place Verte, and the Seigneur de Maarege in the
Rue St. George.

It was all done very quickly and very discreetly.  Monseigneur the
governor was never meant to know what had occurred in his Palace that
night; servants came and went on tiptoe; the night watchmen had
anyhow been bribed to secrecy.  Martin et Martine at the Town Hall
had only chimed the second hour of the morning and already the six
young gallants had been conveyed back to their homes; the boudoir was
locked up and the key given in charge of the night watchmen, who
would see that order there was once more restored.

Jacqueline never deserted her self-appointed post until she was
satisfied that the last vestige of that awful scuffle had been
effectually obliterated.  She helped Nicolle and her women to dress
the wounds of the young seigneurs; she remained by de Landas' side
until she saw him safely in the stalwart arms of his own henchmen.
It was amazing how a girl, so young and so inexperienced, was able to
give directions and to keep her head through this amazingly trying
time.  She had broken down once, when Gilles had thrown the masks at
her feet; but directly he had gone she recovered herself, and from
that moment everything was done at her command.  Nicolle and the
women, who were on the verge of losing their heads--of screaming and
falling into a panic, were soon restored to order and efficiency by
Madame's coolness and by her courage.

Jacqueline never flinched, nor did she ask any questions.  She was
affectionate with de Landas and gentle to all, but evidently her one
care was to keep this miserable affair a secret from her guardian.


II

On the other hand, I, for one, am not going to say that Gilles de
Crohin was not a sick man on the following morning, when he managed
to crawl out of bed and to dress himself, inwardly cursing the
absence of his faithful Jehan.  He made light of 'scratches,' but he
had no fewer than five about his body, and the flesh wound in his
thigh was exceedingly unpleasant.  He had sat moodily in his narrow
room for some time, vaguely wondering what in the world he was to do
with himself, or whether Madame Jacqueline would ever care to set
eyes on him again.

He was smarting under the sense of injustice.  What right had she to
look on him as a braggart who would pay a set of knaves to help him
in his quarrels?  The feeling of insensate jealousy which was gnawing
at his heart was still more unpleasant to bear.  He almost understood
de Landas' hatred of himself after the episode in the banqueting
hall, for he--Gilles--was at this moment experiencing just that same
torturing jealousy, which had caused de Landas to outrage every canon
of chivalry and honour for the sake of getting even with an execrated
rival.

In fact, neither his mental nor his physical condition was in an
enviable state when a runner arrived that morning at 'Les Trois Rois'
and asked for leave to speak with Messire Gilles de Crohin, equerry
to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont.

Gilles, a little bewildered by this unexpected occurrence, met the
runner in the taproom of the hostelry.  Somewhat curtly, he told the
man that Monseigneur le Prince was sick, and that he--Gilles--was in
attendance on his master.  But the messenger appeared in no way
disconcerted at the rebuff; he seemed to have received instructions
that would cover every eventuality.

'Monseigneur the governor,' he said, 'had heard a rumour that His
Magnificence was sick.  Therefore he begged that Messire de Crohin
would forthwith come over to the Palace and reassure him as to the
condition of his master, Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont.'

The runner had long disappeared down the Rue aux Juifs and Gilles de
Crohin was still standing in the middle of the taproom, clutching his
chin with his hand in a state of most unenviable perturbation.  A
very severe test on his histrionic powers was about to be imposed
upon him.  Monseigneur's desire--nay! his command--could not be
disregarded.  He--Gilles--must present himself at the Palace just as
he was--playing no rôle this time, save that of striving to
obliterate all similarity between himself as he really was and would
be to-day, and himself as he had been in Monseigneur's sight during
the past five days.

No wonder that at the prospect he too--like Jehan last night--felt
cold drops of sweat rising to the roots of his hair.  I will not say
that the thought of seeing Madame Jacqueline again, if he went to the
Palace, did not in a measure give him courage; but even that courage
was only fictitious, because in all probability she would scarce
vouchsafe to look on the servant, seeing that her heart was filled
with hatred and contempt for the master.

Nevertheless, he was at the Palace less than an hour later.
Monseigneur was very gracious, and apparently not the least
suspicious.  He only expressed regret that it had not been his good
fortune to meet Messire Gilles de Crohin ere this.  On the other
hand, his apologies for what had occurred the night before inside his
own Palace were both profuse and humble--almost abject.

'I beg you, Messire,' he said earnestly, at the close of the
interview, 'to assure Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou that I would give
ten years of my life--and I have not many left to give--to undo the
mischief wrought by a few young nincompoops.  I can but hope that His
Highness will exonerate me from any negligence or want of
understanding in the matter.'

By this time Gilles was mentally quite at his ease.  If his thigh was
painful, he had nevertheless managed to walk into Monseigneur's
presence without a limp, and to all appearances his host was at this
hour very far from suspecting the slightest fraud.

'His Highness,' he said lightly, 'will recover from his scratches
within the next day or two.  The whole matter is unworthy of
Monseigneur's anxiety.'

After which assurance, and mutual protestations of esteem and
good-will, Gilles was allowed to take his leave.


III

Being a personage of no consequence, Messire Gilles de Crohin,
equerry to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, was not escorted to
the gates by an army of ushers; rather was he allowed to find his way
out as best he could.  The interview with Monseigneur had taken place
in a room on a floor above, and he was walking slowly along one of
the wide corridors which, if memory served him, would lead him to the
grand staircase.  On his right the tall, deep-embrasured windows gave
on the magnificent park which, with its stately trees still dressed
in winter garb, lay bathed in the sunlight of this early spring day.

He paused just for a moment, looking over the park at the rich
panorama of the city.  The window nearest to him was slightly open,
and the south-westerly breeze was apparently stirring the heavy
curtains in front of it.  From somewhere close by there came gently
wafted the delicious penetrating fragrance of lilies.  Was it a
wonder that Gilles' thoughts should at once have flown to Jacqueline?
and that an uncontrollable ache should suddenly grip his heart?

Throughout his long adventurous life he had seen so many women--had
kissed a few, and loved none; and now Fate had placed in his path
just the one woman in the whole wide world whom at first sight he had
loved with unbounded passion, and who was as far removed from him as
was the gold-crowned steeple of St. Géry far away, and infinitely
more unattainable.  For the first time in his life Gilles had looked
into a woman's eyes, felt that they held in their depths a promise of
paradise, only to realize that that promise could never be made to
him.

The scent of the lilies brought with it a murmur of spring, of
awakening nature, of twitter of birds, and the man who listened to
that murmur, who thrilled at its insistent call, knew that he must
for ever remain lonely, that the call of springtide for him must for
ever remain unsatisfied.

Standing there alone, he was not ashamed of his emotion, not ashamed
that hot tears welled up involuntarily to his eyes.  But with a
half-impatient gesture and a smile at his own folly, he brushed these
with his hand resolutely away.

When the mist of tears was cleared from his eyes, he suddenly saw
her--his dream--standing before him.  She was in the window
embrasure, with the flood of sunshine wrapping her like a mantle of
gold.  On the window sill beside her lay a bunch of white lilies.
Her little hand--Gilles thought he had never seen such an exquisite
little hand--held back the curtain, behind which she had apparently
been sitting.  A soft breeze blew in through the half-open window and
stirred with its delicate breath the soft tendrils of her ardent
hair.  Her face against the light was in a tender, grey shadow,
through which her eyes shone like a peep of azure sky, and on her
cheek that tiny mole was provocatively asking for a kiss.

The apparition had come upon Gilles so suddenly, the transition from
dark melancholy to joy was so abrupt, that he--poor man!--weak, sick,
unnerved by weariness and constant strain, not only found nothing to
say, but he clean forgot all the amenities of social life which the
equerry of a prince of the House of Valois should have had at his
finger-tips.

Jacqueline, too, strangely enough, felt embarrassed for the moment,
angry with herself for being tongue-tied.  What was there to be
confused about?  Messire Gilles de Crohin could not possibly guess
that she had been sitting here in the window embrasure, waiting to
see him pass, just because she desired to have news of his master.
He could not guess that it had taken all her reserves of diplomacy to
so explain to Monseigneur when he questioned her, what she knew of
the events of the past night that, without being greatly angered
against M. de Landas, he should feel sufficient compunction to send
promptly for news of Messire le Prince de Froidmont.  Certainly
Messire's equerry could not guess that Madame Jacqueline's heart had
been touched and her mind tickled when Monseigneur placed before her
the naïve effusion of Maître Jehan, and that her own common sense and
unerring feeling for justice had filled in the gaps which the worthy
servant's missive had left in his exposé of what had actually
occurred.

Therefore it was not the fear of what Messire de Crohin might think
or guess that kept Jacqueline momentarily speechless and shy, rather
was it a curious and undefinable sense of something strange--familiar
yet mysterious--about the personality of this man who stood, equally
silent, before her.  It took her several seconds to free herself from
this spell which appeared to have been cast over her, several seconds
of fighting angrily with herself for the constraint which rendered
her tongue-tied and shy.  Fortunately he appeared quite unaware of
her embarrassment, waited somewhat awkwardly, she thought, for her to
speak.

'You are Messire de Crohin?' she contrived to say at last.

'At your service, Madame,' he replied.

'Equerry to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?'

He bowed in affirmative response.

'And ... I have no doubt ... devoted to his person?'

He smiled.

'Why should Madame conclude that?' he asked.

She gave a little start.  Somehow his tone--that bantering smile, had
accentuated that feeling of familiarity which rendered his person so
strangely mysterious.

'Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont,' she rejoined coldly, 'is sure
to command the devotion of those who serve him.  He is brave and
chivalrous----'

'That was not Madame's opinion of him last night----' he broke in
dryly.  Then, seeing that his tone had caused her to turn her eyes on
him with unfeigned surprise he added somewhat lamely: 'At least ...
that is ... that is what Monseigneur gave me to understand last
night----'

'It was all a misunderstanding,' she said gently.  'Will you say that
to Monseigneur?'

'If Madame desires.'

'I do desire it.  And since you know all about the incident, Messire,
will you, I pray you, tell your master how deeply I regret the
erroneous judgment which I formed of his conduct?  Those abominable
varlets all crowding round him----'

'Appearances were against Monseigneur, no doubt.'

'And I behaved like a vixen, Messire,' she said with a smile.

'Then give me an army of vixens!' he retorted impulsively.

'Why, Messire, you were not there to see----'

'No!  But I imagine now that vixens must be adorable.'

'Do not jest, Messire,' she rejoined more earnestly.  'I was shrewish
last night and ill-tempered and unjust.  Will you tell your master
that this morning----'

'I will tell him, Madame, that this morning you are perfect, whatever
you may have been last night.'

Poor Gilles by now would have given all that he possessed in the
world to be allowed to go.  He felt that this interview, which he had
neither sought nor hoped for, was like a dangerous trap into which
Fate and his own temperament might hurl him headlong.  Every minute
that he spent in this woman's company rendered her more desirable to
him, rendered him more completely a slave to her charm.  But for some
strange and subtle reason she seemed disinclined to let him go just
yet, and even now when, remembering his best manners, Gilles started
on the preliminaries of a most elaborate farewell bow, she went on
with a quick catching of her breath and a slight hesitation, which
brought a soft glow to her cheeks:

'Messire Gilles----'

'At your service, Madame.'

'Was Monseigneur de Froidmont very angered with me?'

'He was,' Gilles admitted, 'last night.'

"But ... but....'

'His anger hath since melted like snow in the spring.'

'Even before you came hither at the bidding of my guardian?'

'Even before that, Madame.'

'Did he tell you so?'

'I guessed it.'

'Do you know his innermost thoughts, then?'

'Most of them--yes, Madame.'

'You are very intimate with Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont?' she
asked, with a certain shy hesitancy which Gilles found adorable,
because it caused a delicate flush of pink to suffuse her cheeks.
This caused him, in his turn, to be confused and tongue-tied, staring
at her with eyes that seemed as if they would devour her loveliness.

She had to repeat her question.

'Oh!--ah!--er!' he stammered vaguely.  'That is--yes!  Yes, Madame!
I am on ultimate terms with Monseigneur.'

'And--do tell me, Messire--is Monseigneur handsome?'

'No, by the Lord!' exclaimed Gilles with a loud laugh.  Then he
caught her look: it was not one of surprise, rather of amusement not
unmixed with quaint, roguish mischief.  He could not interpret that
look rightly, and began to stammer, worse confused than before.

'Madame--I--that is----'

'You are no judge of your master's looks, shall we say?' she retorted
with an enigmatic little smile.  'But you must remember that, though
I found Monseigneur of noble bearing, I have no notion how he looks,
for I have never seen him without a mask--that is----'

This time Gilles was quite sure that she was doing her best to
suppress a laugh.

'Do you think,' she said, 'that you could persuade His Magnificence
to pay his respects to me unmasked?'

'Monseigneur will, I feel sure,' he rejoined stiffly, 'be honoured by
the command, but----'

'But what, Messire?'

'He is strangely ill-favoured, Madame.'

'Oh! a woman is the best judge of that.  Some of the ugliest men have
proved most attractive.'

'But--but Monseigneur is scarred--badly scarred.  He----'

'What matter?  There is naught so glorious as scars on a soldier's
face.  When I was a child I once saw the Duc de Guise--le Balafré!
With that great cut across his cheek, he was still the most notable
man in a room filled to overflowing with clever, brave and handsome
men!'

'But--but, Madame, Monseigneur is also pock-marked.  Yes, that's it!
Pock-marked!  An illness contracted in early childhood--Madame
understands?'

'I do,' she replied with a little sigh of sympathy, and looked with
those enchanting blue eyes of hers straight on poor Gilles.  'I do.
It is very sad.'

'Very sad indeed, Madame.'

'Scarred and pock-marked.  No wonder Monseigneur is shy to show his
face.  But no matter,' she continued gaily.  'He hath such a lovely
voice, and oh! such beautiful hands!  Slender and full of nerve and
power!  I always take note of hands, Messire,' she said with
well-feigned ingenuousness.  'They indicate a man's character almost
more than his face.  Do you not think, so too?'

'I--Madame--that is----'

Gilles had, quite instinctively, drawn the lace of his sleeve over
his left hand, even while Madame still looked at him with that
tantalizing glance which had the effect of turning his brain to putty
and his knees to pulp.  Now she laughed--that merry, rippling laugh
of hers--and I do verily assure you that the poor man was on the
verge of making a complete fool of himself.  Indeed, it were
difficult to say whether or no the next second would have witnessed
his complete surrender to Jacqueline's magic charm, his total loss of
self-control and the complete downfall of Madame la Reyne de
Navarre's cherished plan, for poor Gilles had lost consciousness of
every other feeling and thought save that of a wild longing to fall
on his knees and to kiss the tiny foot which peeped beneath the hem
of that exquisite woman's gown, a wild longing, too, to hold out his
arms and to fold her to his breast, to kiss her hair, her eyes, her
lips, that tiny mole which had wrought the whole mischief with his
soul.  For the moment he forgot his past life, his present position,
the Duc d'Anjou and Madame la Reyne: he had forgotten that he was a
penniless adventurer, paid to play an unworthy trick upon this
innocent girl, sworn to infamy on pain of greater infamy still!  He
had forgotten everything save that she was adorable and that an
altogether new and ardent love had taken possession of his soul.

Of a truth it is impossible for a prosy chronicler to state
definitely what might have happened then, if Monseigneur the governor
had not chosen that very moment for coming out of his room and
walking down the corridor, at one end of which Gilles was standing
spell-bound before the living presentment of his dream of long ago.
He heard Monseigneur's heavy footstep, pulled himself vigorously
together, and with an impatient gesture which was habitual to him, he
passed his left hand slowly across his forehead.

When he looked on Jacqueline again she was staring at him with an
expression that appeared almost scared and wholly bewildered, and
with a strange, puzzled frown upon her smooth forehead.  For the
space of a second or two it seemed as if she wanted to say something,
then held back the words.  After a slight hesitation, however, she
finally went forward a step or two to meet her guardian, without
looking again on Gilles.

'I was glad,' she said quietly to d'Inchy, 'to have had an
opportunity of seeing Messire de Crohin and of begging him to offer
to Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, his master, my sincere regrets
for what occurred last night.'

'Messire has already assured me,' rejoined d'Inchy suavely, 'that
Monseigneur harbours no resentment against any of us.  Is that not
so, Messire?'

'Indeed it is, Monseigneur,' replied Gilles stiffly.  'Whatever
Monseigneur may have felt last night, I in his name do assure you
that at this hour the incident of last night hath faded from his
memory.'

He bowed now, ready to take his leave.  But Jacqueline was apparently
not yet ready to dismiss him.  Something had gravely puzzled her,
that was clear; and it was that something which seemingly made her
loth to let him go.

'What, think you, Messire,' she said abruptly, 'caused Monseigneur to
forget his resentment so quickly?'

'A journey, Madame,' he replied, looking her boldly between the eyes
this time, 'which his thoughts took skywards, astride upon a sunbeam.'

She smiled.

'And did Monseigneur's thoughts wander far on that perilous journey?'

'As far as the unknown, Madame.'

'The unknown?  Where is that?'

'There where we sow our dreams.'

'Where we sow our dreams?  You speak in metaphors, Messire.  If, as
you say, we sow our dreams, what do we reap?'

'A perfect being such as you, Madame, can only reap joy and
happiness.'

'But you, Messire?'

'Oh, I, Madame!' he replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders.
'What can a poor soldier of fortune garner from a crop of dreams save
a bunch of memories?'

'Happy memories, I trust,' she said gently, as she finally extended
her dainty hand for his kiss.

'Happiness is such an ephemeral flower, Madame: memory is its lasting
perfume.'

For one brief moment her exquisite little hand, white, soft and
tensely alive, like the petals of a fragrant lily, lay upon his own:
for one brief moment of unalloyed happiness his lips rested upon her
finger-tips, and he felt them quivering beneath his kiss, as if
something of the passion which was searing his heart had been
communicated to her through that kiss.

The moment went by like a flash: the next, Monsieur le Baron d'Inchy
was already bidding him farewell with many an unctuous word, which
Gilles never even heard.  He had eyes and ears only for
Jacqueline--Jacqueline, whom he had seen and loved at first sight,
when she had been alternately proud and dignified, demure and arch,
reproachful and contemptuous; but before whom he could now bend the
knee in adoration when a softened mood filled her eyes with tears and
caused her perfect lips to quiver with unexpressed sympathy.

'I entreat you, Messire,' she said finally, 'when you return to your
master, to urge upon him the necessity of extreme prudence.
Strangers are none too welcome in Cambray these days, and Monseigneur
de Froidmont hath already made many enemies, some of whom are
unscrupulous, others merely hot-headed; but all, alas! dangerous.
Guard him with your life, Messire,' she urged, with a quaint little
catch in her throat.  'And, above all, I pray you to assure him that
Jacqueline de Broyart would give much to undo the miserable work of
the past night.'

She bowed her head in token that he was dismissed at last, and
he--poor wretch!--could not at that moment have uttered a single word
in response, for his throat was choked and his very sinews ached with
the effort to appear calm and unconcerned before Monseigneur the
governor.

So, I fear me, that Gilles de Crohin defied every social rule laid
down by the aforesaid Maître Calviac, and that Monseigneur the
governor was seriously shocked when he saw a mere equerry taking an
unduly hasty leave from himself and from Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart, who was Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse, in rank far above
any Sire de Crohin.

Monseigneur d'Inchy gave a quick sigh of impatience.  The comedy
invented by the Queen of Navarre was beginning to tax his powers of
endurance heavily.  Were it not for the great issues at stake, he
would never have humbled himself before any man as he had done before
a profligate Valois prince who was not worthy to lick the dust that
stained Madame Jacqueline's velvet shoes.  He looked down with
conscious pride on his beautiful ward, more beautiful at this moment,
he thought, than she had ever looked before.  She was gazing straight
down the length of the corridor; her lips were parted in an enigmatic
smile which greatly puzzled her old guardian, a soft blush mantled
over her cheeks and throat, and as she gazed--on nothing
seemingly--her blue eyes shone with a strange, inward excitement.

And yet, all that there was to see down the corridor was the
retreating figure of that somewhat ill-mannered equerry, Messire
Gilles de Crohin.




CHAPTER XIV

WHICH TREATS OF THE DISCOMFITURE OF M. DE LANDAS


I

We may take it that M. le Baron d'Inchy, at whose invitation the Duc
d'Anjou had come to Cambray, was not likely to let the matter of the
midnight duel remain unpunished, the moment he learned the full facts
about the affair.  The epistle of Maître Jehan had put him on the
scent, and it must be remembered that M. le Baron d'Inchy ruled over
Cambray and the Cambrésis with the full autocratic power of a
conqueror, and that he had therefore more than one means at his
disposal for forcing the truth from unwilling witnesses if he had a
mind.

That truth, as confessed by the night watchmen, was nothing short of
appalling.  Monseigneur the governor's first thought had been one of
ample--not to say, obsequious--apologies to His Highness for the
outrage against his person.  But _Monsieur_ being sick, and etiquette
forbidding Monseigneur the governor's visit to so humble an hostelry
as that of 'Les Trois Rois,' M. d'Inchy had bethought himself of
Messire Gilles de Crohin, the equerry, had sent for him and begged
him to transmit to His Highness all those excuses which he--the
governor--would have wished to offer in person.  Fortunately, the
equerry had been able to assure Monseigneur that His Highness
appeared inclined to look on the affair with leniency.  Whereupon
d'Inchy had seen him depart again, feeling still very wrathful but
decidedly easier in his mind.

Then he sent for de Landas.

De Landas was sick of his wounds, feverish and in the leech's hands;
but the order to present himself before the governor was so
peremptory that he dared not refuse.  He knew well that nothing but
unbridled anger would cause Monseigneur to issue such an arbitrary
order and that it would neither be wise nor even safe to run counter
to his will.

So de Landas had his wounds re-dressed and bandaged; he took the
cooling draught which the leech had prepared for him, and then he
ordered four of his men to carry him on a stretcher to the
Archiepiscopal Palace.  But all this show of sickness did not have
the effect of softening Monseigneur's mood.  He ordered de Landas
very curtly to dismiss his stretcher-bearers, then he motioned him to
a seat, himself sat down behind his desk and fixed searching eyes
upon his young kinsman.

'I have sent for you, José,' he began sternly, 'and for you alone,
rather than for the whole of your gang, because you have constituted
yourself their leader, and they invariably follow you like so many
numskulls, in any mischief which you might devise.'

'Mon cousin----' stammered de Landas, abashed, despite himself, by
d'Inchy's dictatorial tone.

'One moment,' broke in the latter harshly.  'Let me tell you at once
that explanations and prevarications are useless.  I received a hint
of what occurred last night primarily from an outside source, but you
will understand that a clue once obtained can very easily be followed
up.  We questioned your varlets, put the night watchmen to the
torture; they confessed everything, and you, M. le Marquis de Landas,
my kinsman, and half a dozen of your precious friends, stand
convicted of an attempt at assassination against the person of a
stranger, who happens to be my guest.'

De Landas, feeling himself cornered, made no attempt to deny.  It
certainly would have been useless.  Unfortunately he had allowed his
jealousy to get the better of his prudence, and last night had made
more than one mistake--such, for instance, as not killing the
watchmen outright instead of merely overpowering them, and employing
his own men rather than a few paid spadassins, who could not
afterwards have been traced.  So he sat on, sullen and silent, his
arm resting on that of the chair, his chin buried in his hand.

'For that attempted crime,' resumed Monsieur le Baron d'Inchy, after
a slight pause, and speaking in a trenchant and staccato tone, 'I
have decided to expel you and your five friends out of the city.'

De Landas, forgetting his wounds and his sickness, jumped to his feet
as if he had been cut with a lash.

'Expel me----?' he stammered.  He could scarcely frame the words.  He
was grey to the lips and had to steady himself against the table or
he would have measured his length on the floor.

'You and your friends,' reiterated d'Inchy with uncompromising
severity.  'Would you perchance prefer the block?'

But already de Landas had recovered some of his assurance.

'This is monstrous!' he exclaimed hotly.  'I, your kinsman!  Herlaer,
Maarege--some of your most devoted friends...!'

'No one is a friend,' retorted d'Inchy firmly, 'who is a law-breaker
and a potential assassin!'

'Monseigneur!' protested de Landas.

'Well!  What else were you all last night?'

'We had no intention of killing the rogue.'

'And attacked him, six to one!'

'His impudence deserved chastisement.  We only desired to administer
a lesson.'

'In what form, I pray you?' queried d'Inchy with a short ironical
laugh.

'We had some sticks in reserve----"

'Sticks!' thundered d'Inchy, who at the words had jumped to his feet
and in his wrath brought down his clenched fist with a crash upon the
table.  'Sticks!!  You had thought ... you would dare ... to raise
your hands against ... against ... Oh, my God!' he exclaimed in
horror as he sank down once more into his chair and, resting his
elbows on the table, he buried his face in his hands.  Evidently he
was quite unnerved.

De Landas had remained silent.  Of a truth he had been struck dumb by
this extraordinary show of what amounted almost to horror on the part
of his usually dignified and self-contained kinsman.  It seemed as if
he--de Landas--had said something awful, something stupendous when he
spoke of administering chastisement to a vagabond.  A vagabond
indeed!  What else was this so-called Prince de Froidmont?  Whence
did he come?  What was his purpose in coming to Cambray?  And why
should Monseigneur the governor be so completely unnerved at the bare
possibility of any one laying hands on so obscure a personage?

But this was obviously not the moment for demanding an explanation.
De Landas, ere he left his own fatherland in order to seek fortune in
Flanders, had already been well schooled in those arts of diplomacy
and procrastination for which Spanish statesmen were famous.  He
scented a mystery here, which he then and there vowed to himself that
he would fathom; but this was not the time to betray his own
suspicions.  He knew well enough that these wooden-headed Flemings
were for ever hatching plots for the overthrow of their Spanish
conquerors, that His Majesty the King of Spain had hardly one
faithful or loyal subject among these boors, who were for ever
prating of their independence and of their civil and religious
liberties.  De Landas' quick, incisive mind had already jumped to the
conclusion that, in this mystery which surrounded the personality of
this enigmatic Prince de Froidmont, there was no doubt the beginnings
of one of those subtle intrigues, which had already filched from the
kingdom of Spain more than one of her fair Flemish provinces.  But
the young man had up to now been too indolent and too self-indulgent
to trouble himself much about the dangers which threatened his
country through the brewing of these intrigues.  He was of a truth
ready to find fortune in Flanders and to marry the richest heiress in
the land if he could, and then to remain loyal to the country of his
adoption if it continued to suit his purpose so to do; but if, as he
began now vaguely to fear, his plans with regard to Jacqueline were
thwarted for the sake of some unknown suitor, however highly placed,
if the golden apple which he had hoped to gather in this mist-laden
land turned to dead-sea fruit in his hand, then he would no longer
consider himself bound by allegiance to this alien country; rather
would his loyalty to King Philip of Spain demand that he should
combat every machination which these abominable Flemings might set
afoot, for the overthrow of Spanish power.

But all this was for the future.  De Landas was astute enough not to
betray a single one of his thoughts at the moment--not until he had
surveyed the whole situation in cold blood and discussed it with his
friends.  For the nonce, conciliation was the only possible--the only
prudent--course of action, and humility and resignation the only
paths thereto.

So he waited a minute or two until d'Inchy had mastered his
extraordinary emotion.  Then he said meekly:

'Monseigneur, you see me utterly confounded by your anger.  On my
honour, I and my friends sinned entirely in ignorance.  We thought
the stranger presumptuous in the presence of Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart, who in our sight is almost a divinity.  We desired to teach
a malapert a lesson for daring to approach the greatest lady in
Flanders otherwise than on bended knees.  We had no thought,' he
added insidiously, 'that in so doing we might be attacking a
personage whom Monseigneur desires to hold in especial honour.'

'Even if the stranger was a person of no consequence,' rejoined
d'Inchy more calmly, 'your conduct was outrageous----'

'As it is, I am humbled in the dust at thought that it put a spoke in
the wheel of some deep-laid political plans.'

'I did not say that----' broke in d'Inchy quickly.

'Oh, Monseigneur!' protested de Landas gently, 'you deign to belittle
mine intelligence.  I may be a young jackanapes, but I am not such a
crass fool as not to realize that the person whom I only thought to
chastise, as I might some insignificant groundling, must be a
gentleman of more than ordinary consequence, else you would not
punish me so severely for so venial an offence.'

'It is my duty----'

'To expel six noble gentlemen from their homes for laying hands on an
unknown adventurer?  Fie, Monseigneur!  Your estimate of my reasoning
powers must of a truth be a very low one.'

'You have gravely erred against the laws of hospitality.'

'I am prepared to lick the dust in my abasement.'

'You have offended a stranger who was my guest.'

'I will offer him my abject excuses, tell him that I mistook him for
a caitiff.'

'He would not accept your excuses.'

'Is he such a high and mighty prince as all that?' retorted de Landas.

It was an arrow shot into the air, but it evidently hit the mark, for
d'Inchy had winced at the taunt.

'M. le Prince de Froidmont has been too gravely affronted,' he said
stiffly, 'for excuses to be of any avail.'

'Let me try them, at any rate,' riposted de Landas, almost servilely
now.

'I don't know--I----'

'Ah! but Monseigneur, I entreat you, listen.  I am your friend, your
kinsman, have served this land faithfully, devotedly, for years!  I
have no wish to pry into your secrets, to learn anything of which you
desire to keep me in ignorance.  But think--think!!  Others would not
be so scrupulous as I.  Gossip flies about very quickly in this city,
and rumours would soon take wider flight, if it became known that you
had punished with such unyielding rigour six of your best friends,
one of them your own kinsman, for daring to quarrel with a masked
stranger whom nobody knows, and who has entered this city in the
strictest incognito.  People will deduce unpleasant conclusions: some
will call the stranger a Spanish spy, and you, Monseigneur, a paid
agent of Spain.  At best, rumour will be busy with speculations and
conjectures which will jeopardize all your plans.  In pleading for
mercy, Monseigneur,' urged de Landas with well-feigned ingenuous
enthusiasm, ''tis not so much mine own cause that I advocate, but
rather that of your own peace of mind and the fulfilment of all your
secret desires.'

D'Inchy made no immediate reply.  No doubt the Spaniard's specious
arguments had struck him as sound.  He knew well enough how difficult
it was, these days, to keep tongues from wagging, and until the
affair with _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, was irrevocably concluded, gossip
would prove a deadly danger, not only to the plans which he and de
Lalain had laid so carefully, but also to themselves and to their
adherents.  This knowledge caused him to weaken in his attitude
toward de Landas.  He sat there, frowning, silent, obviously
hesitating already.

We must always remember also that the Flemings--whether lords or
churls--had never been able to hold their own against Spanish
diplomacy and Spanish cunning.  Their mind was too straightforward,
too simple, yes! too childish, to understand the tortuous subtleties
practised by these past masters of mental craftiness.

D'Inchy, de Lalain, de Montigny and their friends had plunged up to
the neck in a sea of intrigue.  They were already floundering, out of
their depth.  D'Inchy, ingenuous and inherently truthful, had never
suspected de Landas of duplicity--had, of a truth, never had cause to
suspect him--therefore now he took the young Spaniard's
protestations, his meekness, his well-timed warning, entirely at
their face value.  De Landas was looking him straight in the face
while he spoke, and d'Inchy was duly impressed by the air of
straightforwardness, of youthful enthusiasm, wherewith the young man
punctuated his impassioned tirade; and the latter, quick to note
every change in the Fleming's stern features, pursued his advantage,
pressed home his pleadings, half certain already of success.

'Let me go forthwith, Monseigneur,' he begged, 'to offer my humble
apologies to--to--Monsieur--er--le Prince de Froidmont.  Though you
may think that we tried to murder him last night, we crossed swords
with him like loyal gentlemen.  I and my friends will meekly admit
our errors.  He is too chivalrous, believe me, not to forgive.'

Obviously d'Inchy was yielding.  Perhaps he had never been very
determined on punishing those young coxcombs, had been chiefly
angered because he feared that in his wrath _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou,
might incontinently shake the dust of inhospitable Cambray from off
his velvet shoes.  Above all things, d'Inchy dreaded gossip about the
affair, and de Landas had indeed proved himself a master in the art
of self-defence when he prophesied the birth of countless rumours if
wholesale expulsions and punishments followed the midnight brawl.

'Have I your permission to go, Monseigneur?' insisted de Landas.
'Sick as I am, I can yet crawl as far as the hostelry where lodges
the enigmatic Prince de Froidmont.'

Again d'Inchy winced.  He felt his secret escaping from the safe
haven of his own keeping.  He sat on in silence, meditating for
awhile.  After all, _Monsieur's_ equerry had assured him that His
Highness was disposed to look leniently on the episode, and who could
be more royalist then the King? more Catholic than the Pope?
Gradually the tensity of his attitude relaxed, the dark frown
disappeared from between his brows; he still looked sternly on his
young kinsman, but the latter saw that the look was no longer
menacing.

A few minutes later Monseigneur d'Inchy had spoken the word which
caused de Landas to give a deep sigh of relief.

'Very well!' he said.  'You may try.  But understand,' he added
inflexibly.  'If Monsieur--I mean, if M. le Prince de Froidmont does
not accept your apology, if he demands your punishment, you leave
Cambray to-night.'

'I understand, Monseigneur,' said de Landas simply.

'And if the Prince does accept your apology, and I do condone your
offence this time, your punishment will be all the more severe if you
transgress again.  It would not be a sentence of expulsion then, but
one of death.  Now you may go!' he concluded curtly.  'My leniency in
the future will depend upon your conduct.'

After which, he dismissed de Landas with a stiff inclination of the
head, and the young Spaniard left the presence of the autocratic
governor of Cambray with rage in his heart and a veritable whirlpool
of conjectures, of surmises and of intrigues seething in his fertile
brain.


II

But right through the wild medley of hypotheses which ran riot in de
Landas' mind there raged also furious, unbridled wrath--wrath at his
own humiliation, his own impotence--hatred against the man who had
brought him to this pass, and mad, ungovernable jealousy whenever his
thoughts turned to Jacqueline.

Somehow--it was only instinct, no doubt--he felt that all this pother
about the masked stranger centred round the personality of
Jacqueline.  The first hint which Monseigneur had of last night's
affray must of necessity have come from Jacqueline.  She alone was
there--varlets and wenches did not count--she alone could have a
personal interest in putting Monseigneur on the scent.

A personal interest?  De Landas' frown became dark and savage when
first that possibility rose before his mind.  He had ordered his
servants, very curtly, to go and wait for him in the main entrance
hall, for after his interview with the governor he felt the want of
being alone for a few moments, to think over the situation as it so
gravely affected him.  He was in the same corridor where a couple of
hours ago Jacqueline had waylaid and spoken with Messire Gilles de
Crohin.  On his right was the row of tall windows with their deep
embrasures, which gave view upon the park.  De Landas felt sick and
fatigued, as much from choler and nerve-strain as from the effect of
his wounds, and he sat down on one of the wide window-seats to think
matters over.

A personal interest?

Yes!  That was it.  Jacqueline, capricious, hot-headed, impulsive,
had been attracted by the mysterious personality of the stranger, and
for the moment was forgetting the lover of her youth, the man who
felt that he had an inalienable claim upon her allegiance.  De Landas
had heard rumours of a masked minstrel having serenaded Madame
beneath her windows.  Pierre, his own henchman, had received a broad
hint to that effect from Nicolle, who was Madame's waiting-woman.
Was it possible that the masked troubadour and the enigmatic Prince
de Froidmont were one and the same person? and was it likely that
Jacqueline's romantic fancy had been captured by his wiles?

A wild, unreasoning rage gripped at de Landas' heart at the thought:
sheer physical pain caused him to groan aloud.  He felt stifled and
giddy, and with a rough, impatient gesture, he threw open the
casement-window and leaned out, in order to inhale the pure, fresh
air which rose from the park.  As he did so, he caught sight of
Jacqueline, who was wandering in and among the bosquets, attended
only by one of her maids.  She was dressed in a dark gown and had a
hood over her head, but even thus garbed she looked adorable, and de
Landas muttered an angry oath as he looked down on her, watching her
sedate movements, the queenly walk, that quaint air of demureness and
dignity which became her so well.  He suddenly realized all that the
past few days--nay! weeks--had meant in the shaping of his destiny.
Monseigneur the governor's stern decree had already placed her out of
his reach; she was slipping away from him, dragged from his side by
her accession to wealth and power, by the political intrigues which
centred around her--aye! and she was also slipping away from him
through the gradual cooling of her attachment for him; that fact he
could no longer disguise from himself.  He had succeeded in winning
her, when she was so young and so inexperienced that she fell readily
enough--almost unconsciously--into his arms.  He had ensnared her
like the skilful fowler succeeds in trapping a fledgling unawares.
Since then, so many things had changed.  Jacqueline, from an obscure
little country wench--almost the handmaid of an adulated brother--had
become one of the most important personages in the land.  She was
fêted, courted, admired, on every side, surrounded by all that was
most handsome, most chivalrous, in Europe.  She had not actually
turned from the lover of her girlhood--no! even de Landas was forced
to admit that--but she had learned to appraise him in the same
crucible as other men; and, with teeth set, and shame and anger
gnawing in his heart, de Landas had to tell himself that she had
apparently found him wanting.  Time was when nothing on earth would
have turned her admiration away from him, when, whatever the
appearances might be, she would look up to him as the fount of all
bravery and of all honour.  But last night she had only been gentle
and pitying, and a few hours later had led Monseigneur into
investigating the whole affair.

De Landas' fist against the window ledge was clenched until the
knuckles of his slender hand gleamed like ivory.  Had the masked
stranger himself aught to do with Jacqueline's disloyalty?  Suddenly
the Spaniard felt that at any cost he must know the truth about that,
at any cost he must wring an avowal from Jacqueline's lips, whether
in her innermost soul she had ever by one single thought been
unfaithful to him.

As fast as his gathering weakness would allow, he hurried through the
interminable corridors of the Palace, until he found himself down in
the hall below, at the foot of the main staircase, not twenty paces
away from the room where he had endured such bitter humiliation last
night.  Instinct drew him to that room, the window of which gave
direct access on to a terraced walk and thence on to the park.

He pushed open the door behind which a few brief hours ago he and his
friends had laid in wait so shamelessly for their unsuspecting enemy.
Almost furtively he stepped over the threshold and peeped in.  He
scarce recognized the place, thought he had mistaken the door; and
yet there were all the landmarks: the desk with its kidney-shaped
top, which had proved such a useful rampart for the enemy; the chairs
which the masked stranger had brandished like swivels above his head
when the cowardly order was given to the varlets to help in the
attack; the heavy curtain which had been the last, the most
formidable weapon of defence.

All these things had been put back in their respective places; a
fresh piece of matting covered the floor; the curtain had been hung
once more in front of the window--not a stain, not a mark, not a
break testified to the terrible orgy of bloodshed which had
desecrated this noble apartment last night.

De Landas looked all about him in astonishment.  He stepped further
into the room, and even as he did so, a strong current of air caused
the heavy door behind him to fall to with a bang.  As de Landas
looked across the room in order to see what had been the cause of
this sudden gust he saw that the window opposite was open to the
ground, and that Jacqueline had apparently just entered that way from
the terraced walk beyond.

She did not see him just at first, but stood for awhile intent, as he
had been, in noting the appearance of the room.  The window framed
her in like a perfect picture, with her dark gown and her golden hair
and soft white skin.  The hood of her cloak had fallen back over her
shoulders and she held her heavy skirt gathered up in her hand.

'Jacqueline!' exclaimed the young man impulsively.

She looked up and saw him, and, quite serenely, stepped into the
room, went forward to greet him with hand outstretched, her face
expressing gentle solicitude.

'Why, José!' she said lightly, 'I had no thought of seeing you
to-day.'

'Which,' he retorted glumly, 'doth not seem to have greatly troubled
you.'

'I knew that you were sick.  Surely the leech hath prescribed
absolute rest.'

'I did not think of sickness or of rest,' he rejoined, with an
undercurrent of grim reproach in his tone.  'I only thought of seeing
you.'

'I would have come to you,' she said calmly, 'as soon as the leech
advised.'

'And I could not wait,' he riposted with a sigh.  'That is all the
difference there is, Jacqueline, between your love and mine.'

Then, as she made no reply, but led him gently, like a sick child, to
a chair, he added sombrely:

'I came to bid you farewell, Jacqueline.'

'Farewell?  I don't understand.'

'I am going away.'

'Whither?'

He shrugged his shoulders.

'_Chien sabe_?' he said.  'What does it matter?'

'You are enigmatical, dear cousin,' she retorted.  'Will you not
explain?'

'The explanation is over simple, alas!  Monseigneur the governor hath
expelled me from this city.'

'Expelled you from this city?' she reiterated slowly.

'Yes! for daring to lay hands on His High and Mightiness, Monseigneur
le Prince de Froidmont.'

'José, you are jesting!'

'I was never so serious in all my life.'

'And you are going?'

'To-night.'

'But whither?' she insisted.

'As I said before: _Chien sabe_?'

He spoke now in a harsh, husky voice.  Obviously his nerves were on
edge and he had some difficulty in controlling himself.  He was
sitting by the desk and his arm lay across the top of it, with fist
clenched, while his dark eyes searched the face of the young girl
through and through while he spoke.  She was standing a few paces
away from him, looking down on him with a vague, puzzled expression
in her face.

'José,' she said after awhile, 'you are unnerved, angered, for the
moment.  You think, no doubt, that I am to blame for Monseigneur's
knowledge of last night's affair.  I swear to you that I am not, that
on the other hand I did all that was humanly possible to keep the
shameful affair a secret from every one.'

'Shameful, Jacqueline?' he protested.

'Yes, shameful!' she replied firmly.  'Monseigneur, it seems,
received an inkling of the truth early this morning--how, I know not.
But he sent for the watchmen and had them examined; then he told me
what had occurred.'

'And you believed him?'

'I neither believed nor disbelieved.  I was hideously, painfully
puzzled.  Now you tell me that my guardian hath expelled you from
this city.  He would not have done that, José, if he had not proof
positive of your guilt.'

'Well!' he rejoined with sudden, brusque arrogance.  'I'll not deny
it!'

'José!'

'I did waylay a malapert, an impudent rogue, with the view to
administering a sound correction to his egregious vanity.  I do not
deny it.  I am proud of it!  And you, Jacqueline, should commend me
for having done you service.'

'I cannot commend you for last night's work, José,' she said
earnestly.  'It was cowardly and unchivalrous.'

'Pardieu!' he riposted roughly.  'I am going to be punished for it
severely enough, methinks.  Expelled from this town!  Thrown to the
tender mercies of the Duke of Parma and his armies, who will vent on
me their resentment for my loyalty to the Flemish cause!'

'Nay, José!  I swear to you that Monseigneur will relent.'

'Not he!'

'He only meant to frighten you, to cow you perhaps into submission.
He was already angered with you after the banquet, for attacking
Messire le Prince de Froidmont.  He thought your action of the night
not only a dishonourable one, but a direct defiance of his orders.'

