The House of the Wolf

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"But there at least you wrong Madame d'O!" I cried, shocked and
horrified by an accusation, which seemed so much more dreadful in
the silence and gloom--and withal so much less preposterous than
it might have seemed in the daylight. "There you certainly wrong
her! For shame! M. de Pavannes."

He came a step nearer, and laying a hand on my sleeve peered into
my face. "Did you see a priest with her?" he asked slowly. "A
man called the Coadjutor--a down-looking dog?"

I said--with a shiver of dread, a sudden revulsion of feeling,
born of his manner--that I had. And I explained the part the
priest had taken.

"Then," Pavannes rejoined, "I am right There IS a trap laid for
me. The Abbess of the Ursulines! She abduct my wife? Why, she
is her dearest friend, believe me. It is impossible. She would
be more likely to save her from danger than to--umph! wait a
minute." I did: I waited, dreading what he might discover,
until he muttered, checking himself--"Can that be it? Can it be
that the Abbess did know of some danger threatening us, and would
have put Madeleine in a safe retreat? I wonder!"

And I wondered; and then--well, thoughts are like gunpowder. The
least spark will fire a train. His words were few, but they
formed spark enough to raise such a flare in my brain as for a
moment blinded me, and shook me so that I trembled. The shock
over, I was left face to face with a possibility of wickedness
such as I could never have suspected of myself. I remembered
Mirepoix's distress and the priest's eagerness. I re-called the
gruff warning Bezers--even Bezers, and there was something very
odd in Bezers giving a warning!--had given Madame de Pavannes
when he told her that she would be better where she was. I
thought of the wakefulness which I had marked in the streets, the
silent hurrying to and fro, the signs of coming strife, and
contrasted these with the quietude and seeming safety of
Mirepoix's house; and I hastily asked Pavannes at what time he
had been arrested.

"About an hour before midnight," he answered.

"Then you know nothing of what is happening?" I replied quickly.
"Why, even while we are loitering here--but listen!"

And with all speed, stammering indeed in my haste and anxiety, I
told him what I had noticed in the streets, and the hints I had
heard, and I showed him the badges with which Madame had
furnished me.

His manner when he had heard me out frightened me still more. He
drew me on in a kind of fury to a house in the windows of which
some lighted candles had appeared not a minute before.

"The ring!" he cried, "let me see the ring! Whose is it?"

He held up my hand to this chance light and we looked at the
ring. It was a heavy gold signet, with one curious
characteristic: it had two facets. On one of these was engraved
the letter "H," and above it a crown. On the other was an eagle
with outstretched wings.

Pavannes let my hand drop and leaned against the wall in sudden
despair. "It is the Duke of Guise's," he muttered. "It is the
eagle of Lorraine."

"Ha!" said I softly, seeing light. The Duke was the idol then,
as later, of the Parisian populace, and I understood now why the
citizen soldiers had shown me such respect. They had taken me
for the Duke's envoy and confidant.

But I saw no farther. Pavannes did, and murmured bitterly, "We
may say our prayers, we Huguenots. That is our death-warrant.
To-morrow night there will not be one left in Paris, lad. Guise
has his father's death to avenge, and these cursed Parisians will
do his bidding like the wolves they are! The Baron de Rosny
warned us of this, word for word. I would to Heaven we had taken
his advice!"

"Stay!" I cried--he was going too fast for me--"stay!" His
monstrous conception, though it marched some way with my own
suspicions, outran them far! I saw no sufficient grounds for it.
"The King--the king would not permit such a thing, M. de
Pavannes," I argued.

"Boy, you are blind!" he rejoined impatiently, for now he saw
all and I nothing. "Yonder was the Duke of Anjou's captain--
Monsieur's officer, the follower of France's brother, mark you!
And HE--he obeyed the Duke's ring! The Duke has a free hand to-
night, and he hates us. And the river. Why are we not to cross
the river? The King indeed! The King has undone us. He has
sold us to his brother and the Guises. VA CHASSER L'IDOLE" for
the second time I heard the quaint phrase, which I learned
afterwards was an anagram of the King's name, Charles de Valois,
used by the Protestants as a password--"VA CHASSER L'IDOLE has
betrayed us! I remember the very words he used to the Admiral,
'Now we have got you here we shall not let you go so easily!'
Oh, the traitor! The wretched traitor!"

