In Search of Mademoiselle

But the little man had no further humor for discussion of any kind, for he turned the color of lead, and, putting his two hands upon his wide paunch in dismay, he spat forth the pipe and dashed frantically back among his pots and pans, La Chastro aiding his departure with the toe of his boot.

The on-lookers roared with merriment, and Goddard blew out some marvelous smoke rings from his lungs, to the great delight of the wondering crowd.

So, after all, there was much to amuse and entertain. M. de Teligny took us out upon the streets at the hour of the afternoon when the world was abroad, pointing out to us those of the courtiers who were closest in the councils of the King. He showed us the beauties, – and their lovers – and told us the number of duels fought over each, and how, the greater the number, the greater the fame of the lady. Here was one favorite who numbered her duels in the twenties; and there another poor creature for whom but four men had fought, and no person been killed. We saw little Comminges, Prince of raffinés, who had more deaths to his credit – or debit – than any man in France. He had once taken a man out to the Prè-aux-clercs. When they had uncloaked, he had said to his cavalier, “Are you not Berny of Auvergne?” “No,” says the other, “I am Villequier from Normandy.” “’Tis a pity to have been mistaken,” said Comminges, “but I have challenged you, and of course we must fight.” And he killed him with a beautiful feint and thrust in tierce. We passed the house of Réné the Florentine, the poisoner for Catherine de Medicis. We saw Thoré de Montmorency, “Little Captain Burn-the-Benches”; His Grace the “Archbishop of Bottles,” who by reason of the early hour was still walking with much steadiness; the Count de Rochefoucauld, nicknamed the “Cabbage Killer,” who had ordered his arquebusiers to cut a plot of cabbages to pieces, his poor sight taking them for lanzknechts. There the Tuileries, just a-building; and here the Louvre, where the King and the Queen-mother were holding court. Once we saw the royal cavalcade returning from the hunt at the Château de Madrid, and the jerkin of the King was covered with blood, it being his delight to kill the stag with his own hands.

He seemed a young man fairly well set together, but with a head put somewhat low and awkwardly between his shoulders, the neck craning forward unpleasantly, giving a lowering look to a figure otherwise agreeable. As to his face, the forehead protruded, and heavy ridges above the eyes gave notice of a high temper; the nose was thick, and the upper lip protruded, while the lower one fell away. The eyes seemed of a greenish hue, and shifted from this side to that; the skin pale yellow, which showed the habitual derangement to which he was prey. But it was not a harsh face – only stupid and wistful – truthful, upon the whole, but weak; most unlike Catharine, who once rode beside him – that Jezebel from Italy, who thought that to be honest was to be a fool.

It was well into the month of January before word came again from Coligny summoning us to the Louvre. We knew that long communications had been sent by both Charles and Catherine de Medicis to Forquevaulx, at Madrid, asking reparation for the slaughter at San Augustin. The Duke d’Alava the Spanish Ambassador at Paris, had replied for his sovereign that Philip considered the French colonists pirates and intruders upon the domains of Spain, and that there could be no reparation. The position of Admiral Coligny was unchanged, and there, so far as we knew, the affair rested. Now however, we should perhaps learn something more. The summons from Coligny excited hope.

De Brésac and I, with M. de Teligny, passed by way of the Rue d’Averon and the Rue St. Germain l’Auxerrois to the Louvre, over the moat and through a stone arch into a great courtyard. The place was alive with men in armor, but M. de Teligny, having the entrée, was well known to the cornet of the guard, and we walked up the wide stairs to the Audience Chamber, where most of the general business of the King, Queen-mother or the Admiral was carried forward. The names of M. de Teligny and of De Brésac having been passed by the gentlemen in waiting, we were presently shown into the anteroom of his Majesty’s apartments, where Gaspard de Coligny was awaiting us.

He bore a most serious countenance as, dismissing those about him, he arose to greet us. “The King is within,” he said, “and I have wished him to see and speak with M. de Brésac and M. Killigrew. M. d’Alava has been here this morning and there is news from Madrid.”