'Not he!' quoth de Landas again.  Then he added with a sudden burst
of bitter resentment.  'He wants to get me out of the way--to
separate me from you!'

'You must not be surprised, José,' she retorted quietly, 'that after
what happened last night, my guardian's opposition has not undergone
a change in your favour.  But have I not sworn that he will relent?
I will go to him now--I shall know what to say ... he so seldom
refuses me anything I ask for.'

'I forbid you to go, Jacqueline!' he interposed quickly, for already
she had turned to go.

'Forbid me?  Why?  I will not compromise your dignity; have no fear
of that.'

'I forbid you to go!' he reiterated sullenly.

'You are foolish, José!  I assure you that I understand Monseigneur's
moods better than any one else in the world.  I know that he is
always just as ready to pardon as to punish.  'Tis not much pleading
that I shall have to do.'

'You'll not plead for me, Jacqueline.'

'José!'

'You'll not plead.  'Tis not necessary.'

'What do you mean?'

'That I am already pardoned.'

'Already pardoned?'

'Yes.  I am not expelled from the city.'

'But you told me----'

'It was all a ruse!'

'A ruse?'

'Yes!' he cried with a sudden outburst of rage, long enough held in
check.  'Yes!  A ruse to find out if you loved me still!'

Then, as instinctively, at sight of his face, which had become
distorted with fury, she stepped back in order to avoid closer
contact with him, he jumped up from his chair, and while she
continued to retreat, he followed her step by step, and she watched
him, fascinated and appalled by the look of deathly hatred which
gleamed in his eyes.

'A year ago, Jacqueline,' he went on, speaking now through set teeth,
so that his voice came to her like the hissing of an angry snake; 'a
year--nay, a month, a week ago--if I had told you that I was going
away from you, you would have thrown yourself in my arms in the agony
of your grief; you would have wept torrents of tears and wrung your
hands and yielded your sweet face, your full, red lips unasked to my
caresses.  But now----'

He paused.  She could retreat no further, for her back was against
the wall.  Instinctively she put out her arms in order to keep him
off.  But he suddenly seized her with a fury so fierce that she could
have screamed with the pain, which seemed literally to break her back
in two.  He held her close to him, his warm breath scorched her face,
his lips sought her throat, her cheeks, her eyes, with a violence of
passion so intense that for the moment she felt weak and helpless in
his arms.  Only for a moment, however.  The next, she had recovered
that dignified calm which was so characteristic of her quaint
personality.  She made no resistance, because of a truth she had not
the power to shake herself free from his embrace; but her figure
suddenly became absolutely rigid, and once or twice he met a look in
her eyes which was so laden with contempt, that his exasperation gave
itself vent in a long, impassioned tirade, wherein he poured forth
the full venom of the pent-up rage, hatred, jealousy which was
seething in his heart.

'You!  Miserable Flemish cinder-wench!' he cried.  'So you thought
that you could toy with the passion of a Spanish gentleman?  You
thought that you could use him and play with him for just as long as
it suited your fancy, and that you could cast him aside like a torn
shoe as soon as some one richer, greater, more important, appeared
upon the scene.  Well! let me tell you this, my fine Madame!  That
I'll not give you up!  I'll not!  No!  Though I do not love you, any
more than I do any slut who tosses me a passing kiss.  But I'll not
give you up--to that accursed stranger, or to any man; do you hear?
You are mine, and I'll keep you--you and your fortune.  I have
reckoned on it and I want it--and I'll have it, if I have to drag you
in the gutter first, or burn this confounded city about your ears!'

His voice had gradually grown more and more husky, until the last
words came out of his parched throat like the screech of some wild
animal gloating over its prey.  But in his present state of health,
the effort and the excitement proved too great for his endurance.  He
turned suddenly dizzy and sick, staggered and would have fallen
headlong at her feet, if she herself had not supported him.

She had remained perfectly still while he poured forth that hideous
torrent of insults and vituperation, which, in her sight, were akin
to the writhings of some venomous reptile.  She could not move or
stop her ears from hearing, because he held her fast.  Tall, stately
and impassive, she had stood her ground like some unapproachable
goddess whom the ravings of a raging cur could not in any way pollute.

Now that he became momentarily helpless, she gave him the support of
her arm and led him quietly back to the chair.  When he was once more
seated and in a fair way of recovering from this semi-swoon,
she--still quite calmly--turned to go.

'You are unnerved, José,' she said coldly, 'and had best remain here
now till I fetch your servants.  I could wish for your sake as well
as for mine own that this had been an everlasting farewell.'

After which she walked quite slowly across the room, opened the door
with a firm hand and went out.  A moment or two later, de Landas
could hear her giving instructions to his servants in a perfectly
clear and firm voice.  He leaned back in his chair and gave a harsh
laugh of triumph.

'And now, Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont,' he murmured under his
breath, 'we shall see which of us will be the conqueror in the life
and death struggle which is to come.'




CHAPTER XV

HOW M. DE LANDAS PRACTISED THE GENTLE ART OF TREACHERY


I

The conduct of de Landas--of the one man whom in her childish way she
had at one time loved--had been a bitter blow to Jacqueline's
sensitive heart, also one to her pride.  How she could have been so
blind as not to see his baseness behind his unctuous speech, she
could not imagine.  How had she never suspected those languorous eyes
of his of treachery, those full, sensual lips of falsehood?  Now her
cheeks still tingled with shame at the remembrance of those hateful
kisses which he had forced on her when she was helpless, and her
whole being quivered with the humiliation of his insults.  He never,
never could have loved her, not even in the past.  He was just a
fortune-hunter, goaded to desperation when he saw that her wealth and
her influence were slipping from his grasp.  'Flemish cinder-wench,'
he had called her, not just in a moment of wild exasperation, but
because he had always hated her and her kin and the fair land of
Flanders, which she worshipped and which all these Spanish grandees
so cordially despised.  Jacqueline, whose whole nature--unbeknown to
herself--was just awakening from childhood's trance, felt that she,
too, hated now that arrogant and outwardly pliant Spaniard, the man
who with cajoleries and soft, servile words had wound his way into
her heart and into the confidence of Monseigneur.  She had realized
in one moment, while he was pouring forth that torrent of abuse and
vituperation into her face, that he was an enemy--a bitter enemy to
her and to her country--an enemy all the more fierce and dangerous
that he had kept his hatred and contempt so well concealed for all
these years.

And now her whole mind was set on trying to find a means to undo the
harm which her own weakness and her own overtrustfulness had helped
to bring about.  Monseigneur the governor had not of late shown great
cordiality toward M. de Landas; at the same time, he did not appear
to mistrust him, had not yet perceived the vicious claws underneath
the velvet glove or the serpent's tongue behind the supple speech.
To a sensitive girl, reared in the reserve and aloofness which
characterized the upbringing of women of high rank in these days, the
very thought of confiding to her guardian the story of de Landas'
infamous conduct towards her was abhorrent in the extreme; but, in
spite of that, she was already determined to put Monseigneur on his
guard, and if mere hints did not produce the desired effect, she
would tell him frankly what had happened, for Jacqueline's conscience
was as sensitive as her heart and she had no thought of placing her
private feelings in direct conflict with the welfare of her country.

But, strangely enough, when she broached the unpleasant subject with
Monseigneur, she found him unresponsive.  What to her had been a
vital turning point in her life did not appear to him as more than a
girlish and undue susceptibility in the face of an aggrieved lover.
He made light of de Landas' fury, even of the insults which
Jacqueline could hardly bring herself to repeat; and she--wounded to
the quick by the indifference of one who should have been her
protector and if need be her avenger--did not insist, withdrew into
her own shell of aloofness and reserve, merely begging Monseigneur to
spare her the sight of de Landas in the future.

This Monseigneur cordially promised that he would do.  He meant to
keep de Landas at arm's length for the future, even though he was
quite genuine in his belief that Jacqueline had exaggerated the
violence of the Spaniard's outburst of hatred.  In his innermost
heart, M. le Baron d'Inchy was congratulating himself that the young
girl had been so completely, if somewhat rudely, awakened from her
infatuation for de Landas.  Matters were shaping themselves more and
more easily with regard to the alliance which he and his party had so
much at heart.  _Monsieur_ showed no sign of desiring to leave
Cambray, which plainly proved that he had not abandoned the project.
But for this, as for all delicate political situations, secrecy was
essential above all things, and Monseigneur had received a severe
shock when de Landas had so boldly suggested that rumour would soon
begin to stir around the mysterious personality of the masked
stranger.

Because of this, too, d'Inchy did not desire to quarrel just then
with de Landas--whose misdemeanour he had already condoned--and
turned a deaf ear to Jacqueline's grave accusations against her
former lover.  The next few days would see the end of the present
ticklish situation and in the meanwhile, fortunately for himself and
his schemes, most of those young hotheads who had taken part in the
midnight drama were more or less sick, and safely out of the way.

We may take it that M. le Baron d'Inchy heard no further complaints
about the unfortunate affair from his exalted guest: certain it is
that neither M. de Landas nor any of his friends suffered punishment
for that night's dastardly outrage.  Whether they actually offered
abject apologies to Messire le Prince de Froidmont, we do not know;
but it is on record that the latter made no further allusion to the
affair, and that subsequently, whenever he chanced to meet any of his
whilom enemies in the streets, he always greeted them with unvarying
cordiality and courtesy.


II

De Landas had in effect burnt his boats.  He knew that sooner or
later Jacqueline's resentment would get the better of her reserve and
that his position inside the city would become untenable, unless
indeed he succeeded in winning by force what he had for ever
forfeited as a right--the hand of Jacqueline de Broyart, and with it
the wealth, the power and influence for which his ambitious soul had
thirsted to the exclusion of every other feeling of chivalry or
honour.

He had left her presence and the Archiepiscopal Palace that afternoon
with hatred and rage seething in his heart and brain, his body in a
fever, his mind torn with conflicting plans, all designed for the
undoing of the man whom he believed to be both his rival and his
deadly enemy.  An hour later, Du Pret and Maarege, the only two of
his friends who were able to rise from their bed of sickness in
response to a hasty summons from their acknowledged chief, were
closeted with him in his lodgings in the Rue des Chanoines.  A man
dressed in rough clothes, with shaggy hair and black, unkempt beard,
stood before the three gallants, in the centre of the room, whilst
Pierre, M. de Landas' confidential henchman, stood on guard beside
the door.

'Well?' queried de Landas curtly of the man.  'What have you found
out?'

'Very little, Magnificence,' replied the man.  'Messire le Prince de
Froidmont is lying sick at the hostelry of "Les Trois Rois," and hath
not been seen to-day.  His equerry received a messenger in the course
of the morning from Monseigneur the governor and went subsequently to
the Archiepiscopal Palace, where he remained one hour; and the
henchman started at dawn, on horseback, went out of the city, and
hath not since returned.'

'Pardi! we knew all that,' broke in de Landas roughly, 'and do not
pay you for such obvious information.  If you have nothing more to
say----'

'Pardon, Magnificence; nothing else occurred of any importance.  But
I was entrusted with other matter besides following the movements of
Messire le Prince de Froidmont and his servants.'

'Well! and what did you do?'

'Obeyed orders.  The people of Cambray are in a surly mood to-day.
For the first time this morning, food supplies failed completely to
reach the town.  Rumours are rife that the armies of the Duke of
Parma are within ten kilometres of the gates of the city, and that
already he proposes to starve Cambray into capitulation.'

'All that is good--very good!' assented de Landas, who nodded to his
friends.

They too signified their approval of the news.

'It is most fortunate,' said young Maarege, 'that all this has
occurred this morning.  It helps our plans prodigiously.'

'Go on, Sancho,' broke in de Landas impatiently.  'What did you do in
the matter?'

'I and my comrades mixed with the crowd.  It was easy enough to throw
in a word here and a word there ... the masked stranger in the city
... a banquet at once given in his honour, where the last food
supplies intended for the people were consumed by those who would
sell Cambray back to the Spaniards ... Spanish spies lurking in the
city....  Oh!  I know how to do that work, Magnificence!' the man
went on with conscious pride.  'You may rely on me!'

'Parbleu, fellow!' retorted de Landas haughtily.  'I would not pay
thee if I could not.'

'Well! what else?' queried one of the others eagerly.

'As luck would have it, Magnificence,' continued the man, 'one of the
strangers--he who is said to be equerry to the Prince de
Froidmont--chanced to be walking down the street when I was by.  I
had a small crowd round me at the time and was holding forth on the
subject of Flanders and her wrongs and the wickedness and tyranny of
our Spanish masters ... I had thrown out a judicious hint or two
about strangers who might be Spanish spies ... Magnificence, you
would have been satisfied with the results!  The crowd espied the
stranger, hooted him vigorously, though for the nonce they dared not
actually lay hands on him.  But 'tis only a matter of time.  The
seeds are sown; within the week, if food becomes more scarce and
dear, you will have the crowd throwing stones at the stranger! ... I
have earned my pay, Magnificence!  Those Flemish dogs are yapping
already ... to-morrow they'll snarl ... and after that...'

'After that, 'tis the Duke of Parma who will bring them back to
heel,' concluded de Landas in a triumphant tone.  'And now, Sancho, I
have other work for thee!'

'I am entirely at the commands of His Magnificence,' the man rejoined
obsequiously.

'The seeds here are sown, as thou sayest!  Let Sandro and Alfonzo and
the others continue thy work amongst the loutish crowds of Cambray.
Thou'lt start to-night for Cateau-Cambrésis.'

'Yes, Magnificence.'

'The Duke of Parma is there.  Thou'lt take a message from me to him.'

'Yes, Magnificence.'

'A verbal message, Sancho; for letters may be stolen or lost.'

'Not when I carry them, Magnificence.'

'Perhaps not.  But a verbal message cannot be lost or stolen.  If it
is not transmitted I'll have thee hanged, Sancho.'

'I know it, Magnificence.'

'Well then, thou'lt seek out His Highness the Duke of Parma.  Tell
him all that has occurred in this city--the arrival of the stranger;
the manner in which he stalks about the town under cover of a mask;
the extraordinary honour wherewith the governor regards him.  Dost
understand?'

'Perfectly, Magnificence.'

'Then tell the Duke--and this is the most important part of thy
mission--that on any given day which he may select, I can provoke a
riot in this city--a serious riot, wherein every civil and military
authority will be forced to take a part--and that this will be the
opportunity for which His Highness hath been waiting.  While the
rioters inside Cambray will be engaged in throwing stones at one
another, the Duke of Parma need only to strike one blow and he can
enter the city unopposed with his armies, in the name of our Most
Catholic King Philip of Spain.'

He rose from his chair as he did so and crossed himself devoutly, his
friends doing likewise.  Though they were Flemish born--these two
young men--they had for some unavowable reason espoused the cause of
their tyrants, rather than that of their own people.  A look of
comprehension had darted from Sancho's eyes as he received these
final instructions from his employer, a look of satisfaction, too,
and of hatred; for Sancho was a pure bred Castilian and despised and
loathed all these Flemings as cordially as did his betters.  Whether
he served his own country from a sense of patriotism or from one of
greed, it were impossible to say.  No one had ever found it worth
while to probe the depths of Sancho's soul---a common man, a churl, a
paid spadassin or suborned spy--he was worth employing, for he was
sharp and unscrupulous; but as to what went on behind those shifty,
deep-set eyes of his and that perpetually frowning brow, was of a
truth no concern of his noble employers.  All that mattered to them
was that Sancho had--in common with most men of his type--an
unavowable past, one which would land him on the cross, the gibbet or
the stake, in the torture-chamber or under the lash, whenever his
duties were ill-performed or his discretion came to be a matter of
doubt.

'If you serve me well in this, Sancho,' resumed de Landas after a
brief while, 'the reward will surpass your expectations.'

'In this as in all things,' said the man with obsequious servility,
'I trust in the generosity of your Magnificence.'

'Thou must travel without a safe-conduct, fellow.'

'I am accustomed to doing that, Magnificence.'

'No papers of any kind, no written word must be found about thy
person, if perchance thou fall into Flemish hands ere thou canst
reach His Highness the Duke of Parma's camp.'

'I quite understand that, Magnificence.'

'Nothing wilt thou carry save the verbal message.  And if as much as
a single word of that is spoken to any living soul save to the Duke
of Parma himself, I pledge thee my word that twenty-four hours later
thou shalt be minus thy tongue, thine ears, thine eyes and thy right
hand, and in that state be dangling on the gibbet at the Pré d'Amour
for the example of any of thy fellows who had thought or dreamt of
treachery.'

While de Landas spoke, Sancho kept his eyes resolutely fixed upon the
ground, and his shaggy black beard hid every line of his mouth.  Nor
were de Landas and his young friends very observant or deeply versed
in the science of psychology, else, no doubt, they would have noticed
that though Sancho's attitude had remained entirely servile, his
rough, bony hand was clutching his cap with a nervy grip which
betrayed a stupendous effort at self-control.  The next moment,
however, he raised his eyes once more and looked his employer
squarely and quite respectfully in the face.

'Your Magnificence need have no fear,' he said.  'I understand
perfectly.'

'Very well,' rejoined de Landas lightly.  'Then just repeat the
message as thou wilt deliver it before His Highness the Duke of
Parma, and then thou canst go.'

Obediently Sancho went through the business required of him.  'I am
to tell His Highness,' he said, 'that on any day which he may select,
Monseigneur le Marquis de Landas and his friends will provoke a riot
within this city--a serious riot, wherein every civil and military
authority will be forced to take a part--and that this will be the
opportunity for which His Highness hath been waiting.  I am to tell
him also that while the rioters inside Cambray will be engaged in
throwing stones at one another, the Duke of Parma need only to strike
one blow and he can enter the city unopposed, with his armies, in the
name of our Most Catholic King Philip of Spain.'

De Landas gave a short, dry laugh.

'Thou hast a good memory, fellow,' he said: 'or a wholesome fear of
the lash--which is it?'

'A profound respect for Your Magnificence,' replied Sancho, literally
cringing and fawning now before his noble master, like a dog who has
been whipped; 'and the earnest desire to serve him well in all
things.'

'Parbleu!' was de Landas' calm rejoinder.

Two minutes later, Sancho was dismissed.  He walked backwards, his
spine almost bent double in the excess of his abasement; nor did he
straighten out his tall, bony figure till Pierre had finally closed
the door after him and there was the width of an antechamber and a
corridor between him and the possibility of being overheard.  Then he
gave a smothered cry, like that of a choking bull; he threw his cap
down upon the floor and stamped upon it; kicked it with his foot, as
if it were the person of an enemy whom he hated with all the
bitterness of his soul.  Finally he turned, and raising his arm, he
clenched his fist and shook it with a gesture of weird and impotent
menace in the direction from whence he had just come, whilst in his
deep-set eyes there glowed a fire of rancour and of fury which of a
truth would have caused those young gallants to think.  Then he
picked up his cap and almost ran out into the street.


III

But neither de Landas nor his friends troubled themselves any further
about Sancho once the latter was out of their sight.  They were too
intent on their own affairs to give a thought to the susceptibilities
of a down-at-heel outlaw whom they were paying to do dirty work for
them.

'We could not have found a more useful fellow for our purpose than
Sancho,' was de Landas' complacent comment.

'A reliable rascal, certainly,' assented Maarege.  'But it is not
easy to get out of the city without a safe-conduct these days.'

'Bah!  Sancho will manage it.'

'He might get a musket-shot for his pains.'

'That would not matter,' rejoined de Landas with a cynical laugh, 'so
long as his tongue is silenced at the same time.'

'Yes, silenced,' urged one of the others; 'but in that event our
message would not be delivered to the Duke of Parma.'

'We must risk something.'

'And yet must make sure of the message reaching the Duke.  We want as
little delay as possible.'

'If food gets short here our own position will be none too pleasant.
These Flemings seem to think that the churls have just as much right
to eat as their betters.'

'Preposterous, of course,' concluded de Landas.  'But, as you say,
we'll make sure that our message does reach the Duke as soon as may
be.  Let Sancho take one chance.  Pierre shall take the other.'

Pierre, motionless beside the door, pricked up his ears at sound of
his own name.

'Here, Pierre!' commanded his master.

'Yes, Monseigneur.'

'Thou hast heard my instructions to Sancho.'

'Yes, Monseigneur.'

'And couldst repeat the message which I am sending to His Highness
the Duke of Parma?'

'Word for word, Monseigneur.'

'Say it then!'

Pierre repeated the message, just as Sancho had done, fluently and
without a mistake.

'Very well, then,' said de Landas; 'thine instructions are the same
as those which I gave to Sancho.  Understand?'

'Yes, Monseigneur.'

'Thou'lt leave the city to-night.'

'Yes, Monseigneur.'

'Without a safe-conduct.'

'I can slip through the gates.  I have done it before.'

'Very good.  Then thou'lt go to Cateau-Cambrésis and present thyself
before His Highness.  If Sancho has forestalled thee, thy mission
ends there.  If, however, there has been a hitch and Sancho has not
put in an appearance, thou'lt deliver the message and bring me back
His Highness' answer.'

'I quite understand, Monseigneur.'

Thus it was that M. le Marquis de Landas made sure that his
treacherous and infamous message reached the Generalissimo of the
Spanish armies.  To himself and to his conscience he reconciled that
infamy by many specious arguments, foremost among these being that
Jacqueline had played him false.  Well! he had still a few days
before him wherein to study two parts, one or the other of which he
would have to play on the day when Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma,
demanded the surrender of the city of Cambray in the name of His
Majesty King Philip of Spain.  The one rôle would consist in a
magnificent show of loyalty to the country of his adoption, the
rallying of the garrison troops under the Flemish flag and his own
leadership; the deliverance of Cambray from the Spanish yoke and the
overthrow of the Duke of Parma and his magnificent army.  The other
rôle, equally easy for this subtle traitor to play, meant handing
over Cambray and its inhabitants to the tender mercies of the Spanish
general, in the hope of earning a rich reward for services rendered
to His Majesty the King of Spain.  The first course of action would
depend on whether Jacqueline would return to his arms, humbled and
repentant: the second on whether the masked stranger was indeed the
personage whom he--de Landas--more than suspected him of being,
namely, _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, own brother to the King
of France, come to snatch the Sovereignty of the Netherlands,
together with their richest heiress, from the arms of her former
lover.

Well! whichever way matters went, de Landas stood to win a fair
guerdon.  He even found it in his heart to be grateful to that
mysterious stranger who had so unexpectedly come across his path.
But now he was tired and overwrought.  His work for the day was done
and there was much strenuous business ahead of him.  So he took leave
of his friends and, having ordered the leech to administer to him a
soothing draught, he finally sought rest.




CHAPTER XVI

WHAT NEWS MAÎTRE JEHAN BROUGHT BACK WITH HIM


I

How Gilles spent the next two or three weeks he could never
afterwards tell you.  They were a long-drawn-out agony of body and of
mind: of body, because the enforced inactivity was positive torture
to such a man of action as he was; of mind, because the problem of
life had become so complicated, its riddle so unanswerable, that day
after day and night after night Gilles would pace up and down his
narrow room in the Rue aux Juifs, his heart torn with misery and
shame and remorse.  The image of Jacqueline, so young, so womanly, so
unsuspecting, haunted him with its sweet, insistent charm, until he
would stretch out his arms toward that radiant vision in passionate
longing and call to her aloud to go and leave him, alone with his
misery.

He felt that, mayhap under simpler circumstances--she being a great
lady, a rich heiress, and he an humble soldier of fortune--he could
have torn her image from his heart, since obviously she could never
become his, and he could have endured the desolation, the anguish,
which after such a sacrifice would have left him finally, bruised and
wearied, an old and broken man.  But what lay before him now was, of
a truth, beyond the power of human sufferance.  A great, an
overwhelming love had risen in his heart almost at first sight of an
exquisite woman: and he was pledged by all that he held most sacred
and most dear to play an unworthy part towards her, to deceive her,
to lie to her, and finally to deliver her body and soul to that
degenerate Valois Prince whom he knew to be a liar and a libertine,
who would toy with her affections, sneer at her sensibilities and
leave her, mayhap, one day, broken-hearted and broken-spirited, to
end her days in desolation and misery.

And it was when the prospect of such a future confronted Gilles de
Crohin in his loneliness that he felt ready to dash his head against
the wall, to end all this misery, this incertitude, this struggle
with the unsolvable problem which stood before him.  He longed to
flee out of this city, wherein she dwelt, out of the land which gave
her birth, out of life, which had become so immeasurably difficult.

Maître Julien tended him with unwearying care and devotion, but he
too watched with burning impatience for the return of Maître Jehan.
There was little that the worthy soul did not guess just at this
time.  It had not been very difficult to put two and two together
with the help of the threads which his Liege Lady had deigned to
place in his hands.  But Julien was too discreet to speak; he could
only show his sympathy for a grief which he was well able to
comprehend by showering kindness and attention on Messire, feeling
all the while that he was thereby rendering service to his divinity.


II

Despite his horror of inaction, Gilles seldom went out during that
time save at nightfall, and he had been content to let Monseigneur
the governor know that he was still sick of his wounds.  Indeed,
those wounds inflicted upon him that night by a crowd of young
jackanapes had been a blessing in disguise for him.  They had proved
a valid excuse for putting off the final day of decision which
Monseigneur d'Inchy and his adherents had originally fixed a
fortnight hence.  That fortnight had long since gone by, and Gilles
knew well enough that the Flemish lords were waxing impatient.

They were urging him earnestly for a decision.  The pressure of the
Duke of Parma's blockade upon the city was beginning to make itself
felt.  All access to the French frontier was now closed and it was
only from the agricultural districts of the province itself that food
supplies could be got into the town; and those districts themselves
were overrun with Spanish soldiery, who pillaged and burned, stole
and requisitioned, everything that they could lay hands on.  The city
of Cambray was in open revolt against her Sovereign Lord, the King of
Spain, and the Duke of Parma had demanded an unconditional surrender,
under such pains and penalties as would deliver the whole population
to the tender mercies of a conqueror whose final word was always
bloodshed and destruction.

A stout garrison, enthusiastic and determined, was in defence of the
city, and there was no thought at present of capitulation in the
valiant hearts of these Flemings, the comrades and equals of those
who had perished in their hundreds in other cities and provinces of
the Netherlands, whilst upholding their ancient rights and privileges
against the greatest military organization of the epoch.  There had
been no thought of surrender, even though food was getting scarce and
dear.  Wheat and fresh meat had already become almost prohibitive for
all save the rich; clothing and leather was unobtainable.  The Duke
of Parma was awaiting further troops yet, wherewith he proposed to
invest the city from every side and to cut her population off from
every possible source of supply.

This was the inexorable fact which M. le Baron d'Inchy placed before
Gilles de Crohin when the latter presented himself one day at the
Archiepiscopal Palace in his rôle as equerry to _Monsieur_.

'His Highness must see for himself,' d'Inchy said firmly, 'how
impossible it is for us to wait indefinitely on his good pleasure.
No one can regret more than I do the unfortunate circumstances which
have brought His Highness down to a bed of sickness; and because of
those circumstances--in which, alas! I, as Monseigneur's host, had an
innocent share--I have been both considerate and long-suffering in
not trying to brusque His Highness in his decision.  But Parma is
almost at our gates, and Orange is leading his own army from victory
to victory.  We gave in to Monseigneur's caprice when matters did not
appear so urgent as they are now; time has come when further
indecision becomes a rebuff.'

To these very just reproaches Gilles had no other answer save
silence.  Ill-versed as he was in the art of diplomacy, he did not
know how to fence with words, how to parry this direct attack and to
slip out of the impasse in which he was being cornered.

Jehan had been gone a fortnight, and still there was no answer from
the Queen of Navarre!

'Monseigneur hath a delicate constitution,' he said somewhat lamely
after awhile.  'He suffers grievously from his wounds and hath been
delirious.  It were unwarrantable cruelty to force a decision on him
now.'

'So do our people suffer grievously,' retorted d'Inchy roughly.
'They suffer already from lack of food and the terror of Parma's
armies.  And,' he added with a touch of grim irony, 'as to His
Highness' delicate constitution, meseems that if a man can hold six
young gallants for half an hour at the sword's point, he hath little
cause to quarrel with the constitution wherewith Nature hath endowed
him.'

'Even the strongest man can be prostrated by fever.'

'Possibly.  But there is no longer any time for procrastination, and
unless I have His Highness' final answer at the end of the week, my
messenger starts for Utrecht to meet the Prince of Orange.'


III

When Gilles had taken his leave of Monseigneur the Governor that
afternoon, he felt indeed more perplexed than he had been before.
Until Madame la Reyne's letter came, he felt that he could not pledge
_Monsieur's_ word irrevocably.  When he thought over all the events
which had finally landed him in face of so stupendous a problem his
mind hung with dark foreboding on the Duc d'Anjou's cynical
pronouncement: 'If any engagement is entered into in my name to which
I have not willingly subscribed, I herewith do swear most solemnly
that I would repudiate the wench at the eleventh hour--aye! at the
very foot of the altar steps!'  And Gilles, as he hurried along the
interminable corridors of the Palace, was haunted by the image of
Jacqueline--his flower o' the lily--tossed about from one ambitious
scheme to another, subject to indifference, to aversion, to insults;
unwanted and uncared for save for the sake of her fortune and the
influence which she brought.  It was monstrous! abominable!  Gilles
felt a wild desire to strangle some one for this deed of infamy,
since he could not physically come to grips with Fate.

At the top of the stairs he saw Jacqueline coming towards him, and,
whether it was the effect of his imagination or of his guilty
conscience, certain it was that she seemed moody and pale.  He stood
aside while she walked past him; but though his whole being cried out
for a word from her and his every sense yearned for the sound of her
voice and a glance from her eyes, she did not stop to speak to him,
only gave him a kind and gracious nod as she went by.

And after he had watched her dainty figure till it disappeared from
his view, he took to his heels and ran out of the Palace and along
the streets, like one who is haunted by torturing ghosts.  It seemed
to him that malevolent voices were hooting in his ear, that behind
walls or sheltering doorways, there lurked hidden enemies or avenging
ghosts, who pointed fingers of scorn at him as he ran past.

'There goes the man,' those accusing voices seemed to say, 'who would
deliver an exquisite lily-flower to be crushed in the rough and
thoughtless hands of an avowed profligate!  There goes the man who,
in order to attain that end, is even now living a double life,
playing the part of a liar and a cheat!'

Self-accusation tortured him.  He hurried home, conscious only of a
desire to hide himself, to keep clear of _her_ path, whom he was
helping to wrong.  He paid no heed to the real hooting that followed
him, to the menacing fists that were levelled at him from more than
one street-corner, wherever a few idlers had congregated or some
poor, wretched churls, on the fringe of want, had put their heads
together in order to discuss their troubles and their miseries.  He
did not notice that men spat in his trail, that women gathered their
children to their skirts when he hurried past, and murmured under
their breath: 'God punish the Spanish spy!'


IV

Twenty days went by ere Jehan returned--twenty days that were like a
cycle of years to the unfortunate watcher within the city.  Maître
Jehan arrived during the small hours of the morning, drenched to the
skin, having swum the river for a matter of a league or more to avoid
the Spanish sentries, and finally, after having skirted the city
walls, had climbed them at a convenient spot under cover of darkness,
being in as great danger from the guard at the gates as he had been
from the enemy outside.  He had then lain for an hour or two, hidden
in the Fosse-au-Pouilleul, the most notorious and most comprehensive
abode of thieves and cut-throats known in any city of Flanders.  But
the letter which Madame la Reyne de Navarre had given him for
Messire, with the recommendation not to part with it to any one else
save with his life, was still safe in its leather sheath inside the
pocket of his doublet.

By the time that the first grey streak of dawn had touched the tall
spires of the ancient city with its wand of silver, the letter was in
Gilles de Crohin's hands, and the two friends were sitting side by
side in the narrow room of the dreary hostelry, whilst Gilles felt as
if a load of care had been lifted from his shoulders.

'Your news, my good Jehan?  Your news?' he reiterated eagerly; 'ere I
read this letter.'

But Jehan, by dint of broken words and gestures, indicated that the
letter must be read first.

So, while he partook of the solid breakfast which Maître Julien had
placed before him, Gilles read the letter which the gracious Queen
had sent to him.  It ran thus:



    'Highly Honoured Seigneur,

    'My Faithful and Loyal Friend!

    'The present is to tell You that all is well with our schemes.  I
    have seen Monsieur, who already is wearied of Madame de
    Marquette, and like a School boy who has been whipped for
    disobedience, is at this moment fawning round my Skirts, ready to
    do anything that I may command.  Was I not right?  I prophesied
    that this would be so.  Thus Your labours on My behalf have not
    been in fain.  And now I pray you to carry through the matter to
    a triumphant conclusion.  In less than three months Monsieur will
    be Sovereign Lord of the Netherlands, with the hand of the
    Flemish Heiress as a priceless additional guerdon.  In the
    meanwhile, as no doubt You know already, the Armies of the Duke
    of Parma lie between Us and Cambray.  Monsieur is busy collecting
    together the necessary Forces to do battle against the Spaniards.
    He is prepared to enter Cambray in triumph, to marry the Lady
    blindfolded, since _You_ say that She is adorable; in fact He is
    in the best of moods and consents to everything which I desire.
    Meanwhile, Messire de Balagny, who is Chief of Monsieur's camp,
    is on his way with full details of our projects for the final
    defeat of the Spaniards.  He has a small troop with him, whom he
    will leave at La Fère until after he hath spoken with You.  I
    urge You, Messire, in the meanwhile to entreat M. le Baron
    d'Inchy not to surrender the City to the Duke of Parma.  I pray
    You to assure Him--in Your name as Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon--that
    the whole Might of France, of which Messire de Balagny's small
    troop is but the forerunner, is at Your beck and call; that You
    will use it in order to free the Netherlands from the Spanish
    yoke.  Tell him that the next few months will see the final
    overthrow of King Philip's domination in the Netherlands and a
    prince of the house of France as their Sovereign Lord.  Say
    anything, promise anything, Messire!  I swear to You that
    Monsieur is prepared to redeem _any_ pledge You may enter into in
    his Name.  Then, when Messire de Balagny arrives in Cambray, You
    can make this Your excuse for quitting the City, nominally in
    order to place Yourself at the head of Your armies.  Messire de
    Balagny, who is in My confidence, will then remain, not only to
    take command of the Garrison and help with his small troop to
    defend the City from within, but also as a guarantee for
    Monsieur's good faith.  See how splendidly I have thought
    everything out, how perfectly events are shaping themselves for
    the success of Our schemes!  Patience a brief while longer,
    Messire!  Your time of trial is drawing to an end!  Confess that
    it hath not been a very severe ordeal and that You have derived
    much enjoyment from mystifying some of those over obtuse
    Flemings.  I count with pleasure and impatience upon Your arrival
    in La Fère very shortly, where the gratitude of a sorely tried
    Queen will be awaiting You.  If You now help me to carry the
    affair through to a triumphant close, I vow that on the day that
    Monsieur makes his state entry into Cambray there will be naught
    that You can ask of Me and which if in My power to give that I
    would not bestow with a joyful heart upon you.

    'Until then, I remain, Messire,
        'Your earnest Well-Wisher,
            'Marguerite de Navarre.

    'Given in Paris, under My hand and seal this 27th day of March
    1581.'



V

The letter fell from Messire Gilles' hand unheeded on to the floor.
He was staring straight out before him, a world of perplexity in his
eyes.  Maître Jehan tried in vain to fathom what went on behind his
master's lowering brow.  Surely the news which he had brought was of
the most cheering and of the best.  The present humiliating position
could not now last very long.  Messire de Balagny was on his way, and
within a few days--hours, perhaps--he and Messire could once more
resume those happy, adventurous times of the past.  And yet it seemed
as if Messire was not altogether happy.  There was something in his
attitude, in the droop of his listless hands, as if something bright
and hopeful had just slipped out of his grasp--which to Jehan's mind
was manifestly absurd.

So he shrugged his wide shoulders and solemnly picked up the fallen
letter and pressed it back into Messire's hand.  The action roused
Gilles from his gloomy meditations.

'Well, my good Jehan!' he said with a grim laugh, which grated very
unpleasantly on faithful Jehan's ears.  'If the rest of your news is
as good as that contained in Madame la Reyne's letter, you and I will
presently find ourselves the two luckiest devils in Flanders.'

Jehan nodded.  'I have n-n-n-no f-f-f-further news,' he blurted out.
'Messire de B-b-b-b-balagny was at La F-f-f-fère when I was
th-th-there.'

'With a strong troop?'

Jehan nodded dubiously.

'A couple of hundred men?'

'Or s-s-s-s-so,' retorted Jehan.

'But he himself will be within sight of Cambray to-day?'

'A-a-a-at this hour.'

'And inside the city to-morrow?'

Jehan nodded again.

'And Monseigneur le Duc d'Anjou?'

'In P-p-p-p-aris: ready to st-st-st-start.'

'He does not mean to play a double game this time?'

'No-n-n-n-no-no!' came in rapid and vigorous protest from Maître
Jehan.

'Then the sooner I secure his bride for him, the better it will be
for Madame la Reyne's schemes,' concluded Gilles dryly.  Then
suddenly he jumped to his feet, gave a deep sigh, and stretching out
his arms with a gesture of impatience and of longing, he said: 'If we
could only vacate the field without further ado, honest Jehan! and
let Fate do the rest of the dirty work for us!'

His hand as it fell back came in contact with his sword, which was
lying across the table; not the exquisite Toledo rapier, the gift of
a confiding Queen, but his own stout, useful one, which he had picked
up some three years ago now, after his own had been broken in his
hand on the field of Gembloux.  There it lay, the length of its
sheath in shadow; but the slanting rays of the early morning sun fell
full upon the hilt, which was shaped like a cross.  With it in his
hand, with that cross-hilt before his eyes, Gilles de Crohin had
sworn by all that he held most sacred and most dear that he would see
this business through and would not give it up, until Marguerite of
Navarre herself gave him the word.  And these were days when the
sworn word was a thing that was sacred above all things on this
earth; and as Gilles himself had said it on that same memorable
occasion, he was not a prince and he could not afford to toy with his
word--it was the only thing he possessed.  Therefore, though more
than one historian, notably Enguerrand de Manuchet, has chosen to
cast a slur upon Gilles de Crohin for his actions, I for one do not
see how he could have acted otherwise and kept his honour intact.  He
was pledged to Marguerite de Navarre, had pledged himself to her with
eyes open and full knowledge of the Duc d'Anjou's character.  To have
turned back on his promise, to have broken his word to the Queen,
would have been the act of a perjurer and of a coward.  He could at
this precise moment have walked out of Cambray, that we know.  The
Duke of Parma's armies at the time that Balagny succeeded in reaching
Cambray only occupied that portion of the Cambrésis which adjoined
the French frontier.  On the West the way lay open, and the whole
world on that side was free to the soldier of fortune, even though he
would have been forced, after such a course of action, to shake the
dust of France for ever from his feet.

But he chose to remain.  He chose to continue the deception which had
been imposed upon him, even though it involved the happiness of the
woman he loved, even though it meant not only to relinquish her to
another man, but to a man who was wholly unworthy of her.

Far be it from the writer of this veracious chronicle to excuse
Gilles de Crohin in what he did.  I do not wish to palliate, only to
explain.  Far be it from me, I say, to run counter to Messire de
Manuchet's learned opinion.  But the history of individuals as well
as that of nations has a trick of seeming more clear and more
proportionate when it is viewed through the glasses of centuries, and
it is just possible--I say it in all humility--that Messire de
Manuchet, who in addition to being a very capable historian was also
a firm adherent of the policy of a French alliance for the sorely
stricken Netherlands, felt aggrieved that Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart, the fairest heiress in Flanders, did not after all wed
_Monsieur_ Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, own brother to the King of
France, and did not thereby consolidate that volatile Prince's hold
upon the United Provinces, and that the learned historian hath vented
his disappointment in consequence on the man who ultimately failed to
bring that alliance about.

That, of course, is only a surmise.  Messire de Manuchet's history of
that stirring episode was writ three hundred years ago: he may have
been personally acquainted with the chief actors in the palpitating
drama--with d'Inchy and Jacqueline de Broyart, with Gilles de Crohin
and the Marquis de Landas; even with the Queen of Navarre and
_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou.  He may also have had his own peculiar code
of honour, which was not the one laid down by Du Guesclin and Bayard,
by Bussy d'Amboise and Gilles de Crohin, and all the protagonists of
chivalry.




CHAPTER XVII

HOW MESSIRE DE LANDAS' TREACHERY BORE FRUIT


I

It is Messire Enguerrand de Manuchet who tells us that on the 3rd day
of April of this same year of grace 1581, Messire de Balagny, Maître
de Camp to _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou succeeded under cover of darkness
in entering the city by the Landrecy road on the West, which was
still--an you remember--clear of the Spanish investing armies.  He
came alone, having left his troop at La Fère, a matter of three
leagues or so.  Toward nine o'clock of the morning he made his way to
the hostelry of 'Les Trois Rois,' where we may take it that Gilles de
Crohin was mightily glad to see him.  Messire de Balagny's advent was
for the unfortunate prisoner like a breath of pure air, something
coming to him from that outside world from which he had been shut out
all these weary weeks; something, too, of the atmosphere of camps and
of clean fighting in the open, which for the moment seemed to
dissipate the heavy fumes of political intrigues, with its attendant
deceits and network of lies, that were so abhorrent to the born
soldier.

'I do not envy you your position, my dear friend,' Balagny said
dryly, after he had discussed the whole situation with Gilles.

'My God!' responded Gilles with almost ludicrous fervour.  'It has
been a positive hell!'

'Although Madame la Reyne de Navarre is very grateful to you for what
you have done; she was only saying to me, before I left, that there
was nothing she would not do for you in return.'

'Oh!' said Gilles with a careless laugh.  'The gratitude of a
Queen...!!'

'This one is above all a woman,' broke in the older man earnestly.
'She is a Queen only by the accident of birth.'

'I know, I know,' Gilles went on, somewhat impatiently.  'But for the
nonce Her Majesty has conferred the greatest possible boon upon me by
releasing me from my post; and I, being more than satisfied, will ask
nothing better of her.  But what about His Highness?' he added, after
a slight pause.

Balagny shrugged his shoulders.

'He does not mean to play us false?' insisted Gilles.

'_Chien sabe_?' was the other's enigmatic reply.  'Does one ever know
what François, Duc d'Anjou, may or may not do?'

'But Madame la Reyne declares----'

'Madame la Reyne is blind where that favoured brother is concerned.
But it is she who, even now, is moving heaven and earth to recruit
the armies for the relief of Cambray--not he.  As you know, brother
Henri, King of France, will not stir a finger to help Monsieur
conquer a possible kingdom, and _Monsieur_ himself sits in his Palace
in Paris, surrounded by women and young sycophants, idling away his
time, wasting his substance, while his devoted sister wears herself
out in his service.'

'Don't I know him!' concluded Gilles with a sigh.  Then after awhile
he added more lightly: 'Well, friend, shall we to the governor?  He
hath sent me a respectful but distinctly peremptory request this
morning to present myself in person at the Archiepiscopal Palace.'