He leaned against the wall overcome by the horror of the
conviction which had burst upon him, and unnerved by the
imminence of the peril. At all times he was an unready man, I
fancy, more fit, courage apart, for the college than the field;
and now he gave way to despair. Perhaps the thought of his wife
unmanned him. Perhaps the excitement through which he had
already gone tended to stupefy him, or the suddenness of the
discovery.

At any rate, I was the first to gather my wits together, and my
earliest impulse was to tear into two parts a white handkerchief
I had in my pouch, and fasten one to his sleeve, the other in his
hat, in rough imitation of the badges I wore myself.

It will appear from this that I no longer trusted Madame d'O. I
was not convinced, it is true, of her conscious guilt, still I
did not trust her entirely. "Do not wear them on your return,"
she had said and that was odd; although I could not yet believe
that she was such a siren as Father Pierre had warned us of,
telling tales from old poets. Yet I doubted, shuddering as I did
so. Her companionship with that vile priest, her strange
eagerness to secure Pavannes' return, her mysterious directions
to me, her anxiety to take her sister home--home, where she would
be exposed to danger, as being in a known Huguenot's house--
these things pointed to but one conclusion; still that one was so
horrible that I would not, even while I doubted and distrusted
her, I would not, I could not accept it. I put it from me, and
refused to believe it, although during the rest of that night it
kept coming back to me and knocking for admission at my brain.

All this flashed through my mind while I was fixing on Pavannes'
badges. Not that I lost time about it, for from the moment I
grasped the position as he conceived it, every minute we had
wasted on explanations seemed to me an hour. I reproached myself
for having forgotten even for an instant that which had brought
us to town--the rescue of Kit's lover. We had small chance now
of reaching him in time, misled as we had been by this miserable
mistake in identity. If my companion's fears were well founded,
Louis would fall in the general massacre of the Huguenots,
probably before we could reach him. If ill-founded, still we had
small reason to hope. Bezers' vengeance would not wait. I knew
him too well to think it. A Guise might spare his foe, but the
Vidame--the Vidame never! We had warned Madame de Pavannes it
was true; but that abnormal exercise of benevolence could only, I
cynically thought, have the more exasperated the devil within
him, which now would be ravening like a dog disappointed of its
victuals.

I glanced up at the line of sky visible between the tall houses,
and lo! the dawn was coming. It wanted scarcely half-an-hour of
daylight, though down in the dark streets about us the night
still reigned. Yes, the morning was coming, bright and hopeful,
and the city was quiet. There were no signs, no sounds of riot
or disorder. Surely, I thought, surely Pavannes must be
mistaken. Either the plot had never existed, that was most
likely, or it had been abandoned, or perhaps--Crack!

A pistol shot! Short, sharp, ominous it rang out on the instant,
a solitary sound in the night! It was somewhere near us, and I
stopped. I had been speaking to my companion at the moment.
"Where was it?" I cried, looking behind me.

"Close to us. Near the Louvre," he answered, listening intently.
"See! See! Ah, heavens!" he continued in a voice of despair,
"it was a signal!"

It was. One, two, three! Before I could count so far, lights
sprang into brightness in the windows of nine out of ten houses
in the short street where we stood, as if lighted by a single
hand. Before too I could count as many more, or ask him what
this meant, before indeed, we could speak or stir from the spot,
or think what we should do, with a hurried clang and clash, as if
brought into motion by furious frenzied hands, a great bell just
above our heads began to boom and whirr! It hurled its notes
into space, it suddenly filled all the silence. It dashed its
harsh sounds down upon the trembling city, till the air heaved,
and the houses about us rocked. It made in an instant a
pandemonium of the quiet night.

We turned and hurried instinctively from the place, crouching and
amazed, looking upwards with bent shoulders and scared faces.
"What is it? What is it?" I cried, half in resentment; half in
terror. It deafened me.

"The bell of St. Germain l'Auxerrois!" he shouted in answer.
"The Church of the Louvre. It is as I said. We are doomed!"

"Doomed? No!" I replied fiercely, for my courage seemed to rise
again on the wave of sound and excitement as if rebounding from
the momentary shock. "Never! We wear the devil's livery, and he
will look after his own. Draw, man, and let him that stops us
look to himself. You know the way. Lead on!" I cried savagely.

