Here it was, thought Arsène, as he walked through the streets of La Rochelle, that my grandfathers died, slaughtered by the shrieking minions of Rome, and one of my grandmothers perished of starvation in the siege, and another sank to her grave with a broken heart.
Here in this maritime city, in this proud town of merchants and ship-masters and sailors, this habitat of men with far blue eyes and brown faces, was the last fortress of Protestant Frenchmen. The struggle about to take place would decide whether France was to rejoice in a future of constantly expanding glory, liberty and enlightenment, or subside into the morass of oppression, darkness, slavery and ignorance.
He recalled something which the Duchess de Rohan had told him: “Do not despair. If we are overcome, do not believe that the fight is lost, that the faith is gone, that the day shall forever be obscured. A dream has been born in the hearts of men, and all the blackness of hell, all the scarlet torture of Rome, shall not destroy it. Today, perhaps, the defeat. Tomorrow—O always tomorrow! the victory!”
Nevertheless, he could not be so sanguine. What did it matter, to him, and to those he loved, if one hundred, or two hundred years hence, France might be free, might overcome the oppressor? He did not have the faith of great men, that one ought to work for the future of humanity, even if they failed to live to behold it. Impatient and impetuous, he wished to see the work of his hands accomplished today. Only the saints, and the heroes, fixed their eyes on the faint gleam of tomorrow, the while they died in the darkness.
Meditating sadly, he walked through the winding cobbled streets of the sea-guarded city, over which hung the ancient houses and narrow bridges. He saw the towers of the fortresses, vigilantly guarded, strong and squat against the warm blue sky. He heard the sound of the sea, smelled the pungent salt of the great winds. He passed the market place, where the hurried farmers haggled with shrewd women, and cattle lowed and chickens squawked, and geese evaded the clutching arms of little boys. He saw small flowered gardens, bursting their confines, under the very shadow of wheeling gulls. Here was the hoary church of St. Margaret, serene and gray, throwing its painted shade over the streets and over the walls of crowded houses. Arsène was compelled to dodge donkeys, carts, geese, scampering children, dogs, cats, goats and creeping old women, and galloping horses, so that he was often thrust into the gutter and against the walls. La Rochelle was much cleaner than Paris, and if it possessed any stenches, they were purified in the salt gales, the brilliant sunshine, the polished light of the heavens. A feeling of hope, resolution and fortitude was in the air, a busyness, an activity and motion. If the hearts of the defenders failed, it was not visible, except in the faces of the old, who remembered.
When he climbed the battlements, Arsène saw the blue silk curtain of the sea, glittering and trembling in the distance. He also saw the mole, spreading its inexorable length, like the body of a serpent, across the harbor. He turned his back and looked landward, to the low gray marshes, steaming in the hot sun, the causeways across them, and the distant green and gold of fields and forest, the mauve of low hills shimmering in light. The incandescent air was full of vitality, color, and excitement. He looked down at the steaming, winding streets, cobbled and bridged, filled with hurrying people.
Here, in this air, was the burnished reflection of freedom, liberty and courage. Nothing, but that mole, appeared to threaten it. The gray and brown walls of the city, streaked, speckled and fretted with dazzling sunlight, seemed peaceful and full of the contentment of ages. Here and there large green trees appeared, bending in the salt winds, glittering with light. He allowed himself to hope. The English might —must—come in time! Even if they did not, the city was impregnable from the land side. But how long could it stand a siege? Arsène forced himself to believe that Richelieu would soon tire of this stubborn people, and return to his luxurious palace to ease the pains of a rheumatism made much worse by the marshy dampness.
He left the ramparts, after a long conversation with its cheerful defenders. But not until he had talked at length with Count Alfred Von Steckler, a German nobleman, Don Carlo da Santa, of Spain, and the Conte Luigi di Brizzini, of Italy. These illustrious gentlemen, none over the age of forty, were the officers in command of this fortress.
Arsène had made their ceremonious acquaintance in the Hôtel de Rohan. Nevertheless, he felt uneasy in their company. He looked at the handsome figure and face of the German, with the thick hair like wheat in the sun, and at his fiery blue eyes. He scrutinized the countenance of the Spaniard, for indications of the craft and subtlety which distinguished the Spanish character. As for the Italian, he was too insouciant, too gay, too light-hearted, in Arsène’s opinion, for this arduous task ahead. Small but delicate of face and body, with dancing black eyes, glittering white teeth between black mustaches and imperial, brown of skin, and ribald and merry of expression, he was more like a bon vivant than a soldier who was to face torture or death within a very short time.
The German dressed simply, his sleeves rolled back on great arms as white as milk, but the Spaniard and the Italian seemed bent on outdoing each other in sartorial splendor. Apparently, they had come to La Rochelle with inexhaustible wardrobes, and each possessed three adoring lackeys. In the evenings, relieved of their duties, they spent hours upon perfumed baths and unguents and curled wigs. They changed their garments a dozen times, fretfully, and with intense concentration, until they had made a choice and could sally forth arrayed like the lilies of the field. The Hôtel de Rohan was their favorite destination, and it was amusing, even to the sad Arsène, to see how they scrutinized each other with open hostility and affected derision, and languid envy. The Marquis de Vaubon, as serious and dedicated arbitor, would slowly circle about each posturing young man, comment softly on admirable points, nodding his head with deep and sincere gravity, and finally, after long thought, would concede the prize of the evening to one or the other. They appreciated his taste and elegance, and never contested the decision. The loser would then, during the balance of the evening, retire a little distance and give himself up to the imaginary assembling of a devastating wardrobe for the next night, in which he so outshone his rival as to make him appear a veritable cow-herd, a watcher of geese. No one had the levity to intrude upon this brown meditation. Only when, with a deep and satisfied smile did the loser arise, his eyes gleaming with triumphant anticipation, and engage in the conversation, did they include him in the company.
Arsène found this very frivolous. But the old Duchesse smiled wisely and said: “Frivolity is often the affectation of a brave and noble man. Do you believe Carlo and Luigi are less heroic because they prefer sweet smells to foul? Or affect to pretend that the most important things in the world are the fragility of lace collars or the exact width of knee-ribbons?”
When the Marquis, in amusement, asked her why she did not appeal to the Cardinal to abandon his campaign, she stared at him in speechless outrage and imperious pride. It was some moments before she could speak, and then she said in a voice trembling with anger: “Monsieur le Marquis does not comprehend the dishonor of his suggestion!”
Others, in fear, exhorted her to use her influence, and excited such fury in her that they feared that she might collapse. Nevertheless, in her proud heart she was dismayed, for she knew that many priests, among them the frightful Capuchin, were accompanying Richelieu. She feared no ghastly and unspeakable reprisals against the Rochellais on the Cardinal’s part, but she had no illusions about the priests. However, she did not speak of her dismay. She was chronically exhausted with her unremitting efforts to maintain the courage and inflexible resolution of those about her.
And, it saddened her that she found less courage and pride and determination among the Rochellais, themselves, than among the two thousand foreigners who had come voluntarily to the beleaguered city, to give their arms and their lives to it in the name of freedom. These, above all, would suffer the merciless punishment of the Cardinal, even if the Rochellais were spared. And spared she believed they would be; they were Frenchmen.