DUKE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2015 
 
 https://archive.org/details/demolai01fiag 
 
D B M O L A I : 
 
 THE 
 
 LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAXD MASTERS 
 OF THE ORDER OF TEMPLAR KXIGHTS, 
 
 A ROMANCE OF HISTORY, • 
 
 BY EDMUND FLAGQ 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the prime MINISTER," "THE FAR WEST," "FRANCES OF VALOIS," 
 "the HOWARD QUEEN," " VENICE : THE CITY BY THE SEA," ETC. 
 
 " De Molai : THE Last of the Military Grand Masters of the Order of 
 Templar Knights." dealing with, the persecution and final suppression of the Order 
 of Knights Templar, is a powerful and intensely- interesting historical rqmar.ce of the 
 Fourteenth Century-, the action mainly taking place at the court of Philip the Fourth 
 of France. The novel will be especij^lly prized by the ^Masonic Brotherhood, as it 
 gives the history of tr,e Kr.ighcs Tempiar from the foundation of the Order to its 
 overthrow. There is an ab.'.ndar.ce of picturesque description. Jacques de Molai, 
 the noble Grand Master of the Templar Knighis ; Philip the Fourth and Blanche 
 of Artois are the leading characters , but Adrian de Marigni, !^Iarie Morfontaine and 
 Pope Clement fill important roles. Marie's love for Adrian and the mad interposition 
 of the Countess of ^Slarche form the underplot of the novel and furnish the emotional 
 element. The intrigues and corruption of the French court are fully set forth, and the 
 reader is shown a royal bridal fete. The romance is strikingly dramatic, and many 
 of the scenes are highly impressive. " De ISIolai " will be read with vast interest and 
 enjoj-ment alike by ail Templar Knights, the whole Masonic Fratemitj-, scholars and 
 the public. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA; 
 T. B. PETERSON & BROT.HERS; 
 306 CHESTNUT STEEET. 
 
T. B. 
 
 COPYRrQHTI 
 
 PETERSON & BROTHERS. 
 
 1888. 
 
 "De Molai: the Last of the 31ilitaTy Grand Masters of the Order of 
 Templar Knights" is a historical romance of the reign of Philip the 
 Fourth of France. It gives a graphic picture of the court of that unscru- 
 pulous and ambitions monarch, with its political iyitrigues, its flirtations, 
 its brilliant fUes and its flagrant injustice. Paris in the Fourteenth Cen- 
 tury is vividly sketched, and there are numerous descriptions of the pal- 
 aces, castles, abbeys, cathedrals and prisons of that turbulent time, all of 
 which have the element of picturesqueness. The strong plot deals mainly 
 with the efforts made by the King of France, aided by Pope Clement the 
 Fifth and Blanche of Artois, Countess of Marche, for the suppression of 
 the powerful and wealthy Order of Templar Knights and the success which 
 ultimately crowned those efforts. The main and most impressive figure in 
 the romance is by all odds Jacqua de Molai, the aged and self-sacrificing 
 Grand Master of the Order, and the lofty virtues of his noble character 
 stand out boldly amid the general corruption of the age. A full and reli- 
 able, as well as very readable history of the Templar Knights is given, 
 which will make the book highly interesting and valuable to members of 
 the iVasonic Brotherhood everywhere. The rivalry of Blanche of Artois 
 and Marie Morfontaine for the love of Adrian de Mar igni forms the sub- 
 plot and adds vastly to the absorbing interest of the skilfully constructed 
 novel. 3Iany of the scenes are intensely dramatic, and an exceedingly 
 thrilling incident is the compact between the king and Bertrand de Goth 
 in the Abbey of St. Jean d'Angely, while a thunderstorm is in progress. 
 But the entire romance is worthy of more than ordinary attention , and 
 that it will score a brilliant success seems almost certain. 
 
TO 
 
 DE MOLAY MOUNTED COMMANDERY, 
 
 OF 
 
 THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 
 IN MEMORY OF 
 THE LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS 
 OF THE TEMPLE, 
 BY WHOSfi ILLUSTRIOUS NAME 
 THAT COMMANDERY AND THIS VOLUME 
 ARE HONORED. 
 
 (13) 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Chapter. Page. 
 
 I. THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D'ANGELY 23 
 
 II. PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. , , . 50 
 
 III. THE BRIDAL FETE 58 
 
 IV. THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. . . , , 77 
 
 T. THE lo^t:rs. = 83 
 
 Yl. THE ROYAL HUNT. . , , , . , 92 
 
 YII. THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON 102 
 
 VIII. THE LETTER. Ill 
 
 IX. THE VISION. , . , . Ill: 
 
 X. THE MISSIVE. . . , , , 121 
 
 XI. THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. . , 125 
 
 XII. THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE 
 
 KNIGHT. e 133 
 
 XIII. THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. a ...... . 149 
 
 XIV. THE WARRIOR- MONKS 159 
 
 XV. THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. . 171 
 
 XVI. THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER, . . . 183 
 
 XVII. THE REFORM 198 
 
 (15) 
 
16 CONTENTS. 
 
 XVm. THE FAEEWELL 204 
 
 XIX. THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS 215 
 
 XX. THE ARREST. . c ....... . 230 
 
 XXI. THE CASTLE 07 CllINON. . . . . . 238 
 
 XXn. THE COMPROMISE. 251 
 
 XXIII. THE GAUNTLET 261 
 
 XXIV. THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINET 282 
 
 ' XXV. THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. .- . . 294 
 
 XXVI. THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC 
 
 PRELATE 307 
 
 XXVII. THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE .....316 
 
 XXVIIL THE PEOPLE OF PARIS .326 
 
 XXIX. THE MARTYRDOM. 344 
 
 - XXX. THE RETRIBUTION. 357 
 
 - XXXI. THE CONCLUSION . 366 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 rr^ HE following pages are designed to illustrate 
 a remarkable era in the annals of France 
 and of Europe, and to recite events and portray 
 personages that rendered it thus remarkable. 
 
 With the single exception of the Templar epi- 
 sode in " Ivanhoe," the writer recalls no attempt 
 in English fiction to depict the character, much 
 less to outline the history and career, or to detail 
 the fearful fate of that wonderful Brotherhood of 
 Warrior-Monks, of the Order of Templar Knights, 
 whose fame for two centuries resounded through- 
 out Christendom ; and which, as a peaceful Affili- 
 ation, has existed to this day. 
 
 The writer in these pages has endeavored to 
 convey as much of information relative to the 
 Order of the Temple as could be gathered by faith- 
 ful examination and careful collation of most 
 
 (17) 
 
18 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 authentic records, consistently with that exciting 
 incident and rapid action indispensable to the 
 dramatic interest of even an historical novel. 
 Facts and dates may, therefore, he trusts, be re- 
 lied on as correct; while the reader may indulge 
 the reflection, also, that each one of the many 
 names that occur in this dark chronicle of strange 
 crimes is that of an individual who actually had 
 existence in the age and country specified, and 
 whose character and career were actually those 
 therein ascribed to him. The writer has but 
 taken him down for a time from his niche in the 
 Historic Fane; breathed into his nostrils the 
 breath of life ; placed in his head a human brain 
 and into his breast a human heart and set them 
 in motion; and then suffered him to act agreeably 
 to the dictates of the one and the impulses of the 
 other, in order to work out, as best he might, the 
 destiny History has assigned him. 
 
 Highland View, YiRGiNiAi 
 September, 1888. 
 
MITE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE. 
 
 THE Illustrated Title Page presents tlie Grand 
 Master of Templar Knights, in the mantle 
 of his Order, bearing the Abacus, or baton of his 
 office, -which in the peaceful Affiliation of to-day is 
 the same it was more than six centuries ago. 
 There is. and can be. but one such sceptre of au- 
 thority in the Grand Encampment of the United 
 States ; and that now in use was presented by 
 Most Eminent Grand Master Hubbard on retiring 
 from office nearly thirty years ago. accompanied 
 by the statement that " the mystic characters, 
 and the mottoes, and the general appearance are 
 in strict accordance with the baton used by our 
 Martyr Grand Master. James De Molay." 
 
 The mantle prescribed by the Eule of St. Ber- 
 nard, as part of the Templar garb in Priory, was 
 required to be white, in order that, in the words 
 of the Saint of Clairvaux_. those who have cast 
 behind them a dark life may be reminded, that 
 they are thenceforth to commend themselves to 
 
 ^19j 
 
20 NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLEo 
 
 their Creator by a pure and white life." Some 
 years later, a red eight-pointed cross, the Templar 
 Cross, on the left shoulder of the mantle, was pre- 
 scribed by Pope Eugenius, as a symbol of mar- 
 tyrdom. 
 
 On each side of the Grand Master stands a 
 Knight Templar in similar garb, bearing the bat- 
 tle-banner of the Temple, the terrible Beauseant, 
 alike the war-cry of the Templar and the name of 
 his ensign — half black, half white — " which 
 means," says the old chronicler, Jacques De Vitry, 
 in the Gallic iowgxiQ Bien-seant (well-becoming), 
 because the Knights are fair and favorable to friends 
 of Christ, but black and menacing to his foes." 
 
 There is another ensign associated with the 
 Temple — the red Passion Cross on a white field, 
 with the legend of Constantine, "In hoc signo 
 vincesr 
 
 Very different from the Templar s garb of the^ 
 cloister, as a monk, though with light mail on his 
 limbs, and spurs at his heels, and sword at his 
 side, was his full panoply of war as a Knight, 
 when, clad in steel from head to foot, with 
 the beaver of his helmet up and visor down, he 
 bestrode a powerful steed, steel-protected, like: 
 himself — with heavy cross-hilted sword on thigh, 
 
NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE; 21 
 
 and ponderous battle-axe at saddle-bow, he grasped 
 with one mailed hand his chain bridle, and with 
 the other a lance "like a weavers beam." 
 
 At the upper corners of the Title Page is the 
 Templar shield ; and the feet of the supporting 
 Knights rest on the Templar Cross of the Beau- 
 seant and mystic Abacus. Above all is seen the 
 Passion Cross of the Templar's faith, triumphant 
 over the Saracen Crescent; while below, sustain- 
 ing all, are beheld those grand words of the 
 Hebrew monarch which open the 115th Psalm : 
 Xi)t unto us, 0 Lord, not unto us, hut unto Tluj 
 name give glory'' — which was the triumph-hymn 
 of the Temple, as it was, and is, also, the mag- 
 nificent anthem of their church, and was raised 
 by the victorious warrior-priests on many a bloody 
 field; for, "always, and on every field," says 
 Addison, "was borne the Templar Altar for Mass, 
 in special charge of the Guardian of the Chapel." 
 Strange association of religion with slaughter ! 
 On a field burthened with the slain and drenched 
 with their blood, mailed forms, at a signal, sink 
 meekly down ; and, kneeling on human corpses, 
 raise mailed hands incarnadined with gore, and 
 give the glory of their fearful acts to the great 
 Creator of, alike^ victor and vanquished ! 
 
22 NOTE TO ILLUSTRATED TITLE. 
 
 But thus has it ever been, even from that earli- 
 est of triumphal hymns — that of Miriam, four 
 thousand years ago, praising the Lord who had 
 ^'triumphed gloriously," down through the centu- 
 ries, to the latest bulletin of victory, " by the grace 
 of God," from the latest field of the dead ! 
 
 As a peaceful Affiliation, the power of the Tem- 
 ple, ai regards membership, far exceeds, at this 
 date, that of the palmiest day of its military pride. 
 In the United States alone it numbers, by official 
 returns, more than 70,000 Knights, in nearly 800 
 commanderies ; while in Europe, and elsewhere, 
 the aggregate, though less, is very large. The 
 dying words of the martyred De Molai, six cen- 
 turies ago, are strangely verified : " I, indeed, perish, 
 but my beloved Order will live ! " And now, in 
 distant Iowa, then a wilderness in an undiscovered 
 land, there are more than 50 commanderies, and 
 nearly 4,000 Templar Knights ! The aggregate of 
 Royal Arch and Master Masons, subordinate to the 
 Temple, approximates 800,000 in the United 
 States. 
 
DE MO LA I: 
 
 THE 
 
 LAST OF THE MILITARY GRAND MASTERS 
 OF THE ORDER OF TEMPLAR KNIGHTS. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAX d'aXGELY. 
 
 i^rriHE traveller wants liis horse P' 
 X ''^Vants wliat?^' 
 "Wants his horse."' 
 
 " Holy St. Benedict I—his horse at this time of the 
 night, and snch a night ! 
 
 He wants his horse,"' reiterated the slipshod servant- 
 maid, standing pertinaciously at the door half- ajar. 
 
 '* Get you gone, you brainless baggage ! — to bed with 
 you! "' shouted the old man. 
 
 Tlie girl disappeared and the door closed. 
 
 " His horse, indeed, on a night like tliis I "' soliloquized 
 the host of the Bois St. Jean d'Angely, resuming his seat 
 by the blazing lire of wood, which roared up the vast 
 throat of the stone chimney. " That foolish Gascon girl 
 
24 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 is getting more and more foolish every day. Just as 
 everybody is going to bed, lo! in she rushes, half-asleep, 
 and shouts — 'The traveller wants his horse!' Out on 
 the fool!" 
 
 The old clock that stood in the corner struck tbe half 
 hour after ten. The wind howled down the chimney 
 and wailed in the crannies, and shrieked through the 
 key-holes, and raved around the corners of the old stone 
 mansion and absolutely roared, like a huge organ-pipe, 
 along the vast forest of St. Jean d'Angely, on the skirts 
 of which it stood. 
 
 It was the night of the 5th day of August, 1305. St. 
 Jean d'Angely was a small village of France, in Gascony, 
 in the ancient province of Saintonge, in the department 
 • of the Lower Charente and the diocese of the Saintes. It 
 stood on the outskirts of an extensive forest, known as 
 tlie forest of St. Jean d'Angely, nearly midway between 
 Poitiers and Bordeaux. 
 
 It was a wild night, — as dark as Erebus; and the wind 
 'howled, and shrieked, and raved, and roared, and wailed, 
 and whistled; and, from time to time, the rain dashed 
 furiously against the casements, and the thunder rumbled 
 in the distance. 
 
 " Man and boy, I've lived on this spot full five and 
 seventy years," muttered the old man, cowering over the 
 fire, " and never have I known a night like this. My, 
 it's almost as cold as winter, and this is only August! " 
 he added, stretching his withered hands over the genial 
 blaze. " Wants his horse, a night like this ! " he con- 
 tinued, after a pause, with a faint laugh. " Wonder who 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'AXGELY. 
 
 25 
 
 lie is? He comes from the North, — perhaps from Poi- 
 tiers, — perhaps from Paris, and seems to be a traveller 
 on a journey. Well — well, he can't leave before morn- 
 ing, nor then, either, unless the stoim abates; and it 
 Avill go hard if I doirt discover who he may be. So I'll 
 e'en to bed. Everybody sleeps." 
 
 The old man rose, and having taken heed to the safety 
 of the fire, took up his lamp, and was about tottering 
 from the room, when he was arrested by the noise of a 
 heavy tread in the apartment above, which, descending 
 the creaking staircase, evidently drew nigh. The next 
 moment the door was flung wide, and, upon the thresh- 
 old, the traveller of whom he had spoken appeared. 
 ■ He was a man of apparently forty, — tall, large, and 
 powerfidly built. His eyes were dark and penetrating, 
 his hair black and closely cut, and on his lip w^as a thick 
 moustache. His air was lofty, and his bearing that of 
 one accustomed to command. Energy, enterprise and 
 indomitable will were traced on his thin, compressed 
 lips, and in the lines upon his broad and swarthy brow. 
 And, yet, with all the pride and decision of his aspect, 
 and all else that might be deemed repulsive, there w^as 
 that about him which warranted the judgment that pro- 
 nounced him "the handsomest man in Europe." His 
 garb 7/as a close travelling dress of dark cloth, confined 
 by a broad leathern belt around his waist, from which 
 hung a heavy sword. Over this was a cloak of scarlet, 
 lined Avith fur, and bearing a huge cape, which, like a 
 second cloak, descended half-way to the heels. The 
 cloak was secured by a golden clasp on the right shoulder, 
 
26 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 in a manner to leave tbe arm at liberty to handle the 
 sword, while, on the left side, it was tucked up above 
 the sword, and behind hung loosely in heavy folds nearly 
 to the ground. A velvet cap ornamented with lace, over 
 which was a kind of hood with a broad cushion on the 
 top, called a chaperon^ and a tail hauging down behind, 
 protected the head. On his feet were boots with pointed 
 toes. The lace upon the cap and the fur upon the cloak 
 of scarlet cloth, as well as the length of the toes of the 
 boots and the size of the chaperon^ indicated the wearer 
 to be a person of distinction. 
 
 At this formidable apparition on the threshold, the 
 old landlord had started, and had well nigh dropped his 
 lamp. Kecovering himself, however, he bowed before 
 his unexpected guest and humbly asked his will. 
 
 "My horse, sir!" was the stern reply. " How often 
 must a traveller order his horse in your ruinous old 
 cabaret before being obeyed? " 
 
 " But, your highness," began the old man in earnest 
 expostulation. 
 
 "No words, sir! — the horse! was the imperative 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "It is a dreadful night," again ventured the host, as he 
 slunk towards the door ; " and your highness had better" — 
 
 " The horse ! " thundered the deep voice of the trav- 
 eller. 
 
 And, without further word, the landlord fled precipi- 
 tately from the apartment, holding up his hands in 
 dismay. 
 
 No wonder the old fellow is amazed," soliloquized 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAX d'AInGELY. 
 
 27 
 
 the traveller witli a smile, as the host disappeared. " It 
 is, indeed, a fearfal night. Xot a star I'' he coutiniied, 
 going to the casement and looking fortli. " Yeiy well. 
 So much the better. I wonder if lie will be thei'e?"' he 
 added, after a pause, slowly pacing the floor, which 
 creaked beneath his heavy tread, with folded arms and 
 eves fixed thonghtfidly on the ground. "Be there? 
 Hell itself couldn't keep him from such a rendezvous, or 
 Heaven either, as to that, after the inducements that he 
 has received! Oh, he'll be there, and at the appointed 
 hour, although, if this old fool detains me much longer, 
 I may not." 
 
 Luckily for the landlord, the traveller cauoht the 
 sound of horses' hoofs at this moment on the stone p^ave- 
 ment, in the yard of the hotel, and immediately hurried 
 to the principal entrance. Opening the door, he was 
 nearly thrown backward by the fiii'ious blast that rushed 
 in. In front stood the old host, holding fost with both 
 hands to the bridle of the terrified horse. Tlie traveller 
 closed the door and advanced. The horse with head 
 throAvn up, and eyes starting from their sockets, and mane 
 streaniing in the blast, at once recognized his master as 
 he approached, and rubbed his head against his arm in 
 token of recognition. The traveller placed a piece of 
 gold in the hand of the host, and leaped upon liis horse. 
 
 " Holy St. Benedict; '' cried the host, whither do you 
 go on a niglit like this?" 
 
 ''To the Abbey of St. Jean d'Angcly," Avas the brief 
 reply; and wheeling his horse the ti'aveller dashed into 
 a road which plunged into the depths of the forest. 
 2 
 
28 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 "May all the saints preserve him!" ejaculated the old 
 man, as he returned to his liotel and found that the piece 
 of gold repaid him ten times over the traveller's fare. 
 
 The midnight tem})est roared through the ibrest, and 
 the giant trees bowed before the blast, as the adven- 
 turous traveller urged on his steed. 
 
 On — on,— mile after mile, fled the terrified animal 
 through the impenetrable gloom of the midnight forest; 
 and on, still on, he was urged hj his rider. At first, the 
 path was broad and open ; but soon it became winding 
 and intricate, and, at length, the darkness was so 
 intense that further progress seemed impossible. 
 
 Dismounting from his sweating horse, the traveller 
 led him by the bridle, and endeavored to trace the path. 
 But this was impossible, and, after repeatedly wandering 
 from his route, he remounted the saddle and resolved to 
 trust rather to the instinct of the noble animal than to ^ 
 his own less acute senses. 
 
 • For several miles the horse slowly advanced. At 
 length, suddenly sto})ping, he threw up his head and 
 loudly snorled. The next moment a voice was heard in 
 the darkness. 
 " Bordeaux ! " 
 
 "Eome!" was the quick response of the traveller, 
 who at once dismounted. 
 
 A figure advanced and the traveller's hand was closely 
 grasped. 
 
 " Are you alone? " asked the horseman. 
 ■ " I am," was the reply. 
 
 "Swear I" was the imperious order. 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D'ANGELY. 29 
 
 "Sire, I swear." 
 
 '•Then, on to tbe Abbe;/, for, by St. Louis, it is so 
 infernally dark in this old forest that it is impossible to 
 distinguish a tree from a tower.'' 
 
 "Permit me to lead," replied the first voice. "The 
 Abbey is but a few yards to the right." 
 
 " You received my summons ? 
 
 "Sire, I did." 
 
 "ISTo one accompanied you to the Abbey, or knows of 
 yonr coming ? " 
 
 " No one, Sire. I left Bordeaux alone." 
 
 " And reached the Abbej- a'one? " 
 
 "About two hours since." 
 
 "And no one knows of 3'our arrival?" 
 
 " Sire, the inmates of the Abbey have been asleep for 
 hours. I have the key to a low postern, which leads to 
 a secret turret. Besides, tlie night favors us; — Avho on 
 such a night would brave the tempest or suspect others 
 of braving it — " 
 
 " A3'e, who but Philip of France, or Bertrand de Gotli, 
 Archbisliop of Bordeaux?" 
 
 "Sire — Sire, if it please jou^ not quite so loud!" 
 cried the trembling ecclesiastic. " We are at the Abbey." 
 
 At this moment, the forest path emerged upon a broad 
 and closely shaven area, beyond which rose in iiTcguhir 
 masses, against tlie midnight sky, the towers of the 
 ancient Abbey of St. Jean d'Angely. 
 
 "This way, Sire! " 
 
 And the priest conducted his companion to the left of 
 the main entrance, through thickets of tangled under- 
 
80 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D'ANGELY. 
 
 brusli, and through the old woods tintil they reached the 
 foot of a tower, against which the enormous trees swept 
 their heavy branches. 
 
 Applying a key to a low iron door, at the base of the 
 tower, it opened. The horse was secured to a tree, and, 
 grasping his companion by the hand, the priest led the 
 way np a narrow and winding stair, practised in the depth 
 of the massive wall, until their progress was arrested by 
 a second door, likewise of iron. This door flew open be- 
 fore the priest, apparently by means of some secret spring 
 which he touched, for he used i.o key, and the two men 
 were the next moment in a small turret chamber, heavil}^ 
 hung with tapestry of black velvet, with but one window, 
 which was also heavily draped. At the extremity of 
 the apartment stood an altar surmounted by the crucifix, 
 and lighted by twelve waxen tapers, and decorated as for 
 solemn mass. 
 
 The two men, revealed to each other by the light of 
 these sacred tapers, presented a contrast well worthy of a 
 moment's pause. 
 
 Philip the Fourth, of France, if not absolutely "the 
 handsj^mesi man in Europe," as the distinction which his- 
 tory has given him, — Philip le Bel^ — would imply, had, 
 at least, very few rivals ; and, among these rivals, cer- 
 tainly was not Berti'and de Goth, the Primate of 
 Bordeaux. Philip was tall in person and kingly in bear- 
 ing ; Bertrand was short and corpulent. The (ront of 
 the king was bold, frank, open ; that of the priest was 
 sinister, suspicious, cautious. The former was the lion, 
 — the latter the serpent; yet the aspect of each indicated 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'AXGELY. 
 
 31 
 
 power and ability, — a power and an ability, as well as 
 an ambition, of which, even after the lapse of more than 
 five centuries, the marks can be distinctly traced on the 
 era and npon the nations in which tijey lived. 
 
 As the King entei'ed the turret chamber, his hand 
 rested on his sword, and his dark, penetrating eye 
 glanced hastily around, sweeping the narrow limits of 
 the apartment fi'om its arched roof to its stony pavement. 
 
 Two heavy chairs and a table of oak, on which were 
 candles and materials for writing, constituted, with the 
 altar, tlie entire furniture of the room. 
 
 " Will your Majesty be seated ? " humbly asked the 
 ecclesiastic, presenting one of the chairs. 
 
 Tlie King returned no reply, but continued his exam- 
 ination of the chamber. 
 
 Eaising the tapestry he sounded the walls with the 
 hilt of his sword, and the floor with his armed heel, to 
 detect, if possible, concealed apertures, if such there 
 were. He even examined the altar itself, that he might 
 be sure it concealed no listener; and, at an age wdien 
 poison was actually administered in the holy wafer, it 
 was not strange that a traitor nnght be suspected to lurk 
 beneath the altar of God. 
 
 " ^ylll your Majesty be seated?" again asked the 
 priest 
 
 "Are we alone? " sternly demanded the King. 
 "Sire, we are! " was the trembling reply, 
 " Swear!" 
 
 "I swear!" said the priest, laying his hand on the 
 Gospels, which were spread open on the altar. 
 
32 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D'ANGELY. 
 
 " It is well," said tlie King, placing his drawn sword 
 upon the table, and taking one of the chairs. 
 The priest remained standing. 
 ''Be seated. Sir!" said the King. 
 The Archbishop obeyed. 
 
 For some moments Philip sat silent, his searching 
 eyes fixed steadfastly on the trembling priest. 
 
 "Bertrand de Goth," he, at length, said, in deep and 
 impressive tones, "yon are my deadliest foe ! " 
 
 The priest sprang to his feet, and his hand sought the 
 bosom of his cassock, while beneath that garment glit- 
 tered the links of a shirt of mail, as well as the blade 
 of a dagger. 
 
 A contemptuous smile passed over the calm face of 
 the King, as he quietly waved to his startled companion 
 to resume his chair. 
 
 The priest reluctantly complied, but still kept the 
 wakeful vigil of his serpent eye on the powerful form 
 before him. 
 
 " I say. Sir Priest," repeated the King, " that, since the 
 deserved and dreadful doom of Benedict Gaetan, Pope 
 Boniface Eighth, you, Bertrand de Goth, who now aspire 
 to his vacant chair, are mj deadliest foe." 
 
 Tlje Archbishop, pale as death, and wondering to what 
 this strange charge might lead, retained his seat in 
 silence. A personal struggle with a man of Philip's 
 powers he knew could only prove fatal to himself; 
 while in craft and subtlety he thought he might prove a 
 match even for the King. This, indeed, was his only 
 hope. 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'aXGELY. 
 
 33 
 
 "T repeat, Sir, and you dare not deny."" resumed the 
 King, ''that all the censures, interdicts and excommuni- 
 cations launched so freely on myself and my realm 
 for nearly ten years by Benedict Gaetan Avei'e counseled 
 by you, and sustained hy you, and that as a ]e\vard for 
 that support and countenance, you. were first advanced 
 by your master to the See of Cominges and linally to the 
 splendid Archbishopric of Bordeaux."' 
 
 "But Benedict Gaetan lives no more,'" was the reply. 
 
 " Aye. he lives no more I " cr'ed the King, the bitter 
 smile of gratified vengeance lighting his quivering lip 
 and the fires of exultation flashing in his eye. '"Bene- 
 dict Gaetan lives no more. And how did he die? 
 Even as the dog dies, so died he ; and thus perish all the 
 foes of France I "' 
 
 The Archbishop shuddered and became even more 
 livid than before. 
 
 Sliall I tell you how he died ? " continued the King. 
 "Abandoning the Vatican, besought sal'ety in his native 
 village of Anagni from my vengeance on his crimes. 
 There DeiN'ogaret, with Sciarra Colonna and his soldiers, 
 seized him. In his rage he blasphemed God, abjured 
 Christ, and cursed the King of Fi-ance to the fourth 
 generation. Next delirium came on him. and in par- 
 oxj'sms of madness he gnawed his own flesh in agony: 
 and he died I And then was recalled tlie pro'diecy of 
 his victim-predecessor, the unhappy Peter de Mouron, 
 Pope Celestin Fifth, — ' Curses on thee, Benedict Gaetan I 
 Thou hast mounted the throne like a fox, thou wilt 
 reio'D like a lion and die like a dog 1 ' And so it wasl" 
 
34 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 Silence for some moments succeeded this wratlifa] 
 outburst of the King, 
 
 " And was it to repeat to me tlie fearful doom of Bon- 
 iface," at length the priest ventured to say, " that your 
 Majesty summoned me hither? " 
 
 " It was ! " quickly and sternly answered the King. 
 
 "Amen!" ejaculated the Archbishop. "But, Sire, to 
 what end ? " 
 
 "To this end — to make my fiercest foe my fastest 
 friend!" 
 
 Tlie pries! raised his ej^es in amazement, but they met 
 the fixed gaze of Philip and again sought the ground. 
 
 " Bertrand de Goth," said the King, " you know me ; " 
 then, after a pause, he added: " And I, Sir, know you ! " 
 
 The Archbishop bowed. 
 
 "I know you fur the most daring and unscrupulous 
 prelate in Christendom." 
 The priest again bowed. 
 
 " I know tliat you fear not Heaven nor Hell, and 
 ■-regard not God nor man." 
 Again the primate bowed. 
 
 "I know you as tlie faithful neophyte of Boniface 
 Eighth, — and he was my foe!" 
 The priest started. 
 
 "And, since that man's deserved and dreadful doom,! 
 know no primate in Europe, wlio can be a more dan- 
 gerous foe, or a more efficient friend, to me and to my 
 cause, than you can." 
 
 "Sire — Sire! " exclaimed the astonished priest, rising 
 to throw himself at the King's feet. 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 35 
 
 "Nay — nay— not yet!" replied Philip, with a gesture 
 of repulse. " Be seated, Sir; you have heard not all." 
 
 The primate resumed his chair, and, folding his arms 
 upon his breast, fixed his eyes humbly on the ground. 
 
 " Bertrand de Goth," said the King, "you are of an 
 ancient race; — your father was a Knight of Villan- 
 drean, and your uncle Bishop of Agen. From your 
 infancy you have been destined to the church, and, in 
 ecclesiastical knowledge, you have no rival." 
 
 The prelate bowed and murmured a faint acknow- 
 ledgment. 
 
 "You are a man of influence, ability, scholarship, 
 accomplishment — " 
 
 " Sire — Sire I " interrupted the astonished Archbishop. 
 
 " And you are a man of vice, cruelty, hypocrisy 
 and guilt.'' 
 
 The priest was silent. 
 
 " But, above all, for my purpose, you are a man of 
 ambition, — measureless — fathomless ambition. To win 
 the rewards of ambition, there is no depth of guilt into 
 which you would not descend,— there is no principle 
 however sacred which you Avould not sacrifice. Am I 
 right?" 
 
 The priest returned no reply. 
 
 " Am I right, I ask ! " sternly repeated the King. 
 
 The prelate bowed. 
 
 " Yery well. It is but fit that two men such as we 
 are, — such as you know me to be, and as I know you to 
 be, should understand each other, before we make a com- 
 pact." 
 
86 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 " A compact, Sire? " exclaimed the Arclib'sLop. 
 
 " Aje, a compact. You bave lieai'd of compacts with 
 tLe fiend himself, have 3^011 not? The theme I had sup- 
 posed a favorite one with you churchmen!" 
 
 "A compact of friendship, Sire?" inquired De Goth. 
 
 "Friendsliip 1 AVhat friendship can ever exist be- 
 tween two men who have hated each other as we have, 
 and still do hate each other ns we do? Friendsliip, 
 indeed! No, Sir — 0I1, no! A compact of interest ! " 
 
 "And what interest of your Majesty can the poor 
 primate of Bordeaux advance ? " 
 
 "Ask rather that which is uppermost in your mind, 
 what intei'est of the primate of Bordeaux can Philip of 
 France advance? But we waste time. To the point. 
 When Philip the Hardy, my father, died, he bequeathed 
 to mv fulfillment three schemes which he had in vain 
 striven himself to fulfill: the first was to seat on the 
 throne of Arragon my brother, Charles of Valois, on whom 
 Pope Martin Fourth bestowed the sceptre of an excom- 
 municated king: — second, to establish the children of 
 Blanche de la Cerda on the throne of Castile ; and, third, 
 to reduce the rebels of Sicily, and avenge the thirty 
 thousand Fj'enchmen who perished in the slaughter of 
 the Sicilian Yespers." 
 
 " And are these your schemes. Sire ? " asked De Goth. 
 
 "No, indeed,'' replied the King with a laugh; " ch, 
 no! Besides, if they were, what aid could you render in 
 their accomplishment ? " 
 
 ''Sire, I despair of rendering aid in any of your 
 schemes." 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'aNGELY. 
 
 37 
 
 "How humble your Excellency lias become ! Oli, no. 
 My scliemes are not the schemes of my father. Tliey 
 called him Philip the Hard}^, and me they call Philip 
 the Handsome, and yet by the bones of my worthy 
 grandfather Louis, of whom Boniface made a Saint to 
 atone in anticipation somewhat, I suppose, for the 
 wrongs he Avas about to inflict on his descendant, — I 
 sav, notwithstanding my fatlier was the Hardy Philip, 
 and T am the Plandsome Philip, I have had a more turbu- 
 lent reign than he had; — what with wars with the 
 English, and the Flemish, and Pope Boniface Eighth of 
 cursed memory. My schemes. Sir priest, he within my 
 own realm for their fulfillment; and to me it is enough 
 that you can advance them, your modesty to the con- 
 trarj" nevertheless, — jou can advance them I say, if I 
 think proper to advance you ! " 
 
 "To advance me, your jMajesty? " 
 
 "To be sure — to advance you. Of what service can 
 3'ou now be to me? But a moment since you were your- 
 self in despair of aiding me in an}^ of my schemes." 
 
 " And still am so, Sire," was the meek answer. 
 
 "Come — come — you. are too humble by half," said the 
 King. " Such abasement flatters some weak souls, but 
 it is loathsome to me. Let us talk of Mother Church. 
 What news from Eome ?• What of the new Pope ? " 
 
 "Nicholas of Trevisohas not jei been long enough in 
 the papal chair to accomplish anything of moment, Sire; 
 but he has been there long enough to incur the hate of 
 his whole college of cardinals, I learn. This, indeed, is 
 tlie latest news from Eome." 
 
38 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'aNGELY. 
 
 " And why do tliej liate tlie good Benedict, my 
 worthy Bertrand? " 
 
 The Archbishop sliook his head. 
 
 "Shall I tell you? It is because lie Las not obeyed 
 the injunction of Boniface when he elevated the man, 
 who, from a preaching friar, was promoted to the post 
 of sub-prior, then prior, then provincial, and finally 
 general of his order, — to the Cardinalate and Archbish- 
 opric of Ostia." 
 
 " And that injunction, Sire ? " 
 
 " Was this — 'Be less pious, or be more hated ! 
 
 "His piety then has excited the hate of his cardinals, 
 your Majesty would say ? " 
 
 " Plow quick you are, my good Bertrand ! France 
 has a right to claim a few cardinals' hats, has she not? " 
 
 "The French clergy has been neglected. Sire." 
 
 " And Pope Benedict Eleventh could send a red hat 
 to cover the pious pate of the right-reverend Bertrand 
 de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux, might he not ? " 
 
 "The Holy Father has the power, Sire." 
 
 "But has not the will, you were about to add, my 
 pious Bertrand? " 
 
 "I have no hopes of advancement. Sire, at the hands 
 of Pope Benedict. I opposed his elevation." 
 
 " And had you favored it ? " 
 
 " Still, I should have no hope." 
 
 "Pope Benedict is not immortal, my good Bertrand. 
 Pope Boniface was not, you know." 
 
 A faint, but significant smile played on the lip of the 
 crafty prelate. 
 
THE ABBEY OE ST. JEAX d'aXGELY. 
 
 39 
 
 '•Besides." contii^iied tlie King, "you said but now 
 tliat Lis cardinals liated liini."' 
 I did. Sire."' 
 
 And you said, too. that tliis was your latest intelli- 
 gence from Eorne, was it not so ? "' 
 " It was. Sire."' 
 
 ''Then I have news from Eome later than yours. 
 Your courier says the cardinals hate the Pope — my 
 courier savs the cardinals have poisoned the Po|_^el 
 
 "Sire — Sire!"" exclaimed the astonished Archbishop, 
 springing to his feet. Can tiiis be so ? 
 
 "Oil, be seated — be seated, mv good Bertrand."' 
 quietly replied Pliilip. ''It not only can be so. but it 
 actually is so. Let me see — this is the sixth day of 
 August ? ■^" 
 
 "It is Sire — the Feast oF the Transfiguration."' 
 '"How well you remember the Feast-davs, mv good 
 Bertrand."" said tiie King, surveying the sleek and rubi- 
 cund hice. the portly and well-fed s'des of his priestlv 
 companion. "Po you remember the Fast-days as 
 well?" 
 
 Tiie Archbishop smiled. 
 
 '"To-day. then, is the Feast of the Transfigm^ation."' 
 resumed Puilip. "AVhat Feast was there at Eume some 
 tvro Aveeks ago. — on the twentieth day of July ? " 
 
 "The Feast of St. James.'" 
 
 ''Very well. On the day of this grand festival, 
 the good Pope gave a grand dinner to his whole college 
 of cardinals, — those cardinals who so hated him, you 
 know. While at table, a nun of the monastery of St. 
 
40 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 Peter ville, — so goes the tale, — presented Lerself, and, in 
 tbe name of tlie Lady Abbess, who was one of his peni- 
 tents, offered to the good Benedict some freshly -culled 
 figs, -upon a silver salver. The Holy Father could not 
 and did not l efuse them. He ate two, and offered the 
 others to his guests. They, of course, coald not think 
 of depriving his Holiness of a rarity, which he loved so 
 well, and, at their urgent solicitation, he ate the rest. 
 That night he was seized with intestinal pains, and, 
 before morning, the ])apal chair was vacant. Such is 
 the tale, the moral of which seems to be this, that 
 freshly-culled figs do not agree with a p'.ous Pope, — ■ 
 especially, as subsequently came to light, wlien pre- 
 sented by a cardinal who hates him, disguised as a nun 
 of St. Peterville!" 
 
 " And the successor to the Papal See?" 
 
 "Is not as yet elected." 
 
 "And the cause, Sire? " 
 
 "The canse seems to be this: From the first day of 
 the assemblage of the conclave at Perouse, the cardinals 
 were divided into two parties, each of tliem too weak to 
 overthrow, and too strong to be overthrown by the 
 other. . The Guelphs, led by Francis G-aetan, the brother 
 of the departed Benedict, demand an Hah an cardinal, 
 a friend of Boniface; the Ghibehnes, led by the Cardinal 
 de Prato"— 
 
 "^i^ie Cardinal de Prato, S:rc!" 
 
 "Yes, the Cardinal de Prato, my friend and your foe 
 
 * WilliaiD de Kogaret and Sciarra Colomia are charged liy historians with 
 the poisoning of Benedict XI. Ferreus Vicentlnus accuses'Philip hiniseH,— 
 these men being his agents. 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 41 
 
 I say, tlie. Ghibelines led by De Prato demand a French 
 cardinal, a friend of Pliilip." 
 
 "And is tlie conclave still in session at Peronse, 
 Sire?" 
 
 " No. De Prato found tliat there was but a single 
 poiut on which they agreed, and that was to make no 
 more Popes- out of mencLcant Iriars, whom Boniface 
 had exhorted in vain to be less pious; and also that 
 neither party would concede anything to the other. On 
 his motion, therefoi'e, the conclave adjourned, thus afford- 
 ing the good Cardinal opportunity to communicate by 
 swil't couriers with his dear and powerful friend, the 
 King of France, — although, of course, the act shonld be 
 to the verj^ great scandal of the cause, and the inconso- 
 lable grief, no doubt, of numerous pious souls. For wdiat 
 saith, the constitution of Gregory Tentli, decreed by the 
 general council, convened in the city of Lyons in 1273, 
 for the relief of the IJoly Land, and for the reformation 
 of warriors? Saith it not even thus, — that immediately 
 on the Sovereign Pontiff's death, the Cardinals shall all 
 assemble in one chamber, and in that chamber be se- 
 curely locked with a Ivcy — con clavis — no one being suf- 
 fered to enter and no one to leave, and, if, Avithin three 
 days, they have not agreed upon a successor, then, for the 
 five following days, they shall have but one dish for each 
 meal ; and, at the ex})iration of those fiv^e days, they 
 shall be. fed frugally on bread and water, until a Pon- 
 tiff is elected? — I say, good Bertrand, saith it not so? " 
 
 "Even so. Sire, it saith," was the reply. " But what 
 saith the worthy Cardinal De Prato ? " meekly added the 
 
42 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST, JEAN d'ANGELY. 
 
 Archbisliop, wTio was evidently wri tiling under tlie tor- 
 ments of excited curiosity — torments wliich tlie craCty 
 King could not but perceive, wLatever the efforts to con- 
 ceal them, and which it seemed his policy to excite, 
 rather than to allay. 
 
 " The worthy Cardinal De Prato, said ye? Ah, true — ■ 
 I had forgotten he was one of your special friends, good 
 Bei trand." 
 
 The Archbishop bit his lip with vexation, and then 
 smiled and bowed. 
 
 "The woi'tliy Cardinal says this, good Bertrand," con- 
 tinued the King. "Here is his letter," he added, pro- 
 ducing a paper from his vest, "let it speak for itself. It 
 reached me at Poitiers by an express courier, to whom 
 I gave one hundred marks of silver, only four days ago; 
 and to-morrow, — nay, this very night, even, that courier 
 must start back to Perouse with my reply. Immediately 
 on receipt of the letter, I despatched a courier to you, 
 appointing this rendezvous, in order to consult you on 
 the wise De Prato's dispatch." 
 
 " May I read the letter, Sire ?" asked the Archbishop, 
 eagerly extending his hand. 
 
 " Softly —softly," replied Philip. "All in good time. 
 You may listen to the letter first, and, afterwards you 
 may read what is written — perhaps." 
 
 The prelate bowed assent, and, resuming his chair, 
 crossed his arms upon his breast, and, fixing his eyes upon 
 the floor, prepared to listen. 
 
 "The wise Cardinal first sets forth in brief the posi- 
 tion of the conclave, at the time of its scandalous 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAX d'aXGELT. 
 
 43 
 
 adjournment. This,'' continued tlie King, "vre liave 
 alread}^ discussed. He next proceeds to develop his 
 scheme. To elect a French Cardinal friendly to Philip 
 and a foe to Boniface is, of course, impossible ; but a 
 French Cardinal and a foe to Philip is preferable to an 
 Italian. 
 
 ''This, then, the ^ise Cardinal proposed: — that the 
 Guelplis — the cisniontane — the Italian Cardinals — ■ 
 should nominate three Ghibelines ; — ultramontane or 
 French Cardinals, and, of these three, the Ghibelines 
 should select that one least obnoxious to them." 
 
 And have the Guelphs made their nomination? " 
 
 "You shall hear. The proposition was eagerly ac- 
 cepted — the bait was greedily swallowed, and three 
 ecclesiastics of this realm were nominated, who. of all 
 others, have ever manifested themselves the most vir- 
 ulent and uncompromising enemies of Philip of France, 
 and the most open, avowed, and devoted slaves of Ben- 
 edict Gaetan.^' 
 
 It was impossible for the agitated primate to remain 
 longer u|vjii his chair. Eising to his feet, he hurried 
 across the narrow limits of the chamber in a frenzy of 
 excitement, and then returning resumed his seat. 
 
 "The names, Sire — I imploi'e you, the names'." 
 earnestly exclaimed the ambitious Gascon. 
 
 "Three names,"' calmly continued the King, reading 
 from the paper, " and the names of three of vour dead- 
 l.est foes 'n France were selected. It onlv remains for 
 you to select which of these three men shall wear the 
 triple crown of St. Peter ! 
 3 
 
44 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D'ANGELY. 
 
 "Sire — Sire," ejaculated the excited prelate, dropping 
 ■upon his knees — "I implore you, the names ! " 
 
 "These names," calmly continued the King "are all of 
 them, as stated, those of my deadly foes. But, there is 
 one name here that belongs to a man who has even con- 
 spired against my crown and my life 1 " 
 
 The Archbishop became livid, ghastly in his pallor, 
 at these words, and attempted to rise, but his limbs 
 refused their office. 
 
 " That man," said the King, in stern tones, rising from 
 his chair, and laying his hand upon the hilt of his sword, 
 "is Bertrand de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux ! " 
 
 At that instant a vivid flash of lightning streamed 
 through the black drapery that shrouded the only win- 
 dow of the chamber, succeeded by a peal of thunder, 
 which broke over the lofty tower and shook it to its 
 foundation. The tempest, which, all of the night, had 
 been brooding, now burst in terrible grandeur over the 
 Abbey and woods of St. Jean d'Angely. 
 
 The Archbishop leaped to his feet, and, for an instant, 
 the two men gazed upon each other in awe-struck, 
 almost superstitious stillness. 
 
 "I say," was heard the calm voice of the King, as the 
 thunder rumbled away in the distance, and the big drops 
 began to patter upon the dense foliage without, " T say 
 that man is Bertrand de Goth, and that man is he whom 
 Philip of France may now with a word place on the 
 papal throne 1 " 
 
 De Goth, overwhelmed, dropped at the feet of the 
 King and clasped his hands. 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAX d'AXGELY. 45 
 
 " Sire," lie murmured, " I am yours ! Command — - 
 I obey. From this moment tlie past is even as 
 if it had never been. Friends — kindred — schemes — pur- 
 poses — principles — my veiy existence I sacrifice to your 
 will." 
 
 " Eise, Sir — rise," said the King, extending his hand, 
 which the prehite eagerly grasped. " The past is for- 
 gotten — but let us not forget the future." 
 
 Then leading the Arclibisliop, Avhose hand he still 
 firmly grasped, they both advanced and stood before 
 the altar, decorated, as has been said, as if for the 
 celebration of midnight mass. 
 
 The King then placed in the hands of the primate 
 the dispatch of the Cardinal de Prato, and, while it 
 was perused, closely watched the changes of his agita- 
 ted countenance. 
 
 ''Sire, command — I obey I " faintly murmured De 
 Goth, when he had concluded and returned the letter. 
 
 "You are noAV assui-ed," said the King, "that, with 
 a word, I can place you on the Papal tbrone, or one 
 of tAvo other men, each of whom is your bitter foe, 
 and, who, as See of Eome, would, doubtless, rejoice to 
 degrade you from the station you now bold — are you 
 not?" 
 
 . - " Sire, I am." 
 
 " And you are equjdly assured, knowing me, as long 
 and as well as you have, tbat it is from no peculia-r 
 regard for 3'our wishes that I liave selected you as the 
 recipient of my favor; but because you can and will 
 extend me tbat aid, as Sovereign Pontiff, which my 
 
46 
 
 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN" d'ANGELY. 
 
 interests demand, more effectually tlian can either of 
 your competitors ? " 
 
 " Sire, ask what you will. Your wishes are mine." 
 
 Turning to the altar, the King glanced over it, and at 
 the objects which were placed upon it. 
 
 " Have you here," he said " the articles named in my 
 letter?" 
 
 " They are here, Sire." 
 
 " The consecrated host ? " 
 
 " Is in this golden pix." 
 
 " Aiid the rehcs of the 'Saints ? " 
 
 "The most revered relics of my diocese, together with 
 a portion of the true cross, are in that casket." 
 " And the Holy Evangelists? " 
 
 "Sire, the volume is here," said the priest, placing his 
 hand upon its open pages, as the book lay spread upon 
 the altar. 
 
 " Bertrand do Goth," said the King, in solemn tones, 
 "upon these Evangelists, and these relics, and this con- 
 secrated host, swear to me the fulfillment of six articles 
 of covenant, which T shall now propose ; and, upon these 
 awful symbols do / swear to place on your brow the 
 tiara of Rome ! " 
 
 " Sire, I swear! " firmly rejoined ,De Goth. 
 
 "Swear to me, that so soon as you are seated on the 
 Papal throne, you will revoke all excommunications, 
 suspensions of privilege, interdicts, depositions, and all 
 and every ecclesiastical censure, done or ordered to be 
 done, by Benedict Gaetan, Pope Boniface Eighth, against 
 France, the King of France, and the Princes, his 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAX d'AXGELY. 
 
 47 
 
 Brotliers and sous; also against liis barons, prektes and 
 other lords of his reahn, because of their denunciations, 
 appeals, and demands for a general council, and becnu.-e 
 of alleged outrages, blasphemies, invasions, robberies or 
 pillage of the treasures of the Church, and that all taint of 
 calumny, and all note of infamy against the name of those 
 who have sustained the King of Fi'ance in this contest shall 
 be abolished; and, finally, that the originals of the sen- 
 tences pronounced by tbe Court of Eome against the 
 King of France and his adherents shall be torn from the 
 register of the Church and publicly burned— you swear? 
 
 " I swear! " was the solemn reply. 
 
 "Swear to me, tbat you will proclaim to the whole 
 world that Benedict Gaetan, Pope Boniface Eighth, by 
 reason of his evil deeds in the flesh, merits the eternal 
 damnation of hell, and that his acts and his memory are 
 alike detestable and infamous — you swear? " 
 
 " I swear ! " 
 
 " Swear to me that joni consecration as Sovereign 
 Pontiff shall be celebi'ated within the i^alm of France 
 and that the Papal See sball be removed to Avignon 
 from Eome — you swear ? 
 
 " I swear ! " 
 
 " Swear to me that you will elevate to the Card'nalate, 
 or to any other dignity of the Church, anj- and all sucb 
 ecclesiastics as may be designated by the King of France 
 — you swear? " . ■ 
 
 " I swear 1 " 
 
 " Swear to me tliat you will restore to France all her 
 privileges, titles, dignities and estates, and will preserve 
 
48 THE ABBEY OF ST. JEAN D'ANGELY. 
 
 to her all lier francliises, sovereignties, imposts and 
 powers, slie recogDiziiig upon earth no other master of 
 her temporal goods save only Philip, her King, and that, 
 for tlie space of five years, all tithes of her clergy shall 
 be paid only to him — you swear? " 
 " 1 swear ! " 
 
 " Tliere is yet one other article of covenant," said the 
 King, "to complete the number of six, to which you are 
 pledged, which I am not now prepared to propound. 
 This article, whatsoever it may be, and whensoever pro- 
 pounded, swear to me that you will also fulfill." 
 
 " I swear ! " was the deep answer. 
 
 " And the pledges to this fulfillment ? " 
 
 " My two brothers, Gaillard and Edmund de Goth, at 
 the Court of France." 
 
 "The compact is completed — the covenant is made! 
 cried Philip, drawing foith a parchment covered with 
 wr.ting, which he spread upon the altar. " It needs but 
 the manual signature of Bertrand de Goth, and the 
 impress of the Episcopal signet-ring of the Archbishop 
 of Bordeaux." 
 
 In turn, the primate drew back. Upon that parch- 
 ment, in the Latin language, was fairly engrossed the 
 six articles, to the fulfillment of which he had just now 
 so solemnly sworn, together with the oath itself upon 
 tlie host, the rehcs and the gospels, which no Catholic, 
 do what else he might, could, once recorded, disregard, 
 under penalty, as he believed, of undying infamy in this 
 world and unending misery in another. 
 
 Well might the primate draw back and tremble at the 
 
THE ABBEY OF ST. .JEAX D'aXGELY. 
 
 49 
 
 sight oP tliis terrible record of an oath, "which, nnwit- 
 iiessed and secret, he had fondly trusted might be evaded. 
 
 " Ha ! do you hesitate? do you refuse ? cried the fiery 
 iking. " Yet. h;e it so — be it so,'' se'zing the parchment, 
 wliich he was proceeding to replace in his bosom. 
 
 " Sire I exclaimed De Goth, " gi^'e me the parcli ment I " 
 
 The parchment T^'as again produced. A pen Avas 
 seized from the table. — the name of Bertrand de Goth 
 was af&xed to the record; beside it was placed a mass 
 of melted wax. and on it was impressed the signet-ring 
 of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. 
 
 It is done! exultingly cried the King. 
 It is done ! " faintly responded the priest. 
 
 x^t that moment, the last low burst of the retreating 
 tempest, whicli had spent its fury on the old Abljey of 
 St. Jean d'Angely and its ancient wooJs, muttered sul- 
 leiily in tlie distance. 
 
 Silently — quickly, the tall tapers were extinguished. — 
 the sacred symbols were secured by tlie primate. — the 
 King seized his parchment and sword, — tiie door of tlie 
 secret chamber was opened, — tlie narrow stairway, wind- 
 ing steeply down through the mass:ve turret, was 
 descended: and. when the King and the prelate emerged 
 from the gloom, the bright stars were looking down as 
 peacefully from their far, happy homes, as if the tempest 
 had never burst, and the lightning had never scathed, 
 and man had never sinned. 
 
 An liour later, the morning broke: and on — on. — for 
 life — for death, sped a fleet courier on the route to 
 Perouse 1 
 
50 
 
 PAEIS IN THE FOUETEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TAmS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 ^ ^ r I IHE palace of tlie Louvre is, assuredly, of all 
 i the monuments of Paris, that which most 
 merits a visit." 
 
 Thus writes a Parisian of the nineteenth century; yet, 
 a marvel and a mystery, as this mighty and magnificent 
 structure now is, not less mighty and magnificent, and 
 marvelous, seems it to have been five hundred years ago, 
 to the Parisian age of the reign of Philip le Bel. 
 
 The old Louvre of Philip Augustus, " that immense 
 building, whose great tower ralhed around it twenty- 
 three other towers, without rech'oning turrets — that 
 hydra of towers, the giant guardian of Paris, with its 
 twenty -four heads, ever erect, with its monstrous ridges, 
 cased in lead, or scaled with slate, and glistening all over 
 with the reflection of metals " — such was the Louvre, at 
 the opening of the fourteenth century. 
 
 Twelve hundred years ago, when tliat splendid old 
 Sultan, Dagobert, was King, the whole of the present 
 Ville de Paris^ — the whole northern bank of the Seine 
 was covered with dense forest to the water's edge. Yet, 
 on the very spot where now stands the palace stood then 
 a citadel and a church. It was a vast parallelogram of 
 structures, the stone walls pierced with loop-holes, and 
 surrounded by a deep ditch fed by the neighboring Seine. 
 
'PARIS IX THE FOURTEEXTH CEXTURY. 
 
 51 
 
 In the year of grace, 120-i, being the 23d of the reign 
 of the great Philip Aiigiistiis, in the centre of this vast 
 quadrangle of old Dagobert rose a might}' toAver, and it 
 was christened "the Tower of tiie Louvre," although ibr 
 what earthly reason, no one seems to know. Other 
 towers were added, to the number of more than a score, 
 and the old structm^e, greatly enlarged, and sti-engthened, 
 and beautified, assumed a shape and aspect, which it 
 retained for a hundred and fifty years, until the reign of 
 Charles the Fifth, 
 
 Tiie Louvre of Philip Augustus was, therefore, the 
 Louvre of Philip k Bel. Although in 1305, it was, of 
 course, just a hundred years older than when completed, 
 in 1205 ; yet, at both periods, it stood as a sort of out- 
 post, like the hastilks of Louis Philippe, just without 
 the walls of Paris. 
 
