QUEEN MARGOT (Historical Novel). Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
drove his sword through his breast.
“Good! good! brave cavalier!” exclaimed the lady of the Hôtel de Guise, “good! I will send you succor.”
“Do not give yourself any trouble about that, madame,” was Coconnas’s reply; “rather look on to the end, if it interests you, and see how the Comte Annibal de Coconnas settles the Huguenots.”
At this moment old Mercandon’s son aimed a pistol at close range to Coconnas, and fired. The count fell on his knee. The lady at the window shrieked again; but Coconnas rose instantly; he had knelt only to avoid the bullet, which struck the wall about two feet beneath where the lady was standing.
Almost at the same moment a cry of rage issued from the window of Mercandon’s house, and an old woman, who recognized Coconnas as a Catholic, from his white scarf and cross, hurled a flower-pot at him, which struck him above the knee.
“Capital!” said Coconnas; “one throws flowers at me and at the other, flower-pots; if this goes on, they’ll be tearing houses down!”
“Thanks, mother, thanks!” said the young man.
“Go on, wife, go on,” said old Mercandon; “but take care of yourself.”
“Wait, Monsieur de Coconnas, wait!” said the young woman of the Hôtel de Guise, “I will have them shoot at the windows!”
“Ah! So it is a hell of women, is it?” said Coconnas. “Some of them for me and the others against me! By Heaven! let us put an end to this!”
The scene in fact was much changed and was evidently approaching its climax. Coconnas, who was wounded to be sure, but who had all the vigor of his four and twenty years, was used to arms, and angered rather than weakened by the three or four scratches he had received, now faced only Mercandon and his son: Mercandon, an aged man between sixty and seventy; his son, a youth of sixteen or eighteen, pale, fair-haired and slender, had flung down his pistol which had been discharged and was therefore useless, and was feebly brandishing a sword half as long as the Piedmontese’s. The father, armed only with an unloaded arquebuse and a poniard, was calling for assistance. An old woman — the young man’s mother — in the opposite window held in her hand a piece of marble which she was preparing to hurl.
Coconnas, excited on the one hand by threats, and on the other by encouragements, proud of his two-fold victory, intoxicated with powder and blood, lighted by the reflection of a burning house, elated by the idea that he was fighting under the eyes of a woman whose beauty was as superior as he was sure her rank was high — Coconnas, like the last of the Horatii, felt his strength redouble, and seeing the young man falter, rushed on him and crossed his small weapon with his terrible and bloody rapier. Two strokes sufficed to drive it out of its owner’s hands. Then Mercandon tried to drive Coconnas back, so that the projectiles thrown from the window might be sure to strike him, but Coconnas, to paralyze the double attack of the old man, who tried to stab him with his dagger, and the mother of the young man, who was endeavoring to break his skull with a stone she was ready to throw, seized his adversary by the body, presenting him to all the blows, like a shield, and well-nigh strangling him in his Herculean grasp.
“Help! help!” cried the young man; “he is crushing my chest — help! help!”
And his voice grew faint in a low and choking groan.
Then Mercandon ceased to attack, and began to entreat.
“Mercy, mercy! Monsieur de Coconnas, have mercy! — he is my only child!”
“He is my son, my son!” cried the mother; “the hope of our old age! Do not kill him, sir — do not kill him!”
“Really,” cried Coconnas, bursting into laughter, “not kill him! What, pray, did he mean to do to me, with his sword and pistol?”
“Sir,” said Mercandon, clasping his hands, “I have at home your father’s note of hand, I will give it back to you — I have ten thousand crowns of gold, I will give them to you — I have our family jewels, they shall be yours; but do not kill him — do not kill him!”
“And I have my love,” said the lady in the Hôtel de Guise, in a low tone, “and I promise it you.”
Coconnas reflected a moment, and said suddenly:
“Are you a Huguenot?”
“Yes, I am,” murmured the youth.
“Then you must die!” replied Coconnas, frowning and putting to his adversary’s breast his keen and glittering dagger.
“Die!” cried the old man; “my poor child die!”
And the mother’s shriek resounded so pitifully and loud that for a moment it shook the Piedmontese’s firm resolution.
“Oh, Madame la Duchesse!” cried the father, turning toward the lady at the Hôtel de Guise, “intercede for us, and every morning and evening you shall be remembered in our prayers.”
“Then let him be a convert,” said the lady.
“I am a Protestant,” said the boy.
“Then die!” exclaimed Coconnas, lifting his dagger; “die! since you will not accept the life which those lovely lips offer to you.”
Mercandon and his wife saw the blade of that deadly weapon gleam like lightning above the head of their son.
“My son Olivier,” shrieked his mother, “abjure, abjure!”
“Abjure, my dear boy!” cried Mercandon, going on his knees to Coconnas; “do not leave us alone on the earth!”
“Abjure all together,” said Coconnas; “for one Credo, three souls and one life.”
“I am willing,” said the youth.
“We are willing!” cried Mercandon and his wife.
“On your knees, then,” said Coconnas, “and let your son repeat after me, word for word, the prayer I shall say.”
The father obeyed first.
“I am ready,” said the son, also kneeling.
Coconnas then began to repeat in Latin the words of the Credo. But whether from chance or calculation, young Olivier knelt close to where his sword had fallen. Scarcely did he see this weapon within his reach than, not ceasing to repeat the words which Coconnas dictated, he stretched out his hand to take it up. Coconnas watched the movement, although he pretended not to see it; but at the moment when the young man touched the handle of the sword with his fingers he rushed on him, knocked him over, exclaiming, “Ah, traitor!” and plunged his dagger into his throat.
The youth uttered one cry, raised himself convulsively on his knee, and fell dead.
“Ah, ruffian!” shrieked Mercandon, “you slay us to rob us of the hundred rose nobles you owe us.”
“Faith! no,” said Coconnas, “and the proof,”— and as he said these words he flung at the old man’s feet the purse which his father had given him before his departure to pay his creditor — “and the proof,” he went on to say, “is this money which I give you!”
“And here’s your death!” cried the old woman from the window.
“Take care, M. de Coconnas, take care!” called out the lady at the Hôtel de Guise.
But before Coconnas could turn his head to comply with this advice, or get out of the way of the threat, a heavy mass came hissing through the air, fell on the Piedmontese’s hat, broke his sword, and prostrated him on the pavement; he was overcome, crushed, so that he did not hear the double cry of joy and distress which came from the right and left.
Mercandon instantly rushed, dagger in hand, on Coconnas, now bereft of his senses; but at this moment the door of the Hôtel de Guise opened, and the old man, seeing swords and partisans gleaming, fled, while the lady he had called “Madame la Duchesse,” her beauty terrible in the light of the