Count Hannibal. Stanley John Weyman

a priest of her own church—you call it a church? She shall have whichever of the two will serve her better. ’Tis one to me! But for paying me, Monsieur,” he continued, with irony in voice and manner; “when, I pray you? In Eternity? For if you refuse my offer, you have done with time. Now? I have but to sound this whistle”—he touched a silver whistle which hung at his breast—“and there are those within hearing will do your business before you make two passes. Dismiss the notion, sir, and understand. You are in my power. Paris runs with blood, as noble as yours, as innocent as hers. If you would not perish with the rest, decide! And quickly! For what you have seen are but the forerunners, what you have heard are but the gentle whispers that predict the gale. Do not parley too long; so long that even I may no longer save you.”

      “I would rather die!” Mademoiselle moaned, her face covered. “I would rather die!”

      “And see him die?” he answered quietly. “And see these die? Think, think, child!”

      “You will not do it!” she gasped. She shook from head to foot.

      “I shall do nothing,” he answered firmly. “I shall but leave you to your fate, and these to theirs. In the King’s teeth I dare save my wife and her people; but no others. You must choose—and quickly.”

      One of the frightened women—it was Mademoiselle’s tiring-maid, a girl called Javette—made a movement, as if to throw herself at her mistress’s feet. Tignonville drove her to her place with a word. He turned to Count Hannibal.

      “But, M. le Comte,” he said, “you must be mad! Mad, to wish to marry her in this way! You do not love her. You do not want her. What is she to you more than other women?”

      “What is she to you more than other women?” Tavannes retorted, in a tone so sharp and incisive that Tignonville started, and a faint touch of colour crept into the wan cheek of the girl, who sat between them, the prize of the contest. “What is she more to you than other women? Is she more? And yet—you want her!”

      “She is more to me,” Tignonville answered.

      “Is she?” the other retorted, with a ring of keen meaning. “Is she? But we bandy words and the storm is rising, as I warned you it would rise. Enough for you that I do want her. Enough for you that I will have her. She shall be the wife, the willing wife, of Hannibal de Tavannes—or I leave her to her fate, and you to yours!”

      “Ah, God!” she moaned. “The willing wife!”

      “Ay, Mademoiselle, the willing wife,” he answered sternly. “Or no man’s wife!”

CHAPTER VI. WHO TOUCHES TAVANNES?

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      In saying that the storm was rising Count Hannibal had said no more than the truth. A new mob had a minute before burst from the eastward into the Rue St. Honoré; and the roar of its thousand voices swelled louder than the importunate clangour of the bells. Behind its moving masses the dawn of a new day—Sunday, the 24th of August, the feast of St. Bartholomew—was breaking over the Bastille, as if to aid the crowd in its cruel work. The gabled streets, the lanes, and gothic courts, the stifling wynds, where the work awaited the workers, still lay in twilight; still the gleam of the torches, falling on the house-fronts, heralded the coming of the crowd. But the dawn was growing, the sun was about to rise. Soon the day would be here, giving up the lurking fugitive whom darkness, more pitiful, had spared, and stamping with legality the horrors that night had striven to hide.

      And with day, with the full light, killing would grow more easy, escape more hard. Already they were killing on the bridge where the rich goldsmiths lived, on the wharves, on the river. They were killing at the Louvre, in the courtyard under the King’s eyes, and below the windows of the Médicis. They were killing in St. Martin and St. Denis and St. Antoine; wherever hate, or bigotry, or private malice impelled the hand. From the whole city went up a din of lamentation, and wrath, and foreboding. From the Cour des Miracles, from the markets, from the Boucherie, from every haunt of crime and misery, hordes of wretched creatures poured forth; some to rob on their own account, and where they listed, none gainsaying; more to join themselves to one of the armed bands whose business it was to go from street to street, and house to house, quelling resistance, and executing through Paris the high justice of the King.

      It was one of these swollen bands which had entered the street while Tavannes spoke; nor could he have called to his aid a more powerful advocate. As the deep “A bas! A bas!” rolled like thunder along the fronts of the houses, as the more strident “Tuez! Tuez!” drew nearer and nearer, and the lights of the oncoming multitude began to flicker on the shuttered gables, the fortitude of the servants gave way. Madame Carlat, shivering in every limb, burst into moaning; the tiring-maid, Javette, flung herself in terror at Mademoiselle’s knees, and, writhing herself about them, shrieked to her to save her, only to save her! One of the men moved forward on impulse, as if he would close the shutters; and only old Carlat remained silent, praying mutely with moving lips and a stern, set face.

      And Count Hannibal? As the glare of the links in the street grew brighter, and ousted the sickly daylight, his form seemed to dilate. He stilled the shrieking woman by a glance.

      “Choose! Mademoiselle, and quickly!” he said. “For I can only save my wife and her people! Quick, for the pinch is coming, and ’twill be no boy’s play.”

      A shot, a scream from the street, a rush of racing feet before the window seconded his words.

      “Quick, Mademoiselle!” he cried. And his breath came a little faster. “Quick, before it be too late! Will you save life, or will you kill?”

      She looked at her lover with eyes of agony, dumbly questioning him. But he made no sign, and only Tavannes marked the look.

      “Monsieur has done what he can to save himself,” he said, with a sneer. “He has donned the livery of the King’s servants; he has said, ‘Whoever perishes, I will live!’ But—”

      “Curse you!” the young man cried, and, stung to madness, he tore the cross from his cap and flung it on the ground. He seized his white sleeve and ripped it from shoulder to elbow. Then, when it hung by the string only, he held his hand.

      “Curse you!” he cried furiously. “I will not at your bidding! I may save her yet! I will save her!”

      “Fool!” Tavannes answered—but his words were barely audible above the deafening uproar. “Can you fight a thousand? Look! Look!” and seizing the other’s wrist he pointed to the window.

      The street glowed like a furnace in the red light of torches, raised on poles above a sea of heads; an endless sea of heads, and gaping faces, and tossing arms which swept on and on, and on and by. For a while it seemed that the torrent would flow past them and would leave them safe. Then came a check, a confused outcry, a surging this way and that; the torches reeled to and fro, and finally, with a dull roar of “Open! Open!” the mob faced about to the house and the lighted window.

      For a second it seemed that even Count Hannibal’s iron nerves shook a little. He stood between the sullen group that surrounded the disordered table and the maddened rabble, that gloated on the victims before they tore them to pieces. “Open! Open!” the mob howled: and a man dashed in the window with his pike.

      In that crisis Mademoiselle’s eyes met Tavannes’ for the fraction of a second. She did not speak; nor, had she retained the power to frame the words, would they have been audible. But something she must have looked, and something of import, though no other than he marked or understood it. For in a flash he was at the window and his hand was raised for silence.

      “Back!” he thundered. “Back, knaves!” And he whistled shrilly. “Do what you will,” he went on in the same tone, “but not here! Pass on! Pass on!—do you hear?”

      But the crowd were not to be lightly diverted. With a persistence brutal