Not knowing what was desired of us, we entered the King’s apartment after the great Admiral and stood inside the curtains. The room had more the appearance of an armory than of an audience chamber, for about the walls there hung halberds, pikes, spears, hunting horns, knives and arquebuses; while upon the floor were saddles, a morion and breastpieces, and a wolf-trap which his Majesty had but just devised. Foils and masks lay upon a chair by the chimney-piece, before which a great staghound bitch lay sleeping upon the hearth-rug. Here it was that the King took his fencing lessons with M. Pompée and wrote verses with M. Ronsard.

His Majesty, his back toward the door, sat before a table covered with books and papers, hawk-bells and nets. He was leaning over, his elbow upon a book, his chin in his hand, while his eyes in deep thought were cast upward toward the ceiling. So deeply engrossed was he upon the verses he was writing that he was not aware of our presence until the Admiral, waiting a moment, went forward and spoke.

The King started from his reverie.

“Sire,” said Coligny.

“Ah, mon père,” he exclaimed, rising and stretching forward a hand. “It is you? I was in a fine poetic frenzy, was I not?”

“Your Majesty has a ready gift.”

“Come, my Plato,” said he joyously, “you shall be the judge of how this couplet runs:

“Pour maintenir la foyJe suis belle et fidele.”

“But your Majesty – ”

“Aux ennemies du royJe suis belle et cruelle.”

“’Tis for a new arquebus, monsieur, which the armorer has made me. Think you not it has a glittering ring?”

“Your Majesty, Ronsard himself could not have invented better. But this morning – ”

“Think you so?”

“Sire, I have come this morning upon a State matter of great importance.”

Charles dropped back into his chair.

“Matters of State! Matters of Court! Can I never get away from this confusion?”

The Admiral paused a moment, motioning us forward.

“Sire, there is news from Madrid to-day, and these are the gentlemen whom you wished to see, M. de Brésac, M. Killigrew and M. de Teligny.”

For the first time the King looked around toward us, smiling.

“Ah, M. de Teligny, I thought you boar-hunting in the South.”

“I did not go, Sire. A touch of the wound I had at Havre.”

“I have a great desire to hunt in the South.” And then petulantly, “Well, well, mon père, what is it this morning?”

“The matter of these Huguenots in Florida, Sire.”

“I thought it would be upon some matter of religious concern,” he muttered with a flash of ill-humor. “Catholic and Huguenot, – Huguenot and Catholic, – I am sick of you both.” Then seeing that Coligny, looking at his papers, remained grave and silent, the King sighed deeply and seized the Admiral impetuously by the hand.

“Pardon, my brave Counselor. What is it that you will?”

“Your Majesty, this news from Madrid is serious. In spite of your Majesty’s request of Philip of Spain, M. d’Alava has replied for the second time that the blame of this massacre is upon the Huguenots themselves. He says that the view of his Majesty of Spain is that the blood of these Frenchmen is upon the soul of Coligny, Admiral of France, and that he, and he alone, should be punished.”

“You! – Impossible!”

“Sire, you shall see. Here are other communications. One from Forquevaulx, one from other survivors of the colony, and one from relatives of the slain. Our Ambassador but repeats what D’Alava has said and writes that so pleased is His Majesty of Spain with the acts of this Menendez de Avilés, that he has conferred upon him the title of Marquis of Florida.”

“Foi de gentilhomme! It cannot be so!” said the King.

“It is as I have said, your Majesty. The first Spanish ship to arrive in the Biscayan ports brought some of the officers of San Augustin, and they are to-day the heroes of the hour in the Spanish capital. They also hold certain prisoners who were spared from the massacre, and these too have petitioned you to secure their release. They are held as pirates, which, as your Majesty well knows, they are not.”

“Jour de Dieu!” shouted Charles, rising to his feet. “I myself gave this commission under my own private seal. It is an insult which my brother of Spain offers me, messieurs, an insult – to honor so highly a man who murders my people!” He walked up and down the floor, his hands behind him, his brow clouded, the picture of resolution. Then by a curious inconsistency, he leaned over the stag-hound which followed him, patting it on the head and saying, “Is it not so, Lisette?” as though matters of State had vanished from his memory.

Coligny turned impatiently.

“Sire, I have also the narration of other survivors and I would have you talk with M. de Brésac.”

“Yes, yes, by all means let us hear M. de Brésac.” Whereupon, following the direction of the Admiral, Brésac told again of the day upon the sand-spit before the massacre, when Menendez had given Jean Ribault his promise, under seal, to hold us as honorable prisoners of war; of our desperate condition, of the surrender and of the martyrdom.

