A Gentleman from Gascony. A romance of the Huguenots

Front matter

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Furniture in large or small quantities Purchased for Cash. PROSPECTUSES ON APPLICATION. Q. Romance of tht ljugiunots. CY BIC KNELL DUDLEY. LONDON: WARD, LOCK & BOWDEN, LIMITED, WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. NEW YORK AND MELBOURNE. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. — The Last of His Race 7 II. — Shadows Before, 16 III. — Gabrielle, 30 IV. — The White Badge, 3g V. — Borrowed Plumes, ...... 51 VI. — A Dangerous Game, ..... 63 VII. — From Failure — Success! 76 VIII. — The Eve of Saint Bartholomew, ... 86 IX. — The Death Knell gi X. — The Assassination of Coligny, ... 97 XI. — The King's Physician, 103 XII. — At the Sign of the Green Dragon, . .111 XIII. — A Duel with Sword and Dagger, . . .121 XIV.— A Port in a Storm 127 XV. — Madame la Duchesse, 135 XVI. — In Frock and Cowl 14- XVII. — "I Exact the Price of Blood!" . . 159 XVIII. — By Grace of God, King of France, . . 169 XIX. — Beneath the Shadow of the Axe, . . .176 XX. — By Royal Command, 189 XXI. — Raoul to the Rescue! 199 XXII. — Caught in the Toils, 210 XXIII.— The Closed Door 21S XXIV.— 'Twixt Hammer and Anvil 231 XXV. — Plot and Counterplot 242 XXVI. — Below the Queen's Balcony 252 XXVII.— "The King of Navarre is Here!" . . .260 XXVIII. — Love the Conqueror! 272 XXIX. — "There is a Weapon ! Defend Yourself ' " . 283 XXX,— Won at Last, A ROMANCE OF THE HUGUENOTS.

Chapter I. The Last Of His Race

"Mordiou, I must do it! It is the only chance left me now!" And, with a sigh, the young Chevalier de Puycadere glanced sorrowfully up at the ancient pile before him. There was a time once, in the days of the second Henry of blessed memory, when the chateau de Puy cadere had haughtily upreared its castellated head, as if in proud consciousness that it was one of the most magnificent habitations in Gascony, if not in all of France. But alas, like the noble family whose name it bore, how were its glories faded ! Its walls were crumbling, its battlements and towers almost in ruins, its windows broken and gaping — in fact, its whole appearance well-nigh disreputable save where the thick ivy had thrown a generous mantle of charity over its vanished splendor. Of all the wide domains that had once surrounded it, like vassals about their suzerain, there now remained to the last scion of the Puycaderes but a few wretched acres, uncultivated, neglected, forlorn.

Wars, confiscations, and persecutions had robbed the former and the present owner of this once fair estate of almost all their possessions. Huguenots the Puycaderes had always been. Huguenots they would remain! And, with the Catholic party so long in the ascendant, their devotion to their cause had proved their worldly ruin. Yet very dear to the eyes of their master were those impoverished lands, with their tangle of foliage, where the flowers in their crimson and purple and gold strove to throw off the choking grasp of the invading weeds, all illumined now as they were by the August sunlight, vivid, gorgeous, resplendent. But if the chateau and grounds were marked with every sign of downfall and decay, so was not their owner, the last representative of his race. In this month of August, 1572, Raoul de Puycadere was in the full flush of youth, strength, and manly beauty.

His figure was lithe but muscular. A profu sion of reddish-brown hair escaped from beneath his slouch hat. His complexion was bronzed, a small mus tache shaded a beautifully cut mouth, full of white teeth, and his large eyes were gray, save in moments of ex citement when they sparkled so fiercely that they seemed almost black. His dress showed the decayed gentleman. His doublet and the short cloak worn jauntily over one shoulder had originally been of fine quality, but were now frayed, faded, and patched; his broad-brimmed hat with its drooping feathers showed marked signs of wind and weather, and the long boots of untanned leather which reached far above the knees could have been rendered more serviceable by a cobbler's skilful hand. "Yes," he repeated aloud, as if apostrophizing the gray walls, " the die is cast.

