"No! no! no!" cried the mayor, vehemently, stretching forth his hands.

"Young man, you mistake me! Could my blood nourish him, he should have the last drop. What! old Clement Tournon, my dear, dear friend,--would I deprive him of one hour's life? But it is that I cannot comprehend how you are here,--why you are here. This story that you tell is mere nonsense."

"It is true, nevertheless," said Edward. "But if my word will not satisfy you,--as, indeed, I see no reason why it should,--come with me to Clement Tournon, and he perhaps can tell you how much I can dare to serve a friend."

"I will!" cried Guiton, starting up; but then he sat down again immediately, saying, "No, no! I cannot bear those faces in the streets.

Can you find your way yourself?--for I can spare no men."

"Not if I am to be blindfolded," said Edward: "otherwise I could find it, I am sure."

"Pshaw!" said the mayor, "what use of blindfolding you? You will see dying and dead, plague-eaten, famine-stricken. But you can go and tell the Cardinal de Richelieu how the citizens of Roch.e.l.le can die rather than see their privileges torn from them, their religion trodden under foot. You can tell him, too, that I will defend those walls as long as there is one soldier left to man them and one hand capable of firing a gun, unless we have security for our faith. You are sure he said nothing more?"

"No, nothing more," answered Edward: "merely that he would give you the most favorable terms, but that he would not have rebellion in the land."

"Rebellion!" muttered Guiton, scornfully. "Who first drew the sword? But let us think of Clement Tournon. I am willing to believe you, young gentleman. If I remember rightly, I have heard the old man speak well of you. And, after all, what harm can you do? You can but repeat a story of our sufferings which I am aware they already know too well in yonder camp. What they do not know is the courage with which we can bear them.

Go to the syndic. He has not come forth for several days. Go to him, and see if the prospect of relief can give fresh strength to those enfeebled limbs, fresh energy to that crushed and scarcely-beating heart. Tell him that I not only permit but beseech him to go with you,--that even one mouth less in Roch.e.l.le is a relief. He has done his duty manfully to the last. He can do it no longer. Beseech him to go. And yet," he continued, in a sad tone, "I much doubt his strength. Could he have crawled even to the council-chamber, we should have seen his face. Could he have lifted his voice, we should have heard his inspiring words. He was alive last night, I know. But to-day----Alas, alas, my poor friend!" And some tears ran down the worn cheek of the gallant defender of Roch.e.l.le.

"I have some brandy under my coat," whispered Edward. "I brought it on purpose for him. It may give him strength at least to reach the outposts."

Guiton seized his hand and wrung it hard. "n.o.ble young man! well bethought!" he said. "But he must have a little food. Stay; he shall have my dinner. I do not want it. By Heaven! the thought that we have saved old Clement Tournon will be better than the best of meals to me!"

He rose from the table, and, approaching the door, gave some orders to those without, and then returned, saying, "There is still much to be thought of, young gentleman, and we have little time to think. I fear if you go out in the daytime the people will pour forth after you, and all will be driven back by cannon-shots."

"It must now be near one o'clock," said Edward, "and it will probably take some time to restore his strength a little. If you, sir, n.o.bly give him up your own food, it must be administered to him by slow degrees, and----"

"What! an ounce of meat?" said Guiton, with a miserable smile: "my fare is the same as the rest, sir. But I must leave all that to you. His own ration will be served to him in an hour. Mine you shall take and give him as it seems best to you. I will write a pa.s.s for you and him, that you may not be stopped at any hour of the night or day; and then I must go back to the town-hall, lest men should wonder at my long absence. My only fear is that the good old man will not take my ration if he knows it comes from me."

"Take a little of these strong waters, sir," said Edward, drawing the flask from beneath his coat. Guiton hesitated, and Edward added, "There is much more than he can or ought to use; and, if I tell him that I brought you some supply, he will take the food you send more readily."

The mayor took the flask and drank a very little, giving it back again and saying, "Mix it with water ere you give him any. By Heaven, it is like fire! Yet it will keep me up, I do believe. Hark! there are steps.

Put it up, quick. They might murder you for it, if any of the common people were to see it."

