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While this passed at the door, all the rest were at table, where they
were warmly discussing the previous quarrel. Many frankly blamed St.
Maline; others abstained, seeing the frowning brow of their comrade.
They did not attack with any less enthusiasm the supper of M.
Fournichon, but they discussed as they ate.

"As for me," said Hector de Bizan, "I know that M. de St. Maline was
wrong, and that had I been Ernanton de Carmainges, M. de St. Maline
would be at this moment stretched on the ground instead of sitting
here."

St. Maline looked at him furiously.

"Oh, I mean what I say," continued he; "and stay, there is some one at
the door who appears to agree with me."

All turned at this, and saw Ernanton standing in the doorway, looking
very pale. He descended from the step, as the statue of the commander
from his pedestal, and walked straight up to St. Maline, firmly, but
quietly.

At this sight, several voices cried, "Come here, Ernanton; come this
side, Carmainges; there is room here."

"Thank you," replied the young man; "but it is near M. de St. Maline
that I wish to sit." St. Maline rose, and all eyes were fixed on him.
But as he rose, his face changed its expression.

"I will make room for you, monsieur," said he, gently; "and in doing so
address to you my frank and sincere apologies for my stupid aggression
just now; I was drunk; forgive me."

This declaration did not satisfy Ernanton; but the cries of joy that
proceeded from all the rest decided him to say no more, although a
glance at St. Maline showed him that he was not to be trusted. St.
Maline's glass was full, and he filled Ernanton's.

"Peace! peace!" cried all the voices.

Carmainges profited by the noise, and leaning toward St. Maline, with a
smile on his lips, so that no one might suspect the sense of what he was
saying, whispered:

"M. de St. Maline, this is the second time that you have insulted me
without giving me satisfaction; take care, for at the third offense I
will kill you like a dog."

And the two mortal enemies touched glasses as though they had been the
best friends.




CHAPTER LIX.

WHAT WAS PASSING IN THE MYSTERIOUS HOUSE.


While the hotel of the "Brave Chevalier," the abode, apparently, of the
most perfect concord, with closed doors and open cellars, showed through
the openings of the shutters the light of its candles and the mirth of
its guests, an unaccustomed movement took place in that mysterious house
of which our readers have as yet only seen the outside.

The servant was going from one room to another, carrying packages which
he placed in a trunk. These preparations over, he loaded a pistol,
examined his poniard, then suspended it, by the aid of a ring, to the
chain which served him for a belt, to which he attached besides a bunch
of keys and a book of prayers bound in black leather.

While he was thus occupied, a step, light as that of a shadow, came up
the staircase, and a woman, pale and phantom-like under the folds of her
white veil, appeared at the door, and a voice, sad and sweet as the song
of a bird in the wood, said: "Remy, are you ready?"

"Yes, madame, I only wait for your box."

"Do you think these boxes will go easily on our horses?"

"Oh! yes, madame, but if you have any fear, I can leave mine; I have
all I want there."

"No, no, Remy, take all that you want for the journey. Oh! Remy! I long
to be with my father; I have sad presentiments, and it seems an age
since I saw him."

"And yet, madame, it is but three months; not a longer interval than
usual."

"Remy, you are such a good doctor, and you yourself told me, the last
time we quitted him, that he had not long to live."

"Yes, doubtless; but it was only a dread, not a prediction. Sometimes
death seems to forget old men, and they live on as though by the habit
of living; and often, besides, an old man is like a child, ill to-day
and well to-morrow."

"Alas! Remy, like the child also, he is often well to-day and dead
to-morrow."

Remy did not reply, for he had nothing really reassuring to say, and
silence succeeded for some minutes.

"At what hour have you ordered the horses?" said the lady, at last.

"At two o'clock."

"And one has just struck."

"Yes, madame."

"No one is watching outside?"

"No one."

"Not even that unhappy young man?"

"Not even he."