Through it all the King sat nervously pulling at his pen and looking at us, his eyes shifting uneasily from the one to the other. Before the tale was far advanced he had the appearance of one most ennuyé who wished to have the audience at an end at the soonest possible convenience. That he and the Admiral had been grievously and publicly insulted was a matter most apparent; and yet all signs of anger had disappeared from his manner, which was now that of a lad awkward and ill at ease in the presence of a company whose thoughts and mission he could not comprehend. Doubtless Coligny understood his mood better than we, but for my part he seemed but as a child to deal with the great national disgrace which was pending upon him if this disagreement with the King of Spain could not be set speedily aright. But suddenly, the horror of the deception came upon him as it had upon M. de Teligny. A phrase or a gesture of De Brésac caught his attention, and he sprang to his feet in the intensity of passion, striding up and down again, saying over and over,

“It is monstrous! It is monstrous!”

He stopped as suddenly by the side of Coligny, putting his hand upon the Admiral’s shoulder. When the Chevalier finished, he said: “It is well, M. de Brésac, you have served the Admiral well – and you, M. Killigrew. You may be sure that this matter is not ended here.” And then to Coligny, “Did you not say, mon père, that there were other reports of this unfortunate colony?”

“Yes, sire, and I will read.”

He seated himself and began, while Brésac and I, uncertain whether the survivors were of the ships or of the fort, strained forward to listen.

It was the narrative of Nicholas Challeux, the carpenter. He spoke at some length of the happenings within the fort and of the attack by the Spaniards which came at an early hour in the morning – at dawn in a driving rain-storm. He himself was surprised going to his duty, with naught but a clasp-knife in his hand. Seeing no other means of escape he turned his back and leaped over the palisade.

“I know not how it was,” said he, “unless by the grace of God, that my strength was redoubled, old man as I am and gray-headed, a thing which I could not have done at any other time, for the rampart was raised eight or nine feet… Having then lost all hope of seeing our men rally, I resigned all my senses to the Lord. Recommending myself to His mercy, grace and favor, I threw myself into the wood, for it seemed to me that I could find no greater cruelty among the savage beasts than that which I had seen shown toward our people… By and by I came upon the old crossbow-maker, who was hiding in terror among some bushes, with two gentlewomen, Madame de la Notte and her daughter – ”

“Diane!”

I started forward, with a cry which I could not restrain. It seemed as though all my life-blood was ebbing out of my finger-ends.

De Brésac put a hand upon my arm, while the Admiral looked up from his papers sharply.

“You know – ” he began.

“Yes, monsieur. The wife and daughter of the Vicomte de la Notte.”

“I thought him at Villeneuve,” said the King.

“Sire, he was with Ribault,” I said, my heart bursting.

Coligny still paused.

“For the love of God, sir, read on,” I exclaimed, forgetting the Presence and everything save that we were there, speaking of the woman I loved – and that she might still be alive.

The King smiled a little.

“You are impatient, monsieur,” he said, not unkindly.

“ – Madame and Mademoiselle de la Notte,” continued the Admiral, “who had been upon their guard and had fled to the woods through a lower casement at the first sound of danger. The rain was coming down in torrents, but these women hid themselves in the hollow of an oak tree. Madame de la Notte could go no further, for she was terrified and sick unto death. I threw some bark and brush-wood before the opening to the tree, but heard the sounds of the Spaniards coming and so fled away toward the sea in company with the crossbow-maker, who was weeping and wringing his hands – ”

“The coward!” said De Brésac.

“I presently descried others, and came upon the artist Le Moyne and a Flemish soldier carrying a woman who had been wounded in the breast. Then after toiling through a deep swamp we met Captain Réné de Laudonnière, with whom we struggled through the marshes in great distress to the vessel of Captain Mallard.”

The Admiral paused, scanning the document. “Um – ah. The remainder deals with the voyage to Swansea in Wales, and is of no importance.”

“By my faith! Nor is any of it, save as information. ’Twas a most scurvy trick to lock those gentlewomen up to die in an oak tree. Your carpenter could better have learnt gallantry from the hardy Flemish soldier whom he is at pains to describe.”

