"By all the devils, help! All good vagabonds, help!"

After this terrible outcry, uttered by a man who was absolutely desperate, the young courtier with one tremendous bound, poniard in hand, rushed out to the stairs. But the Provost's followers were used to such adventures. As soon as Georges d'Estouteville had reached the steps, they dexterously captured him, undaunted by the vigorous thrust he made at one of them, which fortunately slipped on the man's breastplate. They disarmed him, tied his hands, and threw him back on his bed under the eyes of their chief, who stood thoughtful and immovable.

Tristan silently examined the prisoner's hands, and scratching his chin he pointed them out to Cornelius, saying:

"Those are no more the hands of a robber than those of an apprentice. He is of n.o.ble birth."

"Say rather of ign.o.ble earth," cried the Fleming, dolefully. "My good Tristan, whether he be n.o.ble or base-born, the villain has undone me. I would I might see him at this moment with his hands and feet toasting, or fitted into your neat little boots. He is beyond a doubt the captain of the invisible legion of devils who know all my secrets, open all my locks, rob me, and kill me by inches. They are rich by now, my friend. Ah! But this time we will have their treasure, for this fellow looks like the King of Egypt. I shall get back my precious rubies and vast sums of money; our good King shall have his hands full of crowns."

"Oh, our hiding-places are safer than yours!" said Georges, smiling.

"Ah, the d.a.m.ned villain, he confesses!" exclaimed the miser.

The Provost Marshal, meanwhile, had been examining the prisoner's clothes and the lock.

"Was it you who unscrewed all those rivets?"

Georges made no reply.

"Oh, very well; hold your tongue if you like. You will confess presently to Saint-Rack-bones," said Tristan.

"Ah, now you talk sense!" cried Cornelius.

"Lead him away," said the Provost.

Georges d'Estouteville asked permission to dress. At a sign from their master, the men-at-arms dressed the prisoner with the dexterous rapidity of a nurse who takes advantage of a moment when her baby is quiet, to change its clothes.

A great crowd had collected in the Rue du Murier. Their murmurs grew louder every moment, and seemed to threaten a riot. Rumors of the theft had been rife in the town from an early hour. Popular sympathy was in favor of the apprentice, who was said to be young and good-looking, and there was a general revival of hatred against Cornelius; so there was never a good mother's son, nor a young woman blest with neat feet and a rosy face, who was not eager to see the victim. There was a fearful uproar as soon as Georges appeared in the street, led by one of the Provost's men who, though mounted on a horse, held the strong leather thong by which the prisoner was secured, twisted round his arm, while the young man's hands were tightly tied. Whether it was merely to see Philippe Goulenoire, or in the hope of a rescue, those behind pushed those in front close up to the guard of cavalry posted outside the Malemaison. At this instant Cornelius and his sister slammed the door and closed the shutters with the vehemence of panic terror. Tristan, who was not accustomed to respect the populace, saw that the mob was not yet master, and cared not a straw for any riot.

"Push on, push on!" said he to his men.

At their master's word the bowmen urged their horses towards the end of the street. And then, seeing two or three inquisitive mortals fallen under the horses' feet, and some others crushed against the walls where they were being stifled, the crowd that had collected took the wiser part and went home again.

"Make way for the King's justice!" cried Tristan. "What business have you here? Do you want to be hanged, too? Go home, good folks, your roast meat is burning! Now then, goodwife, your husband's hose need mending; go back to your needle."

Although these facetious remarks showed that the Provost was in high good humor, the most daring fled from him as if he were the Black Death. Just as the crowd began to give way, Georges d'Estouteville was startled to see, at one of the windows of the Hotel de Poitiers, his beloved Marie de Saint-Vallier, laughing with the Count. She was laughing at him, the unhappy, devoted lover, who was going to death for her sake. Nay, perhaps she only was amused by those in the crowd whose caps had been knocked off by the archer's accoutrements.