'The worthy Fleming is getting restive,' was de Balagny's dry comment.

'Naturally.'

'He wants to bring matters to a head.'

'To-day, apparently.  He hath given me respite after respite.  He
will not wait any longer.  Matters in this city are pretty desperate,
my friend.  And if _Monsieur_ tarries with his coming much longer...'

De Balagny rose from his chair, and going up to Gilles, he placed a
kindly hand on the younger man's shoulder.

'_Monsieur_ will not tarry much longer,' he said earnestly.  'Madame
la Reyne will see to that.  Go to the governor, my good Gilles, and
complete the work you have so ably begun.  It was not pleasant work,
I'll warrant, and there is little or no glory attached to it; but
when you will have lived as many years as I have, you will realize
that there is quite a deal of satisfaction to be derived out of
inglorious work, if it be conscientiously done.  And after to-day,'
he added gaily, 'you will be free to garner a whole sheaf of laurels
in the service of a grateful Queen and of a dissolute Prince.'

But Gilles was not in the humour to look on the bright side of his
future career.  He was fingering moodily the letter which Monseigneur
the governor had sent him an hour or so ago.  It was obviously
intended to be the forerunner of the final decision which would throw
Jacqueline--beautiful, exquisite Jacqueline of the merry blue eyes
and the rippling laugh--into the arms of that same dissolute Prince
of whom even de Balagny--his trusted Maître de Camp--spoke with so
much bitterness.



    'Were I a free agent,' d'Inchy said in his letter, 'I would not
    dream of asking Your Highness so signal a favour; but while Your
    Highness chooses to hide Your identity under a mask, and in an
    humble Abode altogether unworthy of Your rank, I have no option
    but to beg You most humbly to grace My own house with Your
    presence, in order that We may arrive at last to an irrevocable
    decision in the Matter which lies so closely to My heart.



Indeed the die was cast.  Even Messire de Manuchet admits that Gilles
could not do otherwise than present himself at the Palace in
accordance with Monseigneur the governor's desire.  De Balagny
certainly did everything to cheer and encourage him.

'Will you not come with me?' Gilles asked of him, when he was ready
to go.  'I could then present you at once to d'Inchy, and, please
God! be myself out of Cambray ere the sun has begun to sink low in
the West.'

But Balagny shook his head.

'You had best go alone, this once more,' he said firmly.  'Think of
the coming interview as an affair of honour, my dear Gilles, and go
to it as you would to a fight, with a bold front and unquaking heart.
You will find it quite easy to confront the Fleming then.'

Gilles gripped the old man's hand with gratitude.

'You have put new life into me,' he said, with something of his
habitual cheerfulness.  'Another few hours of this miserable business
and I shall be free--free as air!'  Then he added with a bitter sigh,
which the other man did not quite know how to interpret: 'And I shall
imagine myself as almost happy!'

After which, he sallied forth into the street with a firm and elastic
step.


II

There are few things in the world quite so mysterious as the origin
and birth of a rumour.  It springs--who knows whence? and in a trice
it grows, hurries from mouth to mouth, gathers crowds together,
imposes its presence in every house, at every street corner, on every
open space where men and women congregate.

Messire de Balagny had only been inside Cambray a few hours.  He had
entered the city under cover of darkness and in secrecy, and even
before midday the rumour was already current in the town that the
King of France was sending an army against the Spaniards, and that
his ambassador had arrived in Cambray in order to apprise Monseigneur
the governor of the happy event.

It was also openly rumoured that the arrival of this same ambassador
of the King of France was not altogether unconnected with the
activities of Spanish spies inside the city.  The people, who were
beginning to suffer grievously from shortage of food and lack of
clothing, were murmuring audibly at the continued presence of
strangers in their midst, who were more than suspected of aiding the
Duke of Parma from within, by provoking riots or giving away the
secrets of the garrison and of the stronghold.

Above all, there had been growing ill-will against the masked
stranger, the mysterious Prince de Froidmont, whose persistent stay
in this beleaguered city had given rise at first to mere gossip, but
latterly to more pronounced suspicion, plentifully sprinkled with
malevolence.  The extraordinary deference which Monseigneur the
governor had been observed to show him on more than one occasion
fostered the growing suspicion that he was a stranger of great
distinction, who for some unavowable reason desired to preserve an
incognito, and chose to dwell in an obscure hostelry, in order that
he might cany on some nefarious negotiations unchecked.

Crowds are always unreasonable when skilfully handled in the
direction of suspicion and unrest by unscrupulous agitators, and we
know that de Landas' paid hirelings had been busy for weeks past in
fomenting hatred against the masked stranger, amongst a people
rendered sullen and irritable both by hunger and by the threat of an
invading and always brutal soldiery at their gates.

Certain it is that, the moment that Gilles set foot that day outside
his lodgings in the Rue aux Juifs, he was followed not only by
glances of ill-will, but also by open insults freely showered after
him as he passed.  He was wearing the rich clothes which would have
been affected by _Monsieur_ on such an occasion; his toil-worn hands
were hidden beneath gloves of fine chamois leather and his face was
concealed by a black velvet mask.  Looking neither to right nor left,
absorbed in his own thoughts, he hurried along the street, paying no
heed to what went on around him.  It was only when he reached the
Place Notre Dame, in front of the cathedral, and tried in crossing
toward the Archiepiscopal Palace to avoid a group of people who stood
in his way, that he began to perceive something of the intense
hostility which was dogging his every footstep.

'Look at the Spaniard!' a woman shouted shrilly out of the crowd.
'Wants the place to himself now!'

'Dressed in silks and satins, when worthy folk go half naked!' called
out another, with bitter spite ringing in her husky voice.

'How much does the King of Spain pay you, my fine gallant, for
delivering the girls of Cambray to his soldiery?'  This from a short,
square-shouldered man, only half-dressed in a ragged doublet and
hose, shoeless and capless, who deliberately stood his ground in
front of Gilles, with bare arms akimbo and bandy legs set wide apart,
in an attitude of unmistakable insolence.

Gilles, with whom patience was at no time a besetting virtue, uttered
an angry exclamation, seized the fellow incontinently by the shoulder
and forced him to execute a wild pirouette ere he fell back gasping,
after this unexpected attack, against his nearest companions.

This brief incident naturally exasperated the crowd: it acted as a
signal for a fresh outburst of rage and a fresh volley of insults,
which were hurled at the stranger from every side.

'Miserable Spaniard!' exclaimed one man.  'How dare you lay a hand on
a free burgher of the city?'

'If a free burgher of the city chooses deliberately to insult me,'
retorted Gilles, who, for obvious reasons, was trying to keep his
temper, 'I do what every one of you would have done under like
circumstances--knock the impudent fellow down.'

'Impudent fellow!' came from a harsh voice at the rear of the crowd.
'Hark at the noble Spanish Senor!  Flemish burghers are like the dust
beneath his feet.'

'I am no Spaniard!' said Gilles loudly.  'And whoever calls me one
again is a liar.  So, come out of there,' he added lightly, 'you who
spoke from a safe and convenient distance; and Fleming, French or
Spaniard, we'll soon see whose is the harder fist.'

'Fight with a masked spy like you?' was the defiant riposte.  'Not I!
The devil, your accomplice, has taught you some tricks, I'll warrant,
against which no simple Christian could stand.'

'Well said!' shouted one of the women.  'If you are no Spaniard and
no spy, throw down that mask and show your face like an honest man!'

'Yes!  Yes!  Throw down the mask!' another in the crowd assented.
'We know you dress like a fine gallant; but we want to see how like
your face is to the picture of Beelzebub which hangs in the Town
Hall.'

A prolonged shout of ribald laughter, which had no merriment in it,
was the unanimous response to this sally.  The women were already
raising their fists: the ever-recurring insult, 'Spanish spy!' had
the effect of whipping up everybody's temper against the stranger.
Gilles was defenceless save for his sword, which it would obviously
have been highly impolitic to draw against that rabble.  Whilst he
parleyed with them, he had succeeded by a deliberate manoeuvre in
drawing considerably nearer to the high wall of the Archiepiscopal
Palace, where the latter abuts on the cathedral close, and he hoped
with some good luck, or a sudden, well-thought-out ruse, to reach the
gates ere the hostility of the crowd turned to open attack.

That both the men and the women--oh! especially the women!--meant
mischief, there could be no doubt.  There was that gruff murmur going
the round, which means threats muttered between closed teeth; sleeves
were being rolled above brawny or gaunt arms; palms moistened ere
they gripped stick or even knife a little closer.  Gilles saw all
these signs with the quick, practised eye of the soldier, and it was
his turn to grind his teeth with rage at his own impotence to defend
himself adequately if it came to blows.  Just for the moment the
crowd was still sullen rather than openly aggressive, and, much as
the thought of beating a retreat went against the grain of Gilles'
hot temperament, there was no doubt that it were by far the wisest
course to pursue.

But there were one or two units in the midst of that gang who were
determined that the flame of enmity against the stranger should not
die for want of fuel.  They were apparently on the fringe of the
malcontents, in a safe position in the rear, and from there they
threw out a word now and again, a sneer or an insult, whenever there
appeared the slightest slackening in the hostile attitude of their
friends.

'He wouldn't like to show us his face,' one of this gentry said now,
with a mocking laugh; 'for fear we should see how bloated he is with
good food and wine.'

'Spawn of the devil!' at once screeched a gaunt, hungry-looking
wretch, and ostentatiously tightened his belt around his middle.
'They all gorge while we starve!'

'And wallow in riches, while honest citizens have to beg for their
daily bread!'

A woman, still young, and who might have been comely but for the
miserable appearance of her unwashed face and lank, matted hair,
pushed her way through the throng right into the forefront of the
men.  She dragged a couple of half-naked children in her wake, who
clung weeping to her ragged skirts.

'Look at these!' she screamed harshly, and thrust a fist as close to
Gilles' face as she dared.  'Look at these children!  You miserable
spy!  Starving, I tell you!  Starving!  While your satin doublet is
bursting with Spanish gold!'

'Aye!' came with renewed vigour from the rear.  'The price of our
sons' lives, of our daughters' honour, are sacrificed to the tyranny
and the debauchery of such as you!'

'Shame!  Shame!' came in a dull, ominous murmur from the rest of the
throng.

There was no doubt that tempers were waxing more and more ugly.  In
more than one pair of bloodshot eyes which were glaring at him,
Gilles saw the reflection of a lust which was not far removed from
that of murder.  It was no use looking on the matter with
indifference; his life was being threatened, and there were men
actually present among the crowd who were making it their business to
goad this rabble into ever-increasing fury.  The latter were in
themselves too obtuse to realize that they were acting under
guidance, that their choler would no longer be allowed to cool down
nor they permitted to let the stranger go unmolested.  Their tempers,
their own stupidity, their miseries, poor wretches, had made them the
slaves of de Landas' gang.

Gilles had been shrewd enough to suspect the plot almost from the
first.

'I marvel,' he had already said to himself, 'if my gallant with the
Spanish accent and the languorous eyes has had a finger in this
delectable pie.  Between employing paid spadassins to commit
deliberate murder and egging on a set of hungry wretches into
achieving manslaughter, there is little to choose, and Messire de
Landas has no doubt adopted the less risky course.'

But for the nonce self-preservation became the dominant necessity,
and Gilles, feeling himself so closely pressed that his free
movements were becoming hampered, executed a swift manoeuvre of
retreat which landed him a second or two later with his back against
the high encircling walls of the Archiepiscopal Palace, and with the
stately limes of the Palace gardens waving their emerald-laden
branches above his head.  Were his position not quite so precarious,
he might have laughed aloud at its ludicrousness.  He, Gilles de
Crohin, masquerading as a Prince of Valois, and set upon for being a
Spanish spy!!  That fellow, de Landas, was a clever rogue!  But it
was a dirty trick to use these wretched people as his tools!

Aloud, he shouted, as forcibly and vigorously as he could: 'Now then,
my friends!  Have I not already told you that I am no Spaniard?  I am
a Frenchman, I tell you, and my Liege Lord the King of France is even
at this hour busy trying to free you from your Spanish tyrants.
He----'

'Hark at him!' came at once, to the accompaniment of deafening
clamour, from the rear.  'Feeding us with lies.  'Tis the way of
spies to assume any guise that may suit their fancy or their pocket.
Friends!  Citizens!  Do not let the Spaniard trick you!  Why is he
here, I ask you?  If he is a Frenchman, why doth he go about masked?
What is he doing here?  Bargaining with the Duke of Parma, I say,
with your lives and your liberties.'

'Silence, you fool!' cried Gilles, in stentorian tones.  'You
miserable cur!  Who pays you, I would like to know, to incite these
poor people to break the laws of peace and order?'

'Peace and order, forsooth!' retorted the voice from the rear, with a
prolonged, harsh laugh.  'You want peace, no doubt, so that your
master the Spanish King can work his way with Cambray, send his
soldiers into our city to burn our houses, pillage our homes, outrage
our wives and daughters!  Citizens, remember Mechlin!  Remember Mons!
Beware lest this man sell your city to the Spaniards and you reap the
same fate as your kinsmen there!'

A stupendous cry of rage and execration greeted this abominable
tirade--as abominable, indeed, as it was ludicrous.  One moment of
sober reflection would have convinced these poor, deluded fools how
utterly futile and false were the assertions made by those who were
goading them to exasperation.  But a crowd never does reflect once it
is aroused, once a sufficient number of hotheads are there, ready to
drive them from empty bluster to actual violence.  The paid agents of
M. de Landas had done their work well.  They had sown seeds of
disaffection, of mistrust and of hostility, for days past and weeks;
now they were garnering just the amount of excitement necessary to
bring about a dastardly crime.

Gilles, with his back against the wall, was beginning to think that
he would have to make a fight for it after all.  Already the crowd
was closing in around him, pressing closer and closer, completing the
semicircle which barred his only means of escape.  He tried to make
himself heard, but he was shouted down.  The work of the agitators
was indeed complete; the rabble needed no more egging on.  Men and
women were ready for any mischief--to seize the stranger, tear off
the rich clothes from his back, ransack his pockets, knock him on the
head and finally drag him through the streets and throw him either
into the river or over the battlements into the moat.

It became a question now how dearly Gilles would be able to sell his
life.  He could no longer hope to reach the gates of the Palace, and
the vast courtyard, gardens and precincts which surrounded the house
itself rendered it highly improbable that any one would hear the
tumult and come to his assistance.  Over the heads of the crowd, he
could see the great, open Place where a patrol of the town guard was
wont to pass from time to time on its beat.  For some unexplainable
reason there appeared to be no patrol in sight to-day.  Had they been
bribed to keep out of the way?  It was at least possible.  Some one
had evidently planned the whole of this agitation, and that some
one--an unscrupulous devil, thought Messire, if ever there was
one!--was not like to have left the town guard out of his reckoning.

Even while Gilles took this rapid, mental survey of his position, one
of the men in the rear had suddenly stooped and picked up a loose
stone out of the gutter.  Gilles saw the act, saw the man lift the
stone, brandish it for a moment above his head and then fling it with
all his might.  He saw it just in time to dodge the stone, which
struck the wall just above his head.

'Not a bad fling, my man,' he said lightly.  'But 'twas the act of a
coward!'

Then he drew his sword--was forced to do it, because the crowd were
pressing him close, some with sticks, others with fists.  The
square-shouldered man of awhile ago--he with the bandy legs--had a
butcher's knife in his hand.

'Murder!' shrieked the women, as soon as Gilles' sword darted out of
its sheath like a tongue of living flame.

'Aye, murder!' he riposted.  'I can see it in your eyes!  So stand
back, all of you, or the foremost among you who dares to advance is a
dead man.'

They did not advance.  With a churl's natural terror of the sword,
they retreated, realizing for the first time that it was a noble
lord, an exalted personage whom, in their blindness, they had dared
to attack.  Spaniard or no, he was a gentleman; and suddenly the
thought of floggings or worse for such an outrage dissipated the
fumes of folly, which some unknown person's rhetoric had raised
inside their brains.

De Landas' agents in the rear saw this perceptible retreat.  Another
moment or two, and their carefully laid schemes would certainly come
to naught.  Failure for them now was unthinkable.  The eyes of their
employer were undoubtedly upon them, even though they could not see
him, and they knew from past bitter experience how relentless the
young Spanish lord could be if his will was thwarted through the
incompetence of his servants.  One of them--I think his name was
Jan--bolder than the others, called to his comrades and to those on
the fringe of the crowd who had not been scared by the sight of that
fine Toledo blade, gave them the lead, which they promptly followed,
of picking up more stones out of the gutter and flinging them at the
stranger one after another in rapid succession.  Some of this
stone-throwing was very wild, and Gilles was able to dodge most of
the missiles, whilst others actually hit some of the crowd.  A woman
received one on the shoulder; the bandy-legged bully another on the
head.  Blood now was flowing freely, and the sight of blood acts on a
turbulent crowd in the same way as it does on a goaded bull.  No
longer frightened of the sword, the riotous crew began to attack the
stranger more savagely.  One man struck at him with a stick, another
tried to edge nearer in order to use a knife.

Stones were being flung now from every point, and soon it became
impossible to dodge them all.  The crowd had become a screeching mob,
bent on outrage and on murder.  The screams of women, the cries of
little children, mingled with hoarse cries of rage and volleys of
unspeakable insults.  The sight of blood had of a truth turned a knot
of malcontents into a pack of brute beasts, fuming with an insatiable
desire to kill.

As fast as the stones fell around him, Gilles picked them up and
flung them back.  These seldom missed their mark, and already several
of his assailants had been forced to retreat from the field.  But now
a piece of granite hit him on the sword-arm and he had barely the
time to transfer his sword to his left hand in order to ward off a
thrust aimed at him with a knife, just below the belt.  His right arm
hung limp by his side, aching furiously; a small piece of sharp stone
had grazed his forehead, and with an unconsidered gesture, he tore
the mask from his face, for the blood was streaming beneath it into
his eyes.  But that movement--wellnigh instantaneous as it
was--placed him at a greater disadvantage still, for another stone,
more accurately aimed than some others, hit his left arm so violently
that, but for an instinctive, nervy clutch on the hilt, his sword
would have fallen from his grasp.

After that, he remembered nothing more.  A red veil appeared to
interpose itself between his eyes and that mass of vehement, raging,
perspiring humanity before him.  Each individual before him seemed to
the weary fighter to assume greater and ever greater proportions,
until he felt himself confronted with a throng of giants with
distorted faces and huge, ugly jaws, through which a hot fire came,
searing his face and obscuring his vision.  Instinctively he still
dodged the missiles, still parried with his sword; but his movements
were mechanical; he felt that they were becoming inefficient ... that
he himself was exhausted ... vanquished.  Vaguely he marvelled at
Destiny's strange caprice, which had decreed that he should die,
assassinated by a set of shrieking men and women, whom he had never
wronged even by a thought.

Then suddenly the whole wall behind him appeared to give way, and he
sank backwards into oblivion.




CHAPTER XVIII

HOW A SECOND AWAKENING MAY BE MORE BITTER THAN THE FIRST


I

It all seemed like the recurrence of that lovely dream of long
ago--the awakening to a sense of well-being and of security; the
sweet-smelling couch; the clean linen; the fragrance of the air, and
above all the tender, pitying blue eyes and the tiny brown mole which
challenged a kiss.

When Gilles opened his eyes, he promptly closed them again, for fear
of losing that delicious sensation of being in dreamland, which
filled his whole body and soul with inexpressible beatitude.  But
even as he did so, a gentle voice, light and soothing as the murmur
of a limpid stream, reached his ear.

'Will you not look up once more, Messire,' the angelic voice said
softly, 'and assure me that you are not grievously hurt?'  And oh!
the little tone--half bantering, wholly sympathetic--which rippled
through those words with a melodious sound that sent poor Gilles into
a veritable heaven of ecstasy.

But he did look up, just as he was bidden to do--looked up, and
encountered that tantalizing little mole at such close quarters that
he promptly raised his head, so that his lips might touch it.
Whereupon the mole, the blue eyes, the demure smile, the whole
exquisite face, retreated with lightning rapidity into some obscure
and remote distance, and Gilles, conscious that only gentle pity
would bring them nearer to him again, groaned loudly and once more
closed his eyes.

But this time these outward signs of suffering were greeted with a
mocking little laugh.

'Too late, Messire!  You have already betrayed yourself.  You are not
so sick as you would have me believe!'

'Sick?  No!' he retorted; but made no attempt to move.  'Dead, more
like! and catching my first glimpse of paradise.'

'Fie, Messire!' she exclaimed gaily.  'To make so sure of going
speedily to Heaven!'

'How can I help being sure when angels are present to confirm my
belief?'

'But you are not in Heaven,' she assured him, and smiled on him
archly from out a frame of tender, leafless branches.  'You are in an
arbour in the park, whither I and two of my servants brought you when
you fell into our arms at the postern gate.'

He raised himself upon his elbow, found he could do it without much
pain; then looked about him searchingly and wonderingly.  He was
lying on a couch and his head had apparently been resting on a couple
of velvet cushions.  All around him the still dormant tendrils of
wild clematis wound in and out of skilfully constructed woodwork.
Overhead, the woodwork was shaped to a dome, and straight in front of
him there stretched out a vista over the park of a straight, grass
walk, bordered with beds of brilliantly coloured tulips and hyacinths
and backed by a row of young limes, on which the baby leaves gleamed
like pale emeralds, whilst far away the graceful pinnacles of the
cathedral stood out like perfect lace-work against the vivid blue of
the sky.

'Well, Messire,' resumed Jacqueline lightly, after awhile, 'are you
convinced now that you are still on earth, and that it was by human
agency that you arrived here, not on angels' wings?'

'No, I am not convinced of that, Madame,' he replied.  'At the same
time, I would dearly like to know how I did come here.'

'Simply enough, Messire.  I was taking my usual walk in the park,
when I heard an awful commotion on the other side of the wall.  I and
my two servants who were with me hurried to the postern gate, for of
a truth the cries that we heard sounded threatening and ominous.  One
of my servants climbed over the shoulders of the other and hoisted
himself to the top of the wall, from whence he saw that a whole crowd
armed with knives and sticks was furiously attacking a single man,
who was standing his ground with his back against the postern gate,
whilst we could all hear quite distinctly the clash of missiles
hurled against the wall.  To pull open the gate was the work of a few
seconds, and you, Messire, fell backwards into my--into my servants'
arms.'

Then, as he made no sign, said not a word, only remained quite
still--almost inert--resting on his elbow and gazing on her with eyes
filled with passionate soul-hunger, she added gently:

'You are not in pain, Messire?'

'In sore pain, ma donna,' he replied with a sigh.  'In incurable
pain, I fear me.'

The tone of his voice, the look in his eyes while he said this, made
it impossible for her not to understand.  She lowered her eyes for a
moment, for his glance had brought a hot blush to her cheeks.  There
was a moment of tense silence in the little arbour--a silence broken
only by the murmur of the breeze through the young twigs of the wild
clematis and the call of a robin in the branches of the limes.
Jacqueline was the first to rouse herself from this strange and sweet
oppression.  She gave a quick little sigh and, unable to speak, she
was turning to go away, flying as if by instinct from some insidious
danger which seemed to lurk for her in the wild, tremulous beating of
her heart.

'Jacqueline!'

She had not thought that her name could sound so sweet as it did just
then, when it came to her in a fervent, passionate appeal from the
depths of the fragrant arbour, where awhile ago she and her servants
had laid Messire down to rest.  She did not turn her head to look on
him now, but nevertheless paused on the threshold, for her heart was
beating so fast that she felt almost choked, and her knees shook so
that she was forced to cling with one hand to the curtain of young
twigs which hung at the entrance of the arbour.

The next moment he was by her side.  She felt that he was near her,
even though she still kept her head resolutely turned away.  He put
one knee to the ground and, stooping, kissed the hem of her gown.
And Jacqueline--a mere child where knowledge of the great passion is
concerned--felt that something very great and very mysterious, as
well as very beautiful, had suddenly been revealed to her by this
simple act of homage performed by this one man.  She realized all of
a sudden why those few weeks ago, when the mysterious singer with the
mellow voice had sung beneath her window, the whole world had seemed
to her full of beauty and of joy, why during these past long and
weary days while Messire lay sick and she could not see him, that
self-same world became unspeakably drab and ugly.  She knew now that,
with his song, the singer had opened the portals of her heart, and
that, unknown to herself, she had let Love creep in there and make
himself a nest, from whence he had alternately tortured her or made
her exquisitely happy.  Tears which seared and soothed rose to her
eyes; a stupendous longing for something which she could not quite
grasp, filled her entire soul.  And with it all, an infinite sadness
made her heart ache till she could have called out with the pain of
it--a sense of the unattainable, of something perfect and wonderful,
which by a hideous caprice of Fate must for ever remain out of her
reach.

'It can never be, Messire!' was all that she said.  The words came
like a cry, straight from her heart--a child's heart, that has not
yet learned to dissemble.  And that cry spoke more certainly and more
tangibly than any avowal could have done.  In a moment, Gilles was on
his feet, his arms were round her shoulders and his face was buried
in her fragrant hair.  And she, unresisting, yielded herself to him,
savoured the sweetness of his caresses, the touch of his lips on her
eyes, her cheeks, her mouth.  Her ardent nature, long held in fetters
by convention, responded with all its richness to the insistent call
of the man's passionate love.

'You love me, Jacqueline?' he asked, and looked down into the depths
of those exquisite blue eyes which had captured his soul long ago and
made him their slave until this hour, when they in their turn yielded
entirely to him.

'Verily,' she replied quaintly, and looked shyly into his glowing
face; 'I do believe, in truth, Messire, that I do.'

Let those who can, blame Gilles de Crohin for losing his head after
that, and for promptly forgetting everything that he ought to have
remembered, save the rapture of holding her to his breast.  Of a
truth, duty, honour, promises, the Duc d'Anjou and Madame la Reyne,
were as far from his ken just now as is a crawling worm from the
starry firmament above.  He was going away to-day--out, out into a
great world, into the unknown, where life could be made anew, where
there would be neither sorrow nor tears, if he could carry this
exquisite woman thither in his arms.

'I cannot let you go, ma donna,' he murmured as he held her closer
and ever closer, and covered her lips, her neck, her throat with
kisses.  'No power on earth can take you from me now that I have you,
that I hold you, my beautiful, exquisite flower.  You love me,
Jacqueline?' he asked her for the tenth time, and for the tenth time
she murmured in response: 'I love you!'

Time had ceased to be.  The world no longer existed for these two
happy beings who had found one another.  There was only Love for
them--Love, pure and holy, and Passion, that makes the world go
round.  There was spring in the air, and the scent of awakening life
around them, the fragrance of budding blossom, the call of birds, the
hum of bees--Nature, exquisite, wonderful in her perfect selfishness,
and in her oblivion of all save her own immutable Self.

'You love me, Jacqueline?'

'I love you!'

'Then, in the name of God that made us to love one another,' he
entreated with ever-growing fervour, 'let us forget everything, leave
everything, dare all for the sake of our Love.  It can never be, you
say ... everything can be, mignonne; for Love makes everything
possible.  Rank, wealth, duty, country, King--what are they but
shadows?  Leave them, my flower!  Leave them and come to me!  Love is
true, love is real!  Come with me, Jacqueline, and by the living God
who made you as perfect as you are, by your heavenly blue eyes and
your maddening smile, I swear to you that I will give you such an
infinity of worship that I will make of your life one long, unceasing
rapture.'

She had closed her eyes, drinking in his ardour with her very soul.
Hers was one of those super-natures which, when they give, do so in
the fullest measure.  Being a woman, and one nurtured in self-control
and acute sensitiveness, she did not, even at this blissful moment,
lose complete grasp of herself; unlike the man, her passion did not
carry her entirely into the realm of forgetfulness.  She yielded to
his kisses, knowing that, as they were the first, so they would be
the last that she would ever savour in the fullness of perfect
ecstasy; that parting--dreary, inevitable, woeful parting--must
follow this present transient happiness.  Yet, knowing all that, she
would not forgo the exquisite joy that she felt in yielding, the
exquisite joy, too, that she was giving him.  She deliberately
plucked the rich fruit of delight, even though she knew that
inexorable Fate would wrench it from her even before she had tasted
its sweetness to the full.

It was only when Jacqueline, suddenly waking as from a dream and
disengaging herself gently from his arms, said once again, more
resolutely this time: 'It can never be, Messire!' that Gilles in his
turn realized what he had done.  He was brought back to earth with
one of those sudden blows of reawakened consciousness which leave a
man stunned and bruised, in a state of quasi-hebetude.  For one
supreme moment of his life the gates of an earthly paradise had been
opened for him and he had been granted a peep into such radiant
possibilities that, dazzled and giddy with joy, he had felt within
himself that sublime arrogance which makes light of every obstacle
and is ready to ride rough-shod over the entire world.

But the inexorable 'It can never be!' had struck at the portals of
his consciousness, and even before he had become fully sentient he
saw the grim hand of Fate closing those golden gates before his eyes,
and pointing sternly to the path which led down to earth, left him
once more alone with his dream.

'It can never be!'

He tried to wrestle with Fate, to wrest from cruel hands that
happiness which already was slipping from his grasp.

'Why not?' he cried out defiantly.  Then, in a final, agonized
entreaty, he murmured once more, 'Why not?'

Ah! he knew well enough why not!  Fool and criminal, to have
forgotten it even for this one brief instant of perfect bliss!  Why
not?  Ye gods, were there not a thousand reasons why a penniless
soldier of fortune should not dare approach a noble and rich heiress?
and a thousand others why he--Gilles de Crohin--should never have
spoken one word of love to this one woman, who was destined for
another man--and that man his own liege lord.  There was a gateless
barrier made up of honour and chivalry and of an oath sworn upon the
cross between his love and Jacqueline de Broyart, which in honour he
should never have attempted to cross.

Consciousness came back to him with a sudden rush, not only the
consciousness of what he had done, but of what he had now to do.  Not
all the bitter tears of lifelong remorse would ever succeed in wiping
out the past; but honour demanded that at least the future be kept
unsullied.

A final struggle with temptation that was proving overwhelming, a
final, wholly human, longing to keep and to hold this glorious gift
of God; then the last renunciation as he allowed the loved one to
glide out of his arms like a graceful bird, still a-quiver after this
brief immersion in the torrential wave of his passion.  Then, as she
stood now a few paces away from him, with wide, sad eyes deliberately
turned to gaze on the distant sky, he passed his hand across his
forehead, as if with the firm will to clear his brain and chase away
the last vestige of the sweet, insistent dream.

Once more there was silence in the fragrant arbour; but it was the
silence of unspoken sorrow--a silence laden with the portent of an
approaching farewell.  Gilles was the first to break it.

'It can never be, ma donna,' he said quietly, his rugged voice still
shaking with emotion, now resolutely held in bondage.  'I know that
well enough.  Knew it even at the moment when, in my folly, I first
dared to kiss your gown.'

'I was as much to blame as you, Messire,' she said naïvely, her lips
trembling with suppressed sobs.  'I don't know how it came about,
but...'

'It came about, ma donna,' he rejoined fervently, 'because you are as
perfect as the angels, and God when He fashioned you allowed no human
weakness to mar His adorable work.  The avowal which came from your
sweet lips was just like the manna which He gave to the hungry crowd.
I, the poor soldier of fortune, have been made thereby more enviable
than a king.'

'And yet we must part, Messire?' she said firmly, and withal in her
voice that touching note of childlike appeal which for the
unfortunate dweller on the outskirts of paradise was more difficult
to withstand than were a glass of water to one dying of thirst.  'I
do not belong to myself, you know,' she continued, and looked him
once more serenely in the face.  'Ever since my dear brother died I
have been made to understand that my future, my person, belong to my
country--my poor, sorrowing country, who, it seems, hath sore need of
me.  I have no right to love, no right to think of mine own
happiness.  God alone in His Omniscience knows how you came to fill
my heart, Messire, to the exclusion of every other thought, of every
other duty.  It was wrong of me, I know--wrong and unmaidenly.  But
the secret of my love would for ever have remained locked in my heart
if I had not learned that you loved me too.'

She made her profession of faith so firmly and earnestly and with
such touching innocence that the hot passion which a while ago was
raging in Gilles' heart was suddenly soothed and purified as if with
the touch of a divine breath.  A wonderful peace descended on his
soul: he hardly knew himself, his own turbulent temper, his untamed
and passionate nature, so calm and serene did he suddenly feel.
'Yes, we must part, ma donna,' he said, in a simple, monotonous voice
which he himself scarcely recognized as his own.  'We must each go
our way; you to fulfil the great destiny for which God has created
you and to which your sorrowing country calls you; I to watch from
afar the course of your fortunes, like the poor, starving astrologer
doth watch the course of the stars.'

'From afar?' she said, and her delicate cheeks took on a dull,
lifeless hue.  'Then you will go away?'

'To-day, please God!' he replied.

'But, I--'

'You, ma donna, my beautiful Flower o' the Lily, you will, I pray
Heaven, forget me even as the young, living sapling forgets the
stricken bough which the tempests have laid low.'

She shook her head.

'I will never forget you, Messire.  If you go from me to-day I will
never know another happy hour again.'

'May God bless you for saying this!  But I have no fear that you will
not be happy.  Happiness comes as readily to your call as does a bird
to its mate.  You and happiness are one, ma donna.  Where you are,
all the joys of earth dwell and flourish.'

'Not when I am alone,' she said, the hot tears welling to her eyes,
her voice shaken with sobs.  'And thoughts of you--lonely and
desolate--will chase all joy from out my life.'

'But you must not think of me at all, ma donna,' he rejoined with
infinite tenderness.  'And when you do, when a swift remembrance of
the poor, rough soldier doth perchance disturb the serenity of your
dreams, do not think of him as either lonely or desolate.  I shall
never again in life be lonely--never again be desolate.  I am now
rich beyond the dreams of men, rich with the boundless wealth of
unforgettable memories.'

'You talk so readily of forgetting,' she said sadly.  'Will you find
it so easy, Messire?'

'Look at me, ma donna, and read the answer to your question in mine
eyes.'

She looked up at him, with that shy and demure glance which rendered
her so adorable and so winning, and in his face she saw so much
misery, such unspeakable sorrow that her heart was seized with a
terrible ache.  The sobs which were choking her could no longer be
suppressed.  She stuffed her tiny handkerchief into her mouth to stop
herself from crying out aloud, and feeling giddy and faint, she sank
on to a pile of cushions close by and buried her face in her hands,
letting her tears flow freely at last, since she was not ashamed of
the intensity of her grief.

Gilles could have dashed his head against the nearest tree-trunk, so
enraged was he with himself, so humiliated at his own weakness.  How
deeply did he regret now that de Landas' sword had not ended his
miserable life, before he had brought sorrow and tears to this woman
whom he worshipped.  What right had he to disturb her peace of mind?
What right to stir to the very depths of her fine nature those strong
passions which, but for his clumsy touch, might for ever have
remained dormant?

And through it all was the sense of his own baseness, which had come
upon him with a rush--his treachery to Madame la Reyne, his falseness
to his sworn oath.  Love for this beautiful woman had swept him off
his feet, caught him at a weak and unguarded moment and left him now
covered with humiliation and self-reproach, an object of hatred to
himself, for ever in future to be haunted by the recurrent vision of
the loved one's face bathed in tears and by the sound of those
harrowing sobs which would until the end of time rend his soul with
unutterable anguish.

'Would to God we had never met!' he murmured fervently.

And she had sufficient courage, sufficient strength, to smile up at
him through her tears, murmuring with enchanting simplicity:

'Would to God we had not to part.'

What else could he do but fall on his knees in mute adoration, and
with the final, heartbroken farewell dying upon his lips?  He stooped
low until his head nearly touched the ground.  Her small foot in its
velvet shoe peeped just beneath the hem of her gown, and with a last
act of humble adoration, he pressed his lips upon its tip.

'Farewell, my adored one,' he said softly, as he straightened out his
tall, massive figure once more.  'With my heart and my soul I worship
you now and for all time.  Even though I may never again look upon
your loveliness, the memory of it will haunt me until the hour of
death, when my spirit--free to roam the universe--will fly to you as
surely as doth the swallow to its mate.  And if in the future,' he
added with solemn earnestness, 'aught should occur to render me
odious in your sight, then I pray you on bended knees and in the name
of this past unforgettable hour, to remember that, whatever else I
may have done that was unworthy and base, my love for you has been as
pure and sacred as is the love of the lark for the sun.'

And, before she could reply, he was gone.  She watched his tall
figure striding rapidly away along the grass walk, until he became a
mere speck upon the shimmering distance beyond.  Soon he disappeared
from view altogether, and Jacqueline was left alone with memory.



CHAPTER XIX

WHAT JACQUELINE WAS FORCED TO HEAR


I

Indeed, to Jacqueline, even more so than to her lover, this last
half-hour appeared more unreal than a dream.  For a long time after
Gilles had gone she remained sitting on the pile of cushions at the
entrance of the arbour, gazing, gazing far away into the translucent
sky, struggling with that life-problem which to the ingenuous hath so
oft remained unsolved: If God gave me that happiness, why did He take
it away again so soon?

Life appeared before her now as one long vista of uninterrupted
dreariness.  With her heart dead within her, she would in truth
become the pawn in political games which her guardian had always
desired that she should be.  Well! no doubt it was all for the best.
Awhile ago, ere she had met Messire, ere he had taught her to read in
the great Book of Love, she had been headstrong and rebellious.  A
loveless marriage of convention, a mere political alliance would have
revolted her and mayhap caused grave complications in her troubled
country's affairs.  Now, nothing mattered.  Nothing would ever matter
again.  Since happiness was for ever denied her, she was far more
ready to sacrifice her personal feelings to her country's needs than
she had been before.

Her joy in life would for the future be made up of sacrifice, and if
she could do her beloved and sorely-stricken country a permanent
benefit thereby, well! she would feel once more that she had not
lived her life in vain.

At this stage she was not actively unhappy.  Emotion had torn at her
heartstrings and left her bruised and sore, but her happiness had
been too brief to cause bitter regret.  She was chiefly conscious of
an immense feeling of pity for her lover, whose heartache must indeed
be as great as her own.  But, for herself, there was nothing that she
regretted, nothing that she would have wished to be otherwise.  All
her memories of him were happy ones--except that moment of the
midnight quarrel in the Palace, when for a brief while she had
wilfully misjudged him.  Even the final parting from him, though it
broke her heart, had been wholly free from bitterness.  She was so
sure of his love that she could almost bear patiently to see him go
away, knowing that she could always treasure his love in her heart as
something pure and almost holy.

All through life that love would encompass her, would keep her from
evil thoughts and evil intent, whilst nothing on earth could rob her
of the sweets of memory.  She loved him and he had wanted her, even
long before she knew him; he had come to Cambray in disguise, under a
mask, and had wooed her in his own romantic fashion, with song and
laughter and joy of living, so different to the amorous sighs and
languorous looks wherewith other swains had striven to win her
regard.  She loved the mystery wherewith he had surrounded his
person, smiled at the thought how he had led Monseigneur her guardian
by the nose, and had tried vainly to hoodwink even her--her,
Jacqueline, who had loved him already that night when he had flung
Pierre over the wall and run to her window, singing: 'Mignonne, venez
voir si la rose----'

And he had thought to hoodwink her after that! thought to throw dust
in her eyes by playing a dual rôle, now masquerading as the Prince de
Froidmont, now as the equerry--he, the chosen of her heart, the man
whose every action, every word was fine and noble and dear....  How
foolish of him to imagine that she could be deceived.  Why, there was
that scar upon his hand--a scar the sight of which had loosened a
perfect floodgate of memories--a scar which she herself had helped to
tend and bind three years ago, in the monastery of Gembloux.  She
could even remember the leech saying at the time: 'The rascal will be
marked for life, I warrant.  I've never seen such a strange wound
before--the exact shape of a cross it is, like the mark on an ass's
back.'

How well she remembered that night!  Her own anxiety for the wounded
man--a poor soldier, evidently, for he was miserably clad; his
clothes were old and had been frequently darned and his pockets only
contained a few sols.  He had apparently fought with the French on
that awful day, and had been discovered by herself, lying unconscious
near the monastery wall, up on the hill, more than a league away from
the field of battle.  She remembered insisting that the leech should
tend him, and afterwards that he should be taken back to the spot
where the fighting had taken place, in case some friend or comrade be
searching for him.  After that, the death of her dear brother and the
change in her fortunes had chased all other memories away, until that
awful night in the Palace, when de Landas had behaved like a coward
and she like a vixen, and the Prince de Froidmont had threaded the
masks of his vanquished enemies upon his sword and thrown them at her
feet.  She had seen the scar then upon his hand, and the sight had
troubled her, because of the mystery which it evoked.  Then came the
next day, when she sat in the window embrasure in wait for the
Prince's equerry.  At once his face had seemed so strangely familiar
to her--and then there was the scar!

Jacqueline remembered how deeply she pondered over the puzzle then.
The Prince de Froidmont and his equerry were one and the same person;
that was evident, of course.  And both these personalities were also
merged in that of the poor soldier whom she had helped to tend in the
monastery of Gembloux.  But, unlike most women, she had never tried
to pry into his secrets.  Somehow the mystery--if mystery there
was--seemed to harmonize with his whole personality.  She loved him
as he was--rough at times, at others infinitely gentle; and oh! the
strength of his love and its ardour when he held her in his arms!
She would be quite satisfied if the mystery remained for ever
unsolved.  It was a part of him, not by any means the least amongst
his many attractions in her sight.

Now he had gone, never to return, leaving her alone with only memory
for company--memory and a huge longing to rest once more in the safe
fold of his protecting arms.

'Come back to me, Messire!' she called out to him in her heart.
'Take no heed of what I said when in my blind folly I vowed that it
could never be.  It shall and must be if you'll only come back to
me--just once--only once--and I should be content.  God never meant
that you and I should part before we had each drained the cup of Love
to the end.  The world is ours, our Love shall conquer it.  Not the
world of riches and of pomp; not even the world of glory.  Just a
little kingdom of our own, wherein no one shall dwell but you and
I--a little kingdom bound for me by the span of your arms, my throne
your heart, my crown your kiss.'


II

Dreaming, sighing, longing, Jacqueline sat on in the arbour,
unmindful of time.  It was only when the cathedral bell boomed the
midday hour that she awoke--vaguely, still--to the actualities of
life.  Of a truth, it seemed difficult to conceive that life in the
future must go on just the same: the daily rounds, the
conventionalities, the social flummeries must all go on, and
she--Jacqueline--would have to smile, to speak, to live on--just the
same.

And yet nothing, nothing on earth could ever be quite the same again.
It is impossible to delve deeply into the Book of Passion, to have
mastered the lesson which God Himself forbade His children to learn,
and then to look on Life with the same vacant, ignorant eyes as
before.  The daily rounds would certainly go on; but life itself
would henceforth be different.  The girl--a mere child--had in one
brief half-hour become a woman.  Love had transfigured the world for
her.

