The Historical Nights' Entertainment, Rafael Sabatini [freenovel24 .txt] 📗

beast will

perish. We will consult the Duke of Guise.” She yawned again.

“Yes, the Duke of Guise will be ready to lend us his counsel and

his aid. Decidedly we must get rid of the Admiral.”

 

That was on Monday, August 18th of that year 1572, and such was the

firm purpose and energy of that fat and seemingly sluggish woman,

that within two days all necessary measures were taken, and

Maurevert, the assassin, was at his post in the house of Vilaine,

in the Cloisters of Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois, procured for the

purpose by Madame de Nemours, who bore the Admiral a mortal hatred.

 

It was not, however, until the following Friday that Maurevert was

given the opportunity of carrying out the task to which he had been

hired. On that morning, as the Admiral was passing, accompanied

by a few gentlemen of his household, returning from the Louvre to

his house in the Rue Betisy, the assassin did his work. There was

a sudden arquebusade from a first-floor window, and a bullet smashed

two fingers of the Admiral’s right hand, and lodged itself in the

muscles of his left arm.

 

With his maimed and bleeding hand he pointed to the window whence

the shot had been fired, bidding his gentlemen to force a way into

the house and take the assassin. But whilst they were breaking in

at the front, Maurevert was making his escape by the back, where a

horse waited for him, and, though pursued, he was never overtaken.

 

News of the event was instantly borne to the King. It found him at

tennis with the Duke of Guise and the Admiral’s son-in-law, Teligny.

 

“In this assassin’s work, Sire,” said the blunt gentleman whom

Coligny had sent, “the Admiral desires you to see the proof of the

worth of the agreement between himself and Monsieur de Guise that

followed upon the treaty of peace of Saint-Germain.”

 

The Duke of Guise drew himself stiffly up, but said no word. The

King, livid with rage, looked at him balefully a moment, then to

vent some of his fury he smashed his racket against the wall.

 

“God’s Blood!” he cried, mouthing horribly. “Am I then never to

have rest?” He flung away the broken remnants of his racket, and

went out cursing. Questioning the messenger further, he learnt

that the shot had been fired from the house of Vilaine, a sometime

tutor to the Duke of Guise, and that the horse upon which the

assassin had fled had been held for him by a groom in the Guise

livery.

 

Meanwhile the Duke and Monsieur de Teligny had gone their ways with

no word spoken between them - Guise to shut himself up in his hotel

and assemble his friends, Teligny to repair at once to his

father-in-law.

 

At two o’clock in the afternoon, in response to an urgent request

from the Admiral, the King went to visit him, accompanied by the

Queen-Mother, by his brothers Anjou and Alencon, and a number of

officers and courtiers. The royal party saw nothing of the

excitement which had been prevailing in the city ever since the

morning’s event, an excitement which subsided at their approach.

The King was gloomy, resentful, and silent, having so far refused

to discuss the matter with any one, denying audience even to his

mother. Catherine and Anjou were vexed by the miscarriage of the

affair, anxious and no less silent than the King.

 

They found the Admiral awaiting them, calm and composed. The

famous Ambroise Pare had amputated the two broken fingers, and had

dealt with the wound in the arm. But although Coligny might be

considered to have escaped lightly, and not to be in any danger, a

rumour was abroad that the bullet was poisoned; and neither the

Admiral nor his people seem to have rejected the possibility. One

suspects, indeed, that capital was made out of it. It was felt,

perhaps, that thus should the Admiral maintain a greater influence

with the King. For in any uncertainty as to whether Coligny would

live or die, the King’s feelings must be more deeply stirred than

if he knew that the wound carried no peril to life.

 

Followed closely by his mother and his brothers, Charles swept

through the spacious antechamber, thronged now with grim-faced,

resentful Huguenot gentlemen, and so entered the room where Coligny

reclined upon a day bed near the window. The Admiral made shift

to rise, but this the King hurried forward to prevent.

 

“Rest yourself, my dear father!” he cried, in accents of deep

concern. “Heart of God! What is this they have done to you?

Assure me, at least, that your life is safe, or, by the Mass, I’ll - “

 

“I hold my life from God,” the Admiral replied gravely, “and when He

requires it of me I will yield it up. That is nothing.”

 

“Nothing? God’s Blood! Nothing? The hurt is yours, my father, but

the outrage mine; and I swear to you, by the Blood and the Death,

that I will take such a vengeance as shall never be forgotten!”

 

Thereupon he fell into such a storm of imprecation and blasphemy

that the Admiral, a sincerely devout, God-fearing heretic, shuddered

to hear him.

 

“Calm, Sire!” he begged at last, laying his sound hand upon the

King’s velvet sleeve. ” Be calm and listen, for it is not to speak

of myself, of these wounds, or of the wrong done me, that I have

presumed to beg you to visit me. This attempt to murder me is but

a sign of the evil that is stirring in France to sap your authority

and power. But - ” He checked and looked at the three who stood

immediately behind the King. “What I have to say is, if you will

deign to listen, for your private ear.”

