"Then the preparations he has made must be against the Huguenots,"
Lescot, the ex-Provost, said with a sigh of relief. And Thuriot's face
lightened also. "He must intend to hang one or two of the ringleaders,
before he deals with the herd."
"Think it not!" Father Pezelay cried in his high shrill voice. "I tell
you the woman has bewitched him, and he will deny his letters!"
For a moment there was silence. Then, "But dare he do that, reverend
Father?" Lescot asked slowly and incredulously. "What? Suppress the
King's letters?"
"There is nothing he will not dare! There is nothing he has not dared!"
the priest answered vehemently, the recollection of the scene in the
great guard-room of the Louvre, when Tavannes had so skilfully turned the
tables on him, instilling venom into his tone. "She who lives with him
is the devil's. She has bewitched him with her spells and her Sabbaths!
She bears the mark of the Beast on her bosom, and for her the fire is
even now kindling!"
The laymen who were present shuddered. The two canons who faced them
crossed themselves, muttering, "Avaunt, Satan!"
"It is for you to decide," the priest continued, gazing on them
passionately, "whether you will side with him or with the Angel of God!
For I tell you it was none other executed the Divine judgments at Paris!
It was none other but the Angel of God held the sword at Tours! It is
none other holds the sword here! Are you for him or against him? Are
you for him, or for the woman with the mark of the Beast? Are you for
God or against God? For the hour draws near! The time is at hand! You
must choose! You must choose!" And, striking the table with his hand,
he leaned forward, and with glittering eyes fixed each of them in turn,
as he cried, "You must choose! You must choose!" He came to the
Archdeacon last.
The Bishop's Vicar fidgeted in his chair, his face a shade more shallow,
his cheeks hanging a trifle more loosely, than ordinary.
"If my brother were here!" he muttered. "If M. de Montsoreau had
arrived!"
But Father Pezelay knew whose will would prevail if Montsoreau met
Tavannes at his leisure. To force Montsoreau's hand, therefore, to
surround him on his first entrance with a howling mob already committed
to violence, to set him at their head and pledge him before he knew with
whom he had to do--this had been, this still was, the priest's design.
But how was he to pursue it while those gibbets stood? While their
shadows lay even on the chapter table, and darkened the faces of his most
forward associates? That for a moment staggered the priest; and had not
private hatred, ever renewed by the touch of the scar on his brow, fed
the fire of bigotry he had yielded, as the rabble of Angers were
yielding, reluctant and scowling, to the hand which held the city in its
grip. But to have come so far on the wings of hate, and to do nothing!
To have come avowedly to preach a crusade, and to sneak away cowed! To
have dragged the Bishop's Vicar hither, and fawned and cajoled and
threatened by turns--and for nothing! These things were passing
bitter--passing bitter, when the morsel of vengeance he had foreseen
smacked so sweet on the tongue.