The steps were those of a soldier bringing the scanty meal, which was all the mayor allowed himself. A pen and ink and a sc.r.a.p of paper were then procured, and the pa.s.s for Edward and Clement Tournon was soon written. To make all sure, Guiton called the young officer, in whom he seemed to have much confidence, and asked if he would be on guard at the gates that night. The young man answered in the affirmative; and the mayor gave strict directions that Monsieur Edward Langdale and the syndic Tournon should be pa.s.sed safely and unmolested on their way toward the royal camp. A smile of hope and pleasure came upon the officer's face, and Guiton added, "Do not deceive yourself, Bernard.

This is no treaty for surrender. We must suffer a little longer; and then we shall have relief. Here, go with Monsieur Langdale, first to the gate by which he entered, then to the end of the Rue de l'Horloge. There leave him. Farewell, sir," he continued, turning to Edward, and then adding, in a lower tone, "Mark well the turnings from the gate, and walk somewhat slow and feebly, so as not to draw attention. The people are in an irritable state."

CHAPTER XLII.

I will not dwell upon the horrors of the streets of Roch.e.l.le. They have been described by an able pen: at least, I believe so; for I have not seen the work of Madame de Genlis since my boyhood, and that, dear reader, is a long time ago,--quite long enough to forget more than that.

The part of the town in which stood the house of Clement Tournon seemed quite deserted, and the house itself showed no signs of being inhabited.

The windows were all closed; and the little court before the building, which separated it from the general line of the street, and which was once so trimly kept, was now all overgrown with gra.s.s. It was knee-high; and even the path of smooth white stones which led to the princ.i.p.al door hardly showed a trace of the unfrequent footfall. With a sinking heart, Edward looked up; but all was still and silent. The door stood open, and he approached and knocked with his knuckles. There was no reply, however: no voices were heard from the once merry kitchen, no sound of hammer or file from the workshop.

Edward Langdale had learned to know the house well, and, entering, he mounted the stairs and entered the room on the right. It was vacant and dark also, for the windows were all closed. He then turned to another; but it was empty likewise. He saw some light, however, stream from the room at the back,--the little room where he had lain in sickness for so many days,--Lucette's room, where he had first seen that dear face. It was a place full of memories for him; and, even if he had not seen that ray of sunshine crossing the top of the stairs, he would have entered.

Pushing open the door, which stood a little ajar, he went in; and there was the object of his search straight before him.

Seated in the great arm-chair in which he himself had sat when first recovering was good old Clement Tournon, the shadow of his former self.

The palms of his hands rested on his knees; his head was bent forward on his chest; his eyes were shut, and his lips and cheeks were of a bluish white. Had it not been for a slight rocking motion of his body as he sat, Edward would have thought him dead. Behind his chair, silent and still as a statue, stood the good woman Marton. She, too, was as pale as her helmet-shaped white cap, and the frank, good-humored expression of her countenance was supplanted by a cold, hard, stony look which seemed to say that every energy was dead. That such was not really the case, however, Edward soon saw; for, the moment her eyes lighted on him as he pa.s.sed the door, the old bright light came into them again, and she walked quietly but hastily across the floor in her little blue socks, holding up her finger as a sign to keep silence.

"He sleeps," she said; "he sleeps. It is wellnigh as good as food for him. But how came you here, Master Ned? What has brought you? Has the English fleet arrived?"

"Alas, no," replied Edward, in the same low tone which she herself had used; "and it could not enter the port if it had. But I come, if possible, to save that good old man. I have a little food here with me.

Go get me a cup and some water; for I have a little of that which will be better to him at first even than food."

"G.o.d bless you, sir!" said the good woman: "there is not a drop of wine in all the city, and with him the tide of life is nearly gone out. I thought he would have died this morning; but he would rise. You stay with him, and I will be back in a minute. But keep silent and still, for sleep always does him good." So saying, she hurried away and brought a silver cup and some fresh water.

All was silent during her absence: the old man slept on, and Edward Langdale seated himself near, as quietly as possible. Marton took her place again without a word; and for about three-quarters of an hour the slumber of old Clement Tournon continued unbroken. Then a voice was heard at the foot of the stairs, crying, "Rations!" and Marton hurried down.