But she tried to think of life as he--her knight--would have wished
her to do, to fulfil her destiny so that from afar he might be proud
of her.  Above all, she would show a serene face to her world.  Her
fellow-citizens here in Cambray had quite enough sorrow to behold,
without having the sight of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart's
tear-stained face constantly before them.  There would be much to do
in the near future--much grief to console, many troubles to
alleviate.  What was one solitary heartache beside the sufferings of
an entire nation?

She rose to her feet, feeling more valiant and strong.  One last look
she gave round the little arbour which had sheltered her short-lived
happiness.  The pale sun peeped in shyly through the interstices of
the woodwork, and threw a shaft of honey-coloured light upon the
couch where he had lain unconscious, after she and her servants had
saved him from the mob.  With an impulsive movement which she did not
try to check, she ran up to the couch, and, kneeling down beside it,
she buried her face in the pillows whereon his head had rested.  A
few more tears, one long convulsive sob, a heart-broken sigh; then
nothing more.  That was the end! the last word in the final chapter
of her romance, the lifelong farewell to her girlish dream.

Then she dried her eyes resolutely, rose to her feet, and prepared to
return to the Palace.


III

But at the entrance of the arbour she was met by de Landas.  He was
standing there, looking at her, with a hideously evil sneer upon his
face.

She had not spoken with him since that day when she had for ever cast
him out of her heart, had always succeeded in avoiding him when the
exigencies of their mutual social position forced her to be in the
same room with him.  To-day she felt as if his very presence was an
outrage.  How long he had been there she could not say; how much of
her soul agony he had witnessed caused her a sense of intolerable
humiliation.  For the moment he had trapped her, obviously had lain
in wait for her, and was not like to let her go without forcing his
company upon her.  There was no other exit to the little arbour, and
she, unable to avoid him, yet loathing the very sight of him, could
only take refuge in an attitude of haughty indifference and of lofty
scorn.

'I will not pollute you with my touch,' he said coolly, seeing that
at sight of him she had retreated a step or two, as she would have
done had she encountered a noisome reptile.  He remained standing in
the doorway, leaning against the woodwork, with arms folded and legs
crossed and an insolent leer in his dark eyes.

'Then I pray you to let me pass,' was her calm rejoinder.

'Not,' he riposted, 'till you have allowed me to say something to
you, which hath weighed on my heart these past three weeks.'

'There is nothing that you can wish to say to me, M. le Marquis, that
I would care to hear.'

'You are severe, Jacqueline,' he said.  Then, as she made no reply
save an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, he added with
well-feigned humility: 'Not more so than I deserve, I know.  But I
was delirious on that day.  I did not know what I was saying.
Jealousy had completely obscured my brain.  You would not make a
madman responsible for his ravings!'

'Let us leave it at that, M. le Marquis,' she rejoined calmly.  'But
you will understand that I do not care to listen to that same
madman's ravings again.'

'How cold you are!' he murmured, sighed dolefully like one in utter
grief.  His whole attitude suddenly betokened contrition and
overwhelming sentiment; his fine dark eyes even contrived to fill
themselves with tears.  'Have you forgotten so soon, Jacqueline?' he
asked, 'all that you and I have meant to one another in the past; how
oft your golden head hath rested against my heart!'

But she was not like to be taken in by this mood, the falseness of
which was transparent enough.

'An' you do not cease to insult me with your ramblings,' she said,
with all the scorn which his contemptible ruse deserved, 'I will call
to my servants to rid me of your presence.'

'Your servants are too far away to hear you,' he retorted with a
cynical laugh.  'And if you do not listen to me to-day, Jacqueline,
you will put it out of my power to save you from humiliation and your
lover from death.'

'How dare you!' she exclaimed aloud, roused at last out of her
indifference by his wanton insolence.  Whereupon he, seeing that she
was not to be won by honeyed words, threw down the mask in an
instant, appeared in his true colours--false, vengeful and full of
venom, his face distorted by jealous rage, breathing greed and spite
as he spoke.

'Oh!' he said with a sneer.  'A man who has been flouted and scorned
and who sees a hated rival assuming a position which once was his, is
not like to mince his words.  I have nothing to lose at your
hands--remember that, my fine Madame.  The full measure of your hate
and of your scorn are my portion now, it seems; while Messire le
Prince de Froidmont is the recipient of your smiles.'

Outraged to her innermost being by hearing that name, which to her
was almost sacred, profaned by that vile creature's lips, Jacqueline
would readily now have forgotten her dignity, and fled from his
presence if she could, as she would from that of a spirit of evil.
But he divined her wish to flee, feared that she might succeed in
slipping past him; so he seized her by the wrist just as she
meditated a dash past him, and held her so fast and with such a
brutish grip, that but for her courage and sense of dignity, she
could have screamed with pain.

'Listen to me, Jacqueline,' he said menacingly.  'You must listen!
Think you I will stand by any longer and see the man whom I hate
worse than any man I have ever hated in all my life before, in the
full enjoyment of what I have lost--of your fortune, my winsome
Flemish scrub, the only thing about you which is worth a Spanish
gentleman's while to covet?  Oh! but I know more about your love
intrigue, my proud lady, than you think!  I knew something of it
before to-day, when, half an hour ago I saw the noble Prince de
Froidmont stealing unmasked out of the postern gate.  Unmasked, my
tricksy lady,' he continued with a harsh laugh, 'in more senses than
one; for though he was dressed in the rich clothes affected by the
master, the man who stole out of the postern gate had the features of
the equerry.  A pretty story, indeed, this would make for Monseigneur
the governor!  Madame Jacqueline de Broyart meeting clandestinely,
like a flirtatious kitchen wench, some nameless adventurer who hath
captured her fancy!'

'M. de Landas,' she said quite calmly, as soon as he gave her a
chance of making herself heard, 'an you have a spark of manhood left
in you, you will cease these insults and let me go.'

'What else was it but a clandestine meeting?' he riposted savagely.
'Your flaming cheeks and tear-filled eyes proclaim it loudly enough.
I saw him, I tell you; then I searched for you, but I did not know of
this arbour.  Such private trysting-places were never granted me!'

'M. de Landas,' she reiterated for the third time, 'I desire you to
be silent and to let me go.'

'So you shall, my dear,' he riposted with his insolent leer.  'So you
shall!  You shall be free in a moment or two--free to go quietly back
to your own room and there to ponder over one or two questions which
I am going to put to you, and which mayhap have never occurred to you
before.  Who is this Prince de Froidmont?  Where did he spring from?
Why does he masquerade, now as the master, anon as his own equerry?
What unavowable secret doth he hide beneath that eternal mask of his?
Can you answer that, my specious lady, who are still fresh from that
enigmatic person's arms?  Was it the Prince who kissed you in this
arbour, or was it his servant?'

Then, as she drew herself up to her full height, looking a veritable
statue of lofty disdain, a world of withering contumely in her fine
eyes, he went on more insidiously:

'Let me tell you one thing, Jacqueline, of which you obviously are
ignorant.  There is no Prince de Froidmont inscribed in France's book
of Heraldry.  There is an out-at-elbows Seigneur de Froidmont, whose
fortunes are at so low an ebb that he sells his sword to the highest
bidder.  He was last seen in the company of the Duc d'Anjou, the most
dissolute scion of an abandoned race.  And those who knew him then,
say that he is tall and broad-shouldered, hath a martial mien and the
air of a soldier.  They also say that he has a curiously shaped scar
on the back of his hand.  Now, I warn you, Jacqueline, that when next
I meet Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont, I shall ask him to give me
his hand in friendship, and if he refuses, which he certainly will
do, I shall challenge him to take off his glove ere I smite him in
his lying face with mine.'

'When you have finished with those vile calumnies, Messire...' began
Jacqueline coldly.

'Calumnies!' he exclaimed.  'Calumnies, you call them?  Then Heaven
help you, for your infatuation has indeed made you blind!  But take
care, Jacqueline, take care!  The eyes of hate are keener than those
of love.'

'The eyes of some miserable informant, you mean!' she retorted.

'Informant?  I had no need of an informant to tell me that if a man
shuns the gaze of his fellow-creatures it is because he hath
something unavowable to hide.  Beware the man who conceals his face
behind a mask, his identity behind an assumed name!  He has that to
conceal which is dishonourable and base.  Think on it all,
Jacqueline.  'Tis a friendly warning I am giving you.  The path which
you have chosen can only lead to humiliation.  Already the people of
Cambray are enraged against the mysterious stranger.  Take care lest
Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, duchesse et princesse de Ramèse, be
found bestowing her favours upon a common spy!'

He released her wrist, having had his say, felt triumphant and elated
too because she had been forced, in spite of herself, to listen to
him.  Hers was an intensely mobile face, with sensitive brow and lips
that readily betrayed her thoughts and emotions; and, as he had said
very pertinently, the eyes of hate are sharper than those of love.
He had studied her face while he was pouring the pernicious poison
into her ear.  He saw that poison filtrating slowly but surely into
her brain.  For the moment she looked scornful, aloof, dignified;
_but she had listened_; she had not called to her servants; she had
not even made a second attempt to escape.  Eve once listened to the
smooth persuasion of the serpent; Elsa heard to the end what Ortrude
had to say, and Jacqueline de Broyart, her soul still vibrating in
response to Gilles de Crohin's passionate love, had not closed her
ears to de Landas' perfidy.

The serpent, having shed his venom, was content.  He was subtle
enough not to spoil the effect of his rhetoric by any further words.
Obviously Jacqueline no longer heard him.  Her thoughts were already
far away, wandering mayhap in those labyrinthine regions to which a
miscreant's blind hatred had led them.  He turned on his heel and
left her standing there, still dignified and scornful.  But there was
that in her pose, in the glitter of her eyes and the set of her lips,
which suggested that something of her former serenity had gone.  She
still looked calm and indifferent, but her quietude now was obviously
forced; there was a tell-tale quiver round her lips, the sight of
which gave de Landas infinite satisfaction.  In her whole person
there was still determination, valour and perfect faith; but it was
militant faith, the courage and trust of a woman fighting in defence
of her love--not the sweet tenderness of childlike belief.

And with an inward sigh of content, the serpent wriggled quietly away.




CHAPTER XX

HOW MORE THAN ONE PLOT WAS HATCHED


I

And now the die was cast.

Gilles de Crohin stood before Monseigneur the governor of Cambray and
Monsieur le Comte de Lalain in the library of the Archiepiscopal
Palace, and in the name of Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, asked
for the hand of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart in marriage.

It was a solemn hour wherein the fate of nations rested in the hand
of men, whilst God withheld His final decree.  Gilles had kept his
word to the end.  Madame la Reyne could be satisfied.  He had put
resolutely behind him all thoughts of his dream and of his own
happiness.  His exquisite Jacqueline had ceased to be aught but a
vision of loveliness, intangible, and for him--the poor soldier of
fortune--for ever unattainable.  For once in his life he was thankful
for the beneficence of the mask.  At least he was spared the effort
of concealing the ravages which misery had wrought upon his face.
What the final struggle had cost him, no one would ever know; even
Maître Jehan had been shut out from the narrow room, wherein a man's
imprisoned soul fought out the grim fight 'twixt love and duty.

When, an hour later, Messire called to his faithful henchman to help
him don his richest attire, the battle had been won.  The man himself
was left heart-broken and bruised, a mere wreck of his former
light-hearted self; but honour and the sworn word had gained the day.
Love lay fettered, passion vanquished.  God's will alone should now
be done.

A great sigh of relief came from d'Inchy when _Monsieur_ had
pronounced the final word which bound him irrevocably to the
destinies of Flanders.  He and de Lalain bowed their heads almost to
the ground.  Gilles extended his hand to them both and they each
kissed it almost reverently.

Then they both rose, and d'Inchy said solemnly:

'No Prince could wear a more glorious crown than that of the
Sovereignty of the Netherlands.'

And de Lalain added with equal earnestness:

'And no King could wed a worthier mate.'

A worthier mate!  Ye gods!  Gilles could have laughed aloud at the
abjectness of this tragic farce.  A worthier mate?  Who knew that
better than the unfortunate man who had held her for one brief,
blissful moment in his arms, just long enough to feel how perfect,
how exquisite she was--just long enough to realize all that he had
lost.  Truly hell's worst torture could not be more harrowing than
this.

Wearied to the very top of his bent, Messire did his best to bring
the interview to an end.

'And now, Messeigneurs,' he said at last, 'I will, by your leave, bid
you farewell.  My Maître de Camp, Messire de Balagny, has, as you
know, arrived in Cambray.  He will represent me here the while I go
to rejoin my armies.'

'Your Highness would leave us?' exclaimed d'Inchy with a frown.  'So
soon?'

'Only to return in triumph, Messire,' replied Gilles, 'at the head of
my armies, after I have brought the Spaniard to his knees.'

'But Madame Jacqueline,' protested de Lalain.  'The betrothal--'

'While Cambray is starving, Messire, and the Duke of Parma is at her
gates, there is no time for public festivities.  You will convey to
Madame Jacqueline de Broyart my earnest desire that she should confer
the supreme honour upon me by consenting to be my wife.'  Then, as
the two men appeared wrapt in moody silence, he added quickly, with I
know not what faint ray of hope within his heart: 'You are doubtful
of her consent?'

'Doubtful?  Oh, no, Monseigneur,' replied d'Inchy.  'Jacqueline de
Broyart is, above all, a daughter of Flanders.  She is ready to give
her fortune, herself, all that is asked of her, to the man who will
free her country from its oppressors.'

'Then the sooner I go ... and return to claim my bride,' rejoined
Gilles dryly, 'the better it will be for us all.'

'Yes, Monseigneur--but----'

'But what?'

'The people of Cambray will wish to see Your Highness with Madame
Jacqueline by your side--her hand in yours--in token of an
irrevocable pledge.'

'Starving people care little for such flummery, Messire.  They will
prefer to see the sentimental ceremony when mine armies have driven
the foe from their city's gates.'

'But----'

'Ah, ça, Messeigneurs!' suddenly queried Gilles with growing
impatience.  'Do you, perchance, mistrust me?'

The protest which came from the two Flemish lords in response to this
suggestion was not perhaps as whole-hearted as it might have been.
Gilles frowned beneath his mask.  Here was a complication which he
had not foreseen.  He could part from Jacqueline--yes!--he could tear
her sweet image from out his heart, since she could never become his.
He could play his part in the odious comedy to the end--but only on
the condition that he should not see her again or attempt to carry
through the deception which, in her presence, would anyhow be
foredoomed to failure.

A public betrothal!  A solemn presentation to the people, with
Jacqueline's hand in his own, her dear eyes having found him out in
the very first minute that they met again, despite every mask, every
disguise and every trickery!  Heavens above! but there was a limit to
human endurance!  and Gilles had already reached it, when he
envisaged his beloved as the wife of another man--and that man wholly
unworthy of her.  Now he had come to the end of his submission.
Honour and loyalty could go no further.

Of a truth, it seemed as if some impish Fate would upset, at this
eleventh hour, Madame la Reyne's perfectly laid schemes.  The Flemish
lords looked obstinate.  It seemed to Gilles that while he himself
had stood silent for the space of a quick heart-beat, cogitating as
to his next course of action, a secret understanding had quickly
passed between the two men.

This in its turn had the effect of stiffening Gilles' temper.  He
felt like a gambler now, whose final stake was in jeopardy.

'For my part, Messeigneurs,' he said with a clever assumption of
haughty insolence, 'I could not lend myself to a public pageant at
this hour.  His Majesty my brother would not wish it.  When I enter
Cambray as its conqueror I will claim my promised bride--and not
before.'

This final 'either--or' was a bold stroke, no doubt: the losing
gambler's last throw.  If the Flemings demurred, all was lost.
Gilles, by an almost superhuman effort, contrived to remain outwardly
calm, keeping up that air of supercilious carelessness which had all
along kept the Flemish lords on tenterhooks.  Obviously the tone had
aroused their ire, just as it had done many a time before, and Gilles
could see well enough that a final repudiation of the whole bargain
hovered on M. d'Inchy's lips.  But once again the counsels of
prudence prevailed; the implied 'take it or leave it,' so insolently
spoken by _Monsieur_, had the effect of softening the two men's
obstinacy.  Perhaps they both felt that matters had anyhow gone too
far, even for a man of Monsieur's vacillating temperament to withdraw
from the bargain with a shred of honour.  Be that as it may, when
Gilles rejoined a moment or two later with marked impatience: 'Which
is it to be, Messire?  Is a Prince of the House of Valois not to be
trusted to keep his word?' d'Inchy replied quite glibly:

'Oh, absolutely, Monseigneur!'

'Well, then?' queried Gilles blandly.

'There is nothing more to be said,' concluded de Lalain.  'And if
your Highness really desires to leave us----'

'I do desire to rejoin my armies as soon as may be.'

'Then it shall be in accordance with Monseigneur's wishes.  I will
see that everything is made ready for the safety and secrecy of your
journey.'

'You are more than gracious, Messire,' said Gilles, who had some
difficulty in disguising the intense relief which he felt.  'As you
know, my Maître de Camp, Messire de Balagny, is in Cambray now.  He
will be my representative during my brief absence.'

After that, little more was said.  Formal leave-taking took up the
last few minutes of this momentous interview.  Gilles had some
difficulty in concealing his eagerness to get away: a dozen times
within those same few minutes he was on the point of betraying
himself, for indeed it seemed ludicrous that the Duc d'Anjou should
be quite so eager to go.  However, the two Flemings were in a
distinctly conciliatory mood now.  They appeared to desire nothing
save the keeping of His Highness' good graces.

'Monseigneur will remember that Cambray is on the edge of
starvation!' said d'Inchy earnestly at the last.

'Give me three months, Messire,' rejoined Gilles lightly, 'and her
joy-bells will be ringing for her deliverance.'

'For the entry of _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, within her walls?'

'And the betrothal of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart to a Prince of the
House of France.'

'A happy hour for the Netherlands, Monseigneur.'

'And a proud one for me, Messire,' concluded Gilles solemnly.  'For
the Prince of the House of France will not lead his bride to the
altar empty-handed.  The freedom of the Netherlands will be her
marriage-portion.'

'Amen to that,' said the Flemish lords fervently.


II

They kissed the gracious hand which was extended to them; they bent
the knee and took leave of their exalted guest with all the
ceremonial due to his rank.

But the moment that Gilles had finally succeeded in effecting his
escape, and even before his firm footstep had ceased to echo along
the corridors of the Palace, a complete change took place in the
demeanour of these two noble lords.

Monseigneur the governor drew inkhorn, pen and paper close to him,
with almost feverish haste; then he began to write, letter after
letter, while his friend watched him in silence.  For over half an
hour no sound was heard in tie room save the ceaseless scratching of
d'Inchy's pen upon the paper.  Only when half a dozen letters were
written and each had been duly signed and sealed did de Lalain make a
remark.

'You are sending out orders for a holiday to-morrow?' he asked.

'Yes,' replied d'Inchy.

'And orders to de Landas not to allow any one to leave the city?'

'Yes.'

'I thought so.  You do not trust our wily Prince?'

'No,' retorted the other curtly.  'Do you?'

Then, as de Lalain made no reply, since indeed that reply was
obvious, d'Inchy went on, in a quick, sharp tone of command:

'Will you see the Chief Magistrate yourself, my good de Lalain?
Explain to him just what we have in contemplation.  A reception in
the Town Hall, the presence of the Provosts of the city and of the
Mayors of the several guilds; the announcement of the betrothal to be
read to the people from the balcony.  The Provosts must see to it
that there is a large concourse of people upon the Grand' Place and
that the whole city is beflagged by ten o'clock in the morning, and
wears an air of general festivity.'

'It shall be done at once,' said de Lalain simply.

D'Inchy then rang the bell and summoned one of his special messengers
to his presence.  As soon as the man appeared, he gave him one of the
letters which he had just written.

'This to Messire de Landas,' he commanded.  'And see that he has it
without delay.'

The man retired, and when d'Inchy was once more alone with his
friend, he added complacently:

'This will close the trap, methinks, on our wily fox.'

'So long as he doth tumble into it,' remarked de Lalain dryly.

'He will!  He will!  You may be sure of that!  Imagine him a few
hours hence, ready for his journey and finding every gate closed
against him and the town garrison afoot.  I have warned de Landas of
what was in the wind, and given him an outline of my plans for
to-morrow.  I can safely trust him to see that no one leaves the city
within the next four and twenty hours, for I have made him personally
accountable to me if any suspected person should effect an escape.
So our fine _Monsieur_ will fume and rage, and demand to see
Monseigneur the governor.  The latter, weary and sick, will have long
ago retired to bed.  In the morning he will still be sick and unable
to attend to business, until past ten o'clock, when quite
unexpectedly he will have given his exalted guest the slip and
already be engaged on important matters at the Town Hall.  Thither
_Monsieur_ will repair at once--you may take your oath on
that--fretting to receive his safe-conduct and be out of the city ere
another twenty-four hours go by.  In the meanwhile----'

'You will have spoken with Madame Jacqueline,' broke in de Lalain
eagerly.  'The Magistrate and the Provosts will have issued their
proclamations, the city will be beflagged and the people assembled on
the Grand' Place, eager to see Madame and her royal betrothed.  What
a programme, my good d'Inchy!' he concluded with unstinted
enthusiasm.  'And how wisely conceived!  Of a truth, you have
enchained our fox.  He cannot now slip out of our sight.'

When the two old cronies finally took leave of one another, they had
prepared everything for their next day's box of surprise.  A surprise
it would be for everybody, and Monseigneur d'Inchy could indeed
congratulate himself on the happy cannon-shot which he would fire off
on the morrow, and which would wake this sad and dormant city from
its weary somnolence.  The alliance with the Royal House of France
would prove a splendid stimulus for the waning courage of the people,
whilst a fickle Valois Prince would at the same time learn that it is
not easy to play fast and loose with a nation that was ruled by such
diplomatic and determined men as were M. le Comte de Lalain and
Monseigneur d'Inchy, governor of Cambray.


III

As for de Landas, he probably spent that evening some of the happiest
hours which he had experienced for some time.  It seemed indeed as if
Fate, having buffeted him about so unmercifully these past few weeks,
was determined to compensate him for everything that he had suffered.

When he received Monseigneur's letter, he was still fresh from his
stormy interview with Jacqueline, still fresh from the discovery
which he had made of at any rate a part of his rival's secret.  As to
what use he would make of this discovery, he had not yet made up his
mind: his dark, vengeful soul was for the nonce consumed with rage at
thought of seeing Jacqueline happy in the love of the man whom he so
cordially hated.  In the ordinary course of events, he would have
been perfectly content to see her married--for political reasons,
lovelessly or even unhappily--to any man who was influential enough
to win her at the hands of her ambitious guardian.  But to think of
her bestowing her love and her kisses on another was wont to drive de
Landas to the verge of mania.  He did not love Jacqueline de Broyart.
He had told her so, and he knew that her fortune would never be his.
But he had always desired her, and did so still; and such are the
tortuous ways of a depraved heart, that he would have been content to
lose her only if he knew that she would be unhappy.

Now, suddenly, Fate had changed everything.  Instead of impotent rage
and futile scheming, Monseigneur's orders had placed in his hands the
very weapon which he needed to consummate that revenge of which he
dreamed.



    'See to it, My dear de Landas,' Monseigneur had written, 'that
    for the next four and twenty Hours a full Company of the Town
    garrison is afoot, and that no one leave this City on any pretext
    whatsoever.  I have prepared a special pageant for the People--a
    day of Festivity, wherein I will make a joyful Announcement to
    them from the Balcony of the Town Hall.  This announcement has a
    direct bearing not only on the Future of our sorely-stricken
    Province, but also on that of her fairest Daughter.  Both these
    great Issues are inextricably bound together, and to-morrow will
    see them ratified before our assembled people.  So, see to it, My
    dear de Landas, that the Garrison under your Command do keep
    Order in the Town, so that there should be no disturbance likely
    to mar the solemnity of the occasion.  There are always
    Malcontents in every Community and dissentients to every measure
    of public good.  But I know that You at least have always been at
    one with Me in earnest desire to see our beloved country placed
    under the protection of our mighty neighbour, and that You will
    therefore rejoice with Me that that desire will at last be
    fulfilled.  Because of Your unswerving loyalty to me and to Our
    cause, You shall be the first to know that the mysterious
    stranger whom We have so long harboured within Our gates and who
    chose to be known to Us all as the Prince de Froidmont, is none
    other than Monsieur duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, Brother of His
    Majesty the King of France, who came to Cambray for the express
    purpose of wooing Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, Our Ward, to be
    his Wife.  That he has succeeded in winning her promise is the
    announcement which I desire to make to our People to-morrow.  I
    also will give them the assurance that, in consequence of this
    alliance with the royal House of Valois, We may reckon on the
    full might and support of France to deliver Us from Our enemies.'



De Landas crushed the welcome letter in his hand in the excess of his
joy.  He could have screamed aloud with unholy rapture.

'There is a fraud here, of course.  Monseigneur has been hoodwinked.
The Prince de Froidmont is not Duc d'Anjou!' he cried exultantly.
'This much I know.  And now, friend Beelzebub and all your myrmidons,
grant me aid, so that I may unmask that miscreant in a truly dramatic
manner!  Something must and shall be done, to turn that fateful hour
to-morrow into one of triumph for me, and of humiliation for the
woman who has dared to scorn my love.  As for the man who has filched
her from me, this same hour will be one which shall cover him with
such boundless infamy, that for Jacqueline the very memory of his
kisses will for ever remain an agony of shame.'

He sent a hasty summons to his intimates--to Maarege, de Borel, du
Prêt and the whole of the gang of hot-headed malcontents, and just
like in the Archiepiscopal Palace, so in the lodgings occupied by
Messire de Landas, a Council of War was held which lasted late into
the night.


IV

It was a dark and stormy evening after a brilliant day; and some time
after the cathedral bell had struck the hour of ten, Messire de
Landas, commanding the town garrison, was making the round of the
city gates.

He had his man, Pierre, with him--a fellow well known to the guard.
At the gate of Cantimpré, Messire desired that the bridge be lowered,
for he wished to assure himself that everything was as it should be,
over on the right bank of the river.  Far away to the right and left,
the lights of the Duke of Parma's encampment could be distinctly
seen.  The archers at the gate begged Messire not to venture too far
out into the darkness, for the Spanish patrols were very wide-awake,
and they were like cats for sighting a man in the dark.  But Messire
thought it his duty to cross the bridge, and to see if all was well
on the other side.  He refused to take a bodyguard with him in case
the Spanish patrols were on the alert.  Messire de Landas was known
to be very brave; he preferred to take such risks alone.

Only his man Pierre accompanied him.

The archers kept a sharp look-out.  But the night was very dark, a
veritable gale was blowing from the south-west, and the driven rain
was blinding.  Messire crossed the bridge with Pierre, after which
the darkness swallowed them both up.

Ten minutes later, the guard at the gate, the archers and gunners,
heard the sharp report of two musket shots, following closely upon
one another, and coming from over the right bank of the river.
Trembling with anxiety, they marvelled if Messire were safe.  The
sheriff, who had no special orders from the commandant to meet the
present eventuality, did not know what to do.  He was ready to tear
out his hair in an agony of apprehension.  Had it not been quite so
dark he would have sent out a search-party, for Messire still
tarried.  But, as it was, his men might fall straight into a
_guet-apens_ and be massacred in the gloom, without doing any good to
any one.  Skilled and able-bodied men were becoming precious assets
in Cambray: their lives could not be carelessly jeopardized.

A quarter of an hour of heartrending suspense went by, after which
Messire's footstep was suddenly heard upon the bridge.  He returned
alone.  The archers and gunners crowded round him, with the anxious
query upon their lips: 'Pierre?'

No one really cared about Pierre.  Messire de Landas and his gang
were not popular in Cambray.  But the incident had been rendered
weird and awesome by the darkness and the bad weather, and Messire's
obstinacy in venturing out so far.

M. de Landas appeared moody and silent.  No doubt he felt responsible
for his servant's fate.  But he answered the men's questions quite
straightforwardly, more fully too and with less brusqueness than was
his wont when speaking with subordinates.

'I had my suspicions aroused to-day,' he said, 'by something which
our spies reported to me, that the Spaniards contemplated one of
their famous surprise attacks under cover of this murky darkness.  So
I was determined to venture on the Bapaume Road and see if I could
discover anything.  Pierre insisted on coming with me.  We kept our
eyes and ears open and crawled along in the ditch on hands and knees.
Suddenly we were fired on without any warning.  I lay low under cover
of the ditch, not moving, hardly breathing, and thought that Pierre
was doing likewise.  I heard the Spanish patrols move noiselessly
away.  Then I crept out of my hiding-place, almost surprised at
finding myself alive.  I called softly to Pierre, but received no
answer; then I groped about for him.  Presently I found him.  He had
been shot twice--through the back--and must have died on the instant.'

The story was plausible enough, nor did any one doubt it.  The men
cared so little about Pierre, who was overbearing and surly.  But
what had actually happened was vastly different.

It was this--Messire le Marquis de Landas, accompanied by Pierre, had
in truth crossed the bridge, and as soon as the darkness had
swallowed them up, the two men had walked rapidly along the Bapaume
Road, until they were challenged by a Spanish patrol on duty.
Messire gave the password, and the patrol not only halted but also
stood at attention, for the password which had been given was one
used only by Spanish gentlemen of high rank in the King's armies.

'You will conduct my servant at once before His Highness the Duke of
Parma,' Messire de Landas said to the man in command of the patrol.

And to Pierre he added in a whisper: 'All that you have to do when
you see His Highness is to give him this letter from me and tell him
that we are quite prepared for to-morrow.'

He gave Pierre a letter, then ordered the patrol to fire a couple of
musket-shots.  After which, he waited for a few minutes, and finally
returned alone to the city gate.




CHAPTER XXI

HOW SOME OF THESE SUCCEEDED


I

Jacqueline was sitting in the self-same deep window-embrasure from
whence she had listened--oh, so long ago!--to that song, which would
for ever remain for her the sweetest song on earth:

  'Mignonne, allons voir si la rose----'


Only a few hours had gone by since she had reached the sublimal
height of ecstatic happiness--only a few hours since she had tasted
the bitter fruit of renunciation.  Since then she had had a good cry,
and felt better for it; but since then also she had encountered a
venomous reptile on her way, and had been polluted by its touch.

Even to suggest that Jacqueline's pure faith in the man she loved had
been troubled by de Landas' insidious suggestions, would be to wrong
her fine and steadfast character.  She did not mistrust her knight;
for her he still stood far above the base calumnies hurled at him by
a spiteful rival; but, somehow, de Landas' venom had succeeded in
making her sorrow more acute, less endurable.  Oh! if only she could
have shared with her beloved all his secrets and his difficulties, if
only he had thought her worthy of his entire trust!

Words which he had spoken ere he finally went away rang portentously
in her ear--ominous words, which she had not heeded at the moment,
for her heart was then over-full with the misery of that farewell,
but which now took on, despite herself, a menacing and awesome
significance.

With frowning brows and hands tightly clasped together, Jacqueline
sat there, motionless, the while memory called back those words which
in very truth did fill her heart with dread.

'If within the future,' Messire had said, 'aught should occur to
render me odious in your sight, will you at least remember that,
whatever else I may have done that was unworthy and base, my love for
you has been as pure and sacred as is the love of the lark for the
sun.'

He had gone after that--gone before she could ask him for an
explanation of these ununderstandable words, before she could affirm
her perfect faith and trust in him.  Then the memory of them had
faded from her ken, merged as it was in her great, all-embracing
sorrow, until the wand of a devilish magician had brought them forth
from out the ashes of forgetfulness, and she was left more forlorn
than she had been before.


II

Monseigneur the governor found her in the late afternoon, still
sitting in the window embrasure, the large, lofty room in darkness,
save for the fitful glow of the fire which was burning low in the
monumental hearth.  The patter of the rain against the window panes
made a weird, melancholy sound, which alone broke the silence that
hung upon the place with an eerie sense of desolation.  Monseigneur
shuddered as he entered.

'B-r-r-r!' he exclaimed.  'My dear Jacqueline!  I had no thought that
you were moping here all alone--and in the dark, too!--or I would
have been here sooner to cheer your spirits with my good news.'

'You and your good news are right welcome, Monseigneur,' responded
Jacqueline with a pathetic effort at gaiety.  'I was out in the
garden most of the day,' she continued composedly, 'and was resting
for awhile in the gathering dusk, as this awful weather hath made it
impossible to go out again.'

'Gathering dusk, forsooth!' he retorted.  'Send for your women,
Madame, and order them to bring in the candles.  Light!  We want more
light, laughter and joy at this hour!  I would I could light a
bonfire, to turn the night into day!'

He was obviously nervy and excited, paced up and down the room in a
state of nerve-tension, very unlike his usual dignified self.
Jacqueline, a little puzzled, obeyed him promptly.  She rang the bell
and ordered Nicolle to send in the candles, and while the women
busied themselves about the room, disposing candelabra upon the
tables and consols, she watched her guardian keenly.  He certainly
appeared strangely excited, and now and then he darted quick,
inquiring glances upon her, and when she met those glances, he smiled
as if in triumph.

'Let us sit by the fire, my dear,' he said genially, after he had
dismissed Nicolle and the women with an impatient gesture.  'I came
to see you alone and without ceremony, because I wished for the
selfish pleasure of imparting my good news to you myself.'

She sat down in the tall chair beside the fire, and Monseigneur sat
opposite to her.  She had on a dress of dark-coloured satin, upon the
shiny surface of which the flickering firelight drew quaint and
glowing arabesques.  She rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and
leaned her head against her hand, thus keeping her delicate face in
shadow, lest Monseigneur should note the pallor of her cheeks and the
tear-stains around her eyes.  But otherwise she was quite composed,
was able to smile too at his eagerness and obvious embarrassment.

It was his turn to study her keenly now, and he did so with evident
pleasure.  Not so very many years ago he, too, had been a young
gallant, favoured by fortune and not flint-hearted either where women
were concerned.  He had buried two wives, and felt none the worse for
that, and still ready to turn a compliment to a pretty woman, and to
give her the full measure of his admiration.  He would have been less
than a man now, if he had withstood the charm of the pretty picture
which his ward presented, in the harmonious setting of her
high-backed chair, and with the crimson glow of the fire-light
turning her fair hair to living gold.

'Put down your hand, Jacqueline,' he said, 'so that I may see your
pretty face.'

'My head aches sadly, Monseigneur,' she rejoined with a pathetic
little sigh, 'and mine eyes are heavy.  'Tis but vanity that causes
me to hold my hand before my face.'

'Neither headaches nor heavy eyes could mar the beauty of the fairest
lily of Flanders,' he went on with elaborate gallantry.  'So I pray
you humour me, and let me see you eye to eye.'

She did as he asked, and dropped her hand.  Monseigneur made no
remark on her pallor, was obviously too deeply absorbed in his joyful
news to notice her swollen eyes.  She tried to smile, and said
lightly:

'And why should Monseigneur desire to see a face, every line of which
he knows by heart?'

He leaned forward in his chair and said slowly, keeping his eyes
fixed upon her:

'Because I wish to behold the future Duchesse d'Anjou and d'Alençon,
the future sister of the King of France!'

She made no reply, but sat quite still, her face turned toward the
fire, presenting the outline of her dainty profile to the admiring
gaze of her guardian.  Monseigneur was silent for a moment or two,
was leaning back in his chair once more, and regarding her with an
air of complacency, which he took no pains to disguise.

'It means the salvation of the Netherlands!' he said with a deep sigh
of satisfaction.  'We can now count on the whole might of France to
rid us of our enemies, and after that to a long era of prosperity and
of religious liberty, when Madame Jacqueline de Broyart shares with
her lord the Sovereignty of the Netherlands.'

Jacqueline remained silent, her aching eyes fixed in the hot embers
of the fire.  So the blow had fallen sooner than she thought.  When,
in the arbour, she had made her profession of faith before her
knight, and told him that she belonged not to herself but to her
country, she did not think that her country would claim her quite so
soon.  Vaguely she knew that some day her guardian would dispose of
her hand and fortune, and that she would have to ratify a bargain
made for her person, for the sake of that fair land of Flanders which
was so dear to her.  But awhile ago, all that had seemed so remote;
limitless time seemed to stretch out before her, wherein she could
pursue her dreams of the might-have-been.

Monseigneur's announcement--for it was that--came as a hammer-blow
upon her hopes of peace.  She had only just wakened from her dream,
and already the bitter-sweet boon of memory would be denied to her.
Stunned under the blow, she made no attempt at defiance.  With her
heart dead within her, what cared she in the future what became of
her body?  Since love was denied her, there was always the altruistic
sentiment of patriotism to comfort her in her loneliness; and the
thought of self-sacrifice on the altar of her stricken country would,
perhaps, compensate her for that life-long sorrow which was destined
to mar her life.

'No wonder you are silent, Jacqueline,' Monseigneur was saying, and
she heard him speaking as if through a thick veil which smothered the
sound of his voice; 'for to you this happy news comes as a surprise.
Confess that you never thought your old guardian was capable of
negotiating so brilliant an alliance for you!'

'I knew,' she rejoined quietly, 'that my guardian would do everything
in his power to further the good of our country.'

'And incidentally to promote your happiness, my dear.'

'Oh!' she said, with an indifferent shrug of the shoulders, 'my
happiness is not in question, is it?  Else you would not propose that
I should wed a Prince of the House of Valois.'

'I am not so sure,' he replied, with a humorous twinkle in his old
eyes.  '_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, is not--or I am much mistaken--quite
the rogue that mischievous rumour hath painted.'

'Let us hope, for my sake,' she retorted dryly, 'that rumour hath
wronged him in all particulars.'

'In one, at any rate, I'll vouch for that.  _Monsieur_ is more than
commonly well-favoured--a handsome figure of a man, with the air and
the voice of a soldier.'

'You know him well?'

'I have seen much of him,' said Monseigneur with an enigmatic smile,
'these past four weeks.'

'These past four weeks?' she exclaimed.  'But you have not been out
of Cambray.'

'Nor has he,' put in Monseigneur quietly.

She frowned, deeply puzzled.

'_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou hath been in Cambray?' she asked, 'these past
four weeks?'

He nodded.

'And I have never seen him?'

'Indeed you have, my dear Jacqueline; on more than one occasion.'

'Not to my knowledge, then.'

'No.  Not to your knowledge.'

'I don't understand,' she murmured.  'Why should so exalted a prince
as the Duc d'Anjou be in Cambray all this while?'

'Because he desired to woo Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, duchesse et
princesse de Ramèse.'

'Without my knowledge?'

'Without your knowledge--outwardly.'

'What do you mean?'

'Oh! nothing very obscure, my dear; nothing very remarkable.
_Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou is young--he hath a romantic turn of mind.  He
admired you and desired you in marriage, but chose to woo you--have I
not said that he is romantic?--chose to woo you under a mask.'

She gave a gasp, and quickly put her hand to her mouth to smother a
cry.  She sat bolt upright now, her two hands clutching the arms of
her chair, her eyes--wide open, glowing, scared--fixed upon her
guardian.  He, obtuse and matter-of-fact, mistook the gasp and the
tense expression of her face.

'No wonder you are aghast, my dear,' he said cheerily.  'Not
unpleasantly, I hope.  More than once it seemed to your old guardian
that _Monsieur's_ martial presence was not altogether distasteful to
you.  He hath sharper eyes, hath the old man, than you gave him
credit for--what?  Ah, well!  I was young too, once, and I still like
to bask in the sunshine of romance.  'Twas a pretty conceit on
_Monsieur's_ part, methinks, to pay his court to you under a
disguise--to win your love by the charm of his personality, ere you
realized the great honour that a Prince of the Royal House of France
was doing to our poor country, by wooing her fairest maid.'

Monseigneur continued to ramble on in the same strain.  Jacqueline
hardly heard what he said.  She was striving with all her might to
appear composed, to understand what the old man was saying, and to
reply to him with some semblance of coherence.  Above all, she was
striving to get the mastery over her voice, for presently she would
have to speak, to say something which would shake her guardian's
complacency, open his eyes to the truth, the whole hideous,
abominable truth; without ... without ... Heavens above, this must be
a hideous dream!

'It was all arranged with de Montigny, you remember?' Monseigneur
continued, still engrossed in his own rhetoric, too blind to see that
Jacqueline was on the verge of a collapse.  '_Monsieur_ was so
fanciful, and we had to give in to him.  We all desired the alliance
with our whole hearts, and Madame la Reyne de Navarre did approve of
our schemes.  I must say that de Lalain and I were against the
masquerade at first, but _Monsieur's_ soldierlike personality soon
won our approval.  And imagine our joy when we realized that our dear
Jacqueline was not wholly indifferent to him either.  He came to us
this afternoon and made formal demand for your hand in marriage....
So de Lalain and I have taken measures that our poor people do have a
holiday to-morrow, when Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, duchesse et
princesse de Ramèse, will solemnly plight her troth to _Monsieur_ Duc
d'Anjou.  So, my dear Jacqueline, I entreat you to wear your
loveliest gown.  Flanders is proud of her fairest flower.  Monsieur
desired to rejoin his armies to-day and leave the ceremony of
betrothal waiting for happier times; but de Lalain and I would not
hear of it.  Everything is prepared for a festive holiday.  Of a
truth, to-morrow's forenoon will see the happiest hour which our
sadly-afflicted province hath seen these many years.'

He paused; I think, for want of breath: he certainly had been talking
uninterruptedly for the past ten minutes, going over the whole ground
of de Montigny's mission, _Monsieur's_ romantic desire and the final
demand in marriage, till Jacqueline could have screamed to him to
cease torturing her.  The hideousness of the mystery appalled her:
some dark treachery lurked here somewhere and she was caught in a net
of odious intrigues, out of which for the moment she could see no
issue.  A feeling of indescribable horror came over her--a nameless,
unspeakable terror, as in the face of a yawning, bottomless abyss, on
the brink of which she stood and into which an unseen and mighty hand
would presently hurl her.

Something of that appalling state of mind must have been reflected in
her face, despite the almost superhuman effort which she made not to
allow Monseigneur to guess at what was going on in her mind; for
presently he looked at her more keenly, and then said gently:

'Jacqueline, my dear, you look so strange.  What is it?  Hath my news
so gravely startled you?'

She shook her head, and when he reiterated his question, and leaned
forward in order to take her hand, she contrived to say, moderately
calmly, even though every word came with an effort from her parched
throat:

'The man with the mask? ... The Prince de Froidmont? ... You are
sure?'

'Sure of what, my dear?' he riposted.

'That he is the Duc d'Anjou?'

Monseigneur laughed loudly and long, apparently much relieved.

'Oh! is that what troubles you, my child?' he said gaily.  'Well
then, let me assure you that I am as sure of that as that I am alive.
Why!' he added, evidently much surprised, 'how could you ask such a
funny thing?'

'I did not know,' she murmured vaguely.  'Sometimes an exalted prince
will woo a maid by proxy ... so I thought...'

But evidently the idea of Jacqueline's doubts greatly tickled
Monseigneur's fancy.