When I see thee again, if ever, home of my ancestors, thou shalt receive a garb more worthy of thy dignity." And he laughed merrily at the conceit. The hopes of youth are hard to smother. It is only in the pathway of the old that the wall of despair rises, dark and im penetrable in its strength. The echoes of the young chevalier's laughter had scarce died away when round the house, from the weed grown avenue that led to the stables, hobbled a little, dried-up old man, leading a horse which, with its knock knees and its thin sides through which the ribs showed plainly, was almost as sorry a looking beast as the far famed Rosinante itself. "Ah! woe the day!" quavered the old man, as he caught sight of his master. " Why do you desert the old place? I shall never see you again." " Nonsense, my good Frangois," cried the young man cheerily, leaping down the steps three at a time.

" Keep up a brave heart, old fellow. You never whimpered like this, when my father — Heaven rest his soul — and I were off to the wars in Flanders." The old man shook his head dolefully. " That was different ! That was different! There is less danger on the battle-field than in that terrible city of Paris. It is a dragon with open jaws ready to devour all that is best in France. I know it! I know it! And," sinking his voice as if fearful of being overheard, "they hate the Huguenots there." "Nay, nay, not so. 'Times change and we change in them,' as I learned in my classics. With Harry of Navarre in the Louvre and the husband of the king's sister, a Huguenot is as safe in Paris as he is in Gas cony, aye in Beam itself. Indeed, my good Frangois, I am not romancing," he added, as the old man refused to be comforted, "although you seem to think I am.

Oh, yes, like all true Gascons, I can pull the long bow upon occasions. But I am telling you now only the simple truth." "But why go at all?" "What, and eat out my heart here, living over the past greatness of my family! What would one of my ancestors, of whom you are so fond of boasting, have said to that? No! No! Paris for me! Paris which holds my fortune!" " Heaven grant it may!" But old Frangois' face, as sorrowful as that of Niobe herself, revealed that he had little hope of the realiza tion of his devoutly expressed wish. "Mordiou, I cannot stay chattering here!" suddenly ejaculated the chevalier. " I have many a league to traverse before nightfall. Here, Frangois, take this," and opening a purse which he drew from the bosom of his doublet, he forced into the old man's palm, in spite of the recipient's stoutly expressed reluctance, five broad pieces of gold.

"And now, farewell, my faithful old friend! What, would you make me play the woman!" as he noted the tears streaming down the wrinkled cheeks of his trusty servitor. He pressed the good old man to his breast, patting him encouragingly on the back. Then, leaping into the saddle, he started his steed down the avenue at a pace really quite creditable to that woebegone animal. As well as he could through the mist that clouded his sight old Frangois watched his young master's departure, until in a turn of the highway both horse and rider vanished from his vision. But there was neither sorrow nor foreboding in the breast of Raoul de Puycadere, as he rode happily along through the shady lanes and past the vineyards of this garden land of France. All his dreams of the future were tinged with gold and rose-color.

Enthusiastic with anticipation, he carolled forth in his fresh, young voice that old ballad of the Gascon land: Mon aieul etait rossignol, Ma grand'mere etait hirondelle ! Ohe, le pays Gascon ! Ohe, le pays Gascon ! Nothing of note happened during the rest of the afternoon. The old horse soon tired of its little burst of spirits and could only at rare intervals be forced out of a walk. Shortly after sunset, Raoul rode into the village of Riconde, a wretched little hamlet, consisting mostly of hovels. Inquiring of a peasant, who was making his way home bending beneath a load of faggots, he learned that the place boasted a sort of inn where possibly, the peasant was inclined to be doubtful, hut possibly refreshment for man and beast might be obtained. When he arrived at the spot indicated, De Puycadere discovered that it was a low, ramshackle sort of an affair with nothing inviting about it.