A man must be three and twenty and rich indeed in illusions, must dare to trust in a woman's love, must love with all the powers of his being, and, after risking his life with joy on the faith of a kiss, must feel himself betrayed, ere he can understand the rage, hatred, and despair that surged up in the young man's soul as he saw his mistress laughing and vouchsafing him only a cold and indifferent glance. She had, no doubt, been there some time, for her arms rested on a cushion. She was evidently quite comfortable, and her old ogre quite content. He was laughing, too,--curse him for a hunchback!

A tear or two trickled from the young man's eyes; but when Marie saw them, she hastily drew back. And suddenly Georges' eyes were dry, for he descried the red and black feathers of the page who was devoted to him.

The Count did not observe the movements of that cautious servant, who came in on tiptoe. The page spoke a word in his mistress' ear, and then Marie came back to the window. She contrived to evade the watchful eye of her tyrant long enough to flash a look at her lover--the look of a woman who has skilfully deceived her Argus--bright with the fires of love and the triumph of hope.

"I am watching over you." If she had shouted the words, it could not have expressed so many things as this glance, embodying a thousand thoughts, and charged with the alarms, the joys, the perils, of their situation. It bore him from heaven to martyrdom, and from martyrdom to heaven. And so the young man, light-hearted and content, marched on to execution, counting the anguish of the torture-chamber as a small price for the raptures of love.

As Tristan was turning out of the Rue du Murier, his men drew up at the presence of an officer of the Scottish Guard, who rode up at full tilt.

"What is to do?" asked the Provost.

"Nothing that concerns you," replied the officer, scornfully. "The King has sent me to summon the Comte and Comtesse de Saint-Vallier, whom he bids to dine at his table."

Hardly had the Provost reached the quay of Le Plessis when the Count and his wife, both riding, she on a white mule and he on his horse, and followed by two pages, came up with the bowmen to enter the precincts of the chateau in their company. The whole party went but slowly. Georges was on foot, between two men-at-arms, one of whom still led him by the thong.

Tristan, the Count, and his wife naturally led the van, and the criminal came behind. The younger page, mingling with the bowmen, was questioning them, or from time to time addressing the prisoner; and he cleverly seized an opportunity to say in an undertone:

"I climbed over the garden wall of Le Plessis, and carried a letter that madame had written to the King. She thought she would have died when she heard that you were accused of theft. Be of good courage; she will speak for you."

Love had already lent the Countess courage and craft. When she had laughed, her att.i.tude and mirth were due to the heroism women can display in the great crises of life.

Notwithstanding the singular caprice which led the author of _Quentin Durward_ to place the chateau of Plessis-les-Tours on a height, we are compelled to leave it where it really stood at that time, in a hollow, protected on two sides by the Cher and the Loire, and again by the ca.n.a.l, named by Louis XI. the Ca.n.a.l Sainte-Anne in honor of his favorite daughter, Madame de Beaujeu. By uniting the two rivers between Tours and Le Plessis, this ca.n.a.l was at once a formidable protection to the stronghold and a valuable highway for trade. On the side next to the broad and fertile plain of Brehemont, the park was enclosed behind a moat, of which the enormous width and depth are sufficiently shown by what remains.

Thus, at a period when the power of artillery was in its infancy, the position of Le Plessis, long since chosen by Louis XI. as his favorite retreat, might be regarded as impregnable. The chateau itself was built of brick and stone, and not in any way remarkable, but it was surrounded by fine groves, and from its windows, through the alleys of the park (_Plexitium_), the loveliest views possible could be seen. And no rival mansion was to be found anywhere near this lovely palace standing exactly in the middle of the little plain enclosed for the King within four effectual bulwarks of water. If tradition may be trusted, Louis XI.

occupied the western wing, and he could from his room see at once the course of the Loire, and beyond the river the pretty valley watered by the Choisille, and part of the hills of Saint-Cyr; from the windows overlooking the courtyard he commanded the entrance to his fortress, and the quay by which his favorite residence was connected with the city of Tours. The King's suspicious temper gives weight to this tradition. And certainly, if Louis XI. had but lavished in the building of this palace such architectural magnificence as Francois I. afterwards indulged at Chambord, the home of the kings of France would have been permanently fixed in Touraine. This beautiful spot, and its lovely scenery, have only to be seen to prove its superiority over the situation of any other royal residence.

