The Constable De Bourbon

“Unfasten the door instantly, I say,” cried this personage, “or my men shall burst it open. Some one must be astir, for a light has just been extinguished.”

“I knew that cursed light had betrayed us,” groaned Hugues. “If the saints do not help us now, Bourbon will certainly be captured!”

Just then the creaking of a window on the upper floor was heard, and a voice, which Hugues recognised as that of the miller, called out, “Who are you, and what is the meaning of this disturbance?”

“I am the Seigneur Perot de Warthy,” returned the officer. “I am in quest of the traitor and rebel, Charles de Bourbon. I have tracked him to this neighbourhood, and shall search the house to see if he is concealed within it.”

“Mercy on us! what is to be done?” ejaculated Hugues.

“You must look for the Constable de Bourbon elsewhere,” replied Benoit, in a surly tone. “You won’t find him here.”

“I am by no means sure of that,” rejoined Warthy. “Are you the miller?”

“I am Benoit, the miller, at your service.”

“Then listen to me, Maître Benoit,” continued Warthy, “and give heed to what I say. By harbouring Bourbon you incur the punishment of death, and if he is concealed within your house, and you do not at once deliver him up, I will hang you at your own threshold.”

“I have nothing to fear on that score,” returned the miller, resolutely.

“Bravely answered!” exclaimed Hugues. “My father-in-law that is to be is a true man. But I am afraid his courage will be severely tried anon.”

“Are you going to open the door, rascal, or must I break it down?” roared Warthy. “I have been trifled with long enough.”

“Have a moment’s patience and I will let you in,” returned Benoit.

“Be speedy, then,” said Warthy. “Surround the house,” he added to his men, “and see that no one gets out at the back.”

The trampling of horses, accompanied by the clanking of arms, proved that this order was promptly obeyed.

“Bourbon’s only chance is gone,” ejaculated Hugues.

As the exclamation was made, the miller, followed by Bourbon and Pomperant, both with their swords drawn, descended to the room. Madelon came down quickly after them.

“Pass out at this window, monseigneur,” said Benoit, in a low voice to the Constable, moving towards the back of the room. “You may gain the wood at the foot of the hill.”

“Have a care,” whispered Hugues. “The house is surrounded by soldiers.”

“Open the window at once,” said Bourbon. “I will cut my way through them.”

“Give me a sword, père Benoit,” said Hugues.

“Here is one,” rejoined Madelon, unhooking a weapon from the wall, and presenting it to him.

“Stay a moment, monseigneur,” said Benoit. “A plan occurs to me. I should have thought of it before, but I am so bewildered. Underneath this room there is a vault where I store my corn before grinding it. Will it please you to hide there?”

“If the retreat should be discovered, we shall be caught like rats in a trap, and can offer no defence,” objected Bourbon.

“My father has not explained that there is a communication between the vault and the mill,” interposed Madelon. “Your highness can get out that way, should it be necessary.”

“The entrance to the vault is there – under the staircase,” urged the miller. “Madelon will conduct your highness. Lift the trap, girl – lift it quickly,” he added to his daughter.

The trap-door was soon opened by Madelon, who descended by means of a ladder into the vault, and was instantly followed by the fugitives, the trap-door being shut by Hugues, who went down last.

Scarcely had they disappeared, when the outer door was burst open with a tremendous crash, and Warthy, sword in hand, and followed by four men-at-arms, rushed into the house. Alarmed by the noise, Margot and Babet hurried down the staircase, bearing lights, both screaming loudly as they perceived Benoit upon his knees before Warthy, who held a sword to his throat. Flying towards them, and kneeling to Warthy, Margot besought him, in piteous terms, to spare her husband’s life.

“Harm him not, and I will tell all,” she cried, almost frightened out of her wits.

“Speak out then at once, woman,” said Warthy. “Where is the traitor Bourbon hidden?”

“Hold your tongue, wife, I command you,” said the stout-hearted miller.

“But I can’t stand by and see your throat cut, Benoit,” she rejoined. “I must speak.”

“Certainly you must, unless you desire to become a widow,” said Warthy. “You may as well confess that Bourbon is here. Your looks betray you. He cannot escape, for the house is surrounded, and I don’t mean to leave a hole or corner unvisited. Where is the traitor, I say?”

“Where is he, Benoit?” she cried, appealing to her husband. “For my sake, don’t sacrifice yourself.”