'What a strange conceit, my child!' he said with condescending
indulgence.  'By proxy, forsooth!  His Highness came himself, not
more than three days after Messire de Montigny completed negotiations
with him at La Fère.  He desired to remain incognito and chose to
lodge in a poor hostelry; but Madame la Reyne de Navarre begged us in
a letter writ by her own august hand, to make _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou,
her dear brother, right welcome in Cambray.  By proxy!' and
Monseigneur laughed again, highly amused.  'Why, His Highness was in
my study but two hours ago, and made formal proposal for your hand in
marriage!'

Then, as the door behind him was thrown open and old Nicolle,
shuffling in, announced M. le Comte de Lalain, d'Inchy turned to his
old friend and said, highly delighted with what he regarded as a good
joke:

'Ah, my good de Lalain!  You could not have come at a more opportune
moment.  Here is our ward, so bewildered at the news that she asks me
whether I am sure that it is truly _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou who has
been masquerading as the Prince de Froidmont.  Do reassure the
child's mind, I pray you; for in truth she seems quite scared.'

De Lalain, always a great stickler for etiquette, had in the
meanwhile advanced into the room, and was even now greeting
Jacqueline with all the ceremonial prescribed by Maître Calviac.
Then only did he reply soberly:

'Sure, Madame?  Of course we are sure!  Why, 'tis not two hours since
he was standing before us and asking for the hand of Madame
Jacqueline de Broyart in marriage.  We knelt before him and kissed
his hand, and to-morrow we'll present him to the people as the future
Sovereign Lord of the Netherlands.'

'And so, my dear Jacqueline----' concluded d'Inchy.  But he got no
further, gave a loud call to Nicolle and the women; for Madame had
uttered a pitiful moan, slid out of her chair, and was now lying on
the floor in a swoon.




CHAPTER XXII

WHILE OTHERS FAILED


I

Of a truth, Monseigneur the governor was not gravely perturbed by his
ward's sudden attack of faintness.  He knew that women were subject
to megrims and sundry other fancies, and he was willing to admit that
in his excitement he had, perhaps, been too abrupt with her and too
brusque.  She had been scared, bewildered, no doubt, and lost
consciousness in her agitation.  But old Nicolle had quickly come to
the rescue with restoratives; and with the prerogative of an old and
trusted servant, she had bundled Monseigneur and Monsieur de Lalain
incontinently out of the room.  Madame would soon be well, she said,
only needed rest.  She was overwrought and over fatigued with so many
banquets and public functions--such late hours, too; and Madame not
twenty!  Young people needed plenty of sleep, and Madame, after a
good and peaceful night, would be quite well on the morrow.

So Monseigneur, fully reassured, went back to his apartments and to
his own business.  There was still a great deal to be done, a great
deal to see to--many people to interview and many more orders to
give, to ensure that to-morrow's ceremony should be conducted not
only with perfect smoothness, but also that the preparations for it
be concluded with perfect secrecy.

M. de Lalain, d'Inchy's old friend, was an invaluable helpmate, and
de Landas too had for the occasion thrown off that supercilious
manner which he had adopted of late, and had entered fully into the
spirit of the affair.  There was no fear that the wily Valois fox
would slip from out the trap which was being so skilfully laid for
him.

Already messengers, dressed in Monseigneur the governor's livery,
were flying all over the town, carrying letters and sign-manuals.
Directly these were delivered, extraordinary bustle and activity came
at once into being in the official and municipal centres of the city.
The Provosts could be seen, wearing their chain of office and
hurrying to the Town Hall, where they were received by the Chief
Magistrate.  Orders and counter-orders flew from one end of the town
to the other, from the Citadel to the Palace and from Cantimpré to
the Château, while, by special command of M. le Marquis de Landas,
the entire garrison, which manned the forts, was under arms during
the whole of that night.

The humbler folk, scared by this unwonted turmoil, shut themselves up
with their families inside their houses, until a persistent rumour
reassured them that no fresh assault on the part of the besieging
army was expected, but rather that a happy, joyful and hopeful
proclamation would be made by Monseigneur the governor on the morrow,
from the balcony of the Town Hall.  Whereupon fear and trouble were
for the moment put resolutely away.  The people were beginning to
suffer so acutely, that they were abjectly thankful for any ray of
hope, which gleamed through the darkness of their ever-present
misery.  With the Duke of Parma's armies at their gates, they were
still clinging to the thought that some mighty Power would take
compassion on them, and come to their rescue with a force strong
enough to inflict a severe defeat upon the Spaniard.  They had not
yet reached the final stages of despair.  They were still ready to
seize every opportunity for forgetfulness, for enjoyment even,
whenever it was offered or allowed them.  Rumour had been persistent
about the help which was to come from France.  Messire de Balagny's
presence in the city had confirmed the hopes which had rested upon
those rumours.  Now, with the knowledge that Monseigneur had a joyful
announcement to make, mercurial temperaments rose for
awhile--especially among the young.  The older people had been too
often deluded with flowery promises to believe in any good fortune
for their unfortunate city.  They had seen the fate of others--of
Mons and of Mechlin and of Gand.  The might of the Spanish armies
always conquered in the end, and the rebellious cities had been made
to suffer untold brutalities, as a punishment for their heroic
resistance.

Fortunately for the morale of Cambray, these older people, these
wiseacres, were still in the minority, and hope is of all human
attributes the strongest and the most persistent.  So, despite the
prognostications and fear of pessimists, people rose early on the
following morning, in order betimes to decorate their houses.  Soon
after dawn, activities began; flags were dragged out of old, disused
coffers and hung out of windows and balconies; the women sought, in
their worm-eaten dower chests, for any scraps of finery that may have
survived from the happy olden days, before their Spanish tyrants had
made of this prosperous land a forlorn wilderness.

By eight o'clock the beleaguered city looked almost gay.  The shops
were closed; soldiers paraded the streets; the city guilds, their
masters and their 'prentices, came out with banners flying, to stand
in groups upon the Grand' Place.  If a stranger could have dropped
into Cambray from the skies on that fine April morning, he would of a
truth have doubted if any Spanish army was encamped around these
walls.


II

Even Gilles de Crohin, absorbed as he was in his own affairs, could
not fail to notice the generally festive air which hung about the
place.  In the quarter where he lodged, it is true that very little
of that holiday mood had found its way down the narrow streets and
into the interior of squalid houses, where the pinch of cold and
hunger had already made itself insistently felt.  But as soon as he
was past the Place aux Bois, he began to wonder what was in the wind.
The populace had been at obvious pains to put aside for the moment
every outward sign of the misery which it endured.  The women had
donned their best clothes, the men no longer hung about at street
corners, looking hungry and gaunt.  They did not even scowl in the
wake of the masked stranger, so lately the object of their ire, as
the latter hurried along on his way to the Palace.

And then there were the flags, and the open windows, the draped
balconies and pots of bright-coloured early tulips--all so different
to the dreary, drab appearance which Cambray had worn of late.

But, nevertheless, Gilles himself would have told you afterwards that
no suspicion of Monseigneur d'Inchy's intentions crossed his mind.
Vaguely he thought that Messire de Balagny's arrival had been
announced to the townfolk, and that the promise of help from France
had been made the occasion of a public holiday.  And he himself was
in too much of a fume to pay serious heed to anything but his own
affairs--to anything, in fact, but his own departure, which had been
so provokingly delayed until this morning.

And this veracious chronicle has all along put it on record that
Messire Gilles de Crohin was not a man of patience.  Imagine his
choler, his fretting rage when, fully prepared for his journey,
mounted upon the same horse which had brought him into Cambray a
month ago, and duly accompanied by Maître Jehan, who had a pack-horse
on the lead, he had presented himself on the previous afternoon at
the Porte Notre Dame with his original safe-conduct, and was
incontinently refused exit from the city, owing to strict orders
issued by the commandant of the garrison that no one should be
allowed to pass out of the gates under any pretext whatsoever.

Gilles had argued, persuaded, demanded; but he himself was too
thorough a soldier not to have realized from the first that every
argument would be futile.  The captain of the guard assured him that
he could do nothing in the face of the strict and uncompromising
orders which he had received.  Gilles was of course quite certain
that some one had blundered--a mere matter of formality, which
Monseigneur the governor could put right with a stroke of the
pen--but it was obviously not for a subordinate officer to question
his orders, or to take any revision thereto upon himself; and Gilles,
after receiving the captain's courteous regrets, had no option but to
ride away.

It was then six o'clock of the afternoon, and the brilliance of the
early spring day was quickly fading into dusk.  A boisterous wind had
sprung up, which brought heavy banks of cloud along, threatening
rain.  But, rain or shine, Gilles had no thought as yet of giving up
his purpose.  There were other gates within the city walls, and
wrapping his mantle closely round his shoulders, he gave spur to his
horse and started on a new quest, closely followed by Maître Jehan.
It is on record that he went the round of every gate, armed with his
safe-conduct and with as much patience as he could muster.
Alternately he tried bribery, persuasion, stealth; but nothing
availed.  The town garrison was everywhere under arms; orders had
been given, and no one, be he the highest in the land, was allowed to
leave.

Had the matter been vital or the adventure worth the trial, I doubt
not but what Messire would have endeavoured to get through at all
costs--have scaled the city walls, swam the river, challenged the
Spanish lines and run the gauntlet of archers and gunners, in order
to accomplish what he wanted, if he had wanted it badly.  But a few
hours' delay in his journey could make no matter, and truth to tell
he was in no mood for senseless adventure.

In the meanwhile, however, several hours had been wasted on fruitless
errands.  It was late evening.  The heavy gale had brought along its
due complement of rain.  It were certainly not seemly to disturb
Monseigneur the governor in the Palace at this hour, so Gilles and
Jehan returned, sorely disappointed, to their lodgings, there to
spend a sleepless night, waiting for the first reasonable hour in the
morning wherein Monseigneur the governor might be expected to
transact business.  And I can confidently affirm that no suspicion of
what was in contemplation for the confusion of the fickle Prince,
crossed Gilles' mind, as he lay half the night, staring into the
darkness, with the image of Jacqueline haunting his tortured brain.


III

At eight o'clock the next morning, he was once more at the
Archiepiscopal Palace, demanding to see Monseigneur.  Not wishing to
challenge any comparison at this eleventh hour between his two
entities, he had elected to present himself under his disguise and
his mask, and to send in a greeting to Monseigneur with the message
that Messire le Prince de Froidmont desired to speak with him
immediately.

But it seems that Monseigneur had been very ill all night and had not
yet risen.  A leech was in attendance, who, ignorant of the true rank
of this early visitor, strictly forbade that the sick man should be
disturbed.  No doubt if Messire le Prince de Froidmont would present
himself a couple of hours later--the leech added suavely--Monseigneur
would be prepared to see him.

It was in very truth a trial of patience, and I marvel how Gilles'
temper stood the strain.  The fact that he was a stranger in the
city, without a friend, surrounded too by a goodly number of enemies,
may be accountable for his exemplary patience.  Certain it is that he
did once again return to his lodgings, anathematizing in his heart
all these stodgy and procrastinating Flemings, but otherwise calm
and, I repeat, wholly unsuspecting.

At ten o'clock, a runner came to him with a message that Monseigneur
had been unexpectedly summoned to the Town Hall, but, not wishing to
disappoint M. le Prince de Froidmont, he begged the latter to go
forthwith to see him there.  So Gilles left horses and baggage in
Maître Julien's charge and, accompanied by Jehan, he proceeded on
foot to the Town Hall.  He had much difficulty in forcing his way
through the crowd, which had become very dense, especially in and
about the Grand' Place.

Gilles, indeed, could not help but notice the festive appearance of
the town, the flags, the flowers, the banners of the guilds.  Above
all, the good-humour of the crowd was in such strange contrast to
their habitual surliness.  Instead of uttering insults against the
masked stranger, as he jostled them with his elbows and a rapid 'By
your leave!' they chaffed and teased him, laughed and joked among
themselves in perfect good-humour.

In and about the Town Hall there was a large concourse of people,
city fathers and high dignitaries in official attire.  The perron
steps were decorated with huge pots of Dutch earthenware, placed at
intervals all the way up as far as the entrance doors and filled with
sheaves of white Madonna lilies, produced at great cost at this
season of the year in the hothouses of the Archiepiscopal Palace.
Pots containing the same priceless flowers could also be seen up on
the huge balcony above the entrance, and showing through the
interstices of the stonework of the splendid balustrade.  There was
also a guard of honour--halbardiers in their gorgeous attire--who
lined the hall and the grand staircase as far as the upper floor.

When Gilles appeared outside the huge entrance gates, an usher in
sober black came forward from some hidden corner of the hall, and
approached him with marked deference.  Monseigneur the governor had
given orders that directly M. le Prince de Froidmont presented
himself at the Town Hall he was to be shown up to the Council Room.

Gilles, having ordered Jehan to wait for him below, followed the
usher up the grand staircase, noting with the first gleam of
suspicious surprise that the guard presented arms as he went by.

But even then he did not guess.


IV

The Council Room was crowded when Gilles entered.  At first he felt
quite dazed.  The whole scene was so ununderstandable, so different
to what he had expected.  He had thought of finding Monseigneur the
governor alone in a small apartment; and here he was ushered into a
magnificent hall, harmoniously ornamented with priceless Flemish
tapestry above the rich carving of the wainscoting.  The hall was
crowded with men, some of whom he had vaguely seen on the night of
the banquet at the Archiepiscopal Palace.  There was the Chief
Magistrate, a venerable old man, gorgeously decorated with a massive
gold chain and other insignia of authority; there were the Mayors of
the City guilds, each recognizable by their robes of state and the
emblems of their trades; there were the Provosts and the Captains of
the guard and the Chiefs of the Guild of Archers, with their crimson
sashes, and there was also Monseigneur the governor, looking more
pompous and solemn than he had ever done before.

Gilles was once more deeply thankful for the mask which covered his
face, together with its expression of boundless astonishment,
amounting to consternation, which must inevitably have betrayed him.
Already he would have retreated if he could; but even as the swift
thought crossed his mind, the ushers closed the doors behind him, the
guard fell in, and he was--there was no mistaking it--a virtual
prisoner.

Dressed for the journey, booted and spurred, with leather jerkin and
heavy belt, he stood for a moment, isolated, at the end of the room,
a magnificent and picturesque figure, mysterious and defiant--yes,
defiant!  For he knew in one instant that he had been trapped and
that he, the gambler, had been set to play a losing game.

His quick, keen glance swept over the dignified assembly.
Monseigneur, in the centre, was advancing to greet him, bowing almost
to the ground in the excess of his deference.  Every head was bared,
the captains of the guard had drawn their swords and held them up to
the salute.  Through the wide-open, monumental windows, the pale
April sun came peeping in, throwing a glint of gold upon the rich
robes of the Provosts and the Mayors.  A murmur of respectful
greeting went round the room, followed immediately by loud and
prolonged cheering; and Gilles--suddenly alive to the whole
situation--took his plumed hat from off his head and, with a
splendidly insolent gesture, made a sweeping bow to the assembled
dignitaries.  His life, his honour, his safety, were hanging by a
thread.  He stood like a trapped beast before a number of men who
anon would be clamouring perhaps for his blood; but the whole
situation suddenly struck him as so boundlessly humorous, the
solemnity of all these worthy Flemings would presently be so
completely ruffled, that Gilles forgot the danger he was in, the
precariousness of the position in which he stood, only to remember
its entirely ludicrous aspect.

'Long live His Highness le Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon!' came in rousing
cheers, which woke the echoes of the old Town Hall.

And outside, on the Grand' Place, the people heard the cheering.
They did not know yet what it was about, but they had come out on
this fine April morning to enjoy themselves, to forget their
troubles, their danger, their miseries; and when they heard the
cheering, they responded with full throat and heart, and acclaimed
not what they knew but what they hoped.

'You have beaten me, Messire,' Gilles said in a good-humoured whisper
to Monseigneur the governor, as the latter bent one knee to the
ground and kissed the gracious hand of the Valois Prince.  'Never was
game so skilfully trapped!  All my compliments, Messire.  You are a
born----' 'liar' he would have said, but checked himself just in time
and used the smoother word--'diplomatist.'

'Your Highness will not grudge us our little ruse,' d'Inchy riposted
under his breath with a suave smile.  'It is all for your
glorification and the exaltation of our promised union with France.'

'Take care, Messire!' retorted Gilles, 'that your want of trust in me
doth not receive the punishment it deserves.'

He had still the thought that he might run away.  The only time in
the whole course of his life that Gilles de Crohin had the desire to
show a clean pair of heels to the enemy!  If he could only have seen
the slightest chance of getting away, he would have taken it--through
door or window, up the chimney or the side of a house--any way, in
fact, out of this abominable trap which these astute Flemings had so
skilfully laid for him.  And this, despite the fact that he had spied
his arch-enemy, de Landas, at the far end of the room--de Landas, who
was gazing on him, not only in mockery but also in triumph.

Nevertheless, Gilles was ready to turn his back even on de
Landas--anything, anything, in fact, to get away; for the situation,
besides being ludicrous, was tragic too, and desperate.  One false
move on his part, one unconsidered word, and the whole fabric of
Madame la Reyne's schemes would totter to the ground.  He seemed to
see her now, with her gracious hand extended towards him and the
tears streaming down her cheeks, while she said with solemn
earnestness: 'When a prince of the house of Valois breaks his word,
the shame of it bears upon us all!'  He seemed to see himself with
his hand upon the crosshilt of his sword, swearing by all that he
held most sacred and most dear that he would see this business
through to the end.  Indeed, the end was in sight, and he felt like a
soldier who has been left all alone to defend a citadel and ordered
to hold it at all costs.

That citadel was the honour of France.

And the soldier-nature in him not only refused to give in, but at
this supreme hour rejoiced in the task.  He _would_ hold on at all
costs for the honour of _Monsieur_, his master; but, above all, for
the honour of France.  If contumely, disgrace or shame was to fall,
in consequence of this gigantic hoax, then it must fall entirely on
him--Gilles de Crohin, the penniless adventurer--not upon a Prince of
the Royal House of France.  Either he would be able to extricate
himself from this desperate position with the mask still upon his
face and _Monsieur's_ secret still inviolate before these assembled
Flemings, or the whole burden of knavery and imposture must fall upon
him alone--the shameless rogue who had impersonated his master for
some unavowable purpose, and perpetrated this impudent fraud for the
sake of some paltry gain.

It only took him a few seconds thus to pass the whole situation,
present and future, in a brief review before his mind.  Having done
it, he felt stronger and keener for the fight and ready for any
eventuality.  The honour of France!--and he left here to guard it!
... Ye gods! but he felt prouder than any king!  Contumely, disgrace,
exposure, an ignominious flight--mayhap a shameful death.  Bah! what
mattered anything so long as the honour of France and of her Royal
House remained untarnished before the world?

Fortunately Jacqueline was not here!  Perhaps she would not come!
Perhaps these wily fools, when they had set their trap, had left her
out of their reckoning.  In which case, all might be well; the
chances of exposure remained remote.  A little more impudence, a
brief half-hour still of this abominable rôle, and the curtain must
fall at last upon the farcical tragedy and he, Gilles, would be free
to become an honest man once more.

A little luck!!  And, remember that he was a gambler, and staking his
all upon the last throw!

And as, one by one, the city dignitaries came up to be presented by
the governor to His Highness, and as the minutes sped away, hope once
more knocked at the gateway of the adventurer's heart.  One by one
they came, these solemn Flemings.  They bent the knee and kissed the
hand of the Prince who was to be their Sovereign Lord.  And some of
them were old and others very rheumatic; most of them appeared to
Gilles highly ridiculous in this homage rendered to an impostor.  The
desire to laugh aloud became positive torture after awhile, and yet
nothing but self-possession _could_ carry the day, now that every
second rendered Gilles' position more hopeful.

For still Jacqueline did not come!  Jacqueline! the only person
inside this city who could betray him, and she the one being in the
entire world before whom he would have wished to remain deserving and
unimpeached.  She of a truth would know him amongst a thousand; her
loving, searching eyes would laugh at masks and disguises!  Her
finger alone could, at sight of him, point at him with scorn; her
voice, like that of an avenging angel, could be raised against him,
saying:

'That man is a liar and a cheat!  He is not the Duc d'Anjou!'


V

Monseigneur the governor acted throughout as the Master of
Ceremonies.  Obsequious and suave, he seemed to have no wish save to
please His Highness in all things, and to make him forget the want of
trust that the present ceremony implied.  He hovered round Gilles,
executing a manoeuvre which the latter was certainly too guileless to
notice.  It was a case of: 'On this side, I entreat Your Highness!'
and 'Here is Messire de Haynin, who craves the honour...' or 'If Your
Highness would deign to speak with Messire d'Anthoin.'  All very
subtle and unnoticeable, but it meant that every time a city father
came to kiss hands, Gilles, in order to greet him, had to take a step
or two forward, and that each step brought him a trifle nearer to the
open window.  That window gave directly on La Bretèque, the vast
terrace-like balcony which overlooked the Grand' Place and which had
so often been the scene of historic proclamations.  Suddenly Gilles
found himself there, in the open, with a huge concourse of people
down below at his feet.

He had Monseigneur the governor on his left, and the company of city
fathers and dignitaries had followed him out on La Bretèque.  They
were standing in a compact group around him; and all down the length
of the balcony, at the foot of the balustrade, there were huge pots
filled with those Madonna lilies, which seemed like the very emblem
of Jacqueline.

Time had gone on; the crowd had cheered at sight of him, and Gilles
had gradually been lulled into a semblance of security.  Then
suddenly, from the far end of the balcony, some fifty paces away,
there came the sound of an usher's voice calling in stentorian tones:

'Make room for Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, Duchesse et Princesse de
Ramèse, d'Espienne et de Wargny!  Make room!'

And down the vista of the long terrace, he caught sight of Jacqueline
advancing towards him between the avenue of lilies.  She was dressed
in a white satin gown, and she had pearls round her neck and in her
hair.  The April sun fell full upon her, and the soft breeze blew the
tendrils of her hair, like strands of gold, about her face.  With a
sinking of the heart, Gilles saw that she walked with a weary and
listless step; but she held herself very erect, with head slightly
thrown back, looking straight out before her as she came.  A mask of
black satin hid her face, but even though he could not see those
heavenly blue eyes of hers, Gilles had realized in a moment that his
beloved knew everything.

An access of wellnigh savage rage sent the hot blood up to his head.
For the space of one second everything around him took on a blood-red
hue, and he turned on d'Inchy with convulsed fingers, prepared to
grip him by the throat.  Already the cry 'You miserable scoundrel!'
hovered on his lips....  Then he checked himself.  What was the good?
D'Inchy had acted rightly, in accordance with his own lights.  He
wished to make sure that the Valois Prince, who had broken so many
promises in his life, should at least on this one occasion be
irrevocably fettered.  The assembled dignitaries, the crowd down
below, the whole city of Cambray should witness the solemn plighting
of his troth.  And Jacqueline--the unfortunate, innocent pawn in all
these intrigues--should be the one whose weak, small hands would hold
him indissolubly to his bond.

There was a moment of tense silence.  Gilles could hear his own heart
beating in his breast.  He had of a truth ceased to feel and to
think.  The situation was so hopeless now, so stupendous, that it was
beyond human power to grapple with.  He hardly felt that he was
alive; a kind of greyish veil had interposed itself between his eyes
and that group of solemn Flemish worthies around him.  And through
that veil he could see their podgy faces, red and round, and grinning
at him with great cavern-like mouths, and eyes that darted fierce
flames upon him.  Of a truth, he thought that he was going mad, had a
wild desire to throw back his head and to laugh--laugh loudly and
long; laugh for ever at the discomfiture of some fool who was
standing there in his--Gilles de Crohin's--shoes; at that fool who
had thought to carry through a long farce unchecked, and who
presently would be unmasked by the very woman whom he loved, and
driven forth under opprobrium and ignominy into an outer world, where
he could never look an honest man in the face again.

Perhaps he would have laughed--for the muscles round his mouth were
itching till they ached--only that, just then, in the very midst of
the crowd below, he caught sight of de Landas' mocking glance--de
Landas, who had been in the Council Room awhile ago, and who
apparently had since mixed with the crowd for the sole purpose of
witnessing his successful rival's discomfiture.  This seemed to
stiffen him suddenly, to drag him back from out that whirlpool of
wild sensations wherein he was floundering, and which was bowling him
along, straight to dementia.

'No, my friend Gilles!' he said to himself.  'Since you are to die
dishonoured, at least die like a man.  Not before all these people;
not before that man who hates you, not before that woman who loves
you, shall you flinch in the face of Destiny.  You have played many
ignoble parts these days; do not now play that of a coward!'

And he stood quietly there, still picturesque and magnificent, still
defying Fate which had played him this last, desperate trick, while
Monseigneur advanced to Jacqueline, took her hand and said aloud in
measured tones of ceremony, so that every one there might hear:

'My dear Jacqueline, it is with inexpressible joy that mine old eyes
behold this happy hour.  _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, Prince
of the House of France, hath asked your hand in marriage.  We, your
guardians, do but await your consent to this union which we had
planned for the great good of our beloved country.  Say the word, my
dear Jacqueline, and I myself will proclaim to our poor, sorrowing
people the joyful news that a Liberator hath come to them at last,
and that the United Provinces of the Netherlands may look to him as
their Sovereign Lord and King.'

Jacqueline had listened to Monseigneur's peroration with perfect
composure.  She stood then not ten paces away from Gilles--the only
woman in the midst of all these men who were gambling with her
destiny.  Through her mask she was looking on Gilles, and on him
only, feeling that the whole abyss of loathing, which filled her soul
for him, would be conveyed to him through her look.

She had believed in him so completely, trusted him so implicitly,
that now that she knew him to be both a liar and a cheat, she felt
that the very well-spring of her love had turned to bitter hate.  And
hate in a strong and sensitive nature is at least as potent as love.
What the mystery was wherewith he chose to surround himself, she did
not know.  What the object of the hideous comedy which he had played
could be, she hardly cared.  All that she knew was that he had
cheated her and played her false, stolen her love from her to suit
some political intrigue of which he held the threads--helped in any
case in a hideous and clumsy deception which would leave her for ever
shamed.

But now she knew just what she had to do.  She might have unmasked
the deception last night, told Monseigneur the truth and opened his
eyes to the stupid fraud that was perpetrated upon him.  What stopped
her from doing that she did not know.  Perhaps she still hoped that
something would occur that would give a simple explanation of the
difficult puzzle.  Perhaps she thought that when she would be brought
face to face with the man who was impersonating the Duc d'Anjou, that
man would prove to be some low impostor, but not her knight--not the
man who had held her in his arms and sworn that his love for her was
as pure as that of the lark for the sun.  And if, indeed, she had
been so hideously deceived, if her idol prove to have not only feet
of clay but heart of stone and soul of darkness, then she would
unmask him, publicly, daringly, before the entire people of Cambray,
humiliate him so utterly that his very name would become a by-word
for all that was ignominious and base, and find some solace for her
misery in the satisfaction of seeing him brought to shame.

Therefore Jacqueline had said nothing last night to
Monseigneur--nothing this morning.  When requested by her guardian to
prepare for this day's ceremony, she had obeyed without a word.  Now
she listened to his speech until the end.  After which, she said
calmly:

'Like yourself, Monseigneur, I am covered with confusion at thought
of the great honour which a Prince of the House of France will do to
our poor country.  I would wish, with your permission, to express my
deep respect for him ere I place my hand in his.'

Whereupon Monseigneur stood a little to one side, so that Jacqueline
and Gilles remained directly facing one another.  Every one was
watching the young pair, and kindly murmurs of approval at the beauty
of the girl, and the martial bearing of the man, flew from mouth to
mouth.

Jacqueline, stately and dignified as was her wont, advanced a step or
two.  Then she said slowly:

'And is it of a truth _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon who stands
before me now?'

She looked straight at him, and he in imagination saw beneath the
mask which hid the expression of her face--saw those blue eyes which
had looked on him yesterday with such ineffable tenderness; saw those
exquisite lips which had murmured words of infinite love.  An utter
loathing overcame him of the part which he had to play, of the fraud
which was to deliver his beloved into the keeping of a worthless
reprobate.  He was conscious only of a wild desire to throw himself
at her feet in an agony of remorse and repentance, to kiss her gown,
the tips of her velvet shoes; and then to proclaim the truth, to put
it for ever out of that profligate Prince's power to claim this
exquisite woman as his bride--to proclaim the truth, and then to run
away like a second Cain, from the scene of an unforgivable crime; to
flee like the treacherous soldier who hath deserted the citadel; to
flee, leaving behind him the tattered rag of France's honour lying
for ever soiled in the dust, beneath the feet of a duped and
credulous nation.

Just then she put out her hand--that perfect hand, which he had held
in his and which to his touch had seemed like the petal of a flower,
and she said, with the same solemn deliberation:

'Is it in truth to the Duc d'Anjou himself that I herewith plight my
troth?'

The avowal was on Gilles' lips.

'Madame----' he began, and looked unflinchingly, straightforwardly at
her.

But before he could speak another word, a cry suddenly rang
out--shrill and terrifying--out of the crowd.

'Do not touch him, Madame!  Do not touch him!  He is not the Duc
d'Anjou!  He is an impostor and a liar!  A Spanish spy!  Beware!!'

Monseigneur, the city fathers, the Mayor--every one on La Bretèque,
in fact--gasped with horror.  How dared these abominable agitators
mar the beauty of this affecting ceremony?  Monseigneur went forward,
leaned over the balustrade in order to try and ascertain who it was
who was trying to create a disturbance.  He saw de Landas down below
in the midst of the throng, vaguely wondered what the young
commandant was doing there, when his place was up on La Bretèque
amongst those of his own rank.  Anyway, he spoke to de Landas,
shouted himself hoarse to make the young man hear, for an unpleasant
turmoil had followed that first cry of 'Spanish spy'--people were
shouting and gesticulating and the call 'Down with him!' came
repeatedly from several points in the rear of the crowd.

De Landas looked up, but he pretended not to hear, laughed and
shrugged his shoulders, as if the matter did not concern him.  And
yet there was no mistaking the persistence with which that ominous
cry 'Spanish spy!' was taken up again and again, nor the disturbing
effect which it had upon the crowd.

Monseigneur then tried to harangue the mob, to point out to them the
evil of their ways.  Had they forgotten that they were out to enjoy
themselves, to forget their troubles, to forget the very fact that
the words 'Spaniard' and 'Spanish' existed in their lexicon.  But
Messire de Landas' paid agents would not let him speak.  They had
been paid to create a disturbance, not to let the people stand about
placidly, listening to windy harangues.

So, the moment Monseigneur opened his mouth, the whole gang of them
took up the provocative cry: 'A Spanish spy!  Take care, Madame
Jacqueline!' until it was repeated over and over again by numberless
voices, hoarse with excitement and with spite.  The crowd oscillated
as if driven by a sudden blast; ominous murmurs came from those
points where women and men stood in compact and sullen groups.

'Spanish spy!  Beware!' rang out again and again.

Monseigneur the governor was in a wild state of agitation.  He could
not understand what it was that had set some rowdy malcontents to
disturb the peaceful serenity of this eventful morning.  Unable to
make himself heard, he turned in helpless bewilderment to Gilles.

'Monseigneur,' he began, in a voice quivering with consternation.  'I
do entreat you...'

But he got no further.  Above this peroration, above the shuffling
and the mutterings of his friends on the balcony, above the cries and
murmurs down below, there had suddenly resounded the dull boom of
distant cannon.  The crowd gave one terrific, full-throated roar of
terror:

'The Spaniards!  They are on us!'

And in the seething mass of humanity on the Grand' Place could be
seen just that awful, ominous swaying which precedes a stampede.
Already the women screamed and some men shouted: 'Sauve qui peut!'

'The Spanish spy!' cried a voice.  'What did I tell you, citizens?
He hath taken advantage of this holiday to bring the Spaniards about
your ears!'

Now the swaying of the crowd became like a tidal wave upon the bosom
of the ocean.  Hundreds of men and women and little children started
to move, not in one direction but in several, like frightened sheep
who know not whither to go.  Yells and screams, some of rage others
of terror, rose in a wild tumult from below.  And through it all a
few persistent voices--recognizable by the well-known guttural tone
peculiar to those of Spanish blood--shouted themselves hoarse with
the persistent cry: 'The Spaniards are on us!  We are betrayed!'


VI

Monseigneur the governor, unable to make himself heard, helpless and
gravely perturbed, hurried into the Council Room, and after him
trooped the city fathers like a flock of scared hens.  Confusion at
once reigned inside the Town Hall as much as out on the Place--a
confusion that could be felt rather than heard, a dull murmur of
voices, a scurrying and pattering of feet.

Once more the cannon roared, and the weird sound was followed by a
prolonged volley of musket shot.

'They are on us!  Sauve qui peut!'

Then, suddenly, far away in the direction of Cantimpré, a huge column
of smoke rose to the sky.  It was immediately followed by a
stupendous report which literally shook the ground beneath the feet
of this terror-stricken mass of humanity.  A shower of broken glass
fell at several points with a loud clatter on to the pavements below,
and in absolutely wild and unreasoning terror, the crowd began to
push and to jostle, to drive, and shove, and batter anything or any
one that came in the way.  Men and women in their terror had become
like a herd of stampeding beasts, tearing at every obstacle, hurling
maledictions and missiles, fighting, pushing, to get back to their
homes, hammering at doors that had already been hastily barred and
bolted, by those who happened to have found shelter inside the houses
close by.

'They are on us!  Sauve qui peut!'

This time it was a company of the city guard, who came running
helter-skelter from the direction of the Citadel, halbertmen and
pikemen, most of them unarmed, others with their steel bonnets set
awry upon their heads, not a few leaving a trail of blood behind them
as they ran.

'Sauve qui peut!'  The deathly call of the runaway soldier, the most
awesome sound the ear of man can hear.  And over from St. Géry came
others running too, the archers from Notre Dame, and on the right
there were the gunners from Seille.  They were running; like hunted
deer, swiftly, panting, their jerkins torn, the slashings of their
doublets hanging on them in strips.

They added the final horrible note of hopelessness to the terror and
the confusion.  From every corner of the city there rose cries of
distress, shrill screams from women and children, loud curses from
the men.  The very air was filled with these dismal sounds, whilst
the Unseen which was happening somewhere upon the ramparts of the
city, appeared vastly more terrifying than the Seen.

And, far away, the cannon still roared and columns of fire and smoke
rose with lurid significance to the sky.


VII

And yet it had all occurred within a very few minutes.  Gilles and
Jacqueline were left alone now on La Bretèque, and neither of them
had thought of fleeing.  For each of them the awesome moment was just
a pause wherein their minds faced the only important problem--how to
help and what to do, singly, against that terrible tide.

It was just a moment--the space, perhaps, of a dozen heart-beats.
All around them the turbulent passions of men--fear, enmity,
greed--were raging in all their unbridled frenzy.  The cannons
roared, the walls of the ancient city tottered; but they stood in a
world apart, he--the man who unknowingly had played so ignominious a
part--and she, the woman whom he had so heinously wronged.  He tried
to read her innermost thoughts behind that forbidding mask, and a mad
appeal to her for forgiveness rose, even at this supreme instant, to
his lips.

But the appeal was never made.  The man's feelings, his grief, his
shame were all swept aside by the stirring of the soldier's soul.  It
was the moment when first the cannon roared and the runaway guard
came running through the streets, Gilles saw them long before they
had reached the Grand' Place.  He realized what it all meant, saw the
unutterable confusion and panic which would inevitably render the
city an easy prey to the invader.  He gave a cry of horror and dismay.

'My God! but 'tis black treachery that has been at work this day!' he
exclaimed involuntarily.

She had not yet seen the runaway guard, did not perhaps for the
moment realize the utter imminence of the peril.  Her mind was still
busy with the difficult problem--how to help, what to do.  But his
involuntary cry suddenly roused her ire and her bitter
disillusionment.

'You should know Messire,' she retorted.  'You are well versed in the
art.'

'God forgive me, I am!' he ejaculated ruefully.  'But this!' he added
with a smothered oath, and pointed down to the panic-stricken
soldiers.  'This! ... Oh, my God!  Your safety, your precious life at
stake!  You'll not believe, Jacqueline,' he pleaded, 'that I had a
hand in selling your city to your enemies?'

'In selling the city!'  The words appeared to have whipped up her
spirit as with a lash.  She looked at him, wrathfully, boldly, with a
still unspoken challenge lurking in her eyes.  'You do not believe
that----'

'That traitors have engineered her perdition?' he broke in rapidly.
'I do!'

'But----'

'The disturbance in the crowd ... the panic ... the deserters ...
those abominable agitators!  In a few hours the Spaniards will be
inside the city--and Cambray lost!'

'Cambray lost!  Impossible!'

'With no discipline, no leaders....  She cannot resist----'

'Then you must lead her,' she said firmly.

'I?'

'Yes!  You!'

She had taken the mask from off her face and confronted him now with
a glowing challenge in her eyes.

'You!' she reiterated, speaking very rapidly.  'Whoever you are, save
Cambray ... defend her ... save her!  I know that you can.'

In the look which she gave him he read something which filled his
very soul with rapture.  He gave her back glance for glance, worship
for this trust.

'I can at any rate die for her,' he said quietly.  'If you, ma donna,
will forgive.'

'Save Cambray,' she reiterated with superb confidence, 'and I'll
forgive everything!'

'Then may God have you in His keeping,' he called to her.  And,
before she could realize what was in his purpose, he had climbed to
the top of the tall balustrade, stood for one moment there high above
her, silhouetted against the clear blue of the sky, like a living
statue of youth and enthusiasm and springtide, animated by that faith
which moveth mountains and sets out to conquer the world in order to
lay it at the loved one's feet.

'Jehan!' he called.  'À moi!'

Then, swinging himself with the easy grace of perfect strength, he
jumped down on to the perron below.




CHAPTER XXIII

WHILE TRAITORS ARE AT WORK


I

And now, I pray you think of Jacqueline running to the balustrade
and, with glowing eyes looking over the stonework upon the perron
beneath her.  Jehan has caught his master as the latter touches the
ground, and for the space of two or three seconds the two men stand
at the top of the steps, locked in each other's arms, steadying one
another.  During those few seconds Messire whispers hurriedly in his
faithful henchman's ears:

'De Balagny's troops from La Fère ... at all costs....  Understand?'

Jehan nods.

'Tell them to attack from the Bapaume Road, with as much clatter and
shouting as may be.  We'll hold on till they come.  Go!'

He waits another few seconds until he sees Jehan's burly form
disappear through the throng, then with a loud call, 'À moi! all you
citizens of Cambray who are not cowards and traitors!' he draws his
sword and faces the crowd.

He has a clear and resonant voice, which rises above the tumult.  The
panic-stricken throng of men and women pause mechanically in their
unconsidered flight, to look on that strange apparition on the perron
steps--strange, in truth; for towering up there, he looks
preternaturally tall, and the black mask on his face gives him an air
of mystery.

'Citizens of Cambray,' he continues lustily.  'The Spaniard is at
your gate!  Are you going to let the traitors have their day?'

The crowd sways towards him.  Frightened as every one is, there is a
momentary lull in the wild stampede, while scared, wide-eyed, pallid
faces are turned towards the stranger.  The runaway soldiers, too,
pause, in their headlong rush.  A company of pikemen stand in a
compact group on the edge of the crowd, some fifty paces away from
Gilles.  Their captain, bonnetless, with tattered jerkin and face
streaming with sweat, is in their midst.  Messire sees him, and
shouts to him with all his might.

'Captain of the guard, Cambray is in peril!  What are you doing here?'

The man evidently wavers; he looks shamed and overcome, tries to hide
himself behind his subordinates.  But some one close at his
elbow--Jacqueline cannot see who it is--appears to egg him on, and
after an instant's hesitation he says sullenly:

'The Spaniards are on us, and----'

'Then why are you not on the Spaniards?' retorts Gilles.

'They have made a breach at Cantimpré.'

'Then where are your counter-mines?'

'Under the bastion.'

'Did you fire them?'

'No.  The whole fort is crumbling already.  It would tumble about our
ears.'

'Then why are you not at the breach to make a rampart of your body?'

Again the man wavers.  He is a soldier and a tried one, appears
bewildered at his own act of treachery.  It seemed at the time as if
some one--some devil--had put cowardice into his heart at the very
moment when courage and presence of mind were most urgently needed.
The men, too, had faltered, broken most unexpectedly at the first
assault, throwing down their arms.  Even the gunners....  But it
wouldn't bear thinking of.  In truth, some devil had been at work, is
at work now; for when the men and the captain, already stirred by
Gilles' enthusiasm, looking ashamed and crestfallen, are on the point
of cheering, a peremptory voice, laden with spite, rises from
somewhere in the rear.

'Captain of the guard!  I forbid you to listen to this man!  He is a
cheat and an impostor!'

It is de Landas, who, hidden at the back of the crowd, has seen
Gilles jump down from the balcony, and scenting danger to his
infamous scheme, has been at pains to force his way to the forefront
of the mob.  It has taken him some time and vigorous play of the
elbows, for the crowd has become interested in the masked
stranger--in the man whom they had nearly murdered twenty-four hours
ago, but whose appearance and words to-day are distinctly inspiriting
and reassuring.

De Landas has one of his favourite familiars with him--the Fleming,
Maarege--and together the two men stand now, commanding and arrogant,
in front of the soldiers and their captain.  And they, recognizing
the chief commandant of the garrison, are once more panic-stricken
and dumb.  Vague ideas of discipline and punishment, to which the
young Spaniard had accustomed them, check their enthusiasm for the
stranger.

Now de Landas has taken a step or two nearer to the captain of the
guard.  His eyes are aflame with fury, and his whole attitude is one
of authority and of menace.

'If you dare parley with this man,' he says savagely, 'you will
answer for it with your life.  The Spanish armies are at your gates;
in a few hours they will be in this city.  Your only hope of pardon
for yourself, for your wife, your children and your kindred, lies in
complete and immediate surrender to the will of His Majesty the King
of Spain, my master and yours!'

'To hell with the King of Spain, your master!' Gilles' stentorian
voice breaks in from above.  'Soldiers of Cambray!' he continues
lustily, 'You have nothing to fear from the King of Spain, or from
any of his minions!  'Tis you who will punish them for all their past
insolence!  You who will dictate to them the terms of victory!'

'You miserable varlet!' exclaims de Landas, and turns on Gilles with
unbridled savagery.  'How dare you raise your voice when the King of
Spain speaks through my lips?  How dare you speak to all these
besotted fools of victory, when in submission lies their only chance
of safety?  Fools!' he goes on, and turns once more to the crowd.
'Self-deluded dupes!  Do you not feel the might of Spain closing in
upon you?  Surrender, I say!  Submit!  You are wretched and starved
and weak.  You cannot defend yourselves, and no one will come to your
aid.'

'Then do I proclaim you a liar, M. de Landas!' is Gilles' firm
retort.  'The armies of France are on their way for the relief of
Cambray, even at this hour.'

'It is false!'