 Thus much for the dironohgy of the palace of the 
 Louvre. The tower of the Louvre, or the Tower Phil- 
 lipine, or the Tower Xeuve, as by historians it is indif- 
 ferently called, seems to have been one of the most 
 famous structures of the middle ages. Its form Avas 
 circular, and a broad fosse^ in which ran the waters of the 
 Seine, bathed its foundation. Its connection with the 
 paved quadrangle of the Court was by means of a 
 ponderous drawbridge, and Avith the surrounding fortifi- 
 cations b}^ means of a bridge of stone, with a gallery 
 above. Its AA^alls are said to have been thirteen feet in 
 depth, and its altitude was about seventy. But then, 
 hke all the other churches, palaces, and prisons of the 
 feudal times, it stood " up to its middle in the ground j " 
 
52 
 
 PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 tliere was as mucli of it below tlie ground as there was 
 above : nay, its depth below the surface was, probably, 
 far greater than was its height above ; for one of its 
 fearful oubliettes is said to have been a hundred feet deep ! 
 It was a tree with roots more extended than its 
 branches. It was a prison, palace, church, sepulchre 
 and, also, a treasury, with two stories below the ground 
 and one above. 
 
 Dreadful, no doubt, were the scenes which those myste- 
 rious caverns witnessed, and dreadful, certainly, was the 
 fame with which that dark old tower was cursed. As 
 was said of the Piombi of Venice, or Dante's Ilell, the 
 man who entered those dreary depths might well "leave 
 hope behind." For more than a hundred years, those 
 vaults wei-e the prison-house of criminals of the State ; 
 and the horrible tales of which they were the scene yet 
 live on the chronicler's page. At length the horror 
 arising from these tales of blood and cruelty caused the 
 tower to be razed to the ground. Above the dungeons 
 and oubliettes were numerous apartments, among which 
 are mentioned a chapel, an oratory and a chamber for 
 the royal treasures. 
 
 The walls and structures which surrounded the cen- 
 tral tower of the Louvre, and formed the sides of the 
 quadrangle, are said to have been surmounted by a per- 
 fect colonnade of turrets and towers, of all shai)es, sizes 
 and altitudes, each rejoicing in some distinctive appella- 
 tion, indicative of the use it subserved, such as the 
 tower of the Clock, the tower of the Floodgate, the 
 tower of the Library, of the Falconry, of the Armory, of 
 
PAEIS IX THE FOUETEEXTH CEXTUEY, 
 
 53 
 
 tlie Grand and Little Cbapels, of the Grand and Little 
 PriA'v-Council Chambers. Each tower, also, had a cap- 
 tain, who was no less a personage than some high and 
 most m'.ghtv seigneur of tLe court. The main structures 
 of the q_aadrangle are said to have contained several vast 
 and magnificent apartments, amongst Avhicli were the 
 Grand Hall of St. Louis, the Grand Chamber of the 
 Council, the Hall of the King, the Hall of the Queen, as 
 well as many others. It Avas, probablv, the first named 
 of these apartments, in which, nearly a hundred years 
 subsequent to the period of which I write, Charles the 
 Lifth spread that splendid banquet, which closed the 
 festivities attending the triumphal entry into Paris of 
 Isabelle of Ba^uere, — a banquet spread, as old Froissart 
 tells us, upon that marvellous slab of marble, AA'hich 
 ''nearly filled one end of tlie Hall,"' and which f)r length, 
 breadth and thickness Avas then supposed*, to be, and in 
 good sooth, not without cause, it should seem— 'the 
 vastest marble slab in all the world,"" — a slab of marble, 
 which, for two hundred years, subserved almost every 
 variety of purpose, from a platform on which attorney's 
 clerks performed their mummeries, to a ban.quetd^oard 
 at which only emperors, kings, and princes of the blood 
 royal might sit: a slab of marble, which, alas, and alack, 
 exists no longer! — the great fire of 1618 having very 
 quickly converted the aforesaid slab, by fervent heat, 
 into a mass of vulgar quickdime I 
 
 Tiie minor apartments of the palace of the Louvre, the 
 chambers, galleries, libraries, oratories, refectories, labor- 
 atories, kitchens, cellars and servants' of&ces would seem. 
 
54 
 
 PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 to have been literally numberless ; to say nothing of 
 stables and gardens, piscaries, aviaries and menageries. 
 
 The entrance to the Louvre was by means of massive 
 gateways, four in number, one in the middle of each Avail 
 of the quadrangle, each overhung by a turret; and with 
 portcullis ever down, and di'awbridge ever up, they 
 frowned sullen defiance on all who might approach. 
 
 The view of Paris from the belfry of tlie grand cen- 
 tral tower of the old Louvre, of a fine summer morning, 
 in the time of the reign of Philip le Bel^ must have been 
 extremely fine. From the west comes sweeping on 
 "the genial and abou.nding Seine," and, passing through 
 its beloved Paris, pours along its waters at your feet, 
 and winds oft' with two prodigious bends, and is lost 
 amono; the hills in the west. On its northern bank is 
 the Ville of Paris ; on the island in its middle is the 6V/e, 
 and on the southern bank is the JJniversiie^ all three 
 connected by two long and continuous streets from north 
 to south, at right angles with the Seine, which they 
 cross by two bridges of stone, — a massive castle stand- 
 ing at tlie extremity of each bridge, and each extremity 
 of each street being terminated by a massive gate in the 
 city walls. For, then as now, though not one-half its 
 present extent, Paris was environed with its Avail ; and 
 without that wall, at its base, wns a broad,- deep ditch, 
 through Avhich poured tlie Avnters of the Seine; and in 
 that wall were ponderous gates; and at night those gates 
 were closed, and huge cliains were suspended across the 
 Seine above the city and below, from bank to bank, and 
 the lonely watchman walked his rounds, and sang — 
 
PAEIS IX THE FOURTEEXTH CEXTURY. 
 
 55 
 
 Sleep on, good people of Paris', sleep on! All is 
 ^velll all is Avell!'' 
 
 As A'oii look doAvn from your loftr site, towards the 
 east, directly in front of you rises the sliarp Gothic roof 
 and pointed spires of tbe ancient church of St. Germain 
 I'Auxerrois, with its stupendous rose-wdndow and its 
 tall arched doorways, beneath wliicli, for many centuries, 
 went the kings of France, so long as the Louvre was 
 their dwelling, to confess their many sins. Pursuing 
 tlie YixeT bank, in the same direction, your eye is next 
 arrested by the grim battlements of that stern old furti- 
 lace, the Grand Cliatelet, for centuries a tribunal and a 
 prison, standing like a giant guardian at tlie head of 
 the Pont au Change, the sole connecting link at that 
 time between the Cii'e and the Ville. From the Grand 
 Cliatelet, the eye A\'ould naturally glaiice up the long 
 street of the Temple, towards the noilh, until it 
 en.countered the square tower, flanked by four turrets of 
 that massive structure, wdiich, nearlv two centuries 
 before, had been reared by the Order of the Templar 
 Knights. Turning back to the Cite, seated upon its 
 island in the Seine, the attention is first arrested bv the 
 huge Palace of Justice, with its cluster of round-pointed 
 towers, wdiere old Hugh Capet fixed his residence eight 
 hundred years ago, and which, for three centuries, was 
 the }ialace and the prison of the kings of France. It 
 had well nigh, also, become a church; for in 1242, St. 
 Louis, in his pious zeal, reaped in its very midst La 
 Sainte ChajjeUe du Palais^ and made it the repository of 
 whole cartloads of holy relics — limbs of saints and 
 
56 
 
 PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 martyrs, and portions of the true Cross, bequeathed him 
 l)j his pions grandsire, the emperor Baudoin. In 1313, 
 the entire structure was rebuilt hy his own grandson, 
 Phihp le Bel 
 
 Glancing up the Island of the Cite, the eye next rests, 
 as it passes, on the venerable Hotel Dieu, founded by 
 the pious St. Landry, three centuries before ; but it 
 instantly comes to a full stop before the massive twin 
 towers, more than two hundred feet high, of the marvel- 
 lous Cathedral church of Notre Dame, which, even then, 
 reared as it was, on the foundation of old St. Stephen, 
 its predecessor, was nearly eight hundred years olii. 
 
 Crossing the Seine on the Petit Pont with its three 
 stone arches, and through the cavernous gateway of the 
 Petit Chatelet, the sole connecting link between the 
 city and the southern bank, the eye sweeps over the 
 abbeys, churches and colleges, with which, even then, the 
 Universiie was filled, and which gave it a name, but 
 rests chiefly on the graceful towers of the Mathurines, 
 the Bernardines, the Augustines, the Benedictines and 
 the Cordeliers, and those of the ancient abbey of St. 
 Germain des Pres. It pauses, too, upon the old gothic 
 turrets of the Hotel de Cluny, and the romantic arches 
 of the Palace des Therm es, — a Eoman palace in the days 
 of Julian, but in the fourteenth century serving only, 
 with its deserted gardens, and desolate chambers, and 
 dim, mysterious aisles, to afford to the ladies of the 
 Court a safe and quiet rendezvous, (according to St. 
 Foix,) lovers they dared not meet at their own homes. 
 
 Still descending the river bank, you pause for a 
 
PARIS IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 57 
 
 moment to look at the washer women along tlie qnaj, 
 when your attention is finally arrested by the tall round 
 tower of the liotel de Nesle, directly before you on the 
 north, the base of which is bathed by the rushing waters 
 of the Seine, here crossed in the fourteenth century by 
 the ferry of the Nesle, but in the nineteenth by the 
 Pont des Arts ; while on the islet between is a garden of 
 the Louvre. 
 
 Such were the prominent points in the Paris of the 
 fourteenth century — the Louvre, the church of St. 
 Germain I'Auxerrois, the Temple, the Pet't Pont and 
 the Pont au Chanoe with the Grand and Petit Chace- 
 lets, the Palace of Justice, the Hotel Dieu, Notre Dame 
 and the Tower of Nesle ; and such, strange to tell, after 
 a lapse of more than five hundred years, even at the 
 present day, they still remain. The very names of the 
 streets, as well as of tlie structures of Paris, nre, to a 
 great extent, the same they were centuries ago. And 
 these names of streets and structures, ns av ell as their 
 several relative localities, the reader may do well to 
 remember, inasmuch as they will be subject to reference 
 more than once in the pages which succeed. 
 
5B 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE, 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 HOEYER would revel in the recital of tlie 
 splendid deeds of a chivalric age — the tilts and 
 the tournaineots, the sieges and the marches, the amours 
 and the wassailings, the bridals and the burials, the 
 glory and the guilt of feudal times — let him peruse the 
 illumined chronicles of Sir John Fj'oissart. 
 
 " Did you ever read Froissart? " said Claverhouse, in 
 Walter Scott's " Old Mortality." 
 " No ! " was Morton's answer. 
 
 "I have half a mind," ]-etnrned Claverhouse, "to 
 contrive you should have six months' imprisonment, in 
 order to procure you that pleasure." 
 
 Tuesday, tlie 26th day of August, in the year of grace 
 one thousand three hundred and five, was ushered in for 
 the citizens of Paris by a grand ]teal from the twin 
 towers of Notre Dame, in the Cite, to which the palaces 
 of the Ville^ on the north, and the Abbeys of the Univer- 
 site, on tlie south, sent back an exulting answer. 
 
 It was the bridal day of Philip, Count of Poitiers, 
 surnamed the Long, second son of Philip le Bel, King of 
 France, and Jane, youngest daughter of Othon Fourth, 
 Count Palatine of Burgundy, and s'ster to Blanche, the 
 wife of Charles le Bel^ Count of Marche, the youngest 
 son of the King. 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 59 
 
 111 tlie year 129-4, Jane, when but two years of age, 
 
 liad been affianced, at Yincennes, to lier destined bus- 
 band, and he to her, agreeably to the custom of the 
 times ; and she was, aceordaigh', but fourteen when the 
 bridal ceremony was celebi'ated. 
 
 Of the splendid procession of lords and lacbes on that 
 marriage morn, from the old Louvre across the Pont au 
 Change, to Xotre Dame — of the costly costume of the 
 bride, and the gorgeous litter in which she was conveyed 
 — of tlie solemn, service of matrimony then and there 
 read, by AVilliam Imbei't, the King's Confessor, and the 
 still more solemn mass, with the ceremonies thereto per- 
 taining, wliicb ensued — of the magnificent pageant of 
 the return to the palace, and the marvellous music of the 
 trumpeters, and the glittering array of lords and ladies, 
 and princes and damsels ; and of the sumptuous dinner 
 then served up bv counts and barons on the vast 
 mai'ble slab of the Hall of St. Louis ; — of all this, would 
 it not seem presumptuous for us to essay description, 
 when so many scenes of the self-same similitude are so 
 vividly portrayed by the glowing pen of the Canon of 
 Chi may? * 
 
 The fete of that night, with whicli the events of the 
 day were terminated, in tlie grand hall of the Louvre, 
 was the most magnificent even of that magnificent era. 
 All the beauty, and all the chivalry, and all the nobility 
 of France w^ere there assembled. The windows streamed 
 forth the blaze of flambeaux, and the wdiole atmosphere 
 
 * Froissart was priest, canon and treasurer of the collegiate cliurch of 
 Chiniay. 
 
 4 
 
60 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 breatlied a biirtlien of sweet sounds ; and all were merry, 
 and joyous, and gay — all, save slie Avho should have 
 been most so — she, the young and the beautiful bride! 
 
 Jane of Burgundy was very young; but, like most of 
 her cotemporaries, her knowledge of the world far 
 exceeded her years. Her union with the Count of 
 Poitiers was not of her seeking; neither was it of his. 
 It was simply an act of the ambitious and unscrupulous 
 Philip of France to augment his power ; and little cared 
 he whether the instruments which conduced to his pur- 
 poses loved each other or hated each otlier. 
 
 Jane of Burgundy was a beautiful blonde. Her eyes, 
 her hair, her complexion, were all light, and her form 
 Avas full. And yet, in her clear eye, and on her red lip 
 was exhibited a degree of decision which her other 
 features would never have betrayed. 
 
 One after the other all tlie guests of that splendid fete 
 approached the bride and expressed their homage and 
 congratulation. The devoir of each was courteously, yet 
 coldly received, and the eye of the young girl glanced 
 restlessly and excitedly around, as if in search of one 
 who had not yet aj-tpenred. 
 
 At length, suddenly, at her feet, upon one knee, as 
 was the manner of all, bowed a young man, in the garb 
 of the court. His figure was faultless, his movements 
 graceful, his dress rich and his face eminently hand- 
 some, though ghastly pale. 
 
 The cheek of the bride was instantly as livid as his 
 own ; but, as he knelt, a flush mounted to her brow, and 
 she glanced uneasily around. 
 
THE EPJPAL FETE. 
 
 61 
 
 "You here, Walter!" sbe at leiigtli exclaimed, look- 
 ing down with all of woman's fondness at the graceful 
 form at her feet. "Rise! rise I"' sbe added, extending 
 her white and ungloved hand, which the young man 
 wai'mly grasped and pressed in silence to his lips. 
 "Why, oh, why have you come?" she hurriedly con- 
 tinued. 
 
 "To see you for the last time," was the hollow 
 iswer. 
 
 "The last time!" anxionslj^ returned the bi'ide. 
 
 "Are you not happy?" was the quick rejoinder. 
 
 " Happy ^ Walter ! Look at me and then ask, if you can,. 
 'Are you happ}^ ? ' " 
 
 The young man raised his eyes, hitherto fixed on the 
 earth, at this imploring request, and the utter wretched- 
 ness depicted on that pale but beautiful face, and in those 
 large blue ej'es, made him start. 
 
 "Ah, you are as miserable as I am ! " he murmured, 
 and again fixed his gaze despairingly on tlie ground. 
 
 "And you love me yet?" asked the bride. 
 
 "Love tlieel— more dearlj^ than my life!" 
 
 "And 3^ou will be true to me, happen what may?" 
 
 "And you? " 
 
 "Have you not my vow?" Avas the quick answer. 
 "That Yo\Y shall be observed, though my life prove the 
 forfeit." 
 
 " Impossible !" murmured Walter, shaking his head 
 with a mournful smile. 
 
 " Nothing is impossible to a woman resolved. Besides, 
 Philip loves me no more than I love him, and what is 
 
i 62 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 belter, he does love another as dearly, perhaps, as I do 
 you. Stay! look! see you not in the shadow of yon 
 alcove two figures — a man and a woman? The man 
 is my husband — the woman is the Countess of Soissons, 
 and she is as wretched as you are, and lor the same 
 cause, and his vow to her is the same as mine to you." 
 
 The young man looked as he was directed, but made 
 no reply. 
 
 "I tell thee, Walter," earnestly added the bride, "that 
 this marriage is entirely an act of the King for the 
 furtherance of his own ends, and that to resist his will 
 would have proven utterly futile, either for Philip or 
 myself, however much such might be the wish of both. 
 But go, go! we are observed! The King approaches! 
 We go to Vincennes in three days. You will be there," 
 she added hurriedly. "Now go ! " 
 
 The young man passed on and was lost in the throng. 
 
 " You are pale, my fair daughter," said the King, in a 
 low tone, with his peculiar smile, fis he approached. 
 Then in a still lower tone he added, "Be more cautious, 
 Jane. The face often reveals what no torture could 
 wring from the lips." 
 
 The warning was not without its effect. The signifi- 
 cance of the royal words was too plain to be misunder- 
 stood. Keassured, self-possessed — smiles which had 
 long ceased to be seen now lighted up that beautiful 
 face. 
 
 "Poor thing!" muttered Philip, as he passed away 
 from the bride. "It is plain she loves Walter de Launai, 
 the handsome Equerry of Charles. Well, well — be it 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 63 
 
 so," lie added, with, a tlionglitfal smile. "What care I? 
 The bride loves the bridegroom as dearly as the bride- 
 groom loves the bride, IVe no doubt. But tliej must both 
 be discreet. I'll have no scandal in the Louvre. Ah, 
 there are De Nogaret and De Marigni, metliinks. Let 
 us discover of what they commune so earnestly." 
 
 or the two men to Vv^hom the Kino- alluded, and wliom 
 he now approaclied, one was Wilham de Nogaret, 
 Chancellor of the realm, and the other Enguei'i-and de 
 Marigni, the King's Prime Minister. The former was 
 large in stature — the latter small; the garb of both was 
 black. 
 
 "When the Minister and the Cliancellor of France are 
 observed in sucb close converse amid a scene like this," 
 remarked the King to the nobles, after the usual saluta- 
 tions, "one may well infer that the topic of which they 
 treat is one of some moment." 
 
 The two dignitaries looked on each other with ill-dis- 
 sembled solicitude. 
 
 " Sire, a courier has just arrived from Perouse," said 
 De Marigni. 
 
 "lla!" cried the King. "And the Pope — who has 
 been chosen? " 
 
 "Sire, the bitterest of ^^our foes." 
 
 "And wlio, pray, may he be?" asked the King. 
 
 " Bertrand de Goth, Archbishop of Bordeaux." 
 
 "Indeed! indeed!" rejoined the King, with well -sim- 
 ulated anxiety. "Then we must prepare for a new con- 
 flict with Rome, I suppose; for the Holy Father is not 
 only the most deadly of my foes, but he was the most 
 
64 
 
 THE BEIDAL FETE. 
 
 devoted of friends to Boniface Eighth, of cursed memory. 
 Wiien does the consecration take place ? " continued 
 Philip, after a pause. 
 
 On the 15th day of November next, Sire, in the 
 church of St. Just, at Lyons/' replied De Nogaret. 
 " At Lyons, say you ? " 
 
 " At Lyons, Sire ; and your Majesty, together with tlie 
 King of England, and an immense concourse of princes, 
 lords and ecclesiastics, is to be bidden to be present." 
 
 "Well done, Berti'and de Goth!" cried tlie King. 
 " Why, he bears his honors bravely 1 And the Cardinals 
 • — have they been summoned to ci'oss the mountains to 
 afsist at the coronation? " 
 
 "Sire, tliey have. Immediately on receipt of the 
 decree of his election, the Archbisliop, as if only await- 
 ing intelligence of the event, at once entered on the 
 exercise of Papal power. Leaving his diocese, he made 
 triumphant progress through the cities of southern 
 France, and repaired to Montpelier to receive the oath of 
 liege homage from James of Arragon, who placed Cor- 
 sica and Sardinia under the protection of the Holy See." 
 
 "Why, that, methinks, is somewhat in derogation of 
 the rights of our brother Charles of Valois, who received 
 the sceptre of that realm from Pope Martin Fourth, 
 when Don Pedro was laid under the ban of excommuni- 
 cation. Is it not so, gentlemen ? " 
 
 " Sire, it is," was the reply. 
 
 The King looked thoughtfully on the ground for a 
 moment in silence. 
 
 "The Privy Council will meet in the morning to 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 65 
 
 confer on tliis event," said the King. "I will detain 
 you, gentlemen, no longer from the fete." 
 
 "All goes well," murmured Philip, as he passed on 
 and mingled with the throng. 
 
 A degree of license now pervaded the fete, f)s the 
 night advanced, which had not at first been witnessed. 
 The fair bride, having received the formal C(mgratala- 
 tions of tlie court, left her chair of stale upon the 
 elevated dais at the upper extremity of the apartment, 
 beneath a canopy of sky-blue velvet bespangled with 
 stars, and retired with her ladies from the hall. She 
 shortly reappeared, however, divested of her bridal 
 toilette — the tall head dress ascending to a ])oint, from 
 which descended a wliite veil to her feet — the full mantle 
 of rose velvet, with its hanging sleeves, and tlie white 
 robe, with its endless train, — and, simply att.red in shot 
 pink taffetty, Avith no other ornament to her head tlian 
 the luxuriant masses of her beautiful hair, and no other 
 ornament to her person than a zone of beaten gold, which 
 cinctured her delicate \a aist. 
 
 The reappearance of the bride was the signal to the 
 guests to indulge without restraint in any of the modes 
 of entertainment at that era in vogue at the French 
 court. The night being excessively hot, the doors lead- 
 ing to tlie royal gardens were thrown open, and the long 
 avenues and shady alcoves were soon filled with prom- 
 enaders enjoying the refreshing influences of the open air, 
 or listening to the delightful strains of the martial bands, 
 or the still more delightful melody of the notes of love. 
 Dancing, though sometimes indulged in, was rather an 
 
66 
 
 THE BRXPAL YETK. 
 
 amnsement of the servants' liall and village green than 
 of royal gardens and courtly saloons. In those days, 
 unlike the present, ladies were moi"e skilful with their 
 tongues than with tlieir toes, and the promenade pre* 
 sented tliein an opportunity of listening to a lovei''s 
 vows and declarations, and of exchanging for them their 
 own, which the dance cotdd never afford. And, even to 
 this day, all over Europe, the dance is eminently the 
 amusement of the peasant, and has never in courtly 
 circles superseded conversation, intrigue, music and the 
 promenade. The savages of the Archipelago of the 
 Pacific seas, and those of the North American forests, 
 know nothing of amusement at their festivals but to 
 feast and to dance; and in one, at least, of the nations of 
 Christendom, in modern times, imitators have not been 
 wanting. 
 
 The court of the Louvre, at the commencement of the 
 fourteenth century, was far-famed for its brilliant and 
 beautiful women; and among these, Margaret of Bur- 
 gundy and Blanche of Artois bore deservedly the palm. 
 
 The former of these ladies was the wife of Louis le 
 Hutin^ eldest son of the King, and daughter of Eobert 
 Second, Duke of Burgundy, and Agnes, the pious 
 daughter of St. Louis. She was, also, Queen of JSTavarre, 
 that crown having descended to Louis by the decease of 
 his mother, Jane of Navarre, who died at the chateau 
 of Yincennes, on the second day of April, 1305, a few- 
 months previous. Indeed, the robes of sable velvet yet 
 worn by the young Queen, and which so well became 
 her, although upon an occasion of bridal festivity, 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 67 
 
 indicated the recent occarrence of tliis sad event. Her 
 figure was tall and graceful, and, notwithstanding her 
 vouth, exhibited all the lull and rounded contour of a 
 matured woman. iBer eyes were large, dark, and full of 
 fiYQ — Ijer hair, which, was loosely wound around a sym- 
 metrical head in heavy masses, was as black as midnight, 
 and her complexion, in auC(jrdance with tlie liue of her 
 hair and eves, was that of a decided brunette. Hers was 
 a beautv to ccmimand love — not to win it ; and, as un. 
 mistakably were imperious pride and insatiate passion 
 depicted upon that voluptuous lip, as was a strong and 
 active intellect exhibited in that capacious and mascu- 
 line bi'ow. 
 
 Terv different from the proud Queen of Xavarre Avas 
 Blanche of Artois, Avife of Charles k Bel, the loA'el}' 
 Countess of iMarclie. She, too, like iMargaret, was very 
 voung — neither of the ladies having yet attained tlieir 
 twentieth vear. She was the eldest daughter of the 
 Count of Burgundy and iMaade oP Artois. and sister to 
 Jane, heii'ess of Burgundy, the fair bride. Only one year 
 before she had herself become a bride, and just the 
 twelvemonth prior to that event, had been witnessed tlie 
 nuptials of Margaret and Louis in the Cathedral Church 
 of Xotre Dame, as well as the subser|uent fete in the 
 same hail of tiie Louvre. 
 
 There was between Blanche of Artois and her sister 
 Jane that indescribable resemblance which is often ob- 
 served between person.s bearing to each other the rela- 
 tion of sister, wlien it is impossible to point out in wliat 
 that resemblance actuall}' consists, and when their style 
 
68 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 of face and figure is entirely unlike. The form of 
 Blanche, as it was exhibited by her white robe confined 
 at the waist hj a cordeliere of gold, and embroidered 
 with thread of the same material, had all that full and 
 rounded outline which gave such fascination to that of 
 her j^ounger sister; but in the movement of the former 
 was observed a grace, and a dignity, and a maturity of 
 elegance which the latter had not. The hair of Blanche 
 shared that rich and abounding luxuriance which char- 
 acterized her sister's ; but, tliough not black, it was 
 many shades darker than Jane's, fler eyes were a deep 
 azure, large, brilliant, shaded by long lashes, and full of 
 most eloquent but mournful meaning. Her sister's ej^es 
 wei'e blue and sparkling. The faces of both were oval ; 
 but while the expression of Jane's countenance was arch 
 and mischievous, that of Blanche's was sad and contem- 
 plative. Indeed, the characteristic trait of Blanclie of 
 Artois' face you would say was melancholy thought; 
 and you would ask of yourselves and others the cause of 
 that profound and changeless sadness, which forever rested 
 on that beautiful face. That large azure eye, when it 
 beamed most brightly beneath her broad and snowy brow, 
 seemed steeped in gloom ; tliat soft lip, when it smiled 
 most sweetly, seemed imbued with sadness ; that exquisite 
 form, when it moved most gracefully, betrayed the languor 
 of grief Her voice, when she spoke, had the mournful 
 music of a broken heart. Why was it that the most 
 beautiful w^oman of the whole court of France, and the 
 envied wife of "the most accomplished man" — asdiis- 
 torians seem to delight to term Charles le Bel — should 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 69 
 
 tlius Avear her loveliness forever slirouded in gloom? 
 What badtf/^e, the loved and worshipped of all in that 
 splendid court, to disturb lier peace? Was she not too 
 3'oung to have proven alread}^ the worth! essness of 
 earthly things — the utter vanit}^ of all worldly pursuits 
 — the falseness of all human vows — the deceitfulness of 
 all human hopes? Had she so early in life contracted 
 that fearful indifference to everj^thing, whether sad or 
 joyous, which sometimes descends on the human heart? 
 Alas! the mournl\d truth is as old as man's history, 
 that maturity of years is not indispensable to maturity 
 of thought, and that youthfulness and suffering are not 
 incompatible. 
 
 "Sad, as usual, Blanche!" gayly exclaimed the Queen 
 of Navari'e, approaching her sister, who, half-concealed 
 in the drapery of the window, was gazing, almost unseen, 
 upon the gay groups with which the hall and gardens 
 were thronged. 
 
 "Ah, Margaret, is it you?" said Blanche, starting at 
 the sudden exclamation. 
 
 " Yes, it is I, Margaret of Burgundy, Queen of T^avarre 
 - — to be sure it is ; and I've been seeking y(m, through 
 bower and hall, the wdiole half hour last past, at least. I 
 will honestly confess, however, that had I not been 
 blessed with an agreeable escort in my self-imposed pil- 
 grimage, I should have given over the pursuit long 
 ago." 
 
 The escort to whom the Queen thus referred was none 
 other than a tall, handsome man in a military garb, 
 whose resemblance to Walter de Launai was so striking 
 
70 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 that it demanded no peculiar powers of perspicacity to 
 determine the fact tbat they were brothers. The oidy 
 observable difference between tlie two seemed this — that 
 Walter de Launai was some years his brother's junior, 
 and that Philip de Launai was as gay and debonnaire as 
 his brother was sad and pensive. They were Norman 
 gentlemen, of ancient family, who had recently come to 
 court to seek tbeir fortune ; and fortune seemed to Lave 
 met them at least half-way; for, altliougli six months 
 had hardly elapsed since they entered Paris with all 
 their worldly goods upon their horses' backs and their 
 own, yet now one was Equerry to Philip, and tlie other 
 to Charles, princes of the blood, and, what was more, 
 one was a favorite of Margaret of Burgundy, and the 
 other the secret and most unhappy lover of her sister 
 Jane, the bride. I'he matchless skill of these young- 
 men in horsemanship and the use of arms doubtless con- 
 duced as much to their success with the princes as did 
 their remarkable good looks with their noble mistresses. 
 They were alike then in good fortune and good looks. 
 One thing more they were also alike in : they were both 
 Knights Companions of the Holy Order of the Temple. 
 But this was a secret of which their noble masters were 
 not aware, nor their noble mistresses. Yet, young as 
 they were, both had bravely fought on a foreign soil for 
 the recovery of the sepulchre from infidel hands, and 
 both were warrior- monks. 
 
 " Have you seen Charles to-night ? " asked Blanche 
 of the joyous Queen. 
 
 " I caught a glimpse of Madame d' Aumale in one of 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 71 
 
 tlie alcoves of the gardens as ^ve came in, and Charles 
 cannot be far from the same spot/' 
 
 Blanche became deatlilv pale. She compressed her 
 lips, but otherwise manifested no emotion, and, remain- 
 ing silent, tlie Queen thoughtlesslj' continued. 
 
 AVhv don't YOU speak, Blanche ?" she impatient!}^ 
 exclaimed. " Upon my word as a Queen, you are the 
 strangest woman I ever knew 1 Young, lovely, brilliant 
 — worshipped by the men, envied by the Avomen, the 
 boasted beauty of the whole conrt — you might as well 
 be the Lady Abbess of Maubnisson itself, as what you 
 are, for all the enjoyment you seem to experience amid 
 the gavest scenes, and all the gayety you manifest. You 
 never dance, you never sing, yon never intrigue — you do 
 nothing under tlie heavens that other women do : while 
 upon your face, and seemingly around your form, you 
 wear an everlasting shroud. In Heaven's name, Blanche, 
 smile I — do smile once, in order tliat I maybe able to 
 say that I once did see the Countess of Marche smile, 
 when I am again asked the c[uestion, as I often have 
 been. Oh, no — not in that mournful wav,'' she added, 
 as the Countess strove to obey. Be gay ! be joyous 1 
 get a lover! It isn't possible you heed Charles' amours. 
 It's the men's privilege, I suppose. They assume it, at 
 any rate. I was jealous of Louis for about three months 
 after our marriage, and at length saw the folly of the 
 thing. Since then he intrigues as he choses, for all I care, 
 and I take the same liberty. But you^ Blanche — you 
 are a perfect miracle of constancy — I had almost said of 
 folly." 
 
72 
 
 THE BEIDAL FETE. 
 
 The Countess of Marclie cTianged color repeatedly 
 wliile tlie tliouglitless Queen of Navarre tbus heedlessly 
 hurried on, and more than once a slight shudder ran 
 over her frame. But further than this she exliibited not 
 the slightest agitation. Her marble brow remained as 
 calm, her cheek as pale, her lip as motionless as ever, 
 and her large bright eyes were fixed with the same 
 melancholy gaze on the gay and moving scene. 
 
 Suddenly, as the Queen ceased to speak, she grasped 
 her arm, and, with more of interest than she would have 
 been deemed capable of exhibiting for anything, she 
 exclaimed . 
 
 " Margaret, Margaret, who is that ? " at the same 
 time pointing at some person in the crowded hall. 
 
 " Who is who, and where is he ? " returned the Queen. 
 " On my word, Blanche, 3^ou are a curiosity ! Here 
 liave I, a crowned Queen, been proclaiming to you, a 
 simple Countess, a whole sermon of good advice, which 
 Avould put to the blush one of old Father Maillard's best 
 discourses, with which we are regaled every Sunday at 
 St. Germain, and you have bestowed upon it just about 
 as much notice as I usually bestow on those of the 
 old Dominican — actually sleeping, or seeming to sleep, 
 throughout the whole ! And then, all at once, at its 
 conclusion, you almost deafen me with the exclamation 
 of a sentry at his post, "Who goes there?" But Heaven 
 and all the saints be glorified that you are not dead ! 
 Now, then, if you can condescend to speak once more, 
 where is the individual who has been so fortunate as 
 to elicit from you an inquiry ? " 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 73 
 
 "There! tliere!'' eagerly exclaimed BlancTie. Tvliose 
 eyes had followed the object of her curiosity while the 
 Queen had been speaking. " Tnere — near the door 
 leadino' into tije oardeus!"' 
 
 "iDo you mean tlmt pale ^^oung man in the colors of 
 our uncle Charles ot Yalois, who is waliking with one of 
 my ladies? " 
 
 "Yes, yes ; I have seen him repeatedly to-niglit, and 
 always with the same lady ; iMarie Morfontaine, is it 
 not? " replied the Countess, witli heightened color. 
 
 "Yes, it is my sweet Marie,"' rejoined Margaret, ''and 
 tliat young man is her lover. He has just arrived with 
 despatches from Charles' camp.*" 
 
 "Ahi" returned the Countess, in a tone which was 
 almost a sigh, while her countenance fell. 
 
 "It is young De Marigni, is it not, Philip?"' ashed 
 the Queen, addressing for the first time the voung man 
 at her side, on whose arm she had not ceased to lean 
 since they had appeared. 
 
 "It is De Marigni, your Majesty — Adrian de 
 Marigni,"' rephed the young man. "He is the only son 
 of the Prime Min.ister. He is from Normand}^, like 
 mj'self, and our boyhood was passed together. TTe 
 have, also, served in the same troop in Flanders, under 
 Count Charles of Yalois. He was at Brussels and at 
 Courtray, and also at Mons-en-Puelle, where twenty -five 
 thousands Flemings were cut in pieces. He is a per- 
 fect lion on the battle-field, modest and inofilinsive as he 
 seems now." 
 
 " Why is he so pale? "' asked Blanche. 
 
THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 " He was severely wounded at Mons, madame. He 
 was lel't for dead, indeed, upon tlie field ; but the cold 
 dews of tbenigiit revived liim, and lie managed to dis- 
 encumber himself from the heaps of Flemings who 
 had fallen by his hand around him, and creep into the 
 camp." 
 
 "And what was his reward for such gallantry?'^ 
 inquired Blanche. 
 
 "He was the next day knighted, madame, on the very 
 spot drenched with his blood, by the accolade of Prince 
 Charles himself and with the title of Count Le Portier.'* 
 
 "A family name is it not ? "asked the Countess. 
 
 " It is the name of a noble and ancient Norman family, 
 madame, which Adrian's grandsire, Hugh Le Portier, 
 Lord of Rosey and Lyons, resigned on his marriage with 
 the heiress of the Count de Marigni — at least so far 
 as his children were concerned, who bore their mother's 
 name." 
 
 " And one of these children was the Enguerrand de 
 Marigni, the Minister? " continued the Countess. 
 
 " Oh, to be sure it was 1 " said Margaret. " How 
 tedious 3^ou are with your questions about this young- 
 Count. If he inspires the same interest in the King 
 that he seems to have roused in you, he bids fair to rise 
 as rapidly as his father did before him." 
 
 " And how rapidly was that, Margaret ? " asked the 
 Countess. 
 
 "What! does your curiosity extend to the father as 
 well as the son? " said tlie Queen, laughing. " Tell her 
 all about the dear De Marignis, if you can, Philip. I 
 
THE BEIDAL FETE. 
 
 75 
 
 don't burtLen m\' memory with such stupid matters, of 
 course."' 
 
 I know notliing of tlie Sieur de Marigni, madame," 
 replied the voung Xorman, "save wliat came to us by 
 common rumor in my native village, where deep interest 
 was felt in tiie fortunes oF one who had gone forth from 
 our midst, and also what I have since heard at the 
 court. I"ve heard mv fatiier say. and also Adrian, when 
 we were boys, that the moment the young Enguerraiid 
 appeared at couit. the graces of his })erson, the elegance 
 of his manners and the brilliancy of his talents arrested 
 attention. This was many 3'eai-s ago. At length his 
 political knowledge attracted the notice of his Majesty, 
 who appointed him. first, a member of his council, tiieii 
 gave him the post of Cliamberhiin, next created him 
 Count of L'Uigueville, and finally Inis made him Gov- 
 ernor of the Louvre, Master of tl:e Household, and last 
 of all Prime ^[inister of the realm."' 
 
 For all which accumulation of favors he has accuma- 
 lated the envy and hostility of t'.:e whole court, in exact 
 proportion,"' said t'le Queen. But come, come — let ns 
 go. These I)e Marignis will l:^e the death of me if we 
 tarry longer. Besides, the bride has gone to her cham- 
 ber, and tlie guests are going to their homes. I must go 
 to mine."' 
 
 Stay with me to-night at the Louvre, Margaret,'^ 
 said Blanche. 
 
 "Xo."" was the quick answer, oh no. I must cross 
 the Seine. You would not have me recreant to my 
 trust, would you? While Louis is ruling our little 
 
76 
 
 THE BRIDAL FETE. 
 
 realm of Navarre, at Parapeluna, and the Constable of 
 Nesle is in camp in Flanders, tlie hotel is entrusted entirely 
 to the governance of the young Countess and m3^self; and 
 we dare not desert ou.r post even for a single night. So 
 adieu to you, Blanche, and happy dreams." 
 
 "Shall I attend your Majesty to the barge? asked 
 Philip de Launai. 
 
 "Shall you? Why to be siire you shall!" was the 
 abrupt answer. " You didn't think I was to pass the 
 sentries and cross the drawbridge alone ? Come ! " 
 
 And putting her arm through that of her companion, 
 the young Queen of Navarre turned to depart. 
 
 At the entrance to the hall, the couple were detained a 
 few moments by the crowd ; and, as the sad Countess of 
 Marche passed them, unobserved, on her way to her own 
 apartments in the Louvre, these words, from Margaret to 
 the Equerry, in low tones, caught her ear: 
 
 "The half- hour after midnight — at the Tower of 
 Nesle 1" 
 
THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDIsIGHT. 
 
 77 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 
 
 THE heavy bell of St. Germain 1' Anxerrois liad tolled 
 midniglit. The last reveller had departed. All 
 within the Louvre had retired to their rest. The lights 
 were extinguished, — the niusio had ceased, — the gaixlcn, 
 the qna}^, the courts were deserted. No sound fell on 
 the ea]', save tlie measured tread of the sentry upon the 
 battlements, and, at intervals, the distant cry of the guar- 
 dians of Paris, as they walked their lonely rounds: 
 " Sleep — sleep on, good people of Paris I All is well I " 
 The apartments of the princes of the blood royal, at 
 that era, were situated in that front of the quadrangle 
 of the Louvre Avhich faced the Seine. 
 
 At a window in one of these apartments, which com- 
 manded a view of all Paris by reason of its elevation, 
 sat Blanche of Artois, the wife of Charles le Bel. 
 
 Alone and unattended, she had sought tl.e way to her 
 chamber from the festal hall, and, having dismissed her 
 women, had seated herself by the casement which looked 
 out on the gliding water. 
 
 From the quiet skies looked down the bright stars as 
 peacefully and as calmly as, for thousands of years, they 
 had looked before ; while, here and there, from the dark 
 mass of irregular structures, which then constituted Paris, 
 beamed out a single light of some lonely watcher. 
 
78 
 
 THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 
 
 One briglit spot whicli gleamed from the surrounding 
 gloom was a cell at the summit of one of the towers of 
 Notre Dame, which to this day bears the name of Hugo 
 of Besaii^'on's cell, where the learned prelate is said to 
 have practised his black and mystic art. Beyond this, 
 on the south bank of the Seine, beamed forth another 
 solitary light, from a tower granted by Saint Louis, more 
 than fifty years before, to Eobert of Sorbonne for a college, 
 in which should be pursued the study of theology ; and 
 there some lonely student now continued his night-long 
 vigil and toil. One other lamp, like a star, shone forth 
 from the mass of gloom, and that was in the tall tower 
 of the Hotel de Nesle, which directly fronted the southern 
 apartments of the Louvre, on the opposite bank of the 
 Seine. 
 
 Upon this last and lonely light lingered the eye of 
 Blanche, as with cheek resting on her hand, her own 
 lamp extinguished, she sat at her window, and looked 
 forth w^ith melancholy gaze on the silent scene. The 
 soft breeze of a summer night, cooled by its play upon 
 the surface of the gliding waters, came up to the case- 
 ment with refreshing breath to lier fevered brow. 
 > At length, the half hour after midnight pealed forth 
 from the tower of St. Germain I'Auxerrois, arid, taken 
 up by the ponderous bell of Notre Dame, and the lesser 
 bells of St. Germain des Pres, and the Holy Chapel of the 
 Palace of Justice, died away in the distant echoes of the 
 great clock of the Temple. 
 
 As the last vibrations ceased, a small boat shot out 
 from beneath the shadows of the Louvre, containing a 
 
THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 
 
 79 
 
 single passenger, and crossing the Seine was again lost 
 in the shadows of the Tower of Nesle. The lamp above 
 which had served as a signal and a gnide w^as instantly 
 extinguished, and Blanche saw no more. 
 
 For a few moments she seemed lost in melancholy 
 thought, as she gazed on that dark and gloomy pile. 
 Then her eye glanced to the heavens and roved from 
 star to star, as if with agonizing search for the truths 
 which at that era they were confidently believed to 
 reveal. 
 
 "Oh, if ye are," she, at length, murmured, "if, bright 
 orbs, ye are, indeed, the intelligences which foretell to 
 man his fate, — if, indeed, on the blue fiimiament, ye unite 
 the destinies of nations and of men, 3-e should often beam 
 less brightl}^ from your quiet homes than ye now doi If 
 ye write the fates of all, as wise men tell us, there is mine 
 written on your gloomy page. Yet, alas! what is it? 
 This lonelj' chamber is eloquent of all that ye could 
 blazon, — of all that the lip could express, or the heart 
 could conceive. A Avife without a husband ; — a heart 
 fornied by its Maker to love, and to require love, and yet 
 without its mate! Oh, God, howl did worsliip that 
 man ! Xever, never again wdll he be loved as I once 
 loA'ed him ! Heart, soul, thought, being, breath, my very 
 existence, all — all were his! But now^^ slie continued, 
 after a |)ause, " now — I love him not I I deplore only my 
 own desertion, — not his loss. I love him not. The time 
 has passed. Islj very heart is changed in my bosom. It 
 seems strange, even to myself, that I can be so utterly 
 indifferent to one whom I once so dearly loved. It 
 
80 THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDNIGHT. 
 
 seems strange to me that I should care actually nothing 
 at all for the fact that be who should now be with me, — 
 my husband, — is in the arms of another. Once it was 
 not so ; and, oh, the agony I then endured ! Thank 
 God — thank God, that period hath passed!" 
 
 A pause of some moments ensued. 
 
 " The heart — the human heart," she, at length, ex- 
 claimed, in tones of mournful sadness, " must have some- 
 thing to love! Rightly or wrongly, it must love some- 
 thing ! Margaret — she loves — guiltily — darkly — des- 
 })erately ; yet, she loves ! Jane, — my sweet young sis- 
 ter, — she who, a child, wandered with me on the great 
 banks of the Loire, in our pleasant home, Burgundy, and 
 as little dreamed as did I of our miserable womanhood 
 to come — she loves and is beloved ; yet, though a bride, 
 she loves not her husband, and he — loves not her ! Alas 1 
 what a strange and wretched world it is! Those whom 
 by man's law we should love often love not us, and the 
 great law of Nature often forbids us to love them : and 
 those whom by man's law we should not love, alas ! by 
 Nature's law, love us and we love them ! " 
 
 Again there was a pause of longer duration than 
 before, and as at length the unhappy woman raised her 
 eyes to the peaceful stars, those eyes were full of tears. 
 
 "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, ''what is to be my 
 fate ? I — I love, too ! At last this heart, which so long 
 has slumbered, awakes and reasserts its claims. But can 
 that love be returned? Alas! which misery excuses the 
 other, that of the consciousness of a love which is crime, 
 or that of the fear that this guilty love may not be 
 
THE HALF HOUR AFTER MIDXIGHT. 
 
 81 
 
 returned ? But it must be returned, — it shall be, — it vrUl 
 be [ A heart sacb as mine will brook no denial ! I 
 care not that he now loves, or seems to love, another. 
 He shall resign that love, — he shall love me, — or shall 
 love not at all! What knows she, — a weak-hearted, 
 simple-minded girl, of love ! For long months of loneli- 
 hess, he is the onlj being who has roused in this 
 withered heart the first pulse of passion; and shall all be 
 sacrificed to the fickle fancj of a sillj child? My love 
 for him exceeds hers bj ten thousand fold, and so does 
 mv power to gratify all his wishes. Is he ambitious? — 
 the proudest station beneath the throne shall be his. Is 
 he covetous of wealth ? — he shall revel in gold. Pleasure, 
 power, pomp, — does he long for these? — they shall be 
 his more fullj than his imagination ever conceived. 
 'My influence with the King, though seldom tested, has 
 always proved omnipotent when exercised. More than 
 once he has consulted me on matters of the most momen- 
 tous import to the welfare of his realm, when he has con- 
 sulted uone besides, and it must go hardly if he refuse 
 to me the aid which I render himi Yes — yes — " she 
 exclaimed with renewed vehemence, "he shall love me, 
 even as I love him, — or both of us will die I " 
 
 Dropping on her knees before a crucifix, she raised 
 her streaming ejes to Heaven and exclaimed : 
 
 "Hear me, God 1 To this object do I devote the rest 
 of my life ! — to his happiness and my own ! " 
 
 For an hour this unhappy woman, whose very nature 
 seemed changed by misery in a single night, paced the 
 limits of her apartment in the most fearful agitation. 
 
82 
 
 THE HALF HOUE AFTER MIDNIGHT, 
 
 The golden band wTiicli had circled her waist had been 
 removed, and her rich dress hung in disordered folds 
 around her beautiful form. The heavy tresses of her dark 
 hair were disheveled and, strained back from her livid 
 brow and face, hung in tangled masses nearly to lier feet, 
 while her large azure eye blazed like that of a maniac. 
 
 At length she became more calm. Tim tempest lulled, 
 ^the billows sank — the quietude of exhaustion, — as in 
 God's providence it ever does, — succeeded. 
 
 Seating herself again at tlie window, she took her 
 harp, and, in low tones of touching sadness, accompanied 
 it with the following song : 
 
 When the visions of Hfe, evanescent and vain, 
 
 With the hopes of our youth, like a vapor depart. 
 
 Oh, what shall relume those glad visions again, — 
 Oh, how shall those hopes be reborn in the heart 
 
 When fading — still fading, like stars of the mom, 
 The Pleiads of gladness go out in our sky. 
 
 And, like lamps from the damps of the sepulchre born, 
 They only illumine our pathway to die : — 
 
 When the flowers of enjoyment are scentless and dead, 
 And the chords of life's harmony silent and crushed. 
 
 Oh, what shall restore those ephemerals fled, — . 
 
 Those stars so illusive, — those harp-strings so hushed ? 
 
 They are gone — they are gone, — they can never return, — 
 Those rainbow-phantasma, deceptive and vain, 
 
 And hope's vivid visions may brilliantly burn. 
 Yet never more visit that bosom again. 
 
THE LOVERS. 
 
 83 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 TILTS aud tournahieuts, pageants and processions, 
 balls and banquets, feasts and festivals, succeeded 
 each other in uninterrupted and close succession for sev- 
 eral days after the marriage fete. The wliole Court par- 
 ticipated in the entertainments of the Louvre, and all 
 Paris assembled at those more public — especially at the 
 tournaments which were held in St. Catharine's square. 
 
 The King mingled but little in these gayeties. His 
 mind seemed profoundly preoccupied with matters de- 
 man dinsr thouorht. 
 
 He was often closeted with Be Marigni, He ISTogaret 
 and William Imbert, generally known as William of 
 Paris, his confessor — his confidential advisers in all 
 affairs of state; and, on the morning of the third day 
 after the bridal, Wilham du Plessis, a Dominican monk, 
 was despatched to Avignon, ostensibly to present the 
 congratulations of the Kuig of France upon the accession 
 of the Archbishop of Bordeaux to the Papal See, but 
 actually to maintain a system of sleepless espionage on 
 all the movements and all the proceedings of tho 
 Sovereign Pontiff elect, prior to the event of his corona- 
 tion. Nearly at the same time arrived at Paris, Gail-: 
 lard and Edmond de Goth in magnificant array, with a 
 splendid retinue, ostensibly as legates from their brother, 
 
84 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 tlie newly- elected Pope, to announce liis elevation to 
 Philip, — but really, though unknown even to themselves, 
 as pledges for the fulfillment by Bertrand of the compact 
 which had caused his election ; and still more really, 
 and known to themselves and their brother, though 
 unknown to all others, yet not suspected by the King, — 
 as emissaries and spies of the Papal See at the Court of 
 Fi'ance. IHiese brotliers of the Sovereign Pontiff were 
 young, chivalric and dashing; and, eminently skilled, 
 as they were, in all the martial feats, as well as the more 
 pe-acelul sports of the day, and intimately familiar with 
 all the newest fashions of dress and inventions in 
 amusement, they coukl but prove an immense acqui- 
 sition at the French Court to the brilliant pageantry then 
 going on. 
 
 In all these magnificent fetes the young Queen of 
 ISTavarre was the acknowledged leader — the cynosure of 
 a splendid Court, the star to which all eyes were turned, 
 the observed and the admired of all beholders, and the 
 Queen of Love and Beauty at every tournament. And 
 even at her side is the handsome Equerry Philip de 
 Launai ; and nightly from the dark Tower of Nesle 
 gleams out the love-lighted lamp ; and nightly, when 
 the half hour after twelve tolls forth from tlie church of 
 St. Germain I'Auxerrois, the solitary boatman crosses 
 the Seine and the solitary lamp is extinguislied ; and the 
 sleepless watchman, as he walks his rounds in the distant 
 streets, is heard to shout r 
 
 " Bons Parisiens ! tout est tranquille! 
 Dormez ! dormez ! il est minuit ! " 
 
THE LOYEES, 
 
 85 
 
 Tlie gallant bridegroom and the fair "bride were, of 
 course, participants in all the festivities of the occasion; 
 and never seemed bride and bridegroom more jovous 
 tlian tliey, altbougli, as the etiquette of that era and 
 Court prescribed, they were seidom seen together, and 
 although the gay Count of Poitiers devoted himself 
 more exclusively than ever to the lovely Clemence of 
 Soissons, and the fair Jane detained always at her side 
 her favorite, AValter de Lannai. All of tLe yoimg peo- 
 ple seemed to have arrived in some mysterious man* 
 ner at an excellent imderstanding with each otLer: and 
 faces, which on the night of the bridal fete seemed 
 shrouded in gloom, were now all smishine. Even the 
 mournful beauty of Blanclie of Artois seemed illumined 
 with a strange joy: and so far from manifesting the 
 slightest emotion of feeling at tLe open and undisgiiised 
 devotion of her gay husband to the dashing Madame 
 d'Aumale, it seemed, on the contrary, to afford her secret 
 gratification. IMore than ever before did she mingle 
 now in tLe splendors and festivities of the gay Court, 
 and she seemed to have taken under her own special 
 chajjerryaage the young Marie Morfontaine, maid of 
 honor of the Queen of Xavarre, who had been gladly 
 entrusted to her care. To ti:e fair M;irie. as well as 
 to her distinguished lover, the brave De MarigTii, this 
 arrangement was peculiarly delightful. In the apart- 
 ments of the Countess of MarcLe was afforded tliem 
 abundant and most undisturbed facility for the tender 
 process of love-making : and it was, indeed, a high and 
 most distinguished honor to any young lady of the 
 
THE LOVERS. 
 
 Court, or to any young gentleman, tliougb even the son 
 of the Prime Minister himself, to be under the protec-^ 
 tion of such a woman as Blanclie of Artois — a woman 
 who, though yet not twenty years of age, was versed in 
 all of the personal and intellectual accomplishments of 
 the times — who could discuss theology with William de 
 Nangis, write poetry with John de Meun*, canvass 
 points of law with William Duranti, and dispute points 
 of doctrine even with "the subtle doctor" John Duns 
 Scotus himself. Nor is it strange that a man like 
 Philip the Fourth, who, dead to all of the softer 
 emotions of the breast seemed alive only to ambition, 
 should have prized a woman like Blanche, differing, as 
 she did, from all the ladies of his Court; nor that, inas- 
 much as he often availed himself of her erudition and 
 sound judgment in difficult crises, she should have 
 acquired over him an influence all the more resistless 
 -from the fact that it was seldom exerted. Indeed, it had 
 become almost a proverb at the Court of Philip the 
 Foui'th that no one could divert him from a purpose 
 once formed, or substitute for it another, save his 
 accomplished daughter, Blanche of Artois. 
 
 To the young De Marigni the attentions of the 
 Countess of March e, both to himself and the lady of 
 his love, were peculiarly grateful — grateful not only 
 because of that gratification experienced by every 
 young man in the notice of an accomplished woman of 
 himself and his destined bride — but because she seemed 
 
 * Famous for his continuation of the celebrated poem entitled " The 
 Romance of the Rose,'' which was begun forty years before by William de 
 Lorris. 
 
THE LOVERS. 
 
 87 
 
 to one wliose wliole life liad been passed in the camp 
 as the very incarnation of all that was lovely, and all 
 that was brilliant, and all that was good. A gallant 
 soldier and thoroughly vejsed in the arts and arms 
 of war, he w^as as simple-hearted and as nnsophis- 
 ticated as a child in the ways of woman and the world. 
 To him the bright and beantifal Countess of Marche 
 seemed of a different species from himself and his little 
 ladye-love, and, indeed, from every other woman he had 
 ever seen. It is very true he had not seen very many, 
 for f]-om his boyhood he had been in the field; but he 
 had never even dreamed that there were such beinus as 
 the sweet and intellectual woman under whose favor he 
 nuAV found liimself. 
 
 Tiiere was another thing, also, for which the young 
 De Marigni was gTateful to his noble protectress. His 
 orders, when he left the camp of Charles of Valois, then 
 at Coartray, with despatches of the utmost importance 
 for the King, were to tarrj- but twelve liours at the 
 Louvre, and then, with all speed, to hasten back with 
 the answer. But a word to Philip f^om his favorite 
 Blanche had despatched another courier on the perilons 
 route, and detained the young Count at the side of the 
 lady of his love, and in the midst of the most brilliant 
 festivities Paris had ever beheld. 
 