But as he was desper ately hungry and moderately tired as well, he deter mined to try his luck, and reining in his steed, a process almost superfluous, he began bawling lustily for the landlord. It was some moments before any one appeared, but finally the door opened, and a woman peered forth, with blinking eyes, a woman so old that by a slight stretch of the imagination she might have been considered a contemporary of those who inhabited the ark. "Hola, mother!" cried the chevalier briskly, "will you send some one to take charge of my horse? and have you aught to give me for supper?" " Put your horse up yourself," croaked the old woman. " There's a shed yonder. And as for supper, perchance you can have something, if you have the wherewithal to pay for it. " "Oh! rest easy as to that!" laughed Raoul, leaping lightly to the ground.

He led his tired animal to the shed indicated by the woman, and having tethered it, he hunted about and found fodder in a corner of the building. Having attended to the creature comforts of his horse, he gave a hasty glance about him. He noticed that there were three other horses tied in the shed, two of whom gave evidence of long and hard riding. Just outside was drawn up a goodly sized van, on the canvas sides of which was painted in sprawling letters the word Gelosi. Crossing the courtyard, he entered the cabaret itself, which proved to consist of only one rather large room, with rush-strewn floor, and sparsely furnished with rough tables and benches. The light from half a dozen spluttering candles was dim, and the air was so dense with the smoke from the turf fire burning on the hearth that Raoul could see scarcely a dozen feet before him.

He managed, however, to grope his way to one of the tables, and was immediately served by the beldame with a mess of steaming porridge and a bottle of sour wine. The fare was not very appetizing, but the chevalier was too hungry to quarrel with what was set before him, and he fell to with a will. The cravings of the inner man appeased, he raised his head and proceeded to take an inventory of his sur roundings. His eyes had now become somewhat accus tomed to the atmosphere, and he perceived for the first time that he was not the sole guest of the place. A short distance down the room were two burly fel lows with coarse, repulsive countenances, who had been staring curiously at the newcomer, but immediately averted their gaze as they became conscious that they were observed. Just across from the table occupied by De Puycadere was seated a group of four, two men and two women.

Their swarthy complexions, jet-black hair and big dark eyes, together with their fantastic garb, proclaimed their race. They evidently belonged to one of those nomadic bands of Tzigani who were on their way to Paris to pick up an occasional honest and more often still dishonest coin, attracting the public by their songs, dances, and predictions of the future. After a few hurried words with the man who was evidently the leader of the party, one of the girls rose and modestly approached Raoul's table. She was an exceedingly pretty creature of the dark Egyptian type, and the Orientalism of her appearance was heightened by the bizarre, brilliant colors of her dress and the band of gilded sequins which, passed about her head, dangled low over her dark forehead. " Will the noble gentleman cross the poor Tzigana's hand?" she began, with a pretty smile.

"And Mirza will tell him of the future." De Puycadere smiled good-humoredly back, and pro ducing his purse, proceeded to select a silver piece with which to grant the gypsy's request. The glitter of the money caught the observation of one of the rough-looking men seated farther down the room, and an evil, covetous look gleamed for a moment in his eyes. Turning to his companion he uttered a few low, rapid words. Mirza was attentively examining the lines in the chevalier's hand. Suddenly, she uttered a cry and, raising her head, beckoned to her companions. The others approached and joined in the examination, meanwhile talking volubly to one another in some strange, musical language. "Well, am I not to know your discovery?" asked Raoul, laughing. "Ah, monsieur," said the girl named Mirza, "'tis a strange future the lines foretell, and a happy future too, unless " and she hesitated.