'True as I live.  True as that you are a miserable traitor!  True as
there is a Heaven above us and as there are angels who visit this
earth.  Citizens of Cambray, I swear to you that the army of the King
of France will be outside your city before the April sun that smiles
upon your valour has sunk down to rest.  So give a cheer for France,
citizens of Cambray!  France, your deliverer and friend!'

His sally is greeted with a gigantic outburst of cheering.

'France!  France!'

The crowd has listened spellbound while the masked stranger bandied
words with that bastard Spaniard, whom they had all learned to loathe
long ago.  His cheery voice, his confident bearing, his exultation,
have already warmed their hearts.  Something of their terror has
vanished; they are no longer like a herd of awestruck beasts, driven
aimlessly along by senseless terror.  There is nothing in the world
so infectious as fear, except courage and enthusiasm: and Gilles'
martial figure, the proud carriage of his head, his vibrant voice and
flashing sword, are there to infuse valour even in the most abject.

The captain of the guard and his men had winced before de Landas'
threats.  Old habits of discipline could not all in a moment be
shaken off.  But now they feel that the crowd is at one with them in
their enthusiasm for the stranger, and also that they will be given a
chance of retrieving their shameful act of cowardice of awhile ago.
So, when the crowd cheers, the soldiers, despite de Landas' black
looks and his brutal menaces, following their captain's lead, cheer
too.  They cheer until the very walls of the ancient city reverberate
with the sound.

'France!  France!'

Then suddenly Gilles, at the top of the perron steps, quick as
lightning, runs to the nearest earthenware pot which is filled with
the Madonna lilies.  He plucks out a sheaf of the flowers, and with a
loud cry: 'Soldiers of Cambray, rally to the standard of France!  To
the unconquered Flower o' the Lily!' he throws the flowers one by one
to the soldiers and their captain.  The men seize them as they fly
through the air and fasten them to their bonnets or their belts.  The
crowd acclaims the spirited deed:

'Long live the flower o' the lily!' they shout.

Now Gilles is running from pot to pot.  He snatches sheaf after sheaf
of lilies and throws them to the crowd.  The flowers are caught up
with ever growing ardour, whilst every corner of the Place rings with
the triumphant call: 'France!  France!'

Far away the cannon is roaring, the air is rent with the sharp report
of muskets and the crumbling of masonry.  The translucent April sky
hath taken on a lurid hue.  Around the city walls the brutal enemy is
already swarming; he is battering at the gates, has climbed the
fortifications, run triumphantly to the assault.  Awhile ago the
crowd had cowered at the sound, fled terrified at his approach.  Now
every heart is thrilled with fervour, every soul responds to the
appeal of an enthusiast, and is glowing with the hope of victory.

And de Landas, blind with fury, sees the fruits of his abominable
treachery crumbling to dust before his eyes.  He glowers on every one
around him like a stricken bull, with rage and frenzy enkindled in
his eyes.  And suddenly, before any one there can guess his purpose,
he has laid savage hands on the Captain of the guard, and drawing a
pistol from his belt he points it at the unfortunate man's breast.

'If one of you dares to utter another sound, or to stir from this
spot,' he shrieks out in a shrill and husky voice, 'I'll shoot this
dog where he stands.'

At once the cheers immediately near him are stilled, a groan of
horror and of execration rises from an hundred throats, and for the
space of a few seconds the soldiers stand quite still, holding their
breath; for in truth it is murder which gleams out of the young
Spaniard's eyes.

'Down on your knees, you miscreant!' shouts de Landas fiercely.
'Maarege, à moi!  Help me to make a clean sweep of this herd of
rebels.  Down on your knees, every one of you!  You Flemish swine!'

'Down on your knees, M. le Marquis!' Gilles' sonorous voice rings out
like a bronze bell beneath the clapper.  With that rapidity which
characterizes his every action, he runs down the perron steps,
catches de Landas' right arm from behind and gives it such a brutal
wrench that the pistol falls from the miscreant's hand and the
Spaniard himself, sick with the pain, comes down on one knee.

'Out of the way, you hell-hound!' Gilles goes on mercilessly.  'There
is no room for traitors in Cambray.'

He kicks the pistol on one side and throws de Landas, semi-inert,
from him, as if he were a bale of noisome goods.  Then he turns and,
with an instantaneous gesture, has gripped de Landas' familiar by the
throat.

'I'll kill every one of your gang with mine own hands,' he says in a
fierce and rapid whisper, 'unless you all slink away at once like the
curs that you are!'

The words are hardly out of his mouth, and Maarege, faint and sick,
is bending under that powerful grip, when from somewhere overhead
there comes a sudden, heart-rending cry of warning.

'Take care!'

But the warning has come just a second too late.  De Landas,
recovering from semi-consciousness, has succeeded in crawling on
hands and knees and retaking possession of his pistol.  He points it
straight at his hated rival.  There is a sharp report, followed by
screams from the women.  For a second or two Gilles remains standing
just where he was, with his sinewy fingers round Maarege's throat.
Then his grip relaxes; Maarege totters back, panting and half dead,
whilst Gilles instinctively puts his hand to his shoulder.  His
jerkin is already deeply stained with blood.

De Landas gives an almost demoniacal shout of glee, which, however,
is but short-lived.  The soldiers, who had been cowed by his
brutality a moment ago, are roused to a passion of fury now at the
dastardly assault on one who has already become their idol.  They
fall on the recreant, regardless of his rank and power.  They drag
him up from the ground, wrench the pistol out of his hand and hold
him there, a panting, struggling, impotent beast, breathing hatred
and malediction.

'Give the word, Monseigneur,' the Captain says coolly, 'and we'll
kill the vermin.'  He holds the pistol to de Landas' breast, whilst
his eyes are fixed on Gilles, waiting for the order to fire.

'Let the serpent be, captain,' Gilles replies quietly.

'But you are hurt, Monseigneur,' the captain urges.

'Nothing but a scratch--'tis healed already.'

Far away the cannon thunders once more.  Once more a terrific
explosion rends the air.  Gilles, still upright, still cheery, still
brimful of enthusiasm, holds his sword up high over his head, so that
the April sun draws sparks of fire from its shining blade.

'To the breach, friends!' he cries.  'If breach there be!  À moi,
soldiers of Cambray!  Form into line and to the ramparts!  I'll be
there before you!  And you, proud citizens of a valiant city, à moi!
Pick up your staves and your sticks, your chisels and your rakes!  À
moi!  All of you, with your fists and your knees and your hearts and
your minds!  Remember Mons, and Mechlin and Gand!  Remember your
hearths! your wives! your daughters! and let the body of each one of
you here be a living rampart against the foe for the defence of your
homes.  À moi!'

The captain gives the order, the men fall in, in straight, orderly
line.  On their bonnets or in their belts the white lily gleams like
shining metal beneath the kiss of the April sun.  From the Town Hall
the bodyguard comes trooping down the perron steps.  They are joined
by the halberdiers who had lined the Grand' Place, by the archers
from St. Géry and the musketeers from the citadel.  The banners of
the city guilds flutter in the breeze; fair hands and white kerchiefs
are waved from windows and balconies above, and a terrific cheer for
France rends the air with its triumphant echo, as the crowd begins to
move slowly in the wake of the soldiers.

'Long live France!'

'Long live the Defender of Cambray!'


II

For a moment Gilles stands quite still, almost isolated where he is,
a little dizzy with excitement and with loss of blood.  An
uncomfortable veil is fast gathering in front of his eyes.  'I shall
have to see to this stupid scratch,' he murmurs to himself.

It had all occurred so quickly--within a brief quarter of an hour.
And yet the destinies of nations had been recast during that time.
Now the city fathers, the provosts, Monseigneur himself, are crowding
round the one man who they feel might still save them from dishonour.

'Your Highness, we look to you,' Monseigneur is saying.

'Tell us what you wish done,' adds the Chief Magistrate.

'The Provosts await your Highness' orders,' rejoins a pompous
dignitary, whilst yet another continues in the same strain: 'We are
body and soul at your Highness' commands.'

Their voices come to Gilles as if from somewhere far away.  They are
drowned by the tumult of the beleaguered city preparing for a last
stand.  But the instinct of the soldier keeps him steadfast on his
feet.  He makes a violent effort to keep his head clear and his voice
firm.  He gives orders to the Chief Magistrate, the Provosts, the
Mayors of the Guilds.  The forts must be visited at once, the men
encouraged, the officers admonished.  Every hour, every minute almost
is now of priceless value.  The troop brought over by Messire de
Balagany, encamped at La Fère cannot be here before sundown.  Until
then the men must stand.  Oh! they must stand, Messires!  Despite
crumbling walls and hecatombs of dead!  Let the men know that the
existence of their country is hanging to-day by a thread!

The Guild of Armourers must open up its stores: pikes, lances,
halberts, muskets, must be distributed to a contingent of citizens,
who, though untrained, will help to strengthen the living wall.  The
Guild of Apothecaries must be ready with ambulances and dressings,
and stretcher-bearers must work wonders so that the fighters are not
encumbered by the dead.

The Chief Engineer of the city must see to barricading the streets
with double rows of hurdles, or boxes, or furniture, or lumber of any
sorts, with sacks filled with earth, empty carts, wagons, clothing,
anything and everything that may be handy.  The reservoirs of the
city must be patrolled, and if it be deemed necessary, they must be
opened and the water allowed to flood the low-lying streets by the
river, if the enemy succeed in obtaining a foothold there.
Countermines must be laid; every one must to his task, and he who
does not fight must think and work and endure.

Every one obeys.  One by one, the dignitaries file away to execute
the orders which have been given them.  They all accept the
leadership of this man, whom they still believe to be the Duc
d'Anjou, their future Sovereign Lord.

'Ah, Monseigneur!' exclaims d'Inchy warmly.  'I thank God on my knees
that you are with us to-day, and that it is you who will defend our
city--the most precious pearl in your future inheritance.'

'Your Highness must save yourself as much as possible,' comes in
cordial echo from M. de Lalain.  'We could ill spare you now.'

'What would we do if Monseigneur fell?' adds another.

And then an angelic voice breaks in suddenly, saying with sweet
compassion:

'Fie, Monsieur my guardian, to weary Monseigneur so!  Cannot you see
that he is fainting?'

But Gilles hardly hears.  Tired nature is asserting her rights over
him at last.  He sinks wearied upon the nearest step.  It seems to
him as if soft arms are thrown around him, whilst others--more
powerful and insistent--busy themselves dexterously with his jerkin.

It is all very vague and infinitely sweet.  Soft linen is laid upon
his wounded shoulder, something pungent and sweet-smelling is held to
his nostrils, whilst from very far away, in the regions of dreams and
of paradise, a soft voice murmurs with angelic solicitude:

'Think you it will heal?'

'Very quickly, gracious lady,' a gruff voice replies.  ''Tis only a
flesh wound.  Excitement hath brought on a brief swoon.  It is
nothing.'

After which Gilles remembers nothing more.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE DEFENCE OF CAMBRAY


I

Of that terrible day in Cambray, that fourth of April, 1581, nothing
has survived but a memory--a glowing memory of fervour and
enthusiasm, of reckless disregard of danger and magnificent deeds of
valour; a heartrending memory of sorrow and misery and death.

Five times in as many hours did the armies of the Duke of Parma rush
to the assault of the city.  Five times did a living rampart of
intrepid bodies interpose itself between the mighty hordes and the
crumbling walls of Cambray--those intrepid bodies more steadfast than
the walls.  At one hour after noon the redoubt of Cantimpré is a
black mass of charred débris, the Château de Seille is in flames.  On
the right bank of the Scheldt the walls have a breach through which
twenty men can pass, the moats and the river are filled with dead.

But the living rampart still stands.  The walls of Cambray are
crumbling, but her citizens are steadfast.  Halbertmen and pikemen,
archers and gunners, they all have a moment's weakness to retrieve,
and do it with deeds of indomitable valour.  And as they fall, and
their numbers become thinned, as that breathing, palpitating wall
sustains shock after shock of the most powerful engines of warfare
the world has ever known, its gaps are made good by other breasts and
other hearts, and with all the spirit which will not rest until it
has conquered.

Outside and in, at this hour, all is confusion.  A medley of sights
and sounds which the senses cannot wholly grasp, dull roar of cannon,
sharp retort of musketry, clash of pike and lance and halbert, the
terrified shrieks of women and the groans of the wounded and the
dying.  Round about the walls, in the narrow streets and up on the
battlements, a litter of broken steel and staves, of scrap-iron and
fragments of masonry and glass, torn jerkins cast aside; for the
April sun is hot and the smell of powder goes to the head like wine.


II

And from the tall steeples of Cambray's many churches the tocsin
sends its ominous call above the din.

Cambray is fighting for her liberty, for her existence.  Her sons and
daughters are giving their lives for her.  And not only for her, but
for the Netherlands--the brave and stricken country which has fought
against such terrible odds while the very centuries have rolled by.

A last stand, this; for no mercy is to be expected from the Spaniard
if he enters the city in his numbers.  Cambray hath withstood the
might of Philip II, hath rebelled against his authority, hath dared
to think that men are free to think, to work and to worship, that
children are not slaves or women chattels.  Cambray hath unfurled the
flag of liberty.  If she fall, she becomes a prey to rapine and
brutality, to incendiaries and libertines.

So Cambray to-day must conquer or die.

Traitors have plotted against her, laid her open, unsuspecting, to a
surprise attack by an army which is past-master in the art.  Caught
unawares in a holiday mood, she has flinched.  Worked upon by
treachery, her sons have wavered at first, panic seized hold of
them--they all but fell, shamed and destined to never-ending disgrace
and remorse.

But the cowardice had been momentary, fostered by past months of
privations and misery, fomented by the insidious voice of traitors.
One man's voice hath rallied the sinking spirits, one man's valour
revived the dormant courage.  All they wanted was a leader--a man to
tell them to hope, a man to cheer and comfort them, to kindle in
their hearts the dying flame of indomitable will.  So, in the wake of
that man they have followed in their hundreds and their thousands;
the soldiers have regained discipline; the men, courage; the women,
resignation.  The masked stranger whom they had been taught to hate,
they have already learned to worship.

Heroic, splendid, indomitable, he is the bulwark which strengthens
every faltering heart, the prop which supports every wavering spirit.
From end to end of the ramparts his sonorous voice vibrates and
echoes, commanding, helping, cheering.  If courage fails, he is there
to stiffen; if an arm tires, his is there to take its place.  Sword
or lance, or pike or halbert, culverine or musket or bow; every
weapon is familiar to his hand.  At the breach with a pistol, on the
ramparts with falconet, on the bastion with the heavy cannon; he is
here, there and everywhere where danger is most threatening, where
Spanish arrows darken the sky like a storm-cloud that is wind-driven,
and deal death when they find their goal.  His jerkin is torn, the
sleeve of his doublet hangs tattered from his shoulder, his arm is
bare, his face black with powder and grime.  Around him the Provosts
and Sheriffs and Captains of the Guard vainly beg him not to expose
himself to unnecessary peril.

'The soldiers look to your Highness alone,' they cry in desperation.
'If you fall, what should we do?'

They still believe him to be the Duc d'Anjou, brother of the King of
France, and marvel that so degenerate a race could breed such a
magnificent soldier.  He has said nothing to disillusion them.  The
mire of battle masks him better than a scrap of satin or velvet, and
whilst fighting to save Cambray, he is also redeeming the honour of
France.

'If you fall, what should we do?' implores d'Inchy on one occasion,
during a lull in the attack.

Gilles laughs, loudly and long.  'Do?' he exclaims gaily.  'Hold
Cambray to the last man and turn the Spaniard from her walls!'

Unflinching and resolute, a pack of Flemish bourgeois hold their
ground against the might and main of the Duke of Parma's magnificent
army--clerks, some of them, others shopkeepers or labourers, against
the most powerful military organization of the epoch!  But it is not
only Cambray that is threatened now; it is the freedom of their
province and the honour of their women.  And so they make a wall of
their bodies whilst the flower of the Duke of Parma's hordes is
hurled time after time against them.

Musketeers and crossbowmen, lancers and halberdiers--up they come to
the charge like an irresistible tidal wave against a mighty cliff.
Like a torrent they rush over the moat and on to the breach, or the
bastions, or the ramparts; attacking from every side, using every
engine of warfare which the mightiest kingdom of the age has devised
for the subjugation of rebellious cities.  The sound of metal-headed
arrows against the masonry is like a shower of hailstones upon glass;
the battlements gleam with flashing steel, with sparks from
brandished swords and flame-spitting falconets.

Of a truth, the mind cannot grasp it all, eyes cannot see nor ears
perceive all the horrors, the misery and the devotion.  Men fighting
and women working to soothe, to comfort or to heal.  Burghers' wives,
humble maids, great ladies, are all fighting with the men, fighting
with their hearts and their skilled hands, with clean bandages and
soothing potions, with words of comfort for the dying and prayers for
the dead.

In the streets behind the ramparts, rough ambulances have been set
up, mattresses dragged under sheds or outhouses, fresh straw laid, on
which the wounded might find momentary solace.  The women, too, are
doing their part.  Jacqueline de Broyart, one of the many, the most
untiring where all give of their best, the most selfless where all
are ready for sacrifice.  From time to time during the lull between
terrific assaults, she sees Gilles hurrying past--her knight, the
defender of her beloved city.  She bade him go and save Cambray and
sees him now, begrimed, in rags, unheedful even of her, but cheerful
and undaunted, certain of victory.

'You will be proud, my dear,' says d'Inchy to her, during one of
those nerve-racking lulls, 'to place your hand in that so valiant a
soldier, to plight your troth to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou.'

'I shall be proud,' she retorts simply, 'if, indeed, I might plight
my troth to the defender of Cambray.'

'The defender of Cambray, my dear,' rejoins d'Inchy lustily.  'The
saviour of Cambray, you mean!  'Tis on our knees we shall have to
thank him and offer him all that we have of the best!'

A strange, elusive smile flits for a moment round Jacqueline's mouth,
and a look of infinite longing softens the light of her blue eyes.

'If only it could be!' she sighs, and returns to her task.


III

Later in the afternoon, the picture becomes more clear.  We see the
crumbling walls, the girdle around Cambray falling away bit by bit;
we see the breach at Cantimpré wider by many feet now and a handful
of men making a last stand there, with muskets, crossbows,
sticks--anything that is ready to hand.  We see the bastions a mass
of smouldering ruins and the ramparts around on the point of giving
way.

And all about the city a mighty hecatomb--Spaniards and Flemings,
soldiers, burghers or churls, lie scattered on the low-lying ground,
in the moat, the ramparts or the streets.  Might and glory have
claimed their victims as well as valour and worship of liberty.

Cambray's walls are falling.  The breach becomes wider and wider
every hour, like a huge gaping wound through which the life-blood of
the stricken city is oozing out drop by drop.

But, guarding that breach, not yet yielding one foot of the city
which shelters his Jacqueline, Gilles de Crohin, with that handful of
men, still holds the ground.  His anxious eyes scan the low horizon
far away where the April sun is slowly sinking to rest.  That way
lies La Fère and de Balagny's few picked men, whom Jehan has gone to
fetch, and who could even in this desperate hour turn Spanish
discomfiture into a rout.

'My God! why does Jehan tarry?' he calls out with smouldering
impatience.

Up on the battlements the guard stand firm; but the Spaniards have
succeeded in throwing several bridges of pikes across the moat and
one mine after another is laid against the walls.  Captains and
officers run to Gilles for instructions or orders.

'There are no orders,' he says, 'save to hold out until France comes
to your aid.'

And out in the open country, outside those city walls which hold
together so much heroism and such indomitable courage, the Duke of
Parma, angered, fierce, terrible, has rallied the cream of his armies
around him.  The sixth assault has just been repulsed, the breach
cleared by a terrific fusillade from that handful of men, whilst a
murderous shower from above, of granite and scrap-iron and heavy
stones, has scattered the attacking party.  A fragment of stone has
hit the Duke on the forehead; blood is streaming down his face.  He
sets spurs to his horse and gallops to where a company of archers is
scrambling helter-skelter out of the moat.

'Cowards!' he cries savagely.  'Will you flee before such rabble?'

He strikes at the soldiers with his sword, sets spurs to his horse
until the poor beast snorts with pain, rears and paws the air with
its hoofs, only to bring them down the next moment, trampling and
kicking half a dozen soldiers to death in its mad and terrified
struggle.

'You know the guard has fled,' Alexander Farnese cries to his
officers.  ''Tis only an undisciplined mob who is in there now.'

His nephew, Don Miguel de Salvado, a brave and experienced captain,
shrugs his shoulders and retorts:

'A mob led by a man who has the whole art of warfare at his
finger-tips.  Look at him now!'

All eyes are turned in the direction to which Don Miguel is pointing.
There, in the midst of smouldering ruins of charred débris and
crumbling masonry, stands the defender of Cambray; behind him the
graceful steeples of St. Géry and of St. Waast, the towers of Notre
Dame and of the Town Hall, are lit up by the honey-coloured rays of
the sinking sun.  Superb in his tattered clothes, with chest and arms
bare, and ragged hose, he stands immovable, scanning the western sky.

De Landas laughs aloud.

'He is still on the look-out for that promised help from France,' he
says, with a shrug of his shoulder.

The traitor has made good his escape out of the city which he has
betrayed.  What assistance he could render to the Duke in the way of
information, he has done.  The measure of his infamy is full to the
brim, and yet his hatred for the enemy who has shamed him is in no
way assuaged.

He, too, looks up and sees Gilles de Crohin, the man whose invincible
courage has caused the Spanish armies so many valuable lives this day
and such unforgettable humiliation.

'A hundred doubloons,' he cries aloud, 'to the first man who lays
that scoundrel low!'

The word is passed from mouth to mouth.  The archers and musketeers
set up a cheer.  Parma adds, with an oath: 'And a captain's rank to
boot!'

An hundred doubloons and a captain's rank!  'Tis a fortune for any
man.  It means retirement, a cottage in sunny Spain, a home, a wife.
The men take heart and look to their arrows and their muskets!  Every
archer feels that he has that fortune in his quiver now and every
musketeer has it in his powder horn.  And with a loud cry of 'Long
live King Philip of Spain!' the infantry once more rush for the
breach.


IV

Don Miguel de Salvado leads the attack this time.  The breach now
looks like a gate which leads straight into the heart of the city,
where pillage and looting are to be the reward of the conquerors; and
the booty will be rich with the precious belongings of a pack of
overfed bourgeois.

That open gate for the moment seems undefended.  It is encumbered
with fallen masonry, and beyond this appear piles of rubbish,
overturned wagons, furniture, débris of all sorts, evidently
abandoned by the wretched inhabitants when they fled from their
homes.  Of Gilles de Crohin and his burghers there is for the moment
no sign.

Don Miguel has with him half a company of musketeers, the finest
known in Europe, and a company of lancers who have been known to
clear an entire city of rebels by their irresistible onrush.

'No falling back, remember!' he commands.  'The first who gives
ground is a dead man!'

Up the lancers run on the slippery ground, clinging to the wet earth
with naked feet, to the coarse grass and loose stones with their
knees.  The musketeers remain on the hither side of the moat, three
deep in a long battle array; the front lying flat upon the ground,
the second kneeling, the third standing, with their muskets levelled
against the first enemy who dares to show his face.  The pikemen have
reached the breach.  There is silence on the other side.  The officer
laughs lustily.

'I told you 'twas but a rabble playing with firearms!'

The words are hardly out of his mouth when a terrific volley of
musketry shakes the fast crumbling wall to its foundation.  It comes
from somewhere behind all those débris--and not only from there, but
from some other unknown point, with death-like precision and cold
deliberation.  The Spanish officer is hit in the face; twelve pikemen
throw up their arms and come rolling down on the wet ground.

'What is this hell let loose?' cries the officer savagely, ere he
too, blinded with the flow of blood down his face, beats a hasty
retreat.

Quick! a messenger to His Highness the Duke of Parma!  The breach is
so wide now that twenty men could walk easily through it.  The enemy
is not in sight--and yet, from somewhere unseen, death-dealing
musketry frustrates every assault.

'Return to the charge!' is the Duke of Parma's curt command, and
sends one of his ablest officers to lead a fresh charge.  He himself
organizes a diversion, crosses the small rivulet, which flows into
the Schelde at the foot of Cantimpré, and trains his artillery upon a
vulnerable piece of wall, between the bastion and the river bank.  He
has the finest culverines known in Europe at this time, made on a new
pattern lately invented in England; his cannon balls are the most
powerful ever used in warfare, and some of his musketeers know how to
discharge ten shots in a quarter of an hour--an accomplishment never
excelled even by the French.

So, while one of his ablest officers is in charge of the attacking
party on the breach, His Highness himself directs a new set of
operations.  Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry rend the
air with their portentous sound.  The Duke of Parma's picked men
attack the last bastion of Cantimpré, whilst from the roads of Arras,
of Sailly and Bapaume, the whole of the Spanish infantry rush like a
mighty wave to the charge.

Pikemen and halberdiers, archers and lancers, once more to the
assault!  Are ye indeed cowards, that a pack of Flemish rabble can
hold you at bay till you sink back exhausted and beaten?  Up,
Bracamonte and Ribeiras!  Messar, with your musketeers!  Salvado,
with your bow-men!  Up, ye mighty Spanish armies, who have seen the
world at your feet!  With Farnese himself to lead you, the hero of an
hundred sieges, the queller of an hundred rebellions; are ye dolts
and fools that you cannot crush a handful of undisciplined rabble?

And in close masses, shoulder to shoulder, they come!--exhausted, but
still obstinate, and with the hope of all the rich booty to lure them
on.  Down the declivity of the moat--no longer deep, now that it is
filled with dead!  And up again to below the walls!  The setting sun
is behind them and gleams on their breastplates and their bonnets,
and gilds the edges of the battlements with lines of flame.

And, up on the crumbling battlements, the defenders of Cambray--the
clerks and shopkeepers and churls--hear the tramp of many feet, feel
the earth quivering beneath this thunder of a last mighty assault.
Sturdy, undaunted hands grip lance and pike tighter still, and
intrepid hearts wait for this final charge, as they have waited for
others to-day, and will go on waiting till the last of them has
stilled its beating.

And Gilles de Crohin in their midst, invincible and cool, scours the
battlements and the breach, the bastions and the ramparts--always
there where he is needed most, where spirits want reviving or courage
needs the impetus of praise.  He knows as well as they do that
gunpowder is running short, that arrows are few and thousands of
weapons broken with usage: he knows, better than they do, that if de
Balagny's troop tarries much longer all this heroic resistance will
have been in vain.

So he keeps his own indomitable little army on the leash, husbanding
precious lives and no less precious ammunition; keeping them back,
well away from the parapets, lest the sight of the enemy down below
lead them on to squander both.  Thus, of all that goes on beneath the
walls, of the nature of the attack or the chances of a surprise, the
stout defenders can see nothing.  Only Gilles, whilst scouring the
lines, can see; for he has crawled on his hands and knees to the
outermost edge of the crumbling parapet and has gazed down upon the
Duke of Parma's hordes.


V

Now the Spanish halbertmen have reached the hither side of the moat.
The breach is before them, tantalizingly open.  The lancers are
following over the improvised bridges, and behind them the musketeers
are sending a volley of shot over their heads into the breach.  It is
all done with much noise and clash of steel and thundering artillery
and cries of 'Long live King Philip!'--all to cover the disposing of
scaling ladders against the walls.

The pikemen are executing this surprise attack, one in which they are
adepts.  The noisy onslaught, the roar of artillery, the throwing of
dust in the eyes of wearied defenders; then the silent scaling of the
walls, the rush upon the battlements, wholesale panic and slaughter.

Alexander Farnese hath oft employed these devices and hath never
known them to fail.  So the men throw down their pikes, carry pistols
in their right hand and a short dagger-like sword between their
teeth.  They fix their ladders--five of them--and begin quite
noiselessly to mount.  Ten on each ladder, which makes fifty all
told, and they the flower of the Duke of Parma's troops.  Up they
swarm like human ants striving to reach a hillock.  Now the gunners
have to cease firing, lest they hit those ladders with their human
freight.

And while at the breach the men of Cambray make their last desperate
stand, the first of the Spanish pikemen has reached the topmost rung
of his ladder.  The human ants have come to the top of their hillock.
Already the foremost amongst them has begun to hoist himself up, with
his hands clinging to the uneven masonry.  The next second or two
would have seen him with his leg over the parapet, and already a cry
of triumph has risen to his lips, when suddenly, before his
horror-stricken gaze, a man surges up, as if out of the ground,
stands there before him for one second, which is as tense as it is
terrifying.  Then, with a mighty blow from some heavy weapon which he
holds, he fells the pikeman down.  The man loses his footing, gives a
loud cry of horror and falls headlong some forty feet.  In his fall
he drags two or three of his comrades with him.  But the ladder still
stands, and on it the human ants, reinforced at once by others,
resume their climb.  Only for a minute--no more!  The next, a pair of
hands with titanic strength and a grip of iron seizes the ladder by
the shafts, holds it for one brief, agonizing moment, and then hurls
it down with the whole of its human freight into the depth below.

An awful cry rends the air, but is quickly drowned by the roar of
cannon and musketry.  It has been a mere incident.  The Duke has not
done more than mutter an oath in his beard.  He is watching the four
other ladders on which his human ants are climbing.  But the oath
dies on his lips--even he becomes silent in face of the appalling
catastrophe which he sees.  That man up there whom already he has
learned to fear, that man in the tattered doublet and the ragged
hose--he it is who has turned the tables on Farnese's best _ruse de
guerre_.  With lightning rapidity and wellnigh superhuman strength,
he repeats his feat once more.  Once more a scaling ladder bearing
its precious human freight is hurled down into the depth.  The man
now appears like a Titan.  Ye gods! or ye devils! which of you gave
him that strength?  Now he has reached the third ladder.  Just
perhaps one second too late, for the leading pikeman has already
gained a foothold upon the battlements, stands there on guard to
shield the ladder; for he has scented the danger which threatens him
and his comrades.  His pistol is raised even as Gilles approaches.
The Duke of Parma feels as if his heart had stilled its beating.
Another second, and that daring rebel would be laid low.

But Gilles too has seen the danger--the danger to himself and to the
city which he is defending.  No longer has he the time to seize the
ladder as he has done before, no longer the chance of exerting that
titanic strength which God hath lent him so that he might save
Cambray.  One second--it is the most precious one this threatened
city hath yet known, for in it Fate is holding the balance, and the
life of her defender is at stake.  One second!

The Spanish pikemen are swarming up dangerously near now to the
battlements.  The next instant Gilles has picked up a huge piece of
masonry from the ground, holds it for one moment with both hands
above his head, then hurls it with all his might against the ladder.
The foremost man is the first to fall.  His pistol goes off in his
hand with a loud report.  Immediately below him the weight of the
falling stone has made matchwood of the ladder and the men are hurled
to their death, almost without uttering a groan.  The Flemish
halbertmen in the meanwhile have rushed up to the battlements; seeing
Gilles' manoeuvre, they are eager to emulate it.  There are two more
ladders propped against the falling walls and their leader's strength
must in truth be spent.  And there are still more Spaniards to come,
more of those numberless hordes, before whom a handful of untrained
burghers are making their last and desperate stand.

Just then Gilles has paused in order to gaze once more into the
far-away west.  Already the gold of the sun has turned to rose and
crimson, already the low-lying horizon appears aflame with the
setting glow.  But now upon the distant horizon line something
appears to move, something more swift and sudden and vivid than the
swaying willows by the river bank or the tall poplars nodding to the
evening breeze.  Flames of fire dart and flash, a myriad specks of
dust gleam like lurid smoke and the earth shakes with the tramp of
many horses' hoofs.  Far away on the Bapaume road the forerunners of
de Balagny's troops are seen silhouetted against the glowing sky.

Gilles has seen them.  Aid has come at last.  One more stupendous
effort, one more superhuman exertion of will, and the day is won.  He
calls aloud to the depleted garrison, to that handful of men who,
brave and undaunted, stand around him still.

'At them, burghers of Cambray!  France comes to your aid!  See her
mighty army thundering down the road!  Down with the Spaniard!  This
is the hour of your victory!'

As many times before, his resonant voice puts heart into them once
again.  Once again they grip halberds and lances with the
determination born of hope.  They rush to the battlements and with
mighty hands hurl the Spanish scaling ladders from their walls, pick
up bits of stone, fragments of granite and of iron, use these as
missiles upon the heads of the attacking party below.  The archers on
one knee shoot with deadly precision.  They have been given half a
dozen arrows each--the last--and every one of them finds its mark.

Surprised and confounded by this recrudescence of energy, the
Spaniards pause.  An hundred of them lie dead or dying at the foot of
the wall.  Their ranks are broken; don Miguel tries to rally them.
But he is hit by an arrow in the throat, ere he succeeds.  De Landas
is close by, runs to the rescue, tries to re-form the ranks, and sees
Gilles de Crohin standing firm upon the battlements and hears his
triumphant, encouraging cry:

'Citizens of Cambray, France has come to your aid!'

Confusion begins to wave her death-dealing wand.  The halbertmen at
the breach stand for full five minutes almost motionless under a hail
of arrows and missiles, waiting for the word of command.

And on the Bapaume road, de Balagny and his troops are quickly
drawing nigh.  Already the white banner with the gold Fleur-de-Lys
stands out clearly against the sky.

Parma has seen it, and cursed with savage fury.  He is a great and
mighty warrior and knows that the end has come.  The day has brought
failure and disgrace; duty now lies in saving a shred of honour and
the remnants of a scattered army.  He cannot understand how it has
all happened, whence this French troop has come and by whose orders.
He is superstitious and mystical and fears to see in this the
vengeful finger of God.  So he crosses himself and mutters a quick
prayer, even as a volley of musketry fired insolently into the air,
reverberates down the Bapaume road.

France is here with her great armies, her unconquered generals:
Condé, Turenne, have come to the rescue.  Parma's wearied troops
cannot possibly stand the strain of fighting in the rear whilst still
pushing home the attack in front.  How numerous is the French
advancing troop it is impossible to guess.  They come with mighty
clatter and many useless volleys of musketry, with jingling of
harness and breastplates and clatter of hoofs upon the road.  They
come with a mighty shout of 'Valois! and Fleur-de-Lys!'  They wave
their banners and strike their lances and pikes together.  They come!
They come!

And the half-exhausted Spanish army hears and sees them too.  The
halbertmen pause and listen, the archers halt halfway across the
moat, whilst all around the whisper goes from mouth to mouth:

"The French are on us!  Sauve qui peut!"

Panic seizes the men.  They turn and scurry back over the declivity
of the moat.  The stampede has commenced: first the cavalry, then the
infantrymen, for the French are in the rear and legions of unseen
spirits have come to the aid of Cambray.

The Duke of Parma now looks like a broken wreck of his former
arrogant self.  His fine accoutrements are torn, the trappings of his
charger are in tatters, his beard has been singed with gunpowder, he
has no hat, no cloak.  Raging fury is in his husky voice as he shouts
orders and counter-orders to men who no longer hear.  He calls to his
officers, alternately adjures and insults them.  But the French
troops draw nearer and nearer, and nothing but Death will stop those
running Spanish soldiers now.

To right and left of the Bapaume road they run, leaving that road
free for the passage of de Balagny's small troop.  Out in the western
sky, the sun is setting in a mantle of vivid crimson, which is like
the colour of human blood.  The last glow illumines the final
disgrace of Parma's hitherto unconquered hordes.  The cavalry is
galloping back to the distant camp, with broken reins and stirrups
hanging loose, steel bonnets awry, swords, lances, broken or wilfully
thrown aside.  Behind them, the infantry, the archers, the pikemen,
the halberdiers--all running and dragging their officers away with
them in their flight.

Parma's unconquered army has ceased to be.


VI

Then it is that Gilles de Crohin stands once again on the very edge
of the broken parapet and fronts the valiant men of Cambray, who have
known how to conquer and how to die.  The setting sun draws lines of
glowing crimson round his massive figure.  His clothes are now mere
tattered rags; he is bleeding from several wounds; his face is almost
unrecognizable, coal-black with grime and powder; but his eyes still
sparkle with pride of victory.

'Citizens of Cambray, you are free!' he cries.  'Long live France!
Long live the Flower o' the Lily!'

And down in the plain below, where the remnants of a disintegrated
army are being slowly swallowed up by the gathering dusk, the Duke of
Parma has paused for one moment before starting on his own headlong
flight.  He sees the man who has beaten his mighty armies, the man
whose valour and indomitable will has inflicted untarnishable
humiliation upon the glory of Spain.  With a loud curse, he cries:

'Will no one rid me of that insolent rebel?'

De Landas is near him just then.  He too had paused to look once
again on the city which had been his home and which he had so basely
betrayed, and once again on the man whom he hated with an intensity
of passion which this day of glory and infamy had for ever rendered
futile.

'If I do,' he retorts exultantly, 'what will your Highness give me?'

'Cambray and all it contains,' replies the Duke fiercely.

De Landas gives a cry of prescient triumph.  A lancer is galloping
by.  The young man, with a swift, powerful gesture, seizes the horse
by the bridle, forces it back on its haunches till it rears and
throws its rider down into the mud.  De Landas swings himself into
the saddle, rides back to within a hundred paces of the city walls.
Here confusion is still holding sway; belated runaways are darting
aimlessly hither and thither like helpless sheep; the wounded and the
maimed are making pitiable efforts to find a corner wherein to hide.
The ground is littered with the dead and the dying, with abandoned
cannon and spent arrows, with pikes and halberts and broken swords
and lances.

De Landas halts, jumps down from his horse, looks about him for a
crossbow and a quiver, and finds what he wants.  Then he selects his
position carefully, well under cover and just near enough to get a
straight hit at the man whom he hates more than anything else in the
world.  Opportunity seems to favour him.  Gilles is standing well
forward on the broken parapet, his throat and chest are bare, his
broad figure stands out clear-cut against the distant sky.  He is
gazing out towards the west, straight in the direction where de
Landas is cowering--a small, unperceived unit in the inextricable
confusion which reigns around.

He has found the place which best suits his purpose, has placed his
stock in position and adjusted his arrow.  Being a Spanish gentleman,
he is well versed in the use of every weapon necessary for war.  He
takes careful aim, for he is in no hurry and is determined not to
miss.

'Cambray and all it contains!' the Duke of Parma has promised him if
he succeeds in his purpose.

One second, and the deed is done.  The arrow has whizzed through the
air.  The next instant, Gilles de Crohin has thrown up his arms.

'Citizens of Cambray, wait for France!' he cries, and before any of
his friends can get to him, he has given one turn and then fallen
backwards into the depth below.

De Landas has already thrown down his crossbow, recaptured his horse
and galloped back at break-neck speed in the wake of the flying army.

And even then the joy-bells of Cambray begin to ring their merry
peal.  Balagny's troops have entered the city through the open breach
in her walls, whilst down there in the moat, on a pile of dying and
dead, her defender and saviour lies with a murderous arrow in his
breast.


VII

De Landas rides like one possessed away from the scene of his
dastardly deed; nor does he draw rein till he has come up once more
with the Duke of Parma.

'At any rate, we are rid of him,' he says curtly.  'And next time we
attack, it will only be with an undisciplined mob that we shall have
to deal.'

All around him the mighty army of Parma is melting like snow under
the first kiss of a warm sun.  Every man who hath limbs left
wherewith to run, flies panic-stricken down the roads, across fields
and rivulets and morasses, throwing down arms, overturning everything
that comes in his way, not heeding the cries of the helpless and
trampling on the dead.

Less than an hour has gone by since France's battle-cry first
resounded on the Bapaume road, and now there is not one Spanish
soldier left around the walls of Cambray, save the wounded and the
slain.  These lie about scattered everywhere, like pawns upon an
abandoned chess-board.  The moat below the breach is full of them.
Maître Jehan le Bègue has not far to seek for the master and comrade
whom he loves so dearly.  He has seen him fall from the parapet,
struck by the cowardly hand of an assassin in the very hour of
victory.  So, whilst de Balagny's chief captains enter Cambray in
triumph, Jehan seeks in the moat for the friend whom he has lost.

He finds him lying there with de Landas' arrow still sticking in the
wound in his breast.  Maître Jehan lifts him as tenderly as a mother
would lift her sick child, hoists him across his broad shoulders, and
then slowly wends his way along the road back to La Fère.




CHAPTER XXV

HOW CAMBRAY STARVED AND ENDURED


I

As for the rest, 'tis in the domain of history.  Not only Maître
Manuchet, but Le Carpentier in his splendid _History of Cambray_, has
told us how the Duke of Parma's armies, demoralized by that day of
disasters, took as many weeks to recuperate and to rally as did the
valiant city to recover from her wounds.

Too late did Parma discover that he had been hoaxed, that the massed
French troops, who had terrified his armies, consisted of a handful
of men, who had been made to shout and to make much noise, so as to
scare those whom they could not have hoped to conquer in open fight.
It was too late now for the great general to retrieve his blunder;
but not too late to prepare a fresh line of action, wait for
reinforcements, reorganize the forces at his command and then to
resume the siege of Cambray, with the added hope of inflicting
material punishment upon the rebel city for the humiliation which she
had caused him to endure.

The French armies were still very far away.  Parma's numerous spies
soon brought him news that Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, was only now busy in
collecting and training a force which eventually might hope to vie in
strength and equipment with the invincible Spanish troops, whilst the
King of France would apparently have nothing to do with the affair
and openly disapproved of his brother's intervention in the business
of the Netherlands.

The moment therefore was all in favour of the Spanish commander; but
even so he did not again try to take Cambray by storm.  Many
historians have averred that a nameless superstition was holding him
back, that he had seen in the almost supernatural resistance of the
city, the warning finger of God.  Be that as it may, he became, after
the day of disaster, content to invest the approaches to the French
frontier, and after awhile, when his reinforcements had arrived, he
formed with his armies a girdle around Cambray with a view to
reducing her by starvation.

A less glorious victory mayhap, but a more assured one!


II

So Cambray starved and endured.

For four months her citizens waited, confident that the promised help
from France would come in the end.  They had hoped and trusted on
that never-to-be-forgotten day four months ago when they covered
themselves with glory, and their trust had not been misplaced.  The
masked stranger whom they had followed unto death and victory, the
man who had rallied them and cheered them, who had shown them the
example of intrepid valour and heroic self-sacrifice, had promised
them help from France on that day, and that help had come just as he
had promised.  Now that he was gone from them, the burghers and the
soldiers, the poor and the rich alike--aye! even the women and the
children--would have felt themselves eternally disgraced if they had
surrendered their city which he had so magnificently defended.

So they tightened their belts and starved, and waited with stoicism
and patience for the hour of their deliverance.

And every evening when the setting sun threw a shaft of crimson light
through the stately windows of Notre Dame, and the gathering dusk
drew long shadows around the walls, the people of Cambray would meet
on the Place d'Armes inside the citadel, and pray for the return of
the hero who had fought for their liberty.  Men and women with pale,
gaunt faces, on which hunger and privations had already drawn
indelible lines; men and women, some of whom had perhaps never before
turned their thoughts to anything but material cares and material
pleasures, flocked now to pray beneath the blue vault of heaven and
to think of the man who had saved them from ruin and disgrace.