 Adrian de Marigni was about twenty-five 3iears of age, 
 yet already had he achieved renowm for gallantry in the 
 field of which CA'en a Marshal of France n:iight have been 
 proud. Early thrown upon his owm resources, — with a 
 strong mind, a sound education and a vigorous constitu- 
 
88 THE LOVERS. 
 
 tion, lie had inured liis body to bardsliip and fatigue, dnd 
 accustomed his mind to prompt and energetic action, 
 under every circamstance of emergency or need into 
 which he might be cast. Destined from his boyhood to 
 the profession of war, and familiarized by daily practice 
 to all the ai'ms and armor of the age, he had acquired a 
 skill in their use which left him without a rival or evea 
 a competitor. Above all, he possessed that quality which, 
 in a soldier, can be second to none other : he was thur- 
 ouglily brave. Like all men, indeed, who are conscious 
 of power, he seemed utterly unconscious of fear. And 
 yet, with all his accomplishments and all his abilities, 
 and all his distinctions, there was not among all the offi- 
 cers of Prince Charles' camp a young man more mild, 
 or more modest, or more retiring, or more amiable in his 
 demejinor, than was Adrian de Marigni ; and surely there 
 was not one more universally beloved. In person he was 
 tall and slightly framed, and his hands and his feet were 
 remarkably small. His hair was brown, his eyes a dark 
 hazel, his cheek oval and bronzed by exposure, altliough 
 his forulieacl, where protected by his military cnp, was as 
 white as snow: The prevailing expression of his coun- 
 tenance was snd. Indeed, in the earnest, almost mourn- 
 ful gaze of his large eye, and the unchanging quietude of 
 his lip, the stranger might think he read the traces of 
 profound thought, or of deep-seated sorrow, strangely 
 enough contrasted by his fresh and youthful face. 
 Strange enough, too, was the contrast between the ap- 
 pearance of that delicate, almost eft'eminate form when 
 in the camp or court and when on the field of battle. Jn 
 
THE LOVERS. 
 
 89 
 
 tlie former all was mildness and quietude ; hut when tlie 
 war-horn rang, a new spirit- — a spirit from the very realms 
 of the damned — ^seemed breathed into liis fragile form ; 
 and, with dilated eye and set teeth, and livid cheek, the 
 fearful phantom, like an incarnate fiend, swept over the 
 field, and rivers of human blood followed the fiery flash 
 of that terrible falchion! It seemed strange, unnatural, 
 dreadful, that one so fair, and seemingly so frail, should 
 possess energies so terr.ble: and the iron grip of those 
 soft and small and snowy fingers might remind the one 
 they grasped of that slight and delicate hand — that 
 woman-hand — that hand of steel clothed in a glove of 
 softest velvet which once, by infernal skill and matchless 
 n:iechanism, constituted one of the most exquisite tortures 
 of the Inquisition. 
 
 Yery different from this young soldier was the lad 3^ of 
 his love. She, too, was one of an ancient and respectable 
 family: but early leit an orphan, her immense estates 
 fell under the control and she under the guardianship of 
 the Chancellor ; and thus came she to Court and into the 
 train of the Queen of Navarre. Marie IMorfontaine and 
 Adrian de Marigni had been children together, and their 
 attachment bore an earl\' date. But Adrian had gone to 
 the camp and Marie had gone to the Court, and years had 
 passed since they parted. Their love was, of course, 
 trustful, truthful, undoubting, unexacting — with but lit- 
 tle of sentiment and still less of passion. It was not very 
 strange that the young soldier loved his little playmate, 
 for she had loved him and never had loved another; 
 besides, she was almost the only woman he had ever 
 
90 
 
 THE LOVERS. 
 
 known. She was beautiful, too; at least, slie was so, if 
 an exquisite little figure, joyous blue eyes, brown ring- 
 lets, miscliievous dimples, and teeth as white as pearls, 
 lips as red as coral and forever parted by a smile, can 
 constitute beauty in a young girl of sixteen. And then 
 she had the very littlest foot in the world ! Her love 
 for Adrian was that of a child — almost that of a sister 
 for a brother. When he caressed her she caressed him 
 again. When he fixed his earnest and mournful gaze 
 upon her fair young face, and seemed looking down into 
 the very depths of her soul, enwrapped in mute thought 
 and speechless feeling, she wondered — the simple-hear- 
 ted girl — that he was so silent and so sad. " Why 
 don't you talk to me, Adrian? " she would, at 
 such times, often ask. " Why do you look so sad ? " 
 And then her lover would gaze upon lier more sadly 
 still; and while a mournful smile played upon his lip as 
 he pressed it to her forehead, he would shake his head, 
 but speak not a word. Alas! he felt, though he could 
 comprehend it not, that her simple and child-like nature 
 understood not and sympathized not with his. And yet 
 Marie loved him dearly — she thought she loved him 
 better than all the world beside ; she did love him as 
 well as she could love any one — as well as one like her 
 could love one like him ; she was proud of him as her 
 lover ; she wondered at his achievements, and she 
 thought it strange, very strange, that her little plaj^mate 
 should have done such wondrous deeds. Sometimes, 
 indeed, she would question him of his battles and his 
 camp life ; but almost instantly she would turn pale 
 
THE LOVERS, 
 
 91 
 
 and sliadder. and cover Ler eyes Avitli her liands. and. 
 beseecli him to cease, and ching trembling to his breast 
 as if for protection against the fearful shapes of her own 
 faiicv. which his words had conjured into being. Some- 
 times she would examine his hands with childlike sim- 
 plicity and wonder that such small and white and deli- 
 cate hands could ever have worn an iron glove and 
 grasped a blade or a lance, and have become — oh, 
 horror ! — incarnadined with human gore I 
 
 Sometimes Adrian would smile when she thus talked 
 to him, and sometimes he would sigh. Sometimes lie 
 would clasp her fairy form to his bosom as he would that 
 of a child, and press his warm lips to hers ; and some- 
 times, and oftener of late tlian at Ikst. he would quiet! v 
 kiss her hand, and making some excuse to leave her 
 would pass into the apartments of the Countess of 
 iMarche. which were ever oj en to him. and where he 
 was always received witli smiles: and there, hour after 
 hour, would he sit at her feet as if entranced, gazing 
 upon her face as that of a lovely vision, and listening to 
 the thrilling tones of her harp or the still more thrilling 
 notes of her sad yet most eloquent tongue. 
 6 
 
92 
 
 TEE ROYAL HUNT. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE ROYAL HUNT. 
 
 ONE morning, about a week after the bridal fete, 
 the paved court of the Louvre was all alive, 
 long before the dawn, with horses, and hounds, and hunts- 
 men, and hostlers, assembled and making i-eady for a 
 hunt in tbe forest of St. Germain, each man and beast 
 making, also, to all appearance, just as much uproar, 
 and as uselessly, as he possibly could. 
 
 This expedition was at the suggestion of the Countess 
 of Marche, and the whole Court were enlisted to par- 
 ticipate in the amusement. 
 
 The good people of Paris Avere earlier risers in 1305 
 than they are at the present day; and long before the 
 early summer sun had shown his red face through 
 the mists of the Seine, above the forest of Yincennes, 
 the whole magnificent cortege was mounted and in 
 motion. 
 
 As Blanche of Artois had descended from her 
 chamber, accompanied by Marie Morfontaine, who 
 was now retained constantly near her, and was enter- 
 ing the court-yard preparatory to mounting her horse, 
 she encountered Edmond de Goth, the gallant envoy 
 from the Pope. At the same moment, Adrian de 
 Marigni api)roached to offer his services as usual to 
 Marie. Blanche, however, immediately advanced and 
 
THE ROYAL HUXT. 
 
 93 
 
 took his arm. Then, turning to De Goth, she quietly 
 remarked, with one of her sweetest smiles : 
 
 "You will take good care of Mademoiselle Morfon- 
 taine, if you please, Sir Count. She is of the utmost 
 value to the Count le Portier, and hardly less to me." 
 
 This remark, simple as it was, of course destined the 
 unfortunate Marie to tlie gallantries of tlie envoy, 
 instead of her lover, for the day, and at the same time 
 destined De Marigni to the Countess Blanche. As for 
 Marie, slie was as uncivil and as miamiable as one of 
 her gentle nature could be to her gallant escort, for 
 the full one-half of one full hour, because of her 
 disappointment, he being the innocent instrument 
 thereof. But then her gay and girlish heart g'ot the 
 better even of hersell, and before the hour had actually 
 fairly elapsed, she had come to the conclusion that 
 Count Edmond de Goth was really a very gallant and 
 agreeable cavalier — her bitter disappointment to the 
 contrary nevertheless. 
 
 As for the Countess of Marche, she was mounted on 
 a high-bred barb, of small size, delicate limbs, fleet as 
 a roe and black as a raven. And surely, thought 
 Adrian, as he threw himself, without touching the 
 stirrup, lightly into his saddle, never had he beheld a 
 more enchanting vision than w^as she on that soft 
 summer morn. Her luxuriant dark hair huno; in 
 glossy ringlets from beneath a cap of black velvet, 
 shaped much in the fashion of the riding cap of the 
 present day — far down her shoulders. In front of the 
 cap itself was a glittering brooch of rubies, which 
 
94 
 
 THE ROYAL HUNT. 
 
 confiiiecl to it a single ostrich plume of snowy white- 
 ness, streaming in the morning breeze. Her habit of 
 blacli velvet, cut low and opening in front, betrayed a 
 most exquisite bust; and a crimson cordelilve around 
 the waist, defined the delicate contour of its outline. 
 No wonder that the young soldier, fresh from the camp, 
 and all unused to visions like this, gazed on as if 
 entranced. 
 
 As for the other members of the cavalade, there were 
 the King himself and his Minister, De Marigni, who 
 was, of coui-se, charmed with the distinction bestowed 
 upon his beloved son by the brilhant Countess of 
 Marche. Then there were Charles le Bel and Madame 
 d'Aumale, and the Queen of Navarre and her hand- 
 some Equeriy, and the Count of Poitiers and his fair 
 Clemence of Soissons, and the lovely bride and her 
 devoted Walter, and many, many another fair lady 
 and gallant gentleman, of whom history telleth much, 
 but of whom, as not being essential to this chronicle, 
 we must say nothing. 
 
 Oh, it was a gay and gorgeous cavalcade that swept 
 out from the northern gate of the Louvre, and up 
 the Rue St. Honore, and through the gate, of the same 
 name, of the city wall, and that, finally, as the sum- 
 mer sun rose up in the eastern horizon, paused to look 
 back from the heights of Montmartre on the spires and 
 roofs of Paris, now glittering in the golden rays! 
 
 And a magnificent panorama, indeed, was that which 
 opened to the eye. The old Louvre, with its forests of 
 turrets and its giant keep in the midst, the dark 
 
THE ROYAL HUNT, 
 
 95 
 
 Tower of Nesle rising beyond, the Gotliic spires of St. 
 Germain l'Auxerro!s and its wondrous rose-window, 
 the ponderous twin towers of Notre Dame, rising in 
 massive squareness to the clouds, the glittering Seine 
 gliding like a silver thread oh a dark ground through 
 its green valle}^, and, far away on the left, the dusky 
 pile of the Temple nprearing its huge shape, in 
 ominous gloom, amidst its embattled walls — sncli, such 
 was the scene presented to the gallant cavalcade, as," 
 for an instant, it paused to look back, that sweet sum- 
 mer morning, at the rising of the sun, on the retreating 
 city. 
 
 The cavalcade was followed by a large and noisy 
 company of attendants — hostlers and hunters, and 
 piquers and rangers; and, what with the incessant 
 braying of horns, neighing of horses and yelping of 
 a whole army of hounds, a Babel of discordant sounds 
 was created, which mio-ht have roused old King; 
 Dagobert himself from his last resting-place in the 
 neighboring Abbey of St. Denis. 
 
 Behind this motley group followed more slowly a 
 train of falconers, each bearinii; on his fist a hooded 
 hawk, in order that the sports of the day might be 
 diversified as opportunity might present. St. Germain 
 is about four leaones from the Louvre, and as the 
 Seine was twice crossed by the route, it was more than 
 probable that a flight of herons might be raised from 
 the dense mallows of its low and sedgy banks. 
 
 For some miles the splendid company galloped gayly 
 on, until it descended the river bank at Neuilly. Here, 
 
96 
 
 THE ROYAL HUNT. 
 
 at this time and for some centuries after, existed only a 
 ferry. At length, in 1603, Henry the Fourth and his 
 Queen having been soused into tlie Seine by the horses 
 attached to their carriage taking fright, the ferry wns 
 supplanted by a wooden bridge, whicli wooden bridge 
 has itself, in our own time, been supplanted by a more 
 durable and niore. elegant structure of stone. 
 
 Tbe river had been safely crossed, and the party was 
 ascending the western bank, when, suddenly, with a 
 shrill and plaintive cry, a large white heron rose fi'om 
 the neighboring reeds, and, stretching its long legs and 
 bi'oad wings, directed its heavy flight down the river. 
 Instantly all was uproar among the hounds and their 
 keepers, and half a dozen hawks were at once unhooded 
 and let off by the falconers at the unhappy bird. 
 Several of the horses, terrified at this sudden outcry, 
 became restive, and the beautiful barb of the Countess 
 of Marche, violently plunging and rearing, at length 
 seized the bit between her teeth, and was off' hke an 
 arrow down the precipitous path. 
 
 Blanche of Artois was an accomplished equestrian, 
 as well as a woman of dauntless nerve; and had the 
 route been unobstructed, she would, doubtless, not only 
 have retained her seat, but have reduced her i-efractory 
 steed very shortly to submission. But such was not 
 the fact; and, swerving from the main road, the horse 
 turned to the right into a narrow bridle path Avhich lay 
 along the heights which overhung the river. The peril 
 was imminent that the terrified animal should leap down 
 the steep and dash herself and her fair rider in pieces. 
 
THE ECYAL IPJXT. 
 
 97 
 
 A cry of LoiTor rose f;'om the roval cortege tlie^ 
 bel.eld the danger, and several of the gentlemen were 
 about putting spurs to their horses in pursuit, when 
 they were abruptly desired to draw up by Adrian de- 
 Marigni. Fortunateiy the young Count, who was as 
 skilled in horsemanship as in arms, was mouuted on 
 his own steed, which had borne him through an 
 hundred battles, and on which, in any emergency, he 
 knew he could rely. Plunging his rowels into the 
 flanks of the noble animal, and at tlie same time shout- 
 ing into his ears his well-known Avar-cry, in an instant 
 horse and rider were flying like the light on the path 
 of the fuoitives. 
 
 It was at once evident that De iMarigni gained in 
 the pursuit, and must shortly come up; but the peril 
 was more imminent now than ever that the terrified 
 barb, hearino- the tramp of pui'suing hoofs, mioht sud- 
 denly swerve to the right into the underwood, and make 
 the fatal plunge before his headlong course could be 
 arrested. Nor was this apprehension vain, for the 
 moment the fiving steed perceived another horse upon 
 her left flank, she suddenly wheeled into the under- 
 growth vrhich fringed the precipitous bank on the right. 
 Tvro bounds and the animal was on the brink I Until 
 this fearful moment the Countess liad retained her self- 
 possession, but now her fate seemed fixed, and, dropping 
 the reins, she clasped her hands and closed her eyes for 
 the dreadful plunge. 
 
 At that instant — e^rz-n at the instant tliat the flying 
 barbj frantic with terror, beholding its peril, for a 
 
98 
 
 THE ROYAL HUNT. 
 
 moment seemed striving to turn, and then daslied head- 
 long down the height — even at that instant a long and 
 iron arm woaud itself around the lady's delicate waist ; 
 and when she again opened her e3'es she was clasped in 
 safety to the bosom of Adrian de Marigni ! 
 
 "Ah, Adrian, I knew it must be you I" she mur- 
 muieJ, cliuging to his breast. The next instant her 
 gnisp J'elaxed. She had fainted. 
 
 In a few minutes th.e King and the Count of Marche 
 came gallopiag up, followed shortly by the whole caval- 
 cade, at full speed. Throwing themselves from their 
 horses, they at once gathered ai'ound the Countess, who, 
 reclining upon a mossy bank on the arm of her preser- 
 ver, was beginning to I'cvive. 
 
 "Is she harmed ?— is she harmed ? " shouted the King, 
 in tones of utmost anxiety. 
 
 '* Not in the least, sire," calmly replied, the young 
 man ; "she has but fainted." 
 
 " Heaven be praised I " cried Phihp. " Why! I would 
 as sooD lose my crown as my daughter Blanche!" 
 
 The Count of Marche, without uttering a word, but 
 ghastly pale, had leaped from his horse, and, kneeling 
 at the side of his fainting wife, received her insensible 
 f )rm from her preserver's arms. At the same moment 
 Blanche slowly opened her eyes. They met the 
 anxious gaze of her husband. Shuddering, she again 
 closed them, and the ladies of the party now coming 
 up, she was resigned at once to their superior skill and 
 knowledge in matters of the kind, and was very scon 
 restored. 
 
THE ROYAL HUNT, 
 
 99 
 
 The acknowledgments and congratulations wliicli now 
 descended npon the young soldier fiom all qnarters ^Yere 
 numberless, and were received with his characteristic 
 modesty. 
 
 The King himself w^armly grasped his hand and pre- 
 sented his Jormal acknowledgments. 
 
 The Prime Minister w^as in an ecstacy of delight at 
 the bravery and good fortune of his intrepid son; and 
 Marie — slie did all she could, poor little girl! — she slied 
 tears as freely as a watering pot does water ! 
 
 All idea of pursuing the original design of a hunt at 
 St. Germain was now abandoned, and it was resolved 
 that a portion of the party should accompany the 
 Countess to the Abbey of Maubuisson, near the village 
 of Pontoise, wdiich w^as but a few miles distant, wdiile 
 those wdio chose the sport should join in a hawd^ing 
 party along the banks of the Seine — it being understood 
 that the entire cortege should assemble at the ringing of 
 the Abbey bell, at that place for dinner: after which, 
 such as official duties called back to Paris should return 
 — the residue j^assing the night at Pontoise. 
 
 As for Blanche of Artois, wdio had now entirely re- 
 covered, she insisted upon mounting the horse of one of 
 her women, and also insisted that Charles should i-eturn 
 to the deserted Madame d'Aumale, and her owm gallant 
 preserver should be restored to her. "And it was so." 
 
100 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 
 
 THE Abbey of Manbuisson, situated near the vil- 
 lage of Pontoise, some two or three leagues from 
 Pai'is, was founded by St. Louis in the year of grace 1270, 
 a few months only before his decease. This was one 
 among the numerous religious houses established and 
 endowed by this "pious" monarch, both at the capital 
 and in the provinces. Of the others may be named tlie 
 Abbeys of Eoyaumont, Longchamp, and Lis, and the 
 monasteries of the Jacobins and the Cordeliers at Paris, 
 and of the Mathurins at Fontainebleau. St. Louis also 
 furnished the Carmelites, Cai'thnsiaiis, Celestins and 
 Augustins with houses and churches, and in the prov- 
 inces established several convents of nuns called Begui- 
 res, from their founder, Lambert le Begue, or, from the 
 Beguine veil whicli formed part of their habit: and 
 even the Abbey of Maubuisson became, at a later period, 
 one of their retreats, though originally a convent of 
 Cistercians. He also furnished Father Robert Sorbonne 
 with an edifice for the university bearing his name, 
 since so noted. Last, though by no means the least, of 
 the priest-monarch's pious performances, the holy St. 
 Louis introduced a branch of the Inquisition into France, 
 
THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSOX. 
 
 101 
 
 by and with tlie advice and consent of "bis equally pious 
 consort, Blanche of Castile! * 
 
 Some days had elapsed since the occurrence of tbe 
 events last recited. The hunting i)arty bad returned to 
 Paris, with the exception of the Countess Blancbe and 
 her ladies, Marie Morfbntaine and ber lover, and Edmond 
 de Goth, the brother of the Pope. The Queen of Na- 
 varre and her handsome Equerrj^ also remained. Tbe 
 ostensible cause of Blancbe of Artois' retirement from 
 Court Avas the observance of devotional duties, and tbat 
 of tbe Queen was to keep her company, while the gen- 
 tlemen remained because the ladies did. But tbe real 
 causes of tbis seclusion were very different. 
 
 In the apartments appropriated to tbe use of tbe Coun- 
 tess of Marche, Adrian de Marigni was a fi'equent and 
 ever welcome visitor. It is said that we are far more 
 inclined to love an object we have protected, than one to 
 which we have been indebted for protection. If tbis 
 apborism be true, it will go far to explain the novel and 
 undefined emotions which had possessed the heart of the 
 young de Marigni since his late preservation of Blanche 
 of Artois. His thoughts by dcij were of ber, and so, too, 
 were his dreams at night. How often! ob, how often! 
 did the .young soldier, in the silent night-watches, aAvake 
 fi'om tbe visions of his lonely pillow, and almost fancy 
 
 * In 1134. the Council at Verona gave bis-liops power to inquire into heresies 
 and punish the suspected. In 1198, Pope Innocent Tliird sent two Cistercian 
 monks into soutliern France, to convert, or to l^ill certain Manicliean lieretics. 
 Thus originated the institution, and such legates were snbst'quently called 
 Inquisitors. In Spain, Italy and Portugal tliis ti'ibunal flf)urislie(l tVoni tiie 
 first, but was never established in France until the latter partof tlie tliL-teenth 
 century, by Louis the isiuth, as stated. 
 
102 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 
 
 tliat Le clasped once more tlie phantom of tliat exq-aisite 
 form to his breast, and gazed once more into the dark 
 and mournful beauty of those grateful eyes! Awake or 
 asleep, those glorious eyes forever haunted him ; and 
 before him like a spirit wherever he might be — whetlier 
 in his sohtary walks ou the river bank, or in the depths 
 of the forest — by night or by day — glided ever that 
 beautiful form — gleamed ever that eloquent eye. He 
 had been always sad, but now he was more sad than 
 ever; he had been always thoughtful, but a subject of 
 reflection had now arisen in his mind, and a train of 
 feelings and sensations had now awakened in his breast, 
 of which he liad never conceived before. 
 
 To Marie Morfontaine he liad always been a strange 
 > being, but now he seemed stranger than ever. She had 
 never been able to fathom or to comprehend very well 
 either his feelings, or his thoughts; and now they were 
 utterly beyond her comprehension. At first she used to 
 accompany him in his long and solitary walks, but she 
 got tired of his everlasting silence, and she fancied he 
 had got tired of her everlasting prattle, — though he had 
 never told her so by word, or by look, or by sign; and 
 so it came about that the melancholy Adrian walked by 
 himself, and the gay iMarie whiled away her leisure 
 moments with the gallant Edmond de Goth, who was at 
 all times and in all places, and under every variety of cir- 
 cumstance, her most devoted, humble servant, and who 
 could talk forever and laugh as long as he could talk; 
 and in both laughing and talking could fairly compete 
 with herself. 
 
THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSOX. 
 
 103 
 
 But x\driairs walks were not all of them lonelv. 
 More than , once had the fair Countess desired, to his 
 undisguised jov, to be his companion, and more than 
 once had this desire been gratified. 
 
 It Avas during these long and summer evening rambles 
 tlirough the deep woods of Manbnisson that Adrian 
 detailed to Blanche, at her earnest petition, all the inci- 
 dents of his brief yet most eventful career. iBe told 
 her of his battles and sieges, his encampments and 
 marclies, and of the novel scenes he had Avitnessed, and 
 the strange persons witli whom lie had met in his long 
 campaigns on a foreign soil. To these recitals Blanche 
 Avould listen for hours in silence, her dark ej'es fixed 
 earnestly on his eloquent face; and Vvdien his voice 
 ceased, she would sigh, and would feel that gladly could 
 she listen thus forever. 
 
 At length, one evening, when he had been reciting his 
 adventures as usual, and they h[id turned their steps 
 homeward to the Abbey, as the dews Avere beginning to 
 fail, she remarked : 
 
 But 3'ou never tell me, Count, of any of your love 
 matters." 
 
 The young man smiled and slightly colored, but 
 remained silent. 
 
 "Have you had no affairs of tlie heart among all the 
 adventures of your exciting career? " she continued. 
 
 "iXone, madame," Avas the quiet ansAver. 
 
 "Perhaps you Avere protected by a prior preference? " 
 rejoined the Countess. 
 
 "I have never loved but one/' said De iMarigni. 
 
104 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSOIT. 
 
 Blanche of Artois was silent for a moment, then 
 burriedl}^ added : 
 "And that one?" 
 "Is Marie Morfontaine." 
 
 " You were children together, were you not ? " asked 
 the Countess, with difficulty, after a pause." 
 " We were, madame." 
 "And you have loved from childhood?" 
 " We have." 
 
 " We ? Then yoa infer that Marie loves you as well 
 as you love her? " 
 
 "I know Marie loves me, madame." 
 
 Again the Countess was silent, and for some time 
 they both walked on wit^liout exchanging a word. 
 
 " Have 3^ou ever asked Marie to become your wife ? " 
 asked Blanche. 
 
 "No, madame," replied the yoang man Avith a 
 smile. 
 
 "Ah ! " returned tlie Countess quickly. 
 
 "She has alwaj^s understood, I suppose, that when she 
 became a wife, she would be mine. / have always 
 understood so, and I think she has ; and yet I have 
 never asked her to be mine." 
 
 "When is your union to take place?" asked the 
 Countess, after a pause. 
 
 "I do not know, madame. It may be years hence. 
 But she is young, and so am I, and we can wait." . 
 
 "Do you know, Count," asked the Countess softly, 
 " that you mlglit marry any lady in Paris?" 
 
 "I do not, madame," was the quiet reply. 
 
THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 
 
 105 
 
 "Yon liave no ambitious aspirations then, in the 
 regard of a matrimonial connection?" 
 
 ''None, madame — none Avliatever," replied tlie 3'onng 
 soldier quickly, Avith a sliglit curl of tLe lip. " My field 
 of ambition is the camp — not the loudoir. I ain no 
 carpet-knight. Whatever I am — and that's not much, 
 to be sure — I owe to no one but mj'self. I Avish it 
 always thus." 
 
 For some moments the Countess walked on in silence. 
 At length she continued : 
 
 " Marie would be yours noiL\ if you wished it, would 
 she not ? " 
 
 " I suppose, madame, she would. But my parents, 
 especially my mother, are opposed to m\^ marriage for 
 some years yet. They say I am too young to marrj^," 
 added the young man with a smile. "Do you agree with 
 them. Countess? " 
 
 " There must be some reason besides that! " said the 
 Countess, laughing. Then, thoughtfully, she added : 
 "May it not be that they are opposed rather to the bride 
 than the bridal?" 
 
 Adrian started, and, in a lower tone, replied : 
 
 " Possibly it is so, madame." 
 
 " A father is often more aspiring for his son than the 
 son is for himself." 
 
 " But it is my mother, madame." 
 
 " A mother always loses a child when her son becomes 
 a husband," inteiTupted the Countess. "He is no more 
 all liers^ and he is all another's. But suppose, Count, 
 that your parents seriously opposed 3' our union with 
 Marie Morfontaine — what then?" 
 
106 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBCJISSON. 
 
 " Tlien, madatne, that union woald never take place," 
 was the decided answer. 
 
 " You would obey your parents at all liazavds ? " 
 
 " Most assuredly, luadame. They gave me life." 
 
 "It seems then, on tlie whole," said the Countess, "an 
 exceedingly uncertain thing when you will become 
 Marie's husband, if you ever do — is it not so? " 
 
 " Years will pass first — but we shall marry in the end," 
 confidently replied the young man. 
 
 " Even if your parents forbid ? " 
 
 Adrian was silent. 
 
 " But do you not wrong Marie," persisted the Countess, 
 "in thus retaining her troth, under an uncei'tainty so 
 great? Do you, indeed, manifest true love for her — a 
 disinterested desire for her happiness, by holding her to 
 a pledge like this? Adrian, most women are wives at 
 Marie's age. I am myself but little her senior. Is it 
 altogether fair to keep her for years in her present 
 dependent condition as a ward of the crown, when a 
 change might prove so much more preferable; and that 
 dependence kept up too on such an uncertainty ? For 
 years hence, your parents may not consent any more than 
 they now do. Besides, you are constantly in the field, 
 and your life — " 
 
 The Countess shuddered, and stopped, and became 
 pale. 
 
 " Madame, madame, I will make any sacrifice for 
 Marie's happiness!" said Adrian with energy. 
 
 Blanche of Artois sadly smiled. She perceived she 
 had touched the right chord. 
 
THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSOX. 
 
 107 
 
 " Are YOU really anxious for this marriage to take 
 place? she resumed in Ioy' tones, after a pause. 
 
 The YOung man Y'as silent for a moment, and then 
 replied: 
 
 ''I am less anxious, I believe, than I once was, 
 madame ? " 
 
 "And why?'' 
 I do not knoY', madame." 
 
 " Do you think ^larie understands you Y'ell — T mean 
 do 3^ou think she can comprehend and sympathize with 
 all your thoughts and emotions ? 
 
 "Xo, madame: oh, nol " replied De Marigni, sadly, 
 shakino- his head. 
 
 ''And yet you love her? " 
 
 " Does she not love me ? " 
 
 "•Well, Count, I suppose she does,'' replied the Coun- 
 t-ess : " at least you think so, and slie thinks so, too, no 
 doubt. She loves you as veil as she can, perhaps — as 
 veil as one person can love another whom she cannot 
 comprehend, and with whose peculiar feelings she can- 
 not sympathize." 
 
 ''But that is not her fault, madame," warmly rejoined 
 Adrian. " ITer nature is different from mine. It is 
 rather my fault, if the fault of an}' one. She is always 
 gay — I am always sad. She is always laughing and 
 chatting — I laugh but little and say less. ISTothing 
 troubles her — everything troubles me. She — happy and 
 innocent girl — never thinks, I do verily believe: vdiile 
 I — I am forever in a broAvn study, as she herself says I " 
 
 " And, knoYung this, do you believe her fitted to be 
 7 
 
loa 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON. 
 
 your life-long companion, or you to be liers ? " asked tlie 
 Countess gently. 
 
 De Marigni made no reply. 
 
 "It may not be — it assuredly is not, as you so warmly 
 assert— her fault that you are not more alike ; but, if 
 she is to be your wife, naay it not prove your misfortune^ 
 as well as her own? " 
 
 De Marigni was still silent. 
 
 "Suppose, Count," continued the lady, "suppose that 
 your feelings for Marie were to change — suppose you 
 were to love her no longer—" 
 
 " That cannot be, madam e ! " interrupted Adrian. 
 
 " But suppose," resumed the Countess, with sonie irri- 
 tation of feeling and tone, and with heightened color — 
 " suppose you were to love another." 
 
 " Well, madame? " said Adrian softly, 
 r " Would you then make Marie Morfontaine your 
 wife?" 
 
 " Madame, I would — I would if — " 
 
 The young man paused. 
 
 "If what?" 
 
 "Jf she wished it." 
 
 " And would you thus consult her happiness — to say 
 nothing of your own? Ah, Adrian," continued the 
 Countess, pressing her snowy fingers upon the arm on 
 which she leaned, " the human heart cannot love two 
 objects supremely at once. Think jow that Marie 
 could be happy as your wife, loving you, and knowing 
 — for sucb knowledge quickly comes to woman — tliat 
 you loved not her? And do you think you could be 
 
THE ABBEY OF MAUBUISSON". 
 
 109 
 
 happy as the husband of one woman and the lover 
 of another? " 
 
 The low, sweet tones of Blanche of Artois trembled — 
 her dark eyes were suffused with emotion — her white 
 hand rested more heavily on Adrian's arm — her form 
 almost leaned upon his for support. 
 
 De Marigni, more agitated than even his companion, 
 dared not trust his voice in reply ; but he laid his hand, 
 scarcely less snowy than that which rested on his arm, 
 gently beside it. Tlie touch, so light as to be hardly 
 perceptible, thrilled to his very soul; and it thrilled to 
 hers. 
 
 " Adrian," said Blanche of Artois, in tones of low and 
 melancholy sweetness, after a pause of considerable 
 duration, "whatever you do in this matter, oh, be not 
 hasty ! It is a terrible thing to marry and not to love ! 
 It is a terrible thing to marry and to outlive love — either 
 your own love or another's 1 But more terrible than all 
 is it — terrible to your companion, and yet more terrible 
 to yourself — to wed for life and fondly to love — yet not 
 to love the being to whom you are wed 1 " 
 
 During this conversation the pair had slowly ap- 
 proached the Abbey, and were now in the shrubbery of 
 the garden, and the shades of evening had deepened 
 almost into night. 
 
 As the Countess uttered, as if with an effort, the last 
 syllables recited, she suddenly stopped, and her forehead 
 sank on the shoulder of her companion. At the same 
 moment a cold tear dropped upon his hand. 
 
 "You are unhappy! — oh, you are unhappy!" he 
 
110 
 
 THE ABBEY OF MAUBUXSSON. 
 
 exclaimed, in uncontrollable agitation, all the generous 
 emotions of his soul being at once roused, at the same 
 time clasping her unresisting form to his heart. " Oh, 
 be my sister, Blanche! — let me be your brother I — teil 
 me all — tell me — " 
 
 Blanclie of Artois gently disengaged herself from the 
 arms of Adrian, and, pressing his hand to her lips, glided 
 into the Abbey and at once to her chamber. 
 
THE LETTER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 CnAPTEE YIII. 
 
 THE LETTEE, 
 
 SEYEEAL days passed. Blanclie of Artois confined 
 herself to her own a2:)artments, on plea of indis- 
 position ; and a sentiment of undefined delicacy pre- 
 vented Adrian from seeking an interview. 
 
 Long and deeply, during his lonely walks, did he 
 ponder every tone, look and syllable of that strange 
 conversation. There were some things, — many things, 
 which to him were quite incomprehensible ; — and there 
 were some that, unfortunately for poor Marie, he could 
 comprehend but too well. The conckiding incident of 
 the interview seemed to him like a dream, — a confused 
 and indistinct vision, on the remembrance of which he 
 dared hardly linger. It was true, many wild dreams 
 had visited him of late; but this he felt was no dream. 
 He longed once more to meet Blanche. His heart bled 
 for her. He would have risked his life to make her 
 happy, as he had already risked it to secure her safety. 
 Yet, notwithstanding, such was the inconsistency and 
 perplexity of his feelings that sooner than have entered 
 her chamber he would have charged a whole city of 
 Flemings, with Peter le Roi, the weaver, and John 
 Breyel, the butcher of Bruges, at their head ! 
 
 As for Marie, she perceived nothing unusual in her 
 lover. He was always so silent and so sad that she had 
 
l^HE LETTER. 
 
 ceased to wonder at the cause, if lie happened to be a 
 little more so, or a little less so, on any one day than on 
 the day before. True, she would, once in a while, glide 
 up to him, as he sat in reverie, at an open window, and 
 gazed sadly on the distant forests, or the blue hill-tops, or 
 the summer clouds, or the rushing river, and, dropping on 
 her knees at his side, throw her white arms around his 
 neck, saying: "Adrian, what ails you? Are you ill? " 
 
 And then her lover would part the luxuriant ringlets 
 upon her white forehead, and press to it his lips, tell 
 her he was never better in his life; and she — happy and 
 unthinking child ! would trip away to amuse herself 
 with Edmond de Goth and laugh Q>t his courtly speeches. 
 
 One day, the Prime Minister came out from the 
 capital, and, having held a long and secret conference 
 with his son, departed. But, from the subsequent 
 manner of Adrian, Marie could gather nothing of the 
 purport of his visit : — to be snre she did not try very 
 hard, — and her lover with a smile declined satisfying 
 her childlike curiosity. He left the Abbey shortly 
 after, however, and did not return until all its inmates 
 had retired for the night. Eepairing to his apartment, 
 he was about throwing himself on his couch, when a 
 piece of pink vellum, delicately folded, and perfumed, 
 and secured with a tress of bright black hair, instead of 
 the floss commonly used for that purpose, arrested his 
 attention. Finding the note bore his own address, he 
 quickly yet carefully cut the tress of liair with his keen 
 dagger, and, unfolding the vellum, read the following 
 lines traced in letters of exquisite form : 
 
THE LETTER, 
 
 113 
 
 TO ADPJAX. 
 
 Tliou dost not love me I As ilie ^arm wind sigliing 
 Along tlie leaves of summer's quiet grove. 
 
 An instant swelling lingering. — then dying — . 
 
 Thus in tl:y bosom wakes the breath of love. 
 
 Thou dost not love me I I have watched the beaming 
 Of that calm eje. — the quiet of thy brow, 
 
 And sadly turned me from that placid seeming 
 Only to sigh,^ — - He loves me not ! '* — as now. 
 
 Thou dost not love me I Well. — I'm not imploring 
 A single throb, or thought, of thy young heart: 
 
 iSTay. I would not my own heart's deep adoring 
 Should to thy breast one sorrowing sigh impart. 
 
 But I shall love thee! Vainly comes all warning 
 Unto a breast where passion hath her throne. 
 
 Upon whose heart. — an altar. — night and morning 
 Eisetli an incense-cloud to love alone. 
 
 I do not say Adieu.' — 't were idly spoken. — 
 
 For we shall meet. — shall meet as we have met : 
 
 Thine eye will glance as coldly. — but no token 
 Shall tell to thee that I can e'er forget I 
 
 'With strange and conflicting feelings, again and 
 again Adrian de ^farigni read these impassioned and 
 despairing verses. Then gazing at the bright tress of 
 dark hair, and folding it within the velkim. he pressed 
 the treasure repeatedly and fervently to his hps. and, 
 placing it beneath his vest upon his throbbing heart, he 
 held it there and threw himself npon his couch. He 
 threw himself upon his couch, but it was not to sleep. 
 
114: 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 CIIAPTEE IX. 
 THE visioisr. 
 
 HOUE after hour passed away, and still Adrian 
 de Marigni slept not. The oM Abbey clock 
 tolled regularly the hours in drowsy numbers, from ten 
 o'clock till two, and was regularly answered by tbe 
 ponderous bells of Paris. 
 
 To attempt to describe the young soldier's feelings or 
 thoughts, during these silent night-watches, were idle. 
 He could not have described them himself 
 
 Towards morning he fell from mere exhaustion into 
 a troubled slumber. He dreamed. He was on the 
 wide, wild ocean. The winds raved — tlie billows tossed 
 around him. He was wrecked. Destruction was in- 
 evitable. Suddenly the black clouds parted. A beau- 
 tiful face looked down upon him — a whit-e hand was 
 extended — he was saved! That hand! that face! — it 
 was Blanche of Arto's. 
 
 The scene changed. He was on the scaffold. The 
 headsman's axe gleamed over him. For tlie last time, 
 he opened his eyes to the bright world of nature. A 
 guardian angel was beside him. It was Blanche ot 
 Artois ! 
 
 He stood at the altar. The hand of his little play- 
 mate, Marie Morfontaine, was in his. The priest, in 
 
THE VISION. 
 
 115 
 
 snowy stole and alb, was before them. The irrevocable 
 vow was about to be spoken. Suddenly between kim- 
 self and tlie altar rose a sweet, pale face. It was the 
 face of Blanche of Artois ! 
 
 Once more the scene changed. He was on the battle- 
 field. Plumes tossed, banners waved, steel clashed, 
 blood gushed — death in all its most feaiful foi-ms was 
 around him; yet, througli all, calm, cold, senseless — ^like 
 a demon of ruin he swept. Before his flaming falchion 
 full many a mailed form, full many a plumed crest, went 
 down. At length, weary with the slaughter, as the fight 
 closed, his battle-axe descended with crushing might on 
 a form that had hannted him throughout all the conflict. 
 That form fell. For an instant he glanced on his victim. 
 The vizor of the helmet fell back. Amid the blood- 
 mists of battle gleamed up a sad and beautiful face. Oh, 
 God 1 it was Blanche of Artois ! 
 
 Again the scene changed. Horror! — he was at the 
 stake! An awful deatli awaited him. The red flames 
 rose and I'oared, and the black smoke swept and eddied 
 in stifling clouds around him! They parted — those 
 clouds of flame and smoke: before him rose the face of 
 an angel, with the eyes of a fiend! That face ! — those 
 eyes! — it was Blanche of Artois! 
 
 Horror-struck, the slumberer awoke. 
 
 Tlie early summer sun was pouring its first red rays 
 into the chamber. From the court-yard of the Abbey 
 rose the rattle of iron hoofs upon the pavement, and the 
 cries of attendants. By his couch stood a servant to say 
 that in one hour the whole party would start for Paris. 
 
116 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 ■ Bewildered and perplexed, Adrian de Marignl de- 
 scended to tlie court. During Lis absence, on the even- 
 ing previous, he learned tbat an invitation, or rather an 
 order, had arrived from the Louvre, for all of its accus- 
 tomed inmates to be present at the reception of the 
 legates of the Sovereign Pontiff* elect, the Archbishop of 
 Bordeaux, who brought tO' the King of France, with all 
 his clergy, his chivalry and his Court, a bidding to be 
 present at the city of Lyons on the fourteenth day of 
 November next ensuing, at the Papal consecration. 
 
 Adrian found the whole party already in motion, and, 
 after a hasty repast, it was mounted and on the route to 
 the capital. 
 
 Never had Blanche of Artois seemed to De Marigni 
 so beautiful, and never had he beheld her so gay and so 
 cheerful as on that morning. Her brief illness gone, she 
 seemed another being. Her face was all smiles. H&r 
 dark eyes were filled with joy. Wit sparlded, jest 
 leaped, repartee and rejoinder flowed from her lips. Was 
 it possible this was the woman he last beheld ? 
 
 " Do you design escorting me to Paris, young gentle- 
 man?" she gayly cried to Dc Marigni, as he stood 
 bewildered at the scene. If jo\i do, ride up — ride np! 
 Why, one would suppose you had seen a spectre last 
 night, instead of sleeping as soundly as a soldier always 
 sleeps until sunrise this morning, you look so pale and 
 haggard! Come on, come on, or we shall be left 1" 
 
 And away she galloped, followed by the Count. 
 
 As the party passed the scene of the late peril of the 
 
THE VISION, 
 
 117 
 
 Countess, many congratnlations were addressed her 
 upon the liappj result, and many compliments to De 
 Marigni. 
 
 - " I suppose I am imder everlasting obligations to you, 
 Sir Count, for saving my life — am I not? " remarked 
 J31anclie of Artois to her companion. 
 
 "By no means, madame," was tlie calm answer. "I 
 should have done the little I did for any woman." 
 
 Blanche bit her lip, and urged on her steed without 
 reply. 
 
 ' Crossing the Seine at the Ferry of ISTeuiJly, the troop 
 glowly asce-nded the opposite hill. 
 
 " I am told," carelessly remarked the Countess to De 
 Marigni, as he rode beside her, "that you received a 
 visit from the Minister last evening." 
 
 " I did, madame," was the respectful reply. 
 
 " And the purport — is it a secret? " continued Blanche, 
 f " To you, madame, it is not." 
 , "Well?" 
 
 " My father bids me return to camp." 
 ' " And you obey, of cour&e?" 
 
 "Of course, madame." ' 
 
 " He wishes to remove you from the corrupting in- 
 fluence of the Louvre, I suppose!" rejoined the Coun- 
 tess, with a lauo'h. 
 
 . " I think rather he wishes to remove me from tlie in- 
 fluence of Marie Morfontaine," replied De Marigni, sadly. 
 
 " How ? " exclaimed the Couutess, with weli-feigned 
 astonishment. 
 
118 
 
 THE VISION. 
 
 " 111 fact, inadame, lie takes tlie same view of my con- 
 nection with Marie that yourself condescended to do." 
 
 The Countess bowed, and sliglitly colored. 
 
 "He believes that years must elapse before Marie can 
 become my wife ; and, inasmuch as Edmond de Goth 
 has asked her hand of the Chancellor, he thinks I ought 
 to resign it." 
 
 " Edmond de Goth ? " returned tlie Countess, thought- 
 fully ; "that is a proud alliance for a maid of honor of 
 the Queen of Navarre." 
 
 "But you forget, madame, that Marie is high-born and 
 beautiful, and the heiress of immense estates," returned 
 the Count with warmth. 
 
 " Yes, yes — but you^ Count, forget that Edmond de 
 Goth is the brother of the Pope. And so you return to 
 Flanders?" added the Countess. 
 
 " Yes, madame, yes," was the sad reply. 
 
 " You once told- me — I forgot when— but you told me 
 once, I think, that the sphere of your ambition was the 
 tented field, and that alone — did you not?" 
 
 "I did, madame," said De* Marigni. "It has ever 
 been so, and hereafter will be so more than ever." 
 
 "How then does it happen that you have never united 
 yourself with the noble Order oF the Temple, or that of 
 the Hospitalers? " asked the Countess. 
 
 " There have been several reasons," rejoined De Ma- 
 rigni. " First, my contemplated union with Marie — for 
 a Templar is a priest. Second, the terrible secrets and 
 infamous vices which are attributed to that powerful 
 order ; and third, even had I wished to become a 
 
THE VISION*. 
 
 119 
 
 Kniglit-Companion of eitlier order, it Tvoiild have "been 
 no easy matter for me to accomplisli my wisli. The 
 Templars are mostly in C3'pras, or in their priories. We 
 have none in the camp of Charles of Yalois." 
 
 "There are a few in Paris, are there not?" asked 
 Blanche, 
 
 "A fevr old knights — such as William of Mont- 
 morency, John of Beanfremont, Pierre of Yillars, Falk 
 of Trecy, Gillon of Chevreuse, and others, who are dis- 
 abled for the field by reason of age and wounds — abide 
 at the Palace of the Temple." 
 
 "Hugh de Peralde is the Grand Prior, or the Visitor 
 of the Priory of France ? " asked the Countess. 
 
 " I have so understood, madame." 
 
 " It is a noble order! " exclaimed the Countess, with 
 enthusiasm, after a pause. " Were I a man I would be 
 a Templar ! What wonderful beings thej are! " 
 
 " But their vices — " began De Mai'igni. 
 
 "Are the vices of individuals, not of a fraternity," 
 was the quick answer. _ " Besides, one can pardon in a 
 member of that glorious brotherhood what would be 
 condemned in other men. How strange it seems to me, 
 Count, that yoic are not a Templar!" 
 
 "My connection with Marie " began De Marigni. 
 
 "But that has now ceased!" interrupted Blanche. 
 
 "The terrible secrets and vices of the order," again 
 began the Count. 
 
 '• But the order itself is a religious order. How can 
 one like 3^ou be otherwise than a Knight of the Cross? 
 I am told you are a model of piety in the camp, Count." 
 
120 
 
 THE VISION^. 
 
 " Madame," returned the young man, gravely, " I am 
 a model of nothing. My mother taught me never to 
 neglect my religious duties, even in camp, as the best 
 safeguard against vices." 
 
 "And you have obeyed lier?" 
 
 "I have tried to do so, madame." 
 
 "Why then do you not become 'A Poor Fellow- 
 soldier of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon? ' " 
 
 "Because " 
 
 V "Since you have resigned all wish to sacrifice the 
 happiness of Marie Morfontaine to your selfishness?'.' 
 added the Countess. 
 
 "Then, madame, because — and this is a sufficient 
 reason — I have no influence to gain me admission into 
 that august order," Avas the reply. 
 
 " Ah I " returned the Countess—" is that all ? " 
 
 The cortege had now reached the brow of the heights 
 of Montmartre, overlooking Paris, and, galloping down 
 the Kue St. Honore, it entei'ed the northern gate of the 
 Louvre. 
 
THE MISSI^T:. 
 
 121 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE MISSIVE. 
 
 THE fete at tlie Louvre, on the occasion of tlie 
 reception of the Papal messengers, on the night 
 ot September 16tli, 1305, was one of. the most splendid 
 that ancient pile — even then ancient — had ever beheld. 
 
 And of all this gorgeous scene, the idol, the orna- 
 meijt, the boast, the queen, was Blanche of Artois. 
 
 Her very nature seemed changed. Iso one who 
 had attended the bridal fete of her sister Jane, but a 
 few weeks before, could have recognized in the splendid 
 and most fascinating Countess of March e, glittering 
 with gems and radiant with smiles, the centre of all 
 that was joyous and all that was brilliant in that 
 proud hall — the sad, retiring, melancholy, deserted woman 
 who had then been hardly seen. 
 
 Tiie universal admiration she excited communicated 
 itself even to her unfaithful husband, Charles le Bel^ 
 and he was proud that the star of that brilliant scene 
 was his own lovely wife. He even approached her with 
 a courtly com})liment on his lips to her transcendant 
 charms, but before it was half-uttered he was dismissed, 
 with a significant smile, to Madame d'Aumale ! 
 
 "Blanche has asserted herself at last !" said the gay. 
 Queen of Navarre to her devoted Equerry. "Her 
 fright the other day seems to have worked a miracle." 
 
122 
 
 THE MISSIVE. 
 
 As for Adrian de Marigni, he was indulged witli 
 scarce a smile or a word from the lovely Countess ; and, 
 having wandered like a Carmelite through the lighted 
 saloons, pale and silent, and sad, for a few hours, he at 
 length resigned Marie Morfontaine to her avowed 
 admirer, though not yet avowed lover, Edmond de 
 Goth, and retired at an early hour to his chamber; 
 although, in the language of old Froissart, describing a 
 similar fete, "the feasting and the dancing lasted until 
 sunrise." 
 
 Several days ensued, which were occupied with a 
 succession of festivities, at all of which Blanche of 
 Artois was present, and in all of which she seemed 
 fully to participate. Occasionally she was encountered 
 by De Marigni, and occasionally he was admitted to 
 her apartments ; but, although she conversed freely and 
 kindly as a sister might commune with a brother, 
 relative to his plans of life, or schemes of ambition, 
 not a syllable was uttered on the topics of their late 
 exciting interview or of his union with Marie Mor- 
 fontaine, or with the Templar Knights. 
 
 Meanwhile the order for his return to camp had been 
 suspended. 
 
 One morning, about a week after his return to the 
 Louvre, he was in his chamber, when Philip de Launai 
 was announced. 
 
 "Are we alone, Count?" asked De Launai, as the 
 door was closed. 
 
 " We are," returned De Marigni, with some surprise. 
 
 " Swear to me that what now ensues shall be secret 1 " 
 
THE MISSIVE. 
 
 123 
 
 "I swear,*' ^'^s the reply of Adrian after a pause. 
 
 The TO ung Templar said no more, but, drawing a slip 
 of wliite parcliment from liis vest, placed it silently in 
 ais companion's hands. 
 
 Adrian took the parchment and read the following 
 message traced thereon in ancient characters, and in 
 tlie Latin tongue : 
 
 Adrian de Marigni. Count le Portier. is elected a Fellow 
 Companion of the Holy Order of the Temple of Zion in the 
 province of France. In regard of former feats of arms and 
 a pure life, the novitiate enjoined Ijy the canons is dispensed 
 with. The initiatory ceremony of hi^ reception will commence 
 ill tlie grand chapel of the Pahice of the Temple, at the hour 
 of nine, on the niglit of the twentieth day of September, in 
 the year of Grace, 1305. and of the Holy Order, one hundred 
 and eighty-seven. 
 
 Hugh de Peralde, 
 
 Grand Visitor of the Te/niph, 
 
 In the Priory of France. 
 
 To this missive was attaclied the huge seal of the 
 order, being an octagon star, charged with a Latin cross, 
 entwined by a serpent, and bearing the motto, "'In hoc 
 Sly no vinces.''^ 
 
 " Your answer," said De Launai gravely, when Adrian 
 had perused the parchment. 
 
 " I will be at the Temple at the appointed hour." 
 was the firm reidy. 
 
 * Tlie device of the seal of the Temple seems to have heen not always the 
 same. At one time it represeiired two knijihts mounted on one horse, indica- 
 tive of the poverty of its founders. Godfrey of St. Omer and Hugh de I'^ayens 
 having Imt one war-horse between tliem At one time, it bore the head of a 
 man crowned wirh thorns, representing, perhaps, the Saviour. 
 
 8 
 
124 
 
 THE MISSIVE. 
 
 " Write tlien upon the reverse of this parclimeiit the 
 words '/ will comej and subscribe to them your name 
 and title," continued De Launai. 
 
 Adrian did as he was directed, and the Templar 
 replaced the scroll in bis bosom. He then grasped 
 Adrian cordially by the hand and clasped him to his 
 heart. 
 
 "To-night, at nine, will commence the initiation," 
 added the Templar. "At eight I will be here to guide 
 you to the Temple. Be firm, be bold! — constancy, 
 courage ! ' 
 
 I And without more words De Launai left the chamber. 
 
THE PALACE OF THE TEilPLE. 
 
 125 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 ,HEEE are some structures in tlie capital of France 
 
 i ^vliicli are interesting, not for ^vliat they are, but 
 for what they have been: — not for the embellishments 
 of art. nor the decorations of luxury, nor the splendors 
 of architecture, nor the perfection of execution or design, 
 nor for magnitude of extent, nor even for antiquity of 
 origin, but interesting, even to f/2//^/'a7?/??/i^, though desti- 
 tute of all these attractions, for the scenes which they 
 have witnessed and the events which they have clironi- 
 cied: for the catastriDphes they have beheld and the 
 associations they awaken; for the wild and thrilling 
 emotions they excite and the mournful memories they 
 suggest. 
 
 One of these spots is the Palace of the Temple. 
 
 Ascending the interior boulevards of Paris and passing 
 the triumphal arches of St. Denis and St. Martin, the 
 third or fourth street on your right is the Eue du 
 Temple. Descending this street, ancient. narroAV, and 
 tortuous, and overhung by lofty and time-stained dwell- 
 ings, you shortly reach a spacious area, in which statids 
 a low structure of immense extent, stirrounded bv f >iir 
 galleries and composed entirely of shops and stalls, 
 about two thousand in number, in which are off£r€d fjr 
 sale eld coats and old hats, old shoes and old shirts, 
 
126 
 
 THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 old boots, books, bonnets, and breeclies, old tools, old 
 iron, old furniture — indeed, everything old tliat can be 
 imagined is here to be found on sale. TLo salesmen 
 tliemselves are old, very old — old men and old women, 
 principally Isi'aelites, while the place itself is called 
 Le Marclie du Bieux Linge, or " The Market of Old 
 Linen," indicative of one at least of the objects of its 
 destination. This market is quite a modern concern, 
 having been institnted les-s than half a century since, 
 and attached to it and bounding it upon the east is a 
 spacious structure erected for the accommodation of 
 debtors when this place was their sanctuary. On the 
 south of this spacious area stands an ancient structure 
 of stone, and this single structure, old and time-stained, 
 is all that now survives of that massive and magnifi- 
 cent edifice once known as the Palace of the Grand 
 Prior of tlie Order of the Templar Knights in France. 
 
 As early as the latter part of tlie twelfth century, the 
 Templars bad fixed on this spot, tlien embracing several 
 acres and lying without the walls of Paris, for their 
 palace, and here, in 1222, was completed that vast struc- 
 ture, of which, after a lapse of more than six centuries, 
 a remnant is yet beheld.* 
 
 Two centuries passed away. The Order of the Temple 
 was abolished, but tlie huge central tower still contained 
 the archives of the brotherhood, as well as those of the 
 
 * The first eliapter of the Templavi in tlie city of Paris, whicli snhseqiiently 
 became the chief seat of the order in Europe, seems to liave bee'i convened iii 
 tlie year 1147, in a structure h)np: afterwards known as the "Old Temple," 
 stan'dinji near the Place St. Gervais, and to have numbered one hundred and 
 tnirty Knights. In the year 1182, the order had located itself, as described, on 
 a spot long Uuowu as La ViUe Neuve du TemjAe.'' 
 
THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 127 
 
 Kniglits of Malta, and was still the cliief seat of the 
 blended fraternity in Europe. It was, also, the treasure 
 house of the monarclis of France for four hundred years. 
 Next, it became a prison— this black old tower — and its 
 damp walls absorbed the sighs and tears of the unhappy 
 Louis and bis devoted queen for months ere tliey were 
 led to the scaftbld. Here, too, Avere imprisoned, at dif- 
 ferent periods, among its celebrated inmates, Picliegru, 
 Sir Sydney Smith, and the black Prince of Ilayti, Tons- 
 saint Louverture. At length, and within the present 
 centur}", this vast tower was demolished, and all that 
 now remains to tell the tale of the grandeur of the temple 
 is the Palace of the Grand Prior, constructed some three 
 centuries since by Jacques de Souvre, who then heldthnt 
 high office. Philippe Egalite, the Duke of Oi'leans,. 
 father of .Louis Philij^pe, was Grand Master in 1721, and 
 caused the palace to be embellished and enlarged, as did 
 also the Duke of Angouleme, his successor. In 1812, 
 Napoleon designed it for one of the departments of 
 government; in 181-4, it became a convent of Benedic- 
 tine nuns, which it still continues, and for the convenience 
 of which a new chapel was erected thirty j'ears ago. 
 