And Remy sighed.

"You say that in a strange manner, Remy."

"Because he also has made a resolution."

"What is it?"

"To see us no more; at least, not to try to see us any more."

"And where is he going?"

"Where we are all going--to rest.".

"God give it him eternally," said the lady, in a cold voice, "and yet--"

"Yet what, madame?"

"Had he nothing to do here?"

"He had to love if he had been loved."

"A man of his name, rank, and age, should think of his future."

"You, madame, are of an age, rank, and name little inferior to his, and
you do not look forward to a future."

"Yes, Remy, I do," cried she, with a sudden flashing of the eyes; "but
listen! is that not the trot of a horse that I hear?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Can it be ours?"

"It is possible; but it is an hour too soon."

"It stops at the door, Remy."

Remy ran down and arrived just as three hurried blows were struck on the
door.

"Who is there?" said he.

"I!" replied a trembling voice, "I, Grandchamp, the baron's valet."

"Ah! mon Dieu! Grandchamp, you at Paris! speak low! Whence do you come?"

"From Meridor. Alas, dear M. Remy!"

"Well," cried the lady from the top of the stairs, "are they our horses,
Remy?"

"No, madame, it is not them. What is it, Grandchamp?"

"You do not guess?"

"Alas! I do; what will she do, poor lady."

"Remy," cried she again, "you are talking to some one?"

"Yes, madame."

"I thought I knew the voice."

"Indeed, madame."

She now descended, saying:

"Who is there? Grandchamp?"

"Yes, madame, it is I," replied the old man sadly, uncovering his white
head.

"Grandchamp! you! oh! mon Dieu! my presentiments were right; my father
is dead?"

"Indeed, madame, Meridor has no longer a master."

Pale, but motionless and firmly, the lady listened; Remy went to her and
took her hand softly.

"How did he die; tell me, my friend?" said she.

"Madame, M. le Baron, who could no longer leave his armchair, was struck
a week ago by an attack of apoplexy. He muttered your name for the last
time, then ceased to speak, and soon was no more."

Diana went up again without another word. Her room was on the first
story, and looked only into a courtyard. The furniture was somber, but
rich, the hangings, in Arras tapestry, represented the death of our
Saviour, a prie-Dieu and stool in carved oak, a bed with twisted
columns, and tapestries like the walls, were the sole ornaments of the
room. Not a flower, no gilding, but in a frame of black was contained a
portrait of a man, before which the lady now knelt down, with dry eyes,
but a sad heart. She fixed on this picture a long look of indescribable
love. It represented a young man about twenty-eight, lying half naked on
a bed; from his wounded breast the blood still flowed, his right hand
hung mutilated, and yet it still held a broken sword. His eyes were
closed as though he were about to die, paleness and suffering gave to
his face that divine character which the faces of mortals assume only at
the moment of quitting life for eternity. Under the portrait, in letters
red as blood, was written, "Aut Caesar aut nihil." The lady extended her
arm, and spoke as though it could hear her.

"I had begged thee to wait, although thy soul must have thirsted for
vengeance; and as the dead see all, thou hast seen, my love, that I
lived only not to kill my father, else I would have died after you; and
then, you know, on your bleeding corpse I uttered a vow to give death
for death, blood for blood, but I would not do it while the old man
called me his innocent child. Thou hast waited, beloved, and now I am
free: the last tie which bound me to earth is broken. I am all yours,
and now I am free to come to you."

She rose on one knee, kissed the hand, and then went on: "I can weep no
more--my tears have dried up in weeping over your tomb. In a few months
I shall rejoin you, and you then will reply to me, dear shade, to whom I
have spoken so often without reply." Diana then rose, and seating
herself in her chair, muttered, "Poor father!" and then fell into a
profound reverie. At last she called Remy.

The faithful servant soon appeared.

"Here I am, madame."

"My worthy friend, my brother--you, the last person who knows me on this
earth--say adieu to me."