“Woman, you have lost your senses,” said the miller, angrily. “What do I know about the Duke de Bourbon?”

“You know a great deal more than you appear inclined to tell, rascal,” rejoined Warthy. “But I will have the truth from you. I give you five minutes for consideration,” he added, releasing him, “and if at the end of that time Bourbon be not forthcoming, I will execute my threat, and hang you at your own door.”

Without another word, he took the light which Margot had set down upon the table, and, signing to two of his men to follow him, ascended the staircase. In less than five minutes he came down again, his countenance betraying anger and disappointment.

“Well, have you found him?” inquired Benoit, who had not been allowed to exchange a word with his wife during Warthy’s absence.

“Not yet, but I soon shall,” replied Warthy. “He has only just left his couch. Now, madame,” he continued, in a stern tone, to Margot, “do you desire to see your husband hanged?”

“Oh no, monseigneur! I would rather you hanged me than Benoit.”

“Nonsense! I don’t hang women. Speak! or my men will take your husband forth. Where is Bourbon hidden?”

“I can’t tell,” she sobbed. “But if he is hidden anywhere, it must be in – in – the vault.”

“A plague upon your mischievous tongue!” cried her husband, reproachfully.

“Don’t blame me, Benoit,” she cried. “I couldn’t bear to see you hanged.”

“At last we have got the truth,” muttered Warthy. “I knew the woman wouldn’t hold out. Show me the Way to the vault, madame.”

“I forbid you,” said Benoit, authoritatively.

“Take care what you are about, sirrah,” cried Warthy; “you will only make your own position worse. Now, madame!”

At this moment the trap-door, which had been elevated a few inches so as to allow the person beneath it to overhear what was going on in the room, suddenly fell with a clap, that attracted the attention of Warthy.

Snatching up the light, he flew in the direction of the noise, and instantly detected the trap-door. “Soh! I have found it!” he exclaimed. “Here is the entrance to the vault. Open this trap-door,” he added to his men.

The order being promptly obeyed, Madelon was discovered standing on the upper steps of the ladder.

“A woman!” exclaimed Warthy, surprised. “And, by my faith, a very pretty one, too! Take care, mademoiselle! My men are coming down into the vault to look for your companions.”

“Let me come up first,” she rejoined, placing herself in the mouth of the trap, so as to obstruct the descent of the soldiers. “It will be useless for you to search the vault. You will find no one there.”

“I shan’t take your word for that, mademoiselle,” rejoined Warthy. “Make way. My men must go down.”

Madelon was obliged to obey, and the four soldiers instantly descended.

In another minute, Warthy, who was listening anxiously, heard shouts and the noise of a struggle within the vault, and he called to know whether Bourbon had been captured.

“Yes, we’ve caught him,” replied a soldier from below.

“Well done, my brave fellows!” cried Warthy. “You shall be handsomely rewarded. Bring him up at once.”

“Fear nothing, father,” said Madelon, noticing the miller’s consternation. “It is not the Constable.”

“Heaven be praised for that!” exclaimed Benoit.

A man-at-arms now ascended from the vault. After him came the captive, and then the three other soldiers.

“Why, this is not Bourbon!” cried Warthy, regarding the prisoner.

“I told your men so, captain,” replied Hugues – for it was he – “but they wouldn’t believe me.”

“Go down again instantly, and make further search,” roared Warthy. “He is there.”

“There was no one in the vault but this man, whom we took to be Bourbon in disguise,” replied one of the soldiers.

“Has the vault an outlet?” demanded Warthy.

“Oh yes,” returned the soldier, “there is a door at the farther end, but it is locked.”

“Then I have lost my prize,” cried Warthy. “He has escaped. You shall be hanged, rascal, for assisting the traitor,” he added, furiously, to Hugues.

“Give me my life, captain, and I’ll tell you where to find him,” rejoined the prisoner.

“If you utter a word, you need think no more of me, Hugues,” said Madelon.

“Heed her not, fellow,” said Warthy. “Better lose your mistress than your life.”

“I am quite of your opinion, captain,” rejoined Hugues. “I don’t like the thought of a halter. On the understanding, then, that I am to be spared – ”

“Recollect what the consequences will be,” interrupted Madelon.

“Avoid the rope, if you are wise,” said Warthy.

“I mean to do so, captain,” replied Hugues. “His highness the Constable and his companion have taken refuge in the mill.”

“Miserable craven!” exclaimed Madelon, scornfully. “Hanging is too good for you.”

