A crown from the spear

Front matter

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i UNITED STATES OP AMERICA.

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Book I. Notre Dame De Rouen

Page

Proemial 1

I.’ Fabien the Canon 2

11. An Asylum 3

III. Aim^:e 5

IV. Assisting to capture One’s Self 7

V. A Strange Legacy 9

VI. How A Philosopher may die 11

VII. The Young Count 13

Book II. Chateau De Clermont

I. Fabien the Archdeacon 15

II. A Count, a Lily, and a Rose 17

III. A Face at a Window 19

IV. I CAN MAKE HIM USEFUL 21

V. A Vagrant changed to a Priest 22

VI. You MUST DECIDE FOR YOURSELF 24

VII. There is but one May in a Year 27

VIII. The Heart of a Priest is the Heart of a Man 29

IX. The Alley of Sighs 32

X. This is all we have found 36

XL The Plot matures 40

XII. Justice makes a Demand 45

XIII. Crushing a Lily 49

Book III. Sarzeau

1. “ The Setting of a great Hope ” 53

H. Chateau of Sarzeau 59

III. La Croix Verte 64

IV. Almost a Defeat 71

V. Cruel as Death 76

VI. The Gratitude of a Poet 81

VII. You MUST NOT SEE HIM AGAIN 88

VIII. The Secret of the old Cabinet 93

IX. Chateauroux 98

VI

CONTENTS.

Book IV Hotel Be Ventadour

I. “La Belle Dame sans Merci ” 103

11. A Friday Evening at the Hotel Ventadour 107

III. A Dinner in the Rue Castiglione 114

IV. This and That 120

V. In which Sir Edward’s Motive is Obvious 125

VI. One of the Fortuitous Events that we call Fate .... 131

VIII. Something more of Genevieve Gautier 144

IX. Too LATE to save HIMSELF 151

X. La Roquette 157

XI. A Day of Wrath 163

XII. Crowned at last 170

BOOK FIEST.

NOTRE DAME DE ROUEN.

PROEMIAL.

BETWEEN Havre and Paris, on the banks of the Seine, stands the ancient and picturesque city of Rouen. Its majestic and sombre aspect, its historic associations, its marvels of ecclesiastical architecture, its mediaeval monuments, its labyrinths of winding streets, its quaint houses dim and dingy with the stains of time, the narrow windows looking like half-shut eyes from their queer gable faces, impress one with its antiquity as well as with its historical importance.

In the centre of the town the venerable Cathedral of Notre Dame towers above the Place de la Pucelle, where the hapless Maid of Orleans was burned in 1451. How often the stranger pauses to look with wonder and admiration at that immense pile ! Impressed with a feeling of almost awe, the eye wanders over the vast proportions of the Gothic fagade, following from point to point the exquisite tracery and elaborate carving of the profuse ornamentation, until, nearly bewildered by the complication of design, it seeks relief above, even to the summit of the lofty towers that stand like sentinels with their feet upon the earth and their heads wrapped in clouds. One enters reverently its deeply recessed and grandly sculptured portals, and gazes with serious delight down the mysterious and shadowy length of the nave, crossed with trembling rays of crimson and gold that fall from the great rose-window of delicate and exquisite design, flaming with the most brilliant colors blended with remarkable skill and beauty.

In the choir these many-colored rays illuminate a tablet, let into the marble of the pavement, that marks the spot where the heart of Richard Coeur de Lion was interred ; his body rests at Fontevrault, but his lion heart he gave to Rouen because of his great love for Normandy.

Behind the high altar is the interesting and elaborate monument of Cardinal d’Amboise, Archbishop of Rouen and Minister of Louis XII. The stranger who pauses to look at this may notice under his very feet a small black marble cross on which is a half-effaced Latin inscription : —

Infdidsmna.