"Well, unless?" " Unless all is brought to a sudden ending." "A sudden ending?" " Yes, monsieur. There is much peril in store for you. If you survive, all will be well. But, whether you survive or not is beyond the gypsy's lore to predict. " "Mordiou! With a good sword and a stout arm I'll take the risk. And now, I'll away. I've loitered too long already." "Monsieur is not going to-night?" asked Mirza, with an anxious ring in her voice. " By my faith, I am. I sleep in Creux to-night." At these words, the two men at the other end of the room rose and passed hurriedly out of the cabaret. In another moment, the clatter of hoofs was heard without. "I beg monsieur not to go to-night," insisted the Tzigana, with increased earnestness. " I — I am afraid. " " Peste! my pretty one," returned Raoul with careless confidence.

" Raoul de Puycadere can take care of himself " The girl made a gesture expressive of helplessness, but said no more. Raoul paid his reckoning, and, after a cheery good night to the gypsies, left the sordid inn, mounted his horse, and was soon on his way to Creux. Night had fallen. There was no moon, and it was so dark that the poor horse, whom neither threats nor cajoleries could induce to move faster than a walk, had difficulty in picking his way. Raoul finally ceased his efforts, and, allowing his steed to proceed at his own gait, gave himself up to reflection. He had ridden thus slowly for perhaps an hour, when suddenly he was startled by the neighing of a horse just beyond a hedge on one side of the highway. The next moment a heavy body alighted with a thump just behind him upon the haunches of his spiritless animal.

Before he could utter a cry or make a movement for defence, a thick cloak was flung over his head, and he was dragged from his horse, which had stopped short at the disturbance. He felt himself in the grasp of four muscular arms, and struggled furiously to free himself, but all in vain. He was raised from his feet and dashed violently down upon the hard roadway. He felt a terrible pain dart through his temple, as his head came in contact with some unyielding object, and then he knew no more. Consciousness had left him.

Chapter II. Shadows Before

"Corbleu! Let them sing and shout while they may! By the corns of Saint Ursula, my name is not Annibal Goujon if some of the knaves do not dance to a different tune before this day week. Oh! shout for Navarre! Ere long you'll have no tongues to cry 'Vive' to him and his beggarly crew! By sword and hilt, were I the Duke of Guise, I'd slit those same tongues now without further ado!" And the speaker, a stout, red-faced man, with little cunning eyes like those of a ferret, half drew the heavy long sword that dangled at his side, and with an oath clashed it back again into its scabbard. The pretty, dark-eyed little woman at his side started, and cast a half-fearful glance upon his crimson counte nance. Accustomed as she was to her husband's boast ing as to deeds of prowess and bloodshed in which he had been or was to be the doughty hero, there was something in his manner now which boded more than his usual bravado.

The pair were standing on the narrow platform of the hostelry known as "The Rising Sun," in the Place Royale of the village of Saint Germain. Above their heads swayed slowly in the morning breeze the sign board — the head of the young Duke of Guise, sur rounded by a sunburst, golden rays stretching in all directions. The Rising Sun! More than one curious passer-by had of late fastened his eyes upon the sign and asked himself if there were aught of augury in the painted board. Annibal Goujon's breast swelled like a pouter pig eon's beneath his gorgeous uniform of red and yellow. Although sergeant in the King's Musketeers, the worthy man found means to fill his purse in divers other ways. He was proprietor of the Rising Sun, and, unless rumor spoke false, did not disdain to do quite a flourishing lit tle trade as a pawnbroker and usurer.

To be sure, Rose, his wife, was of great assistance to him in these latter enterprises. Indeed, during An nibal's enforced absences while on duty, she was the virtual mistress of the inn, and more than one golden crown flowed into its coffers more for the sake of a glance from the bright eyes and a smile from the cherry lips of the pretty proprietress than for the good cheer to be obtained within the tavern itself. It was an animated scene the ill-matched twain gazed upon this lovely summer's morning. The village of Saint Germain was in full festival at tire. The inns and even the private houses were filled from cellar to attic, and the streets and public squares crowded with a boisterous throng of merry makers. At every corner one ran across booths containing goods of every description and eatables and drinkables that defied description, together with bands of peripatetic comedians, acrobats, giants, dwarfs, trained animals, and Heaven knows what else besides!

