 St. Bartholomew's Eve by G. A. Henty. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, visit LibriVox.org. Read by Anna Christensen. CHAPTER XXII REUNITED Philip took clothes with him in his saddlebags of gayer colors and those worn by the Huguenots, and as soon as they were beyond the district where the Protestants were in the Ascendant, he put these on instead of those in which he had started. They rode fast, and on the fifth day after leaving La Rochelle, they entered for sigh. No question had been asked them by the way, and they rode into the courtyard of the principal inn, and there stabled their horses. Your animals look as if they needed rest, sir, the landlord said as they dismounted. Yes, we have come from the south and have pressed them too much. I have business in Paris which will occupy me for a few days, therefore I will leave them here for a rest. I suppose you can furnish me with two horses, to take me as far as St. Cloud, and a man to bring them back again? Certainly I can, sir, and your horses will be well looked after here. Then we will go on the first thing in the morning, have the horses ready by that time. The next morning they rode to St. Cloud, dismounted there, and handed over the horses to the man who had ridden behind them. Then they crossed by the bridge over the river, and entering the wood that boarded the scene, put on the disguises they had brought with them, concealing their clothes among some thick bushes, and then walked on into Paris. They put up at a small inn. And as they partook of a meal, listened to the talk of those around them. But it was not here that they could expect to gather the news they required. They heard the names of many of those who had been killed, that these were all leaders of distinction, and as soon as they had finished their food they started for the lue. Now we are here. I don't see how we are going to find out what we want, Paris, feel upset after they had stood for some time looking at the gate, through which numbers of gentlemen entered or left the palace. It will take some little time, sir. I think the best pain will be for me to purchase some clothes suitable for the lackey of a gentleman of rank. I can get them easily enough, for the shops will be full of garments bought of those who took part in the massacre, then I shall make acquaintance with one of the lackeys of the court, and with plenty of good wine I shall no doubt be able to learn all that he knows as to what took place at the lue, at that moment a gentleman passed them. That is Count Louis de Fontaine, the cousin of the man I killed in that duel. I am sure it is he. By what I saw of him, he is a gentleman and a man of honour, and by no means ill-disposed towards us. I will speak to him. Do you stay here until I return? Paris was about to protest, but Philip had already left him, and was following the Count. He walked until they were in a comparatively quiet place, and then walked on and overtook him. Count Louis de Fontaine, he said. The nobleman turned in surprise at being addressed by this big countryman. Philip went on. Our acquaintance was but a short one, Count. It was some four years ago at Argue that I met you, and had the misfortune to have trouble with your cousin, Count Raoul, but short as it was, it was sufficient to show me that you are a gentleman of heart, and to encourage me now to throw myself on your generosity. Are you the gentleman who fought my cousin, and afterwards escape from the castle? I am Count. I am here upon no plot or conspiracy, simply to endeavour to ascertain the fate of my cousin, Francois de la Ville, who was with the king of Navarre on that fearful night a fortnight since. The mother is distracted at hearing no news of him, while to me he is as a brother. I affected my own escape, and have, as you see, return in disguise to ascertain his fate. I am unable to obtain a list of those who were murdered, and seeing you, I felt that it would be safe to rely upon your honour, and to ask you to give me the news I require. I will fall back now, for it might be such strange that a noble should be talking to a peasant, but I pray you to leave the way to some quiet spot where I can speak with you unnoticed. My lodging is in the next street. Follow me, and I will take you up to my room. As soon as I had entered the lodging, the Count said, You are not deceived. I am incapable of betraying a trust imposed upon me. I bear you no malice for the slaying of my cousin, for indeed the quarrel was not of your seeking. Still lest do I feel hostility towards you on the ground of your religion. For I doubt not, from what you say, that you are of the reform faith. I lament, most deep and bitterly, the events that have taken place, events which dishonour our nation in the eyes of all Europe. I have not the pleasure of knowing your name. I am the Chevalier Philip Fletcher, an Englishman by birth, though related on my mother's side to the family of the Count de L'Eville. I have heard your name, sir, as that of one of the bravest gentlemen in the following of Admiral Coligny. Now as to your cousin, his fate is uncertain. He was certainly cut down by the hired wretches of the geese's. They passed on in search of other victims, believing him to be dead, but his