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The Forty Five Guardsmen written by Alexandre Dumas

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"Good!" said he. "Now open the gates, and all may enter."

The gates were thrown open, and then horses, mules, and carts, men,
women, and children, pressed into Paris, at the risk of suffocating each
other, and in a quarter of an hour all the crowd had vanished.

Robert Briquet remained until the last. "I have seen enough," said he:
"would it be very advantageous to me to see M. Salcede torn in four
pieces? No, pardieu! Besides, I have renounced politics; I will go and
dine."




CHAPTER IV.

HIS MAJESTY HENRI THE THIRD.


M. Friard was right when he talked of 100,000 persons as the number of
spectators who would meet on the Place de Greve and its environs, to
witness the execution of Salcede. All Paris appeared to have a
rendezvous at the Hotel de Ville; and Paris is very exact, and never
misses a fete; and the death of a man is a fete, especially when he has
raised so many passions that some curse and others bless him.

The spectators who succeeded in reaching the Place saw the archers and a
large number of Swiss and light horse surrounding a little scaffold
raised about four feet from the ground. It was so low as to be visible
only to those immediately surrounding it, or to those who had windows
overlooking the Place. Four vigorous white horses beat the ground
impatiently with their hoofs, to the great terror of the women, who had
either chosen this place willingly, or had been forcibly pushed there.

These horses were unused, and had never done more work than to support,
by some chance, on their broad backs the chubby children of the
peasants. After the scaffold and the horses, what next attracted all
looks was the principal window of the Hotel de Ville, which was hung
with red velvet and gold, and ornamented with the royal arms. This was
for the king. Half-past one had just struck when this window was filled.
First came Henri III., pale, almost bald, although he was at that time
only thirty-five, and with a somber expression, always a mystery to his
subjects, who, when they saw him appear, never knew whether to say "Vive
le Roi!" or to pray for his soul. He was dressed in black, without
jewels or orders, and a single diamond shone in his cap, serving as a
fastening to three short plumes. He carried in his hand a little black
dog that his sister-in-law Marie Stuart had sent him from her prison,
and on which his fingers looked as white as alabaster.

Behind the king came Catherine de Medicis, almost bowed by age, for she
might be sixty-six or sixty-seven, but still carrying her head firm and
erect, and darting bitter glances from under her thick eyebrows. At her
side appeared the melancholy but sweet face of the queen, Louise de
Torraine. Catherine came as a triumph, she as a punishment. Behind them
came two handsome young men, brothers, the eldest of whom smiled with
wonderful beauty, and the younger with great melancholy. The one was
Anne, duc de Joyeuse, and the other Henri de Joyeuse, comte de Bouchage.
The people had for these favorites of the king none of the hatred which
they had felt toward Maugiron, Quelus, and Schomberg.

Henri saluted the people gravely; then, turning to the young men, he
said, "Anne, lean against the tapestry; it may last a long time."

"I hope so," said Catherine.

"You think, then, that Salcede will speak, mother?"

"God will, I trust, give this confusion to our enemies."

Henri looked doubtful.

"My son," said Catherine, "do I not see some tumult yonder?"

"What clear sight you have! I believe you are right. I have such bad
eyes, and yet I am not old. Yes, here comes Salcede."

"He fears," said Catherine; "he will speak."

"If he has strength," said the king. "See, his head falls about like
that of a corpse."

"He is frightful," said Joyeuse.

"How should a man be handsome whose thoughts are so ugly? Have I not
explained to you, Anne, the secret connection of the physical and the
moral, as Hippocrates and Galen understood and expounded them?"

"I admit it, sire, but I am not a good pupil. I have sometimes seen very
ugly men very good soldiers. Have you not, Henri?" said he, turning to
his brother: but he looked without seeing, and heard without
understanding, so the king answered for him.

"Eh, mon Dieu! my dear Anne, who says this man is not brave? He is
brave, pardieu, like a wolf, a bear, or a serpent. He burned in his
house a Norman gentleman, his enemy; he has fought ten duels, and killed
three of his adversaries. He has now been taken in the act of coining,
for which he has been condemned to death."

"That is a well-filled existence, but which will soon finish."

"On the contrary," said Catherine, "I trust it will finish as slowly as
possible."

"Madame," said Joyeuse, "I see those four stout horses, who appear to me
so impatient of their state of inactivity that I do not believe in a
long resistance of the muscles, tendons, and cartilages of M. de
Salcede."

"Yes, but my son is merciful," replied she, with the smile peculiar to
herself, "and he will tell the men to go gently."

"But, madame," said the queen timidly, "I heard you say this morning
that there were only to be two draws?"