In the main it was a jocund, good-natured crowd, but here and there a lowering face, an impatient gesture, a muttered curse betokened that all were not in har mony with the general gayety. And yet, forsooth, why should not the loyal subjects of his most Christian Majesty of France be in gay and festival mood? A few days before, the 15th of August, 1572, had been celebrated, with great pomp and magnificence, the marriage of Marguerite de Valois, sister of Charles IX., to Henri de Bourbon, the young king of Navarre. This union of Catholic and Huguenot had vastly sur prised everybody, and given rise to much surmise in the minds of the more subtle spirits of both parties. On the whole, however, the Huguenots rejoiced greatly and believed that an end had now come to the persecution they had suffered from for so many terrible years.

How could they think otherwise? Had not the king openly declared: "In giving my sister Margot to Henri of Navarre, I give her to all the Protestants of the kingdom"? Had not the venerable Admiral Coligny, the noted Huguenot, who for five or six years had been so bitterly opposed to the king, come to Paris to be present at the wedding of his beloved pupil, the young ruler of Na varre? Had not Charles himself welcomed the old man with almost filial affection? And yet over all, to the eyes of those who had eyes to see, hovered the sinister, revengeful figure of the Duke of Guise, whom, youthful as he was, the Catholics looked up to as the chief of their party, just as the Hugue nots considered Harry of Navarre to be their leader. A little apart from the general movement and gayety in the Place Royale, drawn up beneath a blank wall, under the shadow of the picturesque eaves of the Rising Sun, was a gypsy's van, with the word Gelosi painted in huge characters upon its white canvas sides.

Close to the van and out of earshot of the joyous revel lers stood two men, looking on with anything but sym pathy at the general merry-making. Their haughty bearing and rich attire indicated that they belonged to the nobility, as indeed was the case. One was a man of perhaps thirty-five, of somewhat stalwart build and with jet-black hair and mustache. While his features were regular and even handsome, there was something in his expression which would have warned a student of Lavater to beware crossing his will. Supremely selfish, crushing ruthlessly all that threatened to cross his ambition, and yet knowing well at need how to veil his thoughts and purposes beneath the suavest of manners, the Vicomte Hector de Vrissac stood high at court in the graces of the king and the queen mother, Catherine de Medicis.

The latter, shrewd and crafty woman that she was, believed that every man has his price, and she had long since discov ered that De Vrissac could be depended on for almost any sort of work, provided his services were properly recompensed. The Vicomte's companion was a mere youth, not more than twenty, but of a muscular figure which told of considerable strength, and a bright, handsome, winning countenance, in spite of the slight marks of dissi pation which a life of careless pleasure-seeking had already imprinted upon it. As the little red eyes of Sergeant Goujon roamed restlessly here and there about the square, they chanced to rest upon the figures of the two noblemen near the gypsy's van. And then a sudden transformation took place. Annibal drew himself up with all the puffed-up majesty of a turkey-cock, gave his breast a resounding slap, and turning to his wife, said : "Ah!

I perceive a good friend of mine, my dear, a very good friend, the noble Vicomte de Vrissac," and his tongue seemed to roll over the title as if it had been a toothsome morsel. " One word with him, and I must away. You understand of course — although, by the beard of St. Bridget, Annibal Goujon is too long-headed to confide his secrets to a woman — how serious are the motives which compel me to absent myself from you to-day. Remember, I leave in your hands all my interests." " And when do you return?" asked Rose, indifferently. " I do not know," and he eyed her in a half -suspicious manner, then continuing with emphasis, "but act pre cisely as if I were about to return the very next instant." Did Rose shrug her shoulders at this veiled threat? Goujon was not quite sure', not sure enough at all events to take any notice of it.