 Such is the eventful history of this spot, and such are 
 some of the scenes it recalls. But there are other 
 circumstances associated with this ancient place more 
 interestino" than even these. Here Avas the chief seat 
 
 o 
 
 of that wonderl'ul brotherhood of Avarrior-monks, Avhose 
 name, for more than two centuries, Avasthe glory and the 
 terror of Cliristendom, and AA'hich, as a peaceful affiliation, 
 still exists. 
 
128 
 
 THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 The original edifice of the Temple is described as "a 
 grim, tall cluster of gloomy towers, standing in the centre 
 of a vast embattled enclosure." It seems, also, like all 
 edifices of the kind, to have had its moats and its draw- 
 bridge, its portcullis and its donjon-keep. It certainly 
 had the huge square tower, already mentioned, rising 
 above its walls, flanked by four lesser towers, and which, 
 if chroniclers are to receive the credence they claim, like 
 the great Tovv'er of the Louvre, stood half-way up to its 
 middle in the ground ; and of whose dungeons and 
 oiihliottes^ and wells and in paces ^ and racks and question- 
 chambers, as many terrible tales were told. Indeed, the 
 Tower of the Temple was viewed by the good citizens 
 of Paris and its environs, for many a mile around, with 
 even more of horror than was that of the Louvre. A 
 cloud of midnight m^^stery, inspiring awe and dread, 
 hung around the stern and inky turrets of the former 
 whicli existed not with regard to those of the latter. 
 IMie Tower of the Louvre stood upon the banks of the 
 Seine in the midst of life, and light, and action, and it 
 was daily passed, and it was daily looked at, and might, 
 perchance, be daily entered by almost any one. But 
 the dark turrets of the Temple rose without the walls 
 of the city, upon a solitary and unfrequented spot ; 
 and within its dusky walls trod never a step save that 
 of a Templar Knight. Upon its grim battlements no 
 sentinel's helm, or spear-point flashed back the rays of 
 the setting sun; and no oriflamme rolled out its snowy 
 folds upon the evening bi-eeze. Bat there, at twilight, 
 might be caught the outline of strange and ghastly 
 
THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 129 
 
 shapes, dimly defined against a northern sky, of dark 
 wardei's walking their lonely rounds ; while, above 
 them, the vast standard sheet of the order — the terri- 
 ble Beauseaiit — half black, half white — flapped with 
 raven- omen its huge folds against the staff. 
 
 And its dark and fearful history, too! — its racks and 
 its tortures, its dungeons, its unheard of cruelties! 
 And the midnight conclaves, the fiendish orgies, the 
 blasphemous rites, the awful vows, the unnatural crimes, 
 -the idolatrous worship, the lust, the guilt, the inconceiv- 
 able enormities of which the pale-faced peasant took hor- 
 rible delight in making these mysterious chambers the 
 scene ! — all of these circumstances tended to inspire an 
 undefined horror of this immense structure—half palace 
 and half fortalice, half temple and half prison — which, 
 in the reign of Philip le Bel, early in the 14:th century, 
 had reached its height. Sooner than walk beneath its 
 baleful shadows, the tired traveler would perform a cir- 
 cuit of half the walls of Paris. The very birds of the 
 air were said to avoid its turrets ; while all unfortunate 
 fowls that did chance to pass over it, in their flight, fell 
 dead within its walls ! At night, the spot was as lonely 
 as a grave-yard — as the ancient burial-vault of St. Denis 
 — and when, from the tall and lanceolated windows of its 
 Gothic Cljapel, at the dead hour when spectres walk and 
 the departed return, blazed forth red and lurid flames, 
 and strange sounds, as of the roar of organ-pipes, wildly 
 commingled with groans of human anguish, and strange 
 shouts and solemn songs rose on the blast — the late 
 passer in the silent and deserted street would cross him- 
 
130 
 
 THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 self and hurry on; and, with trembling and superstitions 
 whispers, bless himself aud say, "Hell is empty ! The 
 devils are on earth I The Templar Knights hold the^r 
 Sabbath ! " 
 
 Such beinp; the dread and abhorrence in which the 
 <_) 
 
 very name of Templar was held by the masses of the 
 peopie in the 14th ceutuiy, it will not be thought singu- 
 lar that, altliough there were actually several hundred 
 knights at that era in Paris, who had secretly the vows 
 "upon il em,yet but few were general Ij^rnown as belong- 
 ing to the order, and the inmates of the Palace of the 
 'J'emple at this time consisted only of the Grand Prior 
 and a few superannuated serving brethren. The great 
 bod 3^ of the brotherhood, which then numbered not less 
 than fifteen thousand Knights, was at Limisso, in the 
 Island of Cyprus, its last sironghold in the Levant ; while 
 vast numbers were stat:oiied in the Priories of every 
 nation in Europe — not one excepted. 
 
 * -Jf -X- -x- * -X- * 
 
 Adrian de Marigni and Philip de Launai both dwelt in 
 the Louvre. It was, therefore, an easy thing for them 
 privately to meet in the former's chamber, preparatory 
 to their secret expedition at the hour appointed, 
 
 Phihp was enveloped in a huge, dark mantle, which 
 concealed his form, and at his side he bore a swonh 
 Adrian, at his suggestion, wa3 soon similarly garbed 
 and accoutred, and the two yoimg men went forth. 
 
 Windino- throuoh the dark e^allerics of the Louvre, to 
 reach the southern gate leading out upon the quay, they 
 
THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE; 
 
 131 
 
 passed tlie apartments oF BlancLe of Artois. Philip was 
 some steps in advance of liis coinpamon, and Adrian 
 conld not resist tlie inclination to check his pace as he 
 passed that door, tlirougli which he had so often and so 
 eagerly entered. At that moment, the door, which had 
 stood somewhat ajar, suddenlj^ -opened — a small white 
 hand and a snowy ai^m wei'e extended, and a sol't and 
 well-known voice whispered the mystic sjdlables, " Con- 
 stancy — courage I" into his ear. Catching the white 
 hand, he pressed it fervently to his lips. It was instantly 
 withdrawn, the door closed, and Adrian hurried on to 
 reo-ain his s>uide, who awaited him at the lout of the 
 stairs. 
 
 Of this incident, De Marigni, of course, said nothing 
 to his companion, and the two young men, having given 
 their names to the sentinel, and received the word of the 
 night, passed through tlie wickets and across the moat 
 upon a single })lank, and were on the quay. Pi'ocecding 
 a few steps up the river, they stopped at a small calaret^ 
 whei-e wei'e found two horses ready saddled and appa- 
 rently awaiting their coming. IMonnting at once, they 
 passed I'apidly on up the Kne St. Martin, then the chief, 
 and, with the Eue St. Denis, the only, great aitery of 
 the Ville^ and arrived, wnthont interruption, at the gate. 
 Through this they readily gained egress, when DeLaunai 
 had whispered the secret pass-word into the Avarder's 
 ear. Emei'ging upon the 0|^en fields, the 3'oung men put 
 their steeds to a gallop, and directing their route to\vards 
 a huge mass oF structure, looming darkly up on their 
 right, fi'om some portions of which bright lights were 
 
132 
 
 THE PALACE OF THE TEMPLE. 
 
 gleaming fortli on tLe gloom without, tliey found tliem- 
 selves, after traversing a seeminglj^ endless avenue, 
 beneath the shadow of an equally endless wall, at the 
 grand entrance, on tbe west side of the Palace of the 
 Temple. 
 
 The morning dawn was diffusing its Avhite light over 
 the towers and roofs of Paris, when Adrian de Marigni, 
 pale and exhausted, emerged with his companion fi'om 
 beneath the massive gateway of the Palace of the 
 Temple and directed his steps to the Louvre. 
 
THE PEIXCE, THE POXTIFF AXD THE KXIGHT. 133 
 
 CnAPTER XII. 
 
 THE PEIX'CE, THE POXTIFF AXD THE EXIGHT. 
 
 THE consecration of Bertrand do Goth, under tlie 
 name of Pope Clement FiftE. in the city of Lyons, 
 on tlie fonrteentb. day of Xovember. loCo,"^ must have 
 been a very splendid spectacle. Three months before, 
 invitations to tliis grand ceremonial had been dispatched 
 to the royal heads of all the kingdoms of Christendom, 
 bidding them, Avitli ti.eir Courts and tbeir clergies, to 
 be present. And a more brilliant concourse of Bishops 
 and Archbishops, of priests and princes, of kings and 
 cardinals, of lords and ladies, seems rarely to have been 
 assembled, than that which vritnessed the imj)osition of 
 tlie Papal crown, by the hands of iMatthew Ursini, on 
 tiie brow of the two hundredth successor of St. Peter. 
 
 The coronation ceremony having been performed, 
 history informs ns that the Sovereign Pontiff returned 
 to his palace, the tiara upon his head and the pontifical 
 robes and regalia upon his person — his white horse led 
 alternately by the Kings of Prance and Avignon upon 
 eitiier side, succeeded by Charles of Yalois and Louis 
 d'Evreux, the brotiiers of Philip. Ilistorv also informs 
 us that, when the procession had arrived at the base of 
 the hill on which stands the church of St. Just, an old 
 structure suddenly fell upon the throng, bv which the 
 
 * Some authorities say Dec. 17, 1305. 
 
134 TII3 Pr.mCS, TTTE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT." 
 
 King of France and tlie Connt of Yalois were badly 
 Abounded, the Holy Father thrown from his horse, and 
 his brother Gaillard de Goth,. together with the Dnke 
 of Brittany and a large number of nobles and monks, 
 instantly killed; and, likewise, that, at a grand festival 
 given a few days subsequently, on the occasion of the 
 celebration of the first pontifical mass, a sudden fray 
 arose, in which a second brother of the Pope was slain 
 before his ej'cs. 
 
 The first acts of Clement Fifth were to revoke all the 
 ecclesiastical censures of his predecessor, Boniface 
 Eii^hth, against the Kino; of France, his kino-dom and his 
 friends; to remove the Papal .See from Eome to 
 Avignon, to elevate to the cardinalate twelve French 
 bishops who were nominated by the King, and also 
 James and Peter Colonna, and to restore to France all 
 the fi-anchises and powei'S claimed by her sovereign. 
 
 Thus Avere, at once, accomplished four of the articles 
 of the compact of St. Jean d'Angely. A fifth was 
 more difiicult of fulfillment. This was the decree of 
 infamy against the acts and memory of Boniface Eighth, 
 which was sternly demanded by the King and strongly 
 0])posed by the Cardinal de Prato as perilous and impolitic. 
 Overcome by this persistency, the Pontiff at length prom- 
 ised compliance, and commenced the process by the con- 
 flagration, in the public square of Avignon, of divers 
 acts put forth in his predecessor's defence ; but further 
 proceedings were instantly checked by the college of 
 cardinals with threats of the Pontiff's immediate 
 removal by force to Eome, if the acts were repeated. 
 
.-THE PEIXCE, THE POXTIFF AXD THE KXIGHT. 135 
 
 Convinced of tlie impossibility of tlie fulfillment of 
 this article of tlie compact, it was reluctantly resigned 
 bv tlie King some months after, and in its place he 
 clemaiided the. elevation to the throne of Germany, made 
 vacant bv the assassination of the Emperor Albert by 
 his OAvn iiepheAV, John, Duke of Suabia, his brother 
 ■Cliarles of Talois. The Pontiff, alarmed at the idea of 
 concentrating so much power in a single family, imme- 
 diately dispatched couriers, by advice of the Cardinal 
 de Prato, to tlie German Electors, avIio, at this urgency, 
 ^in a single Aveok assembled in Diet and proclaimed 
 Ileiiiy of Luxembourg, — one of the ablest and most 
 renowned men of that era in Europe, — Emperor of 
 Germany and King of the Eomans. 
 
 Eurious at this double disappointment, Philip 
 instantly left Paris, and on the evening of June 12tli, 
 1303, arrived at Poitiers, vhere the Sovereign Pon- 
 tiff then lay confined to his bed by sickness, which sick- 
 ness caused by his vices lasted for nearly a year. 
 
 ^' Pax Yohiscum I said the feeble voice of Clement, 
 as the King of Ernnce entered the darkened chamber. 
 
 Philip returned no reply, but, with indignant silence, 
 seated himself beside the sick conch of the Pontiff. 
 
 ''^ Beneclicite^ my son," said Clement again, saluting his 
 guest and turning upon him an inquiring gaze. "Very 
 greatly am I beholden to tby ]viety for thy present 
 visit.'' 
 
 "To my piety ^ Holy Eatlier!" exclaimed Philip, with 
 a sneer. " Oh, not all ! It Avas not regard for thee, 
 •nor even regard for the welfare of my own soul, that 
 
136 THE PEINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 
 
 brought me from Paris to Poitiers, at a season like this, 
 be sure." 
 
 "What then, mj son?" asked Clement, in trembhng 
 tones. 
 
 "By St. Louis, this/^'' exclaimed Philip, with angry 
 vehemence. " To learn from your own lips whether you 
 design, or do not design, to fulfill the articles of your 
 solemn compact with me at the Abbey of St. Jean 
 d'Angely!" 
 
 "My son — my son!" expostulated the sick Pontiff. 
 "Is this the mode to address God's Yicar upon earth — ■ 
 the head of the Holy Church ? " 
 
 Philip replied only with a sneer. 
 
 " Of what do you complain, my son ? " continued 
 Clement, mildly. "In what have 1 failed in the fulfill- 
 ment of my covenant?" 
 
 "The decree of infamy against that arch-fiend, Boni- 
 face Eighth!" was the quick and angry answer. 
 
 " Tliat was commenced," said the Pontift*, " but, had it 
 been completed, the Papal See would now have been 
 retranslated to Rome." 
 
 "The threats of the cardinals are said to have origi- 
 nated with the Holy Father himself," was the sullen 
 rejoinder. 
 
 "Who says that?" asked Clement, quickly. 
 There was no reply. 
 
 "Yet, if you choose the alternative, my son, it is not 
 yet too late. The decree is prepared," he added. 
 
 "Your Holiness is fully awaro that I have resigned 
 that article of the compact," replied the King, with some 
 
THE PEIXCE, THE POXTIFE A^'D THE KXIGHT. 137 
 
 confusion. "In its place I requested tliat hit brother, 
 the Count of Talois, rniglit be elevated to tbe imperial 
 throne cf Germany." 
 
 '"And was tliat station in my gift, my son?" humbly 
 asked Clement. 
 
 '■It was filled by yom^ Holiness with Henry of 
 Luxembourg," said Philip, sternly, — "if report speaks 
 true!"' 
 
 '•And who says that?'' asked Clement. 
 Tiie King was again silent. 
 
 ''Henry of Luxembourg was lawfully chosen to fill 
 the imperial throne, by a full D.et of Cerman Electors, 
 to whom tliat right of choice legitimately and solely 
 belonged," continued the Pope. "Had the convention 
 of the Diet, or its action, been less precipitate. I concede 
 you the influence of the Papal See might have been 
 felt in favor of Count Charles of Valols, the brave 
 soldier and pious prince. But. as events, by tlie Prov- 
 idence of God. '://(/ transpire, how could the Sovereign 
 Pontiff have foreseen, or prevented, the event that 
 occurred ? " 
 
 Plushed and excited, Clement closed his eyes and fell 
 back upon his pillow, and Philip forebore to press a 
 matter from wdiich he could plainly perceive he had 
 nothing to gain, or to anticipate. 
 
 At that moment one of the attendants of the Hoi}- 
 Lather announced the presence in the Palace of the 
 Grand Master of the order of Knights Hospitalers of St. 
 John, who had just arrived from the island of Cyprus, 
 and craved audience on matters of high import. 
 
138 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 
 
 "Let him approach/' said tlie Pontiff, secretly 
 rejoiced at au occurrence which interrupted a conference 
 which had begun to grow embarrassing. 
 
 Tlie attendant witlidrew, and, immediately after the 
 door again opened, and Fulk de Yillaret, wlio had 
 recently been exalted on the decease of his brother, 
 William de Yillaret, to the high station of Grand 
 Master of the Hospitalers, stood on the threshold. 
 
 He was a large and majestic man, some forty years of 
 age, and attired in tlie full costume of clnef of his 
 order. Tliis costume was a scarlet cassock, or surcoat, 
 with a broad octagonal cross of white linen sewed upon 
 the breast, and a similar cross upon the back. Over 
 this surcoat hung the full black mantle of the order, 
 with che same cross sewed upon the left shoulder. His 
 only Aveapon was a long straight sword at his side, with 
 a crucifix hilt. 
 
 " Approach, son, and receive our blessing," said the 
 Pontiff, in feeble tones. 
 
 The kniglit strode at once to tiie bedside, and, kneel- 
 ing, the Holy Father laid one hand upon his bowed 
 head and pronounced tlie customary Benedicite. 
 
 The Grand Master then arose, and, having saluted the 
 King of France, stood silent. 
 
 "Your mission, son? — Speak!" said the Pontiff. 
 
 "My mission, Hoi 3^ Father, is threefold," returned 
 the knight. " First, to announce the decease of \Yilliam 
 de Yillaret, late Grand Master of the Knights of St. 
 John, my lamented brother, whose soul may God rest!" 
 
 ''Ameai!" responded the Pontiff. 
 
THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 139 
 
 • "Second, to announce to your Holiness tlie election 
 of your unworthy servant, Fulk de Yillaret, as his 
 successor." 
 
 " Amen I " again ejaculated Clement. 
 
 "And, third," continued De Villaret, "to fulfill my 
 deceased Master's dying injunction to repair at once to 
 your Holiness, so soon as his last obsequies were cele- 
 brated, and, at your feet, beseech sanction and aid to 
 accomplish the enterprise he had most at heart — the 
 conquest of the Island of Khodes and the permanent 
 location there of the throne of the order, that, tliis 
 fulfilled, his soul might rest." 
 
 Clement glanced at tlie King^ and a gleam of joy shot 
 from beneath the Pontiff's shaggy brows. 
 
 "But is not the Island of Cyprus already the retreat 
 oF your noble order, Sir Knight?" asked the Holy 
 Father. 
 
 "In common with the Knights of the Red Cross, wo 
 have there our seat," was the reply ; " but, in common with 
 them, we deem it an insecure, undignified and unworthy 
 station, in which both orders are subjected to most 
 de2:radino; exactions from the Kins; of the Island. 
 Besides, it is well known to your Iloliuess that the 
 Knights of the White Gross and those of the Bed love 
 not each other " 
 
 "Too well — too well we know it, Sir Knight!" 
 interrupted the Pope, with some severity. "The con- 
 flicts oF these rival brotherhoods have long been a scan- 
 dal to Christendom and the Church, and have mainly 
 conduced to the recovery by Infidels of the Sepulchre of 
 9 
 
140 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND TEIE KNIGHT. 
 
 our Lord. To iinite tliese orders into one* methinks miglit 
 Leal tliis perpetual i'eud and most disgraceful scliism." 
 
 And the Holy Father again glanced slyly at the King. 
 
 "Now, may your Holiness and our patron saint, most 
 excellent St. John, forbid!" began the Grand Master in 
 alarm. " "We do bcscecli " 
 
 . "Well, well. Sir Knight," interrupted Clement, "we 
 will confer on this matter at some other time. What 
 advantacre to Mother Church is to inure from this mad 
 expedition, to which you now solicit our sanction and 
 aid? Be brief." 
 
 "First, your Holiness," replied the Grand Master, 
 *'Ehodes is nearer than CjqDrus to Palestine." 
 
 " Yv^ell," said the Pontiff. 
 
 " Second, it is more impregnable." 
 
 " And, therefore, will bo less easy of capture," added 
 tlie Pope. "But, go on." 
 
 " Third, it has a more commodious harbor." 
 
 " And may, therefore, be more easily retaken," said 
 Clement. 
 
 " Fourth, its position, wealth, commerce and maratime 
 power render it a worthy seat of an ancient oi'der." 
 
 " And, fifth," said Clement, " its conquest, wliile 
 affording a brilliant expedition to one order of kniglits, 
 would effectually prevent them, meanwhile, from trying 
 their long swords on the steel caps of another! " 
 
 " Besides, the advantage to all Christendom and the 
 Church," — began De Yillaret with renewed enthusiasm. 
 
 * Pope Gregory X. aiirl St. Louis, at rlie Council of Lyons, stroye, in yain, to 
 effect tliis. Tii'e efforts of B.;iiiface VIII. and Clement V. to the same end 
 proved equally Inelfectual. 
 
THE PEIXCE, THE POXTIFF AlsD THE KNIGHT. 141^ 
 
 " JSTo more — no more, Sir Kmglit ! " said Clement, 
 impatiently, raising liis liaud. "You forget tliat you 
 are not on tlie deck of your own Avar-gallej^, and tliat 
 onr ears are nnnsed even to tones of command. Witliin 
 two days you will Lave onr answer. You can go, Sir 
 Knight. Pax vohisciiin ! 
 
 And, Avitli a profound obeisance to the Sovereign 
 Pontiff, and one only less profound to tlie sovereign of 
 Trance, tliis great cliief of a powerful order left tli& 
 chamber. 
 
 " What tliink you, my son ? " asked Clement, after a 
 pause, during whicb each potentate awaited speech of 
 tlie other. 
 
 " Of what, your Holiness ? " responded Philip, starting 
 as if from a dream. 
 
 " Of the conquest of Ehodes ? " 
 
 " That it would ]irove one of the most brilliant 
 events that could lend lustre to any Pontificate,"' was 
 the answer. 
 
 " We agree, my son — for once we agree 1 " joyfully 
 exclaimed Clement. 
 
 Philip smiled significantlj^, but said notking. 
 
 " But the means, my son — the Grand Master asks out 
 aid, as Avell as our sanction." 
 
 "Your Holiness can readily advance a kundred thou- 
 sand florins for suck an enterprise." 
 
 Clement shook his liead, tlien said : 
 
 " Well, granted. But the armv? " 
 
 " Anotlier crusade," suggested Philip, smiling. 
 
 The Holy Father seemed absorbed in thought. 
 
142 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 
 
 "That might do," he, at length, said, ''if skilfully 
 managed, and the true object of the expedition only pro- 
 claimed when tlio fleet was at Ljcia, ready to descend 
 on Rhodes." 
 
 " Your Holiness alluded but now, with the Grand 
 Master, to an union of the two orders of soldier- 
 monks," observed Pliilip. 
 
 " Several of my predecessors have entertained that 
 pui'pose," was the answer. 
 
 " Popes Gregory Tenth, Nicholas Fourth and Boniface 
 Eighth favored the union, I think ? " coldly continued 
 the King. 
 
 " Yet, each was induced to resign the scheme as 
 impolitic," said Clement. 
 
 " Does your Holiness remark any contrast between the 
 chivalric ambition of the Knights of St. John and the 
 vicious indolence of the Knights of the Temple in their 
 voluptuous retreats?" asked Philip, dryly. 
 
 Clement started and then quietly i-eplied . 
 
 " It is true, son, that the Templar Knights possess 
 some of the richest portions of Europe." 
 
 *' Some of the richest portions of France they certainly 
 call their own," replied Philip. " Is your Holiness aware 
 that the income of this overgrown order is estimated at 
 ten millions of florins annually? " 
 
 " Holy St. Peter ! — is that possible ? " exclaimed 
 Clement, thrown for once off his guard by mention of a 
 sura so enormous at that time. Recovering his pro- 
 priety, however, he coldly added: "There is some bruit 
 of vice in this order, is there not, my son? " 
 
THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. l-iS 
 
 " Your Holiness cannot be unaware," returned Philip, 
 " that, as an order, the Knights of the Temple are cur- 
 rently charged, all over Christendom, with the commis- 
 sion of most incre>lible and abominable crimes, to which 
 the violations of all the vows of their order and all the 
 edicts of the decaloo'ue itselr are as innocence." 
 
 " But tliesG charges are not sooth, my son — they can- 
 not be sooth ! " exclaimed Clement. 
 
 How should / know, your Holiness? " was the cool 
 answer. "Am I a Templar?" 
 
 "It had reached me," said Clement, " that the Temp- 
 lars were accused of indolence, luxmy, pride and other 
 like vices. Indeed, I do remember me that, so long ago 
 as the year 1208, the gTeat Innocent III., the most am- 
 bitious of Pontiffs and warmest of friends of the Temple, 
 severely censured the order, in an epistle to its Grand 
 Master, charoiug; them with bearins; the cross ostenta- 
 tiously on the breast but not in the heart. But never 
 hath reached me report of the crimes of the which yon 
 speak." 
 
 "Hath it ever reached vour Holiness," asked the Kinor 
 with intense bitterness," that these 'Poor Fellow-soldiers 
 of Jesus Christ and the temple of Solomon,' as they 
 m3ekly style themselves, once secretly pledged their 
 swords to Pope Boniface Eighth, in event he should deem 
 it discreet to take the field against the King of France, 
 although openly they professed themselves that mon- 
 arch's friends? " 
 
 " ^ly son — my son— what would joxi ? " asked Clement 
 in dismay. 
 
144 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 
 
 Hg knew not Low shortly Le miglit be forced to call 
 upon that same powerful arm for protection against that 
 same powerful foe, and he now began to suspect a dread- 
 ful design on part of the King. 
 
 " Hath it reached your Holiness," continued Pliilip in 
 the same sarcastic tone, "that some of the most eminent 
 of tliese friar-knights have spurned our authority, in- 
 sulted our person, ridiculed our power, defied our ven- 
 geance, tampered with our enemies as well as our rebel- 
 lious subjects, and, finally, have even conspired against 
 our crown ? " 
 
 " My son — my son — what would you ? " again ex- 
 claimed the Sovereign Pontifi', in extreme agitation. 
 
 " The accomplishment of the Sixth Article of the 
 Covenant of St. Jean cl'Angely I " 
 
 " And that? " gasped Clement, raising himself in bed, 
 and g^^ing with open lips, and dilated eyes, and face as 
 livid as death, upon his tormentor. 
 
 " And that," rejoined tlie King, in a low whisper of 
 bitter hate, " is the utter destruction of the Order of the 
 Templar Knights ! " 
 
 Clement uttered a faint cry, and, closing his eyes, fell 
 back npon his pillow. 
 
 " The Holy Father takes it hard ! " said Phihp to him- 
 self, gazing with a grim smile upon the unhappy Pontifi:'. 
 "No wonder! The Templars, he well knows, are his only 
 protection in his need, as truly as they were of Boniface. 
 Has he actually fainted? That luould be strange ! No," 
 he added, after a pause. "He revives! He speaks! 
 Now!" 
 
THE PRIXCE, THE POXTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 145 
 
 "My son," feebly murimired the Pontiff. 
 
 " Holy Father,'' meekly returned Philip. 
 
 " This cannot be ! " sighed Clement. 
 
 " The Abbey of St. Jean d'Angch' — tlie parchment — 
 the oatli on the reliques and the cross!" quietl}^ rejoined 
 the Kino'. " This must be ! '' 
 
 o 
 
 "But, upon Avliat charge shall this great thing be 
 done? " asked the distressed Pontiff. 
 
 "On the charge of heresy to the Church," was the 
 answer. " Heresy — of course, heresy." 
 
 " Holy Mother I " ejaculated Clement. 
 
 Philip sneered. 
 
 " But how shall it be proved, my son ? " continued the 
 Pontiff. 
 
 " Has my pious grandsire, Saint Louis, of blessed 
 memory, with his pious consort, Blanche of Castile, 
 planted a branch of the Holy Office in the capital of 
 France for naught?" asked the King, with a meaning 
 smile. 
 
 " But this is a perilous scheme, my son. Think of 
 the vast — the incalcuhible power of this ancient and 
 mighty order ! " 
 
 " For that very reason it must be crushed !" 
 
 " Bat we must proceed slowlj^, and surelj', and secretly, 
 my son ; or, like Samson of old, we sliall pull down 
 this ponderous Temple of the Philistines on our own 
 heads." 
 
 " Most true. Holy Father." 
 
 "We must first patiently and diligently elicit and 
 investigate the charges against this ancient and power- 
 
146 THE PEINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 
 
 ful brotlierhood, to tlie end that we may have, at least, 
 a semblance of justice in their destruction." 
 " Most true, Holy Father." 
 
 Clement now breathed more freely. Could he but 
 gain time, he had little apprehension of the ultimate 
 ]'esult. 
 
 Philip smiled. He divined what passed in the mind 
 of the Pope. 
 
 " What, then, shall be the first step in this great 
 enter[)rise, my son ? " 
 
 " Your Holiness, ag the spiritual head of the Templars, 
 will order Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of that order, 
 who is now at Cyprus, at oncO to embark for France, 
 and then from Avignon repair to Paris." 
 
 " But, upon what pretense ? " asked Clement. 
 
 " In order that he may consult with the Sovereign 
 Pontiff, and the sovereign of France, as touching the 
 propriety of the new crusade, which your Holiness just 
 suggested in regard of the conquest of Rhodes." 
 
 "Aye, my son, that will do," said the Pope quickly. 
 
 " Bid him coine speedily, with the utmost secrecy, and 
 with a small retinue of knights, and to bring with him 
 all the treasure he can collect, with the view to arm and 
 equip a large army for the Holy War now contem- 
 plated," continued Philip, 
 
 "It shall be done, my son — it shall be instantly 
 done 1 " eagerly cried Clement, who now felt quite sure 
 that he could contrive to avert the doom of the devoted 
 order, on whose safety his own so vitally hung. 
 
 " Many thanks, Holy Father," meekly replied Philip, 
 
THE PEINCE, THE PONTIFF AXD THE KNIGHT. 147 
 
 rising. " And, now, I crave to take my leave. It 
 behooves me to wait upoa the Countess of Perigorcl, 
 daughter of the Count ot'Foix, ^ and see with mine own 
 eyes, ere I depart for Paris, whether the lady is, indeed, 
 as transcend an tly lovely as universal fame asserts. Your 
 Holiness will pardon reference to such vanities. Besides, 
 the agitation of the past hour must have proved very 
 exhausting to an invalid. Your blessing, Holy Father I " 
 added Philip meekly. 
 
 " You have it, son ! " w^s the equally meek reply. 
 
 Phihp left the chamber. 
 
 " Does he think to elude me^ the simpleton I " mut^ 
 tered the King, as the door closed behind him. "Ah, 
 Bertrand de Goth ! — Bertrand de Goth ! Once place 
 the Grand Master of this hated order f ^vithin the avails 
 of Paris, and " 
 
 Concluding the sentence wdtli a low and bitter laugh, 
 more significant than even the menace, he passed on. 
 
 Clement Fifth listened to the retreating footsteps 
 of the King along the corridor. The instant their last 
 echoes ceased, he threw himself from his couch, and, 
 dravnng around him an ermineil mantle, began rapidly 
 
 *Villani nsci ibes the removal of tlie Papal See from Rome to Avignon to 
 Clement's attachment to this lady. It remained at Avigrion 7U years. 
 
 t The causes of Philip's hostility to the Temple -were various. The Tem- 
 plars had ever heen staunch partisans of Papal ])<)\ver, wliich Philip I'.ad ever 
 striven to diminish ; nu K in his contiict with Eoniface VIII, they li;ul openly 
 sided atiainst hi)n ana with tlieir spiritual supreme. They had loudly 
 denounced tlie Koyal and repeated debasement ol coin of the realm, by wliich 
 their order liad greatly suffered. Tliey were urgent for the repayment of 
 vast sums at different periods loaned the King, wiiich he was utterly unable 
 to repay. Their wrath and power were great : so were their arrogance and 
 pride ; and equally so was tlieir unpopularity witli the masses. Tliey pos- 
 sessed the rieliest estates in France and were connected with the noblest 
 families, and now, having returned finally from tiie East, they presented a 
 most imposing bulwark to the power of the Crown, which every day was 
 becoming more despotic. 
 
148 THE PRINCE, THE PONTIFF AND THE KNIGHT. 
 
 pacing the apartment. The cutting irony of Philip's 
 last words had pierced him to the quick. 
 
 "By Heaven! I think tliat man mocks me!" he 
 exclaimed, livid with ras>e. " And is it for this I am 
 Sovereion Pontiff of the Church of Eome ? Benedict 
 Gaetan ! " he faintly ejaculated, raising his trembling- 
 hands and his ej^es to Heaven — "Benedict Gaetan! my 
 early and my only friend! — pardon the frailty which 
 hath made liie the unnatural associate of thy deadliest 
 foe, as well as mine. Thy unavenged spirit liovers over 
 me now; and here, from this hour, do I devote all my 
 powers of mind, body, or station to visit, under thy 
 guidance, thy wrongs and my own upon Philip of 
 France ! " 
 
THE TE^^IPLAES IX PARIS. 
 
 149 
 
 CHAPTER XTII. 
 
 THE TEMPLARS IX PARIS. 
 
 PAPiIS, in tlie earlv part of the Fourteenth Centnr\^, 
 had four great thoroughfares, on ^vhich as a 
 framework^ all the lesser streets and hanes at that time 
 were woven, and since that time have been woven. 
 
 These four grand avenues crossed each other at right 
 angles, and extended east and west, north and south, 
 from wall to wall. 
 
 From north to south, — from the gate of St. Martin 
 to the gate of St. Jacques, straight through the three 
 districts of YiUe^ Cite^ and Universite^ ran one of these 
 thoroughfares, and parallel to this, and from the gate 
 of St. Denis to the gate of St. Michael, ran another. 
 There were, however, but two bridges, massive struc- 
 tures of stone, — instead of four across the two arms of 
 the Seine, — the Petit Pont and the Pont au Change. 
 
 From east to west, the two thoroughfares ran from 
 the gate of St. Antoine to the gate of St. Honore, in the 
 YlUe^ and from the gate of St. Victor to the gate of St. 
 Germain, in the Universite. In the Cite^ there was not 
 then, nor is there now, nor ever has been, so far as maj 
 be inferred from maps and charts, an}- one grand artery 
 extending from one end of the island to the other — from 
 east to west. 
 
 Early on the morning of April 5th, 1307, the good 
 
150 
 
 TIIS TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 
 
 citizens of Paris who dwelt near tlie gate of St. Jacqnes, 
 were roused fi-oni their slumbers bj the most melodious 
 and thrilling strains of trumpet- music they had ever 
 heard. 
 
 It was a sweet morning, — calm, cool, clear, and the 
 whole eastern horizon beyond the wood of Yincennes, 
 and the seven rectangular towers of its massive keep, 
 was suffused witli those mellow and iris tints which 
 anticipate the dawn. 
 
 The wild and unearthly music ceased. It was a sum- 
 mons to the warder of the gate of St. Jacques, and was 
 instantly obeyed. The drawbridge descended, — the 
 portcullis rose and then, within the walls of Paris 
 entered a calvacade, such as till that morning it had 
 never witnessed before, and such as since that morning 
 it has never witnessed again. 
 
 Fi]'sr, in that strange procession, came a man of large 
 frame, and tall and erect stature, upon a war-horse of 
 similar dimensions and form. The horse was black as 
 night, and his breast, and front and flanks were pro- 
 tected by plates of steel. As for the rider, his armor 
 was chain-mail, from top to toe, while a round steel cap 
 covered his head, and a neck guaa-d, also of chain called 
 the camail^ fell over his shoulders. His arms were a 
 broad-bladed and heavy sword, called a falchion^ hang- 
 ing on his left thigh, and a broad dagger, called the 
 ancelace, tapering to a point exceedingly minute, uj)on 
 his right breast. At the bow of his war-saddle swung 
 a ponderous mace-at-arms on one side, balanced by a 
 battle-axe, equally ponderous, on the other. Upon his 
 
THE TEMPLARS IX PARIS. 
 
 151 
 
 left arm was a small triangular shield, on Lis heels were 
 spurs of gold, and on liis hands gauntlets of chain-mail, 
 reaching to the elbow, and meeting tlie licniher wljich 
 protected tlie neck and breast. Over the mail and 
 descending as low as the knee, was a crimson surcoat, 
 like a Uouse of the present day. Over this from the 
 risht shoulder, crossinp; the bi-east to the left thioh, was 
 seen a broad leathern belt, which, with another around 
 the waist, assisted b}^ a third, sustained the ponderous 
 falchion. Over the whole figure, thus armed and 
 accoutred, hung a fuill and lieaA^y mantle, or cloak, of 
 Burrel cloth, white as snow, fastened by a clasp closely 
 around the neck, clinging with equal closeness to the 
 shoulders, and descending in voluminous folds to the 
 heels. On the white ground of the mantle, and upon 
 the left shoulder, was cut a broad cross with crimson 
 velvet. This device was the only one which anywhere 
 appeared, and its singularitj^ was the more remarkable 
 from the fict, that, at that era, the knight wore his 
 armorial bearings fully emblazoned on pennon and 
 shield, surcoat and crest, and even on the frontlet, breast- 
 plate and housings of his steed. In his right hand he 
 bore a long rod of ebony, called abacus ^ — a baton of 
 office, surmounted b}^ an octangular plate of metal, on 
 which was graven the same device. 
 
 The man, whose armor, arms, costume and device are 
 thus delineated, was, apparently, some sixty years of 
 age. His form and features were large, — his complexion 
 very dark, — his eye black and piercing, — his beard, 
 ^v'hich swept his breast, was white as snow, while a 
 
152 
 
 THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 
 
 thick moustaclie rested on liis upper lip. The expres- 
 sion of bis couDtenaDce was severe, solemn, command- 
 ing, "bold, — indicating a will of iron poAver and of iron 
 tenacity. Tije wLole man, indeed, form, face, and 
 aspect, seemed of iron, — dark, unbending, indomitable, 
 terrible; and tlie effect of tbose deep-set and piercing 
 eyes, wliicb gleamed beneath his steel cap and con- 
 trasted with his snowy hair and beard, was that of a 
 lamp blazing in a sepulchre. At the same time, a 
 broad scar, spanning his left cheelv, added to the stern- 
 ness of his aspect. 
 
 This man was Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of the 
 Order of Templar Knights. 
 
 Behind this majestic and imperial form followed an 
 array of sixty men, each so identically the same in arms 
 and armor, steed and costume with his leader, that, sav- 
 ing tlie peculiarities of face and form, and the mystic 
 abacus of rank, A\diicli was supplied by the spear, and 
 the awe and respect, with which he seemed regarded, it 
 wonld have been difficult, if not impossible, to have dis- 
 tinguished one man from another. All the horses were 
 black, and all liad the same accoutrement; all the riders 
 were men oF stately stature and adamantine frame; all 
 bore the self-same arms and armor, as their great 
 leader ; on the head of each gleamed the round steel cap, 
 without crest or plume, and from the shoulders of each 
 depended the full and flowing mantle of white, with its 
 crimson device. But all were not identical in age or 
 aspect. Some were old, — the veterans of an hundred 
 battles beneath a blazing sun, — upon the sands of a 
 
THE TEMPLARS IX FAEIS. 
 
 153 
 
 forsign soil — against a merciless foe; "but tlie lapse of 
 years, and the perils and hardships endured, seemed only 
 to haye indurated — petrified their hardy frames; while 
 their swarth}^ faces covered all over Avith scars, and their 
 flaming eves, oft'ered a marked contrast to their snowy 
 beards and mantles. And some were coniparatively 
 young, — some in the very prime of life; and their 
 stately and symmetrical forms,~their black and luxu- 
 riant beards — their fierce and brilHant eyes, and their 
 handsome faces, harmonized well with, the striking cos- 
 tume of tliemselves and tlieir steeds. 
 
 Such was the little band of Templar Knights, only 
 sixty in number, wliieh, on the morning of Api'il 5th, 
 1307, entered the southeastern gate of Paris. 
 
 Obedient to the mission of tlie Sovereign Pontiff, 
 Clement Fifth, tbeir spiritual supreme, they had, at once, 
 in unquestioning obedience to the will of their Grand 
 Master, embarked fi'om Cyprus, — landed at Marseilles, 
 — repaired to the Holy Father at Avignon, and thence, 
 at his order, marched to Paris. They Avere but sixty 
 men, but thej^ were sixty Templars ; and that number 
 sixty times told would have dared not offer themselves 
 their match in open field ! 
 
 Having crossed the drawbridge and entered the city,, 
 the troop immediately assumed its prior order of march. 
 That order was an oblong, hollow square, in the centre 
 of wdiicli moved a train of twelve beasts of burthen, 
 heavily laden, and conducted by a body of serving 
 brothers of the order, some tAvo hundred in number, 
 garbed in black. Here, also, rode the trumpeters of the 
 
154 
 
 THE TEMPLAES IN PARIS. 
 
 ba-Qcl; and from tlie centre rose tbe vast Beaiiseant — tlie 
 baoner of tlie Temple. In front of this impressive cav- 
 alcade, at a distance of several yards, advanced Jacques 
 de Molai, as slowly as liis trained steed could step, — his 
 keen eye fixed sternly forward, regardless of all objects 
 on his way, on tlie right or on the left, and his baton of 
 rank grasped firmly and perpendicularly in his hand. 
 In the self-same manner advanced each Templar, grasp- 
 ing his lance. 
 
 ■ It was a dark, and solemn, and terrible band ! It was 
 a thunder-cloud, skirted with silver and flashing v/ith 
 steel! It was a slnmbering tornado, which had only to 
 be roused to bless or to ban! It was a troop of iron men 
 on iron steeds, — dark spectres of the fancy, — until, roused 
 by one magic word from the bronze lips of the majestic . 
 shape that led them, instantly each man became a giant 
 of power and of might ! It was a band of those Avonderful 
 men, who, for two hundred years, were the dread and 
 the admiration of the whole world. With their terrible 
 name, like that of Eichard, the Saracen mother had 
 hushed her unquiet babe to its slumber, and the Saracen 
 rider had quelled his refractory barb ; while, throughout 
 all Europe, its boast and its dismay were alike those 
 soldier-monks. 
 
 These men were not as other men. They lived not as 
 other men. They had not, they seemed not to have like 
 passions with other men. Clouds and darkness were 
 around them. Human steel seemed to harm them not, 
 • — human power seemed idle against them! To them, 
 the Avill of one man, old, perchance, and infirm, was 
 
THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 
 
 155 
 
 tlie will of God ; and, m obedience to tliat will, tLere 
 was no doom they would not brave, — no torture tliey 
 would not endure ! The loftiest rank, the most resist- 
 less power, the most countless wealth was theii's ; yet, in 
 the stern severity of tlieir order, they seemed to scorn it 
 all. One old man's will seemed more to them than the 
 will of all other men together — than even the will oTGod 
 himself! — more than all the blandishments of woman — 
 more than all the seductions of passion — moi-e than all 
 the splendors of wealth, — more than all the untold glories 
 of ambitious conception ! On the baxtle-field they were 
 fiends; before the altar saints, — -in the conclave slaves 
 to one man's will! To all men save one they were slei'n, 
 scornful, despotic. To him, they were meek, yielding,— 
 obedient beyond all conception and all credence. 
 
 Such was a band of these wonderful men, now led by 
 their Grand Master within the walls of Paris; and their 
 blind obedience to that one old man, — their unily of 
 purpose, — their concentration of will,, was, perhaps, the 
 chief element of the!r streuiith. 
 
 o 
 
 Passing through the gate of St. Jacques, as has been 
 said, and entering the head of the street of the same 
 name, the close cohort of spears had no sooner resumed 
 its form of march, than, at an imperce[)tible signal from 
 the mystic abacus of their leader, all the trumpets of 
 the band at once burst forth, into an air so wild, so shrill, 
 so sweet, and yet so solemn, that the whole Universite 
 was instantly awake, and its doors, and windows, and 
 streets were thronged with curious gazers. But not a 
 man of that formidable band looked to the right nor the 
 10 
 
156 
 
 THE TEMPLAES IN PARIS. 
 
 left. On went their leader midway down tlie street of 
 St. Jacques, through the yawning arch of the Petit 
 Chatelet, and the Petit Pont, and right on followed his 
 knights. 
 
 By the time that the cavalcade had crossed the bridge, 
 and had ngain resumed its ordei', and was advancing 
 down the northern quay of the Cite^ having passed tlie 
 twin giants of Notre Dame unnoticed, on their right, and 
 the grim old Palace of Justice, then in the course of re- 
 construction, on their left, all Paris had gathered to wit- 
 ness the scene ; and as the Pont au Change was crossed, and 
 the Grand Chatelet passed, and the priestly band emerged 
 from its gloomy gateway on the street of St. Denis, so 
 slo\\r was the movement, that the whole quay of the 
 Louvre was black with swarming masses. 
 
 But, all -unmindfLd, the dark battalion of Avarrior- 
 monks moved solemnly on, and the sweet notes of the 
 oriental march thrilled upon the air; and, steadily and 
 sternly on, moved the tall form of Jacques de Molai ; 
 and still his eye turned not to the right hand, nor to the 
 left: — not to tlie right hand, where frowned the black 
 towers of that sombre pile, whose dungeon-walls were, 
 ere long, to echo his unavailing groans; — not to the lelt 
 hand, where, on the green islet of the Passeur aux 
 Yaches, smiled those royal gardens, which, ere many 
 years had fled, weie to witness his unspeakable torture! 
 
 Steadily and sternly that iron band moved on to its own 
 unearthly music — and alas! to its OAvn dreadful doom! 
 Its own sweet trmnpet-mnsic was its own funeral march ! 
 Silently —mysteriously — unushered — unknown — uuan- 
 
THE TEMPLAES IX PARIS/ 
 
 noimced— unexpected — improclaimed— -witLout pageant 
 or pomp — ■witliout ceremony — or sliow or observauce, — ■ 
 without tlie pealing of bells or the welcoming sliouts of 
 tlie populace, — secretly, at the dawn of dnv, had that 
 dark band entered the capital, and advanced into its very 
 heart, and there had itself heralded its presence, with its 
 own wild music, before its coming had been suspected! 
 
 -All this struck strangely on the minds of men, and,: 
 with a superstitious stillness, and pale faces, and mute 
 lips, they gazed on these world-reno\Amed priest-soldiers 
 —'•these men," in the language of St. Bernard, ''with 
 aspect steady and austere, with Ausage embrowned by the 
 sun, attired in steel and covered with dust," — who had 
 suddenly appeared, from a foreign soil, and like spectre 
 warriors on spectre steeds moved silently and sternlj' on! 
 ■_ As the cavalcade marched up the street of St. Denis, 
 the mass of spectators, constantly augmenting, had 
 become countless. But, unlike popular throngs upon 
 other occasions, they pressed not on the troop, and no 
 shout or. sound Avent up from the movdng mass. At a 
 distance, respectfully and silently, the multitudes fol- 
 lowed on ; and, Avhen the band had gone out of the gate 
 of St. Denis, and turned off to the right in the direction 
 of the Palace of the Temple, tlie mass of people, also, 
 went and poured itself OA^er the broad pdains beyond. 
 
 ArriA'ed at the embattled Avails of the gloomy pile, 
 the drawbi'idge fell — the portcullis rose, — the ponderous 
 gates rolled back, as if by magic, upon their hinges: 
 the glittering spear-points and flowing mantles disap- 
 peared beneath the deep barbican of the Temple. 
 
158 
 
 THE TEMPLARS IN PARIS. 
 
 And, then, tlie gates again closed, as tliej liad opened, 
 and tlie spectral band was gone; and, like a vision, 
 when it hath departed, so seemed to those avve-strnck 
 oeliolders the strange apparition of that dark array 
 and its strange disappearance. 
 
 And, silently and thoughtfully, the citizens of Paris 
 went back to their homes. But the scenes of that memo- 
 rable morning passed not lightly from their minds. Nay, 
 tenfold more deeply now than ever were they impressed 
 with awe and dread of that terrible order, — an awe and 
 dread, from which, years afterwards, emanated most 
 bitter fruits. 
 
 But there was one man, who, from tlie tall tower of 
 tlie Louvre, gazed more anxiously and more earnestly on 
 this mystic procession than all others beside; and into 
 whose mind more deeply than into the mind of any other 
 beholder sank its impression. 
 
 Tliat man was Philip Fourth of France; and, years 
 afterwards, bitter, indeed, were the fruits, which that 
 impression conduced to germinate and to bring forth! 
 
THE WARPJOR-MOXKS. 
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE AVAKRIOR-MONKS. 
 
 OT^ tlie evening of tlie fifteenth clay of July, 1099, 
 Count Godfrey of Bouillon planted the standard 
 of the First Crusade on the walls of the Holy City, after 
 a Moslem bondage of 460 years. 
 
 Twenty years passed away. A soldier of the cross 
 still sat u})on the throne of Jerusalem, and thousands of 
 way-AVoi'n and penniless pilgrims dragged themselves 
 over the bui'iiing sands of Palestine, to look upon tl.e 
 holy sepulchre of the Lord and to die. Multitudes 
 perished on the route of famine, disease and destitution; 
 and their bleaching skelet^r.is, for many a 3^ear, -whitenc^d 
 tlie desert; but still greater multitudes perished by th.e 
 scimitar of the Saracen, who thus ah me could wreak an 
 atrocious vengeance on an execrated foe. 
 
 To protect these pious palmers from the atrocities of 
 the Paynim, and to furnish an appropriate escort to a 
 perpetual pilgrimage, nine of the noblest nnd most valiant 
 knights of the Count of Bouillon, in the j^ear 1117, 
 united themselves by a vow to that end; and, "In honor 
 of the sweet iMother of God"^," they associated the 
 duties of a monk with those of a knight in the obliga- 
 tions they assumed. 
 
 Of these nine noble • knights, tlie names of but two 
 
 * La do cc Mhrc de Dieu, 
 
160 
 
 THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 
 
 li.ive come down to us ; tliey are Geoffrey Adelmaii of 
 St. Omer and Hugh des Payens, tlie firnt Grand Master. 
 
 In 1118, Baldwin Second, King of Jerusalem, vouch- 
 safed tlie new order a retreat within the Holy Temple, 
 and gave to them the name of Templar Knights. But 
 they called themselves " Poor Fellow-soldiers of Christ 
 and the Temple of Solomon." The valiant Hugh des 
 Payens was chosen their leader, bearing the title, " Master 
 of the Temple;" and, in 1120, Fulk, Count of Anjou, 
 one of the most renoAvned warriors of the nge, Avho had 
 })lunged into the crusades that he might drown his 
 anguish for the loss of a beloved wife, was among the 
 earliest companions of the order. 
 
 In 1128, by command of Pope Honorius Second, the 
 famous St. Bernard of Clairvaux drew up a system of 
 monastic discipline for the governance of the new bro- 
 therhood, whicli Avas subsequently confirmed by the 
 Council of Troj^es. 
 
 The bases of this Holy Pule Avere the canonical obli- 
 gations of chastity, poverty and obedience. Each 
 Templar Avas enjoined to hear the Holy Olhce through- 
 out, every day, or, to repeat thirteen Pater Nostcrs for 
 Matins and nine for Yespers : also, to obstain fi-om milk, 
 meat and eggs on Friday, and from flesh-meats four days 
 of each Aveek ; while Avater Avas prescribed as their only 
 drink. They Avere, also, forbidden to Avear a crest upon 
 their helms, or a blazon on their arms or armor: — they 
 Avei'e forbidden to hunt Avith hawk or hound, — to shave 
 the beard on the chin, — to read Avorks of jioetry or 
 Kmiance, — to possess more than three horses, or to be 
 
THE WARRIOR -MONKS. 
 
 161 
 
 attended by more than one Esquire ; wliile it was en- 
 joined on them to crasli lieresj", — to protect pilgrims, — 
 to defend the cross, and to combat evermore for the 
 glorj^ of tLe Lord Supreme. 
 
 Bj the primitive Templars these -rigid injunctions are 
 said to have been observed witli most puuctillious and 
 painfid exactitude, — especially that embodied in the46tli 
 Capital entitled — " i>e osculis fugiendisy So scrupu- 
 lousl}^, indeed, was it observed, that many of the warrior- 
 monks shunned the kiss of their own mothers even; 
 while some were so impressed with the capital entitled— 
 '•^ De ohleciione that they deemed it an unpar- 
 
 donable tempting of Providence to look a fair woman 
 in the face ! Indeed, it is related of " tlie gentle Saint of 
 Clairvaux," himself, Avho Avas the author of these ordi- 
 nances, that, on one occasion, chancing to fjx his e3"cs on 
 a woman, he instantly took to liis heels and plani:ed up 
 ■to his neck in ice-cold water ! This penance, it may be 
 added, Avell-nigh cost the worthy saint his life! 
 
 In the V'ear 1162, Pope Alexander III. issued the cele» 
 brated Bull Gmne Daimn Opiimiim^ conferring privileges 
 and powers which the Temple had long desired, and 
 which completed the union of priest and warrior, — a 
 union omnipotent in a superstitious and warlike age. 
 The order was, also, exempt from the terrible effects of 
 Interdict; and thousands sought afiiliation as serving 
 brothers and sisters, and also as Donates and Oldates, that 
 they might occasionally hear mass and receive the sacra- 
 ment, and, should they die, the rites of Christian sepul- 
 ture, while the formidable interdict of Pope or Prelate 
 
162 
 
 THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 
 
 miglit oversliadow the land. Pope Innocent III. declared 
 himself an affiliated brother of the order; and among- 
 the Ohlaies weie priests and princes, and among tlie 
 sisterhood some of the purest and brightest names of 
 the age.* 
 
 The Master of the Temple had rather the power of a 
 Venitian Doge, or a Spartan Prince, than a Benedictine 
 Prior. He was allowed four horses and an Esquire (>f 
 n(jble bii'th. lie had, also, a chaplain and two secre- 
 taries, — one to manage his Latin correspondence and the 
 other his Saracenic. He had, also, a farrier, a cook, two 
 footmen, a Tnrcopole, or guard, and a ^Purcoman, or 
 guide,— the two last, as their names intimate, being 
 Turks. The Statutes declare the Master to be in the 
 ])lace of God, and that his commands are to be obeyed 
 like those of God. Yet the Master Avas not absolute 
 in his rule, hut was governed by the majority of tlie 
 Chapter. General Chapters always met at Jerusalem, 
 but were very rarely convened. 
 
 The canonical costume prescribed to the Templars by 
 the Rule of St. Bernard was a long white mantle, sym- 
 bolic of the purity of their life, which was enjoined to 
 be worn over tlieir knightly harness. Twenty years 
 afterwards a red cross, the sj^mbol of that martyrdom 
 to which tlie knights Avere constantly exposed, Avas 
 added to the attire by Pope Eugene Third, and was 
 worn, either emblazoned on the left breast, or cut in red 
 cloth on the left shoulder of the mantle. The great 
 standard prescribed to the order Avas composed of linen, 
 
 * "Secret Societies of Middle Ages."' 
 
THE WAT^RIOT^-MOXKS, 
 
 163 
 
 — partly white and partlj^ black in line, bearing on its 
 centre the cross, and ciilled Beausmnt^ which Avord was, 
 also, their war-cry. On the eve of battle, the marshal 
 unfurled the Beauseant in the name of Gocl, and nomi- 
 nated ten Templars to guard it, — one of whom bore a 
 second banner fuirled, which ho was to displaj^ if the first 
 went down. On pain of expulsion, a Templar could 
 never quit the field so long as the banner of liis order 
 waved. And, when the red ci'oss fell, he was to rally to 
 the ivhite ; and, wdien that Avas gone, he Avas to join any 
 Christian banner yet to be seen on the field ; and, when 
 all had disappeared, he might then slowly retreat, — if so 
 ordered by his superior. 
 