"Why so, madame?"

"Because the time has come for us to separate."

"Separate!" cried the young man. "What do you mean, madame?"

"Yes, Remy. My project of vengeance seemed to me noble and pure while
there remained an obstacle between me and it, and I only contemplated it
from afar off; but now that I approach the execution of it--now that the
obstacle has disappeared--I do not draw back, but I do not wish to drag
with me into crime a generous and pure soul like yours; therefore you
must quit me, my friend."

Remy listened to the words of Diana with a somber look.

"Madame," replied he, "do you think you are speaking to a trembling old
man? Madame, I am but twenty-six; and snatched as I was from the tomb,
if I still live, it is for the accomplishment of some terrible
action--to play an active part in the work of Providence. Never, then,
separate your thoughts from mine, since we both have the same thoughts,
sinister as they may be. Where you go, I will go; what you do I will aid
in; or if, in spite of my prayers, you persist in dismissing me--"

"Oh!" murmured she, "dismiss you! What a word, Remy!"

"If you persist in that resolution," continued the young man, "I know
what I have to do, and all for me will end with two blows from a
poniard--one in the heart of him whom you know, and the other in your
own."

"Remy! Remy!" cried Diana, "do not say that. The life of him you
threaten does not belong to you--it is mine--I have paid for it dearly
enough. I swear to you, Remy, that on the day on which I knelt beside
the dead body of him"--and she pointed to the portrait--"on that day I
approached my lips to that open wound, and the trembling lips seemed to
say to me, 'Avenge me, Diana!--avenge me!'"

"Madame--"

"Therefore, I repeat, vengeance is for me, and not for you; besides, for
whom and through whom did he die? By me and through me."

"I must obey you, madame, for I also was left for dead. Who carried me
away from the middle of the corpses with which that room was
filled?--You. Who cured me of my wounds?--You. Who concealed me?--You
always. Order, then, and I will obey, provided that you do not order me
to leave you."

"So be it, Remy; you are right; nothing ought to separate us more."

Remy pointed to the portrait.

"Now, madame," said he, "he was killed by treason--it is by treason that
he must be revenged. Ah! you do not know one thing--the hand of God is
with us, for to-night I have found the secret of the 'Aqua tofana,' that
poison of the Medicis and of Rene the Florentine."

"Really?"

"Come and see, madame."

"But where is Grandchamp?"

"The poor old man has come sixty leagues on horseback; he is tired out,
and has fallen asleep on my bed."

"Come, then," said Diana; and she followed Remy.




CHAPTER LX.

THE LABORATORY.


Remy led the lady into a neighboring room; and pushing a spring which
was hidden under a board in the floor, and which, opening, disclosed a
straight dark staircase, gave his hand to Diana to help her to descend.
Twenty steps of this staircase, or rather ladder, led into a dark and
circular cave, whose only furniture was a stove with an immense hearth,
a square table, two rush chairs, and a quantity of phials and iron
boxes. In the stove a dying fire still gleamed, while a thick black
smoke escaped through a pipe fastened into the wall. From a still placed
on the hearth a few drops of a liquid, yellow as gold, was dropping
into a thick white phial. Diana looked round her without astonishment or
terror; the ordinary feelings of life seemed to be unknown to her who
lived only in the tomb. Remy lighted a lamp, and then approached a well
hollowed out in the cave, attached a bucket to a long cord, let it down
into the well, and then drew it up full of a water as cold as ice and as
clear as crystal.

"Approach, madame," said he.

Diana drew near. In the bucket he let fall a single drop of the liquid
contained in the phial, and the entire mass of the water became
instantaneously yellow; then the color evaporated, and the water in ten
minutes became as clear as before.

Remy looked at her.

"Well?" said she.