So, contenting himself with what he had already said, he placed one pudgy finger beneath his wife's dimpled chin, and, bending forward, imprinted a kiss upon her lips — a salute not too well rel ished by the recipient, if one were to judge by the moue she made the moment her lord and master had turned his back. Straight to the van strutted the portly sergeant, thoroughly convinced in his own mind that he was the observed of all observers, the envied of all enviers. As the younger of the two noblemen caught sight of him, he burst out laughing, and, turning to his com panion, began some jesting remark little flattering to the vanity of the self-satisfied sergeant had he heard it; but, fortunately for the latter's conceit, the words were cut short by a low, quick " Chut!" from De Vrissac. Goujon advanced until he was close to their elbows, then, doffing his plumed hat, he bowed as low as his decidedly corpulent anatomy would permit.

Then, raising himself to his full height, he fixed his eyes upon De Vrissac, and, with much solemnity, uttered the one word : "Guise!"' De Vrissac's face darkened, and he made as if to utter some sharp rejoinder, but he evidently thought better of it, for, after a quick glance about him, he replied with equal solemnity: "Guise!" "All!" "All!" " By order of the king/' " By order of the king and the great Henri. "When strikes the clock of Saint Germain l'Auxerrois. " At the first sound of the tocsin." '"Tis agreed." "'Tis agreed." Goujon paused, with a grin of satisfaction overspread ing his coarse, crafty features. The mysterious cate chism, countersign, or whatever it might be, was evidently ended. The young Duke de Bassompierre — for De Vrissac's companion bore one of the proudest names in France — had listened with ever-increasing amazement to the parley between the ill-matched pair.

But there was another listener, with whom it would have fared ill had his eavesdropping been discovered by the choleric De Vrissac. Crouched within the van was a young man who had eagerly drunk in every word with an amazement and bewilderment quite equal to the duke's. After a moment's silence, De Vrissac spoke again. "Look you, Master Goujon," he said, sternly and with little or no attempt to conceal his annoyance, " and pay strict heed to my words. Evidently, you have learned your lesson well. So far, so good! But discretion is a virtue you apparently lack. Beware how you speak again in public places. Bridle your tongue, and see that it wags no more like the clapper behind an old gossip's lips. Good-day!" Goujon's face fell. Crestfallen, he made another low obeisance, then, turning, strode away with but a poor assumption of his former jauntiness, and was soon lost in the crowd.

" Really this is most extraordinary, my dear Hector," began the duke. "What, you, the Vicomte " "Tush!" interrupted De Vrissac, testily. "A few more magpies like that, and our great cause is lost." " Our great cause?" " Certainly. Your cause, my cause, the cause of all good Catholics, the cause of the great Henri!" "What Henri?" " There is only one. "And he?" " Henri of Guise." De Bassompierre was silent for a moment, and then he said slowly, waving his hand toward the crowd in the Place Royale: " To judge from this scene, one might think there was another Henri in France — Henri of Navarre." With a smothered malediction, the vicomte laid his hand feverishly upon the jewelled hilt of the dagger he wore at his belt. " By the mass!" he replied in a low, tense voice, " let Navarre enjoy his glory while he may. 'Twill be short-lived, I promise that."

A strange expression, half curiosity, half offence, passed over the young duke's face, and then he laid his hand, in its embroidered gauntlet, impulsively upon the other's arm. " Hector, I am no fool, and there is some plan afoot. I can well see that. Why, as a good Catholic and a peer of France, am I kept without the confidences of our party?" "All in good time, all in good time, my dear Paul. Your mother especially " " Mort de ma vie!" interrupted the young man, an grily, " I am no longer in leading-strings." "Certainly not. I did not mean to intimate it," said De Vrissac, soothingly. " Be content. I promise you that you shall know all no later than to-night. By the way," with a sudden change of manner, "did you know that yesterday when Admiral Coligny was passing the house of Canon Piles, he was shot at?"