“If you have misinformed me, you know the fate that awaits you,” said Warthy to Hugues. “To the mill!”

Just as he was about to quit the house, a sudden glare filled the room, rendering every object as visible as it would have been in broad day. No doubt could exist as to the cause of this illumination.

“Gracious Heavens! the mill is on fire!” exclaimed Benoit.

The shouts of the men-at-arms outside confirmed the truth of the ejaculation, and the guard stationed at the door vociferated, “The mill is on fire, captain!”

“Take care no one escapes from it,” roared Warthy, in reply.

“Powers of mercy! what an accident!” exclaimed Hugues, his countenance reflecting the horror depicted on the faces of all around. “The Constable de Bourbon will be burnt to death!”

“No, no, he won’t,” cried Warthy, who remained perfectly calm, even at this exciting moment. “But he will be forced out of his hiding-place.”

On this he quitted the house with his men, leaving a guard outside the door.

No sooner was he gone than Hugues went up to the miller, who looked almost stupified, and clapping him on the shoulder, said, with a grin, “I set the mill on fire, père Benoit.”

“You did!” exclaimed the miller; “a nice piece of work you’ve done. And you make a joke of it, rascal – you laugh.”

“Laugh! to be sure. And so will you, père Benoit, when you know why I set it on fire.”

“Mother of Heaven! how it burns!” exclaimed Margot, as the glare momentarily increased in brilliancy, and the roaring of the flames and the crackling of the timber could be distinctly heard.

“My poor old mill!” cried Benoit, in a despairing voice. “I shall never behold it again!”

“Cheer up, father,” said Madelon. “I told Hugues to set fire to it – indeed, I helped him.”

“What! you have assisted to make me a beggar, and then bid me cheer up!” cried the miller.

“The loss of the mill won’t make you a beggar, father. I know better than that,” she rejoined. “I felt sure you wouldn’t mind any sacrifice to save the Duke de Bourbon.”

“That I shouldn’t!” exclaimed Benoit. “But how will the burning of my mill save him? Mercy on us! how the flames roar!”

“I like to hear them roar,” said Madelon. “And I’m glad the fire burns so furiously. It will distract the soldiers, and enable the Constable and the Seigneur Pom-perant to get off unobserved.”

“Heavens! they are not in the mill?” exclaimed Margot.

“No, they are at the stable, I hope, by this time,” rejoined Madelon. “How lucky it was, Hugues, that I shut up the dogs!”

“If we can only get out the horses, all will be well,” he replied. “I must be off to the stable. Good night, père Benoit! I hope soon to bring you good tidings.”

“You can get away safely now,” said Madelon, cautiously opening the back window. “There is no one here now, and the smoke will hide you.”

Despite the danger, Hugues snatched a parting kiss from his charmer’s lips, and then sprang through the window.

The burning mill formed a magnificent spectacle, being now wrapped in flames from top to bottom, while blazing flakes fell from the sails. Having highly combustible material to deal with, the fire had made rapid progress. Fortunately the dense volume of smoke that arose from the blazing structure was carried by the wind in the direction of the stable, and the vapour served to screen Hugues from the observation of the men-at-arms, who were all collected round the mill. Amongst them Hugues descried Warthy, and heard him exclaim, in a loud and angry voice, that he was certain Bourbon was not in the mill.

“Had he and his companion been there, they must have come forth,” he said. “They would never submit to be roasted alive.”

Not a moment was to be lost. Hugues hurried off to the stable, and was rejoiced to find, on reaching it, that Bourbon and Pomperant were already mounted. His own horse was also in readiness, and he was no sooner in the saddle than the party galloped off.

They had not ridden far, however, when a loud shout, proceeding from the scene of the conflagration, proclaimed that their flight was discovered. Warthy and his men were starting in pursuit.

Sounds also arose from the little town of Saint-Simphorien, proving that its inhabitants had been roused from their slumbers by the alarm of fire, while the loud clangour of a church bell, violently rung, broke the stillness of the night.

“Poor Benoit will have plenty of help in case his house should catch fire,” remarked Hugues. “All the good folks of Saint-Simphorien will be with him presently.”

“Fail not to tell him I will rebuild his mill,” said Bourbon.

“Your highness need not trouble yourself on that score,” rejoined Hugues. “Benoit is rich enough to rebuild the mill himself. He will think nothing of the loss, provided your highness escapes.”