If he observes it, he may possibly kneel to Trace out the nearly obliterated letters, and in so doing he will discover another inscription crossing the original epitaph in minute characters : —

A fearful tempest was abroad on the wings of the night, the thunder raved and roared around the solemn edifice ; the blue lightning flashed through the windows and down the deserted nave, illuminating carved capital and column, piercing even into the secret recesses of the groined roof, wrapping the marble images in a spectral light until they seemed to melt like phantoms into shadow. The great bell in the tower of St. Romain clanged and clashed the hour of midnight, when the eastern portal opened and a man entered, carrying a lantern, the feeble light of which made but a faint ring under the flame of the tempest. He was followed by a silent

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

and stately companion, who glided in his shadow, like a mournful spirit, through the nave and across the transept to the high altar, where stood a catafalque supporting a coffin covered with a velvet pall. Eight tall candles threw a sickly light over the kneeling figure of a priest, who crossed himself from time to time, muttering Ora pro nohis in a sepulchral voice. The man who entered first set down his lantern and drew back the velvet pall, revealing a silver plate on which was engraved a heart pierced with a spear, and below it the word Aimee, The air seemed to tremble with a sigh as the tall figure drew near and looked upon the placid face of the sleeper ; then he fell on his knees, and, leaning his head against the coffin, sharp, short sobs burst from his lips, — the convulsive moans of those who cannot weep. Beneath his black mantle were visible the crimson-corded robe, the violet sash and heavy chain of a dignitary of the Church. It was Monseigneur the Archbishop of Rouen who wept wuth his head against the coffin that contained the body of a young and lovely woman, — young, although the eyes were sunken and the mass of hair that fell back from her forehead was as white as snow.

Every day when the great rose-window burns like a fiery eye under the level rays of the setting sun, the Archbishop of Rouen enters the eastern portal with a stately step, and crosses the nave to the high altar ; there, dismissing his servant who follows him, he falls on his knees upon the cross, clasps his hands over his heart, utters a dreary sigh, bows his head, and remains long in silent prayer.

When he leaves the spot, there are tears on the epitaph.

Part First. Fabien The Canon

“ A FINE morning,” said Fabien, the canon and secretary t-o his lordship the Archbishop of Rouen, as he returned the profound reverence of the wizened old woman ^who raised the leather curtain that hung over the east* ern portal of the Cathedral.

“Yes, monseigneur, a fine clear morning to see Rouen from the Tour de Burre. I wish God would give me a little more strength, that I might creep up to the platform again and see the blessed city below me. Ah ! ” with a dolorous shake of the head, “ the desire always remains, monseigneur, the heart is always young, even after old age takes away the strength.”

“ Is it possible 1 Is the heart always young { ” murmured Fabien in a dreamy voice, as the leather curtain fell behind him with a flap that started out a cloud of dust and drowned the old woman’s quavering voice. “ Is the heart ahvays young 1 ” he repeated slowly as he crossed the transept and nave to the little door opening on the staircase that leads to the Tour de Burre. “ Her philosophy, simple, ignorant old soul, is the philosophy of an age long past ; yes, to such as she the heart may be always young, for, after all, it is not time that wears a thing out, it is use. Rationalists tell us that the heart, the soul, the mind, are one. If so, then such clods may well have young hearts, for they use them but little. I am twenty-five to-day, and I am older than that old crone. I have lived centuries, because I have gained the knowledge of centuries, because to-day I understand all that has exhausted time since the creation to develop. All that the research of ages and the experiments of science, all that theology and metaphysics have revealed, I am master of. What does it matter if we have lived a few years more or less, if we have the experience of ages'! ‘ Knowledge is power, knowledge is power,’ ” he repeated again and again as he hurried up the winding steps ; “ knowledge alone is power, but knowledge combined with wealth is double power. I have toiled all the years of my life for the first ; now,” clasping his hands with a sharp and energetic stroke, “ now for the other. I am sure of myself, the power is within me. I mil conquer every obstacle and attain my end. What emoluments, what honors, the Church offers to her zealous disciples ! literature, science, art, are all very well to serve as means, but these

CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

puerilities belong to feeble souls; he who would climb must use religion as a ladder, and the Church as his topstone of power.”