"Well, madame," said he, "now dip in that water, which has neither smell
nor color, a glove or a handkerchief; soak it in scented soap, pour some
of it into the basin where you are about to wash your hands or face, and
you will see, as was seen at the court of Charles IX., the flower kill
by its perfume, the glove poison by its contact, the soap kill by its
introduction into the pores of the skin. Pour a single drop of this pure
oil on the wick of a lamp or candle, and for an hour the candle or lamp
will exhale death, and burn at the same time like any other."

"You are sure of what you say, Remy?"

"All this I have tried. See these birds who can now neither drink nor
eat; they have drunk of water like this. See this goat who has browsed
on grass watered with this same water; he moves and totters; vainly now
should we restore him to life and liberty; his life is forfeited,
unless, indeed, nature should reveal to his instinct some of those
antidotes to poison which animals know, although men do not."--"Can I
see this phial, Remy?"

"Yes, madame, presently."

Remy then separated it from the still with infinite care, then corked it
with soft wax, tied the top up in cloth, and then presented it to Diana.

She took it, held it up to the light, and, after looking at it, said:

"It will do; when the time arrives we will choose gloves, lamp, soap, or
flowers, as convenient. Will the liquor keep in metal?"--"It eats it
away."

"But then, perhaps, the bottle will break?"

"I think not--see the thickness of the crystal; besides, we can shut it
up in a covering of gold."

"Listen, Remy! I hear horses; I think ours have arrived."

"Probably, madame, it is about the time; but I will go and send them
away."

"Why so?"

"Are they not useless?"

"Instead of going to Meridor, we will go into Flanders. Keep the
horses."

"Ah! I understand!" and Remy's eyes gave forth a flash of sinister joy.

"But Grandchamp; what can we do with him?" said he.

"He has need of repose. He shall remain here, and sell this house, which
we require no longer. But restore to liberty that unhappy animal, whom
you were forced to torture. As you say, God may care for its recovery."

"This furnace, and these stills?"

"Leave them here."

"But these powders, essences, and acids?"

"Throw them in the fire, Remy."

"Go away, then, or put on this glass mask."

Then, taking similar precautions for himself, he blew up the fire again,
poured in the powder, which went off in brilliant sparks, some green and
some yellow; and the essences, which, instead of being consumed, mounted
like serpents of fire into the pipe, with a noise like distant thunder.

"Now," said Remy, "if any one now discovers this cave, he will only
think that an alchemist has been here, and though they still burn
sorcerers, they respect alchemists."

"And besides," said the lady, "if they do burn us, provided I have only
finished my task, I should not mind that sort of death more than any
other."

At this moment they heard knocking.

"Here are our horses, madame," said Remy; "go up quickly, and I will
close the trap-door."

Diana obeyed, and found Grandchamp, whom the noise had awakened, at the
door.

The old man was not a little surprised to hear of his mistress's
intended departure, who informed him of it without telling him where she
was going.

"Grandchamp, my friend," said she, "Remy and I are going to accomplish a
pilgrimage on which we have long determined; speak of this journey to
none, and do not mention my name to any one."

"Oh! I promise you, madame," replied the old servant; "but we shall see
you again?"

"Doubtless, Grandchamp; if not in this world, in the next. But, apropos,
Grandchamp, this house is now useless to us."

Diana drew from a drawer a bundle of papers.

"Here are the title-deeds; let or sell this house; but if, in the course
of a month, you do not find a purchaser, abandon it and return to
Meridor."

"But if I find some one, how much am I to ask?"

"What you please, Grandchamp."

"Shall I take the money to Meridor?"

"Keep it for yourself, my good Grandchamp."

"What, madame, such a sum?"

"Yes, I owe it to you for your services; and I have my father's debts to
pay as well as my own. Now, adieu!"

Then Diana went upstairs, cut the picture from the frame, rolled it up,
and placed it in her trunk.

When Remy had tied the two trunks with leather thongs, and had glanced
into the street to see that there were no lookers-on, he aided his
mistress to mount.