 The 20th Capital of the Holy Rule, prescribing the 
 banner, assigns the significance of its colors and appella- 
 tion to be this: — "Because the poor companions shall 
 be fair and favorable to Christ's friends, and black and 
 terrible to his foes." It bore as a device the cross ot tlio 
 order, witli the inscription — "^Von nobis ^ Domine^ non 
 ncMs^ sed tuo nomine da gloriamy It Avas, also, enjoined 
 that Avheresoever the Templars should go a portable 
 chapel should accompany them, and that their religious 
 Avorship should, in no event be pretermitted. So strictly 
 "was this ordinance observed, that it is related of them 
 that every night, during all the crusades, Avhen they 
 repaired to their camps, at a stated moment, Avdien the 
 sun Avent down, the lieralds thrice shouted — "Savetlie 
 Holy Sepulchre! " — ^and instantly each mailed form sank 
 down on the spot Avliere it had stood, — even thoiigli 
 the soil were polluted with human gore, and though it 
 
164 
 
 THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 
 
 was y^^t warm and reeking on tiieir hands, and tliongli 
 the earth was burtliened with human carcasses them- 
 selves bad slain, and meekly, yet fervently, invoked on 
 their entei'prise the smile of Heaven ! 
 
 ^J'he peculiar tie which wedded the Templar so 
 strongly to his order is not now, nor has it ever been, 
 completely ascertained. Of this much, however, there 
 seems little reason to doubt, — that no one but a knight 
 according to tlie laws of chivalr\^ could become a can- 
 didate for membership; and that the initiation vow 
 enjoined an obligation to obey, during life, the Grand 
 3\Iaster of the order, — to defend the holy city of Jerusa- 
 lem, — to observe inviolate chastity of person, — to yield 
 strict and cheerful conipliance with all usages of the 
 order, — never to demit from the institution save with 
 the consent of the Grand Master and a full chapter of 
 knights, and never, under any provocation, or possibility 
 of circumstance, to injure a Templar, or to sulfer him to 
 be injured while there was power to prevent. The can- 
 didate seems, also, to have sworn to devote his discourse, 
 his arms, his faculties and his life to the defence of the 
 Church and the order; and, at all times, when com- 
 manded by his superior, to cross seas to combat infidels; 
 and, should he singly be attacked by not more than 
 thi-ee infidel foes, at one time, never to turn his back, but 
 to fight on to the death. lu return for these obligations, 
 the candidate was assured of " bread and water all his life, 
 the poor clothing of the order, and labor and toil enow ; 
 and, should lie be captured in battle with the infidel, 
 his J'ansom was limited to his capuce and his girdle. 
 
THE TrAP.IlIOE-:iOXKS. 
 
 165 
 
 . Such, witlibut doubt, were a fe-.v of tlie oTDllgations 
 -a.^umed by the Templar Kijigbts as a military order ; 
 and it is equally undoubted that there existed other 
 bonds of unitv more solemn and more irrefragible than 
 even tnese. Tnat the Templars possessed the mysteries, 
 :peTibrnied the ceremonies, and inculcated the duties of 
 .that high iMasonic order o:' the present day vrhich bears 
 their name is not certainlj- known, altijough it is more 
 .than probable. The best writers on iMasoury both con- 
 cede and claimi;he fact."^ 
 
 But be this as it mi v. never did a community increase 
 more rapidly in power, in numbers and in celebrity, 
 than did that of the chevaliers of the Temple, during the 
 nrst century of its existence. In the entliusiastic lan- 
 guage of a chronicler of the times. — All Chnstendom 
 res junded with the chivalric deeds of the Soldiers of the 
 Cross. Princes supphicated to be buried in the habit and 
 harness of these warrior-monks, and kings were proud 
 to be enrolled under their triumphant standard.^' 
 
 Distinction awaited the Templar everywhere, and all 
 were eager to do him reverence. Godfrey of St. Omer 
 pre-sented the order with all his possessions, and many 
 riemish gentlemen imitated his example, illenry First 
 of England made the order manv s^ilendid presents, and 
 the Emperor Ljthaire. in 113'"». bestowed UT->nn it a lar2'e 
 
 *Lavrr:e .snys:— "W.? know tint the Knislit T^'iuplars not only possessed 
 tlie mysteries, but performed the ceremonies, and inculcated ilie duties, ot 
 Free iiasous." The dissolution of the ord^^r he attrilnire-;. in pan, to tiie dis- 
 covers- of th!s f:ict, and ts-aces the reception of the Masonic mysrerie^- to i he 
 Svriac fraternity of tlie Druses, which, at the era of the Crusades, and loni^ 
 after, held their seat on Mount Libanus, and there iniriared the early Teni- 
 -plars while in Palestine. We also learn that, in the reigr. of Henry .<eco!:d 
 of Enarland. the ^Masonic lodges in that realm were under sup'^rinteiidance of 
 f!ie Gfand Chapter^tf Templar Kniglits : an.i that, in th<- year 1155. itempk.yed 
 tiicu iu the erection of the Temple, in Fle ;l Street. L jmiou. 
 
166 
 
 THE WARRIOR-MONKS. 
 
 part of liis patrimony of Suppliuburgo Kaymoncl Ber- 
 enger, the aged Count of Provence, entered tLe Temple 
 House of Barcelona ; and, resigning Ids govei'nment, 
 sent the richest proceeds of liis estates to his brethren in 
 the Hoi J Land. Alphonse of A r agon and Navarre, the 
 hero of tli'rty battles against the Moors, bequeathed to tlie 
 order his throne, and Liondiearted Kichard of England, 
 "when about returning to Enrope from the East, assumed 
 the Templar-garb for safety from his foes, among whom, 
 it is said, "were numbered Templar Knights themselves ; 
 while his brother John was ever a warm patron of tl;e 
 order, and, like other monarchs of the age, committed all 
 his treasures to the safedvceping of the Temple Hcuse 
 in London, — a trust never known in any instance to have 
 been betraj^ed. 
 
 From the ]^criod of tho commencement of tlie Second 
 Crusade to the close of the JSTinth,- — a space of more 
 than one hundred years,-— the career of the Knights 
 Templar has no rival for brilliancy in the annals of 
 Europe. During all that terrible conflict between the 
 crescent a:xl the cross, this order Avas ever in the van of 
 the fight. Beneath the walls of Ascalon and Tj-re, — of 
 Ptolemais and Jerusalem ; on the plains of Tiberias ; on 
 the barren sea-coast of Gaza upon that fatal eve of St. 
 Luke, when, out of thousands of Templars engaged, but 
 thirty survived; — on the sacred banks of the Jordan 
 when its stream ran blood, and a caj^tive Grand Master 
 chose death rather than ransom ; at C^esarea, and Jaffa 
 and Damietta, and Tripoli ; before the castle of Eich- 
 lioru where a Grand Prior with 1700 men lay slain when 
 
THE wareior-:monks. 
 
 167 
 
 night closed the conflict; at the brook Kishon, wlicre 
 140 knights encountered 7,000 Moslems, and refusing 
 all quarter were cut off to a man, — the Marshal of the 
 Temple, the heroic De !Mailly, falhng last; at the fatal 
 fight of Hittin, where 80,000 Christians fell, and the 
 Latin power in the East was broken forever, and where, 
 to a man, the Templar captives refused their lives to 
 Saladin at the price of their faith, and only Gerard do 
 Eidefort. their Master, was spared; at the storming cf 
 Massonra, where but three Templars sm'vived from a 
 host; at the Tower of Saphad, where thousands v:cvq 
 massacred rather than I'cnounce their faith ; and, flnallj', 
 in the fortilace of Acre, when three hundred knights — ■ 
 a whole Chapter I with their Master at their head — were 
 slaughtered in a hopeless defence of female virtue 
 against Paynim treachery and lust, — everywhere these 
 noble and heroic men were champions of chivalry and 
 the crocs. 
 
 At length the Christian war-cry ceased to bo heard 
 on the shores of Palestine. The conflict of two cen- 
 turies terminated in blood, and a mournful silence 
 reigned along that coast, which, for j-ears, had resounded 
 with the clash of arms,"^ 
 
 The few surviAung Templars retired, at first, to 
 Limisso, in the Island of Cyprus, but shortly after 
 returned to Europe, and sought an asylum in the rich 
 and numerous Commanderies, Priories, or Preceptories 
 of the order, which existed in every kiugclom on the 
 continent, as well as in England, Ireland and Scotlaud. 
 
 * ruUer. 
 
168 
 
 THE WARRIOR- MONKS. 
 
 In all Europe, indeed, was the order oslablislied, and 
 everywhere bad it " churches, cliapels, titlies, farms, 
 villages, mills, rights of pasturage, of fishing, of venery, 
 and of wood; and, in many pLaces, tlie right, also, of 
 holding and of receiving tolls at annual fairs. The 
 number of their preceptories was, at the least, 9.000, and 
 their annual income about six millions of pounds ster- 
 ling! In the early part of the Thirteenth Century, notr 
 withstanding their losses in the East from the conquests 
 of Saladin, their estates in Western Europe were some 
 seven or eight thousand in number. Lords of immense 
 estates and countless revenues, — descendants of the 
 noblest houses in Christendom, — uniting the most hon- 
 ored of secular and ecclesiastical characters, — ^^viewed as 
 the chosen champions of Christ and the flower of 
 knighthood, — what wonder that, in the darkest centuries 
 of an age of darkness, they fell into luxury and pride, 
 and became the object of jealousy to both laity and 
 priesthood, and .of . .cupidity and dread to an avaricious 
 and perfidious monarch. Instances of that pride of 
 power exhibited by the Templars are not few. When 
 Henry III. of England, in 1252, threatened to recall the 
 privileges so profusely and rashly given the order, the 
 .Grand Piior made the memorable reply, — "Do justice, 
 oh, King, and thou wilt reign! Infringe it and thou 
 art no more a Kino;!" 
 
 By the union Avith the order of such multitudes of 
 nobles and princes, whose vast possessions passed, by 
 tneir death on the battle-field, or elsewhere, into the 
 com.mon fund, the wealth of these preceptories had 
 
THE WARRIOR -MONKS. 
 
 169 
 
 hecome, in the long lapse of two liiindred )^ears, incredi- 
 ble and almost incalculable. And, with the possession 
 of these untold riches, no wonder that luxury and corrup- 
 tion ahso crept in; and that the battle-scarred heroes, who, 
 on the plains of Palestine, had, with religious severity, 
 remembered every vow, should, for a season, amid the 
 opulence and security of peace and pleasure, have for- 
 gotten them all ; — all vows save one, — obedience ; — 
 obedience to the mandate of their Master, wherever 
 heard, however received, and whatsoever its import! 
 "They go and come," wrote the Abbot of Clairvaux, 
 " at a sign from their Master. There is with them no 
 respect of persons. The best, not the noblest, are most 
 highly regarded. They are mostly to be seen with dis- 
 ordered hair and covered with dust, brown from their 
 corselets and the heat of the sun. They go to war armed 
 within with faith, and without with iron, but never 
 adorned with gold, wishing rather to excite fear than 
 desire for booty. Hence, one of them has often put a 
 thousand, and two of them ten thousand, to flight. 
 Thev are gentler than lambs and gi'immer than lions; 
 they have the mildness of monks and tlie valour of the 
 knight. It is the Lord's doing, and it is wonderful in 
 our eyes ! " 
 
 "They are the first to advance," writes the Cardinal 
 of Yitry, in the early part of the IStli Centuiy, "and the 
 last to retreat. They ask not Jioio many is the foe, but 
 tvhere is he. Lions in war, — lambs at home: rugged 
 wai'riors on the held^ — jnonks and eremites in the 
 church." 
 
170 
 
 TFTE \rARRIOR-MOXKS. 
 
 "To narrate the exploits of the Temple," says a 
 modern writer, " would be to chi'oiiiele the crusades; for 
 never was there a conflict with the Infidel in which the 
 chivahy of that order bore not a conspicuous part. 
 I^heir war-cry ever I'ose in the thickest of the fray, and 
 never did Beauseant weaver or retreat."'*' Never, too, 
 did the Templar abjure his faith, whatever might be the 
 irregularities of his life; and Robert of St. Albans is tlie 
 only name on record of apostacy from the order, or of 
 alliance with the infidel foe. 
 
 It was in 1298, — four years after the final retreat from 
 the shores of Asia, — that Jacques de Molai, a member 
 of a noble family of Burgundy, a native of Besan^on in 
 the Franche Comte, and v/ho, for more than thirty years 
 a Templar, had been among the most renowned of the 
 heroes of the order in Palestine, was unanimously 
 chosen chief, while still absent from Cyprus on a hostile 
 shore; and it was nearly ten years after this event that, 
 in unquestioning obedience to the mandate of his Spirit- 
 ual Supreme, ho entered Paris.f It was, probably, his 
 purpose to make the capital of France the future scat 
 of the order; for, agreeably to the suggestion of the 
 Pontiff, he not only bore thither vast sums of money 
 in his train, amounting to 150,000 Florins in gold, and a 
 quantity of silver coin perfectly countless,— certainly 
 uncounted, but, also, all the standards, trophies, records, 
 regalia, reliques, furniture and paraphernalia of the 
 order. 
 
 * "Secret Societies of tlie Middle Ages." 
 
 t De Molai, wlien l;ist in Paris, in 1297, held at the baptismal font KoLert 
 IV., a sou of rijilij, who died Auiiust, U'08. 
 
THE DUXGEOX OF THE GRXN'D CHATELET. 171 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE DUXGEOX OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 
 
 IX the Dark Ages, large edifices were built with great 
 soliditr. and were, sometimes, whole centuries iu 
 course oF erection. But, then, they lasted whole cen- 
 turies. — whole centuries even after their builders were 
 dust, and thev ahl of them served a two or tlireeTold 
 purpose, at least. A cathedral was, also, a cemetery. — 
 a convent was a castle. — a palace, a prison, — a tower, a 
 tribunal : and sometimes all were united within the samo 
 massive walls of stone. 
 
 There were many such structures in th.e Paris of the 
 Fourteenth Century. TliC Louvre was a palace and a 
 prison ; —Xotre Dame a cathedral and a cemetery: — the 
 Temple a convent and a castle; — the Palace of Justice 
 a tribunal and a donjon-lvcep : — whiie the Grand and 
 Petit Chatelets, the citadel of Yincennes, and tlie ]v[or:- 
 astery of the Temple itself, as well as the Abbeys, and 
 Churches, and all the other great structures, had their 
 dungeons and cells. Tne Tournells, the Bastille, the 
 iUotel de Tilie. — all of tliem of subseqaent construction, 
 — were each supplied with the same convenitiices ; to 
 say nothing of the Hotels of Pol, and Cluny, and Xesle, 
 or the Lorjis of Xevers, or Pome, or Pheims. 
 
 On the morning of tlie fifth day of April, 1307. two 
 men who were buried in the duniieons of the Grand 
 11 
 
172 THE rUNG|:ON OF THE GRAND CHATELET.; 
 
 Cliatelet were roused from tlieir slumbers by the wild 
 and piercing notes of tlie trampet-music of the Templars. 
 
 One of these men was somewhat advanced in years, 
 and, for a long ser"es of heinous offences having been 
 condemned by the Provost of Paris to die, now awaited 
 a most merited doom. His name was Sqnin de Florian,"^ 
 and, by birth, he was a native of tlie village of Eeziers, 
 in the Department of Herault, in the ancient Province 
 of Languedoc. 
 
 Tlie other prisoner, Avho was doomed to the same fate, 
 for similar enormities, was a mn.ch younger man in years,, 
 though hardly less matured in villainy than his com- 
 paiiion. His name was 'NoSo Dei,f and by birth he was 
 an Italian of the city of Florence. 
 
 Each of these men bore upon his countenance the 
 marks of crime as' inefcaceably and as unmistakably as 
 in the record of his career; and that, too, without one 
 solitary line, or feature, or trait, to redeem it. Yet, 
 strange to say, these brutal men clung to that life which 
 each had so lightly regarded in others, and had each a 
 thousand times justly forfeited in the sight of Heaven 
 and of man, with all the terrible tenacity of that species 
 of reptile existence, which, though the body is cut into 
 a dozen sections, in each section is said to retain all its 
 original vitality. 
 
 "Ha! Noffo ! " exclaimed Do Florlan, whom the 
 trumpets of the Templars, as they were crossing the 
 Pont au Changeurs^ together with the tramp of hoofs, 
 
 *0r, Squin de Flexian. 
 
 t " A man," says, Villani, " full Qf iniquity." 
 
THE LUXGEOX OF THE. GEAXD CHATELET. 173.: 
 
 upon tlie bridge, liad first aroused — '-TVliat sounds are 
 those?"' 
 
 ^ ''Xo — no ! unhand nie!"' cried tlie slumbering villain, 
 struggling in b:s troubled sleep. '"I tcil you tlie hour 
 Lasn't come! I ico/it die I — I T^-on't die ; 
 
 ■ And ^^dtli an imprecation whicli might have shaken 
 the massive dungeon walls to their centre, he sprang to 
 liis feet in an attitude of defiance. 
 
 ''There — there — don"t be a fool, my boy!" said De 
 Florian. scornfully. '"Ihn not the Provost, thank God! 
 Your hour hasn't quite come; it is tvo daj^s off, at least. 
 Do you liear that strange music?"' 
 
 Tiie Florentine pressed his hand to his damp forehead 
 and listened. 
 
 VTell — do you hear the trumpets? '' asked De Florian- 
 again, after a prolonged silence. 
 
 '•I do,"' Avas the low answer as the young man still 
 listened with absorbed attention. 
 
 ''It is a strange air they ph\v,'' said the other. "Did 
 you ever hear that air before? " 
 
 "Often,"' was the quick answer. 
 
 '■ And what is it? " 
 = "The battle- step of the Temph^.rs." 
 
 '"The Tempiars I ■■ cried De Florian. '"It is a little 
 singular that an order so distrusted b}^ the King of 
 France as that of the Templar Knights should enter 
 his capital with a battle-marcli I " 
 
 '•It is/' said tlie Italian, after a pause. 
 
 "I wish I knew the secrets of these Templars," 
 returned De Florian. sinking listlessly on his heap of 
 dirty straw and yawning. 
 
174 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 
 
 "And wLj?" 
 
 '^ Why? Because I would reveal tliem to the King, 
 and save myself from tlie gibbet." 
 
 The Florentine shuddeTed, but was silent, and still 
 listened to tlie music of the Templars as it died away. 
 
 "In two days we shall be dancing on nothing in the 
 Place-St. Jean-en-Greve, unless a miracle is vouchsafed 
 to save us," continued the old man. "And I hardly 
 think it will be." 
 
 "Do you know that I — that I am a Templar!" sud- 
 denly faltered the Florentine. 
 
 " You, a Templar!" laughed the old man, scornfully. 
 
 "Yes, a Templar," was the answer. 
 
 "And if you are a Templar, how came you here, 
 pray ? " "And why do you remain here ? " 
 
 "I was a Templar," replied the other, humbly. 
 
 "Eeally?" 
 
 " Eeally ! " 
 
 " Wasf And why are you not now ? " 
 The Florentine was silent. 
 
 "I say, if you were once a Templar, why are you not 
 noio a Templar? " asked De Florian, contemptuously. 
 
 " I was expelled fi'om the order, and doomed to per- 
 petual imprisonment, but escaped." 
 
 " Ila ! " cried the other, rising partially to his feet. 
 
 And, for some moments, both men continued silent as 
 if buried in thought. 
 
 "My young friend," at length said De Florian, gravely, 
 breaking the deep stillness of tlie dungeou "do you 
 know tliat our fate is inevitable?" 
 
THE DUNGEON OF THE GKAND CHATELET. 175 
 
 The Italian nodded, but spake not. 
 ''Have you do wish to confess your sins before you 
 die?" 
 
 " No confessor will be granted us," replied tlie Flor- 
 entine, bitterly. 
 
 "Most true. But may we not confess to each other?" 
 
 ''We may," said the 3^oung man, after a pause, w^hile 
 a strange smile passed over his corpse-like coimtenance. 
 And I, being the younger, must begin, I suppose." 
 
 *' Proceed, then," said De Florian, with the same sig- 
 nificant smile as his companion. 
 
 "Let me see," said the other, thoughtfully. "In the 
 year 1282, at Florence, I robbed my father of sixty be- 
 zants, all he had, old fellow, to comfort his declining 
 years, — and then I fled. At Mantua, in 1284, I stabbed 
 a rival in love, and again fled, and, on my route to Bres- 
 cia, met a traveller the same night, and killed him for 
 his gold. At Brescia, I ravished a nun of the Convent 
 of St. Agnes, and then dashed her brains out. At Rome, 
 in, — let me see, — yes, it was in 1283, I poisoned three 
 cardinals for the Pope, at fifty florins each, — and cheap 
 enough it was 1 I have received as much for a simple 
 friar 1" 
 
 "But the Templars ? " interrupted De Florian. 
 
 "Oh, I'm coming to the Templars. Don't hurrj^ me. 
 I must make a clean bosom of it, you know. In 1290, 1 
 betook me to the siege of St. Jean d'Acre, and fought so 
 like a devil, beneath its walls, that I Avas made a knight, 
 by the accolade of Peter de Beaujeu, Grand Master of the 
 Templars, himself. I was in the Tower of the Temple, 
 
176 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 
 
 wlien it fell, burying tliree hundred of tlie order under its 
 ruins, together with Moslems, numberless. Afterwards I 
 was in the Convent of St. Clare, where, as you have 
 heard, the nuns cut off their noses and gashed their 
 cheeks to render themselves revolting to their Infidel 
 invaders. Well, they succeeded. Their outrageous 
 virtue was rewarded by instant martyrdom at the 
 hands of their captors." 
 
 And the villain laughed loudly, highly amwsed at the 
 reminiscence, for some moments. 
 
 " But the Templars ? " again asked De Florian. 
 
 " Oh, the Templars. Well, after the fall of Acre, the 
 whole order, — a small remnant only it was — repaired to 
 Cyprus, and there, in 1294, I became a member." 
 
 "And then was expelled?" 
 
 " In 1295, . Well, there was another nun in the case." 
 
 ''And the secrets — the mysteries of the order ? " 
 
 " Oh, that's quite a different thing. Old man, were I 
 to whisper to you the mysteries of the Tei^iple, even in 
 the depths of this dark old dungeon, it would cost me 
 my life by torture ! " 
 
 "Your life I" laughed De Florian. "It could hardly 
 cost you that; your life is bought and sold already, if I 
 mistake not. The price is paid and in forty-eight 
 hours the purchase will be delivered!" 
 
 Noffo Dei folded his arms on his breast, and paced the 
 narrow limits of the dark dungeon in silence. 
 
 "Come — come — finish your confession!" at length 
 exclaimed De Florian. " Our time is short. I want to 
 begin mine. Tell me. all - about 4lio Templars :— you 
 
THE DUXGEOX OF THE GEAXD CHATELET. 177 
 
 certain!)^ owe tliem no love anj^Low, after tlieir treatment 
 of 3^ou, nor allegiance either. Ancl, as to any sncli reve- 
 lation costing yoLi jowy life, I am tliinking it would be 
 miicli more likely to save it — ancl mine, too ! " 
 
 " Ha ! " cried the apostate Templar, with a start. 
 " You are right," he added, slowly. 
 
 AYell, then, let me act the ghostly father, and do 3"0U 
 answer the questions I shall propose, truly and faithfullj^, 
 on your souhs salvation. Such a sinner as you. have 
 beeu needs to be catechised, in order to refresh his 
 memory, and to draw his numberless villainies out of 
 him. It can't be expected he should confess the half of 
 his enormities otherwdse. Do you understand ? " 
 
 " Proceed," replied the young man, with a sinister 
 smile. 
 
 " Is it true, then, the horrible crimes with which the 
 Temple is charged ? " • 
 " It is ! " said the apostate, 
 
 " Is it trae that the Novice of that order is compelled, 
 when initiated, to spit upon the crucifix three times, and 
 then to trample on it, and to renounce Christ ? " 
 
 " It is ! " replied the apostate. 
 
 " Suppose he refuse ? " 
 The Templars have racks ! " w\as the brief answ^er. 
 
 " But in what did this custom originate ? " 
 
 "In this : One of the early Grand Masters being con- 
 demned to death could obtain his release only by promis- 
 ing the Saracen to introduce this custom into his order." 
 
 "And Avhat do the knights do at their midnight 
 meetino^s ? " 
 
178 THE DUNGEON OF TKE GRAND CHATELET. 
 
 " Many things too horrible to think of, much less to 
 speak of ! " 
 
 " Do the J Avorship idols ? " 
 
 " They t(o. There is a brazen head, like that of a 
 man, covered with human skin, and called Bftpliumet^ 
 which is the chief idol ; and to this image ajjostates are 
 immolated"^'." 
 
 *' And does the Devil ever apjDcar at these meetings ? " 
 
 " Always!" 
 
 " In what shape ? " 
 
 " In the shape of a big black tom-cat, to which the 
 knights all kneel and pay homage." 
 
 De Florian could but smile at this part of the apos- 
 tate's confession, but continued : 
 
 "And is it true, that, when the chaplains of the order 
 celebrate mass, they omit the words of consecration ? " 
 
 " It is." 
 
 " And that the Templars are in truth disciples of tlie 
 false prophet, and have sold Jerusalem to the Payuim? 
 It is." 
 
 Their professed vows are obedience, poverty auvl 
 chastity, — do they observe these vows?" 
 
 "They would obey the Grand Master if he bade them 
 slay ■ their own mothers, or even tiiemselves," was tue 
 earnest answer. 
 
 " And as to poverty ? " 
 
 " The ' Poor Soldiers of Christ ' are no longer j^cor, 
 whatever else they may be," laughed the apostate. 
 
 *Absui'd as is this charge and all these chaises, tliev were actually pre- 
 ferred; niid incredible as it may seem, upou them the Templais, histoiy 
 asserts, were uctiuilly arraigned. 
 
THE DUXGEOX OF I'HE GRA^TD CHATELET. 179 
 
 "And chastity?" 
 
 " Oh, they are very chaste ! — they neyer marr}^ 1 " 
 replied tlie Florentine, with a smile. 
 
 " Of coiii'se not. To be a husband and to be a Tem- 
 plar is impossible. But is it true, as is asserted, that 
 scenes too abominable for imagination to conceive are 
 sometimes perpetrated Avithin the secrecy of their 
 monastic houses ? " 
 
 ■'Often. Those houses are the abode of every dam° 
 nable and abominable sin and brutality," replied the 
 apostate. 
 
 "Is it trne that, if a Templar ever becomes a father, 
 the infant is brought into a full chapter of knights, and 
 is then tossed about from one to another ranged in a 
 circle, until it expires ? " 
 
 ''it is: and, moreover, the carcass is then roasted, and 
 the Templars anoint their beards with the fat that issues 
 from it." 
 
 "And when a Templar dies, his body is burnt, and his 
 ashes are mingled with wine, and drunk bv the knights, 
 to make them more faithful and intrepid, is it not so ? " 
 asked the other villain. 
 
 "This custom, like many others of the order, Avas 
 derived from the infidels," was the reply. "In 1174, 
 tiiey drank the ashes of Jacques de Maille, in order to 
 imbibe his unequalled courage." 
 
 "And," continued the inquisitor, "one of the Grand 
 Masters cemented an alliance with an infidel prince, 
 thus, — each permitting the blood of an artery to flow 
 into the same bowl j and then the sanguine stream being 
 
180 THE DUXGEOX OF THE GRAXD CHATELET. 
 
 mingled witli wine, eacli drank of it in sacred libation to 
 the other. Was it not so ? " 
 
 "So it is said," asserted the apostate. "This wns in 
 124:8 at the opening of the Eighth Crusade. Saladin was 
 the Saltan, and William de Sonnac the Grand Master. 
 At all events, vows are thus sealed between Templars, 
 whatever the origin. The blood spouts from an arm of 
 each into a skull, and is then mingled with wine, and 
 -drank while yet warm and reeking ! It is called ' the 
 Fifth Libation,' and is the most inviolable pledge of a 
 Templar." 
 
 " Suppose this pledge broken ? " 
 
 " That is utterly impossible ! " solemnly replied the 
 apostate. 
 
 " Suppose a Templar, shocked at the depravity of the 
 order, seeks to withdraw ? " 
 
 " He is first torn limb from limb by the rack, and 
 then sacrificed to the brazen idol, Hashbaz — his entrails 
 being reduced to ashes before his face." 
 
 " And apostate Templars, — those who betray the mys- 
 teries of the order ? " asked De Florian, with a malignant 
 smile, 
 
 " Thew fate would be too awful for description," 
 replied the Florentine. "In 1169, Melier, an Armenian 
 Prince, apostatized and went over to the Infidels; and 
 every Templar that fell into his hands he tortured first, 
 and then cut bis throat." 
 
 " And what was his own fate ? " 
 
 *' Oh, the Templars caught him at last, and tortured 
 fcim, and then biu^aed him over a slow fire a whole week, 
 
THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 181' 
 
 and finally sprinkled liis ashes into the waters of the' 
 Jordan." 
 
 " And have you no dread of a similar doom," asked 
 De Florian, with a hideous smile, after a protracted 
 pause. 
 
 "7.^" exclaimed the Florentine, with a start. 
 "Youi " said De Florian. 
 
 "I — why I dread nothing, jnst at present," was the 
 apostate's answer, partially .recovering his hardihood, 
 ''save only the gibbet of the Place St. Jean-en-Greve! 
 Doyo?" 
 
 "N"o," was the replj^ _ 
 
 In this and like horrible converse, aa-ain and asrain 
 repeated, until, at length, each of these infamous 
 wretches was fully possessed of all the foul suggestions 
 which the depraved imagination of the other could con- 
 ceive, and all the silly tales of the times each had ever 
 heard, and had given them his assent, — passed the day 
 in that murky dungeon. 
 
 Til at night William Imbert, a monk of St. Dominic, 
 Confessor of the King of France and General of the Holy 
 Office at Paris, was in the condemned dungeons of the 
 Grand Cbatelet. 
 
 The next morning, Philip le Bel^ the King, Enguerrand 
 de Marigni, the Minister, William de Nogaret, the Chan- 
 cellor, Hugh de Chatillon, the Constable, and William of 
 Paris, the Grand Inquisitor, sat in solemn conclave, iu 
 the privy council-chamber of the Louvre. 
 
 The door opened. Squin De Florian and Koffo Dei, 
 the apostate Templar, weighed down with fetters, were 
 
182 THE DUNGEON OF THE GRAND CHATELET. 
 
 brought in by Henry Capetal, Provost of Paris and 
 Governor of the Grand Chatelet, escorted by a file of 
 halberdiers. 
 
 The Governor and the guard withdrew. One hour 
 afterwards they were recalled. 
 
 The manacles were knocked from the limbs of the 
 convicts; and, at sunrise the next moruing, instead of 
 mounting the gibbet of the Place St. Jean-en-Greve, 
 they were free and loaded with gold, and beyond the 
 walls of Paris. 
 
THE KING AXD THE GRAND a^IASTER. 183 
 
 CHAPTER XYT, 
 
 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 DL'PI^N'G- each of three snccessive years — and nearly 
 on the same day of the same month of each year 
 • — there was a roj^al marriage at the Palace of the 
 Louvre. Chance what chance might — whether war or 
 pestilence, or insurrection — there was no postponement 
 of these important events. Although Philip le Bel was 
 in the very prime of life, and was esteemed " the hand- 
 somest man in Europe," and although his Queen had 
 now been dead for two years, he manifested not the 
 slightest desigTL or inclination himself to marry again ; 
 and yet he seemed resolved that all around him should 
 wed — happily or imhappily, he cared not a rush : — but 
 wed they should. It was in this way onl}^ that he could 
 make them, especially the ladies of his Court, subserve 
 his own rulino' lust — Ambition. Thas he had first 
 
 o 
 
 married his eldest son, Louis, to Margaret of Burgundy; 
 the next year, he married his son Charles to Blanche of 
 Artois; and, on t.he third, his son Philip to her sister 
 Jane. In neither of these unions, the second only 
 excepted, had the wishes of the parties most interested 
 been consulted ; and not one of them had proved happy. 
 But Avhat cared the King? Did ho make the matciies 
 to make them happy? 
 
 A fourth bridal now took place, which gave promise, 
 
184 
 
 TH E KING AND TPI E CR AND M AST E Ri 
 
 at first, indeed, of some little nuptial bliss ; but very 
 sliortl}^ proved a little more miserable, if possible, than 
 eitlier of its predecessors^. . Tliis_ „w_as the marriage of 
 tbe Princess Isabella with Edward of England, the second 
 sovereign of that name, in that realm. 
 
 In the year 1299, eight years before, when Edward 
 was but thirteen and Isabella but six years of age, the 
 future union of these children was made an item in a. 
 treaty between their royal sires. Four years afterwards, 
 an act of solemn betrothment, by proxy, ensued ; and,^ 
 four years after this, when the bride was but thirteen,; 
 and tlie bridegroom but twenty, the young victims were 
 led to the altar, and there yoked for life ! 
 
 The djdng injunction of Edward the First to his son 
 was to marry the daughter of Philip. Froissart tells us 
 of another injunction of the old monarchy Avhich was this 
 — that, so soon as the breatli had left his body, the said 
 body should be boiled in a cauldron, until the bones were 
 denuded of flesh, and then, ever after, when the hated 
 Scots rebelled, and as army was led against them, his 
 skeleton should be borne in the van of the fight i^: 
 This vow seems not to have been so agreeable to the 
 taste of the young King as the former, though attested 
 by all the Saints and by all the Barons, for it was never 
 fulfilled; but, no sooner had his father's corpse, bones^ 
 flesh, and all, been safely deposited in its crypt in West- 
 minster Abbey, than the young monarch crossed the 
 channel to meet his promised bride, although his eager 
 
 *The celebrated Bruce, of Scottish renown, is recorded to liave said, that 
 he drer.ded more even the bones of Edward tlie First, than Edward the 
 Second with all his hosts! 
 
THE KIXG AND THE GRAXD MASTER. 
 
 185 
 
 i]]fatuation is said by clironiclers to have cost liim no 
 less a price tlian the kingdom of Scotland. 
 
 Never had the vast hall of the Louvre witnessed a 
 fete more imposing than that on the occasion of this 
 a]')])arently auspicious union. Edward Avas, certainly, 
 a very handsome man, unless his protraits greatly 
 belie him; and Isabella, (whose precocious charms had 
 already gained her the name of la helle^ so common 
 in her faniily, so remarkable for personal beauty,) 
 is distinguished by Froissart as one of the most beautiful 
 women in the world."^ 
 
 " Who," says a chronicler of that splendid bridal fete, 
 "avIio of all theroj^al and gallant companj^, witnesses of 
 these espousals, could have believed their fatal termina- 
 tion, or deemed that the epithet, ' She-Wolf of France,' 
 could ever have been deserved 'by such a bride ? " 
 
 Yet, so it was; and that A^ery husband was eventually 
 the victim of that very bride and Eoger Mortimer, her 
 desperate paramour! 
 
 History states that four sovereigns, and as many 
 Queens, graced that bridal Avith their presence, and the 
 largest array of Princes and nobility ever assembled on 
 such an occasion was there. 
 
 Of this brilliant and higli-born throng, nenrlv all the 
 personages of our storj^ Avere members; and, althougli a 
 full tAvelvemontli had passed aAvaj^ since that hall of 
 St. Louis Avas the scene of a similar fete, and it had, in 
 the meantime, Avitnessed nox a few festal events of sur- 
 passing splendoi*, none had surpassed this. 
 
 * "L'ne des x^liis belles dames du motide.'^ 
 
186 THE KING AND THE GKAXD MASTEU. 
 
 Philip de Lauiiai was still the devoted worshipper of 
 the Quee'2 of Navarre; and nightly still the solitary 
 lamp in the tall Tower of Nesle guided the solitary 
 boatman across the Seine. Her husband, Louis, was 
 still in the little kingdom, which had been his, since his 
 mother's death and his coronation at Pampeluna. 
 
 And Jaae, of Burgundy, that fair young being, who, 
 two years before, in that very hall, had been a most 
 tmhappy bride, was now the gayest of the gay — for 
 Walter de Launai was ever at her side ! 
 
 As for Philip of Poitiers and Charles le Bel, it is true 
 they were no longer devoted to the Countess of Soissons, 
 or to Madame d'Aumale; but they were each quite as 
 devoted to some other lady of the Court, equally lovely 
 and equall}^ kind. 
 
 It is not a very easy thing, perhaps, especially in the 
 history of France, to decidedly stigmatize any one era, 
 or any one reign, as more dissolute than any other, how - 
 ever often we may be tempted to make that decision. 
 But, surely, a mere chronicle of the events of the Court 
 of France, in the reign of Philip the Fourth, demon- 
 strates an extent of corruption that is appalling. Friar 
 Maillard, the Eector of St. Germain I'Auxerrois, the chnpel 
 of the Louvre, rebukes the dissoluteness of the Court 
 in a sermon which has reached even the present day, 
 in terms of severity and coarseness, which one would 
 hardly suppose any degree of corruption could warrant. 
 The indignant friar winds up his discourse with the 
 vociferation — Allez d tous les diahles I ''^ Another 
 
 * Go to the Devil I 
 
THE K]NG AND THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 187 
 
 worthy man urges upon the ladies of the Court the 
 manifest impropriety of running when they go to mass, 
 and of exposing tlieir bosoms or arms so freely as they 
 did; and exhorts tliem neither to swear, nor to drink too 
 much, and to give up the habit of lying altogether; 
 likeAvise, to partake of the holy sacrament without 
 laughing, and not to soil their fingers too much by greedy 
 eating, — the last injunction being somewhat to the 
 purpose, inasmuch as forks were the invention of a 
 subsequent era ! 
 
 But, to return: — The star of that brilliant assemblage, 
 not even excepting the young and lovely bride, was the 
 beautiful Countess of Marche. Eadiant with health 
 and ha})piness — fresh as a soft May morning in her mofet 
 volu])taous charms — animated with joy — sparkling with 
 wnt — beaming wdth smiles — her transparent ej^es suffused 
 with the light of love— her glossy hair descending in 
 ni'ight masses to a bosom white as alabaster, a'nd fluttei-- 
 ing with the beatings of its own happy heart — her 
 rounded and perfect shape, attired with that elegant sim- 
 ]}r!city which ever best sets forth tliose charms whlck 
 are the gift of nature — Blanclie of Artois was the idol of 
 ev^ery beholder — the adored of all adorers— the beautiful 
 star in that bright galaxy, which every eye singled out 
 and worshipped, even as the old Chaldeans worshipped 
 the oi-bs of heaven. And who, to have gazed upon her 
 then — that .bi'ight young being — Avould, for an instaiil, 
 have recognized in her the sad, and despairing, and 
 deserted wnfe she first a]~)peared ? 
 
 And Adrian de Marigni, who w^ould have recalled in 
 12 
 
188 
 
 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 his illuminated features tlie ceaseless melancliolj tliey 
 had once exhibited. Adrian was still a dweller of the 
 Louvre, Immediately npon his retuini from the Abbey 
 of Maubuisson, and his union with the Order of the 
 Temple, he had received an intimation that he would 
 not rejoin' the army until further orders; an intimation 
 with which lie not unwillingly complied. Ambition, it 
 was true, was strong within him; but there was a pas- 
 sion now burning at his heart to which all others must 
 succumb. 
 
 The fair Countess and the young soldier had a casual 
 word or a significant smile for each other as they chanced 
 to meet in those lighted halls; but they courted not each 
 other's notice by act. or phrase, or glance; and little 
 could any one have dreamed, in all that splendid throng, 
 til at she was now all the world to him and he was now 
 all the world to her ! 
 
 Yet, alasl alas! it was even so! 
 
 And Marie — the sweet heiress of Morfontaine — shG^. 
 too, Avas the centre of a gay circle of admirers, conspicu- 
 ous among Avhom Avas her most faitliful and loving ser- 
 vitor, Edmond de Goth. She Avas still, as ever, surpass- 
 ingly lovely; but there Avas a feA^erish lustre in lier ej'e, 
 and a changeless pallor on Ler cheek, and each betrayed 
 a heart ill at ease. Wlien Adrian appronched her, as he 
 often did, she turned upon him her large blue eyes with 
 a mournful, almost reproachful gaze, and replied to his 
 salutation, or compliment, with tones ot* sadness, Avliich 
 her merry voice had never known before. 
 
 At a late hour in the festival, the King entered the 
 
THE KING AND THE GEAND MASTER. 
 
 189 
 
 liall, accompanied by Jacques de Molai, tlie Grand Master 
 of the Temple, in earnest converse. Behind tliem, and 
 in attendance, walked Hugh de Peralde, the Grand Prior 
 of France, and Pierre de Laigneville, with several other 
 noted Templars, accompanied bj the Grand Constable, 
 the Chancellor, and the Minister of the Realm. 
 
 Tire Templars had exchanged their chain-mail for 
 tunics of crimson satin, which, closely girded around 
 the Avaist by a belt of steel, fell in fall folds to the 
 knees ; and, over these, in snowy whiteness, descended 
 the flowino' mantle of the order,' bearins; the broad 
 red cross on the shoulder. Ilcre and there among tlie 
 throng, in the saloons or the gardens, could be caught, 
 likewise, the passing glimpse of some Templar's mantle, 
 who, mindless or thoughtless of the capital of good St. 
 Bernard of Clairvaux — " Ut f retires non conversantur cum 
 miilierihusj^ was whispering words of burning significance 
 into some not unwilling ear. And surely, it is not very 
 wonderful that young and ardent men, Avho, for years 
 had dwelt on the tented fiold of Palestine, or within the 
 solitar}^ walls of Liinisso, sliould have dreamed them- 
 selves in heaven itself, when, breathing the seductivo 
 atmosphere of the Louvre, they moved among its lovely 
 shapes. ISTor is it very wonderful that they should 
 have forgotten for a season, as many, doubtless, did, all 
 their vows of earth, or hopes of heaven; nor that their 
 blushing companions should have listened with delight, 
 scarce less than their own, to words of worship from 
 the lips of those dark-browed and dark-bearded men, 
 with whose wondrous deeds all Christendom had rung. 
 
190 
 
 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 Immediately upon entering tlie liall, tlie King advanced 
 with his train to the canopied clais^ where the bride and 
 bridegroom held their Court and received their guests, 
 and presented to the royal pair the herioc Grand Master 
 of the Temple. His reception by the King of England 
 was flatter aig in the extreme. lie even left his seat 
 beside the bride, and, descending the steps of the clais^ 
 stood upon the same floor with the warrior-monk while 
 they conversed.* To the Grand Master's inquiries 
 respecting his old fellow-soldier, William de la Moore, 
 now Grand Prior of England, Edward replied with 
 enthusiasm; and, at length, when the Templar was about 
 retiring from the royal presence, the King grasped him 
 warmly by the hand, and said : 
 
 "By the rule of your noble order, Grand Master, 
 Kings cannot be Templars; yet, could the King of Eng- 
 land refdgn his crown and his robe, he would crave the 
 Templar's cloak and cap in preference to all other 
 earthly dignity. Grand Master, Edward of England is 
 the friend of the Templar!" 
 
 To these emphatic and significant words, De Molai 
 bowed very low, and then, with brief rejoinder and 
 radiant brow, passed on. The King of France bowed 
 also, and passed on with his companion, but his brow 
 was black and his lips compressed. 
 
 " It hath pleased you, sire," said De Molai, after a 
 pause of some continuance, in which both proceeded in 
 silence — "it hath pleased you to transmit to me two 
 
 * All monarchs conceded ])rincely rank and place to the Master of the Tem- 
 ple; and, ill councils, he tools precedence of ambassadors and sat beside the 
 prelates. 
 
THE KIXG AXD THE GRAXD MASTER. 
 
 191 
 
 documents, desiring counsel as to the propriety of iini= 
 tmg the Order of the Temple with tliat of the nospital, 
 and, also, as touching tlie feasibility of again attempting 
 the conquest of the Hoi}' Land/' 
 
 " And that counsel, Grand Master? " 
 
 "Will to-morro\Y, sire^ be placed in your ha^ids," was 
 the replj". 
 
 "As chief of the Templar Knights, j^our feelings con- 
 cur with your judgment, I suppose, in counselling a 
 tenth crusade?" said the King. 
 
 De Molai shook his head. 
 
 "Sire, s:re!" he exclaimed with some emphasis, "the 
 combined armies of the Cross in all Christendom can 
 alone tear the crescent from the minarets of Jeru- 
 salem 1 
 
 "You feel assured of this?" asked Philip. 
 
 "Sire, I am certain of this! The hol}^ city might be 
 taken, but it could not be retained." 
 
 "And do you think the opinion of Pope Nicholas 
 Fourth at all correct in ascribing the recapture of Pal- 
 estine to the incessant feuds of the rival orders?" 
 
 "Ah, sire, how often hath our glorious Beauseant 
 w^aved fraternally with the standard of the White Cross, 
 on the self-same blood_y field ! " exclaimed the old Tem- 
 plar, with mournful vehemence. "On the barren sea 
 coast of Gaza, upon the fatal eve of St. Luke, a Grand 
 Master of the Temple and a Grand Master of the Hos- 
 pital lay side by side in death, wdiile but thirty-three 
 Templars and but sixteen White Cross Knights survived 
 to tell the tale. Beneath the walls of Massoura, a Grand 
 
192 
 
 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 Master of St. John was made captive, and a Grand Mas- 
 ter of the Temple was slain by a thousand wounds after 
 the loss of both eyes, while bat fo-ur Knights of the II cs- 
 pital and four of the Red Cross survived. At the siege 
 of Acre each order lost a Master; and while four hun- 
 dred Knights of St. John lay dead on the field, but ten 
 Templars escaped with life. At the capture of Saphoury 
 not a Templar survived; and the castle of Assur* was 
 defended by ninety Knights of St. John, and the Mame- 
 lukes of Bendocar entered the citadel over the corpses 
 of everj^ one ! " 
 
 "And when, beneath the walls of that same fortress 
 of Azotus, the rival orders themselves met in deadly 
 feud, how many knights then survived? " 
 
 The old soldier was silent. The blood mounted redly 
 in his swarthy cheek, and contrasted strongly with his 
 snowy beard. Philip referred to one of the niost terri- 
 fic and bloody conflicts that the annals of warfare have 
 recorded. Long, and doubtful, and deadly was the fight. 
 At last victory declared for the White Cross Knights; 
 but they gave no quarter, as their rivals asked none, and 
 not a Templar survived the combat ! 
 
 "Sire," said the old knight meekly, "the knights are 
 but men. Rivalry of rank hath often aiTayed in bloody 
 feud a brother's hand against a brother's life. But when, 
 amid their deadliest conflicts, hath there appeared a 
 Paynim foe, though exceeding thrice their number, 
 when their lances have not been harmoniously united for 
 his destruction? " 
 
 * AzutiJS. 
 
THE KING AXD THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 193 
 
 "Of the valor of the knights of both orders there can 
 exist no doubt,'' remai'ked PhiMp. " Would that they 
 were as scrupulous in the observance of their other 
 vows!" 
 
 ''Sire, I am well aware," returned De Molai quickly, 
 " that an evil report hath gone abroad of the soldiers of 
 the Temple. I know it hath been asserted, and it hath 
 even reached mine own ears, that since thejr have been 
 relieved from the toils and perils of the field, they have 
 but too freely indulged themselves in the pleasures 
 afforded by comfortable Priories, to wliich they have so 
 long: been unused." 
 
 o 
 
 "Would that were all, Grand Master— would that 
 were all! " said Philip, sternlj^ 
 
 "I know well, sire, that it hath been asserted tlmt the 
 Templar interprets his first vow to mean a blind ohe- 
 dience only to his chief, his second ovAy pcveriy of living 
 while in camp, and his third to mean only chastity of 
 body asset forth in the capital, " Ut fratres non conversan- 
 tiir EXTRANEis mulierihiLs^^^ — thereby excusing them- 
 selves and each other for intrigues and amours with the 
 noblest dames and damsels in the land. Of all of this, 
 sire, 1 say, the uncertain bruit hath reached mine ear; 
 but I hioio it not — I believe it not— It can not be!" 
 
 " Grand Master, it is ! " exclaimed the King with fierce, 
 yet with apparentlj^ suppressed, vehemence. 
 
 TIjc effect of this was terrible. That old soldier-monk, 
 who a thousand times had braved the blood-billows of 
 battle, even as the cliff* braves the waves of the ocean, 
 
 * Coiu let^uu. 
 
194 
 
 THE KING AXD THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 was terrified at a cliarge like tins against his beloved 
 order, especially when emanating from such a source. 
 
 "Holy St. Bernard!" he murmured, raising liis eyes 
 to heaven. " Can such things be ! " 
 
 " Suoli things unquestionably are," coldly rejoined 
 Philip. " The name of Templar in France, if not 
 throughout all Europe, liath become identical with, 
 debauchery, rapine, lust, luxury and every form of crima 
 Boire comme im l^empUer"^ is a proverb. I^or is this 
 all. Of late there hath come to us knowledge of giult, so 
 dark and desperate, within the Houses of thy commu- 
 nity, that we must perforce crave of you early interview 
 at a place more fitting than this, when all may be laid 
 bare." 
 
 " Be it so, be it so I " said De Molai, grasping the cold 
 hand of the King. " Let me know all — -all — all ! And 
 if, — oil— if," he added, after a pause, clasping his thin, 
 and sinewy hands, whicli seemed com[)o.sed only of whip- 
 cord and bone, and raising liis flashing eyes to heaven — 
 "if what tliou saj^est, oh, King, prove sootli ; if the 
 crimes thou layest at the door of our order have been 
 committed— if the foul stain of which thou speakest bfc 
 indeed eating like anidcer into our heart — be sure, oh, be 
 thou sure, that the guilty shall not escape! Holy St. 
 Bernard, the lion shall be cruslied ! Though he were a 
 right hand or a right eye — though he were the brother of 
 the same womb, — -though he were the noblest of our 
 nobles — the Avisest of our counsellors — the bravest of our 
 Paladins — the most beloved of our friends — tlie most 
 
 * To drink like a Tejnphir. 
 
thp: kixg axd the guaxd ^iastee. 
 
 195 
 
 powerful of our magnates, he slia^l feel, Le sball ('eel the 
 weight of our righieous wrath I We are do powerleas 
 ruler, oh, King of France! We, too. Grand blaster of 
 ti^e Teuiple, have the power of li'e and death I AVe, 
 too, liave a jiii^sdiction, within \\ho e bourne but one 
 power^ can seize from us our victim I We, too, have 
 our laws, and our penalties, and our dungeons, and 
 c.'/^//e//f.5, and racks and tortures! But no — no — no — " 
 continued the really kinddiearted old man — -" this can 
 not be! Our children ?/-(7///c/ not thus forget their tows. 
 and abuse our goodness ! If they do not love their God 
 — as, alas! may indeed be! — they love their noble order 
 too dearly thus to disgrace her — they love their Master, 
 who so loves them, too devotedly to rend his lieart by 
 sr.cli misbehavior! Good King, let me go, let me go ! 
 To the altar! to the altar!"' he exclaimed, extending 
 for a single instant both of his arms, ci'ossing his right 
 foot over his lelt, aud inclining his venerable head to the 
 rig lit. 
 
 Instantly every Tem]dar in that hall ^vas around him, 
 with evident marks of alarm, and followed him from the 
 a])artment as he rapidly retreated, 
 
 ^The King gazed on in mute astonishment. At length, 
 he exclaimed : 
 
 " AVhat is my power to his?" And slowly, and 
 Silently, and sadly he left the hall. 
 
 * * 4t 
 
 Tlie last guest had departed. The music had ceased. 
 
 *T]ie Tope. Within the limits of his domain tne Grand ^Ir.ster w:.s 
 sui)i-eme. 
 
196 
 
 THE KING AND THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 The last liglit bad been extiDgiiished. The great clock 
 of Notre Dame had long since tolled the hour after mid- 
 night, and had received as tribute the sullen echoes of 
 all the lesser clocks of the capital. The last lone lamp 
 had gone out in the Tower of Nesle. The last solitary 
 boatman had crossed the Seine. All Paris was asleep 
 save her guardians of the night. The Louvre was still. 
 Its inmates had retired. Perchance all slept. 
 
 Not all! The poor orplian, Marie Morfontaine. silent, 
 sad, wretched, had retreated to her lonely pillow, but 
 not to sleep. Alas ! she was too — too miserable. She 
 thought of Adrian — she tlionght of the past, and of the 
 present ; and slie thonglit that his hate, liis anger, his 
 scorn — anything Avould be preferred by her to his indif- 
 ference. Yet that — that, alas! alone seemed hers! 
 
 The white lisht of dawn was breakino- over the towers 
 and forests of Yincemies. The chamber of the poor 
 heiress of Morfontaine adjoined that of the lovely Coun- 
 tess of Marche. Often at night, when ill or sad, she 
 had repaired to the chamber of her best friend, the 
 Countess ; and the Countess had often repaired to hers. 
 One seemed always as mucli alone as the other, though 
 one was a wife and the other a maiden. 
 
 Kestless, wretched, Marie Morfontaine rose from her 
 sleepless couch, and with noiseless steps she repaired 
 to the chamber of her friend for consolation. As she 
 crossed the gallery the pale, silvery moonbeams lighted 
 her way. 
 
 Raising the curtain which hung before the entrance, 
 she crossed the threshold. All was silent. Not a sound 
 
THE KJXG AST) THE GRAND MASTER. 
 
 197 
 
 — not even a breatliiug coukl be heard. Suddenly a low 
 rustling rose near the coucii of thb Countess. She stop- 
 ped, she hstened, she hid herself behind the tapestr}^ 
 It was repeated, and the next moment a figure glided 
 past her. For an instant the moon poured fortli her 
 pure rays in -floods tlirough the grated casement. She 
 saw a form ! — she saw a face 1 Oh, God ! it was Adrian 
 de iMarioiii f 
 
198 
 
 THE REFORM. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE REFORM. 
 
 THE ]3eople of Europe, five Lundrecl years ago, 
 seemed fonder of amusements, and had many 
 more of tbem, than bow, many tliougli they now may 
 have. There was a feast of the Church ahiiost every 
 day of the year; and every coronation, and every royal 
 marr'age, and every national victory, was succeeded hy 
 days, and sometimes by weeks of general banqueting 
 and jubilee. Hunting parties and hawking pai'ties 
 were, also, of common occurrence, as were, also, jousts 
 and tournaments ; though thcso last-named amusements 
 seemed the peculiar prerogative of the nobility. 
 
 For nearly a fortnight after the brilliant espousals of 
 Edward and Isabella, the halls of the Louvre resounded 
 with uninterrupted rout and rovel ; and the royal Tilt 
 yard, in St. Catharine's Srjuare, was in almost daily 
 requisition. 
 
 The white mantle of the Templar was repeatedly 
 ^cen in the lists, and the honor of the Red Cross was 
 nobly sustained. But there Avas one of the combatants 
 who seemed victorious over all comers whomsoever, — ■ 
 whether Templar, Hospitaler, or simple knight. His 
 plate armor was azure in hue ; his shield bore no device, 
 {ind his helm no badge, save a scarf of pink and blue — 
 the colors of the Coimtcss of Marche. 
 
THE REFORM. 
 
 199 
 
 This kniglit proved to be none other than Adrian 
 de Marigni, when, upon the last day of the jousts, ho 
 was compelled to remove his helmet; and, with 
 bended knee, received upon his brow the laurel garland 
 of glory fi'om the white hands of the fair Queen of 
 -Beauty and Love, — Blanche of Artois, the Countess 
 of Marche. 
 
 At length, the royal party took leave for their own 
 realm, attended by two of the bride's uncles, Charles of 
 Valois and Louis of Clermont, brothers of Philip le Bel^ 
 and a large array of nobles, as guests at the coronation, 
 which shortly after was celebrated with extraordinary 
 pomp in Westminster Hall. 
 