He went on rapidly, flight after flight, never pausing to rest for a moment, his body as erect, his step as firm, as though he were walking on level ground. When he reached the summit of the Tour de Burre and stepped out on the platform, he seemed not at all exhausted from his great exertion. There was something in the clear eyes, the tightly closed lips, the firm and defiant step, that showed the strength of the man’s will. For a moment he leaned over the parapet and looked into the square below. There seemed to be some unusual commotion ; a number of people were gathered before the western portal of the Cathedral, and several mounted gendarmes were galloping across the place. So absorbed was he in his ambitious scheming, that he scarce noticed this unwonted stir ; and if he had, he would not have been curious to know the cause. His gaze wandered away from the scene below him to the banks of the Seine, until it rested upon the white turrets of the Chateau de Clermont rising distinct above the thick forest that surrounded them. A sort of vindictive joy sparkled in his eyes, and, clasping his hands fiercely, he paced the platform with long, rapid strides. “ Ah ! there is the source from whence must flow my golden river ; step by step I am approaching it. It has been a toilsome journey, first to gain knowledge, then to gain the esteem and confidence of suspecting humanity, who give to one grudgingly, mite by mite, doling them out as a miser does his cherished hoard. But what right have I to complain '?

I who was an outcast, nameless, friendless, a dependant on the bounty of strangers, wronged, cheated out of my birthright and inheritance, commencing at the base, even in the dirt and mire ! I have toiled so far up this steep ascent. I am now above the level of the herd. I feel the breath of the mountains upon my brow. But beyond me are still greater heights which I must reach. The path is dangerously steep, uncertain, almost impracticable ; but I am not dismayed ; I will persevere and stand on the topmost summit. An heroic soul, an unflinching will, is impelled onward by difficulties ; the greater they are, the more desire is there to conquer them. How I have delved, how I have dug into the mines of knowledge, that I might find the rare gems below the ken of superficial seekers ! I have explored the mysteries of the Cabala; that wonderful science has been my study day and night ; the Zohar is my code ; the languages of the past, most hidden among the things hidden, are as familiar to me as household words. Alchemy has revealed to me its secrets and its marvellous laws. Metaphysics have become to me but a repetition of commonplace dogmas. I have analyzed all, and each particle is before me separated from all foreign matter. I can weigh them in the minutest scale, and my nice balance is my judgment. The ignorant look upon me as a sorcerer. I am a sorcerer, for knowledge is sorcery. Fabien the canon, at twenty-five, has more within the circle of his brain than the oldest doctor of the schools. Laus Deo for such power. My peers look upon me with amazement. Honors are being heaped upon me. The Archbishop has made me a canon and his private secretary ; through this channel I will discover all the secrets of the Church and State. The old Count de Clermont is dying, and he has chosen me to be tutor and guardian of his only son ; there is the source from which I must draw my wealth. I will avenge my mother and reap a rich harvest from the fields out of which she was driven. It is but a pace from a canon to a deacon, and then a natural gradation to an archdeacon, a step upward to a bishop, and the hat of a cardinal does not press heavily after the mitre of an archbishop.”

Part Second. An Asylum

The platform of the Tour de Burre was a favorite promenade of Fabien the canon. First, because before reaching it there was a difficulty to overcome.

A CEOWN FEOM THE SPEAE.

