"But why," Madame St. Lo asked, sticking her arms akimbo, "why stay in
this forsaken place a day and a night, when six hours in the saddle would
set us in Angers?"
"Because," Tavannes replied coldly--he and his cousin were walking before
the gateway of the inn--"the Countess is not well, and will be the
better, I think, for staying a day."
"She slept soundly enough! I'll answer for that!"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"She never raised her head this morning, though my women were shrieking
'Murder!' next door, and--Name of Heaven!" Madame resumed, after breaking
off abruptly, and shading her eyes with her hand, "what comes here? Is
it a funeral? Or a pilgrimage? If all the priests about here are as
black, no wonder M. Rabelais fell out with them!"
The inn stood without the walls for the convenience of those who wished
to take the road early: a little also, perhaps, because food and forage
were cheaper, and the wine paid no town-dues. Four great roads met
before the house, along the most easterly of which the sombre company
which had caught Madame St. Lo's attention could be seen approaching. At
first Count Hannibal supposed with his companion that the travellers were
conveying to the grave the corpse of some person of distinction; for the
cortege consisted mainly of priests and the like mounted on mules, and
clothed for the most part in black. Black also was the small banner
which waved above them, and bore in place of arms the emblem of the
Bleeding Heart. But a second glance failed to discover either litter or
bier; and a nearer approach showed that the travellers, whether they wore
the tonsure or not, bore weapons of one kind or another.
Suddenly Madame St. Lo clapped her hands, and proclaimed in great
astonishment that she knew them.
"Why, there is Father Boucher, the Cure of St. Benoist!" she said, "and
Father Pezelay of St. Magloire. And there is another I know, though I
cannot remember his name! They are preachers from Paris! That is who
they are! But what can they be doing here? Is it a pilgrimage, think
you?"
"Ay, a pilgrimage of Blood!" Count Hannibal answered between his teeth.
And, turning to him to learn what moved him, she saw the look in his eyes
which portended a storm. Before she could ask a question, however, the
gloomy company, which had first appeared in the distance, moving, an inky
blot, through the hot sunshine of the summer morning, had drawn near, and
was almost abreast of them. Stepping from her side, he raised his hand
and arrested the march.
"Who is master here?" he asked haughtily.
"I am the leader," answered a stout pompous Churchman, whose small
malevolent eyes belied the sallow fatuity of his face. "I, M. de
Tavannes, by your leave."