Nobody believed that he was dead; though many had seen him fall, they
felt that he would return.  God Himself had given Cambray her
defender in the hour of her greatest peril: God had not merely given
in order to take away again.  Vague rumours were afloat that the
mysterious hero was none other than the Duc d'Anjou, own brother of
the King of France, who one day would be Sovereign Lord over all the
United Provinces; but as to that, no one cared.  He who was gone was
the Defender of Cambray: as such, he was enshrined in thousands of
hearts, as such he would return one day to receive the gratitude and
the love of the people who worshipped him.


III

Le Carpentier draws a kindly veil over the sufferings of the
unfortunate city.  With pathetic exactitude, he tells us that a cow
during the siege fetched as much as three hundred francs--an enormous
sum these days--a sheep fifty francs, an egg forty sols and an ounce
of salt eight sols; but he altogether omits to tell us what happened
to the poor people, who had neither fifty francs nor yet forty sols
to spend.

Maître Manuchet, on the other hand, assures us that at one time bread
was entirely unobtainable and that rats and mice formed a part of the
daily menu of the rich.  He is more crude in his statements than Le
Carpentier, and even lifts for our discreet gaze just one corner of
that veil, wherewith history has chosen to conceal for ever the
anguish of a suffering city.  He shows us three distinct pictures,
only sketched in in mere outline, but with boldness and an obvious
regard for truth.

One of these pictures is of Jacqueline de Broyart, the wealthy
heiress who shared with the departed hero the worship of the citizens
of Cambray.  Manuchet speaks of her as of an angel of charity,
healing and soothing with words and hands and heart, as of a vision
of paradise in the midst of a torturing hell--her courage and
endurance a prop for drooping spirits; her voice a sweet, insistent
sound above the cries of pain, the curses and the groans.  Wide-eyed
and pale, but with a cheering smile upon her lips, she flits through
the deserted streets of Cambray, bringing the solace of her presence,
the help that can be given, the food that can be shared, to many a
suffering home.

Of the man who hath possession of her heart, she never speaks with
those in authority; but when in a humble home there is talk of the
hero who has gone and of his probable return, she listens in silence,
and when conjectures fly around her as to his identity, she even
tries to smile.  But in her heart she knows that her knight--the man
whom the people worship--will never come back.  France will send
troops and aid and protection anon; a puissant Prince will enter
Cambray mayhap at the head of his troops and be acclaimed as the
saviour of Cambray.  She would no doubt in the fullness of time
plight her troth to that man, and the people would be told that this
was indeed the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, who had once before stood
upon the ramparts of Cambray and shouted his defiant cry: 'À moi,
citizens; and let the body of each one of you here be a living
rampart for the defence of your homes!'

But she would know that the man who spoke those inspiring words had
gone from her for ever.  Who he was, where he came from, what had
brought him to Cambray under a disguise and an assumed name, she
would perhaps never know.  Nor did she care.  He was the man she
loved: the man whose passionate ardour had thrilled her to the soul,
whose touch had been as magic, whose voice had been perfect music set
in perfect time.  He was the man she loved--her knight.  Throughout
that day upon the ramparts she had seen him undaunted, intrepid,
unconquered--rallying those who quaked, cheering those who needed
help, regardless of danger, devoted even unto death.  So what cared
she what was his name?  Whoever he was, he was worthy of her love.


IV

The second picture which the historian shows us is more dispiriting
and more grim.  It is a picture of Cambray in the last days of July.
The Spanish armies have invested the city completely for over eight
weeks, and Cambray has been thrown entirely on her own resources and
the activities of a few bold spirits for the barest necessities of
life.  Starvation--grim and unrelenting--is taking her toll of the
exhausted population; disease begins to haunt the abodes of squalor
and of misery.

France has promised aid and France still tarries.

Mayhap France has forgotten long ago.

In Cambray now a vast silence reigns--the silence of impending doom.
The streets are deserted during the day, the church bells are silent.
Only at evening, in the gloom, weird and melancholy sounds fill the
air, groans and husky voices, and at times the wild shriek of some
demented brain.

Cambray has fought for her liberty; now she is enduring for it--and
enduring it with a fortitude and determination, which is one Of the
most glorious entries in the book of the recording angel.  Every
morning at dawn the heralds of the Spanish commander mount the
redoubt on the Bapaume road, and with a loud flourish of brass
trumpets they demand in the name of His Majesty the King of Spain the
surrender of the rebel city.  And every day the summons is answered
by a grim and defiant silence.  After which, Cambray settles down to
another day of suffering.

The city fathers have worked wonders in organization.  From the
first, the distribution of accumulated provisions has been systematic
and rigidly fair.  But those distributions, from being scanty have
become wholly insufficient, and lives that before flickered feebly,
have gone out altogether, while others continue a mere struggle for
existence, which would be degrading were its object not so sublime.

Cambray will not surrender!  She would sooner starve and rot and be
consumed by fire, but with her integrity whole, her courage
undoubted, the honour of her women unsullied.  Disease may haunt her
streets, famine knock at every door; but at least while her citizens
have one spark of life left in their bodies, while their emaciated
hands have a vestige of power wherewith to grasp a musket, no Spanish
soldier shall defile her pavements, no Spanish commander work his
tyrannical will with her.

Cambray will not surrender!  She believes in her defender and her
saviour!--in his words that France will presently come with
invincible might and powerful armies, when all her sufferings will be
turned to relief and to joy.  And every evening when lights are put
out and darkness settles down upon the stricken city, wrapping under
her beneficent mantle all the misery, the terrors and the heroism,
men and women lay themselves down to their broken rest with a last
murmur of hope, a last invocation to God for the return of the hero
in whom lies their trust.


V

And in the Town Hall the city fathers sit in Council, with Messire de
Balagny there, and Monseigneur d'Inchy presiding.  They, too, appear
grimly resolved to endure and to hold out; the fire of patriotism and
of enthusiasm burns in their hearts, as it does in the heart of every
burgher, noble or churl in the city.  But, side by side with
enthusiasm, stalks the grim shadow of prescience--knowledge of the
resources which go, diminishing bit by bit, until the inevitable hour
when hands and mouths will still be stretched out for food and there
will be nothing left to give.

Even now, it is less than bare subsistence which can be doled out day
by day; and in more than one face assembled this day around the
Council Board, there is limned the grim line of nascent despair.

It is only d'Inchy who has not lost one particle of his faith, one
particle of self-confidence and of belief in ultimate triumph.

'If ye begin to doubt,' he exclaims with tragic directness, 'how will
ye infuse trust in the hearts of your people?'

The Chief Magistrate shakes his head; the Provosts are silent.  More
than one man wipes a surreptitious tear.

'We must give the people something to hearten them,' has been the
persistent call from those in authority.

De Balagny interposes:

'Our spies have succeeded in evading the Spanish lines more than
once.  One of them returned yesterday from La Fère.  He says the Duc
d'Anjou is wellnigh ready.  The next month should see the end of our
miseries.'

'A month!' sighs the Chief Magistrate.  'The people cannot hold out
another month.  They are on the verge of despair.'

'They begin to murmur,' adds one of the Provosts glumly.

'And some demand that we surrender the city,' concludes de Lalain.

'Surrender the city!' exclaimed d'Inchy vehemently.  'Never!'

'Then can Monseigneur suggest something?' riposts the Chief
Magistrate dryly, 'that will restore confidence to a starving
population?'

'The help from France almost within sight,' urges Monseigneur.

The Provosts shrug their shoulders.

'So long delayed,' one of them says.  'The people have ceased to
believe in it.'

'Many declare the Duke is dead,' urges another.

'But ye know better than that, Messires,' retorts d'Inchy sternly.

Again one or two of the older men shrug their shoulders.

'I saw him fall from the ramparts,' asserts one.

'He was struck full in the breast by an arrow,' says another, 'shot
by an unseen hand--some abominable assassin.  His Highness gave one
turn and fell into the moat below.'

'And was immediately found and picked up by some of my men,' retorts
de Balagny hotly.  'Mine oath on it!  Our spies have seen him--spoken
with him.  The Duc d'Anjou is alive and on his way to Cambray.  I'd
stake on it the salvation of my soul!'

The others sigh, some of them dubiously, others with renewed hope.
From their talk we gather that not one of them has any doubt in his
mind as to the identity of the brave defender of Cambray.  Nothing
had in truth happened to shake their faith in him, and de Balagny had
said nothing to shake that faith.  On that fateful day in April they
had been convened to witness the betrothal of Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart to _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, had been presented to His Highness
and kissed his hands.  Then suddenly all had been confusion--the
panic, the surprise attack, the runaway soldiers, and finally the one
man who rallied every quaking spirit and defended the city with heart
and mind, with counsel and strength of arm, until he fell by an
unseen assassin's hand: he, the Duc d'Anjou, of the princely House of
France--the future Sovereign Lord of a United Netherlands.

For awhile there is absolute stillness in the Council room.  No one
speaks; hardly does any one stir.  Only the massive clock over the
monumental hearth ticks out every succeeding second with relentless
monotony.  Monseigneur is buried in thought.  The others wait,
respectfully silent.  Then suddenly d'Inchy looks up and gazes
determinedly on the faces round him.

'Madame Jacqueline must help us,' he says firmly.

'Madame Jacqueline?' the Chief Magistrate exclaims.  'How?'

'On the Place d'Armes--one evening--during the intercession,'
Monseigneur goes on, speaking rapidly and with unhesitating resolve.
'She will make a solemn declaration before the assembled
people--plight her troth to the Duc d'Anjou, who, though still
absent, has sent her a token of his immediate arrival.'

'Sent her a token?' most of them murmur, astonished.  And even de
Balagny frowns in puzzlement.

'Yes,' rejoins d'Inchy impatiently.  'Cannot you see?  You say the
people no longer believe in the coming of His Highness.  Our spies
and the news they bring no longer carry weight.  But if we say that
the Duke hath sent a token....'

'I understand,' murmurs the Chief Magistrate, and the others nod in
comprehension.

'Madame Jacqueline will not demur,' d'Inchy continues insistently.
'She will accept the assurance from me that one of our spies has come
in contact with _Monsieur_ and brought back a fresh token of his
promise to her ... a ring, for instance.  We have many valuable ones
in our city treasury.  One of them will serve our purpose.'  Then, as
the city dignitaries are still silent, somewhat perturbed at all that
sophistry--''Tis for the sake of our city, Messires,' d'Inchy urges
with a note of pleading in his usually commanding voice.  'A little
deception, when so much good may come of it! what is it?  Surely you
can reconcile it with your consciences!'

To him the matter seems trivial.  One deception more or
less--hitherto the path had been so easy.  He frowns, seeing that
this tiresome pack of old men hesitate, when to acquiesce might even
now save their city.  Anyhow, he is the governor.  His word is law.
For the nonce he chooses to argue and to persuade, but anon he
commands.

The city dignitaries--the old men for the most part, and with
impaired health after weeks of privation--have but little real
resistance in them.  D'Inchy was always a man of arbitrary will and
persuasive eloquence.  De Balagny is soon won over.  He ranges
himself on the side of the governor, and helps in the work of
demolishing the bulwark of the Magistrate's opposition.  The latter
yields--reluctantly, perhaps--but still he yields.  After all, there
is no harm whatever in the deception.  No one could possibly suffer
in consequence.  Madame Jacqueline has always expressed herself ready
to marry the Duc d'Anjou--a hero and a doughty knight, if ever there
was one!--and in any case it were an inestimable boon to put fresh
heart into the starving population.

So gradually the others yield, and Monseigneur is satisfied.  He
elaborates his plan, his mind full of details to make the result more
sure.  A public ceremony: Jacqueline once more publicly betrothed to
the Duc d'Anjou--dedicated, in fact, like a worshipper to some patron
saint.  Then the people made to realize that the Duc d'Anjou is
already known to them as their hero, their defender and their
saviour; that he is not dead, but coming back to them very soon at
the head of his armies this time, to save them once for all from the
Spaniards, whilst he remains with them to the end of his days as
their chosen Sovereign Lord and King.

Monseigneur has worked himself up to a high pitch of enthusiasm,
carries the others with him now, until they cast aside all foreboding
and gloom and hope springs afresh in their hearts.


VI

Thus we see the third and last picture which Enguerrand de Manuchet
shows us of Cambray in her agony.  It is a picture that is even more
vivid than the others, more alive in the intensity of its pathos.  We
see inside the citadel on the last day of July, 1581.  And of all the
episodes connected with the memorable siege of Cambray and with its
heroic defence, not one perhaps is more moving than that of this huge
concourse of people--men, women and tiny children--assembled here and
for such a purpose, under the blue dome of the sky.

The grim walls of the ancient castle around them are hung with worn
and tattered flags; they are like the interior of a church, decked
out with all the solemnity of a marriage ceremony and all the pathos
of a De Profundis.

Jacqueline, indifferent to everything save to the welfare of the
city, has accepted without resistance or doubt Monseigneur's story of
the spy, the Duc d'Anjou and the token.  The ring, borrowed for the
occasion from the city treasury, she has taken without any misgiving,
as coming straight from the man whom she is destined to marry.  She
had promised long ago to wed _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou, because the weal
of her country was, it seems, wrapped up in that union.  All those
who worked for the glorious future of Flanders had assured her that
much of it depended in her acquiescence to this alliance with France.

With her heart for ever buried beneath the ramparts of Cambray, side
by side with the gallant knight who had given his life for the
beloved city, she cared little, if at all, what became of her.  The
Duc d'Anjou or another--what did it matter?--but preferably the Duc
d'Anjou if her country's welfare demands that he should be the man.

No wonder that this last picture stirs even the heart of the
dry-as-dust old historian to enthusiasm.  Noble and churl, burghers
and dignitaries and soldiers, toilers and ragamuffins, all are
there--those who can walk or stand or crawl.  Those who are hale drag
or support those that are sick, bring tattered mattresses along or a
litter of straw for them to lie on.  But they all come to see a woman
make a solemn profession of faith in the man who is to bring
deliverance to the agonizing city.

They come in their thousands; but thousands more are unable to find
room upon the Place or within the Citadel.  Even so, they line the
streets all the way to the Archiepiscopal Palace, whilst all those
who are so privileged watch Madame Jacqueline's progress through the
streets from their windows or their balconies.  Fortunately the day
has been brilliantly fine ever since morning, and the sun shines
radiant upon this one day which is almost a happy one.

For many hours before that fixed for the ceremony, the streets seethe
with the crowd--a pathetic crowd, in truth: gaunt, feeble, weary, in
tattered clothes, some scarce able to drag themselves along, others
sick and emaciated, clinging to the posts at the corners of the
streets, just to get one peep at what has come to be regarded as a
tangible ray of hope.  A silent, moveless crowd, whose husky voice
has scarce a cheer in it; as Jacqueline passes by, walking between
Monseigneur the governor and the Chief Magistrate, bare arms are
waved here and there, in a feeble attempt at jubilation.  But there
is no music, no beating of drums or waving of banners; there is no
alms-giving, no largesse!  All that the rich and the prosperous
possessed in the past has been shared and distributed long ago.

In spite of the brilliant weather, the scene is dark and dreary.  The
weary, begrimed faces do not respond to the joyous kiss of the sun;
the smile of hope has not the power to dry every tear.


VII

And now Jacqueline stands, like a white Madonna lily, in the centre
of the Place d'Armes.  Monseigneur the governor is beside her and
around her are grouped the high dignitaries of the city, standing or
sitting upon low velvet-covered stools.  The Chief Magistrate and
Messire de Balagny are in the forefront, and behind them are the
members of the States General and of the Town, the Provosts and
Captains of the City Guard.  The picture is sombre still, despite the
banners of the guilds and the flags of various provinces which hang
along the walls of the Citadel.  The russets and browns, the blacks
and dull reds, absorb the evening light without throwing back any
golden reflections.  The shadows are long and dense.

The white satin of Jacqueline's gown is the one bright note of colour
against the dull and drab background; its stiff folds gleam with
honey-coloured lights in the slowly sinking sun.  She has allowed old
Nicolle to deck her out in all her finery, the gown which she wore on
that night--oh! so very long ago--at the banquet, the one with the
pale green underdress which Messire declared made her look so like a
lily; the pearls in her hair; the velvet shoes on her feet.

'I will plight my troth publicly to the Defender of Cambray!' she had
said to her guardian, when Monseigneur had first spoken of the
proposed ceremony.

'To Monsieur Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, my child,' Monseigneur had
insisted, and frowned slightly at what he called his ward's romantic
fancies.

''Tis to the Defender of Cambray that I will dedicate my faith,' she
had continued obstinately.

'Let the child be!' de Lalain had interposed, seeing that d'Inchy was
about to lose his temper.  'After all, what does it matter, seeing
that the Defender of Cambray and Monsieur Duc d'Anjou are one and the
same?'

D'Inchy gave in.  It did not really matter.  If Jacqueline still
harboured a doubt as to the identity of the masked stranger, it would
soon be dispelled when Monsieur entered Cambray and came to claim her
openly.  Women were apt to have strange fancies; and this one, on
Jacqueline's part, was harmless enough.

In any case, she appeared satisfied, and henceforth was quite
submissive.  In the midst of her sorrow, she felt a sweet, sad
consolation in the thought that she would publicly plight her troth
to the man whom she loved, proclaim before the whole world--her world
that is, the only one that mattered--that she was for ever affianced
to the brave man who had given his life, that Cambray might be saved.

In an inward vision she could see him still, as she saw him on that
day upon the ramparts, with the April sun gilding his close-cropped
head, with the light of enthusiasm dancing in his eyes, his arms
bare, his clothes torn, his vibrant voice resounding from wall to
wall and from bastion to bastion, till something of his own fire was
communicated to all those who fought under his command.

To Jacqueline he was still so marvellously, so powerfully alive, even
though his body lay stark and still at the foot of those walls which
he had so bravely defended.  He seemed to be smiling down on her from
the clear blue of the sky, to nod at her with those banners which he
had helped to keep unsullied before the foe.  She heard his voice
through the lengthy perorations of Monseigneur, the murmured
approbation of the Provosts, through the cheers of the people.  She
felt his presence now as she had felt it through the past four weary
months, while Cambray suffered and starved, and bore starvation and
misery with that fortitude which he had infused into her.

And while Monseigneur the governor spoke his preliminary harangue, to
which the people listened in silence, she stood firm and ready to
speak the words which, in accordance with the quaint and ancient
Flemish custom, would betroth her irrevocably to the man chosen for
her by her guardians, even though he happened to be absent at the
moment.  For her, those words, the solemn act, would only register
the vow which she had made long ago, the vow which bound her soul for
ever to the hero who had gone.

'It is my purpose,' Monseigneur said solemnly, 'to plight this my
lawful ward, Jacqueline, Dame de Broyart et de Morchipont, Duchesse
et Princesse de Ramèse, d'Espienne et de Wargny, unto His Royal
Highness, Hercule François de Valois, Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, and I
hereby desire to ask the members of my Council to give their consent
to this decree.'

And the Chief Magistrate, speaking in the name of the States General
and of the City and Provincial Council, then gave answer:

'Before acceding to your request, Monseigneur, we demand to know
whether Hercule François of Valois, Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou, is an
honourable man, and possessed of sufficient goods to ensure that
Madame Jacqueline de Broyart et de Morchipont, Duchesse et Princesse
de Ramèse, d'Espienne et de Wargny, continue to live as she hath done
hitherto and in a manner befitting her rank.'

Whereupon Messire de Balagny made reply:

'His Royal Highness is a prince of the House of France; he defended
our city in the hour of her gravest peril and saved her from
destruction and from the fury of our Spanish foe.  He is in every way
worthy to have our ward for wife.'

'Wherefore, most honourable seigneurs,' continued the governor
solemnly, 'I do desire by your favour to grant the hand of Madame
Jacqueline to him in marriage.'

'This request we would grant you, Monseigneur,' rejoined the Chief
Magistrate, 'but would ask you first how it comes that the bridegroom
himself is not here to claim his bride.'

'The bridegroom,' replied d'Inchy, slowly and loudly, so that his
voice could be heard, clear and distinct, in every corner of the
great courtyard.  'The bridegroom is even at this hour within sight
of our beleaguered city.  He is at the head of his armies and only
waits a favourable opportunity for demanding from the Spanish
commander that the latter do give him battle.  The bridegroom, I say,
hath sent us a token of his goodwill and an assurance that he will
not tarry.  He hath asked that Madame Jacqueline do plight her troth
to him before the assembled people of Cambray, so that they may know
that he is true and faithful unto them and take heart of courage
against his speedy coming for their deliverance.'

A murmur--it could not be called a cheer, for voices were hoarse and
spent--went the round of the crowd.  There were nods of approval; and
a gleam of hope, almost of joy, lit up many a wan face and many a
sunken eye.  After so many deceptions, so much weary waiting and hope
deferred, this was at least something tangible, something to cling
to, whilst battling against the demons of hunger and disease which so
insidiously called for surrender.

The Chief Magistrate, who together with Monseigneur had been chiefly
instrumental in engineering the present situation, waited for a
moment or two, giving time for the governor's cheering words to soak
well into the minds of the people.  He was a tall, venerable-looking
old burgher, with a white beard clipped close to his long, thin face,
and a black velvet bonnet, now faded to a greenish hue by exposure to
all weathers, set upon his scanty hair.  He drew up his bent
shoulders and threw back his head with a gesture expressive both of
confidence and of determination, and he allowed his deep-set eyes
beneath their bushy brows to wander over the populace, as if to say:
'See how right I was to bid you hope!  Here you have an actual proof
that the end of your sufferings is in sight, that the deliverance for
which you pray is already at your gate!'  After which, he turned once
again to d'Inchy and said loftily:

'Monseigneur the governor! the people of Cambray here assembled have
heard with profound respect the declaration which you have deigned to
make, as to the intentions of His Royal Highness the Duc d'Anjou et
d'Alençon.  On their behalf and on the behalf of the States of this
Town and Province whom I represent, I hereby affirm most solemnly
that we have the weal of our city at heart; that we will resist the
armies of the Duke of Parma with the whole might of our arms and our
will, awaiting tranquilly and with fortitude the hour of our
deliverance.  We trust and believe that he who defended us so
valiantly four months ago will soon return to us, and rid us once and
for ever from the menace of our foe.'

Once more a murmur of approval went round the Place.  Wearied, aching
heads nodded approval; firm lips, thin and pale, were set with a
recrudescence of energy.  All the stoicism of this heroic race was
expressed in their simple acceptance of this fresh term of endurance
imposed upon them, in their willingness to hope on again, to wait and
to submit, and in their mute adhesion to the profession of faith
loudly proclaimed by their Chief dignitary: 'awaiting tranquilly and
with fortitude the hour of our deliverance.'

'And now, Monseigneur,' concluded the Magistrate impressively, 'in
the name of your Council, I herewith make acceptance of His Royal
Highness, Hercule François of Valois, Duc d'Alençon et d'Anjou,
prince of the House of France, defender and saviour of Cambray, to be
the future husband and guardian of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, our
ward.'

Monseigneur the governor now drew his sword, held it upright and
placed on it a hat and round his arm a mantle; then he took the ring,
which had been borrowed from the city treasury for the occasion, and
hung it on a projecting ornament of his sword-hilt.  After which he
said, with great solemnity:

'With these emblems I hereby entrust to His Royal Highness Hercule
François de Valois, Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, prince of the House of
France, the defender and saviour of Cambray in the hour of her
gravest peril, the custody of my ward Jacqueline, Dame de Broyart et
de Morchipont, Duchesse et Princesse de Ramèse, d'Espienne et de
Wargny; and as I have been her faithful custodian in the past, so do
I desire him to become her guardian and protector henceforth, taking
charge of her worldly possessions and duly administering them
faithfully and loyally.'

After which he lowered his sword, put down the hat and the mantle and
presented the ring to Jacqueline, together with seven gloves, saying
the while:

'Jacqueline, take these in exchange for the emblems of marital
authority which I herewith hold for and on behalf of your future
lord, and in the presence of all the people of Cambray here
assembled, I demand that you do plight your troth to him and that you
swear to be true and faithful unto him, to love and cherish him with
your heart and your body, to obey and serve him loyally as his wife
and helpmate, until death.'

Jacqueline, by all the canons of this quaint custom, should have held
the ring and the gloves in her left hand and taken the solemn oath
with her right raised above her head.  Instead of which, Manuchet
assures us that she laid down the ring and the gloves upon the chair
nearest to her, and clasped her two hands together as if in prayer.
She raised her small head and looked out upon the sky--there where
the setting sun hid its glory behind a filmy veil of rose-tinted
clouds.

'In the name of the living God who made me,' she said, with solemn
and earnest fervour, 'I do hereby plight my troth to my lord, the
noble and puissant hero who defended Cambray in the hour of her
gravest peril, who saved her from destruction and taught her citizens
how to conquer and to endure, and I swear upon my life and upon my
every hope of salvation that I will be true and faithful unto him,
that I will love and cherish him with my heart and with my body and
will serve him loyally and unswervingly now and alway until our souls
meet in the presence of God.'

A great hush had fallen on the vast courtyard while Jacqueline de
Broyart made her profession of faith; nor did a sound mar the perfect
stillness which lay over the heavy-laden city.  This was a time of
great silences--silence of sorrow, of anxiety and pain.  The women
frankly gave way to tears; but they were tears that fell soundlessly
from hollow eyes.  The men did not weep--they just set their teeth,
and culled in that one woman's fervour fresh power for their own
endurance.

The city dignitaries crowded round Jacqueline, kissing and pressing
her hands.  Monseigneur the governor was looking greatly relieved.
From the tower of Notre Dame, the bells set forth a joyous peal--the
first that had been heard for many months.  And that peal was
presently taken up, first by one church tower and then another, from
St. Waast to St. Martin, Ste. Croix to St. Géry.  The happy sound
echoed and reverberated along the city walls, broke with its
insidious melody the gloomy silence which had lain over the streets
like a pall.

Far away in the west the sun was slowly sinking in a haze of
translucent crimson, and tipped every church spire, every bastion and
redoubt with rose and orange and gold.  For the space of a few more
minutes the citadel with its breathless and fervid crowd, with its
waving banners and grey walls, was suffused as with a flush of life
and hope.  Then the shadows lengthened--longer and longer they grew,
deeper and more dense, like great, drab arms that enfold and conceal
and smother.  Slowly the crimson glow faded out of the sky.

Now the group in the centre appeared only like a sombre mass of dull
and lifeless colours; Jacqueline's white satin gown took on a leaden
hue; the brilliance of the sky had become like a presage of storm.
The women shivered beneath their ragged kerchiefs; some of the
children started to cry.

Then, one by one, the crowd began to disperse.  Walking, halting,
crawling, they wended their way back to their dreary homes,--there to
wait again, to suffer and to endure; there to conceal all the heroism
of this patient resignation, all the stoicism of a race which no
power could conquer, no tyranny force into submission.

And once more silence descended on the hapless city, and the mantle
of night lay mercifully upon her grievous wounds.


VIII

And far away in the Spanish camps, the soldiers and their captains
marvelled how joy-bells could be ringing in a city which was in the
throes of her death agony.  But the Duke of Parma knew what it meant,
as did the members of his staff--del Fuente, his second in command,
de Salvado, Bracamonte, de Landas and the others.  More than one of
their wily spies had succeeded before now in swimming across the
Schelde and in scaling the tumble-down walls of the heroic city, and
had brought back the news of what was doing in there, in the midst of
a starving and obstinate population.

'The public betrothal to a fickle Prince who will never come,' said
the Duke grimly, between his teeth.  'At any rate, not before we have
worked our will with those mulish rebels.'

'We could take their pestilent town by storm to-morrow,' remarked de
Landas, with a note of fierce hatred in his voice, 'if your Highness
would but give the order.'

'Bah!' retorted the Duke.  'Let them rot!  Why should we waste
valuable lives and precious powder, when the next few days must see
the final surrender of that peccant rat-hole?'

He gave a coarse laugh and shrugged his shoulders.

'I believe,' he said to de Landas, 'that I once promised you Cambray
and all that it contains--what?'

'For ridding your Highness of the abominable rebel who organized the
defence last April,' assented de Landas.  'Yes!  Cambray and all that
it contains was to be my reward.'

'You killed the miscreant, I believe?'

'I shot him through the heart.  He lies rotting now beneath the
walls.'

'Well!' riposted the Duke.  'You earned your reward easily enough.
There will be plenty left in Cambray, even after I have had my first
pick of its treasures.'

De Landas made no protest.  It would have been not only useless, but
also impolitic to remind His Highness that, at the moment when he
offered Cambray and all its contents to the man who would rid him of
a valiant foe, he had made no proviso that he himself should fill his
pockets first.  There was no honour among these thieves and no
probity in these savage tyrants--brute beasts, most of them, who
destroyed and outraged whatever resisted their might.  So de Landas
held his tongue; for even so, he was not dissatisfied.  The Duke,
being rid of the rebel whom he feared, might easily have repudiated
the ignoble bargain in its entirety, and de Landas would have had no
redress.

As it was, there was always Jacqueline.  The Spanish commanders were
wont to make short shrift of Flemish heiresses who happened to be in
a city which they entered as conquerors.  By decree of His Highness,
Jacqueline de Broyart would certainly be allocated to him--de
Landas--if he chose to claim her.  Of a truth, she was still well
worth having--more so than ever, perhaps; for her spirit now would be
chastened by bodily privations, broken by humiliation at the hands of
the faithless Valois and by the death of her mysterious lover.

'So long as the heiress is there for me,' he said carelessly to the
Duke, 'I am satisfied to let every other treasure go.'

'Oh! you shall have the heiress,' riposted His Highness hilariously.
'Rumour hath described her as passing fair.  You lucky devil!
Methinks you were even betrothed to her once.'

'Oh! long ago, your Highness.  Since then the oily promises of the
Duc d'Anjou have helped to erase my image from the tablets of Madame
Jacqueline's heart.'

'Then she'll be all the more ready to fall back into your arms, now
that she has discovered the value of a Valois prince's faith.'

After which pronouncement, the Duke of Parma dismissed the matter
from his mind and turned his attention to the table, richly spread
with every kind of delicacy, which had been laid for him in his tent.
He invited the gentlemen of his staff to sit, and as he dug his fork
into the nearest succulent dish, he said complacently:

'Those pestiferous rebels out there cannot have as much as a mouse
between the lot of them, to fill their Flemish paunches.
Messeigneurs, here is to Cambray!' he added, as he lifted his silver
goblet filled to the brim with Rhenish wine.  'To Cambray, when we
march through her streets, ransack her houses and share her gold!  To
Cambray, and the pretty Flemish wenches, if so be they have an ounce
of flesh left upon their bones!  To de Landas' buxom heiress and his
forthcoming marriage with her!  To you all, and the spoils which
these many months of weary waiting will help you to enjoy!  To
Cambray, all ye gallant seigneurs!'

His lusty toast was greeted with loud laughter.  Metal goblets
clicked one against the other, every one drank to the downfall of the
rebellious city.  De Landas accepted the jocose congratulations of
his boon-companions.  He, too, raised his goblet aloft, and having
shouted: 'To Jacqueline!' drained it to its last drop.

But when he set the goblet down, his hand was shaking perceptibly.
Cain-like, he had seen a vision of the man whom he had so foully
murdered.  Accidentally he knocked over a bottle of red Burgundy,
which stood on the table close by, and the linen cloth all around him
was spread over with a dark crimson stain, which to the assassin
appeared like the colour of blood.




CHAPTER XXVI

WHAT VALUE A VALOIS PRINCE SET UPON HIS WORD


I

To Gilles de Crohin, when he woke to consciousness one morning in his
former lodging in La Fère, the whole of the past few weeks appeared
indeed like a long dream.

Cambray--Jacqueline--his mask--his deceit--that last day upon the
ramparts--were they not all the creations of his fevered brain?
Surely a whole lifetime could not be crowded into so short a space of
time.  No man could have lived through so much, loved so
passionately, have lost and fought and conquered so strenuously, all
within a few weeks.

And when, after many days' enforced rest and a good deal of attention
from a skilful leech backed by Maître Jehan's unwavering care, he was
once more on his feet and was able to relate to Madame la Reyne de
Navarre the many vicissitudes of his perilous adventure, it seemed to
him as if he were recounting to a child, fairy tales and dream
stories which had never been.

It was only at evening, when he wandered round the little Dutch
garden at the back of the house where he lodged, that Jacqueline came
to him, aglow with life--a living, breathing, exquisite reality.  For
the Madonna lilies were all abloom in that garden just then: tall,
stately white lilies, which bordered one of the narrow paths.  They
had slender, pale green stems, their fragrance filled the evening air
and the soft breeze stirred their delicate crowns.  Then it would
seem to Gilles as if his Jacqueline were walking down the path beside
him, that the breeze blew the tendrils of her fair hair against his
nostrils and that her voice filled his ear with its sweet, melodious
sound.  A big heartache would make the rough soldier sigh with
longing then.  Unseen by any one, alone with his thoughts of her, he
would stretch out his arms to that tantalizing vision which seemed so
real and was yet so far, so very far away.

Madame la Reyne would at times chaff him about his moodiness, and he
himself was ready to laugh aloud at his own folly.  What right had
he--the uncouth soldier of fortune, the homeless adventurer--to think
of the great and noble lady, who was as far removed from him as were
the stars?  What right indeed?  Even though Marguerite de Navarre,
lavish in her gratitude, had already showered honours and wealth upon
the man who had served her so faithfully.

'Monseigneur le Prince de Froidmont,' she had said to him with solemn
earnestness, on the day when first she had realized how completely he
had worked out her own schemes; 'the lands of Froide Monte, which are
some of the richest in Acquitaine, were a part of my dowry when I
married.  They are yours now, as they once were the property of your
forebears.  They are yours, with their forests, their streams and
their castles.  Take them as a poor token of my lifelong gratitude.'
And when Gilles demurred, half-indifferent even to so princely a
gift, she added with her habitual impatience: 'Pardieu, Messire, why
should you be too proud to accept a gift from me, seeing that I was
not too proud to ask so signal a service of you?'

Even so, that gift--so graciously offered, so welcome to the man's
pride of ancestry--had but little value in his sight, since he could
not do with it the one thing that mattered, which was to lay it at
Jacqueline's feet.

'Do not look so morose, Messire,' Marguerite de Navarre said
teasingly.  'I vow that you have left your heart captive in Cambray.'
Then as Gilles, after this straight hit, remained silent and
absorbed, she added gaily: 'Have no fear, Messire!  When _Monsieur_
is Lord of the Netherlands, he will force the lady of your choice
into granting you her favours.  Remember!' she said more seriously,
'that the Prince de Froidmont can now aspire to the hand of the
richest and most exalted lady in the land.'

'Monseigneur is still far from being Lord of the Netherlands,' Gilles
said dryly, chiefly with a view to inducing a fresh train of thought
in the royal lady's mind.

Marguerite shrugged her pretty shoulders.

'He still procrastinates,' she admitted.  'He should be at La Fère by
now, with five thousand troops.  Everything was ready when I left
Paris.'

'He has found something else to distract him,' rejoined Gilles, with
unconscious bitterness.  'Perhaps Mme. de Marquette has resumed her
sway over him, the while Cambray waits and starves.'

'Chien sabe?' allowed Madame la Reyne with an impatient sigh.


II

The while Cambray waits and starves!  That was indeed the deathly
sting which poisoned Gilles de Crohin's very life during those four
dreary months, while _Monsieur_ Duc d'Anjou was ostensibly making
preparations for his expedition for the relief of the beleaguered
city.  Ostensibly in truth, for very soon his fond sister had to
realize that, now as always, that fickle brother of hers was playing
his favourite game of procrastination and faithlessness.  With him,
in fact, faithlessness had become an obsession.  It seemed as if he
could not act or think straight, as if he could not keep his word.
Now, while he was supposed to recruit his troops, to consult with his
officers, to provide for engines and munitions of war, he actually
deputed his long-suffering and still faithful friend, Gilles de
Crohin, to do the work for him.  His own thoughts had once more
turned to a possible marriage--not with Jacqueline de Broyart, to
whom he was bound by every conceivable tie of honour and of
loyalty--but with Elizabeth of England, whom he coveted because of
her wealth, and the power which so brilliant an alliance would place
in his hands.

But of these thoughts he did not dare to speak even to the adoring
sister, who most certainly would have turned her back on him for ever
had she known that he harboured such dishonourable projects.  He did
not dare to speak of them even to Gilles, for he felt that this would
strain his friend's loyalty to breaking point.  He entered outwardly
into the spirit of the proposed expedition with all the zest which he
could muster, but the moment he was no longer under Marguerite de
Navarre's own eyes he did not lift another finger in its organization.

'Turenne and la Voute are quite capable of going to the relief of
Cambray without me,' he said to Gilles with a yawn and a lazy stretch
of his long, loose limbs.  'I have never been counted a good
commander, and Parma is always a difficult problem to tackle.  Let
Turenne go, I say.  My brother Henri lauds him as the greatest
general of the day, and the rogue hath fought on the Spanish side
before now, so he hath all their tricks at his fingers' ends.'

_Monsieur_ was in Paris then, and Marguerite de Navarre, wellnigh
distraught, had entreated Gilles to stir him into immediate activity.

'Cambray will fall before that indolent brother of mine gets there,
Messire,' she had pleaded, with tears of impotent anger in her eyes.

Gilles had gone.  He needed no goad even for so distasteful a task.
'Cambray might fall!'  The thought drove him into a fever, from which
he could find no solace save in breathless activity.  He found
_Monsieur_ in his Palace in Paris, surrounded by the usual crowd of
effeminate youngsters and idle women, decked out in new-fangled,
impossible clothes, the creations of his own fancy, indolent,
vicious, incorrigible.  Just now, when Gilles had come to speak to
him of matters that meant life or death, honour or shame, the future
welfare or downfall of a nation, he was lounging in a huge armchair,
his feet resting on a pile of cushions.  He was wearing one of his
favourite satin suits, with slashed doublet all covered with tags and
ribbons; he had gold earrings in his ears and was nursing a litter of
tiny hairless puppies, whom he was teasing with the elaborate
insignia of the Order of the Holy Ghost, wrought in gold and set with
diamonds, which he wore on a blue ribband round his neck.

Gilles looked down on him with a contempt that was no longer
good-humoured.  Cambray was waiting and starving whilst this
miserable coxcomb idled away the hours!  Two months had gone by and
practically nothing had been done.  There were no troops, no
munitions, no arms; and Cambray was waiting and starving!  God alone
knew what miseries were being endured by those valiant burghers over
there, whom Gilles' own voice had so easily rallied once to a
stubborn and heroic defence!  God alone knew what his exquisite
Jacqueline was being made to suffer!  At the thought, his very soul
writhed in torment.  He could have raised his hands in measureless
anger against that effeminate nincompoop, and crushed the last spark
of a profligate and useless life out of him.  As it was, he had to
entreat, to argue, almost to kneel, pleading the cause of Cambray and
of his proud Jacqueline--his perfect and unapproachable lily, whom
this miserable rag of manhood was casting aside and spurning with a
careless wave of the hand.

Ye gods!  That he, of all men, should have been assigned such a rôle!
That Fate should have destined him to plead for the very honour and
safety of the woman whom he worshipped, with a man whom he despised!
And yet he argued and he entreated because Madame la Reyne herself
vowed that no one could keep her brother in the path of integrity
now, except his friend Gilles de Crohin.  She had begged him not to
leave Monsieur, not for a day, not if possible for an hour!

'He will give us the slip again,' she begged most earnestly; 'and be
off to England after his wild-goose chase.  Elizabeth will never
marry him--never!  And we shall remain before the world, uselessly
discredited and shamed.'

Alas! much precious time had in the meanwhile been lost.  News had
come through that the Duke of Parma had given up the thought of
taking Cambray by storm and had left del Fuente in temporary command
with orders to reduce her by starvation.

But this was two months ago.

Marguerite de Navarre, wearied to death, harassed by _Monsieur's_
inactivity, obstructed by the King of France, was on the verge of
despair.  Cambray, according to the most haphazard calculations, must
be on the point of surrender.


III

Early in July, _Monsieur_, stung into a semblance of activity by
perpetual nagging from his sister and constant goading from Gilles,
did send M. de Turenne with an insufficient force, ill-equipped and
ill-found, to effect a surprise attack against the Spanish army.

We know how signally that failed.  The blame naturally was lavishly
distributed.  M. de Turenne, ignorant of his ground, had, it was
averred, employed guides who led him astray.  Spies and traitors
amongst his troops were also supposed to have got wind of his plans
and to have betrayed them to the Spanish commander.  Certain it is
that Turenne's small force was surprised, cut up, Turenne himself
taken prisoner and that la Voute, his second, only escaped a like
fate by disguising himself as a woman and running with the best of
them back to La Fère.

The blow had fallen, sudden, swift and terrible.  When the news was
brought to Marguerite of Navarre she was seized with so awful an
attack of choler, that she fell into unconsciousness and had to take
to her bed.

She sent for Gilles, who was eating out his heart in Paris, playing
the watch-dog over a dissolute Prince.  At her command he proceeded
at once to La Fère.

'All is not lost, Messire,' she said to him, as soon as his calm,
trust-inspiring presence had infused some semblance of hope into her
heart.  'But we must not allow _Monsieur_ to exert himself any more
in the matter.  His incapacity alone matches his indolence.'

She felt so ashamed and so humiliated, that Gilles wellnigh forgot
the grudge, which he really owed her for that pitiable adventure into
which she had thrust him, and which was even now ending in disaster.

'My spirit is wellnigh broken,' she continued, with pathetic
self-depreciation.  'If only, out of all this misery, we could save
one shred of our honour!'

'Will your Majesty let me try?' Gilles said simply.

'What do you mean?' she riposted.

'Let me gather an army together.  Let me do battle against the Duke
of Parma.  Monseigneur hath proved himself unwilling.  We court
disaster by allowing him thus to fritter away both time and men.  It
was Turenne yesterday; it will be Condé to-morrow, or Montmorency or
Bussy--anybody, any unfortunate or incompetent who is willing to
serve him!  In God's name, Madame la Reyne,' urged Gilles, with a
tone of bitter reproach, 'do not let us procrastinate any longer!
Cambray is in her death-agony.  Let _me_ go to her aid!'

She made a final, half-hearted protest.

'No!  No!' she said.  'You cannot, must not leave your post.  If you
do not keep watch over _Monsieur_, we shall lose him altogether.'

'Better that,' he retorted grimly, 'than that we should lose Cambray.'

'There you are right, Messire.  Cambray now is bound up with our
honour.'

She had become like a child--so different to her former self-assured,
almost arrogant self.  Gilles, whose firm purpose gave him the
strength, had little ado to mould her to his will.  She had become
malleable, yielding, humble in her helplessness.  Marguerite de
Navarre was actually ready to listen to advice, to let another think
for her and scheme.  She accepted counsel with a blindness and
submissiveness which were truly pathetic.  And Gilles--with the
vision before him of Jacqueline enduring all the horrors of a
protracted siege--was experiencing a semblance of happiness at
thought that at last he would have the power of working for her.  So
he set to with a will, to make the harassed Queen see eye to eye with
him, to make her enter into his ideas and his plans.

