QUEEN MARGOT (Historical Novel). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
what have you done?”
“Vait! You shall peholt! Shtant pack a liddle.”
The duke fell back a step.
At that instant the object Besme was dragging toward him with such effort became visible.
It was the body of an old man.
He lifted it above the balcony, held it suspended an instant, and then flung it down at his master’s feet.
The heavy thud, the billows of blood spurting from the body and spattering the pavement all around, filled even the duke himself with horror; but this feeling lasted only an instant, and curiosity caused every one to crowd forward, so that the glare of the torches flickered on the victim’s body.
They could see a white beard, a venerable face, and limbs contracted by death.
“The admiral!” cried twenty voices, as instantaneously hushed.
“Yes, the admiral, here he is!” said the duke, approaching the corpse, and contemplating it with silent ecstasy.
“The admiral! the admiral!” repeated the witnesses of this terrible scene, crowding together and timidly approaching the old man, majestic even in death.
“Ah, at last, Gaspard!” said the Duke de Guise, triumphantly. “Murderer of my father! thus do I avenge him!”
And the duke dared to plant his foot on the breast of the Protestant hero.
But instantly the dying warrior opened his eyes, his bleeding and mutilated hand was clinched for the last time, and the admiral, though without stirring, said to the duke in a sepulchral voice:
“Henry de Guise, some day the assassin’s foot shall be felt on your breast. I did not kill your father. A curse upon you.”
The duke, pale, and trembling in spite of himself, felt a cold shudder come over him. He passed his hand across his brow, as if to dispel the fearful vision; when he dared again to glance at the admiral his eyes were closed, his hand unclinched, and a stream of black blood was flowing from the mouth which had just pronounced such terrible words.
The duke raised his sword with a gesture of desperate resolution.
“Vell, monsir, are you gondent?”
“Yes, my worthy friend, yes, for you have revenged”—
“The Dugue François, haf I not?”
“Our religion,” replied Henry, in a solemn voice. “And now,” he went on, addressing the Swiss, the soldiers, and citizens who filled the court and street, “to work, my friends, to work!”
“Good evening, M. de Besme,” said Coconnas with a sort of admiration, approaching the German, who still stood on the balcony, calmly wiping his sword.
“So you settled him, did you?” cried La Hurière; “how did you manage it?”
“Oh, zimbly, zimbly; he haf heerd de gommotion, he haf oben de door unt I joost brick my rabier troo his potty. But I tink dey am gilling Téligny now. I hear his gries!”
At that instant, in fact, several shrieks, apparently uttered by a woman in distress, were heard; the windows of the long gallery which formed a wing of the hotel were lighted up with a red glare; two men were seen fleeing, pursued by a long line of assassins. An arquebuse-shot killed one; the other, finding an open window directly in his way, without stopping to look at the distance from the ground, sprang boldly into the courtyard below, heeding not the enemies who awaited him there.
“Kill! kill!” cried the assassins, seeing their prey about to escape them.
The fugitive picked up his sword, which as he stumbled had fallen from his hand, dashed headlong through the soldiers, upset three or four, ran one through the body, and amid the pistol-shots and curses of the soldiers, rendered furious because they had missed him, darted like lightning in front of Coconnas, who was waiting for him at the gate with his poniard in his hand.
“Touched!” cried the Piedmontese, piercing his arm with his keen, delicate blade.
“Coward!” replied the fugitive, striking his enemy in the face with the flat of his weapon, for want of room to thrust at him with its point.
“A thousand devils!” cried Coconnas; “it’s Monsieur de la Mole!”
“Monsieur de la Mole!” reëchoed La Hurière and Maurevel.
“He is the one who warned the admiral!” cried several soldiers.
“Kill him — kill him!” was shouted on all sides.
Coconnas, La Hurière, and a dozen soldiers rushed in pursuit of La Mole, who, covered with blood, and having attained that state of exaltation which is the last resource of human strength, dashed through the streets, with no other guide than instinct. Behind him, the footsteps and shouts of his enemies spurred him on and seemed to give him wings. Occasionally a bullet would whistle by his ears and suddenly add new swiftness to his flight just as it was beginning to slacken. He no longer breathed; it was not breath, but a dull rattle, a hoarse panting, that came from his chest. Perspiration and blood wet his locks and ran together down his face.
His doublet soon became too oppressive for the beating of his heart and he tore it off. Soon his sword became too heavy for his hand and he flung it far away. Sometimes it seemed to him that the footsteps of his pursuers were farther off and that he was about to escape them; but in response to their shouts, other murderers who were along his path and nearer to him left off their bloody occupations and started in pursuit of him.
Suddenly he caught sight of the river flowing silently at his left; it seemed to him that he should feel, like a stag at bay, an ineffable pleasure in plunging into it, and only the supreme power of reason could restrain him.
On his right was the Louvre, dark and motionless, but full of strange and ominous sounds; soldiers on the drawbridge came and went, and helmets and cuirasses glittered in the moonlight. La Mole thought of the King of Navarre, as he had before thought of Coligny; they were his only protectors. He collected all his strength, and inwardly vowing to abjure his faith should he escape the massacre, by making a detour of a score or two of yards he misled the mob pursuing him, darted straight for the Louvre, leaped upon the drawbridge among the soldiers, received another poniard stab which grazed his side, and despite the cries of “Kill — kill!” which resounded on all sides, and the opposing weapons of the sentinels, darted like an arrow through the court, into the vestibule, mounted the staircase, then up two stories higher, recognized a door, and leaning against it, struck it violently with his hands and feet.
“Who is there?” asked a woman’s voice.
“Oh, my God!” murmured La Mole; “they are coming, I hear them; ’tis I—’tis I!”
“Who are you?” said the voice.
La Mole recollected the pass-word.
“Navarre — Navarre!” cried he.
The door instantly opened. La Mole, without thanking, without even seeing Gillonne, dashed into the vestibule, then along a corridor, through two or three chambers, until at last he entered a room lighted by a lamp suspended from the ceiling.
Behind curtains of velvet with gold fleurs-delis, in a bed of carved oak, a lady, half naked, leaning on her arm, stared at him with eyes wide open with terror.
La Mole sprang toward her.
“Madame,” cried he, “they are killing, they are butchering my brothers — they seek to kill me, to butcher me also! Ah! you are the queen — save me!”
And he threw himself at her feet, leaving on the carpet a large track of blood.
At the sight of a man pale, exhausted, and bleeding at her feet, the Queen of Navarre started up in terror, hid her face in her hands, and called for help.
“Madame,” cried La Mole, endeavoring to rise, “in the name of