body was not afterwards found, and the general opinion is that he either recovered and crawled away, or is still in some hiding place, or that he is concealed somewhere in the palace itself. Search was made next day, but without success. Some think he may have reached the streets, and been there killed, and his body, like so many others, thrown into the scene. I trust that this is not the case, but I have no grounds for biding you hope. At any rate you have given me cause to hope, sir, and I thank you heartily. It is something to know that he is not certainly dead. Can you tell me on which side of the palace was his chamber? I saw him there frequently, but did not on any occasion go with him to his room. It was on the side facing the river. It was near that of the king of Navarre. Thank you, Count. It is but a small clue with which to commence my search. But it is at least something. You say that the palace itself has been searched? Yes, on the following morning it was thoroughly searched for fugitives in hiding, but for all that he may be concealed there by some servant whose good will he had gained. Is there anything else that I can tell you? I may say that I have personally no influence with ever at court. I have never failed to express myself strongly in reference to the policy of persecution, and I am only here now in obedience to the royal orders to present myself at court. There is nothing else, Count. I thank you most sincerely for having thus respected my disguise, and for the news you have given me. Philip returned to the Louvre and joined Paris, who was impatiently waiting. I followed you for some distance, sir, but when I saw you address the Count, and then follow quietly behind him, I saw you were right, and that he was to be trusted, and so returned to await your coming. Have you obtained any sure news from him? Philip repeated his conversation with the Count. I will wager he is hidden somewhere in the palace. Paris said, badly wounded as he must have been, he could out of hope to make his escape through the streets, knowing no one who would have dared to give him refuge. It is far more likely that some of the palace servants came upon him, just as he was recovering, and hid him away. He was always bright and pleasant, fond of a jest, and it may well be that some woman or other took pity on him. The question is, how are we to find out who she is? It is as likely to be a man as a woman, Paris. No, Paris said positively. Women are wonderfully tender-hearted, and are not so afraid of consequences as men are. A man might feel some pity at seeing a gentleman so sorely wounded, that he would not risk his own life to shelter him. While any woman would do it without a hesitation, it may be a lady of noble family, or a poor kitchen wench, but that it is a woman I would wager my life. It seems hopeless to try to find out who it is. Philip said despondently. Not hopeless, sir, though doubtless difficult. With your permission I will undertake this part of the task. I will get myself up as a working man out of employment, and there are many such, and will hang about near that little gate. It is a servant's entrance, and I shall be able to watch every woman that comes out. But what good will watching do? It may do no good, sir, but yet it may help. A woman with such a secret as that on her mind will surely show some signs of it upon her face. She will either have a scared look, or an anxious look. She will not walk with an easy step. The next morning Paris took up his position opposite the gate, but had no news that night to report to his master, nor had he on the second, or third, but on the fourth he returned radiant. Philip sprung from his saddle, and grasped his faithful follower by the hand. Thank God for the news, Paris. I had almost given up hope. How did you discover him? Just as I expected, sir, I have seen in the last three days scores of women come out, but none of them needed a second look. Some were intent on their own finery, others were clearly bent on shopping. Some looked up and down the street for a lover who ought to have been waiting for them. Not one of these had a secret of life and death on her mind. But this afternoon there came out a young woman with a pale face and an anxious look. She glanced nervously up and down the street, not as one expecting to meet a friend, but as if she feared an enemy. After a moment's hesitation she crossed the road, and walked along with an indecisive air, more than once glancing behind her as if afraid of being followed. This is my lady, I said to myself, and keeping some distance behind and on the opposite side of the street I followed her. She soon turned off into a side street. Once or twice she paused, looked into a shop, hesitated, and then went on again. I may be sure I marked the spot, and was not surprised to find it in each case. It was an apothecary as before which she hesitated. At last, after looking round again timidly, she entered one, and when I came up I also went in. She gave a nervous start. I asked to be supplied with a pot of cellar for a wound, and the man helped me from when he had just placed on the counter before him. I paid for it and left. Two or three minutes later I saw her come out, whatever she had bought she had