'Your Majesty,' he said, 'has offered me the richest lands in
Aquitaine.  I entreat you to take them back and to give me their
worth in money, and I'll gather together an army that will know how
to fight.  Then, when we are sure of victory, _Monsieur_ can come and
himself take command.  But in the meanwhile, we will beat the Duke of
Parma and relieve Cambray.  This I swear to you by the living God!'

Marguerite was soon swept off her feet by his determination and his
enthusiasm.  With naïve surrender, she laid down her burden and left
Gilles to shoulder it.  Now at last he could work for his Jacqueline!
He could fight for her, die for her when the time came!  He could
drive the foe from her gates and bequeath to her, ere he fell, the
freedom of the country she loved so well.

Night and day he toiled, not only with heart and will but with the
frenzy of despair; while Marguerite, ever hopeful, ever deluded where
that contemptible brother of hers was concerned, flew to Paris to
keep a watch over him, then back to La Fère to concert with
Gilles--hoping against hope that all would still be well, ready to
forgive Monsieur even for the seventy times seventh time, confident
that she would still see him entering Cambray and marching thence
from city to city, the chosen Lord of the Netherlands, more puissant
than any King.


IV

On the last day of July, Gilles de Crohin had his forces ready,
equipped, armed, provisioned, at La Fère, where Marguerite de Navarre
came herself in order to wish him and the expedition God speed.

But _Monsieur_--who had promised, nay sworn, he would come too, in
order to take command in person at the last, when victory was
assured--_Monsieur_ had not arrived.

For two sennights the devoted sister and the faithful friend waited
for him; but he did not come.  Marguerite sent courier upon courier
after him to Paris, but he evaded them all, and at one time nobody
knew where he had hidden himself.  To his other vices and failings,
this descendant of a once noble race had added the supreme act of a
coward.  What that final weary waiting meant for Gilles, not even a
veracious chronicler can describe.  With Cambray almost in sight,
with the Spanish armies not two leagues away, with his Jacqueline
enduring every horror and every misery which the aching heart of an
absent lover can conjure up before his tortured mind, he was forced
to remain in idleness, eating out his heart in regret, remorse and
longing, doubtful as to what the future might bring, tortured even
with the fear that, mayhap, in Cambray only a flower-covered mound of
earth would mark the spot where his Jacqueline slept the last sleep
of eternal rest.

Then at last, upon the fourteenth day of August, a letter came by
runner from _Monsieur_, for the Queen of Navarre.  It had been
written in Paris more than a week ago, and obviously had been
purposely delayed.  It began with many protestations of good-will, of
love for his sister and of confidence in his friend.  Then the letter
went on in a kind of peevish strain:



    'I am quite convinced, My dear sister, that I am altogether unfit
    for the kind of attack which the present Situation demands.  Now
    Gilles has a great deal more Energy than I have, and a great deal
    more Knowledge.  As you know, I never had any longing for
    military Glory, and feel absolutely no desire to make a State
    Entry into Cambray with a swarm of starved or diseased Flemings
    hanging to my stirrup-leathers.  Let Gilles to all that.  He
    seems to have had a liking for that unsavoury Crowd.  Then, by
    and by, if the Spaniards, in the meanwhile, do not frustrate his
    Designs by giving him a beating, I shall be ready to take up once
    more the negotiations for my proposed Sovereignty of the
    Netherlands.  But understand, My dear Sister, that this happy
    Event must come to pass without the co-operation of a Flemish
    bride.  Frankly, I have no liking for the Race, and would be
    jeopardising My whole Future, by selling Myself to the first
    Dutch wench that an untoward Fate would throw in My way.  Entre
    nous, Elizabeth of England has not been so haughty with Me of
    late.  Get Me that Kingdom of the Netherlands by all means, My
    dear.  I verily believe that this accrued Dignity would ensure
    the favourable Acceptance of My suit by the English Queen.'


Marguerite had never made any secret before Gilles of her brother's
perfidy.  Even this infamous letter she placed loyally before him
now.  When he had finished reading it and she saw the look of
measureless contempt which flashed through his eyes, she could have
cried with shame and misery.

'What to do, Messire?' she exclaimed piteously.  'Oh, my God! what to
do?'

'Relieve Cambray first and foremost, Madame,' he replied firmly.
'After that, we shall see.'

'But the Flemish lords!' she rejoined.  'Their anger!  Their
contempt!  I could not bear it, Messire!  The shame of it all will
kill me!'

'It has got to be borne, Madame!  Cambray has suffered enough.  It is
our turn now.'

Nor would he discuss the matter any further, even with her.  The
expedition had been entrusted to his hands, and nothing would delay
him now.  Cambray was waiting and starving, every hour might mean her
final surrender.  The Spanish commander--apprised of _Monsieur_ le
Duc d'Anjou's arrival with a strong force--had already offered
battle.  Gilles was only too eager to accept the issue.

On the fifteenth day of August, 1581, that battle was fought on the
plains outside Cambray.  The issue was never in doubt for one moment.
Le Carpentier asserts that the Duke of Parma, after six hours'
stubborn fighting, surrendered his position and all his forts and
retired in great haste in the direction of Valenciennes.




CHAPTER XXVII

AND THIS IS THE END OF MY STORY


I

And into the silent desolation of Cambray's deserted streets, there
penetrated once again the sounds of that life which was teeming
outside her walls.  From the north and the south, from the east and
the west, rumour, like a wily sprite, flew over the crumbling walls
and murmured into ears that scarcely heard, that the promise given
long ago was being redeemed at last.  Anxiety, sorrow and suffering
were coming to an end, so the elf averred.  The hero who fought and
conquered once, had returned to conquer again.

Whereupon, those who had enough strength left in them to drag
themselves along, found their way to the ramparts, from whence they
could watch the approach of the man who would bring them liberty if
he succeeded, or bequeath them an heroic death if he failed.  There
was no other issue possible.  The sands of Cambray's endurance had
run down; she had no more resistance left in her, scarcely the power
to suffer any longer.  If the relieving army failed to-day, the
setting sun would see the Spanish soldiery, drunk with victory,
swarming over the lonely streets, destroying all that famine and
disease had left whole, all that a dying population had no longer the
strength to defend.

Little could be seen of what went on in the distant plain, and hollow
eyes, wearied with weeping and anxiety, scanned in vain the horizon
far away.  But those who had come to watch remained to pray, while
their minds, rendered super-sensitive by bodily want, conjured up
visions of that grim fight which was going on beyond their range of
vision.

The history of this heroic people has no more poignant page than that
which tells of this long watch by a crowd of miserable, half-starved
people, the while, out there upon the plain, brave men fought and
died for their sake.

Not only for their sake, but for the honour of France.


II

Once more the roar of artillery and of musketry fills the air with
its awe-inspiring sound.  It is early morning, and the sky heavily
overcast.  To the anxious watchers, that grim struggle out there is
only a dimly-perceived confusion, a medley of sights and sounds, a
clash of arms, the dull thunder of culverines and sharp report of
musketry.  And, as the grey light of day begins to pick out with
crude precision the more distant objects, a kaleidoscope of colour
vies in brilliancy with the flash of steel, and tears asunder the
drab mist which lies upon the bosom of the plain.

The yellow and red of the Spaniards becomes easily distinguishable,
then the white and blue and gold of the French, the green of the
arquebusiers, the black of the archers, and even that tiny moving
speck, more brilliant even than the gleam of metal, the white banner
of France, sown with her Fleur de Lys.

But the watchers up on the ramparts vainly strain their hollow eyes
to see the man who has come to save Cambray.  They can only guess
that he is there, where the fight is fiercest, where death stands
most grim and most relentless.  They have a knowledge of his presence
keener than sight can give, and though voices at this hour are spent
and hoarse with pain, yet to every roar of cannon, to every volley of
musketry, there comes, like an answering murmur, the triumphant call,
which now sounds like a prayer and which their hero taught them four
months ago: 'Fleur de Lys and Liberty!'

The French lancers and halberdiers rush the Spanish forts.  The
arquebusiers are fighting foot by foot; the musketeers and archers
stand firm--a living wall, which deals death and remains unmoved,
despite furious onslaughts from a foe who appears to be desperate.
The plain around is already strewn with dead.

The French have fought valiantly for close on six hours, have
repelled nine assaults against their positions, and now, at one hour
after noon, they still stand or crouch or kneel on one knee, crossbow
in hand or musket, they fire, fall out, reform and fire again.
Shaken, battered, decimated, they still shoot with coolness and
precision, under the eye of one who never tires.  Their ranks are
still unbroken, but the Spaniards are giving ground at last.

'This time we are undone!' Parma cries in the excess of his rage.

He himself has been twice wounded; four of his young officers have
been killed.  The French musketeers, the finest the world has ever
seen, work relentlessly upon his finest positions.  And he
feels--this great captain, who hitherto hath not known defeat--he
feels that now at last he has met his match.  Not a great leader like
himself, perhaps, not the victorious general in an hundred fights;
but a man whose stubbornness and daring, whose blind disregard of
danger and sublime defiance of evil fortune, gives strength to the
weakest and valour to the least bold.

'I thought you had rid me once of that pestilential rebel!' he
exclaims to de Landas, pointing to where Gilles de Crohin's tall
figure towers above the pressing mass of Spanish halberdiers.

De Landas murmurs an imprecation, crosses himself in an access of
superstitious fear.

'My God!' he says under his breath.  'He hath risen from the dead!'

In truth, Gilles appears endowed at this hour with superhuman
strength.  His doublet and jerkin are torn, his breastplate riddled
with arrow-shot, he bleeds profusely from the hand, his face is
unrecognizable under a coating of smoke and grime.  Enthusiasm and
obstinacy have given him the power of giants; his hatred of the foe
is supreme; his contempt of death sublime.  De Landas sees in him the
incarnation of his own retributive destiny.  'Oh, that God's thunder
would smite him where he stands!' he mutters fervently.

''Tis too late now,' retorts Parma, with ferocious spite.  'Too late
to call to God to help you.  You should have bargained with the devil
four months ago, when you missed your aim.  Risen from the dead,
forsooth!' he adds, purple with fury.  'Very much alive now, meseems,
and with the strength of Satan in his arm.'

He strikes at de Landas with his sword, would have killed him with
his own hand, so enraged is he with the man for his failure to murder
an enemy whom he loathes and fears.

'Unless those cowards rally,' he calls savagely, and points to where,
in the heart of the _mêlée_, confusion and disorder wield their
grisly sceptres, 'we shall have to retreat.'

But de Landas does not stop to hear.  The fear of the supernatural
which had for the moment paralysed his thinking faculties, is soon
merged in that boundless hatred which he feels for the rival whom he
had thought dead long ago.  In the heart of that confusion he has
spied Gilles, fighting, pursuing; slashing, hitting--intrepid and
superb, the centre and the life of the victorious army.  De Landas
sets spurs to his horse and, calling to his own troop of swordsmen to
follow, dashes into the _mêlée_.

The battle now is at its fiercest.  A proud army, superior in
numbers, in arms, in knowledge, feels itself weakening before an
enemy whose greatest power is his valour.  The retreat has not yet
sounded, but the Spanish captains all know that the humiliating end
is in sight.  Already their pikemen have thrown down their cumbersome
weapons.  Pursued by the French lancers, they turn and fight with
hands and fists, some of them; whilst others scatter in every
direction.  The ranks of their archers are broken, and the fire of
their musketeers has become intermittent and weak.  Even the
horsemen, the flower of Parma's army, gentlemen all, are breaking in
the centre.  With reins loose, stirrup-leathers flapping, swords cast
away and mantles flying loose, they are making a stand which is
obviously the last, and which within the next few minutes will with
equal certainty turn into rout.

Here it is that Gilles is holding his own with a small troop of
French horsemen.  His steel bonnet has been knocked off, his wounded
arm roughly bandaged, the sleeves of his jerkin fly behind him like a
pair of wings, his invincible sword strikes and flashes and gleams in
the grey afternoon light.

For a few seconds, while the distance between himself and his enemy
grows rapidly less, de Landas sees and hears nothing.  The blood is
beating in his temples, with a weird thumping which drowns the din of
battle.  His eyes are blinded by a crimson veil; his hand, stiff and
convulsed, can scarcely grasp the pistol.  The next instant he is in
the very thick of the turmoil.

'For Spain and Our Lady!' he cries, and empties his pistol into the
seething mass of Spanish horsemen who bar the way twixt him and his
enemy.  The horsemen are scattered.  Already on the verge of a
stampede, they are scared by this unexpected onslaught from the rear.
They fear to be taken between cross-fires, are seized with panic,
turn and flee to right and left.  Two of them fall, hit by that
madman's pistol.  All is now tumult and a whirling ferment.  The air
is thick with smoke and powder, horses, maddened with terror, snort
and struggle and beat the air with their hoofs.  De Landas' own troop
join in the _mêlée_; the French horsemen dash in pursuit; there is a
scrimmage, a stampede; men fight and tear and hit and slash, for dear
life and for safety.

But de Landas does not care, is past caring now.  Another disaster
more or less, another scare, final humiliation, what matters?  The
day is lost anyhow, and all his own hopes finally dashed to the
ground by the relief of Cambray and the irrevocable loss to him of
Jacqueline and her fortune.  Already he has thrown aside his smoking
pistol, seized another from the hand of his nearest follower, and
points it straight at Gilles.

'For Spain and Our Lady!'

'Fleur de Lys and Liberty!'

The two cries rang out simultaneously--then the report of de Landas'
pistol, and Gilles' horse hit in the neck, suddenly swerves, rears
and paws the air, and would have thrown its rider had not the latter
jumped clean out of the saddle.

To de Landas' maddened gaze the smoke around appears to be the colour
of blood.  Blindly he gropes for another pistol.  His henchman is
near him, thrusts a weapon into the young Spaniard's trembling hand.
For the fraction of a second, destiny, waiting, stays her hand.
Gilles is free of his struggling horse, he has his sword in his hand;
but de Landas once more points a pistol straight at him.

'Satan! guide thou my hand this time!' he calls out, in a passion of
fury.

Then suddenly a raucous cry rises above the din; there is a double,
sharp report, a loud curse, a final groan of despair and of rage, and
de Landas, struck in the breast by an almost savage blow from a
lance, throws up his arms, falls, first on his knees, then backwards
on the soft earth, would have been buried then and there under a
seething mass of struggling men and beasts, had not Gilles rushed to
him with one bound, caught him by the shoulders and dragged his now
lifeless body to comparative shelter a few paces away.  Now Gilles
picks up a fallen cloak from the ground and lays it reverently over
his fallen foe.

'Because Jacqueline loved you once,' he murmurs under his breath.

Then he turns to his faithful Jehan.  'You were just in time,' he
says simply.

Jehan has been glancing down with mingled rage and contempt on the
man whom in his loyal heart he hated in life with a wellnigh
ferocious intensity.  Now he looks at his master--his friend whom he
loves--sees him on one knee by the side of that abominable murderer,
trying to struggle back to his feet, but evidently weak and dizzy.

With a cry like an enraged tiger, Jehan casts his still streaming
lance away, is already kneeling beside Gilles, supporting him in his
arms as gently as a mother would shelter her child.

'H-h-h-hurt?' he stammers laconically.  'That d-d-d-devil hit you?'

'Only in the thigh,' replies Gilles.  'You diverted his aim right
enough, my dear Jehan!  And once more I owe my life to you.  Just
help me to get up,' he adds with his wonted impatience.  'Do not let
me miss another second of the glorious spectacle of our victory!'


III

Out in the western sky, a vivid band of blue and gold breaks the
bosom of the clouds.  The afternoon sun illumines with its glowing
rays the final rout of the Spanish army.  Le Carpentier's laconic
words tell us more than any lengthy chronicle could do.

'The Duke of Parma,' he says curtly, 'abandoned his forts and retired
in haste to Valenciennes.'

So much that was mighty and great and invincible has succumbed before
the power which comes from a sense of justice, from valour and
enthusiasm and the decrees of God.  God has decided that Cambray has
suffered enough; He has broken the might of Parma and set an end to
the miseries of an heroic people.  And when, like a tidal wave of
steel, the Spanish troops begin to oscillate toward the north, where
lies Valenciennes and safety, up on the ramparts of Cambray hundreds
of men and women and children fall on their knees, and thank God with
fervour for their freedom and for victory.

They are too weak to shout, too weak even to raise their arms.  The
pikemen lean upon their arms, the musketeers upon their muskets, the
gunners lie half-exhausted upon their culverines.  Of the twenty-five
thousand citizens of Cambray, scarce fifteen thousand have remained
to bid the returning hero welcome.

Up in the fort of Cantimpré, the city guard--what is left of it--wait
for the entry of the victorious army.  The bridge is lowered, the men
stand as if on parade.  The city fathers are there too, and amongst
them stands Monseigneur the governor.

Gaunt and careworn they all look.  Their ranks too have been rudely
thinned.  Monseigneur's hair is now snow-white; the hand with which
he leans upon a stick is emaciated almost to the bone.  His other arm
rests on that of Jacqueline de Broyart, whose pale, wan face hath a
curious air of mystery and of detachment.

'Here they come!' Monseigneur says at last, as on the horizon far
away a glowing speck begins to move, to gather shape as it draws
nearer, catching, reflecting and throwing back the roseate flashes of
the setting sun.

The whole city now is watching; her very soul is in the eyes of her
expectant children.  A curious, nervous thrill has taken the place of
bodily exhaustion.  Only Jacqueline stands quite silent and
impassive.  Boundless gratitude fills her heart for the deliverance
of the city; but the overwhelming joy which she feels is drowned in
the immensity of her sorrow.  For her, in truth, life is gone,
happiness lies buried beneath the city walls.  She can rejoice at the
coming of the man whom the people believe to be their hero, but for
her he is the stranger.  The real defender of Cambray--her brave and
spotless knight--gave his precious life for her city all these weary
months ago.

People crowd more insistently round her.  The speck on the horizon
has become a moving multitude.  Steel and gold flash in the evening
light, banners wave in the gentle, summer breeze.  The French army,
glorious after victory, wends its way to the city which it has saved.

In the forefront march the halberdiers, with their blue hose and
huge, unwieldy trunks, small bonnets on their heads and a cloak about
their shoulders.  Then the pikemen, in striped doublets, their
enormous hats slung behind their backs, and the musketeers with tall
boots which reach half-way up their thighs.  Immediately behind them
comes a long train of carts and waggons--the provisions collected
together for the starving city.  The Master of the Camp is in charge
of these.  He is mounted on a black charger, surrounded by his staff.
The ends of his blue silk scarf are smothered in dust, as are his
boots and his plumed hat.  Some way behind the waggons, the archers
come, marching three abreast, and then the foot-soldiers, with huge
steel gauntlets covering their hands, their heavy lances borne upon
their shoulders.

Nearer and nearer the procession comes, and as it approaches, a
strange exultation born of weakness and of fever, rises in the hearts
of the watchers.  It seems as if an unendurable weight were lifted
from their shoulders, as if they themselves had in a mysterious
manner been dead for weeks and months, and now had risen again in
order to gaze into the setting sun, from whence their liberator had
come to them again.

The streets are no longer deserted now.  Furtive forms, gaunt and
haggard, stand under doorways or congregate upon the open places.
Women in ragged kirtles with children clinging to their skirts, sick
and maimed and halt from disease and want, crawl out of the squalid
houses to watch the entry of the French troops.  Many, at sight of
those brave men all covered with smoke and powder and dust, fall down
on their knees and a long-forgotten prayer rises to their lips.

Anon down the Bapaume road it is quite easy to perceive the white
banner sown with the gold Fleur de Lys.  It is borne by a herald who
sits upon a cream charger, and immediately behind him a man rides
alone.  He is hatless; but he holds his head erect and looks straight
out towards the city.  He has the reins of his horse in one hand, the
other is hidden under his cloak.  Some little way behind him ride a
number of cavaliers in brilliant multi-coloured doublets and hose,
with drawn swords in their hands, which flash and gleam in the
setting sun.  They are still close on half a league away, but adown
the long, flat road Monseigneur's keen eyes have already perceived
them.

'It is His Highness the Duc d'Anjou!' he exclaims.

But, with a strange instinct which has for ever remained
inexplicable, Messire de Balagny retorts:

'It is the saviour of Cambray!'

And while he goes at once to transmit the governor's orders that all
the church bells in the city shall at once begin to ring, Jacqueline
de Broyart's gaze is fixed upon the road which lies like a winding
ribbon down below, stretching as far as the glowing horizon far away.
The sky is suffused with a joy-blush of crimson and orange and gold,
the sinking sun illumines with a roseate hue that distant group of
cavaliers, in the forefront of whom rides the defender of Cambray.

After the turmoil of battle, an immense silence reigns over the bosom
of the plain.  Even the tramp of thousands of men, the clatter of
horses' hoofs and of arms, seem like an integral part of that great
and solemn silence, which has its birth in the stricken city.  The
victorious army has entered Cambray, not with music and with
cheering, not with shouts of joy.  Joy is in every heart, but an
abundance of sorrow has stilled its outward expression.  The plain
itself is strewn with dead and wounded; hundreds of valiant lives
have been freely given for the deliverance of Cambray.  Those that
remain--some five thousand of them--cross the bridge at the foot of
Cantimpré, marching three abreast.  It takes an hour for the first
portion of the victorious army to enter the city.  The service men
bring provision waggons in plenty, together with news that more will
follow as quickly as may be.  By nightfall there would not be one
hungry mouth left in Cambray.

Relief, content, the shadow of happiness, are too poignant to find
expression in words--perhaps they have come just a little too late.
But gratitude is immense.  Soon the streets of Cambray are encumbered
with train and equipment, with carts and waggons and barrows, horses
loosely tethered, litters of straw for the wounded and the ailing.
The distribution of the food is the most pressing need.  Everywhere
men in faded, ragged clothing, with gaunt faces and hollow eyes,
hurry to the Grand' Place and to the Marche aux Bois, where the food
waggons are set up under the eye of the Master of the Camp.

A pathetic procession of eager, half-starved shadows--women and
children too--with the humble, deprecating air of the desperately
indigent, crowd around the waggons.  Fifteen thousand mouths gaping
for food.  There is only a very little for everybody at first.  More
will come to-night.  More again to-morrow.  France, who has saved,
will also provide.  Of order there is none.  People push and scamper
as the hungry are wont to do, but all are too feeble to do one
another much harm.  The soldiers, flushed with victory, are patient
and good-natured.  My God! the very aspect of the streets is enough
to make any staunch heart quake with horror!  Some of the men have
wife and family in far-off Artois or Provence.  They can hardly
restrain their tears as wee, grimy hands, thin to the bone, are
stretched out to them in pitiable eagerness.  They are as lavish as
they can be, giving up their own supper to feed these unfortunates:
generous now as they were brave out there, when they fought under the
eye of the staunchest man they had ever seen in battle.

''Tis a fine candle you folk of Cambray owe to Monseigneur de
Froidmont!' the Master of the Camp says to a group of burghers who,
self-restrained and stoical, are giving help in the distribution,
waiting till all the poor and the ignorant are fed before they
themselves receive their share.

'Monseigneur de Froidmont?' one of them exclaims.  'Why, who is he?'

'Who is he?' retorts the Master of the Camp.  'Nay, by the Mass!  He
is above all the most doughty knight who hath ever wielded a sword.
He it is who has saved your city for you, my friends.  If the Spanish
soldiery is not inside your walls this night, 'tis to him that ye owe
it, remember!'

Most of the burghers look gravely puzzled.  Their spokesman ventures
on the remark:

'To His Highness the Duc d'Anjou, surely!'

The Master of the Camp shrugs his shoulders.

'That is as it may be,' he says dryly.  'But you might all have
rotted inside your walls but for the valour of Monseigneur de
Froidmont.'

'But the Duc d'Anjou...' hazards some one timidly.

'A murrain on the Duc d'Anjou!' breaks in the Master of the Camp
good-humouredly.  ''Tis of the defender of your city you should think
at this hour.  Ah!' he exclaims, with a sigh of satisfaction, ''tis
good to hear that your city fathers at the least are giving him a
rousing welcome!'

He himself sets up a cheer, which is taken up by his soldiers; for
just then the bells of Notre Dame have begun their joyous peal.  Soon
Ste. Croix follows suit and St. Géry from the heights toward the
north.  Peal after peal resounds, till the whole air vibrates with
that most inspiriting sound, chasing away with its melody the very
shadow of silence and desolation.

The last rays of the sun have now sunk in the west.  Twilight is
slowly fading into dusk.  Out beyond Cantimpré, the herald upon his
charger has halted at the foot of the bridge, the white banner of
France, gay with its golden Fleur de Lys, is gently stirred by the
evening breeze.  The group of cavaliers has halted too, while the
defender of Cambray rides slowly into the city.


IV

Monseigneur the governor awaited the victor in the courtyard of the
citadel.  He stood in the midst of his Sheriffs and his Provosts and
the other dignitaries of the city, all of them still dignified and
imposing, despite the faded appearance of their clothes and the
gaunt, hungry look in their wan faces.  All around the courtyard was
lined with troops, the mere remnants of the garrison who had fought
so valorously on that never-to-be-forgotten day in April, a little
over four months ago, and of the small body of French troops who had
come to their assistance then.

Gilles dismounted at the bridge-head, disdaining, despite his wounds,
the aid of his faithful henchman's arm.  Only limping very slightly,
the bandage on his hand hidden in the folds of his cloak, he passed
in on foot and alone under the gateway.  For the space of one
heart-beat he paused just inside the courtyard, when he saw before
him this large concourse of people who, at his appearance, had slowly
dropped on their knees.  They were for the most part faces which had
been familiar to him all those months ago--faces which even now wore
an expression of deference and of awed respect.

A bitter sigh rose to Gilles' lips.  For him, despite the grandeur of
his victory, this was a bitter hour.  Within the next few moments
these proud and brave people would have to be told that a prince of
the House of France had proved himself to be both fickle and base.
Messire de Balagny was not there; and at first he did not see
Jacqueline.  She had retired into the guard-room at the desire of her
guardians.  'It were seemly,' they had said, 'that we, your
protectors, should first receive His Highness and pay him our
respects.  Then he will ask for his future bride, and ours shall be
the honour of bringing you to him!'

So she was not there for the moment, and Gilles felt freer in her
absence--even caught himself hoping that he would not be put to the
torture of seeing her again.  It were best for him and best for her
that she should not hear that awful confession from his lips, that a
Valois prince had broken his word to her, and in his wanton infamy
had repudiated the perfect gift of God which had been offered to him.

'Do not tarry one moment, Messire,' Marguerite de Navarre had
entreated of him at the last.  'Take advantage of the moment of
boundless relief and gratitude when your victorious troops enter
Cambray to release _Monsieur_ of his promise to wed the Flemish
heiress.  Do not enter the city till you have made it clear to the
Flemish lords that the Duc d'Anjou will accept the Sovereignty of the
Netherlands, and in exchange will give the support of France, of her
wealth and of her armies; but that he will not enter into personal
alliance with one of his future subjects.'

So now, when at Gilles' approach the governor and the city fathers
all bent the knee before him, he said at once, directly and simply:

'I entreat you, Messeigneurs, not to kneel to me.  That honour
belongs by right only to the puissant Prince whom I represent.'

'Your Highness----' began d'Inchy humbly.

'I am no Highness, Monseigneur,' he rejoined firmly.  'Only the
servant of the Duc d'Anjou, who will be here as soon as may be, to
claim from you that gratitude which you owe to him and not to me.'

D'Inchy and the others did not move.  Their limbs were paralysed,
their lips dumb.  Their ears refused to convey to their over-tired
brains that which they had just heard.  It all seemed like a dream;
the gathering dusk made everything appear unreal--the ringing of the
joy-bells, the far-away crowd of soldiers and cavaliers, who filled
the very air with clatter and jingle of spurs and accoutrements, with
creaking of waggons, snorting of horses and snatches of songs and
laughter.  And in the centre of the courtyard, this tall figure of a
man, with the tattered doublet and the bleeding hand, and the voice
which seemed as if it rose straight out of a glorious grave.

'Do not look so puzzled, Messeigneurs,' Gilles went on with a smile,
half-sad, wholly good-humoured.  'The Duc d'Anjou will not tarry, my
word on it.  He bids me say that he accepts the Sovereignty of the
Netherlands, and will place at the disposal of her people the might
and the armies of France, his own power, wealth and influence.'

Still as in a dream, d'Inchy and the Sheriffs and the Provosts
staggered to their feet.  The mystery, in truth, was greater than
their enfeebled minds could grasp.  They were for the most part
chiefly conscious of a great feeling of disappointment.

Here stood before them, tall and magnificent even beneath rags and
grime, the man whom they revered above all others, the hero whose
personality was enshrined in the very hearts of the people of
Cambray.  What the mystery was which clung round him they did not
know, nor did they care: he was the man of their choice, the saviour
of Cambray now, as he had been their defender in the hour of their
gravest peril.  The victor of this glorious day was the hero of the
ramparts on that memorable April day, the man who four months ago had
defended them with heart and will and undaunted courage then, and to
whom they owed their freedom, the honour of their wives and daughters
and the future of their race.

To think of him as other than the Duc d'Anjou, their chosen Sovereign
Lord, the husband of Jacqueline de Broyart, was positive pain.  Most
of them even now refused to believe, stared at Gilles as if he were a
wraith set to mock them in their weakness and their dependence.

'Not the Duc d'Anjou?' the Chief Magistrate murmured.  'Impossible!'

Gilles could not help but smile at the farcical aspect of his own
tragedy.

'It is not only possible, Messeigneurs,' he said, 'but is e'en a
positive fact.  Messire de Balagny would soon tell you so: and His
Highness the Duc d'Anjou himself will be here on the morrow to prove
to you that I am but an humble substitute, a representative of His
Graciousness.'

'But,' stammered d'Inchy, still in a state of complete bewilderment,
'that day in April ... your--you, Monseigneur ... in the Town Hall
... Madame Jacqueline...'

With a quick gesture, Gilles put up his hand.

'I entreat you, Monseigneur,' he said earnestly, 'to wait awhile ere
you probe further into His Highness' secrets.  For the moment, will
you not be content to rejoice with me at your deliverance?  His
Highness accepts from you the Sovereignty of the Netherlands.
To-morrow he will be here, ready to receive the acclamations and the
welcome of his people.  He hath proved himself not only ready, but
able, to defend you against all your enemies.  He hath this day
gained a signal victory over the powerful armies of the King of
Spain.  Henceforth the whole might of France will stand between you
and the relentless foe who threatens your lives and your liberties.
Join me, Messeigneurs,' he concluded earnestly, 'in acclaiming His
Highness the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon, prince of the House of France,
as your Sovereign Lord!'

His inspiring words were received in silence.  Not one voice was
raised in response to his loyal call.  Gilles frowned, feeling that
the supreme hour had come.  A moment or two longer, and the
inevitable question would be put 'And what of Madame Jacqueline,
Monseigneur?  What of the lady whom His Highness has sworn to wed?'

Already he had steeled himself to give answer, though the answer
could only proclaim dishonour, both for himself and for the Valois
prince whom he was trying so faithfully to serve unto the end.  He
saw the frown of puzzlement which gathered on d'Inchy's brow.  The
governor, in truth, was the first to recover his presence of mind.
Leaning upon his stick, with back bent, but his whole attitude one of
supreme dignity, he came nearer to Gilles and fixed a stern gaze upon
his face.

'If you are not the Duc d'Anjou, Monseigneur,' he said slowly, 'will
you tell us who it was who defended Cambray with such indomitable
valour four months ago?  Will you tell us who it is that saved
Cambray to-day?  For, of a truth, my friends and I are bewildered,
and the mystery before us is one which we cannot fathom.  Therefore I
dare ask you once again in all respect--I may say in all affection:
if you are not the Duc d'Anjou, who is it that stands before me now?'

'The saviour of Cambray!' came in a clear, ringing voice from the
further end of the courtyard.  'My promised Lord and King!'

The sound of Jacqueline's voice sent a spark of living flame through
those minds, atrophied by all this mystery.  All eyes were at once
turned to where she stood, dimly outlined in the gathering gloom.
She was clad in a sombre gown and wore a dark veil over her fair
hair.  Her young, girlish figure, free from the hideous trammels of
hoops or farthingale, appeared ethereal against the background of
grim, frowning walls.  Only the last lingering grey light in the west
brought into bold relief her pale face and graceful shoulders, smooth
like ivory.  Just for a minute or two she stood quite still, like an
exquisitely graven image, rigidly still yet pulsating with life.
Then she advanced slowly towards Gilles.  Her eyes held his and he
scarcely dared to breathe, for fear that perfect vision should vanish
into the skies, whence, of a truth, it must have descended.  He could
not have uttered a word then, if his very existence had depended on
it.  It seemed to him as if his very heart had stopped in its
beating, as if life and time and the whole universe was stilled while
Jacqueline's blue eyes sought his own, and she came, with hands
extended as if in entreaty, to him.

Was it a minute or a cycle of years!  He himself could not tell you.
He saw nothing of what went on around; the city walls had fallen
away, the men in their sombre clothes become mere shadows, the very
sky overhead had receded into the realm of nothingness.

And through that state of semi-consciousness, her exquisite voice
came to him as from another world.

'Nay! my dear Lord,' she said, with her enchanting smile, 'you'll not
refuse me the joy of paying something of my country's eternal debt of
gratitude to you.'

He still stood half-dazed and silent.  Then suddenly he took her
hands and slowly bent the knee, and buried his battle-stained face in
her sweet-scented palms.

It had all occurred within half a dozen seconds.  The governor, the
Chief Magistrate, the city fathers, gazed on uncomprehending, silent
and puzzled at what they saw.  After awhile, d'Inchy murmured vaguely:

'Madame Jacqueline ... we ... that is...'

But quickly now she turned and faced them all, while Gilles still
knelt and rested his hot forehead against her cool white hand.
Through the gloom they could just discern her face, white and serene
and withal defiant and firm, and irradiated with an enormous
happiness.

'Messeigneurs,' she said with solemn earnestness, 'you heard, two
sennights ago, the profession of faith which I made publicly before
the assembled people of Cambray.  There I swore by the living God Who
made me that I would cherish and serve, loyally and faithfully, even
until death, the noble and valorous hero who defended our city in the
hour of her gravest peril.  That dauntless hero is before you now.
Once again he has saved our city from destruction, our sisters from
dishonour, our men from shame.  To him did I plight my troth, to him
alone will I be true!'

Then, as all the men around her remained silent, moved to the depth
of their hearts by the sublime note of passion which rang through her
avowal, she continued, and this time with a note of unswerving
defiance and magnificent challenge in her voice:

'Ask the people of Cambray, Messeigneurs!  Let them be the arbiters
of my fate and their own.  Ask them to whom they would have me turn
now--to the mighty Prince who would only use me and them and our
valiant race as stepping stones to his own ambition, or to the hero
who has offered his life for us all.'

A low murmur went round the assembly.  Grave heads were shaken,
toil-worn hands were raised to wipe a furtive tear.  The evening
gloom descended upon this strange scene, upon the reverend seigneurs
and the stolid soldiers, upon the man who was kneeling and the
woman--a mere girl--who stood there, commanding and defiant, secure
in her love, proud of her surrender, ready to fight for her happiness.

'Ask the people of Cambray, Messeigneurs,' she reiterated boldly, 'if
you have a doubt!'

She let her eyes wander slowly over the crowd.  One by one, she
looked these grave seigneurs in the face, these men who arrogated the
right to rule over her destiny.  They were her friends, had been her
daily companions in the past four months of horror and of misery.
They had trembled with her over Cambray's danger, had wept with her
over Cambray's woes.  With her they had acclaimed the hero who had
defended them, had wept when they saw him fall; and to-day, again
to-day, had been ready to deify him as their hero and her knight.

'Messeigneurs,' she pleaded, 'ask the people of Cambray.'

She knew what would be the people's answer.  Now that the hour of
their liberty had struck, now that the Spaniard no longer thundered
at their gates, they were ready to carry their Liberator
shoulder-high and give him the universe in their gratitude, if they
had it to give.  What cared they if their Liberator was a Duc d'Anjou
or a nameless knight?  He was the man whom they worshipped, the man
who had made them free.

And now, when she still saw doubt, hesitation, embarrassment, upon
the face of all these grave dignitaries, she frowned with wounded
pride and with impatience.

'Messeigneurs,' she said boldly, 'Heaven forgive me, but ye seem to
hesitate!  The man to whom you owe your life, your future, the honour
of your name, asks nothing more of your gratitude.  But I, who am
privileged to read in his heart, know that it is in my power to repay
him in full for all that he hath done.  And yet you hesitate!  I am
content to make appeal to the people of Cambray.  But I know too what
goes on in your minds.  Ye think that ye are pledged to _Monsieur_
Duc d'Anjou! that Jacqueline de Broyart, if she refuse to wed him,
would sully your honour and, what were infinitely worse, would
besmirch the fair fame of Flanders.  Isn't that so, Messeigneurs?'

Their silence had become eloquent.

'The honour of Flanders----' Monseigneur began, then paused.  A
premonition of something which he could not put into words caused him
to remain silent too, and to let the girl plead her cause without any
interruption from him.

'The honour of Flanders, as you say, Monseigneur,' Jacqueline went on
firmly, 'demands above all things that you and I and the guardians of
our city do keep our word.  Therefore, even before we make appeal to
the people of Cambray, we will ask Monseigneur de Froidmont, who is
here on behalf of His Highness, the Duc d'Anjou, to renew in His
Highness' name the demand of my hand in marriage.  On his answer
should depend our future conduct.  Is that not so, Messeigneurs?' she
asked once again, and let her calm gaze wander from one solemn face
to the other, search serenely every troubled eye.

D'Inchy this time realized that he must be the spokesman for all
these representatives, his city and of his province.  Vaguely
troubled still by the mystery which surrounded the man to whom
Cambray owed her deliverance, he thought once for all, by a straight
question, to put an end to the many doubts and fears which assailed
him and his friends.  Jacqueline already had turned once more to
Gilles; with a slight pressure of her hand she asked him to rise.
This he did, feeling strangely elated, just as if Destiny, tired of
buffeting him, was smiling encouragingly to him from afar.  In the
midst of the many confused impressions which had struck his wearied
mind during the past quarter of an hour, one thought stood out with
heavenly clearness: Jacqueline loved him!  Her love had neither
faltered nor tired through these weary months.  She was as steadfast
and true to him at this hour as she had been when in the
clematis-covered arbour she had lain against his breast.  Now her
woman's quick wit had divined the truth and come to the aid of her
love.  Even when she challenged those grave seigneurs to ask him the
straight and momentous question, she knew what his answer would be.

The task which lay before him no longer seemed irksome and
humiliating.  He still blushed for the shame which rested on the
fickle Prince whom he served, but already in his heart he had
registered the vow that, God helping as He had done hitherto, the
honour of France should shine forth before these heroic people, in
all its brightness and glory, through the glorious deeds of her sons.

'Monseigneur,' began d'Inchy tentatively, 'you have heard what Madame
Jacqueline de Broyart hath said.  We have all passed through much
sorrow, have witnessed the miseries and the patience of our people.
The hour of victory has come, but found us weak in body and tortured
in mind.  We place our faith with complete confidence in the honour
and integrity of France.  We are prepared to receive His Highness,
the Duc d'Anjou with open hearts and to acclaim him as our Sovereign
Lord.  Will he in exchange keep faith with us, and wed our ward,
Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, to whom he hath akeady plighted his
troth?'

Even while the governor spoke, the city dignitaries all tried to read
the expression on Gilles' face through the fast-gathering gloom, and
anxious eyes scanned those war-worn features which they had learned
to love.  Even through the darkness they could see him, standing
there in his rags and his battered breastplate, hatless and begrimed,
splendid in his valour and his pride, and with Jacqueline's hand held
tightly in his own--splendid still, now that he stood silent and
shamed before them all.

To Monseigneur's peremptory question he had given no reply, remained
almost motionless, while Jacqueline, proud in the face of the crying
insult which a faithless Prince had put upon her, threw back her head
and gave a deep sigh of content.

Monseigneur the governor had received his answer in Gilles de
Crohin's obstinate silence.  A bitter cry of unbridled anger rose to
his lips, his emaciated hand trembled visibly upon the stick which he
held.

Then, just as suddenly, his wrath gave way.  It almost seemed as if
an angel of reconciliation and of love had whispered into his ear,
and had, with cool and gentle fingers, smoothed away the angry frown
upon his brow.  All that was fine and noble in the heroic race from
which he sprang clamoured for the only possible solution of the
present difficulty, a solution which would ensure the happiness of a
brave and proud woman, and the dignity of the country which he
represented.

One last second of hesitation, one final regretful sigh for the
ambitious personal schemes which he saw crumbling into ashes at his
feet, then Monseigneur d'Inchy, governor of Cambray, sank slowly down
on his knees.

'Monseigneur,' he said slowly and impressively, 'Madame Jacqueline de
Broyart has spoken and shown us the path of our duty.  To-morrow we
will acclaim His Highness the Duc d'Anjou et d'Alençon as our
Sovereign Lord; but to-day we welcome you as the saviour of our city.
Whatever your wishes are, they are a law unto us.  You have heard
what Madame Jacqueline has said.  Will you in your turn plight your
troth to her?  Will you love and cherish her and serve her faithfully
and loyally as her liege lord, until death?'

'And beyond!' Gilles murmured softly.

The last streak of grey light was still lingering in the sky.
Everything in the enclosure of the tall, grim walls became mysterious
and shadowy; darkness drew her kindly mantle over the scene.  She hid
from prying eyes what went on under the immediate shadow of the great
gate, where for one brief moment Jacqueline lay against her loved
one's heart.

From the towers of the city's churches the bells were still sending
their happy carillon through the evening air.  A group of pikemen
brought torches into the courtyard.  A wild shout of delight--the
first which Cambray had heard, for many months--sent its joyous sound
through the evening air.

And in the homes which all these months of misery had devastated, the
sick and the weary roused themselves for a moment, marvelling what
these shouts of joy might mean.  And those who had suffered for so
long and who were now comforted, those who had been hungry and were
now fed, ran into the houses of sickness and of sorrow, in order to
bring the gladsome, the great, the wonderful news.

'The Duc d'Anjou, brother of the King of France, is to be Sovereign
Lord of the Netherlands.  He will enter Cambray to-morrow, with his
great army.  He will be proclaimed Protector of the Liberties of
Cambray and Sovereign of the Cambrésis!'

'And he will wed Madame Jacqueline de Broyart, the great
heiress?--our Jacqueline?'

'Oh, no!  The Duc d'Anjou will be our Sovereign Lord.  But Madame
Jacqueline will wed the saviour of Cambray.'



_Printed in Great Britain by_ Butler & Tanner _Frome and London_

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 68135 ***