"Yes, if he conducts himself well; in that case all will be finished as
soon as possible, and, as you interest yourself so much in him, you had
better let him know as much, my daughter."

"Madame," said the queen, "I have not your strength when looking at
suffering."

"Do not look, then."

The king heard nothing; he was all eyes. They were lifting Salcede from
the car on to the scaffold, round which the archers had cleared a large
space, so that it was distinctly visible to all eyes.

Salcede was about thirty-five years of age, strong and vigorous; and his
pale features, on which stood drops of blood, were animated alternately
by hope and anguish. He was no vulgar assassin; he was of good birth,
and even distantly related to the queen, and had been a captain of some
renown. Those bound hands had valiantly borne the sword, and that livid
head, on which were depicted the terrors of death, had conceived great
designs. Therefore, to many of the spectators, he was a hero; to others,
a victim; some looked on him as an assassin; but the crowd seldom
despises those very great criminals who are registered in the book of
history as well as in that of justice. Thus they told, in the crowd,
that Salcede was of a race of warriors; that his father had fought
against the Cardinal de Lorraine, but that the son had joined with the
Guises to destroy in Flanders the rising power of the Duc d'Anjou, so
hated by the French.

He had been arrested and conducted to France, and had hoped to be
rescued by the way; but unfortunately for him, M. de Bellievre had kept
such good watch, that neither Spaniards nor Lorraines, nor leaguers, had
been able to approach. In the prison Salcede hoped; during the torture,
on the car, even on the scaffold, he still hoped. He wanted neither
courage nor resignation; but he was one of those who defend themselves
to their last breath. He darted curious glances toward the crowd, but
constantly turned away, with a look of disappointment.

At this moment, an usher, raising the tapestry of the royal tent,
announced that the president Brisson and four councilors desired the
honor of an instant's conversation with the king on the subject of the
execution.

"Good," said the king. "Mother, you will be satisfied."

"Sire, a favor," said Joyeuse.

"Speak, Joyeuse; and provided it be not the pardon of the criminal--"

"Sire, permit my brother and me to retire."

"What! you take so little interest in my affairs that you wish to retire
at such a moment!"

"Do not say so, sire; all that concerns your majesty profoundly
interests me; but I am of a miserable organization, and the weakest
woman is stronger than I am on this point. I cannot see an execution
without being ill for a week; and as I am the only person who ever
laughs at the Louvre, since my brother--I know not why--has given it up,
think what would become of the Louvre--so sad already--if I were sad
also."

"You wish to leave me then, Anne."

"Peste! sire, you are exacting; an execution is a spectacle of which,
unlike me, you are fond. Is not that enough for you, or must you also
enjoy the weakness of your friends?"

"If you will remain, Joyeuse, you will see that it is interesting."

"I do not doubt it, sire; I only think that the interest will be carried
to a point that I cannot bear;" and he turned toward the door.

"Go, then," said Henri, sighing; "my destiny is to live alone."

"Quick! Du Bouchage," said Anne to his brother. "The king says yes now;
but in five minutes he will say no."

"Thanks, my brother," said Bouchage; "I was as anxious as you to get
away."




CHAPTER V.

THE EXECUTION.


The councilors entered.

"Well, gentlemen," said the king, "is there anything new?"

"Sire," replied the president, "we come to beg your majesty to promise
life to the criminal; he has revelations to make, which, on this
promise, we shall obtain."

"But have we not obtained them?"

"Yes, in part; is that enough for your majesty?"

"No," said Catherine; "and the king has determined to postpone the
execution, if the culprit will sign a confession substantiating his
depositions before the judge."

"Yes," said Henri, "and you can let the prisoner know this."

"Your majesty has nothing to add?"

"Only that there must be no variation in the confessions, or I withdraw
my promise; they must be complete."

"Yes, sire; with the names of the compromised parties."

"With all the names."

"Even if they are of high rank?"

"If they were those of my nearest relations."

"It shall be as your majesty wishes."

"No misunderstanding, M. Brisson. Writing materials shall be brought to
the prisoner, and he will write his confessions; after that we shall
see."

"But I may promise?"

"Oh! yes, promise."

M. Brisson and the councilors withdrew.

"He will speak, sire," said the queen; "and your majesty will pardon
him. See the foam on his lips."

"No," said Catherine; "he is seeking something. What is it?"

"Parbleu!" said Henri; "he seeks M. le Duc de Guise, M. le Duc de Parma,
and my brother, the very Catholic king. Yes, seek, wait; do you believe
that there is more chance of rescue on the Place de Greve than on the
route from Flanders?"