hidden under her cloak. Up to this time she had walked fast. But now she loitered, and looked at the wares displayed in the stalls. You are no hurry to go back, I said to myself, you have got what you wanted, and you do not wish to attract attention by returning to the palace after so short an absence. At last, when she was in a quiet spot, I walked quickly up to her. Madam Ruzelle, I said, taking off my hat, I am a friend of the gentleman for whom you have bought that cellar in other matters. She became very white, but she said stably, I don't know what you are talking about, sir, and if you molest a modest young woman in the streets, I shall appeal to the town constable for protection. I repeat, I said, that I am a friend of the gentleman for whom you have just bought the materials for dressing his wounds. I am the servant of his cousin, the chivalier-future, and the name of your patient is Count Francois de la Ville. She looked at me stupified with astonishment and stammered. How did you know that? It is enough, Madam Ruzelle, that I know it, I answered. My master and I have come to Paris expressly to find Montjeur de la Ville, and when we have found him to aid him to make his escape, do not hesitate to confide in me, for only so shall we succeed in the object of our journey. What is your master's Christian name? She asked, still doubtful. It is Philip, I said. She clasped per hand together. The good God be praised, she exclaimed. It was a Philip who spoke when he was so ill. He was unconscious. Surely it is God that has sent you to me. It has been terrible for me to bear my secret alone. Let us walk farther, I said, before you tell me more. There are too many people passing here, and if they notice the tears on your cheeks they may suspect me of ill-treating you, and may ask troublesome questions. After a few minutes' walk we came to a quiet square. Let us sit down on the stone seat, I said. We can talk freely here, and tell me all about it. I am one of the bed-makers of the palace, and it fell to me to sweep the room occupied by the Count de la Ville. Once or twice it came in while I was there, and spoke pleasantly. And I thought what a handsome fellow he was, and said to myself what a pity it was that he was a heretic. When that terrible night came we were all aroused from our sleep, and many of us ran down in a fright to see what was the matter. We heard shouts and cries and the clashing of swords. As I passed ma jour de la Ville's room the door was open. I looked in, three soldiers lay dead on the floor, and near them the Count, whom I thought was also dead. I ran to him and lifted his head, and sprinkled water on his face from our flagon on the table. He opened his eyes and made an effort to get to his feet. I was frightened out of my life at it all, and I said to him, what does it all mean, ma jour? It is a massacre, he said faintly. Do you not hear the firing in the streets and the din in the palace? They will return and finish me. I thank you for what you have done, but it is useless. Then I thought for a moment, can you walk, ma jour? Barely, he replied. Lean on my shoulder, ma jour, I said, I will help you up the stairs. I know of a place where you may lie concealed. With great difficulty I helped him up a staircase that was but little used, and got him to the top. Several times, he said, it is of no use, I am wounded to death. But he still held on. I slept in a little garret in the roof with two other servants, and at the end of the passage was a large lumber store. It was into this that I took him. Nobody ever went there, and it was safe except in case of special search. I laid him down and then moved some of the heavy cabinets and chests at the farther end, a short distance from the wall so that there would be space enough from to lie behind them. Here I made a bed with some old cushions from the couches, got him into the place, first bandaging his wound as well as I could in the faint light that came in through a dormer window. I fetched a magicka of water from my room and placed it beside him, and then moved the furniture so as to close up the spot at which he had entered. Against it I piled up tables and chairs, so that to anyone who did not examine it very closely, it would seem that the heavy furniture was against the wall. There he has been ever since. Two or three times a day I have managed to steal away from my work, to carry him water and food that I brought from my kitchen, when we were down to our meals. For a time I thought he would die. For four days he did not know me. He talked much to himself, and several times he mentioned the name of Philip, and called upon him to aid him against the murderers. Fortunately he was so weak that he could not speak much above a whisper, and there was no fear of his voice being heard. The day after I hid him the whole place was searched to see if any Huguenots were concealed. But up in the attic they searched but carelessly, seeing that we slept three or four in each room, and no one could well be hidden there without all knowing it. They did enter the lumber room, but I carefully washed the floor where he had lain, and as I could not get out the stains of blood I pushed heavy chests over them. I was in my room when they were searched