He caught the infection and drew his sword. So we started
boldly, and the result justified my confidence. We looked, no
doubt, as like murderers as any who were abroad that night.
Moving in this desperate guise we hastened up that street and
into another--still pursued by the din and clangour of the bell
--and then a short distance along a third. We were not stopped
or addressed by anyone, though numbers, increasing each moment as
door after door opened, and we drew nearer to the heart of the
commotion, were hurrying in the same direction, side by side with
us; and though in front, where now and again lights gleamed on a
mass of weapons, or on white eager faces, filling some alley from
wall to wall, we heard the roar of voices rising and falling like
the murmur of an angry sea.

All was blur, hurry, confusion, tumult. Yet I remember, as we
pressed onwards with the stream and part of it, certain sharp
outlines. I caught here and there a glimpse of a pale scared
face at a window, a half-clad form at a door, of the big,
wondering eyes of a child held up to see us pass, of a Christ at
a corner ruddy in the smoky glare of a link, of a woman armed,
and in man's clothes, who walked some distance side by side with
us, and led off a ribald song. I retain a memory of these
things: of brief bursts of light and long intervals of darkness,
and always, as we tramped forwards, my hand on Pavannes' sleeve,
of an ever-growing tumult in front--an ever-rising flood of
noise.

At last we came to a standstill where a side street ran out of
ours. Into this the hurrying throng tried to wheel, and, unable
to do so, halted, and pressed about the head of the street, which
was already full to overflowing; and so sought with hungry eyes
for places whence they might look down it. Pavannes and I
struggled only to get through the crowd--to get on; but the
efforts of those behind partly aiding and partly thwarting our
own, presently forced us to a position whence we could not avoid
seeing what was afoot.

The street--this side street was ablaze with light. From end to
end every gable, every hatchment was glowing, every window was
flickering in the glare of torches. It was paved too with faces
--human faces, yet scarcely human--all looking one way, all
looking upward; and the noise, as from time to time this immense
crowd groaned or howled in unison, like a wild beast in its fury,
was so appalling, that I clutched Pavannes' arm and clung to him
in momentary terror. I do not wonder now that I quailed, though
sometimes I have heard that sound since. For there is nothing in
the world so dreadful as that brute beast we call the CANAILLE,
when the chain is off and its cowardly soul is roused.

Near our end of the street a group of horsemen rising island-like
from the sea of heads, sat motionless in their saddles about a
gateway. They were silent, taking no notice of the rioting
fiends shouting at their girths, but watching in grim quiet what
was passing within the gates. They were handsomely dressed,
although some wore corslets over their satin coats or lace above
buff jerkins. I could even at that distance see the jewels gleam
in the bonnet of one who seemed to be their leader. He was in
the centre of the band, a very young man, perhaps twenty or
twenty-one, of most splendid presence, sitting his horse
superbly. He wore a grey riding-coat, and was a head taller than
any of his companions. There was pride in the very air with
which his horse bore him.

I did not need to ask Pavannes who he was. I KNEW that he was
the Duke of Guise, and that the house before which he stood was
Coligny's. I knew what was being done there. And in the same
moment I sickened with horror and rage. I had a vision of grey
hairs and blood and fury scarcely human, And I rebelled. I
battled with the rabble about me. I forced my way through them
tooth and nail after Pavannes, intent only on escaping, only on
getting away from there. And so we neither halted nor looked
back until we were clear of the crowd and had left the blaze of
light and the work doing by it some way behind us.

We found ourselves then in the mouth of an obscure alley which my
companion whispered would bring us to his house; and here we
paused to take breath and look back. The sky was red behind us,
the air full of the clash and din of the tocsin, and the flood of
sounds which poured from every tower and steeple. From the
eastward came the rattle of drums and random shots, and shrieks
of "A BAS COLIGNY!" "A BAS LES HUGUENOTS!" Meanwhile the city
was rising as one man, pale at this dread awakening. From every
window men and women, frightened by the uproar, were craning
their necks, asking or answering questions or hurriedly calling
for and kindling tapers. But as yet the general populace seemed
to be taking no active part in the disorder.

Pavannes raised his hat an instant as we stood in the shadow of
the houses. "The noblest man in France is dead," he said, softly
and reverently. "God rest his soul! They have had their way
with him and killed him like a dog. He was an old man and they
did not spare him! A noble, and they have called in the CANAILLE
to tear him. But be sure, my friend"--and as the speaker's tone
changed and grew full and proud, his form seemed to swell with
it--"be sure the cruel shall not live out half their days! No.
He that takes the knife shall perish by the knife! And go to his
own place! I shall not see it, but you will!"