 

The King jerked round in a fashion peculiar to him; his every action

was abrupt and spasmodic. He eyed his mother and brothers shiftily.

It was beyond his power to look any one directly in the face.

 

“Outside!” he commanded, waving an impatient hand almost in their

faces. “Do you hear? Leave me to talk with my father the Admiral.”

 

The young dukes fell back at once, ever in dread of provoking the

horrible displays of passion that invariably followed upon any

resistance of his feeble will. But the sluggish Catherine was not

so easily moved.

 

“Is Monsieur de Coligny strong enough, do you think, to treat of

affairs at present? Consider his condition, I beg,” she enjoined

in her level voice.

 

“I thank you for your consideration, madame,” said the Admiral, the

ghost of an ironic smile about his lips. “But I am strong enough,

thank God! And even though my strength were less than it is, it

would be more heavily taxed by the thought that I had neglected my

duty to His Majesty than it ever could be by the performance of that

duty.”

 

“Ha! You hear?” snapped the King. “Go, then; go!”

 

They went, returning to the antechamber to wait until the audience

should conclude. The three stood there in the embrasure of a window

that looked out upon the hot, sunlit courtyard. There, as Anjou

himself tells us, they found themselves hemmed about by some two

hundred sullen, grim-faced gentlemen and officers of the Admiral’s

party, who eyed them without dissembling their hostility, who

preserved a silence that was disturbed only by the murmurs of their

constant whisperings, and who moved to and fro before the royal

group utterly careless of the proper degree of deference and respect.

 

Isolated thus in that hostile throng, Catherine and her sons became

more and more uneasy, so that, as the Queen-Mother afterwards

confessed, she was never in any place where her tarrying was attended

by so much fear, or her departure thence by so much pleasure.

 

It was this fear that spurred her at last to put an end to that

secret conference in the room beyond. She did it in characteristic

manner. In the most complete outward composure, stifling a yawn as

she went, she moved deliberately across to the door, her sons

following, rapped shortly on the panel, and entered without waiting

to be bidden.

 

The King, who was standing by the Admiral’s side, wheeled sharply

at the sound of the opening door. His eyes blazed with sudden anger

when he beheld his mother, but she was the first to speak.

 

“My son,” she said, “I am concerned for the poor Admiral. He will

have the fever if you continue to permit him to weary himself with

affairs at present. It is not to treat him as a friend to prolong

this interview. Let business wait until he is recovered, which

will be the sooner if he is given rest at present.”

 

Coligny stroked his white beard in silence, while the King flared

out, striding towards her:

 

“Par la Mort Dieu! What is this sudden concern for the Admiral?”

 

“Not sudden, my son,” she answered in her dull voice, her eyes

intent upon him, with something magnetic in their sleepy glance that

seemed to rob him of half his will. “None knows more accurately

than I the Admiral’s precise, value to France.”

 

Anjou behind her may have smiled at that equivocal phrase.

 

“God’s Bowels! Am I King, or what am I?”

 

“It ill becomes a king to abuse the strength of a poor wounded

subject,” she returned, her eyes ever regarding him steadily.

“Come, Charles. Another day, when the Admiral shall have recovered

more fully, you may continue this discourse. Come now.”

 

His anger was subdued to mere sullenness, almost infantile in its

outward petulant expression. He attempted to meet her glance, and

he was completely lost.

 

“Perhaps … Ah, Ventre Dieu, my mother is right! Let the matter

rest, then, my father. We will talk of it again as soon as you are

well.”

 

He stepped up to the couch, and held out his hand.

 

Coligny took it, and his eyes looked up wistfully into the weak

young face of his King.

 

“I thank you, Sire, for coming and for hearing me. Another day, if

I am spared, I may tell you more. Meanwhile, bear well in mind what

I have said already. I have no interests in this world but your

own, Sire.” And he kissed the royal hand in farewell.

 

Not until they were back in the Louvre did the Queen attempt to

break upon the King’s gloomy abstraction, to learn - as learn she

must - the subject of the Admiral’s confidential communication.

 

Accompanied by Anjou, she sought him in his cabinet, nor would she

be denied. He sat at his writing-table, his head sunken between

his shoulders, his receding chin in his cupped palms. He glared at

the pair as they entered, swore savagely, and demanded their

business with him.

 

Catherine sat down with massive calm. Anjou remained standing

beside and slightly behind her, leaning upon the back of her tall

chair.

 

“My son,” she said bluntly, “I have come to learn what passed

between you and Coligny.”

 

“What passed? What concern is that of yours?”

 

“All your concerns are mine,” she answered tranquilly. “I am your

mother.”

 

“And I am your king!” he answered, banging the table. “And I mean

to be king!”

 

“By the grace of God and the favour of Monsieur de Coligny,” she

sneered, with unruffled calm.

 

“What’s that?” His mouth fell open, and his eyes stared. A crimson

flush overspread his muddy complexion. “What’s that?”

 

Her dull glance met and held his own whilst calmly she repeated her

sneering words.

 

“And that is why I have come to you,” she