the lumber rooms, and my heart stood still until I heard them come out, and knew that they had found nothing. For the last ten days the Count has gained strength. His wounds are still very sore and painful, but they are beginning to heal. I have bought wine for him, and can always manage to conceal enough food from the table to suffice for his wants. He can walk now, though feebly, and spoke to me but today about making his escape. It would be easy enough to get him out of the palace if I had a lackey's attire for him. I could lead him down private staircases, till near the door from which we came out of the palace. But I had little money, for I had sent off most of my wages to my mother only a day or two before the royal wedding. Still, we might have managed that. I could have borrowed some on some pretense or other. He is, however, too weak to travel, and the effort to do so might cause his wounds to burst out afresh. But now that his cousin has come, all will be well. Where is he wounded, I asked. He has four wounds. One is in the head, another on the neck. One is a stab in the body that must have narrowly missed his heart, and the other is a sword thrust through his arm. But how, Monjour, did you know, she asked, that it is I who have hidden the Count? I told her that I had been watching for four days, feeling sure that the Count was hidden in the palace. But hers was the first face that showed anxiety, and that when I saw her buy, sell, but the epithecaries, I felt sure that it was she who was sheltering the Count. And have you arranged anything, Paris? Philip asked anxiously. Only this much, sir, that tomorrow evening, as soon as it is dark, she will leave the palace with Monjour François that will give us plenty of time to make our plans, which will be easy enough. We have but to take an apartment and bring him up into it. No one need to know that there are more than ourselves there, and we can nurse him for a few days until he is fit to ride. Then we have only to get him in disguise like that in which we entered. We can hide him in the wood. Go on to where we hid our clothes, put them on instead of our disguises, enter St. Cloud, go on to Versailles, fetch the three horses, and return to him with, of course, a suit of clothes for himself. There was no difficulty in hiring two rooms in a quiet street. Suits of clothes suitable for our court lackey were purchased, and these were given by Paris to the girl when she came out in the afternoon. Philip had accompanied Paris to meet her. My good girl, he said, I cannot tell you how deeply I feel the kindness that you have shown my cousin. You have risked your life to save him, and that, I am sure, will let the smallest thought of reward. Still, so good an action must not pass without acknowledgment, though no money can express the amount of our gratitude towards you. I do not want to be paid, sir. I had no thought of money. I know that, Philip replied, but you must allow us to show our gratitude in the only way we can. In the first place, what is your name? Annette Rios, sir. Well, Annette, here are fifty crowns in this purse. It is all that I can spare at present. But be assured that the countess Delaville will send you, at the first opportunity, a sum that will be a good dowry for you when you find a husband. If the messenger by whom it is sent asks for you by your name at the door of the palace by which you usually leave it, will he obtain access to you? Yes, sir, the porter at the door knows me, and if he should be changed, whoever is they will inquire of the maids. If he asks for Annette to re-ole, when are the chamberwomen in the north wing of the palace? Very well, Annette. You may rely that a messenger will come. I cannot say how soon. That must depend on other circumstances. But where do you come from? From Portier, sir. My parents live on a little farm called La Mocqueur, two miles north of the city. Then, Annette, the best thing for you to do is to leave your present employment and to journey down home. It will be easy to send from La Rochelle to Portier, and unless the place is besieged, as it is likely to be before long, you will soon hear from us. Probably the messenger will have visited the farm before you reach it. I will do that, sir, the girl said gratefully. I never liked this life, and since that terrible night I have scarcely had any sleep. I seem to hear noises in Christ just as they say the king does, and shall be indeed glad to be away. But I cannot come out with account this evening. We only get out once in five days, and it was only the special favor that I've been let out now. I will come with him to the door talking with him as if he were lackey of my acquaintance. At the hour agreed upon, Philip and Parie stationed a few yards from the door, saw a man and a woman appear. The girl made some laughing remark, and then went back into the palace. The man came out. He made two quick steps and then stumbled, and Philip ran forward, grasping him firmly under the arm. You were just in time, Philip, another step that I should have been down. I am weaker than I thought I was, and the fresh air is well-lined too much for me. I have had a close shave over to Philip, and I'd been nearer death than that attic up there than I was ever