 Some days elapsed after the departure of the roj^al 
 cortege, and the Louvre had begun to assume its usual 
 aspect, when the Grand Master of the Templars craved 
 and obtained an interview with the King. At this 
 interview, all the horrible charges against the order 
 were fully and formally revealed, — the name of the 
 apostate Templar alone being suppressed. 
 
 Shocked, — terrified, — overwhelmed, the heroic old man 
 instantly wrote to the Sovereign Pontiff at Avignon, as 
 the spiritual head of the order, praying the earliest and 
 most searching investigation of the specified charges.* 
 The King, also, wrote to Clement, and despatched as 
 the courier of his missive Ilexian de Beziers, the Prior 
 of Montfaucon, who, as a Templar, had once been sen- 
 
 * Cardinal Cantilupo, tlie Pope's Chamberlain, who liarl Ion }r been a Chap- 
 lain of the Temple, Is said to have made some disclosures prejudicial to the 
 order, to his master, about the same time. 
 
200 
 
 THE REFORM. 
 
 tenced bj the Grand Master to perpetual imprisonment 
 for heresy and for leading a life scandalous to the order. 
 
 As for Jacques de Molai, he commenced, at once, most 
 vigorous investigation of all charges against Templars 
 which reached him; and enjoined a most severe refor- 
 mation of all irregularities which had insinuated them- 
 selves into the order. The Eule of St. Bernard was 
 most rigidly enforced. Establishments were reduced, — 
 indulgences curtailed, — equipage and costume shorn of 
 their ornaments, — penance inflicted on the refractory, — 
 the discipline of the Iloly Office administered, — the 
 mode of life, diet, habit, and requisitions of the Capitals 
 strictly enjoined, and the whole order, under pain of the 
 severest penalties for disobedience, brought back to its 
 primitive state of ascetic monasticism ; while several of 
 the members, against whom charges of irregularity had 
 been preferred and sustained, were, by the arbitrary will 
 of the Grand Master, who was sole lord of life and limb 
 within the bourne of his own domain, with the assent 
 of the chapter, immured in the "penitential cell" of the 
 Temple. 
 
 It was in vain that remonstrances to the severity of 
 this reform and warm protests arose from some of the 
 elder companions of the order, who themselves were, 
 and ever had been, unexceptionable patterns of Templar 
 virtue and Templar valor. In vain was it urged that 
 the Kule of St. Bernard applied rather to the discipline 
 of the order in the Camp tlian in the Priory, and that 
 the battle-scarred soldier merited some little relaxation 
 and indulgence, when no longer in the field against a 
 
THE eefce:\i. 
 
 201 
 
 Pavnim fOe. De Molai's sole reply to eacli and all these 
 re]:re5entations Avas the single phrase: 
 It shall be so \—J^1j,o F Obey \ 
 
 There Avas, also, instituted another reform in the 
 order, ^-hich armed against it foes whose vengeance ^'as 
 long felt. This was enforced by a statute providing that 
 none but actual knights of the order, who had served 
 in its ranks, should be entitled to its franchises, dis- 
 tinctions, and immunities : or to wear the costume or 
 insignia of the Temple. Even those who had really 
 done battle against the Moslem under the glorious 
 Beauseant. but Avere not knights, yet, since tlieir return 
 to Europe, had continued to wear the mantle and the 
 cross of the order. Avere enjoined never again to assume 
 that sacred badge, save only when in actual serA'ice 
 in the field. To these inferior brethren Avas assigned 
 a garb and cloak of black, and they were desigTiatecl 
 AuxilUaries, or " SerAung Brothers of the Temple." 
 
 The effect of an ordinance like this on that fierce and 
 haughty militia, who, ha\ung fought an hundred battles 
 on tiie sands of Palestine, and, all coA'ered vrith scars, 
 and blackened by a foreign sun, and, emaciated almost to 
 skeletons by incredible toils, had, at last, few in number, 
 and AYorn AAuth fatigue, come home to enjoy their hard- 
 AYon glory, and pass the remnant of their lives in peace, — ■ 
 may perhaps be conceived, but cannot be described. 
 Aloud, on their lives, thev dare'l not murmur I But 
 their citrses Avere deep — deep : and the day Avas unhap- 
 pily drawing nearer than eA^er they could have dreamed, 
 when those curses Avere to meet a dreadful fulfillment j 
 
202 
 
 THE REFORM. 
 
 and a cup of vengeance, fuller than even tlieir fevered 
 
 and burning hearts could have craved, M^astobe proffered 
 
 in mantling fullness of their lips! 
 
 4f * * * * * 
 
 The dread discovery of Marie MorfoDtaine, on the 
 night of the bridal fete at the Louvi'e, was, as yet, a secret 
 within her agonized bosom; and of that discovery, the 
 guilty parties themselves knew no more than all others. 
 
 Horror-struck, terrified, — almost petrified at the scene 
 she beheld, she had leaned against the cold wall of stone 
 beneath the tapestry for support, and had pressed her 
 Land upon her heart to still its throbbings. At length, 
 she recovered strength to reticent, — to retreat, more 
 stealthily even than she had come, back to her own 
 apartment; bat not, alas! until her terrible apprehen- 
 sions had been confirmed beyond the possibility — beyond 
 the hope of a doubt! 
 
 The first emotions of Marie Morfontaine, when she 
 again found herself upon her lonely couch, were those 
 of grief — grief irrepressible, — unspeakable, — overwhelm- 
 ing. The terror inspired by the scene she had witnessed 
 was gone; but, oh, the agony of teai's that succeeded! 
 That he — he, her first, her last, her only love, — he, 
 whom more than even her Maker she had worshipped, — 
 he, who, for long years, from her earliest girlhood, had 
 been the idol of her imagination, — the object of her 
 thoughts by day, and of her dreams by night, — whose 
 dear image she so often conjured up in lier fancy, when 
 he was far away amid peril and blood, when bowing at 
 the altar of her faith ; and for whom she had so often — 
 
THE REFCRM. 
 
 203 
 
 so fervently prayed :— that lie, for wlioin alone, of all 
 living men, lier pure bosom had ever indulged one 
 throb of pass'on, and on Avhom, as tlie husband of that 
 bosom, slie bad so fondly dreamed, — that be 
 
 And then ker thoughts revertel to that lovely, guilty 
 being who had seemed her friend ; and her heart grew as 
 iiard as steel, and as cold as ice. Gradually, involun- 
 tarilv, almost unconsciously, a. dreadful purpose sprang 
 up in her frenzied heart, and began to assume shape and 
 proportion. She was no longer a simple, timid, feeble 
 girl. She wa^ a woman, — a matured woman, with all 
 a woman's passions and all a woman's powers. A single 
 hour, a single event, a single thonglit, had wrought the 
 vast change. Sooner — sooner than he should be clasped 
 in love in the amis of another, she w^ould see that once- 
 idolized form dead — dead at her feet ! 
 
 The events, which have been detail-etl, as succeedins^ 
 the departure of Edward and his bride from Paris, served 
 to develop and mature the secret purpose of Marie Mor- 
 fontaine, originally vague and undefined, and to give it 
 force and aim. She had discovered that Adrian de 
 Marigni was a fellow companion of the Oi'der of the 
 Temple, and she had learned that, by her terrible secret, 
 his libert}', if not his life, was forfeit. This Avas enough, 
 and, as one no longer a girl, — as a matured and injured 
 Avoman, — the power to conceal, and to dissemble, and to 
 revenge, had sud^lenlv, even to her own amazement and 
 dismav, become hers ! 
 ^13 
 
204 
 
 THE FAKEWELL. 
 
 CHAPTEE XYIII. 
 
 THE FAEEWELL. 
 
 IT was a soft niglit in Jane. The full moon was 
 beaming high in Heaven, and pouring her mellow 
 radiance through the grated casements of the Louvre. 
 The warm and perfumed breath of summer stole up 
 from the royal gardens of the Seine, and danced along 
 the gilded rippliugs of its waters. 
 
 Alone, in her chamber, sat Blanche of Artois. She 
 was pale — very pale ; but in her large eye burned a 
 gloomy, yet feverish fire, and her lips were compressed 
 as if with pain. Her beautiful hair was strained back 
 from lier forehead, and lay in loose masses on her snowy 
 shoulders. Her dress was a robe of flowing white, con- 
 fined at the waist by sl crimson cor delih-e. The sleeves 
 were full and, falling away, disclosing an arm of ivory 
 whiteness and exquisite symmetry, surpassed only in 
 perfection by a full and voluptuous bosom. Her foot was 
 encased in a slipper of black velvet, and seemed in pro- 
 portion hardly that of a child. And yet the figure was 
 a woman's, with all the indescribable charms of matured 
 development. 
 
 " Why does he not come? " at length she murmured, 
 as the clock of St. Germain 1' Auxerrois tolled foiih the 
 hour of ten. " For one whole month we have not met! 
 It was not so once 1 How changed he is ! Of late he 
 
THE FAEETTELL. 
 
 205 
 
 has even seemed to avoid me. And. then, be looks so 
 pale, and so sad, and so Avretched. TThat — vliat can 
 have caused this cliange ? To-n:gat I vill know all. 
 But vdll Le come? He promised — but so sadly — so 
 reluctantly I "' 
 
 The unhappy voman fell back on the couch, and 
 clasping her hands across her forehead, and closing her 
 eyes, seemed, for some time, a prey to bitter thoughts. 
 Again and again the clock of the Louvre chimed the 
 quarters as they passed ; but she still remained motion- 
 less, extended like a lifeless thing upon the couch. 
 
 Suddenly, at length, she started from her recumbent 
 posture, and, sustaining herself with one hand, pressed 
 the other wildly to her temple, and strained back the 
 long hair. For an instant, she thus sat ; her head bent 
 forward in the attitude of listening — her lips' apart — - 
 her eyes intently fixed upon the door. The next, she 
 had sprung, with a low cry of joy, to her feet, and 
 tlirown herself into the arms of Adrian de IMarigni, who 
 softly entered. 
 
 ''Ah. Adrian. I knew, I knew it was you,"" she mur- 
 mured in tones of tenderest devotion ; and again and 
 again she clasped her lover passionately to her heart. 
 Fondly, 3-et sadly, the embrace was returned. 
 
 '* Come 1 — come I — come ! '" she at length added. And 
 grasping his hand, she drew him to the couch, on which, 
 in rich floods of effulgence, trie full moon was nov?" 
 streaming, while all other poitions of the apartment were 
 in deepest shade. 
 
 Seating him on the side of the low couch where the 
 
206 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 moonliglit was brightest, and its rajs poured full on his 
 form, she threw herself on her knees at his feet, and, 
 pressing back liis dark hair from his forehead, gazed 
 with intense solicitude into his face. 
 
 Instant!;/ , with dismay and terror, she started ! And 
 well might she be shocked — affrighted at the dreadful 
 change she there beheld ! For a month these unhappy 
 be'ngs had hardly met, and then but casually, for a 
 moment; and now, in tlie pale moonbeams, the ahera- 
 tion his aspect and features had, during that interval, 
 undergone, filled her with dismay. 
 
 "Adrian — Adrian!" she exclaimed in alarm, "why 
 do you gaze on me so strangelj^? Why do you not 
 speak to me ? Why are 3^ou so pale, and so thin, and 
 so haggard ? Oh, you are ill, you are ill, and I have 
 not known it ! " 
 
 And earnestly and anxiously she pressed her lips to 
 his forehead. 
 
 " Why do you not speak to me, Adrian? " she softly 
 added, again resuming her examination of his counte- 
 nance. There was something in its sad expression 
 which filled her with undefined terror and apprehension. 
 Silently — fondly — his dark eyes rested with mournful 
 significance on her pale and beautiful face, and on those 
 glorious orbs which, suffused with all a woman's ten- 
 derness, were now lighted up by the mild moon of a 
 summer's night. And the soft night-breeze, cooled by 
 careering over the Seine, stole gently in at the barred 
 casement, and fanned her fevered brow. 
 
 Adrian de Marigni answered not. He returned not 
 
THE FAREWELL. 
 
 207 
 
 tee warm caress — nor the ardent gaze — nor tlie soft 
 pressure of those burning hps. Like some marble image 
 of cathedi'al aisle — inanimate — motionless — almost ex- 
 pressionless, his eye retained the same fixed and change- 
 less gaze, and his face the same colorless hue. 
 
 " Adrian," said the Countess, sadlj, shaking her head, 
 " YOU do not love me as vou did ! 
 
 The young man raised his eyes to Heaven. " TTould 
 to God it were so I " he mournfully ejaculated. 
 
 " Are you ill, Adrian ? " asked the Countess, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 lie shook his head. 
 
 "Has anything occurred to trouble you?" she 
 coniinued. 
 
 De Marigni shuddered, but was silent. 
 
 "/ have not displeased you, Adrian?" she tenderly 
 asked, 
 
 " You ! " was the emphatic and quick response, as if 
 something were suggested, which, in its vejy iiature, 
 was impossible. 
 
 " Then Avhy — why do you look on me so strangely — = 
 so coldly? " she asked, throwing her white arms around 
 his neck, and pressing her soft cheek to his. 
 
 She started. That cheek — those lips were ice. The 
 lips — the cheek of a corpse could not have been more 
 impassive. 
 
 " Oh, Adrian — Adrian ! " she exclaimed in uncontrolla- 
 ble terror, starting to her feet, "why is this? AVhy is 
 it that, for the whole month pa.^t, you have not sought 
 this chamber, as you did before? Why is it that you 
 
208 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 Lbtve constantly striven to avoid nie, and so repeatedly 
 declined to meet me when I liave urged ? Why the 
 terrible cliange that has come over you, not more in 
 manner than in person? Why are you so sad, and so 
 silent, and so pale ? Why — oh, why do you look so 
 wretched ? You never seek me now as you once did. 
 Either you love me no more, or," — and, for an instant, 
 her dark eyes sparkled with fury, and her voice sank 
 almost to a whisper — " you love another ! " 
 
 A sad, almost reproachful, smile on the lips of her 
 companion was the only answer. 
 
 "Forgive — forgive me, Adrian," she quickly exclaimed, 
 again dropping at his feet. " Oh, how could I doubt 
 you ? But tell me — tell me, dearest," she continued in 
 fond and imploring accents; "tell me, why do you not 
 come to see me — your Blanche — ^your wife — as you did ? 
 Tell me why, so often, at night, you repair to the Palace 
 of the Temple alone? " 
 
 The young man gave a slight start. 
 
 " Ah, you see, I know all your movements," she added, 
 with a smile that died instantly on her lips. " Would 
 you believe it, Adrian — now you won't be offended with 
 me, will you? — would you believe that the proud Coun- 
 tess of Marche had nightly followed your steps for whole 
 weeks past, in the garb of a Templar? " 
 
 Do Marioni asrain started. And well mioht he. He 
 
 ,00 o 
 
 had, indeed, never dreamed of such devotedness. 
 Blanche of Artois continued: 
 
 "That she had traced you from street to street to the 
 gate of St. Denis, or of St. Martin, and thence to the 
 
THE FAEEAVELL. 
 
 209 
 
 ot'iIR T\'all3 of that liateJ Temple, into Avliicli. in company 
 with others, you mysteriously disap}-'eareil : and that 
 then, all night, even until the gray morning's dawn, she 
 had watched its gloomy towers, and the lights which 
 fi.tted past its casements, and listened to the strange 
 sounds that issued from its portals, when they chanced 
 to unfold. And then, at dawn, when you again appeared 
 from beneath those dark battlements, pale and haggard, 
 and exhausted, she had regained the Louvre before yon, 
 and seen you enter your appartinent-^only to issue again 
 at night, again to repeat your lonel\' visit ? 
 
 The young man still continued silent. 
 
 ''Adrian — Adrian de l\[arigni ! suddenly, Avith starts 
 ling earnestness, exclaimed the Countess, '"tell me — tell 
 me — for I will know what do you at night in that awful 
 pile I " 
 
 De Marig-ni was still unmoved. It seemed as though, 
 no earthly feeling could ever move him more. He was 
 stone — ice. 
 
 ''Aye. but I ivHl know!" vehemently repeated the 
 Countess, now tlioroughly roused. '' Dark tales are 
 abroad! — tales which never would have sought me, had 
 I not sought them, so terrible are -they 1 — dreadful tales 
 of more dreadful deeds, by that fearful order, in that 
 awful pile I — that order. — oh, fool I fool I— of which, at 
 my desire, and through my influence, you became a 
 companion ! 
 
 De IMarigni shuddered, but spoke not. 
 A^ou will 7iot tell me? " cried Blanche. "Be it so. 
 But be sure — be very sure — I will know all — all— though. 
 
210 
 
 THE FAKEWELL. 
 
 the rack slioiild tear the guilty secret from tlie bosoms 
 of these human fiends 1 Wbat! — wliat ! — do they think 
 they can wreck the earthly peace of BLanche of Artois 
 with impunity ? Do they thiiilv they can tear from her 
 heart the only being on earth she ever truly loved, and 
 the deed go unavenged ? Adiian de Marigni, you do 
 not know me I I sometimes think," she mournfully 
 added, pressing her white hand to her forehead, " that I 
 do not know mj^self. To you, Adrian — to you, I have 
 been a weak — a fond — perhaps a guilty woman; jet, am 
 I — and to you, now, for the first time, do I avow it — the 
 ]eal Queen of this realm I Not one act does Philip of 
 France on which the will and the judgment of Blanche 
 of Artois are not first disked. This is no vain boasting, 
 Adrian ; you do not think it so; you know it is not so. 
 And now, by this power, do I here swear the destruc- 
 tion of that hated " 
 
 "Blanche!" exclaimed De Marigni, with mournful 
 earnestness. 
 
 "And why not? — why not ?" she rejoined in tones 
 of wildest excitement. "Oh, God! has not that hated 
 order destroyed me ? — peace — love — happiness — for- 
 ever ! Everything — everything seems plain to me now. 
 How strange I saw it not before I Whither go you, 
 Adrian de ^Tarlgni, at the hour you once sought my 
 bosom ? Why, now, to me is your heart stone and your 
 lip ice? AYhy is that eye, which once returned the 
 glance of mine with kindred and sympathizing flame, .now 
 cold and meaningless in its gaze as the eye of the dead? 
 Why are those arms, which once clasped me in rapture 
 
THE FAEEAVELL. 
 
 211 
 
 to your breast, now lifeless and leaden, and tliat breast 
 itself as hard and as cliill as the bronze of a monument ? 
 And more — infinitely more than all else beside — why, 
 oil. wliy, are yon, ni}^ own beloved Adrian, the hag- 
 gard and wretched be ng joii are? Why is this? " 
 Alas! til ere was no answer. 
 
 "I will tell you Avhy it is/' continued Blanche of 
 Artois. My dreadful suspicions have this night be- 
 come certainties! — my honible imaginings more horrible 
 realities ! There are scenes that transpire within yonder 
 gloomy walls of the Templar Knights — ^scenes too fear- 
 ful even for tlie fancy to depict — scenes of terrible, 
 abominable, unnatural crime — orgies of fiends 1 orisons 
 of the damned! revellings of tlie lost! And yon — vou, 
 Adrian de Marigni, alas! alas! — ^through my own most 
 fatal agency — through the agency of one, who — oh, God 
 knoAVs! — would gladly yield the last drop of her blood 
 for you [ — you have become the victim of that fraternity 
 of fiends [ And shall I not dash asunder those manacles 
 that bind ? Shall I not break into atonjs those fetters — - 
 dissolve that dreadful charm — send back those demons 
 to the Hell whence they were evoked, and level with 
 the dust those black chambers which have witnessed 
 their cruelties and their crimes ? Shall I not be avenged ? 
 Shall I not? Why shall I not? Why shall I not,since 
 .mine is the power, sweep that detested order from this 
 realm — from the earth itself? Why shall I not swear to 
 destroy 
 
 - "Blanche," murmured De Marigni, in tones of melan- 
 choly sweetness, " would you destroy me F " 
 
212 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 ^'Thee!" 
 
 Am not I a Templar, also ? " 
 " And are you not a victim, Adrian ? " asked the 
 Countess, mournfully. 
 
 De Marigni answered not. 
 
 " Are you not^ Adrian ? " slie solemnly repeated. 
 "And am not I? " 
 
 " Yet, for my sake, Blanclie," said tlie young man, " for 
 the sake of one who, for his wild love of you, has resigned 
 everytliing else in the world, and who now, for the last 
 time " , 
 
 " What ! what say you? " cried Blanche, in terror. 
 
 "Ah, is it not the last time?" he sadly continued. 
 "Blanche — Blanche — my love — my wife — my own be- 
 loved Blanche — I have to say to thee farewell — farewell 
 forever ! " 
 
 The Countess gazed a moment into the pale face of 
 her companion, as if stupefied. Then, bursting into a 
 wild incredulous laugh, she exclaimed: 
 
 " Oh, no \ — no ! — no ! — not quite so bad as that^ Adrian. 
 That — why, thafs impossible ! God permits his creatm^es, 
 sometimes, to become very wretched, because, doubtless, 
 of their sins; but he never would permit such misery on 
 the earth as thatP 
 
 "And, yet — and yet, my own Blanche," returned 
 Adrian, in tones of heart-rending sorrow, clasping her 
 exquisite form to his bosom, as a parent might clasp a 
 child — " and yet it must be even so ! A power mightier 
 than my own tears me from you ! Blanche — Blanche — 
 could all your menaces have full accomplishment on the 
 
THE FAREWELL. 
 
 213 
 
 order you so liate, I should not be free. No earthly 
 power can dissolve the unseen bonds that bind me. Alas 1 
 not God himself can free the Templar from his fetters! 
 
 But Blanche answered not. Like an infant hushed to 
 its slumber, w4iile the big tear yet stands undimmed 
 upon its cheek, and sobs yet shake its innocent bosom, 
 the beautiful victim clung to tbe form of him whom 
 more than all the world she loved. AYhatever the past 
 had been— whatever the future might be — she was now 
 with him, she was in his arms ; and the poor wretch 
 was, for a moment, happy. 
 
 Again the young Templar spoke. 
 
 "I had hoped — oh, I had believed, that never again 
 could I be moved by human joy, or human grief; by 
 passion, or by hope ; by love, or by hate. I had hoped 
 that my heart had, indeed, become stone, as you have 
 said, and my lips had become ice. But, alas! it ^5 not 
 so. We part, Blanche, we part. I came only to say 
 farewell. For that only could I have come at all; and 
 for your sake I trusted in that calmness, that calmness 
 of despair into which I believed my own heail was 
 petrified. Alas, I knew not my weakness ! But do not 
 let us grieve — do not let us grieve ! Our parting, Blanche, 
 will, at the longest, be but brief. There is another and 
 better world that this," continued the u.nhappy man, 
 raising, resignedlj^, his dark eyes to the bright heavens; 
 " and to this world we are surely neither of us so wedded, 
 my Blanche, as to lament that we leave it. In this 
 world, the love we have felt and shared, however ice 
 may have viewed it, is called guilt. "Well, well, I 
 
214 
 
 THE FAREWELL. 
 
 suppose tliat it is so. But in tliat brigliter and better 
 Avorld — there, Blanche, there, where the morning star 
 now beams so softly, and looks down so quietly, as if 
 in sympathy with the sorrows of this dai'lv earth — in 
 that world our deep love will be no crime — will violate 
 no vow! Until then, my Blanche until then, i'arewell ! 
 farewell ! farewell ! " 
 
 ^ * * * -Jf * 
 
 Oh, it was a wild and terrible parting! 
 
 •X- * -x- * * * 
 
 The day was dawning. Adrian de Marigni laid that 
 lifeless and lovely form on the couch, and, for the last 
 time, pressed his lips to that cold and pallid brow. 
 
THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 215 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 IT was in the month of May, 1307, that the King 
 of France transmitted to Pope Clement Fifth, at 
 Avignon, bj the hands of Ilexian, Prior of Montfaucon, 
 as already intimated, a detailed account of the revela- 
 tions of Squin de Florian and the apostate Templar, 
 Noffo Dei. At the same time, De Molai, Grand Master 
 of the order, addressed the Sovereign Pontiff, as has 
 also been said, on the same subject, demanding strictest 
 scrutiny of the charges preferred, and submitting the 
 Fraternity to the severest penalties, should they be sus- 
 tained : but, demanding, likewise, the infliction of pun- 
 ishment equally severe upon their calumniators, should 
 their specifications prove fbdse. 
 
 Three months passed away, during which the events 
 last related had transpired. At length, a Papal Bull, 
 bearing date the 21th day of August of the same year, 
 appeared, in which Clement declared that the crimes 
 ascribed to the Templars seemed to him not only 
 improbable, but impossible; yet, for the satisfaction of 
 his " dear son of France," he had resolved on a judicial 
 investigation of the charges preferred, and he required 
 the King to forward him, at once, all evidence tending 
 to establish, and the Grand Master all evidence tending 
 to controvert the grave accusations. 
 
216 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 The rage of Philip at what he deemed palpable indi- 
 cation on the part of his Holiness to evade tlie sixth 
 article of tlie secret compact which had raised him to 
 the Papal cliair, and, at a movement which, by all, was 
 deemed a manifestation of favorable feeling towards the 
 proscribed and persecuted order, knew no bounds. His 
 private counsellors, consisting of Engiierrand de Mnrigni, 
 Prime Minister, William de Nogaret, Chancellor, Hugh 
 de Chatillon, Grand Constable, William Imbert, or Wil- 
 liam of Paris, Grand Inquisitor and Confessor of the 
 King, William du Plessis, a Dominican priest, and 
 Ilexian, Prior of Montfaucon, the disgraced Templar, 
 each one and all of them avowed and irreconcilable foes 
 of the order, v/'ere, at once, assembled, and, upon full 
 and patient consideration of the subject, it was resolved, 
 for the present, to simulate entire compliance with the 
 papal mandate, and to await the issue of events prelim- 
 inary to more active movements, meanwhile, as if in 
 ol)edience to tlie Ball of his Holiness, making use of 
 every effoit to accumulate proof in substantiation of 
 the charges already preferred. 
 
 But Philip had another counsellor, on whose judgment 
 he relied, and whose suggestions he followed far more 
 implicitly than those of any one, or, indeed, of all the 
 others named. That counsellor was the strong-minded 
 Blanche, Countess of Marche ; and of her counsellings the 
 effect ere long became painfully manifest. 
 
 Ever since that terrible night in June, Adrian de 
 Marigni had disappeared from all eyes. At first, his 
 sudden absence gave rise to no little comment at the 
 
THE PRINCESS AXD THE HEIEESS. 217 
 
 Louvre. But this was sliortly stopped by tlie rumor 
 that he had returned to the camp of Charles of Yalois, — 
 a rumor which was sustained by the authority of the 
 Minister liimself, who had received from his son a note, 
 giving notice that he should, for some thue, be absent 
 from Court, and desiring that all inquiry respecting him 
 m^'ght be discountenanced. 
 
 But, however satisfactory all this might prove to 
 every one else, — even to a father and a mother who 
 doated on a son,— -there were two inmates of the Louvre 
 to whom it was far — far otherwise. Alas ! tJiey knew of 
 that son and his fate far more than even those who had 
 given him being ! 
 
 Blanche of Artois, for some days after the farewell 
 visit of her lover, closely kept her apartments on plea of 
 illness, a plea — unlike most pleas of ladies under similar 
 circumstances — anything but untrue. 
 
 At first, when recovering from the swoon in which she 
 .had been left, she found herself, indeed, deserted, the recol- 
 lection of the past night pierced hke an arrow through 
 her breast. Crushed, overwhelmed, despairing, wretched, 
 she wished only to die, and regretted only that ever 
 again her eyes had opened on a now abhorred existence. 
 
 But this did not last. "With minds possessed of 
 strength and elasticity such as Lers, despair rarely en- 
 dures. As the softer and gentler emotions of love and of 
 sorrow subsided, a deeper and darker passion arose in 
 her heart, and took unresisted possession of all her 
 powers. Hour after hour, day after day, and night after 
 right, through all its still and sleepless watches, alone 
 
218 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 in lier solitaiy cliamber, did sLe brood over her fancied 
 wrongs and her real sorrows. And in tliat lonely cham- 
 ber was conceived and matured a scheme of vengeance, 
 the mere recital of which, for full five centuries has 
 struck the world with awe ! 
 
 During this seclusion, Blanche received but one guest — 
 the King- — except, indeed, her husband, the gay and liand- 
 some Count of Marche, who dashed in, for an instant, 
 early one morning, before she had risen from her couch — 
 or, rather,- just as she was dropping to sleep — to inquire 
 if she were really ill, as he had heard it rumored — all 
 equipped for a haw^king party, falcon 0*11 fist, along the 
 Seine ; and then dashed out again, and the next moment 
 was galloping out of the gate of the Louvre, at the side 
 of one of the fairest ladies of the Court. 
 
 But what cared Blanche of Artois for this ? The time 
 had long gone by when her heart had a single throb for 
 Charles le Bel. Long ago had he forfeited all claim to 
 her affection, and he knew it. And now he might love 
 her, he might hate her, he might despise her, he might 
 pity her, it was all one to her. For him she felt — ?ioth' 
 ing at all: unless, perchance, an indifference so utter 
 and so profound as was hers may be dignified by the 
 name of a feeling. She neither desired him to visit 
 her, nor to avoid her. She desired nothing whatever, 
 with reference to him. If he were happy, she cared not; 
 were he wretched, it is probable she would have cared as 
 little ; had he been ill, she would quite likely Lave visi- 
 ted him ; but, if he had died, she was hardly the woman 
 to have condescended to the mockery of a tear. 
 
THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 219 
 
 - Why should she ? 
 
 There was bat one tiling with reference to diaries of 
 late, since his unblushing and notorious i'Dfidelity to his 
 marriage vow, and, especially, since her own mad passion 
 for Adrian de Marigni, which seemed at all to interest 
 her, and that, strangely enough, was his gallantry to ladies 
 of the Cornet. It seemed to afford lier more satisfaction 
 than even himself ; nay, her azure eyes would sparklo 
 with absolute gladness when she observed his undisguised 
 assiduity to — any woman but herself! Perhaps she laid 
 the sweet u.nction to her soul that the unfaithfulness of 
 Charles to her not only palliated, but authoiized her own 
 to him ; and, perhaps, she was secretly pleased with any- 
 thing, or with any person, who could divert the atten- 
 tion of her legal, yet most inconstant lord from hei'own 
 love and lover, and her own fair and inconstant self! 
 
 But all this \vas a tiling of the past. It was all ov^er 
 now, and forevei'! A darker and deadlier passion than 
 love no w^ possessed a lieait, which had once been all — all 
 tenderness. She alone, of all the Court, made no inquiiy 
 respecting the mysterious disap})earance of Adrian de 
 Marigni, who, since that summer night, had been seen no 
 more. She, alone, had nothing to inquire about. Every- 
 thing was hnoicn to her ! Everything? Not quite every- 
 thing ; and it was to complete that knowledge — it was 
 to make certainty more certain, that, on the evening of 
 the fourth day of her seclusion, she sent for her fair 
 young maid of honor, Marie Morfontaine, the boy dove 
 and betrothed bride of the youno; soldier, Adrian de 
 Marigni, Count Le Portier and son of the Premier of 
 14 
 
220 
 
 THE PEINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 France — prior to his passion for Blanche, and. througli 
 her influence, liis initiation, also, into the illustrious and 
 ancient Order of Templar Kniglits. 
 
 The me.ssage of the Countess found poor Marie very 
 mnch in the situation of the Countess herself. She, too, 
 was a recluse. She, too, was quite as ill — and quite as 
 miserable, — at least, and no doubt she thought she was— 
 as her noble friend. But then she was not a Pj-incess, 
 she was only the orphan heiressof immense estates ; and 
 what right had she to have feelings, or to shut herself 
 np to indulge them ? 
 
 No, no; the proud Countess of Marche demanded the 
 pi-esence of her maid of lionor, and the poor maid of 
 honor, although it was hardly less than death for her to 
 obey, dared not send back refusal or apology. 
 
 And, so, Marie Morfontaine, pale and spiritless, at once 
 repaired to the private apartments of the Countess of 
 Marche. 
 
 The Countess was reclining on a couch, garbed in a 
 white robe de chamhre^ her head sustained by pillo\\^s. 
 The rich effulgence of a summer sunset was streaming in 
 horizontal rays through the western casements, and threw 
 a gloom of more than human beauty on her pallid cheek. 
 Her dark hair lay neglected in loose and glossy masses 
 on the pillow, and her large azure eye flashed with un- 
 earthly brilliancy — the limpid and pellucid brilliancy of 
 a beautiful gem. 
 
 " Ah," sighed poor Marie, as she timidly glanced at 
 that lovely face, and that faultless form, "no wonder — < 
 no wonder he was false to me ! " 
 
THE PRINCESS AXD THE HEIRESS. 
 
 221 
 
 But slie Lad little leisure, poor girl, for sigliing, or for 
 soliloquy. Blanclie was evidently awaiting the visit. 
 
 "Be seated, Marie," said tlie Countess in those soft, 
 kind tones she Lad ever used to tlie orpLau. "Not 
 there, dear," slie added, as tLe young lady was retreating 
 to a distant cLair. " Here, come Lere ; sit close beside 
 me on tLe coucL, and turn your face to tLe ligLt, so tLat 
 I can see you. Heavens, Low pale you are ! You seem 
 ill, Marie; are you ill?" 
 
 " Yes, madame," was tLe trembling answer. 
 
 " And tliis is wLy 3'ou Lave not visited me of late, is 
 it not, Marie ? " asked tLe Countess, kindly. " You 
 sLould let me know wLen you are ill, or — or — unLappy^ 
 and not desert me ; /, too, am ill." 
 
 Tlie orpLan replied not, but Ler evident agitation 
 could not escape tLe keen eye of BlancLe, wlio Avas 
 watcliing every variation of ligLt, or of sLadow, on tliat 
 coloi'less face. 
 
 It would Lave been a group not unwortLjr tLe study 
 of a master — of a Cimabue, for example. Lad Le not 
 died some seven years before — tLat sweet 3^oung Leiress 
 and tLat splendid princess, as tLey sat side by side on 
 tLat coucL, illuminated by tLat crimson ligiit ; tLe one a 
 ]\[use, tlie otLer a Grace; one a Minerva, tLe otLer a 
 Yenus; one a Melpomene, tLe otLer a Eu23Lrosyne ; 
 botL beautiful, botli mournful. 
 
 "Tell me, Marie," said tLe Countess, after a pause, 
 during wLicL Ler searcLing eye was fixed on tLe sLrink- 
 ing girl, " tell me tlie gossip of tLe Court, tell me of 
 your affair with Edmond de GotL." 
 
222 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " What affair, madame? " coldly asked the orphan. 
 
 " Oh, there is no necessity for such excessive coyness, 
 if you are a maiden, Marie. Your love-affair, to be 
 sure, of which every one knows, and every one talks ! " 
 
 "If there is, or has been, any love between Count 
 Edmond de Goth and myself, madame, it must be, or k 
 have been, all on his side,'' was the sharp answer. 
 
 " And why do you not love him, Marie ? " asked the 
 Countess. " He loves you." 
 
 " Because, madame " 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " Because, I hate him, madame ! " was the reply. 
 
 And the young lady, with heightened color and spark- 
 ling eye, certainly looked all she said. 
 
 " Hate him ! " rejoined the Countess with a smile ; " well, 
 that is, doubtless, a good reason for not loving bim ! But 
 hate — it is a harsli word for lips so soft as yours, Marie! 
 Yet, why do you hate the gallant ICdmond? Any lady 
 at Court might be proud of his preference." 
 
 " He has been the cause to me — at least one cause — • 
 of great unhappiness, madame," replied Marie, sadly. 
 
 " And how so ? " 
 
 "There was another I loved, madame; and he loved 
 me, on.ce," faltered the poor girl. 
 " And he? " asked t!ie Countess. 
 There was no answer. 
 "Was Adrian de Marigni, was he not?" 
 " He was." 
 
 "But you were children, Marie, when he loved you. 
 Has he loved you since ? " 
 
THE PRINCESS AXD THE HEIRESS. 
 
 223 
 
 "I — I have lioped so, maclame," faltered poor Marie. 
 
 It Avas now the Countess T^'ho was excited. 
 
 "And does he love yon now?" she quickly asked, — ■ 
 herself partaking, for a moment, of the agitatiou of ber 
 companion. 
 
 "iso, madame, no! " was the sad but decided answer. 
 
 The Countess breathed more freely. 
 
 "And why not?" she asked. 
 
 " Becanse, madame " 
 
 " AY ell, well? " said the princess, impatiently. 
 
 "Because he loves another, madame." 
 
 "And how know you that? " was the cjuick question, 
 
 "I saw — I saw him in her chamber, madame." 
 - "But that proves nothing," returned the Countess, 
 anxiously, after a pause. 
 
 "I saw him in her chamber after midnio-ht, madame!" 
 exclaimed tbe girl, Avith an effort. 
 
 "Ah, that is different," replied Blanche. 
 
 Her voice was low, her tones suppressed, her lips 
 livid. 
 
 "And who is this rival? " she asked, after a pause, in 
 tones yet lower. 
 
 Both women seemed to feel themselves on the verge 
 of a dreadful development, yet neither had power to 
 resist tbe weii'd fascination which drew them to the 
 precipice. 
 
 "My rival, madame?" sighed Marie. "Oh, she is 
 one far, far my superior." 
 " In rank ? " 
 "Infinitely above me." 
 
224 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 " In beautj?" 
 
 " Oh, madame " — »and tlie poor girl stole a glance at 
 the lovely face and matchless form beside her — ''I have 
 no charm of mind, or of person, to compare with hers. 
 Indeed, I do not wonder lie loved her in preference to 
 me, and I do not blame him nowj'' 
 
 "Marie Morfontaine," cried the Countess, rising from 
 her pillow and grasping the arm of her trembling com- 
 panion, "who is this rival?" 
 
 Tlie young girl was silent. 
 
 " On your allegiance, I charge yon, Mar'e Morfontaine, 
 tell me: who is this rival? " repeated the Countess — in 
 wild, harsh tones. 
 
 "Madame — madame — I dare not " beoan the ter- 
 
 o 
 
 rifled girl. 
 
 " Aye, but yon shall tell me ! " was the qnick answer. 
 
 " Madame, she is — she is — " 
 
 ; "Well,— well,— well?" 
 " The Countess of Marche I " 
 
 Blanche dropped the arm of Marie, and sank back 
 upon her pillow ; but, instantly rising, she said in low 
 but emphatic tones, again grasping the arm of the 
 unresisting girl, and gazing steadily into her eyes: 
 
 " And do yon tell me, Marie Morfontaine, that you 
 have seen Adrian de Marigni in the chamber of the 
 Countess of Marche after midnight ? " 
 
 " Madame, I do ! " was the stern answer. 
 
 For an instant, indignation asserted ascendency. 
 
 A silence of some moments followed. 
 
 "Marie," at length said the Countess in low tones, "do 
 
THE PRINCESS AXD THE HEISESS. 
 
 225 
 
 3^011 know that tlie Avords you have just spoken to me, 
 if spoken elsewhere, woukl lay your head on tbe block — 
 or. mine ? " 
 
 There Avas a shudder, but no answer. 
 
 " Teil me, Marie,'' continued the Princess, after ex- 
 treme agitation, ''tell me, honestly, when did you see 
 your lover — in my chamber — at night? Tell me — tell 
 me all!" 
 
 -'On the night of the bridal fete of the King of 
 England and Isabella — — " 
 ''^AVell, well ? " 
 
 ''I saw Adrian de Marigni leave the spot Avhere you 
 now lie and glide Cjuicklj' to tliat door ! 
 
 With a low groan, the Countess sank back and covered 
 her face with her hands. 
 
 The young girl was like a corpse — as colorless — as 
 cold. 
 
 " Marie," said the Princess, softly, after a pause, again 
 rising and grasping the arm ot her companion, ''have 
 you ever named what — what you that night saw, — to — ■ 
 to — another ? " 
 
 " To one person, madame, I have," replied the 
 orphan. 
 
 ''And but one " 
 But one." 
 
 Blanche shuddered. 
 
 " And that one ? " 
 
 " Was Jacques de Molai -" 
 
 "Grand Master of the Temple! added the Countess. 
 Could Marie Morfootaine have foreseen the efiect of 
 
226 
 
 TOE PEINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 lier words, roused almost to delirium though she herself 
 was, she would probably, have paused, ere they left her 
 lips. 
 
 " Fieud ! fiend ! " shrieked the Countess of Marche, 
 springing with fury from the couch on which slie lay, 
 and dragging thence the terrified girl by the arm, which 
 she grasped until her fingers met in the discoloi'ed flesh. 
 
 To 3^ou, til en — to you, wretch ! do I owe the ruin of all 
 most dear to me in lil'e ! To you do I owe almost the 
 anguish of the damned !" 
 
 And quickly producing, fiom the folds of her white 
 dress, a stiletto of most minute and delicate proportions, 
 she flung its golden sheath from it upon the floor, and 
 raised the glittering and needle-like blade above the 
 prostrate girl 1 
 
 This sudden movement laid partially bare her snowy 
 and swelling breast. A strange resting-place, that soft, 
 warm bosom, for that flashing and fatal steel ! 
 
 For an instant the gleaming weapon hung suspended, 
 as by a hair, quivering as if with life over the heart of 
 the unresisting, the fainting, the terrified girl ! A change 
 passed over the livid face of the infuriated Princess; 
 the burning glance of her eye lost its murderous, con- 
 centrated, snake-like venom; she flung the keen blue 
 blade from her hand. 
 
 " Why should I pollute myself with lier blood? " she 
 faintly murmured. " She knew not what she did. Be- 
 sides, her terrible secret dies not with /zer, it is no longer 
 her own. No, no, my vengeance seeks loftier victims 
 tlian a love-lorn girl. And it shall be a vengeance — oh, 
 
THE PRINCESS AXD THE HEiEESS. 
 
 227 
 
 it shall be a vengeance, at wLicli, ages Lence, men sball 
 gTow pale! Eise!" slie exclaimed, at the same time 
 relinquishing lier grasp and spurning lier companion 
 Avith scorn. 
 
 Almost dead with tensor, the fainting girl did as she 
 was commanded, and stood cowering before her infuri- 
 ated mistress. 
 
 For a moment Blanche of Artois gazed on her with 
 black and menacing brow. Then her countenance grad- 
 ually softened, and, in tones of touching sorrow, she 
 exclaimed, clasping her hands, while tears started to her 
 e\'es 
 
 " Why, oh, Avhy, have you done this, Marie?" 
 The poor orphan did not reply. 
 
 "Have I not been _your friend, Marie? " continued the 
 Countess, sadly; " have I not protected and loved you? 
 Have I ever harmed you? flow have I provoked this 
 resentment? How, oh„ how, have I deserved such a 
 dreadful recompense ? " 
 
 "/ loved him, too,"' faltered Marie, bursting into an 
 agony of tears. 
 
 " You — 3^ou loved Mm!^^ exclaimed the Countess. 
 " Why, girl, Adrian de Marigni was not a being for you 
 to love! As well might the lark seek to mate with the 
 eagle, as your spirit with his ! As well might the gloAV- 
 worm aspire to the star, as you to him ! " 
 
 " And 3'et — and yet — T loved him, madame ; and — and 
 he loved me^ once," sobbed the orphan. 
 
 " When you were children," sharply replied the 
 Countess; "you forget he is no longer a child, if you 
 
228 
 
 THE PRINCESS AND THE HEIRESS. 
 
 are. You sliould Lave forgotten 3' our girlish fancy for 
 a boj playmate. He has forgotten his.'' 
 
 "I know it, madame," faltered the girl. "He loves 
 me no more. Yet I love him — I love him dearly,, 
 despite—- — " 
 
 " Love him! and what has been yonr love, compared 
 with mine? You, a weak, silly, simple child, — I, a 
 woman cried the Countess. 
 
 BLanclie of Artois was but a few years the senior of 
 Marie Morfontaine ; but now she seemed an elder sister 
 ■ — almost a mother. Such are the effects, on the person, 
 of mind and passion. 
 
 " You say you loved him," continued the Princess. 
 " Well, the test of love is the sacrifice it will make 
 for its object. What sacrifice would you have made 
 to your love? " 
 
 " I would liavo sacrificed — " began Marie. 
 
 " Your honor, girl? " 
 
 " I would have yielded him my life, had he asked it," 
 replied Marie, meekly. 
 
 " Your life I — your life ! " exclaimed the Countess, 
 scornfully. "And yet,'' she instantly added, clasping licr 
 hands, and raising her flashing eyes in agony to Heaven, 
 "oh, God ! oh, God ! you have sacrificed his I " 
 
 " Madame — madame ! " cried the affrighted girl, grnsp- 
 ing the Countess in her turn by the arm ; "what do 
 yon say ? " 
 
 " What do I say ? I say that you, wretch, liave con- 
 signed the noble victim of your pitiful passion to the 
 dun.geon — to thetortiu-e — oh, God, perchance, to a dread- 
 
THE PPJXCESS AXD THE HEIRESS. 
 
 229 
 
 fill deatli I Know yoa not the Templar rule ? Emow 3'ou 
 not the Templar tow ? Know 3*011 not the merciless 
 severity of that terrible man, to whom you revealed your 
 more terribie secret? Girl, girl, xldrian de IMarigni was 
 a Templar Knight ! On your accusation, he will be 
 stretched on the rack ! Confess, he never will ; and he 
 ^vill die in a dungeon I " 
 
 " A dungeon ! — torture — death I Oh, I dreamed not 
 that—1 dreamed not that I cried the frantic girl. "I 
 meant only to part him from 3*0 u ! 
 
 Well, be satisfied — you have succeeded ! " was the 
 bitter, yet sad reph^ We are parted ! " 
 
 A pause of considerable duration ensued, in which 
 neither of the Avomen spake. Both seemed buried in 
 thought. The Countess paced the room with hasty 
 steps. Marie Morfontaine had sunk upon the couch. 
 
 "Oh, madame,*' at length exclaimed Marie, "can 
 nothing be done to save him ? ^' 
 
 Nothing I " was the gloom3- answer. 
 
 " ^Vhat, then, remains for us?-' 
 
 The Countess stopped in her walk, and replied : 
 
 " Vengeance I " 
 
 " And for me? " 
 
 ^' To aid — perhaps.'' 
 
 " Oh, madame, I would die for revenge I " earnestly 
 exclaimed Marie, springing to her feet, with flashing 
 eyes and clasped hands. 
 
 " Then live for it. Go, I would be alone ! " 
 
 And Blanche of Artois sank on the couch. 
 
 And Marie Morfontaine slunk from the chamber. 
 
230 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 THE Feast of St. Denis, in tlie year 1307, fell upon 
 Monday, the ninth day of October. 
 On the night of that day the King of France was 
 in close conclave until a late hour with, his privy coun- 
 sellors. 
 
 On tlie three succeeding days, Philip was in constant 
 consultation with Blanche of Artois : and couriers, with 
 sealed orders addressed to officers of the crown in all 
 parts of the realm, were hourly leaving the Louvre. On 
 the night of Thursday, the twelfth, especially, couriers 
 were constantly thundering at full speed over the draw- 
 bridge of the palace and through the gates of the city, in 
 all directions, bearing the last sealed orders to points 
 nearest the capital; and some were not despatched 
 even until after the morning dawn of the succeeding 
 day. 
 
 Friday, the thirteenth of October, was as sweet an 
 autumnal day as ever smiled, frostily but cheerily, on 
 the gliding waters of the Seine. 
 
 By an understanding, prior and privy, between the 
 Grand Master of tlie Templars and Philip of France, at 
 the instance of the latter, that day had been fixed on for 
 a visit of the King, accompanied by his high officers and 
 all the nobles of his Court, to the Palace of the Temple, 
 
THE ARREST. 231 
 
 tlint the absurd and abominable charges against tlie order 
 miglit be abundantly disproved. Late on the previous 
 evening orders had been issued by Hugh de Chatilion, 
 Grand Constable of France, that all of the gentlemen of 
 the Court, as ved as all tlie guard of the palace, and the 
 Provost's guard of Paris, should be under arms at an 
 earlv hour of the following da}', in the court of the 
 Louvre, This order had been obeyed, and at the hour 
 of noon the King, vitli his Minister, Chancellor and Con- 
 fessor, descended to the court, and placing himself at 
 the head of a most formidable troop of horse there 
 , assembled, marshalled by the Grand Constable, issued 
 from the Eastern gate of the Louvre, and ascending the 
 street of St, Penis, and emerging into the plains by the 
 city gate of the same name, approached the gloomy 
 walls of the Temple. 
 
 As the cavalcade drew nigh to that darlv pile, from the 
 square and massive central tower of which streamed out 
 in heavy folds the fearful Beauseant, the drawbridge fell, 
 the portcullis rose, the ponderous leaves of tlie embattled 
 gatewav swung on their hinges, and the wliole bodv of 
 ^i'emplars in their white cloaks appeared drawn up to 
 receive their royal guest wdth the venerable Grand 
 I\Iaster at their head, bearing in his hand the mystic 
 abacus. This was the o;ily symTiol of authority which 
 was to be Avitnessed. Sword nor dagger, arms nor armor, 
 were to be seen in all that peaceful ari'ay: although every 
 individual in the extended train, of the King was armed 
 to the teeth— a circumstance of which the Templars 
 in their blind confidence seemed to take no note. 
 
232 
 
 THE AKREST. 
 
 Having entered tlie gateway into a paved and ex- 
 tensive court, on all sides environed by massive struct- 
 ures, the drawbridge again rose — the portcullis fell, and 
 the ponderous gates returned on their groaning hinges. 
 Descending from their steeds and delivering them to the 
 serving brothers of the order, who, in black costume, 
 stood ready to conduct them to the stables, tlie won- 
 dering cavalcade, not one of whom save the King and 
 his council knew the purport of the visit, with awe fol- 
 lowed in the footsteps of tke Templars into the vast and 
 magnificent chapel. 
 
 A dim, ]'eligious liglit stealing through, the tall and lan- 
 ceolated casements pervaded the spacious sanctuary. The 
 altar draj)ed in black Avas lighted by twelve immense 
 candles, and was decorated for high mass; and at its 
 foot kneeled priests in cope and stole and deacons in alb 
 and dalmatica. At that moment, at a signal fi'om the 
 venerable Master, the Chaplain raised the magnificent 
 j\salm, " Gloria in excelsis^^ in which the whole company 
 of Templars, some hundreds in number, solemnly joined. 
 The eft'ect of this imposing chant, raised by the deep 
 voices of tliis vast choir of soldier-priests, accompanied 
 by the organ and echoed from the groined and sculp- 
 tured roof of that s})lendid pile, was grand beyond 
 description. 
 
 The chant ceased, and, at that instant, Hugh de 
 Chatillon, Grand Constable of France, strode up the 
 aisle, and, drawing his sword, and laying his hand on 
 the shoulder of the Grand iMaster of the Temple, 
 exclaimed: 
 
THE AEREST. 
 
 233 
 
 "Gentlemen of France, Guards of Paris— in the came 
 of your King, I arrest Jacques de Molai, and all liis 
 order here assembled, for liigli crimes and misde- 
 meanors I To the rescue! to the rescue 1 France! 
 France ! " 
 
 Had a thunderbolt descended into the aisle of that 
 consecrated fane, the effect conld not have been m.ore 
 startling. 
 
 Instantly the SAVord of Philip flashed in his hand! 
 Instantly the swords of all his followers flashed also. 
 And instantly rose in that vast hall the awful shout: 
 Beaiiseant — Beauseant ! For the Temple! for the 
 Temple ! " 
 
 But, alas! alas! that terrific battle-crj^, which, on an 
 hundred bloody fields, had struck panic into a turbaned 
 foe, was powerless now — had lost its spell ! In vain did 
 the scarred and war-Avorn veterans strike their unmailed 
 hands upon their unarmed sides: thej^ were weaponless ! 
 In vain did the heroic De Molai, before God and man, 
 solemifly protest against this nnheard-oP pei'fidy, and 
 appeal to the Templars' sole tribunal, the See of Eome! 
 
 Unarmed, ao-ainst twice their number armed to the 
 utmost, the struggle of these valiant men, avIio, Avith 
 their faithful battle-blades in their grasp, AA'ould haA'e 
 swept ten times the foe uoay arrayed against them from 
 their path, as the chaff on the tlireshing- floor is swept 
 before the Avind, Avas brief and unavailing. Overpow- 
 ered by multitudes, A^et to the last unyielding, all were 
 arrested, loaded Avith manacles, and plunged into the 
 deepest dungeons of their own sacred house. And bitter- 
 
234 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 est of all, as they passed through tlie court, their glori- 
 ous Beauseant no longer floated from its tower; but, in 
 its place, rolled out the snowy folds of tlie Oriflamme of 
 France on tbe autumnal breeze! 
 
 The arrest at tlie Temple was complete.* That grim 
 structure, which all tbe foi'ce of Philip of France would 
 have in vain openly assailed, fell in a single hour before 
 his fraud. And at that same hour, of tbat same day, 
 throughout all France, every soldier of the Temple, 
 wherever found, or however eno;a2:ed, was in like man- 
 ner arrested. 
 
 Immediately upon tbe arrest of the Templars, the 
 Minister proclaimed the Temple to be hence fortb a pal- 
 ace of the King, and depository of the royal treasures; 
 and all of tbe possessions of the order to be under royal 
 seizure and attachment. 
 
 The King, at the head of his council and troops, then 
 set out f )r Paris, and crossing the Font au Change, at once 
 advanced to the Catbedral of Notre Dame, wbere all 
 of its canons and all of tbe doctors of the Universitj^, 
 wbo had been assembled by a mandate tbey knew not 
 whence, for a purpose tbey knew not what, were sitting 
 in solemn conclave, in their sable robes. To tbis grave 
 body, the act of the King in tbe arrest of the Tem[>lars and 
 his motives therefor were communicated in detail by the 
 
 * One hunrli-ert and forty Kniglits. and several hundred serving brenireii 
 and priests, were arrested with De Molai at the Temple. Some auUiorilies 
 assert that sealed letters were despatched to the royal ofticers throughout 
 the realm as early as September r2tli, with orders to be in arms on the r2th 
 day of tiie succeeVling month; and, in the night of that day to open the let- 
 ters, and act as they coiinnauded. Tlie command was the arrest of the Tem- 
 plars. To disarm suspicion, De Molai, on the very eve of the arrest, was 
 selected by Philip as one of the four pall-bearers, at the obsequies of the 
 Princess Catharine, wife of the Count of Valois. 
 
THE ARREST, 
 
 285 
 
 Grand Inquisitor and Ins Dominican assistants, William 
 du Plessis, and that infamous apostate, the Prior of 
 Montfau^oii.^ Tiie royal act and the royal motives for 
 that act were, of course, both approved; and a procla- 
 mation was sent out from that old church through all 
 Paris, summoning all true believers, whether of laity or 
 clergy, on pain of penance, to assemble in the gardens of 
 the Louvre at the sound of the trumpet, on the second 
 day ensuing, to hear detailed "the awful crimes of the 
 iniquitous order." 
 