Salcede had seen the archers sent off for the horses, and he understood
that the order for punishment was about to be given, and it was then
that he bit his lips till they were covered with blood, as the queen had
remarked.

"No one," murmured he; "not one of those who had promised me help.
Cowards! cowards!"

The horses were now seen making their way through the crowd, and
creating everywhere an opening which closed immediately behind them. As
they passed the corner of the Rue St. Vannerie, a handsome young man,
whom we have seen before, was pushed forward impatiently by a young lad,
apparently about seventeen. It was the Vicomte Ernanton de Carmainges
and the mysterious page.

"Quick!" cried the page; "throw yourself into the opening, there is not
a moment to lose."

"But we shall be stifled; you are mad, my little friend."

"I must be near," cried the page, imperiously. "Keep close to the
horses, or we shall never arrive there."

"But before we get there, you will be torn to pieces."

"Never mind me, only go on."

"The horses will kick."

"Take hold of the tail of the last; a horse never kicks when you hold
him so."

Ernanton gave way in spite of himself to the mysterious influence of
this lad, and seized the tail of the horse, while the page clung to him.
And thus, through the crowd, waving like the sea, leaving here a piece
of a cloak, and there a fragment of a doublet, they arrived with the
horses at a few steps from the scaffold.

"Have we arrived?" asked the young man, panting.

"Yes, happily!" answered Ernanton, "for I am exhausted."

"I cannot see."

"Come before me."

"Oh, no! not yet. What are they doing?"

"Making slip knots at the ends of the cords."

"And he--what is he doing?"

"Who?"

"The condemned."

"His eyes turn incessantly from side to side."

The horses were near enough to enable the executioner to tie the feet
and hands of the criminal to the harness. Salcede uttered a cry when he
felt the cord in contact with his flesh.

"Monsieur," said the Lieutenant Tanchon to him politely, "will it please
you to address the people?" and added in a whisper, "a confession will
save your life."

Salcede looked earnestly at him, as though to read the truth in his
eyes.

"You see," continued Tanchon, "they abandon you. There is no other hope
in the world but what I offer you."

"Well!" said Salcede, with a sigh, "I am ready to speak."

"It is a written and signed confession that the king exacts."

"Then untie my hands, and give me a pen and I will write it."

They loosened the cords from his wrists, and an usher who stood near
with writing materials placed them before him on the scaffold. "Now,"
said Tanchon, "state everything."

"Do not fear; I will not forget those who have forgotten me;" but as he
spoke, he cast another glance around.

While this was passing, the page, seizing the hand of Ernanton, cried,
"Monsieur, take me in your arms, I beg you, and raise me above the heads
of the people who prevent me from seeing."

"Ah! you are insatiable, young man."

"This one more service; I must see the condemned, indeed I must."

Then, as Ernanton still hesitated, he cried, "For pity's sake, monsieur,
I entreat you."

Ernanton raised him in his arms at this last appeal, and was somewhat
astonished at the delicacy of the body he held. Just as Salcede had
taken the pen, and looked round as we have said, he saw this young lad
above the crowd, with two fingers placed on his lips. An indescribable
joy spread itself instantaneously over the face of the condemned man,
for he recognized the signal so impatiently waited for, and which
announced that aid was near. After a moment's hesitation, however, he
took the paper and began to write.

"He writes!" cried the crowd.

"He writes!" exclaimed Catherine.

"He writes!" cried the king, "and I will pardon him."

Suddenly Salcede stopped and looked again at the lad, who repeated the
signal. He wrote on, then stopped to look once more; the signal was
again repeated.

"Have you finished?" asked Tanchon.

"Yes."--"Then sign."

Salcede signed, with his eyes still fixed on the young man. "For the
king alone," said he, and he gave the paper to the usher, though with
hesitation.

"If you have disclosed all," said Tanchon, "you are safe."

A strange smile strayed over the lips of Salcede. Ernanton, who was
fatigued, wished now to put down the page, who made no opposition. With
him disappeared all that had sustained the unfortunate man; he looked
round wildly and cried: "Well, come!"

No one answered.

"Quick! quick! the king holds the paper; he is reading!"

Still there was no response.

The king unfolded the paper.

"Thousand devils!" cried Salcede, "if they have deceived me! Yet it was
she--it was really she!"

No sooner had the king read the first lines, than he called out
indignantly, "Oh! the wretch!"

"What is it, my son?"

"He retracts all--he pretends that he confessed nothing; and he declares
that the Guises are innocent of any plot!"

"But," said Catherine, "if it be true?"

"He lies!" cried the king.