on a field of battle. What a good little woman that was. I owe my life to her. It is good of you coming here to find me old fellow. You are always getting me out of scrapes. You remember that affair at Toulouse. Ah, thank you, Parie, but mind, that army I've got hold of is the weak one. Now, how far have we got to go, Philip, for I warn you that I am merely at the end of my strength. We will get into a quiet street for our sprensoir, and there you shall have a drink from a flask of excellent wine I have here. Then we will help you along. You can lean as heavily as you like upon us. You are no great weight now, and anyone who noticed us helping you will suppose that we are conveying a drunken comrade to his home. But in spite of all the assistance they could give him, Francois was terribly exhausted when he reached the launching. Here Philip and Parie bandaged his wounds far more securely and firmly than his nurse had been able to do. And the next morning when he awoke, he declared himself ready to start it once. It was a week, however, before Philip would hear of his making such an effort. But by that time good eating and drinking had done so much for him that he thought he would be able to stand the fatigue of the journey. And the next morning they started. Disguised as peasants, they passed out through the gates unquestioned. Francois was left in the wood with the clothes they had purchased for him. Parie and Philip then went on and found their bundles undisturbed, obtaining their three horses at Versailles. And riding back soon had Francois mounted. The wound on his head was so far healed that it was no longer necessary to bandage it. And although he looked pale and weak, there was nothing about him to attract special notice. They journeyed by easy stages south, lengthening the distance gradually as Francois gained strength. And riding fast towards the end, so as to reach La Rochelle before an army under Marshal Bayreau sat down before it. It was evening when they arrived. And after putting up their horses, they made their way to Montjupeur Troms. Philip mounted the stairs, leaving Francois to follow him slowly. I shall not take more than two or three minutes to break the news. But I must repair your mother a little, Francois. She has not said much, but I know she had but little hope, though she bore up so briefly. The Countess was sitting with Claire and the merchant's daughter. It was the first time Philip had seen Madam Moselle develop horror since they first arrived at La Rochelle. She was dressed now in deep mourning. A flush of bright color spread over her face as Philip entered. As in duty bound, he turned first towards the Countess and saluted her affectionately and then turned to Claire and would have kissed her hand. But the Countess said, Touch, touch, Philip. That is not the way to salute you, betrothed. And Philip, drawing her to him, kissed her for the first time since they had betrothed themselves to each other in the hut in Paris and then saluted Madam Moselle at the Troms. We had been under no uneasiness expecting you, Philip. The Countess said, for Claire and myself both look upon you as having a charmed life. Has your mission been successful? It has, Aunt, beyond my hopes. And first I must ask your pardon for having deceived you. Deceived me, Philip? In what way? My mission was an assumed one and in reality, Paris and I journeyed to Paris. A cry broke from the Countess's lips. To Paris, Philip, and your mission has been successful? You have heard something? I have done more, Aunt. I have found him. The Lord be praised for all his mercies, burst from the lips of the Countess and she threw herself on Philip's neck and burst into a passion of tears. The first she had shed since he brought the news from Paris. Courage, Aunt, Philip whispered. He glanced towards the door. Claire understood him and ran to open it. France's wall came quietly in. Mother and the Countess with a cry of joy ran into his arms. The French army appeared before the town the following day and the siege was at once commenced. With Marshal Bayreau, were the Dukes of Anjou and Alacorn, the King and of Ar and the Prince of Condé who had been compelled to accompany him. The siege made but little progress. The defenses were strong and the Huguenots were not content only to repel assaults, but made fierce sallies, causing a considerable loss to the Seachers. To the surprise of the defenders, they heard that the Count, Dylan Dewey, had arrived in camp with a mission from the King. He had remained de-captive in the camp of the Duke of Elva after the surrender of Mon and so had happily escaped the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. He had then been released and had gone to France to arrange his ransom. The King, who was now tormented with remorse, sent for him and entreated him as a personal favor to go as his commissioner to La Rochelle and to endeavor to bring about a cessation of hostilities, authorizing him to grant almost any terms. Dylan Dewey undertook the task unwillingly and only upon condition that he would be no party to inducing them to surrender and thus perfectly satisfied with the guarantees for the observance of any treaty that might be made. When a flag of truce came forward and