“We must spur our horses sharply, if we would escape,” cried Pomperant, looking back. “Warthy and his men are better mounted than we are, and are gaining upon us.”

“But they won’t catch us,” rejoined Hugues. “We shall reach yonder thicket before them, and then we are safe.”

“By Saint Denis, it galls me to the quick to fly thus before such caitiffs!” cried Bourbon. “Let us wait for them. That villain Warthy shall pay for his temerity.”

“He shall pay for it, but not now,” rejoined Pomperont. “On – on – for Heaven’s sake! I implore your highness not to risk your life in a miserable encounter. Consider that a kingdom is at stake.”

“Right,” rejoined the Constable. “En avant!”

And dashing his spurs rowel-deep into his horse, he galloped swiftly on, the others keeping close beside him.

In a few minutes more the party reached the thicket in safety, and, guided by Hugues, plunged unhesitatingly into its depths.

XV. VIENNE

All Warthy’s efforts to discover the fugitives were fruitless, though he sent half his men into the thicket, and continued himself to skirt it with the others till some hours after daybreak, when he gave up the quest.

He did not return to the mill, deeming that Benoit had been sufficiently punished by the destruction of his property, but shaped his course towards Vienne, under the impression that Bourbon would attempt to cross the bridge over the Rhone at that town, and, if so, he might still be able to intercept him.

In this expectation he rode on to Rive de Gier, where he halted for a while to recruit both men and horses, and at the same time instituted inquiries as to the fugitives, but could learn nothing of them. Then, crossing a mountainous ridge, in the midst of which towered Mont Pilas, he descended, towards evening, through vine-clad slopes to the lovely valley, through which rushes the broad and impetuous Rhone, hurrying on its way to the Mediterranean.

On the farther bank of the river stood the ancient and picturesque town of Vienne – ancient indeed it may well be termed since it existed long before Lyons, and was a flourishing city in the time of the Romans, of whose occupation it still boasts many monuments.

Facing the river, which almost washed the steps leading to its grand portal, stood the Cathedral of Saint Maurice – a vast and stately pile. Behind it was grouped a multitude of buildings, remarkable for their quaint and fantastic architecture, in the midst of which rose many a lofty tower, while here and there could be discerned a Roman arch or temple, proclaiming the great antiquity of the place.

The background of the picture was formed by precipitous hills. On the summit of one of them, known as Mont Salomon, stood a strong fortress, which from its position completely commanded the valley and this part of the river. The castle was of Roman origin, the donjon being built by the first Cæsar, and, according to tradition, Pilate was imprisoned within it.

All was picturesque about Vienne – its fortified walls, its cathedral, its churches, towers, Roman monuments, and overhanging castle. But not the least striking feature was its antique stone bridge, with crenellated parapets and lofty towers. From one of the latter, called the Tour de Mauconseil, it was said that Pilate threw himself into the river, which rushed with overwhelming force through the narrow arches of the bridge. Unluckily for the truth of the legend, the tower was built some centuries later than the event supposed to be connected with it could possibly have occurred. Notwithstanding this, the Tour de Mauconseil had an ill repute. More than once it had been struck by lightning, and no Sentinel would remain on its summit during a storm.

Towards this evil tower Warthy proceeded on arriving at Saint-Colombe – as the little suburb on the right bank of the Rhone is designated. Questioning the guard stationed at the gate, he ascertained that no persons answering to the description of the fugitives had crossed the bridge on that day. Ever since the king’s proclamation in regard to Bourbon’s treason, strict watch had been kept, and no one allowed to pass without examination – a precautionary measure which Warthy felt certain would prevent the fugitives from attempting to cross the bridge.

On further inquiry, he learnt that lower down the river, at Ampuis, there was a ferry, which might not be guarded, and he determined to proceed thither without loss of time. Accordingly, despatching half his men across the bridge, with orders to proceed along the left bank of the river, until they arrived opposite Ampuis, he set off with the others towards the ferry in question.

Animated by the hope of intercepting Bourbon, and dreading lest he should cross the river before his arrival, Warthy hurried on, regardless of the fatigue he had previously endured. His spirit communicated itself to his men, and they followed him without a murmur; no doubt anticipating a share in the reward.

The road pursued by Warthy was singularly beautiful, and carried him past vine-clad slopes, backed by the chain of mountains which he had just crossed. But he was insensible to the charms of the scenery, and did not even notice a lofty Roman obelisk on the opposite bank of the river. He looked only for his men, and when he saw them issue from the gates of Vienne, he was content.