"How do you know, my son? Perhaps the Guises have been calumniated: the
judges, in their zeal, may have put false interpretation on the
depositions."

"Oh! no, madame; I heard them myself!" cried Henri.

"You, my son?"

"Yes, I?"

"How so?"

"When the criminal was questioned, I was behind a curtain and heard all
he said."

"Well, then, if he will have it, order the horses to pull."

Henri, in anger, gave the sign. It was repeated, the cords were
refastened, four men jumped on the horses, which, urged by violent
blows, started off in opposite directions. A horrible cracking, and a
terrible cry was heard. The blood was seen to spout from the limbs of
the unhappy man, whose face was no longer that of a man but of a demon.

"Ah, heaven!" he cried; "I will speak, I will tell all. Ah! cursed
duch--"

The voice had been heard above everything, but suddenly it ceased.

"Stop, stop," cried Catherine, "let him speak."

But it was too late; the head of Salcede fell helplessly on one side, he
glanced once more to where he had seen the page, and then expired.
Tanchon gave some rapid orders to his archers, who plunged into the
crowd in the direction indicated by Salcede's glance.

"I am discovered!" said the page to Ernanton. "For pity's sake, aid me!
they come, they come!"

"What do you want?"

"To fly! Do you not see that it is me they want?"

"But who are you, then?"

"A woman. Oh, save me! protect me!"

Ernanton turned pale; but generosity triumphed over fear. He placed his
protegee before him, opened a path with blows, and pushed her toward the
corner of the Rue du Mouton, toward an open door. Into this door she
entered; and she seemed to have been expected, for it closed behind her.
Ernanton had not even time to ask her name, or where he should find her
again; but in disappearing she had made a sign full of promise.

Meanwhile, Catherine was standing up in her place, full of rage.

"My son," said she, at last, "you would do well to change your
executioner; he is a leaguer."

"What do you mean, mother?"

"Salcede suffered only one draw, and he is dead."

"Because he was too sensible to pain."

"No; but because he has been strangled with a fine cord underneath the
scaffold, just as he was about to accuse those who let him die. Let a
doctor examine him, and I am certain that he will find round his neck
the circle that the cord has left."

"You are right!" cried Henri, with flashing eyes; "my cousin of Guise is
better served than I am!"

"Hush, my son--no eclat; we shall only be laughed at, for once more we
have missed our aim."

"Joyeuse did well to go and amuse himself elsewhere," said the king;
"one can reckon on nothing in this world--not even on punishments. Come,
ladies, let us go."




CHAPTER VI.

THE BROTHERS.


MM. De Joyeuse had, as we have seen, left this scene, and were walking
side by side in the streets generally so populous but now deserted, for
every one was in the Place de Greve. Henri seemed preoccupied and sad,
and Anne was unquiet on account of his brother. He was the first to
speak.

"Well, Henri," said he, "where are you taking me?"

"I take you nowhere, brother; I was only walking before you. Do you wish
to go anywhere?"

"Do you?"

"Oh! I do not care where I go."

"Yet you go somewhere every evening, for you always go out at the same
hour and return late at night."

"Are you questioning me, brother?" said Henri, with gentleness.

"Certainly not; let each keep his own secrets if he wishes to do so."

"If you wish it, brother, I will have no secrets from you."

"Will you not, Henri?"

"No; are you not my elder brother and friend?"

"Oh! I thought you had secrets from me, who am only a poor layman. I
thought you confessed to our learned brother, that pillar of theology,
that light of the Church, who will be a cardinal some day, and that you
obtained absolution from him, and perhaps, at the same time, advice."

Henri took his brother's hand affectionately. "You are more than a
confessor to me, my dear Anne--more than a father; you are my friend."

"Then, my friend, why, from so gay as you used to be, have I seen you
become sad? and why, instead of going out by day, do you only go out at
night?"

"My brother, I am not sad."

"What, then?"

"In love."

"Good! And this preoccupation?"

"Is because I am always thinking of my love."

"And you sigh in saying that?"

"Yes."

"You sigh?--you, Henri, comte de Bouchage?--you, the brother of
Joyeuse?--you, whom some people call the third king in France? You know
M. de Guise is the second, if not the first; but you, rich and handsome,
who will be peer and duke on the first occasion, are in love, and you
sigh!--you, whose device is 'hilariter.'"

"My dear Anne, I have never reckoned the gifts of fortune, past and to
come, as things to constitute happiness; I have no ambitions."

"That is to say, you have not at present."

"At all events, not for the things you speak of."

"Not just now, perhaps, but later you will return to them."