Either the voice or the movement in the room disturbed the old man. He moved in his chair, raised his head a little, and Edward, with some of the strong waters well diluted in the cup, approached and put it to his lips.

"What is it?" said Clement Tournon, putting the cup feebly aside with his hand. "I thought it might have pleased G.o.d I should die in that sleep."

"Take a little," said Edward, in a low tone: "it will refresh you." And Clement Tournon suffered him to raise the cup again to his lips, aiding with his own feeble hands, and drank a deep draught, as if he were very thirsty. Then, suddenly raising his eyes to Edward's face, he exclaimed, "Good Heavens! who are you? Edward Langdale! Is it all a dream?--a horrible dream?"

"I have come to see you and take you away, Monsieur Tournon," said Edward, as calmly as he could. "Keep yourself quite tranquil, and I will tell you more presently. At present be as silent as I used to be when I was sick and you were well."

The old syndic sat without speaking for a moment or two, and then said, "I know not what you have given me; but it seems to have strengthened and revived me. But pray, tell me more: I cannot make this out at all."

"I will tell you after you have eaten something," said Edward. "I have brought something with me for you. But first sip a little more of this draught."

The old man drank again, and then ate a little of the food which had been brought him; but the forces of life had so much diminished that it was long before the weight of the body seemed to give the mind liberty to act. At first he would wander a little, less with what seemed delirium than with forgetfulness. The brain appeared to sleep or faint; but with judicious care--an instinctive knowledge, as it were, of what was best for him--Edward administered support and stimulus by slow degrees till the mind fully wakened up. Quietly and cautiously the young man told him what he had done, why he came, and the certain prospect there was of his escape from that city of horror and famine if he could but summon strength to pa.s.s the gates.

"But Guiton,--but my friend Guiton," said Clement Tournon. "What will he think of me?"

"He begs you, he beseeches you, to go," said Edward. "He says you have done all you can for Roch.e.l.le, that you can do no more, that every mouth out of the city is a relief, and that, now you can go in safety, you ought to go."

"Oh, my son," said Clement Tournon, "you know not what it is to ask me to quit the home of many years. I have travelled, it is true; I have left my domestic hearth; I have left the earth that holds my wife and children; but it was always with a thought of coming back and dying here. Now, if I go, I go forever,--never to see Roch.e.l.le more."

"Nay, I hope that is not so," answered Edward. "The cardinal a.s.sured me that he would give the most favorable terms to the city; and I cannot but think that your presence may be the means of rendering those terms really and not nominally favorable. You can tell him of the determination of the people, of your certain expectation of succor----"

The old man shook his head. "No succor," he said; "no succor."

"But at all events it is probable," replied Edward, "that you may be able to obtain terms for Roch.e.l.le which she can accept honorably. You can aid no one here; you may do good service there. In this instance the paths of duty and of safety are one."

"Oh, I will go," said Clement Tournon, languidly. "I need no persuading.

But what am I to do with this poor creature?" he continued, looking at Marton, who continued still in the room. "How can I leave her behind me?"

A sort of spasm pa.s.sed her countenance; but she answered, with the real devotion of woman, "Go, old master; go. Never mind me. I can do well enough. My light heart keeps me up; and old women live upon little. When the young gentleman has risked every thing to save you, you cannot disappoint him."

"No indeed, Marton," said the syndic; "but yet----"

"Never talk about yet," said Marton. "You have got to go, that is clear; and perhaps you may be able to make a treaty by which we shall be all fed and comforted. Maitre Guiton should have done it long ago; but he is a hard man, and would see us all die of famine, and himself too, before he would bate an inch of his pride."

"Hush, hush!" said Edward: "he is a good and n.o.ble man, Marton; and times far distant shall talk of the famous defence of Roch.e.l.le by the Mayor Guiton. Bring your master a little more food, Marton. The sun is beginning to go down, and we shall soon be able to set out."

The poor old syndic bent his eyes down upon his hands and wept tears of age, of weakness, and of manifold emotions; and Edward, thinking it better to distract his thoughts, spoke of the gold cup which he had promised to bring to Richelieu, and asked where he could find it.