His words made no great impression on me then. My hardihood was
returning. I was throbbing with fierce excitement, and tingling
for the fight. But years afterwards, when the two who stood
highest in the group about Coligny's threshold died, the one at
thirty-eight, the other at thirty-five--when Henry of Guise and
Henry of Valois died within six months of one another by the
assassin's knife--I remembered Pavannes' augury. And remembering
it, I read the ways of Providence, and saw that the very audacity
of which Guise took advantage to entrap Coligny led him too in
his turn to trip smiling and bowing, a comfit box in his hand and
the kisses of his mistress damp on his lips, into a king's
closet--a king's closet at Blois! Led him to lift the curtain--
ah! to lift the curtain, what Frenchman does not know the tale?
--behind which stood the Admiral!

To return to our own fortunes; after a hurried glance we resumed
our way, and sped through the alley, holding a brief consultation
as we went. Pavannes' first hasty instinct to seek shelter at
home began to lose its force, and he to consider whether his
return would not endanger his wife. The mob might be expected to
spare her, he argued. Her death would not benefit any private
foes if he escaped. He was for keeping away therefore. But I
would not agree to this. The priest's crew of desperadoes--
assuming Pavannes' suspicions to be correct--would wait some
time, no doubt, to give the master of the house a chance to
return, but would certainly attack sooner or later out of greed,
if from no other motive. Then the lady's fate would at the best
be uncertain. I was anxious myself to rejoin my brothers, and
take all future chances, whether of saving our Louis, or escaping
ourselves, with them. United we should be four good swords, and
might at least protect Madame de Pavannes to a place of safety,
if no opportunity of succouring Louis should present itself. We
had too the Duke's ring, and this might be of service at a pinch.
"No," I urged, "let us get together. We two will slip in at the
front gate, and bolt and bar it, and then we will all escape in a
body at the back, while they are forcing the gateway."

"There is no door at the back," he answered, shaking his head.

"There are windows?"

"They are too strongly barred. We could not break out in the
time," he explained, with a groan.

I paused at that, crestfallen. But danger quickened my wits. In
a moment I had another plan, not so hopeful and more dangerous,
yet worth trying I thought, I told him of it, and he agreed to
it. As he nodded assent we emerged into a street, and I saw--for
the grey light of morning was beginning to penetrate between the
houses--that we were only a few yards from the gateway, and the
small door by which I had seen my brothers enter. Were they
still in the house? Were they safe? I had been away an hour at
least.

Anxious as I was about them, I looked round me very keenly as we
flitted across the road, and knocked gently at the door. I
thought it so likely that we should be fallen upon here, that I
stood on my guard while we waited. But we were not molested.
The street, being at some distance from the centre of the
commotion, was still and empty, with no signs of life apparent
except the rows of heads poked through the windows--all
possessing eyes which watched us heedfully and in perfect
silence. Yes, the street was quite empty: except, ah! except,
for that lurking figure, which, even as I espied it, shot round a
distant angle of the wall, and was lost to sight.

"There!" I cried, reckless now who might hear me, "knock! knock
louder! never mind the noise. The alarm is given. A score of
people are watching us, and yonder spy has gone off to summon his
friends."

The truth was my anger was rising. I could bear no longer the
silent regards of all those eyes at the windows. I writhed under
them--cruel, pitiless eyes they were. I read in them a morbid
curiosity, a patient anticipation that drove me wild. Those men
and women gazing on us so stonily knew my companion's rank and
faith. They had watched him riding in and out daily, one of the
sights of their street, gay and gallant; and now with the same
eyes they were watching greedily for the butchers to come. The
very children took a fresh interest in him, as one doomed and
dying; and waited panting for the show to begin. So I read them.

"Knock!" I repeated angrily, losing all patience. Had I been
foolish in bringing him back to this part of the town where every
soul knew him? "Knock; we must get in, whether or no. They
cannot all have left the house!"

I kicked the door desperately, and my relief was great when it
opened. A servant with a pale face stood before me, his knees
visibly shaking. And behind him was Croisette.

I think we fell straightway into one another's arms.

"And Marie," I cried, "Marie?"

"Marie is within, and madame," he answered joyfully; "we are
together again and nothing matters, But oh, Anne, where have you
been? And what is the matter? Is it a great fire? Or is the
king dead? Or what is it?"