“And yet ’tis just such a place that these devils might overlook,” replied Coligny. “Réné de Laudonnière, who has sent me his report – ”

“Ah, mon père,” said the King, rising abruptly. “Shall you not spare us further reports this morning? It will all be looked to in good time. You shall prepare a plan and I will follow it. Will that please you?” And then gaily, “As for me, this morning, mon brave, – ah! I have so inventive a humor that not less than three inspirations have come to me while I have listened. My dear Ronsard will be here within the minute and I have a sonnet which I must write to him.” And then turning to us, “Messieurs, you may be sure that nothing will be left undone to secure the punishment of this Menendez de Avilés for the insult which he has offered me and the people of France.”

And so we bowed ourselves out, I a prey to violent emotion, De Brésac not knowing whether the King were insincere or only a fool – M. de Teligny sure that he was both.

CHAPTER XIX.

I MEET THE AVENGER

My wound was open again. I had learned that the carpenter Challeux had seen Mademoiselle alive after the massacre at Fort Caroline, and the tide of ebbing hope, ever restless as the moving sea, flooded up again upon my heart and engulfed me with tender memories. There was a chance – the merest thread of doubt – which held and led me willing captive amid the maze of uncertainties which seemed to compass me about. Even as Challeux had told, the story of Emola’s brave might still be true. They had perhaps captured her and she had died on the way to San Augustin! But the ring might have been lost! She who was killed might have been another! My lady may have remained hidden secure in the great tree trunk where Challeux had concealed her! She had followed my advice to be on her guard; why might she not have waited and fled by night to Satouriona? His camp at that time, as she knew, was to the north, nearer the Fort than that of Emola, where we had been. If she had reached it, she would be safe as though in England. For had not the great Satouriona, marveling at her beauty, given her a necklace of beads, saying that she was fair as the moon and calling her the “Moon-Princess”? These strange people would take her into their village and serve her as they would one of their own blood, high in the councils of their nation.

Ah! ’Twas sweet and holy thinking for me. But alive or dead, my wish to cease this idle play at service to the King and be up and doing something to find her, or to avenge her death, came upon me again strong as upon the sand-spit when my heart beat high with hope. I must go back in search of Mademoiselle. I could not wait with this fever of hope burning into my heart. I wished now that I had never left the country – that I had thrown in my lot with the Indians and thus lost no opportunity to hang upon the trail of the Spaniards and so have learned the truth beyond any doubt. De Brésac would say nothing. He merely shook his head, or, sighing deeply, shrugged his shoulders. M. de Teligny advised that I give up all hope of ever seeing Mademoiselle again. So I had no encouragement, save only that hope which came like an instinct from my own breast.

The days dragged slowly by. Another messenger had been sent to Forquevaulx and another answer had arrived from the Court of Spain. The whole affair was now the property of the people, and in every inn could be heard expressions of horror and consternation from Catholic and Protestant alike. Charles had written Forquevaulx in this fashion:

“It is my will that you renew your complaint, that reparation be made for the wrong done me and the cruelties committed on my subjects, to which I cannot submit without too great a loss of reputation. The Seigneur de Forquevaulx will not fail to insist, be the answer what it may, in order that the King of Spain shall understand that His Majesty of France has no less spirit than his predecessors to repel an insult.”

Brave words enough. Words indeed! Words were made to hide the thoughts of courtiers!

Forquevaulx fulfilled his commission. Philip’s only reply was to refer him to the Duke of Alava.

“I have no hope,” wrote Forquevaulx after this, “that the Duke d’Alava will give any satisfaction as to the massacre, for it was he who advised it from the first.”

That was the news we heard, and that was like to be the end of the matter. The King of France had been three times insulted and now refused to raise further voice in reply. Charles and the Queen-mother would not quarrel with Spain, and all France rang with the indignity. They had resigned themselves to the affront. We saw the King almost daily going to the hunt, a faint color stealing into his sallow cheeks as he cantered down the crooked streets with his brave following. Smiles wreathed the lips where sternness should have been; and eyes that should have wept his own heart’s blood danced and sparkled with the joy and passion of the chase. It was a grievous thing to see a man of his good presence falling deeper and deeper under the blight of his weakness. For all Charles cared, outraged humanity might forever cry aloud, the blood of hundreds of murdered Frenchmen might stain his very hearthstone, and the proud standards of France be lowered and trampled in the dust by the soldiers or assassins of any nation of the earth. Was he not the King? Was the stag-hunting not good? And had he not written a sonnet to the eyes of Marie Touchet and an ode to “Justice,” both of which M. Ronsard had pronounced incomparable?