 The assemblage, at the time and place designated, 
 was, of course, immense. ScallbUls had been erected 
 lor speakers, and from these Imbert, Du Plessis, and the 
 apostate Prior, with their accomplices, read to the cred- 
 ulous populace a list of one hundred and twenty-seven 
 charges of crime against the persecuted Templars, all of 
 them as absurd and impossible as they were abominable 
 and infamous ; yet each and all sustained by the most 
 violent and inflammatory denunciation, and echoed by 
 the shouts of the ignorant and superstitious throng.* 
 
 Fortified by this " verdict of the people," as he com- 
 placently styled it, Philip would have brought the 
 imprisoned Templars instantly before his own corrupt 
 
 * The order of the Temple was charged, among other things, with having 
 been foiiuded on the phm of the Isma'ilites, or, Assassins, a secret society of 
 tlie East,— from a i)retended identity of costume and secret doctrine. The 
 Ismailites wore a wliite robe with a red girdle, and the Templars wore a 
 white cloak with a red cross, and both societies were secret ! And here, it is 
 probable, "all likeness ejids between the pair." It is asserted, indeed, that 
 in 1228, the Templars betrayed the Emperor Frederick II. to tlie Egyptian 
 Sultan ; but, if so, tlie Moslem taught them a bitter lesson of faith by refusing 
 to avail himself of their perfidy; and, if so, no wonder that tlie indignant 
 Emperor wrote of them, about the same, " The haughty religion of the Tem- 
 ple waxes wanton."— "We have the failings of men," said Almeric de Vil- 
 liers,' "but to have been guilty of the crimes imputea to us we must have 
 been fiends." 
 
 15 
 
236 
 
 THE ARREST. 
 
 tribunals for final judgment and doom ; but lie was 
 warned the canons and doctors that no secular court 
 Could take ultimate cognizance of the crinae of lieres}^, 
 of which the soldiers of the Temple were accused ; that 
 the Templars, as a religious-military oixler, confirmed 
 by the Holy See, were exempt from all civil jurisdiction; 
 and that, as for their possessions, they could only be 
 appropriated to the benefit of the Church, and the pur- 
 poses of their orignal donation. 
 
 This decision, as may be inferred, Avas not very wel- 
 come to the Kinsj, who had felicitated himself on the 
 spoils of the fated order, as well as on tbe contemplated 
 gratification of a deadly revenge; but he immediately 
 issued an edict for the interrogation of the prisoners by 
 William of Paris, and his familiars in presence of the 
 high officers of the crown. 
 
 And thus were the Templar Knights of France com- 
 mitted to the tender mercies of tlie Inquisition! 
 " "The fiat of Philip," says the liistorian, " had gone 
 forth at that season of the year, when the cell of the 
 captive is rendered doubly dreadful by the rigor of the 
 winter. The sufferers were deprived of the habit of 
 their order, and of the rites and comforts of the Church; 
 only the barest necessaries of life were allowed them : 
 and those wlio refused to })lead guilty were subjected 
 to every species of torture."* Shrieks and groans re- 
 sounded in all the prisons of France* their tormentors 
 noted down not only their words, but even their tears 
 
 * Ttavnouard— ¥on?<moi.<? WsforigvA Jtalatifa a la Condamnation des 
 Cievaiiers du T3mpte et V abolition de leur Order, 
 
THE ARREST. 
 
 237 
 
 and sighs, and tlie spirit of many a kniglit, wli(3in tlie 
 terrors of Paynirn war had failed to subdue, quailed at 
 the stake and on the rack. Yet that nniiiber was but 
 small, and the large pro[)(n'tion endured the Question 
 with as much martyr-heroism as'they had ever braved a 
 nobler doom on the eiisauguined field. 
 
 In Paris the dungeons and ouhlieites and ia paces of 
 the Louvre, the two Clialelets, the Palace of Justice, 
 and of the Temple itseU were all in special requisition 
 to afibrd imprisonment to the persecuted Templars, 
 among whom arrested at the Temple were the Norman 
 brothers, Walter and Philip de Launai. 
 
 As for Jacques de MoLai, the aged Grand Master, he 
 was committed, togetlier with Hugh de Peralde, Grand 
 Prior of France, Pierre de Yillars, Grand Prior of Acqui- 
 taine, (Philip's Minister of Finance,) and Guy, Grand 
 Prior of Normandy, brother to the Dauphin of Auvergne 
 and Yiennois, Sovereign Prince of Daupliiny, and some 
 other dignitaries of the fated order, to the dungeons of 
 Chinon. ' ' . 
 
238 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 N" the riglit bank of tlie Yienne, near its conflu- 
 
 \^ ence with the sparkling waters of the Loire, in 
 the ancient Province of Limousin,* once stood a castle, 
 which, by its ruins, still existing, is proven to have been 
 one of the most perfect of all the masterpieces of feudal 
 architecture. 
 
 Its site was a lofty crag, overlooking the neighboring 
 country lor many a mile around, which, for a tliousand 
 years it held in awe : and, at its base, was a small ham- 
 let sheltered by surrounding hills. Like other structures 
 of the age, the Castle of Chinon had its dungeons and its 
 oubliettes^ — its fathomless wells descending like tunnels, 
 s.ection of horror below section, — zone below zone, — into 
 the very bowels of the earth. 
 
 It had, also, its winding stairways, practised through 
 the depths of the massive masonry, and its secret pas- 
 sages, and its subterranean galleries. One of these latter 
 is said to have gone down through the walls of the castle, 
 down throuoh the solid eras; on which the castle sat, 
 down below the level of the bed of the Yienne., Thence, 
 beneath the bed of that stream, it continued to the opposite 
 bank, and, pursuing its midnight course, finally emerged 
 within the walls of a convent in sight of the castle, when 
 
 * Now Touraine in the Department of Indre et Loire. 
 
THE CASTLE OF CHIXOX. 
 
 239 
 
 descending into tlie bo^'e'ls of the earth, it pursued :t& 
 tenehrons and tortuous route to the Castle of Sauujur, a 
 dozen miles distant. 
 
 Another subterranean passage is said to have united 
 the Tower of Argenton with the Ma'son Euherdieu. — tiie 
 residence of the lovely Agnes Sorrel, when Chinon was a 
 paiace of Cliaries the Seventh. 
 
 This castle is calied the French AVindsor of the Xor- 
 man Kings, as the Abbey of Fonteuraud. some seven 
 miles distant on the south, was tlieir Westminster. It 
 was a favorite spot with hienry the Second of England, 
 and witnessed his loves witii the beautiful Piosamond Chf- 
 f jrd. It witnessed, also, his feaiful death in ll89. when 
 he expired Avith a curse on his quivering lips against 
 his unnatural sons : and it witnessed the death of the 
 heir to his crown. Richard Cceur de Lion^ ten years 
 afterwards, when the form of the valorous son was laid 
 at the feet of the father in the old aisle of Fonteu- 
 raud. 
 
 Chinon witnessed, also, the loves of Francis the First 
 of France and the fair '■ Ferroniere^' as well as those 
 of Charles the Seventh and Agnes Sorrel, as intimated. 
 And here it was that the chivalric Maid of Orleans, in- 
 troduced into that Prince's presence, selected Iiirn from 
 among ail his Xobles as the true Eling, nnt with standing 
 liis disguise, and announced to him her holy mission. 
 
 Chinon, too. was a favorite residence of Louis tlie 
 Eleventh of France ; and it was Lere he proposed to the 
 Count of Chabannes, the IMinister of his father, that 
 parent's assassination, though only that the unnatural 
 
240 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 design miglit to that parent's horror be revealed. The 
 fearflil oubliettes^ of winch remains yet exist, are said to 
 have been sunk immediately beneath that monarch's 
 chosen apartments. 
 
 The view from the battlements of the lofty towers of 
 the Castle of Cliinon is described as most extensive and 
 beantifnl, — embracing an immense extent of conntrj^, 
 through which flow the bright waters of the Loire and 
 Vienne, with the white walls of convents and chateau:?^ 
 rising among the forests on their banks. 
 
 Such was the proud Castle of Chinon, when it became 
 the prison of the Grand Officers of the Temple in 
 France. 
 
 Into the dungeons of this fearful fortilace were these 
 veterans of the cross, who had so often done bloody bat- 
 tle for Christendom upon a foreign shore, now plunged, 
 and loaded with chains. 
 
 It was on the night of the sixth day of his imprison- 
 ment in the dungeons of Chinon, that Jacques de Molai 
 was aroused from a troubled slumber, by the pressure 
 of a hand upon his shoulder, and the glare of a lamp 
 in his face. Starting from his recumbent position, f\s 
 well as his manacles would permit, he fixed his search- 
 ing eye upon the intruder. But the light of the lantern 
 was so managed that, while its beams were thrown in 
 full gush upon his own features, those of the person who 
 held it remained completely in shadow. Of the shape 
 he could only define the irregular outline of a hum?ii 
 figure, robed in the black gown of a monk of St. 
 Pominic, with the ample cowl drawn closely over the 
 
THE CASTLE OF CHIXOX. 
 
 head: and, of the face, he could perceive only two 
 blazing orbs, which gleamed forth in the darkness like 
 flame »from perforations in a fiery furnace. 
 
 For some moments the silence was unbroken. A 
 horrible tliought flashed through the brain of the 
 prisoner. He beheld before him his executioner! Such 
 midnight murders were of constant occuri'ence in the 
 Dark Ages, when a foe was too powerfui. or too popular, 
 or too innocent fjr tlie public scafibld: and dungeon 
 walls were deep enough to absorb every dying groan, 
 and ouhliettes were no misnomers. — they were, inueed, 
 chambers of oblivwn ! 
 
 For an instant the prisoners heart sank within him. 
 To die by tlie assassin's dagger at midnigLt, in the 
 depths of a dungeon, loaded witn fetters, his fate forever 
 unknown, yet innocent of even a thought of crime — 
 horrible I horrible! Oli. for the Avild. wide, scorcliing 
 desert, on^ce more, on bis wardiorse. with his battie- 
 brand in his hand, and clouds of Pavnirn foes before 
 him, like their OAvn clouds of locusts! But this was a 
 mad thought. It was but a moment indulged, and tlien 
 that brave old man was as a bronze effigy, on some 
 marble tomb. 
 
 iMethinks^' my friend." said de iMolai. calmly. " that 
 you have chosen a somewhat unusual hour to visit the 
 inmate of a dungeon. It is true, night and day are very 
 much the same down here, but I have not yet been an 
 occupant of the place long enough not to know that it 
 is now after midnight. What do you here at this hour? 
 asked the old man, mildly, after pausing for a reply. 
 
242 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 There was no answer, but the burning orbs like flick- 
 ering flames still rested on his face. 
 
 " If you are an officer of the castle — the Governor, or 
 on,e of the warders," continued de Molai, calmly, "it is 
 strange you are here at an hour like this; and it is still 
 more strange that I heard not the clash of chains, and 
 the thunder of bolts, which invariably herald one's 
 approach. I must have slumbered very soundly. I 
 slept not thus in Palestine." 
 
 There was still no answer. 
 
 " Oh, it's all very well," continued the old Templar, 
 carelessly. " If you do not choose to announce your 
 errand, Sir Warder, I am, of course, quite unable to 
 compel you. But I can address myself to sleep again, 
 which, methinks, may prove somewhat more profitable 
 than addressing myself to you." 
 
 And the old knight seemed disposing himself again 
 in a sleeping posture, upon his heap of straw. 
 
 "I am no w^arder, Jacques de Molai!" 
 
 "Ila! a woman's voice!" cried the Grand Master in 
 astonishment. " A woman here f " 
 
 "Aye, sir — a woman here! " 
 
 "And why?" 
 
 " To save you, — if you will be saved." 
 
 The old man shook his head and smiled. 
 
 "No woman's will can save Jacques de Molai 1 '* 
 
 There was a low laugh beneath the hood. 
 
 " And if you were told that a woman's will had filled 
 the dungeons of all France with your order, and com- 
 mitted you, their chief, to this ? " 
 
THE CASTLE CF CHIXOX. 
 
 243 
 
 " I slioulJ say it was a lie ! was tlie quick, stern answer. 
 ''And vet, it is even sol" proudiy rejoined the 
 unknown, 
 
 De ^^lolai gazed witli angry increduloiisness on one lie 
 deemed a false and presumptuous boaster. 
 
 "But I am not here to satisfy doubts, nor to over- 
 come tiiein with arguments." she continued, Mv pur- 
 pose is other, higher. Jacques de Molai. do you know 
 tiiat your doom is sealed?"' 
 I had hoped J mad a me 
 
 ''Do vou know that your order is to be swept from 
 the earth ? " 
 
 *'Holy St. Bernard I ejaculated the old man, clasping 
 his ironed hands. 
 
 "Do you know tliat each Templar in France is to be 
 stretched upon the rack, with you, their chief, at their 
 head: and. if they confess the horrible guilt oF which 
 they are accused, they are, in rnei'cy, to be burned at the 
 stake: and, if not, they are to perish by extremest tor- 
 ture of the Question Chamber? Do you know this?"' 
 
 ^idie old man sank back upon his heap of straw, and 
 covered his hice with his hands, while a low groan 
 mino'led with the sullen clank of his fetters. 
 
 For himself he could endure torture — the stake : he 
 was old, and must soon die at the best: but his beloved 
 orler — his beloved sons, as he called its companions — 
 for them his heart agonized and bled. 
 
 F'^r some moments the Grand Master remained silent, 
 as it in tiionght, during which his unwelcome visitor 
 llxed upon him, in equal silence, her burning regard. 
 
244 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHI^TOl^. 
 
 *' Bat, no —no — no — tliis cannot be/' he at length 
 exclaimed. " Tbey luill not do that, ! They dare not I " 
 he added in tones of menace. " We have appealed to 
 Rome ! Let our persecutors beware of Rome's thun- 
 der ! Madame, madame ! " cried De Molai, " who are 
 you? Why are you here? If yon think to trifle with 
 the natural tremors of an aged man, laden with irons 
 and immured in a dungeon, you mistake tliat man I 
 Who are you, madame? " 
 
 There was no reply, but the unknown drew slowly 
 from her delicate hand a massive signet ring, and held it 
 up in the light of the lantern before the prisoner's eyes. 
 
 "The royal seal of France ! " despairingly murmured 
 tlie old man. " What would yoii^ madame? " he asked. 
 
 "Grand Master of the Templars, what would ?/ow.^ " 
 was tlie rejoinder. 
 
 " The salvation of my beloved order ! " fervently 
 ejaculated the old chieftain, raising his eyes with his 
 clasped hands to Heaven. 
 
 "I am here to save tliat order," said the other. 
 
 " Ha ! " cried de Molai. 
 
 " I am. here to deliver you, and, with you, all your 
 knights, from the dungeon and the rack, and to reinstate 
 you in all your ancient affluence, rank, immunities, and 
 powers ; and to add to them, if possible, ten-fold." 
 
 " A dream ! " exclaimed the old Templar, pressing his 
 broad palm to his brow. 
 
 "No, Jacques de Molai, this is no dream! " was the 
 reply. " The great seal of France ' should assure you 
 that my words are not idle fancies." 
 
THE CASTLE OF CHIXOX. 
 
 245 
 
 "And the condition of this salvation?" asked he. 
 ''Know you Adrian de Marigni, Count Le Portier ? 
 asked the unknown. 
 
 The old man was silent. 
 
 " Know YOU Blanche of Artois, Countess of Marche ? " 
 repeated the Lady. 
 
 The old man was still silent. 
 
 ''Behold her here 1 " exclaimed the unknown, tliro^\'iD2f 
 back the hood of her priestl}^ robe, and revealing a face 
 whose pale loveliness, as lighted up b\' the fidl gleam of 
 the lantern, now turned toAvards it, contrasted strangely 
 with the damp dungeon walls around. 
 
 TTitli a groan of despair Jacques de Molai sank back 
 on the straw of his pallet, and covered his face with his 
 hands. In an instant he comprehended all ! All — alas, 
 for him I — was revealed. 
 
 ''Jacques de Molai," resumed tlie Princess, in tones of 
 intense solemnity, '"hear me I When, first you heard a 
 woman's voice, at midnight in your dungeon, you were 
 amazed. Bat, when you leain that A\-oman is the 
 Countess of Marche, you are amazed no more. AVhv? 
 Because, Jacques de Molai, yom happen to know of that 
 proud and powerful, yet most unhappy woman, a dread- 
 ful secret I Because you. chief of tlie Tem}ilars, chance, 
 to know that thisAVoman's lover is a companion of vour 
 order, and, therefore, amenable to its p'Owerfhl Eale. 
 Cuief of the Templars, Blanche of Artois is here to 
 crave of you the life and liberty of that lover, and. in 
 exchange, to give you your own, and those of all your 
 knights!"' 
 
243 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 Bat de Molai spake not. 
 
 "Doubt not tliat all I have promised sliallbe fulfilled." 
 slie continued. " Mj influence with the King of France 
 is never exerted vainly ; and his power over Clement 
 Fifth. — -in this matter at least, — is resistless." 
 
 Do Molai uttered a groan. His last hope failed! 
 Eome deserted the Temple ! 
 
 "Unknown and unsuspected have I escaped from tlie 
 Louvre, from Paris, and si)ed to this distant fortress. 
 Unknown and unsuspected by all within these walls am 
 I here ; unknown and unsuspected, when my mission is 
 accomplished, I am without these walls, and again am 
 found within the Palace of the Louvre, or, rather within 
 the Palace of the Temple, for even there now doth Philip- 
 hold his Court !" 
 
 Again the old man groaned. 
 
 Alas! for the desecrated sanctuary! Alas! for that 
 holy and ancient house ! 
 
 " Jacques de Molai," continued the Countess, after a 
 pause, " I am here to demand my lover, Adrian de 
 Marigni. I. do not ash if you know where he is : I Icnow 
 you do, though J, alas ! do not ! Yainly, in secret and 
 alone, have I searclied every dungeon, and oubliette^ and 
 cell of that awful pile, which, through my influence, for 
 that very end, was captured, and its yqyj penetralia laid 
 open to the eye. I do not ask if my lover be in your 
 power ; of that, too, am I sure — if, indeed, he j^et 
 remains in the power of man. But I ask you if he lives ? 
 I ask of 3^ou the name of his dungeon ! I ask of you 
 his liberty and his life ! " 
 
THE CASTLE OF CHIXON* 
 
 247 
 
 Be Molai spake not a word, but covered liis face with 
 his Lands, 
 
 Oil, sir, I entreat — -I implore yon, answer me ! " 
 wildly ejaculated the Countess, sinking on ker knees 
 upon tke damp dungeon floor beside tkat stern and 
 manacled man, and raising her clasped and snowy hands 
 and streaming eyes before him. "In tke name of all 
 tkat is most dear to you — in tke name of your beloved 
 order — in tke name of tke koly St. Bernard, its patron 
 saint — in tke name of Godfrey Adelman, its pious 
 founder — 'in tke name of the Holy Sepulckre, for tke 
 defence of which it was instituted, and for wkick, like 
 water, it has, for two centuries, poured out its blood — in 
 tke name of ker wko bore yon, or of ker you once loved 
 — T beseeck jou, kear me! Give me back my Adrian! 
 restore me my lover! spare kis life! forgive kis oft'ence ! 
 and, ok, bj^ tke IIol\^ ^[otker, I kere swear to you, never 
 —never skall ke thus offend again! I ask kim not for 
 myself! I ask gnly kis life and kis libei'ty, forever to be 
 consecrated to your noble order ! I yield kis love — kis 
 person — kis presence — all — all most precious to me ! I 
 know — T know his crime against tke pure Eale of your 
 order lias been terrible ! But he was not in fault! indeed 
 it was not he! I — T alone am guilty for tke violation 
 of that vow — of his vow as well as my own ! Tke pale 
 face of the Countess suddenly flushed, and she covered 
 it with ker kands. "He souo;kt not me, it was I that 
 sought him ! It was I, too, who m.ade kim a com])anion 
 of your order ! Alas ! I knew not Avkat I did ! I 
 meant only to prevent his marriage to another. And 
 
248 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 yet, liavir.g imposed on liim those terrible vows, it was 
 I, wretch ! who tempted him to tlieir violation ! Oli, if 
 there must be a sacrifice to your insulted Rule, accept 
 me 1 If there must needs be penalty for crime, on me- — • 
 on me let it fall! He is innocent! I only am guilty! 
 Oh, sir, be merciful — be merciful ! Give me back my 
 lover ! " 
 
 Breathless, the Countess paused. The chief of the 
 Templars spake not. 
 
 " It must, I know, seem a strange thing to you," 
 resumed Blanche, with a wild, sad smile, " that the 
 proud Countess of Marche should thus be kneeling beside 
 you — a doomed and manacled man, — on the mouldy straw 
 of a damp dungeon, at midnight, alone, pouring out a 
 confession which has never left her lips before, no, not 
 even to her God ; and which, if only whispered beyond 
 these rugged walls, would consign her head to the block, 
 -and her name to infamy ! It is strange — it is strange ! 
 And all this should assure you how m^d and des|)erate 
 this wretched heart of mine must be, if not " — and she 
 pressed her white hand to her forehead — "if not my 
 'brain, also. But men never know, and will not believe, 
 all a woman will dare for one she loves. And yet, were 
 not all this even so, I would entrust to you^ terrible man, 
 a secret which I would not entrust to the dread vows of 
 the confessional itself! Your vows are more dread than 
 those — your obligations are more awful ! But Adrian — 
 Adrian, tell me," and she pressed her delicate fingers 
 earnestly on the iron hand of the Templar, knitted 
 together of bone, and sinew, and muscle, and denuded of 
 
THE CASTLE OF CHIXOjS". 
 
 '249 
 
 -all flesh, "tell, oh, tell me," she wildly implored, ''where 
 — where — where is my Adrian? " 
 
 The soldier-monk answered to this toiichino- heart- 
 broken entreaty not a word. 
 
 " Tell me — is he yet in Paris ? in France ? in Eui'ope ? 
 in a Christian land ? 
 
 Still there Avas no ansAver. 
 
 " Is he imprisoned, or is he free ? " 
 
 There was no reply. The Templar lay with his hands 
 over his face like the marble effigies on some crusaders 
 tomb. 
 
 " Tell me ! — tell me ! — tell me ! " almost shrieked the 
 frantic Princess; "does Adrian de Marigni yet live? " 
 
 The wild words fell back from the damp and dreary 
 walls like lead upon the ear. There were no echoes 
 there to awaken. 
 
 For some moments Blanche of Artois remained on her 
 knees, the image of supplication, beside the prostrate 
 and motionless Templar. Then slowly upon her mind 
 seemed to creep a dreadful suspicion — a fearful thought; 
 and, as that Avild presentiment passed her brain, the soft 
 ex[)ression of entreaty faded away from her beautiful 
 face; and, in its stead, tliere gathered a blackness on the 
 brow, an intense fierceness on the compressed lip, and in 
 tlie eye concentrated a lustre like the glare of a maniac. 
 
 Slowly, sternly, firmlj^ she arose to her feet, anddraw- 
 ino- around her the coarse sero-e, which, in her agitation, 
 had fallen from her snoAvy shoulders, and drawing over 
 her face the Dominican hood, she took up the lantern 
 and quietly turned to depart. 
 
250 
 
 THE CASTLE OF CHINON. 
 
 Retreating inlo the shadows at tlie extremity of tlie 
 duugeon, her foiTii was lost in gloom. TLieii raising tlie 
 lantern and suffering its full beams to pour upon lier 
 livid, yet lovely face, and Ler blazing eyes, she said in 
 low and solemn tones : 
 
 "Jacques de Molai, farewell ! Thou liast sealed tliine 
 own doom ! In the dungeon — on the rack — at tlie stake 
 • — amid the ruins of thine order and all most dear to 
 thee, thou wilt remember Blanche of Artois ! " 
 
 The voice ceased— the light went ou.t — a sudden blast 
 of fresh air, as from a subterranean passage, rushed into 
 the cell — a rumbling like thunder shook the vault I 
 Jacques de Molai was alone ! 
 
THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 251 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 THE arrest of the Kniglits Templar by Pliilip of 
 France seat a tlirill of liorror tliroughout all 
 Ciiristendom ! 
 
 In tlie first burst of passion, tlie Sovereign Pontiff 
 despatched, as liis Legates, from Avignon to Paris, Car- 
 dinals De Prato and Gentil de Moutesiore, with ample 
 powers, at once to remove William of Paris, Inquisitor- 
 General from office, and to inhibit the Prelates of France 
 from all cognizance or authority in the affairs of tlie 
 Templars. The proceedings ah'oady had, he declared a 
 guilty encroach nient on the rights of the Papal See. To 
 the King, also, he addressed a mandate, condemning in 
 severe terms the presumption of arresting the members 
 of an order, wdiose only Supreme was the Pope; and bid- 
 ding him, at once, surrender into the jurisdiction of his 
 Legates, the persons and the effects of his children, the 
 Templar Knights. 
 
 Prior to the arrest of the Templars in France, Philip, 
 at the instance of the Countess of Marche, had sent a 
 priest named Bernard Peletus, bearing lettei's addressed 
 to Edward of England, stimulating him to make the 
 same arrest, on the same day, of all members of the 
 order found within his reahn. Letters were also ad- 
 dressed, by the same advice, at the same time and to 
 16 
 
-252 
 
 THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 tlie same end, to Ferdinand of Aragon, and Henry of 
 Lnxembourg, Emperor of Germany ; likewise to the 
 sovereigns of Castile, Portugal and Sicily. 
 
 Before the Court and Council of England, tlie charges 
 against tlie Templars were at once laid; and, while the 
 utmost astonishment was expressed, investigation was 
 furnished. Edward, however, immediately wrote to the 
 Kings of Portugal, Castile, Aragon, and Sicilj^, and, also, 
 to the Emperor and the Pope, imploring them to lend 
 no credeiice to the malicious and infamous calumnies 
 against the Knights of the Eed Cross, who had been the 
 steadfast allies of his throne, and the friends of the 
 liberties of his people, before the day, and since the day 
 as well as on the day, when Almeric of St. Maur, Grand 
 Prior of England, had stood on the held of Kunny Mead, 
 and demanded of King John the Magna Charta — 
 Almeric, that illustrious knight, who passed his last 
 hours in the Grand Temple of his order in London ; and, 
 with all the pomp and prestige of the period was laid 
 to his rest by Templar hands, with Templar rites, in 
 the Temple church.* 
 
 But, subsequently to this, the fickle Edward issued 
 an order dated on the Feast of Epiphany, December 15, 
 1808, for the summonino- of all his sheriffs tlirouohout 
 the realm, to assemble on a certain day, at certain places ; 
 and, on that day, at those places, the sheriffs thus assem- 
 bled, were sworn, suddenly to execute a certain sealed 
 order, then and there to be delivered, so soon as opened. 
 
 *"Tlie Templars," says Addison, "were always buried in the habit of 
 their order, a long wliite mantle with a red cross over the left breast; 
 and thus are they represented in the marble effigies on their tombs." 
 
'THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 253 
 
 This order was the arrest of the Templars ; and, at the 
 same hoar, oq the same day, throughout England, Scot- 
 land, Ireland and Wales, all members of that order were 
 thrown into prison on charge of apostacy to the altar, 
 and treason to the throne ; and their vast estates were 
 attached! For months they remained in durance in 
 various castles and towers. At length, October, 1309, 
 by mandate of the Archbishop of Canterbury, forty-seven 
 of the noblest of the order were brought from the Tower 
 before Ecclesiastical Courts at London, York and Lin- 
 coln, over which presided the Bishop of London and 
 the Envoys of the Pope. Against their bold plea of 
 innocence nothing was proven ; on the contrary, most 
 irrefutable evidence of their irreproachable character 
 and conduct was adduced from the lips of clergy, as well 
 as laity. But they were not released, and, shortly after, 
 came from the Court of France suggestions of Torture^ 
 to elicit confession ! But, when the Archbishop of York 
 dared to ask his Chapter whether torture, — hitherto 
 unheard of on the soil of England, — might be used 
 against the Templars, inquiring if a Machine might be 
 sent'forfrom abroad, as there was not one in the land, — - 
 he received a reply which silenced the demand ! 
 
 After threa years of close incarceration, however, most 
 of the Templars made a vague renunciation of heresy 
 and erroneous opinions, and were sent to various monas- 
 teries, with a pittance from their immense revenues for 
 their support ; and, finally, their estates were yielded to 
 the Knights of St. John.* But, no menaces, no promises, 
 
 * In 1323. 
 
-254 
 
 THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 mo dungeons, no sufferings, could move William de la ' 
 Moore, the Grand Prior of England ; and lie, with three 
 other heroic men, boldly and loudly proclaimed their 
 innocency, and that of their oi der to the very last. 
 
 The whole number of Templars arrested by Edward 
 seems to have been bat two hundred and fifty. Of 
 these, thirty were seized in Ireland, and but two in Scot- 
 land. In England, the order had some seven or eight 
 P]"ece|)tories, of which the celebrated Temple at London 
 was chief. The estates of the Templars in England were, 
 however, immense in every county, and far exceeded 
 those of the Hospitalers; while the Prior of London 
 was first baron of the realm in the House of Lords. 
 
 The King of Aragon, James the Second, was earnestly 
 pressed by the Court of France to follow in the steps of 
 Philip. But his unchanging answer was this. "First 
 convince me of the guilt of the Templars, — then, I will 
 provide a penalty." Forced by the violence of the 
 people, the Templars retired for safety to the fortresses 
 erected by themselves to defend the country against the 
 Moors. Thence they petitioned the Holy Father to 
 protect his children against the infamous charges fiilsely 
 preferred against them, insisting on the purity of their 
 faith, in defence of which they had so often shed their 
 best blood ; that multitudes of Templars were even then 
 captive to the Moors, who, on abjuration of their faith, 
 w^ould, at once, be liberated; and thus the same men 
 were consigned to torture by Infidels as Christians, and 
 by Christians as Infidels; and, finally, they entreated 
 either the proteetion of liome, or, to be permitted to 
 
THE "COMPROMISE. 
 
 255 
 
 protect themselves, as tliey ever Lad done, and, in fair 
 field to .make good their cause, with their own right 
 hands. To all this Clement replied not ; but the King 
 of Aragon, having received at his first summons one of 
 their fortresses in his realm, and being desired only to 
 afford them a just trial, took the order in his kingdom 
 under his royal protection. He, also, forbade all insult 
 or injury to the Templars, under severe penalty, — an- 
 nouncing to all comers his readiness to receive charges 
 against the order; but, warning tliem that if those 
 charges were not sustained, the accusers themselves 
 should suffer the tortures they invoked. 
 
 But James of Aragon was not, in the end, proof 
 against the omnipotent influence that emanated from the 
 Louvre any more than was Edward of England ; and 
 ■despite all his protestations and covenants, he, at length, 
 arrested the knights of the persecuted order wherever 
 they could be found, and, ha\dng detained them in 
 various castles tliey had themselves erected against his 
 foes, in long imprisonment, at last resigned tliem for 
 trial by the Bishop of Valencia, upon which trial they 
 shared the sentence of their brethren in England and 
 Prance. 
 
 In Germany, wlien the mandate for abolishing the 
 order was about to be read by the Archbishop of 
 Metey to his assembled Chapter, suddenly into that 
 priestly conclave strode Wallgruffer, Count Sauvage, 
 Grand Prior of the Temple of the Empire, followed by 
 twenty knights, in full costunae of the order, and, like 
 himself, fully armed, — who, in stern tones, appealed from 
 
256 
 
 THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 all mandates whatsoever, whetlier of Pope or potentate, 
 to the General Council announced to be liolden at 
 Yienne. The appeal was recorded, and, after long and 
 tedious examination, the Templars oF tbat province 
 were ultimately pronounced innocent of the charges 
 preferred.* But their estates were never restored them, 
 and their order was finally blended with those of the 
 Knights of Malta and the Teuton 'c Knights, — the white 
 costume of the Soldiers of the Temple being exchanged 
 for the black habit of those of St. John. 
 
 Thus was the influence of the Louvre felt by Henry 
 of Luxembourg, hero though he was, not less than by 
 every other sovereign of Europe! 
 
 In a similar manner were the charges preferred by the 
 King of France entertained by the sovereigns of Portu- 
 gal, Castile and Sicily, — at first, with amazement, incre- 
 dulity, and indignation; but, at last, through that potent 
 influence which none seemed able to resist, in each of 
 these kingdoms, as in England, Aragon and Germany, the 
 doomed and dreaded order was suppressed. In Portugal 
 the persecution was less severe than in any other king- 
 dom of the Continent; but there, for the title "Soldiers 
 'of the Temple," was substituted " Soldiers of Christ," 
 under which name the order now exists. 
 
 As may be inferred, the stern and indignant mandate 
 of Clement, arresting the arbitrary proceedings against 
 the Templars in Fj ance, was not very quietly received by 
 a man like Philip the Fourth. At first, he utterly refused 
 
 * At Mentz the orcler was pronminced innocent. Tlie Wildgraf Fiedeiic, 
 Preceptor on the liliine, ottered to undergo tlie ordeal of red-hot iron ! 
 
THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 25T 
 
 to receive the Apostolic Legates; but, after a long and 
 close consultation with the Countess of Marche, he 
 vouchsafed them an audience, in Avhich he communi= 
 cated a message for immediate transmission to their 
 master and his. 
 
 In this communication, Philip boldly declared that 
 he had done nothing in the matter of the Templars but 
 at the bidding of an officer of the Papal Court, — Wd- 
 liam Imbert, Grand Inquisitor at Paris, and that the sus- 
 pension of that monk from his powers, because of his zeal 
 for the church, tended dangerously to fortily the corrupt 
 and impious order he had assailed. As fur the Prelates 
 of France, who had received their power in direct suc- 
 cession from St. Peter, and who, in conjunction with the 
 Bishop of Rome, wei'e commissioned to shield Cod's 
 Church from heresy, they, he declared, vicAVcd the inhi- 
 bition of the Holy Father of the discharge of their 
 assumed functions as an undisguised infringe: nent upon 
 their spiritual franchise, and betrayed an evident disposi- 
 tion to disregard the mandate. For himself, his corona- 
 tion oath to God had record in Heaven, and no earthly 
 power could force him to disregard it. That the 
 Templar Knights were guilty of the corrupt and flagi- 
 titous practices of the which they Avere chai'ged, was, he 
 said, by many of them, confessed ; — that God detested 
 those Avho were neither hot nor cold, Avas a tenet of 
 Catholic faith; that not to punish crhn3 promptly was 
 partially to approve it; — and, that this was not the tlrst 
 time France had been in conflict with Eome, because the 
 Pontiff usurped the powers of the Prince, though ifc 
 
258 
 
 THE COMPROMISE. 
 
 miglit be the last, and tlie issue of tbe contest with 
 Clement F fth might prove not unlike to that with 
 'Boniface Eighth. Finally, in unmistakeable proof of the 
 pietj and purit}^ of bis own motives, as well as of a 
 disposition in all things to obey his Holy Father, the 
 King announced his surrender to the Papal ministers of 
 the persons and property of the Templars, provided 
 always, that they should still i-emain under the control 
 of his own Provosts and Police, and in the dungeons of 
 his own prisons ! 
 
 Immediately on the despatch of this missive, Philip 
 issued writs convening the States of liis Kingdom, at the 
 city of Tours, on the Loire, in the Oi'leannois, to confer 
 on matters of vast moment to the realm, on the ensuing 
 Tenth of May. 
 
 To Philip the Fourth did France owe the institution 
 of Parliament and the moi"e fiequent convention of 
 States General than had ever before been known. ''J'o 
 him, also, despite all his own despotic acts, does Paris 
 owe the establishment of Ler most efl&cacious tribunals 
 for the administration of justice, and the formation of 
 lier most respectable body of magistrates. By the 62nd 
 Article of an edict of March 18th, 1303, he gave Parlia- 
 ments to France, one of which was prescribed to be 
 holden in Paris twice every year. At first, the officers 
 and members were of his own nomination. They were 
 removed by him at pleasure, and from him they received 
 the remuneration for their services; while they em- 
 bodied all the lords spiritual and temporal of the realm. 
 
THE COMPRO^IISE.: 
 
 259 
 
 Sabsequently clerks and coansellors learned in the 
 law were admitted.* 
 
 At Tours, the assemblage of delegates was unusuallj 
 large. The King presided in person, and William de 
 Is'ogaret, the Lord Chancellor, detailed, at length, all the 
 charges preferred against the Templars, and the proofs 
 collected in their snpport. The I'esult was, of course, 
 inevitable, — unqualified approval of the past, and equally 
 unqualified warrant for the future, of all roval acts. 
 
 Sustained by this triumpli, Piiilip repaired at once 
 from the city of Tours, with all his ministry, to the 
 city of Poitiers, where now was abiding the A[iostolio 
 See. 
 
 The interview between Clement Fiftli and Philip 
 Fourth, whicli immediately ensued, was of a diameter 
 tempestuous in the extreme. But botli men were too 
 Avorldh'-wise to sacrifice interest to feeling. Passion 
 soon, therefore, yielded to policy, and the Templar 
 Knights were, of course, the saci'ifice to tlie compromise. 
 Eacli party, alil^e, and e [uall}', dreaded a contest, such as 
 had convulsed Euro[)e during the variance between the 
 King of France and Boniface Eighth, and so greatly 
 shaken the power of both. Clement was warned by the 
 dreadful doom of Boniface, and Philip remembered the 
 terrible significance of Papal anathema, — that " thunder- 
 bolt which shook thrones and affrighted nations," — 
 which stripped the altar of its reliques, and the 
 churches of tlieir bells, — which interdicted all sacra- 
 
 * In other parts of Europe, liunian rights seem to have been somewhat 
 acknowledged, at this era, as well as in France, The Swiss Kepublics date 
 from 130T. 
 
260 
 
 TME COMPR0MI3E. 
 
 ments, save tlaat of baptism to the infant, and the viat- 
 icum to the dying ;--which proclaimed perpetual Lent,— • 
 denied all indulgence, forbade all the formalities and all 
 tlie consolations of religious faith, and commanded, on 
 pain of eternal perdition, the disobedience of all the laws 
 of the banned monarch, by all Christian souls within his 
 realm that hoped for Heaven! 
 
 The result of the interview between the Pontiff and 
 the Prince was this, — a comjjromise to the effect that the 
 Templar Knights should remain in the custody of 
 Philip, in the name of the Papal See, the Prelates of 
 France, and the Holy Catholic Church: that, in event of 
 final confirmation of the charges, and the consequent 
 abolition of the order, its immense estates should be 
 devoted to the recovery of the Holy Land, — meanwhile 
 being consigned to agents of the Papal See; and, finally, 
 that William Tmbert and the Inquisitor of Paris should 
 again resume those functions in the examination of the 
 Templars,- which had been so abruptly suspended. 
 
 To the unhappy- captives tliis compromise brought no 
 relief. Their persons remained under tlie custody and 
 control of Philip, while their property was committed by 
 the Pope to the charge of William Pidoue and Eene 
 BourdoUj two of the officers of the Louvre Household. 
 
THE GAUNTLET." 
 
 261 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE GAUNTLET, 
 
 "TXTEARILY — wearih^ Avliilecl away the wintry 
 y y months in the gloomy dungeons of Chinon. 
 Since the strange visit of Blanche of Artois, the venera= 
 ble Grand blaster of the Templars was, indeed, convinced 
 that his own doom, as well as the doom of his beloved 
 order, was sealed. He was convinced, too, that h's 
 doom would be inflicted through the agency and by the 
 influence of the powerful and beautiful woman, wdio had 
 so mysteriously come to liim at midnight, and so mys- 
 teriously disappeared. He was convinced, during his 
 l^ng hours of meditation, — and he had many such, and 
 ample space for many more, — that Blanche of Artois 
 co'uld, indeed, accomplish all she promised — but the 
 conditions of that promise! — not for a single instant could 
 they be entertained. His life— liberty — all most prized 
 — -gladly — ^gladly w^ould that noble old man have yielded, 
 as a propitiatory sacrifice for his beloved order; but 
 there were upon him vows more sacred than life, or even 
 the salvation of that order itself! True, he Avas the de- 
 pository of a fearful secret, a secret, which, once divulged, 
 even in the depths of his dungeon, or on the rack of the 
 Question Chamber of Chinon, would, as inevitablj^ as 
 instantl}^, crash the guilty 'woman whose insatiate ven- 
 geance, lilve a sleuth-hound, tracked him up; ami even 
 
262- 
 
 THE GAUNTLET^ 
 
 give back, perhaps, to himself and his knights their lib- 
 erties. But, alas! that secret was too closely wedded to 
 those vows for them to be parted. The one rendered 
 inviolate the other. The insurance was mutual,^ and sure. 
 
 To different dungeons in the Castle of Chinon were 
 consigned the different officers of the Temple, — the 
 Grand Master of the Order and the Grand Priors of 
 Erance, Normandy and Acquitaine. But De Mohni 
 sliortly discovered that the warder assigned^to his dun- 
 geon had been a serving brother of the Temple, and 
 through his aid, he shortly established a connection with 
 his fellow sufferers, by the " omnific cipher " of the 
 order, — thus communicating and receiving intelligence 
 and opinion, as touching the welfare of their cause. 
 
 Winter had passed away and been succeeded by the 
 spring ; this, too, had passed, and been followed by the 
 soft summer ; and, still, the rigorous captivity of the 
 Templar chiefs in the dungeons of Chinon continued, 
 without hope of alleviation or close. 
 
 At length, on the morning of the seventh day of 
 August, 1308,. a crumpled fragment of linen, covered 
 with mystic characters, was placed by the Templar turn- 
 key into the hands of Jacques de Molai, the significance 
 of which made him start. The meaning of those char- 
 acters was this : 
 
 "Clement deserts us ! — Imbert tortures! — thirty-six 
 Templars have expired on the rack! — to-morrow the 
 Grand Inquisitor will be in the Question Chamber of 
 Chinon! What shall we do ? Inri!"* 
 
 * The signal-word of the order. 
 
THE GAUXTLET. 
 
 263 
 
 Instantly tlie old man traced on tliat portion of tlie 
 fragment of linen, jet unused, a single cipher, conveying 
 this sio-nificant sentence : 
 
 o 
 
 "The good Templar follows his chief! 
 
 " Thirty-six Templars have expired on the rack," 
 tlionght Jacques de Molai. "The extinction of the 
 entire order by torture, is, donbtless, designed. That 
 guilty woman's threat is in fulfillment! This must 
 cease ! And, then, once more — once more fi'ee, and 
 on our good war-steeds, battle-brand in hand, we may 
 defy a world ! " 
 
 The intelligence conveyed by the mystic cipher was 
 true. The next dav. — beino- the eighth dav of August, 
 T\"illiam of Paris with two cardinal Legates, accom- 
 panied by De Kogaret, De Marigni-, De Chatillon, Ilexian 
 de-Beziers, the Prior of Montfaucon, and the sworn Tor- 
 mentor of the Inquisition with all his dark familiars, 
 arrived at Chinon, and, that very night, the Grand Mas- 
 ter of the Temphirs was brought before the infamous, 
 yet most imposing conclave.^ 
 
 Cliinon, like all other castles of the age, was not with- 
 out its Chamber of Torture, amply furnished with all 
 the fearful inventions of the period for the production of 
 human anguish. 
 
 To this apartment Jacques cle Molai was now con- 
 
 * William of Paris, or "William Imbert. was a monk of St. Dominic, and with 
 his wliole order, fresh from tlie bloody scenes of Languedoc and deeply 
 versed in all inquisitorial arts and practices, was devoted, with all his soul, 
 to tlie destruction of the Templars. De Xogaret was the murderer of B(mi- 
 face ; and Du Plessis. or William Plasian, his present coadjutator, had assisted 
 in that sacrilege, and, afterwards, before all the peers and prelates of France, 
 had borne oath that their victim was an atheist and a sorcerer and had a 
 familiar demon ! 
 
264 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 ducted hy tlie ministers of tlie Inquisition. It was a 
 large quadrangular cliamber, situated in tlie centre of 
 the ponderous pile, and surrounded by walls of most 
 massive thickness, witli not a single aperture, save the 
 lovf -browed entrance with its iron door. In the centre 
 was a heavy table of oak, around which, in the order of 
 a council, or a judicial tribunal, sat the Inquisitor with 
 his spiritual and secular satellites. On the table were 
 parchments and materials for writing, and the Prior of 
 Montfaugon seemed to act as greffier, or clerk, to record 
 the proceedings. 
 
 Tlie apartment was but dimly lighted by 'a lamp of 
 iron, which swung directly over the table by a rusty 
 chain from the arched roof of ponderous masonry, drip- 
 ping with damps, and threw its sinister and nncertain 
 glare on the dark conclave below. Each of the members 
 of that gloomy tribunal, whether priest or layman, was 
 arrayed in the full costume of his office and order. 
 
 The chamber itself seemed separated into two apart- 
 ments, by a heavy curtain of sable serge ; and, notwith- 
 standing it was now the depth of summer, a coal iire 
 threw its blood-red glare from a grated furnace in the 
 depths of the wall, and strove, but vainly strove, to dispel 
 the sepulchral damps, as well as to aid in giving the 
 dungeon light, or, rather, in rendering its darkness more 
 visible. 
 
 Loaded with chains, Jacques de Molai, Grand Master 
 of the Templars, strode into the presence of this fearful 
 tribunal, with arms folded on his broad breast, and with 
 a brow as serene, and a step as firm and majestic, and 
 
THE GAUXTLET. 
 
 265 
 
 form as erect, and glance as bold, as lie Lad ever trod 
 the floor of liis own Ciiapter-cliamber, or the field of 
 Paynini conflict. 
 
 A brief delay occurred, when he was thus add^e55G^l 
 by the Inquisitor : 
 
 " Jacciues de Molai, Grand Master of the Order of 
 Knights of the Ternple, otherwise known as Cljevaliers 
 of the Ternple, otherwise Icnown as Knights of tlie Ecd 
 Cross, and, by themselves, presumptuously and Viaspliern- 
 ously, entitled ' Poor Fellow Companions of Jesus Christ 
 and Soldier-monks of the Temple of Solomon," — Jacques 
 de Molai, hear and understand I You are charged, as 
 chief of this order, and, in your person, this order is 
 charged, with apostacy to God, treason to rnan, heresy 
 to the Church, denial of Christ, compact with the Infidel, 
 idolatry of Satan, and with many other iniquities too 
 horrible to declare and too numerous now to recite. To 
 this arraignment of yourself and of the order you rule, — 
 Jacques de iMolai, what say you? Are you guilty, or 
 are vou not guilty ? 
 
 - The majestic old man clasped his manacled diands, 
 and, raising his eyes to Heaven, in firm and steady tones 
 responded : 
 
 Before God, for my beloved order and for myself, 
 I answer. — Xot guilty I'' 
 
 The Incj_uisitor-General gave three raps upon the table 
 with a small gavel of ebony, and, instantly, the curtain 
 of black serge at the extremity of the apartment in 
 front of the council rose. 
 
 The spectacle it revealed might well cause the firmest 
 
266 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 nerves to tremble. The first object wliicli arrested the 
 eye was a low leatbern mattress, spread on a frame, in 
 the centre of the apartment thus revealed ; while, from 
 the vaulted and cavern-like arch above, descended a 
 stout pulley, to the extremity of which, and reposing on 
 the leathern bed, was a broad belt for the waist, with a 
 copper buckle, and two straps of similar breadth and 
 similarly furnished for the shoulders. This, in the 
 poetical parlance of the age, was a "Bed of Justice^ 
 Beside this mattress was a frame of somewhat similar 
 structure, but furnished at both ends with a sort of 
 windlass, evidently worked by the ropes and levers 
 attached. 
 
 Upon the Bed of Justice sat a fearful figure in gar- 
 ments of black slashed with crimson, and with muscular 
 arms bare to the elbow; while, beside him, sat two 
 assistants similarly garbed. 
 
 At a table, at the further extremity of the compart- 
 ment, in a huge arm-chair of oak, sat another man, 
 garbed in robes of black velvet. Before him was an 
 array of restoratives, and elixirs, and cordials, and pun- 
 gent aromas, and a few of the rude surgical instruments 
 of the day, — scalpels and lancets, and tourniquets, and 
 knives. This man was the surgeon of the Torture- 
 chamber; for, by hellish humanity, the victim was suf- 
 fered to perish by nothing but torture; and the utmost 
 assiduity and all the skill of science of the day were 
 ■ exercised to prevent syncope, collapse, or a too speedy 
 death. Beside the rack ever stood the surgeon, with 
 vigilant finger on the victim's pulse; and the torments 
 
THE GAUXTLET. 
 
 267 
 
 Trere increased or di minis lied, exactly as the strei^gtli of 
 the subject seemed to permit, — exactly as the fluttering, 
 or fevered puLe might indicate the discretion of the'.r 
 appliance I 
 
 Upon the floor, or hanging against the walls, was a 
 confused and fearful array of strange-shaped and name- 
 less implements of tonure. Buclvlers and bracelets. — 
 helmets and corselets, — screws for t\iQ thumb and col- 
 lars for the throat, — buskins of iron and gauntlets of 
 steel. — hooks, and chains, and saws, and pulleys. — ^ 
 wedges and beetles of every size — such was the hideous 
 parapliernalia of this vestibule of hell, while, in a blaz- 
 ing furnace in the solid wall, like that already described 
 in the other apartment, gleamed pincers, an.d tongs, and 
 bands, and ploughshares, in fiery menace. Against the 
 wall leaned an iron wheel, and beside it stood a massive 
 mace of the same mxaterial, Avherewitli to crush tlie 
 limbs of the victim reclining on its spokes, — his head 
 bound to ti;e hub and his feet braced against the felloe! 
 
 As tiie black curtain ascended, being apparently 
 • drawn up. on either side, by unseen cords, the sworn 
 Tormentor with his assistants at once arose, and 
 approached the venerable victim, who, with folded arms 
 and erect form, calm and unmoved, still stood before 
 that infamous council. 
 
 "The gauntlet!" said Imbert : and, immediately, one 
 of the assistants brought forward with difficulty a mas- 
 sive glove of steel, which he laid heavilv on the table 
 of council. At the same time, the other satellite, in 
 company with his chief, approached the Grand iMaster, 
 17 
 
268 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 and tlieylaid tlieir huge hands rudely upon his shoulders. 
 The next instant both men were prostrate on the stone 
 pavement, on either side, at the distance of several feet 
 from the Templar chief, while the fire of indignation 
 and insulted pride flamed from the deep sockets of bis 
 sunken eyes. Then, striding firmly to the table, he 
 thrust his powerful hand and arm, half-way up to the 
 elbow, into the gauntlet of steel. 
 
 "Begin!" criel the Inquisitor, with malice almost 
 fiend-like in his tones. 
 
 The assistant tormentor at once commenced turning a 
 screw situated upon the back of the ponderous gauntlet, 
 through Avhich, by most exquisite skill and contrivance, 
 — a sldll and contrivance worthy of exertion in a better 
 cause, — the whole internal apparatus began immediately 
 to contract, embracing every knuckle, and muscle, and 
 nail, — such was the mechanical ingenuity of its con- 
 struction, — so perfectly and so slowly grasping tlie 
 whole hand in its velvet lining, with such equable pres- 
 sure, that, for some moments, no disagreeable sensation 
 whatever could be perceived, bat rather the i-everse. 
 The first perceptible effect experienced by the victim 
 was arrest of circulation and slowly increasing paralysis 
 of the parts. Next, sharp and cutting pangs shot up the 
 nerves into the arm and body; then, sharp semi-circles of 
 steel began to sink into the quick at the roots of the 
 nails, — rough knobs began to crush the knuckles, while 
 sinews of adamant adapted themselves with infernal 
 precision and annihilating effect to the sinews and mus- 
 cles and tendons of the living mechanism of God 1 
 
THE GAUNTLET, 
 
 269 
 
 The torture elicited by sucli a contrivance may, 
 possibly, in some small degree, be conceived. Describe 
 it, of course, cannot be. It can, liovvever, be readily 
 imagined that of all the slcilful inventions of a Dark 
 Age to produce human agony, there were few that 
 could assume precedence of the gauntlet for their 
 infernal triumph. 
 
 And to this hellish instrument was the liand of the 
 heroic old man, which had so often, for the glory of the 
 Church and the cross, — that same church and cross for 
 heresy to wdiich he now^, hy blasphemous perversion of 
 terms, was doomed to suffer, — was the hand of the noble 
 Templar chief, wdiich had so often for the Church 
 grasped the battle- brand, now subjected! 
 
 It was the Templar's right hand which was embraced 
 bv the ponderous gauntlet, as it lay on tiie table before 
 the Inquisitors. The broad palm of his left hand was 
 pressed closely over his heart; — his posture w^as firm — 
 stern — erect — majestic; — his bead was turned aside over 
 his left shoulder, and slightly thrown back; Avhile, with 
 lips apart, and eyes and face devoutly raised to Heaven, 
 as if in prayer, he awaited the torments, which, slowly 
 yet most surely, were approaching. 
 
 For some moments, as the tormentor noiselessly and 
 ceaselessly turned the well-oiled screws, the Inquisitors, 
 wdiose eyes were fastened witli curiosity and awe upon 
 the majestic face of their victim, could perceive no 
 change. At length, the broad broAV slowdy corrugated, 
 — the lips curled witb anguish so as to lay bare the 
 white teeth, — the eyelids fell, — the band dropped like 
 
270 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 lead from tlie heart, — tlie pallor of death diffused itself 
 over the countenance, — a groan of more than human 
 anguish burst from the heaving bosom, and, the totter- 
 ing, tlie venerable sufferer would have fallen, had he not 
 been sustained bv the ponderous gauntlet by which his 
 hand was grasped. 
 
 ''Hold!" shouted Imbert, springing to his feet. The 
 whole council, at the same instant, and seemingly through 
 the same impulse, iiad also risen. "Reverse ! " he cried 
 to the demon of the screw. 
 
 The slave obeyed, and tlie gauntlet began to relax its 
 crushing clasp. At the same time, the man in black 
 hurried forward with a small silver basin half-filled with 
 a freshly-poured fluid, the pungent and acrid aroma of 
 which instantly loaded the atmosphere of the chamber. 
 Tn his hand he bore a sponge. Saturating the sponge 
 with the fluid, and throwing his arm around the victim s 
 drooping form to give it support, he began, with ready 
 skill, application of the soft and porous mass to the nos- 
 trils, lips, cheeks and pallid brow of the exhausted suf- 
 ferer, who showed immediate symptoms of reviving 
 energy. He was, however, too feeble to stand, and was 
 borne by the dark familiars, with most solicitous assidu- 
 ity, to the low leathern mattress, worn thin by use, of 
 the Bed of Justice. The wretches were solicitous lest 
 their victim should too soon escape them,' — lest he 
 should evade additional torments held in reserve. The 
 head of the Templar rested on the bosom of the physi- 
 cian, who sat at one extremity of the mattress, while the 
 tormentor and his assistants, with prompt ingenuity, aided 
 
THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 271 
 
 to sustain liis almost gigantic form, by means of the 
 broad leathern belt suspended by pulleys attaclied to tlie 
 arched roof over the bed of torment, with which they 
 encircled his waist. 
 
 The physician still continued unremittingly to bathe 
 tLe pale face of the sufferer; and his assiduities were, at 
 length, rewarded by success. A deep sigh heaved the 
 patients breast, — his eyes languidly opened, — his lips 
 moved. 
 
 "The flesh is, indeed, weak," he murmured. "Oh, 
 God! how very feeble thy creatures are!" 
 
 " What ssljs the prisoner?" asked Imbert, who, with 
 the other members of the council, had reo'ained his 
 seat. 
 
 "lie says the flesh is weak," echoed the physician. 
 
 "Greffier," cried Imbert, "write down that the accused 
 says, 'Tlie flesh is weak.'" 
 
 Tiie secretary, who had already recorded the groan, 
 the swoon, and the sigh, instantly, with prompt and 
 punctilious ofliciousness, obeyed. 
 
 "Jacquis de Molai," again cried the President of the 
 council, after a pause, " do you confess the guilt of the 
 which yoa here stand charged? " 
 . A silence of some moments succeeded. 
 
 " For the second time, Jac4:[ues de Molai,— do you con- 
 fess your guilt? " asked Imbert. 
 