announced that Monjour Dylan Dewey had arrived on the part of the King, the news was at first received with incredulity. Then there was a burst of indignation of what was considered the treachery of the court. He was refused permission to enter the town. But after some partying, a party went out to have an interview with him outside the gate. The meeting was unsatisfactory. Some of the citizens pretended that they did not recognize Dylan Dewey, saying that the person they knew was a brave gentleman, faithful to his religion and one who certainly would not be found in a Catholic camp. A few days later, however, the negotiations were renewed. The count pointed out that they could not hope, finally, to resist the whole force of France and that it would be far better for them to make terms now than when in an extremity. But he was able to give no guarantees that were considered acceptable by the citizens. Dylan Dewey's position was exceedingly difficult, but at last the citizens perceived that he was still loyal to the cause and as he had beforehand received the King's authority to accept the governorship of the town, the people of La Rochelle agreed to receive him in that position, provided that no troops entered with him. The negotiations fell through and the siege was renewed with vigor. Dylan Dewey now taking the lead in the defense, his military experience being of immense assistance. Very many of the nobles and gentlemen in the Catholic army were present as a matter of duty. They fought with the usual gallantry of their race, but for the most part, abhor the massacre of Saint Bartholomew and were as strongly of the opinion as were the Huguenots of France and the partisans throughout Europe that it was an indelible disgrace upon France. Their feeling was shown in many ways. Among others, Mar-Avelle, the murderer of Dewey and the man who had attempted the assassination of the Admiral, having accompanied the Duke of Anjou into the camp. No one would associate with him or suffer him to encamp near or even go on guard with him in the trenches and the Duke was in consequence obliged to appoint him to the command of a small fort which was erected on the seashore. Incessant fighting went on, but the position was a singular one. The Duke of Anjou had been an unwilling spectator of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew He was jealous of Anjou and restless and discontented and he contemplated going over to the Huguenots. The king of Navarre and his cousin Condé and the Huguenot gentlemen with him were equally anxious to leave the camp where they were closely watched. Andila Nui while conducting the defense occasionally visited the royal camp and endeavored to bring about a reconciliation. He was much rejoiced on his first arrival at the city to find both Francois and Philip there for he had believed that both had fallen in the massacre. He took great interest in Philip's love affair and made inquiries in the royal camp where he learned that Mlle. Moselle de Velacourt was supposed to have perished with her father in the massacre and that the estates had already been bestowed by the king on one of his favorites. I should say that if our cause should finally triumph. The Count Doulinouis said, a portion at least of her estate will be restored to her but in that case the king would certainly claim to dispose of her hand. I care nothing for the estates nor does she, Philip answered. She'll go with me to England as soon as the fighting here is over. And if things look hopeless, we shall embark and endeavor to break through the blockade of the king's ships. Even had she the estates, she would not remain in France which has become hateful to her. She is now fully restored to health and we shall shortly be married. When Doulinouis next went out to the French camp he sent a dispatch to the king saying that Mlle. Moselle de Velacourt had escaped the massacre and was in La Rochelle. He pointed out that as long as she lived to Huguenot's would, if at any time they became strong enough to make terms, insist upon the restoration of her estates as well as those of others that had been confiscated. He said that he had had a private interview with her and had learned that she intended if a proper provision should be secured for her to retire to England, he therefore prayed this majesty as a favor to him and as an act of justice to require the nobleman to whom he had granted the estates to pay her a handsome sum, then she would make a formal renunciation of the estates in his favor. A month later he received the royal answer saying that the king had graciously taken the case of Mlle. Moselle de Velacourt into his consideration and that he had spoken to the gentleman to whom he had granted her a estate and to the Duke of Guise, whose near relative he was and that these noblemen had placed in his hands the sum of 10,000 lever for which was enclosed in order payable by the treasury of the army upon the signature of Mlle. Moselle de Velacourt and upon the handing over of the document of renunciation signed by her. Manjordi La Nuit had told Philip nothing of these negotiations, having obtained from Claire the necessary signature, he, one evening, on his return from the wheel-camp, came into the room where they were