In mounting the hundreds of steps, he tested his indomitable will and his physical strength. Secondly, it presented the greater attraction of being ajDove the world, and consequently isolated and free from intrusion. There his unfettered fancy soared highest, shook off, for the time, the shackles with which the lower world and his necessary intercourse with men heavily trammelled him. There he could scheme and plan more clearly, because the fresh breeze at that height seemed to blow away the cobwebs from his brain, seemed to quicken and strengthen his intellect, that sometimes became a little dull and weak from pouring over musty old parchments and time-stained manuscripts. There, when he worked himself up to a frenzy of self-laudation and anticipated glory, at which times he desired to hear his success sounded in his own ears, he could shout them aloud, and there was no living thing to listen, only the thousands of swallows that built in every niche, and they would not reveal his secrets. There he could madden himself by repeating over and over the wrongs of his life, by doing which he fanned a fire of hate and revenge that he never allowed to become extinguished ; and when that fire sometimes burned too fiercely, threatening to break into open conflagration, when the strong will was necessary to subdue and deaden it, he found a powerful aid in the physical exertion required to reach the spot, where alone and unmolested he could bare his head and breast to the breeze, shout, curse, wring his hands, and tear back and forth like an infuriated tiger.

There were tempests in this man that must break forth at times and rage with fearful strength, but no living being had ever witnessed them. Only the wandering wind and the moaning sea had heard his frenzied cries, and they kept their secret.

This morning he had hurried there to congratulate himself on an event which he considered the most important of his life, and for which he had striven with unwearied diligence. He had at last succeeded, after many rebufts and discouragements, in gaining the confidence and friendship of the Count de

Clermont, who was dying, and who, on that very morning, had sent for him, and after acknowledging, in words that were honey to the listener, his admiration of his superior talents and his esteem for his character, had besought him, in feeble but earnest tones, to become the guardian and tutor of his only son, who would soon be an orphan, and the sole survivor of the family of Clermont. That he, Fabien, the poor young scholar, should be chosen from among all whom the Count had honored with his friendship, was indeed a proof of confidence rarely bestowed. A few more days and he would receive into his charge this child, the only heir to the rich estate of Clermont, all of whose treasures would be given into his keeping ; and he had resolved that he would guard them well, for when that which he had so long coveted was once within his grasp it should remain there.

“ It is sooner than I expected, but not too soon,” he said, as he gazed at the turrets of the chateau, with greedy speculation in his eyes and inexpressible satisfaction in his voice.

So absorbed was Fabien with his own ambitious plans, that he did not observe he was no longer alone, for suddenly another person appeared on the platform, who, seeing it was already occupied, turned to flee ; but he was too late, for at that moment Fabien turned also, and their eyes met. The priest uttered an exclamation, half of surprise, half of terror, for he had never before seen such an object; even he, stoic though he was, could scarce believe it to be human. He had a ghastly face, covered with a short, bristling beard, cropped white hair standing up on his head as if in mortal fear; wild, bloodshot eyes, and drawn lips, parched and blackened with fever and thirst, revealing a row of long yellow teeth that snapped together like a hungry wolf’s. A few tattered rags that had once been a convict’s dress partially clothed a gaunt, meagre form that was bowed as though a hundred years pressed upon it, and his bare, emaciated feet and bony hands were covered with dirt and bruises.

Mon Dieuf who are you? and, in the name of Heaven, where did you

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

come from?” gasped Fabien, after a moment’s survey.

The poor wretch replied not a word, but dropped upon his knees as though his lower limbs were palsied, and, clasping his hands, raised his haggard face with eyes so full of anguish and entreaty that they smote the heart of Fabien with sudden pain. He did not like to be so easily softened and touched to pity, so it was with no very gentle grasp that he took the intruder by the shoulder, and, shaking him, said again sternly, “ Who are you 1 ”

The man’s head and hands fell despondently, and tears gathered in his eyes as he replied with a heavy, longdrawn sigh, and with hopelessness in his voice, “ I am an escaped convict. I have sought an asylum here, here in the house of God. You are his priest, and you will not betray me? I am starving,” he cried, starting from his attitude of despair, while his teeth gleamed between his parched lips, — “ I am starving ! and how am I to get food ? Here there is nothing but bare stones ! ” And he glanced around with famished scrutiny.

“ Starving,” repeated Fabien in a softened voice ; “ poor wretch ! what crime has brought you to this?”