I told him. I hastily poured out some of the things which had
happened to me, and some which I feared were in store for others.
Naturally he was surprised and shocked by the latter, though his
fears had already been aroused. But his joy and relief, when he
heard the mystery of Louis de Pavannes' marriage explained, were
so great that they swallowed up all other feelings. He could not
say enough about it. He pictured Louis again and again as Kit's
lover, as our old friend, our companion; as true, staunch, brave
without fear, without reproach: and it was long before his eyes
ceased to sparkle, his tongue to run merrily, the colour to
mantle in his cheeks--long that is as time is counted by minutes.
But presently the remembrance of Louis' danger and our own
position returned more vividly. Our plan for rescuing him had
failed--failed!

"No! no!" cried Croisette, stoutly. He would not hear of it.
He would not have it at any price. "No, we will not give up
hope! We will go shoulder to shoulder and find him. Louis is as
brave as a lion and as quick as a weasel. We will find him in
time yet. We will go when--I mean as soon as--"

He faltered, and paused. His sudden silence as he looked round
the empty forecourt in which we stood was eloquent. The cold
light, faint and uncertain yet, was stealing into the court,
disclosing a row of stables on either side, and a tiny porter's
hutch by the gates, and fronting us a noble house of four storys,
tall, grey, grim-looking.

I assented; gloomily however. "Yes," I said, "we will go when--"

And I too stopped. The same thought was in my mind. How could
we leave these people? How could we leave madame in her danger
and distress? How could we return her kindness by desertion? We
could not. No, not for Kit's sake. Because after all Louis, our
Louis, was a man, and must take his chance. He must take his
chance. But I groaned.

So that was settled. I had already explained our plan to
Croisette: and now as we waited he began to tell me a story, a
long, confused story about Madame d'O. I thought he was talking
for the sake of talking--to keep up our spirits--and I did not
attend much to him; so that he had not reached the gist of it, or
at least I had not grasped it, when a noise without stayed his
tongue. It was the tramp of footsteps, apparently of a large
party in the street. It forced him to break off, and promptly
drove us all to our posts.

But before we separated a slight figure, hardly noticeable in
that dim, uncertain light, passed me quickly, laying for an
instant a soft hand in mine as I stood waiting by the gates. I
have said I scarcely saw the figure, though I did see the kind
timid eyes, and the pale cheeks under the hood; but I bent over
the hand and kissed it, and felt, truth to tell, no more regret
nor doubt where our duty lay. But stood, waiting patiently.

CHAPTER IX.

THE HEAD OF ERASMUS.

Waiting, and waiting alone! The gates were almost down now. The
gang of ruffians without, reinforced each moment by volunteers
eager for plunder, rained blows unceasingly on hinge and socket;
and still hotter and faster through a dozen rifts in the timbers
came the fire of their threats and curses. Many grew tired, but
others replaced them. Tools broke, but they brought more and
worked with savage energy. They had shown at first a measure of
prudence; looking to be fired on, and to be resisted by men,
surprised, indeed, but desperate; and the bolder of them only had
advanced. But now they pressed round unchecked, meeting no
resistance. They would scarcely stand back to let the sledges
have swing; but hallooed and ran in on the creaking beams and
beat them with their fists, whenever the gates swayed under a
blow.

One stout iron bar still held its place. And this I watched as
if fascinated. I was alone in the empty courtyard, standing a
little aside, sheltered by one of the stone pillars from which
the gates hung. Behind me the door of the house stood ajar.
Candles, which the daylight rendered garish, still burned in the
rooms on the first floor, of which the tall narrow windows were
open. On the wide stone sill of one of these stood Croisette, a
boyish figure, looking silently down at me, his hand on the
latticed shutter. He looked pale, and I nodded and smiled at
him. I felt rather anger than fear myself; remembering, as the
fiendish cries half-deafened me, old tales of the Jacquerie and
its doings, and how we had trodden it out.

Suddenly the din and tumult flashed to a louder note; as when
hounds on the scent give tongue at sight. I turned quickly from
the house, recalled to a sense of the position and peril. The
iron bar was yielding to the pressure. Slowly the left wing of
the gate was sinking inwards. Through the widening chasm I
caught a glimpse of wild, grimy faces and bloodshot eyes, and
heard above the noise a sharp cry from Croisette--a cry of
terror. Then I turned and ran, with a defiant gesture and an
answering yell, right across the forecourt and up the steps to
the door.

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