"I believe, madame," said he, "that this is the last house in which we
shall live so long."

"The last but one, Remy."

"And what will be the other?"

"The tomb, Remy."




CHAPTER LXI.

WHAT MONSEIGNEUR FRANCOIS, DUC D'ANJOU, DUC DE BRABANT AND COMTE DE
FLANDERS, WAS DOING IN FLANDERS.


Our readers must now permit us to leave the king at the Louvre, Henri of
Navarre at Cahors, Chicot on the road, and Diana in the street, to go to
Flanders to find M. le Duc d'Anjou, recently named Duc de Brabant, and
to whose aid we have sent the great admiral of France--Anne, duc de
Joyeuse.

At eighty leagues from Paris, toward the north, the sound of French
voices was heard, and the French banner floated over a French camp on
the banks of the Scheldt. It was night; the fires, disposed in an
immense circle, bordered the stream, and were reflected in its deep
waters.

From the top of the ramparts of the town the sentinels saw shining, by
the bivouac fires, the muskets of the French army. This army was that of
the Duc d'Anjou. What he had come to do there we must tell our readers;
and although it may not be very amusing, yet we hope they will pardon it
in consideration of the warning; so many people are dull without
announcing it.

Those of our readers who have read "Chicot," already know the Duc
d'Anjou, that jealous, egotistical, ambitious prince, and who, born so
near to the throne, had never been able to wait with resignation until
death offered him a free passage to it. Thus he had desired the throne
of Navarre under Charles IX., then that of Charles IX. himself, then
that of his brother Henri III. For a time he had turned his eyes toward
England, then governed by a woman, and to possess this throne he was
ready to have married this woman, although she was Elizabeth, and was
twenty years older than himself. In this plan destiny was beginning to
smile on him, and he saw himself in the favor of a great queen, until
then inaccessible to all human affections. Besides this, a crown was
offered to him in Flanders.

He had seen his brother Henri embarrassed in his quarrel with the
Guises, but had soon discovered that they had no other aim than that of
substituting themselves for the Valois. He had then separated himself
from them, although not without danger; besides, Henri III. had at last
opened his eyes, and the duke exiled, or something like it, had retired
to Amboise.

It was then that the Flemings opened their arms to him. Tired of Spanish
rule, decimated by the Duc d'Alva, deceived by the false peace of John
of Austria, who had profited by it to retake Namur and Charlemont, the
Flemings had called in William of Nassau, prince of Orange, and had made
him governor-general of Brabant. A few words about this man, who held so
great a place in history, but who will only be named here.

William of Nassau was then about fifty. He was the son of William called
the Old, and of Julienne de Stolberg, cousin of that Rene of Nassau
killed at the siege of Dizier. He had from his youth been brought up in
principles of reform, and had a full consciousness of the greatness of
his mission. This mission, which he believed he had received from
Heaven, and for which he died like a martyr, was to found the Republic
of Holland, in which he was successful. When very young he had been
called by Charles V. to his court. Charles was a good judge of men, and
often the old emperor, who supported the heaviest burden ever borne by
an imperial hand, consulted the child on the most delicate matters
connected with the politics of Holland. The young man was scarcely
twenty-four when Charles confided to him, in the absence of the famous
Philibert Emanuel of Savoy, the command of the army in Flanders. William
showed himself worthy of this high confidence: he held in check the Duc
de Nevers and Coligny, two of the greatest captains of the time, and
under their eyes fortified Philipville and Charlemont. On the day when
Charles V. abdicated, it was on William of Nassau that he leaned to
descend the steps of the throne, and he it was who was charged to carry
to Ferdinand the imperial throne which Charles had resigned.

Then came Philippe II., and in spite of his father's recommendations to
him to regard William as a brother, the latter soon found a great
difference. This strengthened in his mind the great idea of freeing
Holland and Flanders, which he might never have endeavored to carry into
effect if the old emperor, his friend, had remained on the throne.