The creature tottered upright, and, leaning heavily against the stone balustrade for support, laid his emaciated hand on the arm of the priest, and said in a husky whisper, Listen, and I will tell you what I have never yet confessed to any one. I have committed no crime ; another sinned, and I, to keep an oath made to one I loved, suffer the ptnalty. For four years, for four dead years, I have been chained and driven like a beast ; I have suffered hunger, cold, and heat ; I have been bound to a creature I loathed ; I have cursed the night, and longed for day, and when the day came I cursed it and longed for the night. All the slow moments of four years have dragged along in agony. I have become old before my time, bowed and crushed, scorned and smitten even of God. And yet I have endured all this to keep an oath I made to one dying, to serve one I loved more than life or liberty. It wanted four days to complete four years, when I escaped from what was to have been half a life of cruel servitude. I went back to my home. It was desolate and deserted. My wife was dead, and my child was in the house of a stranger. I stole my child. She did not know me, for she was but a babe when I was taken to prison; and she feared me, and struggled to free herself from my arms, and wept and implored to be taken back to those who had robbed me of her love. I have walked day and night, carrying her in my arms. Avoiding the highways, I have toiled over rough fields, through forests, across mountains and hills, under the burning sun and the chilling dews ; sometimes, believing I was pursued, I have hidden in hedges, in ditches, and in caves. My feet have been wounded by the broken stones and rough ways. My hands have been tom by the thorns and brambles through which I have forced a passage. I have begged morsels of black bread from the shepherds and peasants, I have gathered fruit and berries, but I have eaten none myself, so that she should not suffer hunger. I have given her the water I drained from the scanty rivulets, while I famished with the thirst of fever. And yet my child fears me and looks upon me with horror. To-day I could go no farther. My strength failed, and God’s temple, that is closed to none, offered me an asylum. I thought among some of the dark passages, the cells, the towers, or even the vaults, I might find a hiding-place from the searching eye of justice. But I must have food for ray child and myself, for I am fainting with hunger, and these bare stones offer nothing.”

He had spoken with a desperate eagerness. His features were convulsed, and his voice was broken with sobs that ended in a prayer as he clasped his hands and fell again on his knees, crying, “ Bread ! monseigneur, bread for my starving child ! ”

Part Third. Aimee

“Where is she?” inquired Fabien, in a suffocated voice, for he felt like one

A CHOWN FROM THE SPEAR.

in a nightmare, who arouses himself only by a strong exertion of his will. In all the suffering he had witnessed, he had never seen a human being so utterly crushed and wretched, and he had never before listened to a tale of w'oe recited with such pathos and despair. “ Where is she he repeated ; for the man’s head had fallen on his breast, and he seemed in a sort of stupor. At the priest’s question he looked up, and pointed silently down the stairs to the bell -tower.

Concealed in an angle of the tower by a great coil of rope, and almost covered by a huge projecting gargoyle, carved in the form of a monster, crouched a child of about five years. She was amusing herself by thrusting a stone into the open jaws of the monster, which rolled out directly, while with a dreary significance she persisted in returning what could not be eaten to the mouth that could not eat, repeating over and over in a pitiful, whining voice, “Give me something to eat ! Give me something to eat ! ”

The moment her eyes fell upon Fabien she dropped the stone, and, springing toward him, seized his hand and cried imploringly, “ Give me something to eat ! ”

The touch of her hand, or the wistful expression of the eyes raised to his, visibly affected the priest ; for he said in the gentlest and kindest voice, “ Pauvre petite / Have patience for a few moments and you shall be fed ; remain here ■with your father, and I will fetch you some food at once.”

“ My father ! He is not my father.” And she drew up her little mouth with scorn, as her eye followed the glance Fabien directed toward the miserable creature at his side. “ He is not my father. He is a thief who stole me from my home, where I had a bed to sleep in and plenty to eat. I hate him ! I hate him ! ” she added vehemently, while she still clung to the priest’s hand.