But there were still gallant men in France. Our petitions and those of the relatives of the martyrs were not to be made in vain. Upon the morning of a certain day, while we were yet within doors, came a gentleman asking for M. de Brésac. He was a soldier of ancient birth and high renown, named Dominique de Gourgues of Mont-de-Marsan. De Brésac had served with him, and had told me something of his vigorous fiery nature and life; how as a boy he had been taken by the Spaniards near Sienna; how with brutal insult they had chained him to the oar as a galley-slave; how the Turks had captured this vessel and carried her to Constantinople; how they had put to sea again and were captured by a galley of the Knights of Malta who had set the prisoners free. De Gourgues had served in all parts of the world and his reputation as a naval commander in France was high – second only to that of the martyred Ribault. He hated the Spaniards with a mortal hatred and the tidings which we had brought from Florida had set his hot Gascon blood a boiling.

But I was ill-prepared for the figure he presented. I had pictured him a great swarthy man built somewhat upon the scale of Diego de Baçan, with a deep roaring voice and the manner of a bravo. The person I saw was none of this; for he was not large in stature, having a figure tight-knit even to slenderness. Yet it was plain to see he was built upon the model of a hound, and that the muscles upon him were as steel springs fastened upon a frame of iron. His head was ugly beyond expression, somewhat in the shape of a pear, with a wide bulging forehead, the flesh falling away at the temples and cheeks almost to emaciation. I looked in vain to his mouth and chin for the force I could not find in his brows; and then back to his eyes, where my gaze at last rested enthralled. All else might have been as nothing and those mysterious eyes would have revealed how deep lay the soul of the man. I saw them not often in repose upon this morning, for they were flashing forth the fire that was raging in his heart; but when he paused a moment they opened wide under the broad brows, – melancholy, penetrating, but frank, sincere and true; eyes to watch, to grieve, to weep even, but not to deceive those he held in esteem. His voice was not strident or harsh, even as he spoke loudly, but soft as that of a woman. But in it there was that note of command which no man who has served with a great officer can ever forget.

He bounded up the stone stairs, two steps at a time, and came into the chamber with an unmistakable vigor and firmness, as one accustomed and sure of his welcome.

“Ah, seigneur,” he cried, espying De Brésac. “Welcome to France!” And rushing to the Chevalier he embraced him as a brother.

“Mon ami, you are new-come from Mont-de-Marsan?”

“This very hour, mon brave, and I have ridden directly to you.”

Whereupon the Chevalier presented me to him, explaining that I was the Killigrew who had been at San Augustin.

“Good!” he said abruptly. “Monsieur, I am indeed fortunate. It is upon this very business that I am come to you.” With an abrupt gesture he threw his cloak aside and seated himself. Then without ado, he began to speak.

“The King of France is a sluggard and a coward,” he said fiercely. “He has bowed the head of every honorable man in France upon the breast in shame. I, who have been upon the soil of many countries, have ever held my head aloft in pride; for I am a Frenchman. That heritage holds enough honor to place me among the ranks of the chosen of the earth. Our nation is a brave nation and in our land a man of honor dies rather than suffer a stain to fall upon his name. The glory of our deeds has resounded from one end of the world to the other, and the lustre of our achievements has been like the gleam of a shining blade in the fore of battle.”

He paused and then continued slowly, “M. le Chevalier, that pride is gone; that heritage of a good name, – an empty sound; that lustrous escutcheon, – beaten to the earth, and dimmed and blotted by the blood of our own kindred which has flowed upon it.”

“God knows it is so,” said De Brésac.

“You of England,” he continued, appealing to me, “know well that no insult such as this could rest against the fair fame of your Queen, monsieur,” and he rose from his seat. “Unless something is done we are a people dishonored upon the face of the earth.”

“The King has promised the degradation of this Menendez,” said the Chevalier.

“His promises, like his verses, come ready made,” sneered De Gourgues. “Pah! he is without candor, this King; – without strength, without honor, – without anything that men hold most high.” M. de Gourgues was walking furiously up and down as one possessed.