Holland, by his advice, demanded the dismissal of the foreign troops,
and then began the bloody struggle of the Spaniards to retain the prey
which was escaping from them, and then passed over this unhappy people
the vice-royalty of Marguerite of Austria and the bloody consulship of
the Duc d'Alva, and then was organized that struggle, at once political
and religious, which began with the protest of the Hotel Culembourg,
which demanded the abolition of the Inquisition in Holland, and when
four hundred gentlemen, walking in pairs, carried to the foot of
Marguerite's throne the general desire of the people, as summed up in
that protest. At the sight of these gentlemen, so simply clothed,
Barlaimont, one of the councilors of the duchess, uttered the word
"Gueux," which, taken up by the Flemish gentlemen, so long designated
the patriot party. From this time William began to play the part which
made him one of the greatest political actors of the world. Constantly
beaten by the overwhelming power of Philippe II., he constantly rose
again, always stronger after his defeats--always organizing a new army
to replace the scattered one, and always hailed as a liberator.

In the midst of these alternate moral triumphs and physical defeats,
William learned at Mons the news of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. It
was a terrible wound for Holland, and the Calvinist portion of Flanders
lost by it their natural allies, the Huguenots of France.

William retreated from Mons to the Rhine, and waited for events. Some of
the Gueux was driven by a contrary wind into the port of Brille: and
seeing no escape, and pushed by despair, took the city which was
preparing to hang them.

This done, they chased away the Spanish garrison, and sent for the
Prince of Orange. He came; and as he wished to strike a decisive blow,
he published an ordonnance forbidding the Catholic religion in Holland,
as the Protestant faith was forbidden in France.

At this manifesto war recommenced. The Duc d'Alva sent his own son
Frederic against the revolters, who took from them Zutphen, Nardem, and
Haarlem; but this check, far from discouraging them, seemed to give them
new strength. All took up arms, from the Zuyderzee to the Scheldt. Spain
began to tremble, recalled the Duc d'Alva, and sent as his successor
Louis de Requesens, one of the conquerors at Lepanto.

Then began for William a new series of misfortunes--Ludovic and Henri of
Nassau, who were bringing him aid, were surprised by one of the officers
of Don Louis near Nimegue, defeated and killed; the Spaniards penetrated
into Holland, besieged Leyden, and pillaged Antwerp.

All seemed desperate, when Heaven came once more to the aid of the
infant Republic. Requesens died at Brussels.

Then all the provinces, united by a common interest, drew up and signed,
on the 8th November, 1576, that is to say four days after the sack of
Antwerp, the treaty known under the name of the Treaty of Ghent, by
which they engaged to aid each other in delivering their country from
the yoke of the Spaniards and other foreigners.

Don John reappeared, and with him the woes of Holland; for in less than
two months Namur and Charlemont were taken. The Flemings replied,
however, to these two checks by naming the Prince of Orange
governor-general of Brabant.

Don John died in his turn, and Alexander Farnese succeeded him. He was a
clever prince, charming in his manners, which were at once gentle and
firm; a skillful politician, and a good general. Flanders trembled at
hearing that soft Italian voice call her friend, instead of treating her
as a rebel. William knew that Farnese would do more for Spain with his
promises than the Duc d'Alva with his punishments. On the 29th January,
1579, he made the provinces sign the Treaty of Utrecht, which was the
fundamental base of the rights of Holland. It was then that, fearing he
should never be able to accomplish alone the freedom for which he had
been fighting for fifteen years, he offered to the Duc d'Anjou the
sovereignty of the country, on condition that he should respect their
privileges and their liberty of conscience. This was a terrible blow to
Philippe II., and he replied to it by putting a price of 25,000 crowns
on the head of William. The States-General assembled at the Hague, then
declared Philippe deposed from the sovereignty of Holland, and ordered
that henceforth the oath of fidelity should be taken to them.