sitting, followed by two servants carrying small but heavy bags. Madam Moselle, he said when the servants had placed these on the table and retired, I have pleasure in handing you these. Philip, Madam Moselle de Velacourt will not come to you as a dourless bride, which indeed would be a shame for a daughter of so old and noble of family. Madam Moselle has signed a formal renunciation of her rights to the estate of her late father, and by some slight good offices on my part, his majesty has obtained for her from the man to whom he has granted the estate de Velacourt, the sum of 10,000 lever, a poor fraction indeed of the estate she should have inherited, and yet a considerable sum itself. A week later, Sir Philip Fletcher and Claire de Velacourt were married in the principal church of La Rochelle. The Count de la Nuit, as a friend and companion in arms of her father, gave her away, and all the Huguenot noblemen and gentlemen in the town were present. Three weeks later, a great assault upon the Bastion, the Evangelie, having been repulsed, the siege languished, the besieging army having suffered greatly both from death and the trenches and assaults, and by the attacks of fever. The Count of Montgomery arrived from England with some reinforcements. De la Nuit resigned to him the governorship and left the city. The Prince of Anjou shortly afterwards received the crown of Poland and left the camp with a number of nobles to proceed to his new kingdom, and the army became so weakened that the siege was practically discontinued and the blockading fleet being withdrawn. Philip and his wife took passage in a ship for England, paris accompanying them. I may come some day with Francois, Philip, the Countess said, but not till I see that the cause is altogether lost. I still have faith that we shall win tolerance. They say that the king is mad and Jew has gone to Poland. Alenco is still unmarried. I believe that it is God's will that Henry of Navarre should come to the throne of France. And if so, there will be peace and toleration in France. So long as a human heart's sword is unsheathed, I shall remain here. Philip had written to a quaintest father and mother of his marriage and his intention to return with his wife as soon as the siege was over. There was therefore but little surprise, although great joy, when he arrived. He had sent off paris on horseback as soon as the ship dropped anchor at Gravesend and followed more leisurely himself. They were met a few miles out of Canterbury by a messenger from his uncle, telling them to ride straight to his new estate, where he would be met by his father and mother, the latter of whom had started the day before in allure for the house, and that his uncle and aunt would be there also. Upon Philip and Clare's arrival, they were received with much rejoicing. Mongeur of Elan had sent round messengers to all the tenetry to assemble and had taken over a number of his own workmen who had decorated the avenue leading to the house with flags and thrown several arches across it. It is a small place in comparison to Alacor, Clare, Philip said as they drove up to the house. It is a fine chateau, Philip, but now that I have you, it would not matter to me, were it but a hut, and, oh, what happiness to think that we have done with persecution and terror and war, and that I may worship God freely and openly. He has been good to me indeed, and if I were not perfectly happy, I should be the most ungrateful of women. Clare's dowry was spent in enlarging the estate and Philip became one of the largest landowners in the country. He went no more to the wars. Save that! When the Spanish Ramada threatened the religion and freedom of England, he embarked as a volunteer on one of Drake's ships and took part in the fierce fighting that freed England forever from the yoke of Rome, and in no small degree aided both in securing the independence of Protestant Holland and of seating Henry of Navarre firmly upon the throne of France. Saved to pay two or three visits to Philip and her sisters. They count Tess de la Ville and her son did not come to England. Francois fought at Ivry and the many other battles took place before Henry of Navarre became undisputed king of France and then became one of the leading nobles of his court. Philip settled a small pension on the four-minute arms who had followed his fortunes and shared his perils and they returned to their native Gascony where they settled down, two being no longer fit for service and the other two having had enough fighting for a lifetime. The Countess had, soon after Francois returned to La Rochelle, sent us some of money to the girl who had saved his life that sufficed to make her the wealthiest heiress in her native village in Poteau and she married a well-to-do farmer that countess herself standing at Godmother to their first child to their immeasurable pride and gratification. Prairie remained to the end of his life in Philip's service taking to himself an English wife and being a great favorite with the children of Philip and Claire who were never tired of listening to the adventures he had gone through with their father and mother and the religious wars in France. End of Chapter 22 End of St. Bartholomew's Eve. Recorded December, 2008.