The convict said not a word, but the large tears rolled slowly over his haggard face, and dropped one by one on the pitiful hands he clasped in silent entreaty.

Fabien glanced from one to the other, his heart filled with commiseration for both^ while he gently tried to disengage his hand from the clinging clasp of the little child.

At that moment the sound of voices and the tramping of feet mounting the stairs, with now and then the clanking of a spur and the clashing of a sabre, told that the new-comers were armed.

The face of the poor convict gi’ew more ghastly if possible, and a groan burst from his full heart as he said, “It is the gendarmes. They are after me. Where shall I conceal myself] 0, save me, save me ! ”

Fabien glanced around. There was no place safe from the intrusion of the law. His first impulse w^as to hide the poor wretch, but where ] Below there w'ere numbers of dark cells and vaults w’here he would be as secure as though he were hidden in his grave ; but here all was open and exposed to the light of day. They could not go down, because of the officers who were ascending, and above them was nothing but the platform, parapet, and blue heavens.

A few feet below the platform of the bell-tower projected a ledge of stone some fifteen inches wide, that formed the top of a carred cornice. Looking eagerly from one of the open arches, the hunted creature caught sight of this. If he could drop down to it and lie close against the face of the tower, he might escape detection. To think, in his case, w^as to act. He clasped the reluctant child in a frenzied embrace, kissed the hand of the priest, and then disappeared through the open arch.

Fabien watched with a shudder the thin, brown fingers clutch convulsively the projecting or^^aments, as he slid down to his terrible hiding-place. His feet touched the ledge, and he wTithed, serpent-like, to a prostrate position. As his eye fell on the dizzy depths below him, the priest saw a shiver pass through his battered frame.

Before Fabien had fairly turned from the open arch, the helmeted heads of the gendarmes appeared above the stairs. The leader started back in astonishment when he found his way barred by the tall black-robed form of the young priest. However, he touched his helmet respectfully, and said, while he directed his searching glance into

A CROWN FROM THE SPEAR.

every corner of the bell- tower, “We are in pursuit of an escaped couvict, who, we are assured, took refuge here a short time ago. Have you seen him ] ”

Fabien did not answer at once ; and while he hesitated, one of the men nudged another, saying, in a low voice, with a significant wink, “We have him now, the priest won’t dare to lie.”

Fabien did not fear a lie, but he did fear being detected in one, and therefore he did not reply to the direct question of the officer, who fixed upon him his inquisitorial eye. There was no evading ; so he said, in a firm and defiant voice, “ Yes, I have seen him.”

“ Where is he 1 ”

“I am not obliged to answer that question,”

“ What ! ” said the officer, taking a high tone, “ is it possible you wish to defraud justice by assisting a condemned convict to escape % ”

“ I have offered him no assistance,” replied Fabien, stolidly.

Again the officer resorted to the majesty of the law. “Justice demands that you should reveal his hiding-place. Did he descend 1 ”

“ He descended,”^ replied the priest, curtly.

“ How long since 1 ”

“ A few moments ago.”

“That is not true,” said the officer, sententiously, — “ that is not true. My men have been stationed below, and every avenue of escape has been guarded since he entered the door leading to this tower.”

By this time four or five more armed men had mounted to the platform, each equally eager to be the first to discover the hiding-place of the poor trembling wretch.

“ Here is the child,” cried one, as his eye fell upon the little girl, almost hidden by the mantle of the priest.

“ Yes, he carried a child in his arms,” said another; “here is the child, but where is the man 1 ”

A feeling of terror began to take possession of the ignorant gendarmes; they thought some singular transformation had taken place, and that the priest and the convict were one and the same.

The officer, seeing the confusion of his men, determined to make another effort to solve the enigma. Taking hold of the impish-looking little child, who still clung to Fabien’s mantle, he placed her before him, and raising his finger threateningly, said, in a voice of awful majesty, “Remember. Nothing but the truth. Where is your father 1 ” •