"Never, brother; I desire nothing--I want nothing."

"You are wrong. When one is called 'Joyeuse,' one of the best names in
France, when one has a brother a king's favorite, one desires
everything, and has everything."

Henri hung his blond head sadly.

"Come," continued Anne, "we are quite alone here; have you anything to
tell me?"

"Nothing, but that I love."

"Diable! that is not a very serious affair; I also am in love."

"Not like me, brother."

"I, also, think sometimes of my mistress."

"Yes, but not always."

"I, also, have annoyances."

"Yes; but you also have joys, for you are loved."

"True; but I have obstacles. They exact from me so much mystery."

"They exact! If your mistress exacts, she loves you."

"Yes, she loves me and M. de Mayenne--or rather only me, for she would
give up Mayenne at once if she was not afraid he would kill her; it is
his habit to kill women, you know. I am obliged to be constantly on my
guard, but I do not grow sad on that account; I continue to laugh--at
least, sometimes. Tell me, Henri, is your lady beautiful?"

"Alas! she is not mine."

"Is she beautiful? Her name?"

"I do not know it."

"Come, now."

"On my honor."

"My friend, I begin to think it is more dangerous than I thought; it is
not sadness, but madness."

"She never spoke but once before me, and since then I have not heard the
sound of her voice."

"And you have not inquired about her?"

"Of whom?"

"Why, of the neighbors."

"She lives in her own house, and no one knows her."

"Ah! _ca!_ then she is a ghost!"

"She is a woman, tall and beautiful as a nymph, serious and grave as the
angel Gabriel!"

"When did you meet her?"

"One day I followed a young girl to the church of La Gypecienne, and I
entered a little garden close to it, where there is a stone seat under
some trees. Do you know this garden, Anne?"

"No; but never mind--go on."

"It began to grow dark; I had lost sight of the young girl, and in
seeking her I arrived at this seat. I saw a woman's dress, and held out
my hands. 'Pardon, monsieur,' said the voice of a man whom I had not
noticed, and he gently but firmly pushed me away."

"He dared to touch you, Henri?"

"Listen; he had his face hidden in a sort of frock, and I took him for a
monk. Besides, he impressed me also by the polite manner of his warning;
for, as he spoke, he pointed out to me the woman, whose white dress had
attracted me, and who was kneeling before the seat as though it were an
altar. It was toward the beginning of September that this happened; the
air was warm, the flowers planted by friends around the tombs scattered
their delicate perfume, and the moon, rising above the white clouds,
began to shed her silver light over all. Whether it were the place, or
her own dignity, I know not, but this woman seemed to me like a marble
statue, and impressed me with a strange respect. I looked at her
earnestly. She bent over the seat, enveloping it in her arms, placed her
lips to it, and soon I saw her shoulders heave with such sobs as you
never heard, my brother. As she wept she kissed the stone with ardor;
her tears had troubled me, but her kisses maddened me."

"But, by the pope, it is she who is mad, to kiss a stone and sob for
nothing."

"Oh! it was a great grief that made her sob, a profound love which made
her kiss the stone. Only whom did she love? whom did she weep for? whom
did she pray for? I know not."

"Did you not question this man?"

"Yes."

"What did he reply?

"That she had lost her husband."

"Bah! as if people weep like that for a husband. Were you content with
such an answer?"

"I was obliged to be content, for he would give me no other."

"But the man--what is he?"

"A sort of servant who lives with her."--"His name?"

"He would not tell me."

"Young or old?"

"He might be about thirty."

"Well, afterward? She did not stop all night praying and weeping, did
she?"

"No; when she had exhausted her tears she rose, and there was so much
mystery and sadness about her that, instead of advancing to her as I
might have done to another, I drew back; but she turned toward me,
though she did not see me, and the moon shone on her face, which was
calm and sad, and the traces of her tears were still on her cheeks; she
moved slowly, and the servant went to support her. But, oh! my brother,
what dreadful, what superhuman beauty. I have never seen anything like
it on earth, only sometimes in my dreams."

"Well, Henri?" said Anne, interested, in spite of himself, at a recital
at which he had determined to laugh.

"Oh! it is nearly finished, brother. Her servant whispered something to
her, and she lowered her veil; doubtless he told her I was there, but
she did not glance toward me. I saw her no more, and it seemed to me,
when the veil concealed her face, as if the sky had become suddenly
overshadowed--that it was no longer a living thing, but a shade escaped
from the tomb, which was gliding silently before me. She went out of the
garden, and I followed her; from time to time the man turned and saw me,
for I did not hide myself; I had still the old habits in my mind--the
old leaven in my heart."