Louis XI., now in his fifty-seventh year, had scarcely three more years to live, and was already made aware of the approach of death by attacks of illness. Delivered now from his enemies, and on the eve of adding to the kingdom of France all the possessions of the duchy of Burgundy, by means of a marriage, arranged by Desquerdes, the captain-general of his army in Flanders, between the Dauphin and Marguerite, sole heiress of Burgundy; having secured his authority in every part of his realm, while still planning wise improvements, he saw time slipping from his grasp, nothing left to him but the troubles of advancing years. Deceived by everybody, even by his creatures, experience had increased his natural distrustfulness. The desire to live had become in him the egoism of a king who had made himself one incarnate with his people, and who craved for long life to carry out vast schemes.

Everything that the good sense of public-spirited statesmen or the instinct of revolution has since achieved in reforming the monarchy, Louis XI. had thought out. Equality of taxation, and that of all subjects in the eye of the Law--the Sovereign was the Law then--were objects he boldly strove for.

On the day before All Saints he had a.s.sembled certain learned goldsmiths to establish uniform weights and measures throughout France, as he had already established uniform authority. Thus his great mind soared eagle-like above the whole kingdom, and Louis XI. added to the cautiousness of a king the eccentricities that are natural to men of lofty genius.

So grand a figure would at no period have appeared more poetical or more dignified. A strange mixture of contrasts! A great will in a feeble frame; a mind incredulous as to earthly things, credulous as concerned religious practices; a man combating two forces greater than himself--the present and the future: the future, when he dreaded to endure torment, which made him sacrifice so largely to the Church; the present, his actual life, for whose sake he was a slave to Coyctier. This King, who could crush whom he would, was crushed by remorse, and yet more by sickness, in the midst of all the mysterious prestige that enwraps a suspicious king, in whom all power centres.

It was the stupendous and always impressive struggle of man in the fullest expression of his power, rebelling against nature.

While waiting till the dinner hour, at that time between eleven o'clock and noon, Louis XI., after a short walk, was sitting in a large tapestried armchair in the chimney-corner of his own room. Olivier le Daim and Coyctier, the leech, looked at each other without a word, standing in a window-bay, and respecting their master's slumbers. The only sound to be heard was that made in the ante-room by the two chamberlains-in-waiting, as they paced to and fro; the Sire de Montresor and Jean Dufou, Sire de Montbazon. These two, gentlemen of the Touraine, kept an eye on the captain of the Scottish Guard, who was probably asleep in his chair, as was his custom.

The King seemed to be dozing; his head was sunk on his breast; his cap, pulled over his brow, almost concealed his eyes. Thus huddled in his raised throne, which was surmounted by a crown, he looked like a man who had fallen asleep in the midst of some deep calculation.

At this moment Tristan and his party were crossing the bridge of Sainte-Anne over the ca.n.a.l, at about two hundred paces from the entrance to the chateau.

"Who goes there?" asked the King.

The courtiers looked inquiringly at each other in surprise.

"He is dreaming," whispered Coyctier.

"_Pasques Dieu!_" cried the King. "Do you take me for a fool? Somebody is coming across the bridge. To be sure, I am sitting by the chimney, and of course can hear the sound more clearly than you can. That natural effect might be utilized----"

"What a man!" said Olivier le Daim.

Louis XI. rose and went to the window, whence he could look out on the town; then he saw the High Provost, and exclaimed:

"Ah ha! Here is my old gossip with his thief. And there, too, comes my little Marie de Saint-Vallier. I had forgotten that little matter.

Olivier," he went on, addressing the barber, "go and tell Monsieur de Montbazon to put us some fine Burgundy on the table; and see that the cook gives us lampreys. Madame la Comtesse dearly likes them both. May I eat lampreys?" he added after a pause, with an uneasy look at Coyctier.