Now and then he watched the turbid waters of the Rhone as they swept past him, and envied the rapidity of the current, wishing he could speed on as swiftly. But the shades of night had fallen, the mountains were shrouded, and the beauties of the banks were obscured before he approached Ampuis. Still, any object on the darkling river was discernible.

For some little time he had lost sight of the detachment on the opposite bank – the men having been forced to go inland on account of rocks and other obstacles which they encountered in their course – and he looked anxiously for their reappearance.

XVI. THE ROCK. IN THE RHONE

Having conducted Warthy thus far, we will now see what had become of the fugitives.

Aided by Hugues, whose intimate acquaintance with the country was of the utmost service, Bourbon and his companion had managed to steal out of the thicket in which they had secreted themselves, and passing through a long ravine, had crossed the chain of mountains lying between them and the valley of the Rhone, and had descended the vine-clad slopes bordering the noble river.

They did not, however, make for Vienne – Hugues having ascertained from a peasant that the bridge was strictly guarded – but proceeded at once to Ampuis, where they hoped to cross by the ferry. Bourbon now proposed that Hugues should leave him, but the faithful fellow begged so earnestly to be allowed to go on, that at last the Constable assented.

At Ampuis, which was then, as now, renowned for its delicious wine, known as Côte Rôtie, they alighted at an auberge close by the river, and obtained some refreshment, of which they stood greatly in need, together with a flask or two of generous wine. Here they left the horses, the poor brutes being too jaded to proceed farther, and renovated by the repast, hastened to the ferry, which was at no great distance from the inn. The ferryboat, it may be mentioned, was not rowed across the river, but being fastened by a rope to a rock in the middle of the stream, swung to and fro, like a flying-bridge.

At this juncture it was chained to a post on the river-side – no passengers just then requiring to cross.

When the party approached the ferryman, it was so dark that he could not distinguish them very dearly. But he looked hard at Bourbon, and showed by his manner that his suspicions were awakened.

“We want to cross the river instantly, friend,” said Pomperant.

“What am I to have?” inquired the ferryman.

“A gold crown,” replied Pomperant, without hesitation.

“That’s not enough,” said the ferryman. “I ought to have ten gold crowns at the least.”

“Well, you shall have them – but be quick,” said Pomperant.

“A moment, and I’ll be with you,” said the ferryman, running towards the inn.

“We are discovered!” cried Bourbon. “The villain has gone for assistance. Ha! what is that?” he added, as the trampling of horses was heard.

As he looked anxiously in the direction, Warthy and his men came in sight.

“Our pursuers are at hand!” exclaimed Pomperant. “Jump into the boat at once.”

In another moment all three had embarked.

The boat was large, heavy, and flat-bottomed, built to transport horses and cattle, as well as passengers, across the river. A minute or so elapsed before Hugues could unchain it, and the delay was sufficient to bring Warthy near enough to distinguish the fugitives, and at once comprehending their designs, he redoubled his speed.

“‘Tis Bourbon! I see him!” he vociferated.

No sooner did the ferryman become aware of the approach of the troop, than he turned back to prevent the departure of the fugitives. But he was too late. The boat had been pushed from the strand by means of a pole which Pomperant had seized, and was swinging slowly towards the centre of the stream. But there was another boat of lighter construction and smaller size fastened to a post close by, and the ferryman busied himself in preparing it, and by the time. Warthy and his men came up it was ready.

“‘Tis he you seek, captain!” he cried – “‘tis the Constable de Bourbon. A hundred crowns and you shall have him.”

“Thou art an extortionate knave; but I agree,” replied Warthy.

Dismounting, and commanding six of his men to follow him, he sprang into the boat, which was pushed off by the ferryman. Its load, however, was too great to allow it to move expeditiously, and thus a minute or two was lost. However, there seemed little chance of escape for the fugitives, since at this moment the soldiers, tracking the left bank of the river, made their appearance, and hastened towards the landing-place of the ferry.

Nothing now remained to the fugitives, who were, of course, alive to the imminence of their peril, but to cut the rope and drop down the river. This was done, but not so quickly as could have been desired. The rope was stout, and resisted Pomperant’s efforts to sever it with his poniard. While he was thus employed, several shots were fired by the soldiers, who, as we have said, were riding up to the landing-place, but without effect.