 Again there was no answ^er, and again there was 
 silence. 
 
 "Jacques do Molai, for the last time, — do you confess 
 your guilt? '' repeated the monk. 
 
272 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 "I do!" was tlie feeble response. 
 
 Had the arched roof of that dark chamber fallen, the 
 Inquisitors could hardly have manifested more wonder 
 than at this unexpected confession. They gazed on each 
 other in bewildered surprise with which was not un- 
 mingled an expression of bitter disappointment. It was 
 plain they had never dreamed, after beholding thirty- 
 six inferior knights of the order expire on the rack, with- 
 out the utterance of a syllable of acknowledgement or 
 contrition, that their heroic chieftain would be the first 
 to falter; and it was plain, too, that this miracle was no 
 more agreeable to them, — inveterate foes to the order as 
 each one individually was from private and personal 
 hostilities without number, — than intelligence thereof 
 would, probably, prove to its most devoted friends, — ■ 
 though, of course, for very different reasons. 
 
 "GrefS.er," said Imbert, after a brief pause, recovering 
 somewhat from his amazement, "write down that the 
 prisoner says, 'I do,' in confession of his guilt." 
 
 The clerk obeyed, and read aloud what he had written. 
 
 The Inquisitor then resumed his interrogatories. 
 
 "Jacques de Molai, you confess yourself guilty of 
 heresy? " 
 
 " Yes," Avas the response of the old man, in meaning- 
 less and mechanical tones. 
 
 lie seemed in a stupor, as with eyes closed, and his head 
 resting on the breast of the physician, who still applied 
 the restorative, he reclined on the low leathern bed. 
 ' But his brain was busy, — his thoughts were far away ; 
 he was sacrificing himself to the salvation, as he hoped, 
 
THE GAUXTLET. 
 
 273 
 
 of li:s beloved order, and Le knew it, he meant it. He 
 liad but one answer to make to ever\' question, be it 
 what it might, and that ansvrer was brief, and required 
 no reflection. 
 
 ''You confess yourself guilty of sortilege and magic?" 
 continued Imbert. 
 •■Yes." 
 
 "And of converse and commerce with the devil, in the 
 form of a big blacli tom-cat? " 
 '^Yes.^^ 
 
 "And of having worshipped said dewll, in the shape 
 of said big blacli tom-cat?"' 
 ''Yesd'^ 
 
 A::d, likewise, of hawing worshipped a big brass 
 hei.d. with, gog-gle eyes, and a long black beard, said 
 beard being greased with the fat fried out of a Tem- 
 piar's cliild, which child, aforesaid, you and your knights 
 roasted before a slow ]dre on the points of your swords? 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And of having sold the Holy Sepulchre to the 
 Infidel?" 
 
 *A5 regards the head tlie Templars vrere said to worship, accounts vary. 
 Some sav it was tliar of an old man with a long white beard : and others tiiat 
 it was the head of a youug woman, and one of the ll.C*>j vii-gins of Cologne ! 
 Another account is this: A Templar loving a maiden, she slew herself 
 rather than yield to him. After her interment, he ouened her grave, and cut 
 off the head.'aud, while thus doiiig, he heard issuing from the pale lips these 
 words— ■■ Whoever looks on me shall he destroyed : Enclosing tiiis Medusa- 
 like head in a box, he took it to Palestine, and. wherever he uncovered the 
 head, walls of cities and whole armies fell: At lensth he embarked to 
 destroy Constantinople: but, on. the voyage, a woman, out of curiosity, 
 opened the fatal box : — a tempest arose I — the ship was wrecked." — every oiie 
 perished, but tlie knight, and the very fishes deserted that seal And", ever 
 after, in tempests, that beautiful head rose to the surface, and rode, 
 gracefullv the waves with streaming hair, and everv ship went down before 
 it: How" the Templars got possession of this terriljle bead tradition telleth 
 not I 
 
274: 
 
 THE GAUNTLET, 
 
 Yes." 
 
 "And denied Christ?" 
 " Yes." 
 
 "And trampled on tlie cross, and spit on tlie conse- 
 crated host, and mutilated the solemn Mass?" 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And that you have drunk human blood, mingled 
 with Cyprus wine, out of skulls, with wizards and witches, 
 and sorcerers, and demons, at their feasts and Sabbaths, 
 and likewise, then and there, and at such time and place, 
 have hopped about on one foot around a big cauldron, 
 in which cauldron was boiling the flesh of infants, 
 which aforesaid flesh, you. did, then and there, after- 
 wards, with the aforesaid devils and other evil persons, 
 partake of nnd devour, with much gloss and glamour 
 and magical practices, likewise, with vigils, and periapts, 
 and cabalistic and symbolic signs and mysteries? " 
 
 The Templar was silent. 
 
 "Yes, or no? — Jacques de Molai — answer!" cried 
 Imbert in tones, which, had that dark old chamber pos- 
 sessed echoes, would have roused them all. 
 
 They certainly roused the poor victim from his rev- 
 erie, for he quickly and eagerly answered: 
 
 "Yes I— yes!" 
 
 "And you do likewise confess that you have pledged 
 the libation of blood, as a seal of your compact with the 
 Infidel, — -your blood and his blood being commingled in 
 the same skull, and drunk up warm and steaming?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The Grand Inquisitor paused to take breath : also, to 
 
THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 275 
 
 give the unhappy Greffier, whose pen the r]_jhteou.s 
 enthusiasm of the nioiik's pregnant and rapid interroga- 
 tories had kept in furious requisition, a chance to catch 
 up; likewise to wipe his forehead. 
 
 But there was another reason why the pious monk 
 of St. Dominic paused, and of far more im[)ort, witli 
 liimself, at least, than either of the others; — he had 
 nothing more to say ! Of common crimes, such as rob- 
 bery, rapine, ravishment, murder, adultery, and the lil^e, 
 thouo'h the charcre ai>ainst the doomed order embodied 
 each and every one in the Hebrew Decalogue, or in the 
 code of Draco, — the wise, and merciful, and learned 
 Wilham of Paris condescended to question not a word 1 
 Not lie! Such crimes Avere in the comparison, trifling, 
 in the wise appi'eciation of the holy father, — aj^e ! and 
 in the infallible judgment of the Holy Church, too, it 
 would seem; for she would sell the privilege of perpetra- 
 ting any or either of the same for a trifling considera- 
 tion! Such crimes were a mere hagaielle compared witli 
 the heinous offences of worshipping Beelzebub in the 
 shape of a big black tom-cat, — of bowing clown to a 
 brazen head with goggle eyes, — of greasing the beard 
 of the aforesaid head with the fat of Templar babies,-— 
 of drinking Paynim blood out of Paynim skulls, — of dan- 
 cing at wizards' feasts and Avitcbes' Sabbaths, and the 
 like, as has been herein rehearsed !* 
 
 * If the reader deems it inorertible, that, on charges like these and abso- 
 lutely and literally these, the Templars were arraijrned. tortured, and burnt, 
 let him consult the works of Dupuy, Raynouard, Vertot, and Villani, in 
 French : and those of all modern historians, whetlier Catholic or Protestant, 
 in English ! 
 
276 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 "The Holj Office has closed its interrogatories," was 
 the pompous promulgation of the Inquisitor-General, 
 otherwise William of Paris, otherwise plain William 
 Iinbert, a friar of St. Dominic, — when he had gone to 
 the length of liis intellectual tether, and had asked as 
 touching every crime of which the polluted annals of the 
 aforesaid Holy Office then had record, — so far as his 
 memory, after due refreshment and reflection and consul- 
 tation with the Cardinals, at the moment served him. 
 "The Holy Office has closed its interrogatories. After 
 the spiritual comes the civil authority." 
 
 This was understood to mean that De Noo^aret, De 
 ]\larigni, or De Chatillon, the Chancellor, Minister, and 
 Constable of France, had now permission to propound 
 questions. The Papal Legates were mere spectators and 
 counsellors. 
 
 "Jacques de Molai," cried the first, "you confess 
 the commission of adultery, fornication, and most horri- 
 ble, abominable, unmentionable, damnable, and beastial 
 crimes, and unpardonable sins against God and Nature? " 
 
 " Yes," replied the Grand Master, who was roused by 
 his friend, the leech, in time to pronounce the significant 
 and saving monosyllable, without exciting wrath, or 
 suspicion by any " heretical and obstinate delay." 
 
 Poor old man! He charged himself with crimes of 
 which he could not have been guilty, if he would! The 
 only passion he had ever felt, — or indulged, in all his 
 life, was military ambition ; and, for twenty years, the 
 blood in his veins had been ice to all "fleshly lusts 
 that war against the soul." 
 
THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 277 
 
 " Jacques de Molai," cried tlie second, and he was the 
 Prime Minister, — "you confess yourself guilty of treason 
 to the crown of France ? " 
 
 "Yes," was the automatic answer. 
 
 "Jacques de Molai," cried the third, and he was the 
 Constable, — "you confess that you have drawn your 
 sword, and levied war, and treasonably conspired, and 
 meditated and suborned others to conspire and to medi- 
 tate treason, against the peace and dignity of the realm 
 of France, and her rightful King, Philip the Fourth, the 
 grandson of St. Louis ? " 
 
 " Yes," was the careless answer. 
 
 Had they asked the old man if he had made the 
 world, — that act beino- construed a criminal one — or had 
 led on the Titans to scale Olympus and dethrone Jove, 
 — or, instigated the rebel angels to dethrone the Diety, 
 his answer would have been the same ! 
 
 But, as none of these interrogations chanced to occur 
 to these most astute and learned lords spiritual and tem- 
 poral, they were not, of course, propounded. Besides, 
 these offences would, in all probability^ have been 
 deemed but minor ones as compared with sortilege and 
 sodomy and magic and idol n try.* 
 
 A pause of some considerable length succeeded, during 
 which silence nothing was heard save the reed pen of 
 the perspiring Greffter, who toiled away to complete his 
 record of the wonderful revelations of that midnight 
 conclave. 
 
 * Nearly every charge against the Templars had previously been made 
 against the martyred Albigenses. 
 
278 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 At length, lie ceased to write, and, witli a relieved, 
 satisfied, and self-complaisant air, contemplated the 
 work of his hands. Tiiis Avas the signal for the Grand 
 Inquisitor again to break silence. 
 
 " Greffier," cried the monk, with most magisterial sol- 
 emnity, "you will now rehearse the record of the pro- 
 ceedings of this onr sitting I" 
 
 The Grefher instantly stood up, and began reading, in 
 that melodious tone styled the nasal, which was quite 
 as characteristic of clerks more than five centuries ago, 
 as it is said to be now. 
 
 "Amen — amen — amen I Be it known, to all and sin- 
 gular, to whom come these writings, that, on the night 
 of the eighth day of August, in the year of the world's 
 salvation, one thousand three hundred and eight, we, 
 the undersigned, — to wit: — William Imbert, Inquisitor- 
 General, Cardinals de Prato and De Montesiore, Legates 
 of the Papal See, William de Nogaret, Chancellor of 
 France, Enguerrand de Marigni, Prime Minister, and 
 Hugh de Chatillon, Grand Constable of the realm, and 
 likewise, etc., etc., appointed to examine, as touching 
 their crimes, the Grand Master of the Templars, and 
 the Grand Priors of France, and of Normandy, and of 
 Acquitaino, by ordinary and extraordinary torture, did 
 meet and assemble in the Question Chamber of the Castle 
 of Chinon, in the Province of Limousin, and then and there 
 did proceed to work. Jacques de Molai, Grand Master 
 of the Templars, being produced and arraigned, pleaded 
 not guilty to the charges preferred against him and his 
 order, whereupon, being subjected to the gauntlet^ he 
 
THE GAFXTLET. 
 
 279 
 
 groa-iied, and tlien nearly swooned, and tLen, "^dien lie 
 reviveJ, sighed, and said — 'The flesh is Aveak;' and 
 being asked, if he Avonld confess — said, ' Yes ; ' and 
 heing asked if he was gnilty of heresy, said, 'Yes;' and 
 beino' asked if he was gailtv of sortilese and mao-ic. said, 
 'Yes;' and, being aslced if he ha<I woi'shipped the devil 
 in the sliape of a big bhack tom-cat, said, ^ Yes ; " and 
 being asked,"' etc., etc. 
 
 And tlms ran on this most edifying and trnthfnl 
 record, to tlie very end of tlie cliajiter already detailed I 
 
 Wlien the sweet and nasal tones of the Grefrier ceased to 
 be heard, the Inquisitor and his coadjutors rose together 
 solemnly from their chairs, 
 
 "Jacques de Molai," cried the Inquisitor, "you have 
 iheard read the record of j'our examination by ordinary 
 and extraordinary torture/' 
 
 The old man had heard not a syllable. His thoughts 
 were elsewhere, and on matters of far different import. 
 
 "Is that record true, or is it false ? " 
 
 "Yes,"' replied the Templar chief. 
 
 His friend of the sponge and basin, who seemed to have 
 a complete, and adequate, and most intelligent apprecia- 
 tion and comprehension of the whole scene, with all its 
 merits, and also its demerits, if it had any, — arising from 
 long familiarity with the like, had giA'cn him a season- 
 able punch in the side. 
 
 "Is it true, or false !"' thundered Imbcrt, elevating his 
 eyebrows, and affecting to regard the simple and inno- 
 cent monosyllable as a suspicious indication of contu- 
 macy. 
 
280 
 
 THE GAUNTLET. 
 
 '*Tru3 — true!" wTaispered the mau in black. 
 
 "True — true!" eagerly echoed the victim. 
 
 The wrath of the Inquisitor seemed partially appeased, 
 and, in tones less teiTible, he continued: 
 
 "And you confess, in the presence of these witnesses, 
 that you are guilty of all these manifold iniquities, and, 
 also, that the whole order, of which you aie chief, is 
 likewise guilty — " 
 
 "Hold!" cried the Grand Master of the Temple, 
 struggling to regain his feet. 
 
 A flash of lightning could hardly have electrified 
 every man in that apartment more completely than did 
 that shout. 
 
 The old hero had been viewed as little better than 
 dead, but the very name of his beloved order had 
 recalled hijn to life. 
 
 "Hear me and bear witness, all you who are here 
 present ! " he exclaimed, in stern, strong tones. " Against 
 myself I confess everything: — against the Temple 7wth- 
 
 And the victim sank back again into his seeming 
 stupor, as if exhausted. 
 
 The members of the council looked on each other 
 in solicitude and doubt. 
 
 But the night was now far advanced, and the saga- 
 cious Imbert put a summary close to all embarrassment, 
 by exclaiming: 
 
 "Jacques de Molai will be borne to his dungeon. On 
 the morrow, Hugh de Peralde will be examined by or- 
 dinary and extraordinary torture, as touching his crimes, 
 
THE GAUXTLET. 
 
 2S1 
 
 aind after Lini tlie Grand Priors of Xonnar.dy and 
 Acquitaiiie, in snecession. And God save tbe Hu-j 
 Churcli:"' 
 
 God save tl.e TI o]y Cl;nrcli ! " echoed ail in ti.e dnn- 
 geon. crossing their breasts. 
 And even so it ^as. 
 And the council dispersed. 
 
 And Jacqnes de Aloiai v. as borne to his dungeon. 
 
 And the next day the Grand Priors of France, ard 
 iKormandy. and Acquitaine vrere examined by ordinary 
 and extraordinary torroi^e, as touching the preferred 
 charges. 
 
 But the faithfal Temphar turnkey had placed in tl:e:r 
 hands the cipher from the chief of their beloved order, 
 which meant : 
 
 '•The good Tempiar foilovrs his leader." 
 
 And likevrise the Templar vratch-vrord of Chinon, 
 which vras this : 
 
282 
 
 THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 
 
 HE examination of the Grand Priors of France, 
 
 fl Normandy and Acquitaine wliicli ensued, as 
 appointed, on tlie niglit succeeding that of the examina- 
 tion of the Grand Master of the order, in the Question 
 Chamber of the Castle of Chinon, was, in all respects, in 
 character and in results, the same as that detailed in the 
 last cliapter. The mode of torture only was varied, and 
 the confessions varied, also, in unimportant details; 
 while less time was wasted u|)on all three of the Priors 
 together than had been devoted to the chief magnate of 
 the oi'der alone. 
 
 On the morning succeeding the examination of the 
 Grand Priors, being that of the tenth day of August, 1308, 
 the whole council deputed to the service left Chinon for 
 Paris, with all the records of their proceedings, in order 
 themselves to be the couriers of the unlooked-for result 
 of their mission, and to afford their royal master the aid 
 of their suggestions, as touching the somewhat embar- 
 rassing position, in which they were aware he would be 
 placed by the event they were to announce. 
 
 Nor had they misj udged. Philip was filled with rage and 
 disappointment at being thus foiled in a purpose, which 
 De Molai seems rightly to have divined, of annihilating 
 
THE FIELD OF ST. AXTGTXE. 
 
 233 
 
 tlie ^vhole order upon the rack, save only tliose wlio 
 Avould renounce their vows and aid in his design I Of 
 these Litter were not a few of those wiio had assume 1 
 the title of Templar and its costame, Avithout the right 
 to either, and had been degraded by the Grand Master, 
 in liis stringent efforts at reform, on his first arrwal at 
 Paris. Tliere were others fi'om wdiom the Templar 
 rnantle had been torn as a mark of degradation, for vice 
 or for crime, or who had been subjected to penance or 
 imprisonment for violation oi' their vows, who were 
 rejoiced at the opportunity now afforded them, v.ot only of 
 charging the order from Avhich they were apostates of 
 most horrid guilt, but thereby obtaining honors and 
 rewards. Others tliere were whom menace had intim- 
 idated, tortnre vanquished, or bribery corrupted. But, 
 until now, the number of these was comparatively small, 
 as is evidenced by the large proportion of the victims 
 wdio expired from the extremity of their tortures. 
 
 But, now, as the astute Philip had foreseen it would 
 be, it was very different. The example of the Grand 
 Officers of the order seemed irresistible. At once, not 
 only in all the dungeons of Paris and all over France, 
 but in England and Provence, at Eavenna, Pisa and 
 Florence,'^ and, indeed, all over Europie. everv charge, 
 however hideous, and impossible, and absurd, was no 
 sooner preferred than confessed. 
 
 Dismayed, disappointed, embarrassed, the enemies 
 of the persecuted order v^ere at a loss what next to do. 
 The effect of the Grand iMaster's example surpassed their 
 
 18 
 
 * Yelly. 
 
284 
 
 THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 
 
 utmost appreliensious, and excited even their astomsli- 
 meiit. That amazement would, probablj^, Lave been less, 
 had the J been aware that, in tlie train of the Inquisitor 
 of Chinon, rode one who entered Paris with themselves, 
 and who bore an order in cipher from De Molai to 
 the imprisoned Templars, bidding them imitate their 
 Master. " The good Templar follows his leader," said 
 a single cipher of the soldier-monk; and this cipher 
 explained all. They asked not for motives, nor for 
 designs. It was the order of the Grand Master, and 
 they obeyed. 
 
 But if Philip and his Ministers evinced surprise and 
 disappointment at the unexpected and embarrassing 
 phase now assumed by the affairs of the Templars, there 
 was one whose wrath at that event far exceeded their 
 own, even as her prior enthusiasm exhibited in the 
 cause had put their own to the blush. That person — 
 strange to tell! — was the once mild, gentle, amiable, 
 and still most lovely Blanche of Artois, the Countess of 
 Marche ! From the midnight dungeons of Chinon, she 
 seems to have emerged a fiend of cruelt}^ and crime ! . 
 
 It has been asserted that the heart of woman, once 
 thoroughly depraved, can find no equal in the breast of 
 man, however corrupt; that it knows no compunction, 
 is utterly unforgiving, and can devise and calmly inflict 
 torments, at which the sterner sex would shudder. If 
 this he so, never was a more striking example of the 
 principle exhibited than in Blanche of Artois. Never 
 had woman loved, worshipped, idolized, more deeply, 
 desperately, devotedly, than had she. The first gushings 
 
THE FIELD OF ST. AXTOIXE. 
 
 285 
 
 of her passionate heart had been checked and chilled at 
 their very fountain by the faithfulness of their unwortlij^ 
 object ; and, having turned elscAvhere for consolation, 
 and sympath}^ in an ill-hited hour, it had centered on one 
 who seemed the very vision that had haunted all her 
 girlliood dreams— the very ideal of all ber maturer long- 
 ings. Oil. how had that fond and fervid bosom pal|iitated 
 with passion in the embrace of that beloved being ; and, 
 oh, tlie agonv by which it had been wrung when bereft 
 of its idol! To win back that idol — to clasp that 
 beloved object once more to her heart, althougb the 
 embrace were death, she would gladly sacrifice all most 
 dear to her as a princess, or a woman. Alas I what had 
 she not sacrificed! She, the proud, the pure, the peer- 
 less — ^the bride of a prince, the idol of a palace, the star 
 of a court, the boast of a kingdom, the counsellor of a 
 king, the beloved and admired of all who knew her — to 
 whose sweet face all eyes looked up witli respectful love, 
 and for whom one guilty throb would have been crashed 
 in the heart as sacrilege — alas ! — alas ! — what was she 
 now? The insane slave of a horrible and unheard-of 
 vengeance, begotten in a heart now a hell — once a 
 heaven by a passion yet more deliriously mad, more 
 rapturously guilty! Ah! what had not that wild pas- 
 sion cost her ! Doubt, dread, delirium, terror, suspense, 
 remorse! And the dreadful vengeance that folloAved 1 
 Every pang sbe inflicted she felt; and the rack in the 
 dungeons of her own dark heart worked on as ceaselessly 
 as in the dread dungeons of her innocent victims I 
 
 And then the humiliation, the abject and pitiful 
 
280 
 
 THE FIELD OF ST, ANTOINE. 
 
 entreaty, the beseecliing supplication, to wliicli she had 
 bowed herself, because of that same wild love! The 
 youthful, beautiful, powerful Countess of Marclie, at 
 midnight, in the damp dungeons of Chinon, gained only 
 by a long and toilsome route, through subterranean pas- 
 sage — at the foot of a manacled old man, imploring, 
 entreating, supplicating, by all things most sacred and 
 most dear — only to be haughtily and scornfully spurned ! 
 
 " Ah, let him writhe — let him writhe on ! " would she 
 wildly and exultingly exclaim, as with rapid steps and 
 flashing eyes, and pallid cheek, and disheveled hair, like 
 a lost spirit, she would pace at midnight her lonely 
 chamber. "Oh, God! what but tlie rapture of revenge 
 is left me before I die ! Aye, let him writhe, agonize — 
 that dark old man, even as I do now ! But, alas ! he 
 cannot suffer with me! All, had I but his naked heart 
 within my grasp, that I might crush it, even as he has 
 crushed mine! But the end is not yet — the end is not 
 yet! Adrian, Adrian, Adrian!" she would ejaculate, 
 in tones of touching sorrow, bursting into an agony of 
 tears, and dropping beside the couch on which he had 
 so often received her caresses, and burying her hxce in 
 her hands — " Would to God we were both of us dead ! " 
 
 And scenes like this were witnessed by that deserted 
 chamber of Blanche of Artois, not once, nor twice, nor 
 thrice, nor many times ; but every night, when, after a 
 whole day of toil in the accomplishment of her fierce 
 and terrible vengeance, she retired to her lonely pillow, 
 such fearful scenes, accompanied by prayers, and vows, 
 and ejaculations, and awful maledictions, occurred! 
 
THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOIXE. 
 
 287 
 
 It is not wonclerfiil, therefore, that wlieii that revenge, 
 so llercely sought, seemed, even for a moment, foiled or 
 balked, the avenging spirit in Blanche of Artois should 
 have been proportiouallv roused. 
 
 As for Piiilip, he was too deep a student — too profound 
 an inquisitor of the human heart not to perceive that 
 his fair daughter-in-law, despite all concealments and 
 disguises, Avas actuated by some intenser emotion than 
 the wdsh to gratify him, in her pertinacious pursuit of 
 the Templars. What that impulse might be he could 
 not divine; and, in sooth, absorbed as he was in his own 
 grasping and avaricious schemes with reference to the 
 same end, he did not very zealously seek. His curiosity, 
 it is true, was somewhat piqued to know the influence 
 that could have changed so gentle a being, as had 
 ahvays been, until lately, Blanche of Artois, into the 
 stern, fierce, resentful voman he now knew her. But 
 her revenge had the same object as his own avarice. 
 Whatever its cause, of this he was sure ; and he did not 
 know — nay, he did not care to know, and, surely, never 
 asked, whence it originated. 
 
 Adrian de Marigni had not been seen in Paris since 
 his mysterious disappearance. Blanche hnd fondly hoped 
 that he might be found in the dungeons of the I'emple ; 
 but when, at her instance, and lor this sole purpose, it 
 had been seized and converted into a palace, although 
 she had personally, at midnight, torch in hand, searched 
 every vault, and well, and oubliette and in jpace^ and dun- 
 geon, of that black old pile, and though she had found 
 many victims, she found not, alas! — him she sought. 
 
288 THE FIELD OF ST. ANT0I2TE. 
 
 And tlie Queen of Navarre and Philip de Launai, her 
 Norman lover — the single star yet gleamed nightly from 
 the tall tower of the Hotel of Nesle, and nightly the 
 solitary boatman crossed the Seine when the clock of St, 
 Germain I'Auxerroi^ tolled the half hour after twelve. 
 
 Jane of Burgimdy had given birth to a daughter (who 
 in after years was Isabella, Dauphine of Viennois) at the 
 Abbey of Maubuisson. But this event did not part her 
 from her handsome Equerry, her beloved Walter. 
 
 Walter and Philip were both Templars — as has been 
 said — but the guardian care of the ladies of their love 
 saved them from the dungeon and the rack. 
 
 Louis le HiUin passed most of his time at the city of 
 Pampeluna, the capital of Upper Navarre, governing 
 his little realm a little, and making love to a lovely 
 Navarre lady a good deal. 
 
 As for Charles le Bel and Philip le Long^ the other 
 two sons of the King, (who, each of them, in turn, after 
 their elder brother Louis, became sovereign of France), 
 they lived in the Louvre, and were not Templar Knights, 
 and cared very little who were, so long as they were 
 permitted undisturbed to prosecute their amours and 
 intrigues. 
 
 Charles of Yalois, disappointed in his aspirations for 
 the imperial diadem, was in camp at Courtray; but long 
 since he had replied to the anxious inquiries of the Min- 
 ister that his son had not joined his regiment, nor been 
 heard of since sent to Paris with despatches, nearly 
 three years before. 
 
 And Marie Morfontaine, the poor and friendless 
 
THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOI^^E. 289 
 
 brpliau heiress — but wo— friendless she was not — for, by 
 one of those strange revulsions of tlie human heart, 
 wiiich are sometimes witnessed, the Countess of Marche 
 now had the young girl — pale, thin, miserable, as she 
 was — forever at her sid3 1 She seemed now the only 
 beino- that Blanche of Artois loved ! She would some- 
 
 o 
 
 times clasp her to her heart, and for hours these two 
 women would mingle their tears. 
 
 And Marie Morfontaine loved Blanche, despite all the 
 irreparable harm she had done her! And, despite all the 
 irreparaljle harm each had done the other — and perhaps 
 for that very reason — who knows'/ — they seemed now to 
 cling to each other with a sti-onger grasp — witli the 
 grasp of death itself. Alas ! they were each to the 
 other the sole remembrancer of the onlv man eacli had 
 ever truly loved ! They loved each other — bereaved 
 and wretched as they were — for the very reason that 
 each had loved him — lost, — lost now foi-ever to them 
 both! And as their love had the same object, so had 
 their revenge 1 
 
 Edmond de Goth still remained at the French Court, 
 the most patient and the most devoted lover of the age! 
 True, his love did not seem to pale his cheek much, 
 nor to dim his eye, nor to diminish his bulk. Xot at 
 all, indeed. His sorrowing and sighing — if, peradven- 
 ture, the worthy man knew what it was to sorrow or to 
 sigh — seemed to have had the same eftect on his form 
 as they had oir that of Shakspeare's Sir John of Wind- 
 sor — they "puffed it up like a bladder:" — and for this 
 reason, and for no othe-r, indeed, might he say, " A 
 
290 
 
 THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 
 
 plague on it!" Yet why sliould lie sorrow or sigli ? 
 True, Marie Morfontaiiie did not love liim. She had 
 told him so an hundred times. But then she had also 
 said on the self-same hundred times that she did not 
 love anybody else. And what could a reasonable lover 
 require more, forsooth? Besides, to tell the truth, he 
 had to confess, even to himself, that he was not, after 
 all, actually, very deplorably and wretchedly in love 
 with the young heiress. It would have been a fierce 
 flame, indeed, and perfectly vestal in its im mortal! t}^, if 
 in nothing else, to have blazed up against the almost 
 daily quenchings she poured u.pon it. Finallj^, though 
 Marie Morfontaine did not love him, and was every day 
 fading, fading and losing her beauty of face and form, 
 yet it was some consolation — (to one who hoped against 
 hope, tl^at in very despair, and actually to get rid of 
 him, she might possibly, at some distant day, perchance, 
 take him for her lord) — that her immense estates in 
 Kormandy were every day becoming more and more 
 valuable! Why slioiild he grieve? He ate, slept, drank, 
 dressed and flirted as usual: — why pity /zzm.^ Pshaw! 
 Why. waste so many words on him ? 
 
 Thus passed away the summer, and the autumn and 
 winter of 1309, at the Court of France. The l^emplar 
 Knights, although they freely admitted themselves guilty 
 of every crime they were asked to admit, whether pos- 
 sible or impossible, were still retained in their dungeons. 
 It was plain that the scheme of the Grand Master did 
 not result as lie had hoped. That scheme ihe penetra- 
 ting mind of Blanche of Artois had, from the fii'st, thor- 
 
THE FIELD OF ST. AXTOIXE. 
 
 291 
 
 oughly detected and seen tiirougli. She liad now waited 
 the prescribed time, and slie had resolved that it should 
 avail no more — that the hated order should not be saved. 
 In her heai't its doom had already long been sealed. 
 
 Jacqnes de Molai, Hugh de Pei'alde, Guy of aSTormandy, 
 and the Grand Prior of Acquitaine were brought from 
 Chinon to the Temple. 
 
 Again, despite the confessions of the victims, the rack 
 was at Avoriv in every dungeon in Paris. 
 ■ The result was exactly that Avhich this deep-plotting 
 w^oinan had anticipated, ^i'o the utter astonishment of 
 every one but hei'self, almost every Templar, who before, 
 without compulsion and torture, had confessed himself 
 guilty of all [)Ossible and impossible crime, now, when 
 stretched upon the rack, answered not a word! The 
 secret cipher, the royal arch cipher was again at work| 
 "The good Templar folloAvs his leader." The Grand 
 Master had recanted ! 
 
 Were not all this fact^ reader — historical fact — the 
 testimony of hundreds of foes as well as of hundreds of 
 friends of the Temple — it would be too strange even for 
 the purposes of fiction. 
 
 Philip had been embarrassed b}^ the confession of the 
 Templars: he was now more embarrassed by their recant- 
 ation. Xot so Blanche of Artois. Relapsed Heretics''' 
 she called them ; and as such Avere they condemned; and 
 as such on the morning of Tuesday, the 12th of May, 
 1310, were fifty-nine knights of the fated order — among 
 whom was one of the King's own chaplains — consumed 
 at the stake by slow iiJ-e, in a field behind the Abbey of 
 
292 
 
 THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 
 
 St. Antoine, on a spot tlien in tLe suburbs of Paris, now 
 in its heart, and their ashes scattered to the winds! On 
 the same day many provinces of France \7itnessed a like 
 spectacle. 
 
 Over this horrible massacre presided the Archbishop 
 of Sens, brother of Enguerrand de Marigni, the Minister, 
 and uncle of Adrian. Each one of the victims died 
 asserting steadfastly the innocence of all and the honor 
 of the order with his last breath. liistory relates that, 
 after they had reached the spot, life and Ireedom were 
 freely proffered, if they would repeat their former con- 
 fession ; but the imploring prayers of friends and the awful 
 terrors of the stake, the torches of which already blazed 
 before their eyes, could not shake the purpose of these 
 iron men. They were chained to the fatal tree— smoke 
 and flame, like fiery scorpions, wreathed their suffering 
 frames; but, so long as their voices could be henrd, 
 through that wild whirlwind of conflagration, only the 
 prayers and hymns of their beloved order, and their 
 protestations to Heaven of their innocence could be dis- 
 tinguished. 
 
 This was awful! Even the citizens of Paris — pois- 
 oned as were their prejudices against what they were 
 taught to believe an infamous frat)ernitv, could but ex- 
 press admiration for the God-like firmness with which 
 the martyred Templars met their end, and endured their 
 torments; and express commiseration for their fate, and 
 indignant wrath against their murderers ! 
 
 But there was one — a pale and lovely woman — who, 
 from the tall central tower of the -Louvre, looked away 
 
THE FIELD OF ST. ANTOINE. 
 
 293 
 
 to tlie west, and viewed tliose flames until tliey had 
 ceased to gleam against the darkening horizon; and she 
 pitied not ! Alas ! alas ! she even exidted in her fiendish 
 and horrible work. - 
 
 But a dreadful reckoning was at hand — close at hand! 
 As she descended from that tower and entered her cham- 
 ber, it was night; and in her hand a swift courier placed 
 a paper; and she opened that paper quickly and read; 
 and she dropped like a corpse upon the ground! 
 
 That paper contained the last farewell of Adrian de 
 Marigni, who that day, by virtue of a general order 
 inspired by the Countess of Marche, had perished at the 
 stake, consumed by slow fire, as a Knight Templar 
 who would not confess, before the priory of Yosges, in 
 the province of Lorraine!" 
 
 * At Penlis nine Templars perished at the stake and four others shared their 
 fate a few months hiter. At Pont-de-rArche and ( arcassone several knights 
 were burnt. Thibault. Duke of Lorraine, a friend of Philip, put a laree nmn- 
 her to death, and seized the floods of their Preceptory. In tlie churcli of Gav- 
 arnic, a liamlet of the Pyrenees, on tlie route to Spain, are sliown twelve 
 sliulls, said to be those 'of Templars beheaded at that place. At Kimes, 
 Troyes. Caen, Bigorre, Cahors, Poitiers, Bayeux. Metz, Toul, Derdun and 
 numerous other places, the order was subjecTed to the torturs. In £'pain aud 
 Italy the rack was also applied to wring confession. 
 
294 THE GRAND MASTER IX ^'OTRE DAME. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXV. 
 
 THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 
 
 HAPPY had it been for Blanclie of Artois Lad slie 
 from that deep and death -like slumber never 
 awakened ! 
 
 But the miserable do not die ! They who court dentli 
 seldom win it. There is in wretchedness a power of 
 embalment, which seems to confer on its victim the fear- 
 ful boon of earthly immortality 1 Like that line in 
 mathematical science which ever approaches, yet never 
 attains the point at which it aims, — -like the Hebrew 
 wanderer who forever sought death, amid the scenes of 
 its wildest ravages; yet never found it, — thus would it 
 seem that the miserable are forever forced to hve; while 
 the poor, shuddering, terrified, ti'embling wretch, to 
 whom life is dear, and who, witli terrible tenacity, clings 
 to it, is torn bleeding away and hurried i'rom the earth! 
 
 The ways of Providence are, indeed, mysterious! In 
 her grand and majestic march, how little heeds she those 
 who are crushed beneath her tread ! 
 
 Hnppy had it been for Blanclie of Artois could she 
 then have died ! 
 
 Mar^e Morfontaine chanced to be in th^ apartment of 
 the Countess when she entered, and instantly rendered 
 that aid which all of Eve's suffering daughters know so 
 
THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 
 
 295 
 
 well how to administer to eacli other's ills. Through 
 her active attention, Blanche soon evinced symptoms of 
 returning life ; and, having opened her eyes, gazed wildly 
 around. 
 
 At length her gaze fell upon the young orphan, and 
 clinging to her frail form, as if for succor, slie murmured : 
 
 " What, — what is it, Marie ? " 
 
 ''You have been ill, madame," was the soft reply. 
 
 ''111?" muttered the Countess, after a pause. "Am I 
 not always ill? " Then suddenly throwing her hand to 
 her forehead, she added, "Tell me, what has happened? " 
 
 "I only know, madame," replied the orphan, "that I 
 heard a fall, and hastened out, and found you at your • 
 door in a swoon. I also found lying beside you this 
 paper," she continued, presenting the fatal note. 
 
 Instantly the whole subject flashed back on the mind 
 of the Countess, and for some moments she seemed 
 again about to pass into her former unconscious state. 
 
 But Blanche of Artois had a masculine mind, in a ' 
 "frame of iron inherited from a long line of heroic 
 .ancestors; and that mind gradually assumed its ascen- 
 dency over that frame. 
 
 " Give me that paper ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 She was obeyed, and with a shudder it was thrust into 
 her bosom. 
 
 " Now, Marie, put me to bed," she added more calmly ; 
 " I am weary — very wear}^" 
 
 " Shall I call your women, madame ? " asked Marie. 
 
 " No, no, no ! call no one ! — assist me to the couch," 
 was the low reply. 
 
296 
 
 THE GRAND MASTEK IN NOTRE DAME. 
 
 The orphan obej^ed. 
 
 " Shall I remain ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes, oh, yes," said the Countess ; " and if you be- 
 come weary, lie beside me." 
 
 Hour after hour — hour after hour, through the long 
 and silent night watches, did Marie Morfoiitaine sit 
 beside that unhappy woman, and gaze on that pale and 
 lovely face, faintly lighted by the rays of tie distant 
 lamp ; and hour after hour heard she the iron tongue of 
 Time record its lapse. And, oh, the many miserable 
 thoughts which, passed through her mind — the many 
 agonizing feelings that filled her breast ! But the pale 
 slumberer — she pioved not — scarcely seemed to breathe'; 
 and at length Marie Morfontaine obeyed her injunction, 
 and laid herself beside her on the couch, and, shortly, 
 soundly slept. 
 
 But Blanche of Artois slept not — she woke not — 
 dreamed not ; her mind and her senses seemed steeped 
 in stupor. 
 
 And thus was it even until the morning dawn. 
 ^ One \yould have supposed, after all Blanche of Artois 
 had endured, she could hardly have experienced a new 
 toi'ture, either of body or of mind. 
 
 But the heart, after all, is but a portion of the physi- 
 cal being. Agony may be elicited by the application of 
 torture to one of its parts, which to the sufferer may 
 seem to embrace all of suffering which humanity can 
 endure ; yet,' let a different species of torment be ap})lied 
 to the same spot, or, let the same species of torment be 
 applied to another, and the victim writhes in anguish, as 
 
THE GRAXD YA5TEH IX XOTRE DA^IE, 297 
 
 if Le liad never ^vritlied before, nor tliouglit that art liacl 
 exliausted lier tortures. 
 
 Even tlius was it ^vitli Blanche of Arto:s. She bad 
 suffered — she ihouc/ht she had siitiered a// that the human 
 heart could suffer. But, ahis I sLe found it vas not so 
 -vlien the conviction came home to her that her own 
 order had consigned to death, by most awful and linger- 
 ing- torments, him. vrhoni more than all earthly beings — - 
 wdiorn more tlian her own soul, wdiom more than her 
 God Himself, she had loved ! 
 
 Amid all her sufferings, hitherto, had still existed hope 
 — the hope, however faint, that she might yet. before she 
 died, clasp her idol to her heart. iHope now was dead. 
 In its place was born despair, and from the incestuous 
 nnion of despair and hate was begotten a new existence 
 — a terrible revenge ! 
 
 She could not perceive — poor woman, blinded as she 
 was by intolerable angnish — that she had lierself doomed 
 her lover to an aAvful death — first by her Avild love, and 
 afterwards by her wilder vengeance. As for the un- 
 happy orphan, she pitied her, loved her — even despised 
 her, too thoroughly to blame her for any part she might 
 have acted in this fatal tragedy. But there was one 
 being on whom now all the intense and concentrated and 
 virulent rancor of her strong soul concentred — liim 
 whom, from tl:e hrst, she had viewed as the author of all 
 her ruin. That man was Jacr|iies de Molai. Grand iMas- 
 ter of the Templar Knights, and on his devoted head 
 she resolved to wreak all the fearful vengeance of her 
 fancied wrongs and her teriible tortures. 
 
298 
 
 THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 
 
 In tliis office of revenge, slie was aided by anotlier, 
 wlio too late discovered that lie had been exercising 
 cruelty against tlie Templars, only to destroy bis own 
 dearest object in life, and as it were, too, with bis own 
 hands. That m an was Enguerrand cle Marigni ; for, shortly 
 after the communication to Blanche of Artois of the sac- 
 rifice of Adrian, his only son, as a Templar, in a remote 
 section of the realm, the same dreadful intelligence came 
 to himself. The Minister had always been an -uncom- 
 promising foe of the Templars; but never, amid his 
 wildest visions, had he dreamed that he was exerting all 
 his energies for the destruction of an order of which his 
 beloved son was a member ; and that, directly through 
 those efforts, that son would be consigned to a dreadful 
 death! On the first intelligence, he was overwhelmed 
 with grief and dismay. But the lapse of time, which 
 heals all wounds, healed even this, the most deep in a 
 parental breast ; and into that breast, as into that ot* 
 Blanche of Artois, entered — not the pure spirit of for- 
 giveness, but the fell spirit of revenge. 
 
 To commit) Jacques de Molai and his Grand Officers to 
 the stake — to sweep from existence tliat order, by them 
 more dearly loved than life itself, and to confiscate its 
 immense estates in France to the crown — such were now 
 the three several purposes of three individuals : Blanche 
 of Artois, Enguerrand de Marigni and Philip le Bel. 
 
 To the death of Jacques de Molai were devoted all the 
 energies of the Countess for the loss of her lovei' ; noth- 
 ing less than the utter annihilation of the hated order 
 could appease the vengeance of the Minister for the loss 
 
THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME; 29^^ 
 
 of Ilis son ; and the rapacious spirit of the King had, 
 from the first, regarded the vast re venues of the Templars 
 as the only means by wLich to sustain his power, and to 
 relieve i^'s realm from the impending financial nun, 
 brought on by his protracted wars with England, FJau- 
 ders, and Bom face Eighth. 
 
 But in the final decis'on oP the fate of the Temple 
 and its Grand Officers, Pope Clement Fifth claimed, — and 
 rightfully claimed,— to be the lord paramount; while it 
 had alread}' been decided, as he understood, by the com- 
 pact of May, 130S, between the King and himself, that/ 
 in event of the abolition of the order, its vast wealth 
 sliould revert to the Papal See, for the defence of the 
 Iloly Land. :. ■ v .- ; T - 
 
 Bertrand de Groth had never forgotten nor forgiv^en the 
 insults of Philip, at the x\bbey of St. Jean d'Angcly, nor' 
 those at the subsequent interview at Poitiers. ISTor had- 
 he forgotten that the Eoman Pontiff was the appellate, 
 chief of the Templars, and that, for two centuries, these 
 mailed monks had been tl;e u.nfaltering supporters of the 
 successors of St. Peter, even against the King of France^ 
 himself. But Bertrand de Goth was neither a great' 
 man nor a good man, and he long since had learned that 
 he had to deal with a man as unscrupulous as he Avas' 
 powerful; — a man wdio had made alF that he was,, 
 and who, as he had planted him on a throne which he? 
 had vacated by the removal of two of his predecessors,"^^' 
 might also, if it so seemed good to him, ]'emove himself ^ 
 
 * Boniface VITT. and Benedict XT. are both supposed to have owed their 
 death to Philip Ze^e?, indirectly if not directly. - \ ' ' [ 
 
 19 ' ' - ^ ' 
 
300 
 
 THE GllAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME, 
 
 to make room for a more pliaat tool, — a more subservient 
 and submissive slave. To preserve the lives of a large 
 number of Templars who had perished, he had found to 
 exceed his power. He had himself been compelled to pre- 
 side over the examination of seveiitj-two of the order, at 
 Avignon, ^vho had confessed everj^ charge of which they 
 were accused. It might exceed his power, or his will to 
 exercise that power, to preserve the Grand Master and his 
 companions from the stake, or to prevent the abolition 
 of the order. But on one point he was resolute : rather 
 than suffer the vast revenues and immense estates of the 
 Temple to revert to the coffers of Philip of France, he 
 was determined tliat, not only his pontifical power, but 
 his life itself should be the sacrifice. 
 
 This Philip understood and comported himself accord- 
 ingly, and, in compliance with the demand of Clement, 
 and in pursuance of his appointment, on the 7th of 
 August, 1310, several months after the martyrdom of the 
 Templars in the field of St. Antoine, there convened a 
 Papal Commission of eight Ecclesiastics in the Cathe- 
 dral Church of ISTotre Dame, who cited the whole Order 
 of the Templars to appear before them."^ 
 
 * Authorities conflict as to the chronology of the chief incidents of the per- 
 secution of the Temple. Some historians state that a Papal Commission, in 
 August, 1309, cited the Templars to Paris to defend their order:— that, in 
 March, 1310, there were 900 knights in Paris, and that 546 came before the 
 Commission sitting in tiie Bishop's garden in the rear of Notre Dame and 
 selected 75 of their number as cliamplons:— that, in April. 21 witnesses were 
 produced, and 13 examined:— that Pliilip de Mai igni, Bisiiop of Cambray, was 
 there made Archbishop of Sens by the King, and at once convened a provin- 
 cial council of his diocese at Paris; and tliat. May 12th, three days afterward, 
 54 of the Temnlars wlio had been chosen to defend the order were, ui)on sen- 
 tence of tliis ouncil, burned, in tlie field of St. Antoipe, notwithstanding the 
 most vehement remonstrance of the Papal Connnl -sion at perfidy so infa- 
 mous. Those who confessed and retracted and persisted in that retraction 
 were burnt as "re/a^>.se(? /(ere^/cs,* " those wlio did not confess were impris- 
 oned as unreconciled Templars;'''' and those who persisted in their confes- 
 sion were set at liberty as '■'reconciled Templars!^* 
 
THE GKAXD MASTER IN XOTEE DA:^IE. 
 
 801 
 
 On the 26tli day of November ensuing^ the Commis- 
 sion again assembled in tlie same place, thronged with 
 the citizens of Paris, and Jacques de Molai was brought 
 before it loaded with chains, and pale and emaciated by 
 long imprisonment. On his being arraigned, the Presi- 
 dent of the Council, Cardinal de Praio, demanded in a 
 loud voice: . • 
 
 "Jacques de Molai, Grand Master of lhe Order of the 
 Temple, 3^ou stand before a council of Prelates commis- 
 sioned bj His iEIoliness, the Sovereign Pontiff, to exam- 
 ine you, as touching many high heinous crimes, of the 
 which you and your order are credibly accused. To these 
 charges what say you? " 
 
 "These accusations are not new, Lord Cardinal," 
 replied the prisoner, firmly. "I have already pleaded 
 ^to this indictment in the behalf of myself and my order. 
 And, yet, methinks that the Holy Church proceeds with 
 unwonted precipitancy in this cause, when it is recalled 
 that the sentence relative to the Emperor Frederic w^as 
 suspended for more than thirty years." 
 
 "Jacques de Molai," rejoined the Cardinal, sternly, 
 "what have you to say why a decree of abolition 
 should not be recorded by this Commission against the 
 order of which you are chief? " 
 
 The Grand Master started. It was plain he was 
 unprepared for a proposition so summarj^ But, quickly 
 recovering, he replied w'ith his usual firmness : 
 
 "And is this council of noblest Prelates assembled in 
 this ancient edifice, by authority of His Holiness, the 
 Sovereign Pontiff, to deliberate on the abolition of an 
 
g02' THE GEAND MASTER II>r ITOTEE DAME: 
 
 order, foandecl bj pious kniglits, to defend the Temple, 
 and confirmed by the Apostolic See itself, and, wHch, 
 for two Imiidred years, in the presence of all Christen- 
 dom and Heathenesse, lias poured forth, its blood lilve 
 water, for the cause of the Mother Church?" 
 . "Not for the good deeds of this order," replied tlie Car- 
 dinal, "but for its manifold evil deeds, do we now delib- 
 erate, by command of the Holy Father, on the question 
 of its final extinction, and for this do we now demand of 
 you, Jacques de Molai, its chief, what have you to say 
 why such, decree should not be recorded?" 
 
 "Primates of the Church," said De Molai, stretching 
 forth his manacled hands, " you are rightly informed that 
 1 am the Grand Master of a persecuted order; and, for the 
 honor thus bestowed upon me, wretch, indeed, should I' 
 be, did I not raise my voice in. its behalf, and in defence 
 of its noble sons so foully calumniated. But, Primates, 
 I am a soldier, — not a scholar. These hands have been 
 more familiar with the hilt of a battle-sword than with 
 a pen, I am unlearned, also, both in civil and ecclesiastical- 
 law, utterly unused to forensic debate, or the subtilty of 
 dialectics. Indeed, I know not even the forms of courts, 
 nor their modes of procedure, and sliould prove as ut-^ 
 terly unequal to cope with my scholastic accusers before; 
 this council, as, perchance, they might prove unequal to 
 compete with the humblest of my knights in open lists. 
 Oh," lie exclaimed, raising his clasped and fettered hands 
 with his eyes to Heaven, — "oli, for one fair field, witli 
 our brave battle-steeds beneath us, and our good battle- 
 brands in oar mailed grasp, and a whole Avorld of armed- 
 
THE GRAIsD PIASTER IX XOTRE DA3IE. 303. 
 
 foes before us I But, alasl alas!" tlie olJ Fxian satll}^ 
 added, Avliile his mauacled liands fell witli a crash at liis 
 sides, and the proud exultation of his beariug ^vas suc- 
 ceeded bv the gloom of depression — " ^ve are Loiis snared 
 in a net I " 
 
 . A murmiir of admiration and sympathy ran through 
 the muhitude. 
 
 ''Jacques de Molai," cried the Cardinal, after a pause 
 of considerable duration, "for the third and the last 
 time, I ask, do you defend the order of which you are 
 chiel"? 
 
 ''I do— I do ! " eagerly answered De Molai. " But I 
 
 am unlearned in the law, — am very illiterate, — I can 
 hardly read or write, — I have onl\' one servant, — T am 
 very poor. — they have taken all my money except four 
 deniers; — I demand counsel for the Temple, to be paid 
 f^om those treasures of the Temple, brought by myself 
 into this city, to aid me in tids defence.""^ 
 
 In a charge of heresy the accused is entitled to no 
 counsel,"' replied De PratcH 
 
 Tiien, as chief of the Templars, I declare myself the 
 champion of the order I" cried the soldier-priest intones 
 that reverberated like thunder through those Cathedral 
 aisles and along those Gothic arches: ''and here I take 
 my stand, and throw my gage, and demand my trial bj- 
 hattel^ and pledge myself to fight, until the death, all and 
 any ten knights, in succession, Avho ma}^ come against 
 
 * Heui'v Capetal, Governor of the- Grand Cbatelet. confessed tliat lie arrestea 
 seven persons, who were denounced as being Templars in a lay habit, w ho ha(J 
 come to Paris, with moaey. in order to procure advocates for the accused— 
 and had put tliem to the to'rtare ! And yet they came in accordance vatli the 
 ■elraiiou ol -the Papal CommissiouL . - - _ _ ^ - 
 
801 
 
 THE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 
 
 me, ill fair field cbosen, and appearing in behalf of our 
 accusers. And, if I fail to prove eacli one and all of 
 those ten champions false, then let me be consigned to 
 the rack and the stake, and my name to infamy, and my 
 beloved and holy order to oblivion !" 
 
 Again tlie people expressed their admiration in sup- 
 pressed murmurs. 
 
 "The Church of God wars not with carnal weapons !" 
 coldly replied De Prato, who, despite himself was moved 
 by the chivalric and noble bearing of that bold old man. 
 
 And, oh, bethink thee, knight, before thou dost embark 
 in this desperate enterprise, how poorly thou art pre- 
 pared, even were counsel allotted thee, to defend an 
 order, which thou hast, thyself, accused of liomble 
 crimes ! " 
 
 " Which I — /, Jacques de Molai, chief of the Tem- 
 plars, have accused ? " fiercely interrupted the old sol- 
 dier. 
 
 " Thou, Jacques de Molai, chief of the Templars," was 
 the reply. 
 
 " When ? — where ? " he furiously demanded. 
 
 " On the night of the eighth day of August, 1308, in 
 the Question Chamber of the Castle of Chinon," said De 
 Prato. 
 
 » 'Tis false— false as hell ! " shouted de Molai. " That 
 night I remember well. I have some reason to remem- 
 ber it well," he added, Avith a bitter and significant 
 smile, shaking his head. "For reasons which I then 
 deemed wise and right, every charge against myself I 
 admitted true, whatever that charge might be. If ia 
 
THE GEAXD MASTER IX XOTEE DA^^IE. 805 
 
 SO doing I did Tin wisely, — as o^'ten since I liave feared, 
 — tlien, tlie good God furgive me ! But that I then or 
 there, or at any time or anvwliere, admitted any charge 
 whatsoever against my beloved order — why, that is 
 irivpossiblej'' he added, with a bitter Laugh, at the same 
 time lowering his tone. " But you can easily test tbat 
 on the spot. Bring forth your instruments of torture 
 and try me where I stand ! " 
 
 "Tliereis an easier mode by which to prove thee false, 
 prisoner,'' said the Cardinal. ''Let the record of the con- 
 fession of Jacques de Molai at the Castle of Chinon be 
 read 1 " 
 
 The clerk immediately rose and began reading the 
 record. Every crime there confessed by De Molai 
 against himself was so interpolated and falsified as to 
 have become an a'lmission of charges against the whole 
 order, and against all its members ! 
 
 Overwhelmed with indignation and wonder, De Molai 
 remained silent while the reading was going on, but 
 repeatedly crossed himself and raised his eyes to 
 Heaven. 
 
 "Jacques de Molai," said the Cardinal, when the doc- 
 ument had been completed, together Avitli the names of 
 the Grand Inquisitor and his two assistants, by whom it 
 was subscribed — " to this — your confession, what say 
 you?" 
 
 " Were T free, and Avere the men whose names are 
 subscribed to that paper anything but priests," replied 
 the knight in low tones, " I should say nothing, I 
 should act ! " 
 
806 
 
 ^HE GRAND MASTER IN NOTRE DAME. 
 
 " Do jou deny tlie truth of this record? " 
 
 "Most unquestionably I do; and most unqualifiedly I 
 do, also, here declare those men to be liars and forgers, 
 and richly meriting tlie fate inflicted on such criminals 
 by Tartars and Saracens, — whose hearts they tear out, 
 and' whose heads they strike off'I " 
 
 At these words the multitude burst into admiring' 
 and indignant shouts. 
 
 " The session is adjourned !" cried Do Prato, rising 
 in alarm with the whole council. " Guards, look to your 
 prisoner ! 
 
 * * -sT ^ * 
 
 . And the noble old warrior was conducted to his dun- 
 geon, and his cowardly assailants repaired to the Palace: 
 of the Temple to confer with the King. 
 
THE POLITIC PRI^'CE THE POLITIC PRELATE. 307 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 THE POLITIC PRI>:CE AXD THE POLITIC PRELATE. 
 
 PHILIP the Fonrtli of France was a bold, energetic 
 and de:spotic prince; but lie was, also, a wise and 
 politic one. 
 
 lie knew Lis people well. He knew well wkat they 
 would endure, and he knew well what they would not 
 endure. He had reason to know. His wisdom had 
 been bought by a somewhat dear experience. 
 
 By the death of his father, Philip the Third, or. the 
 Hardy, in 1285, he ascended the throne of France, being 
 then only in his seventeenth year: and, from that hour 
 to the hour of his death, never was royal prerogative 
 more sternly sustained than by him. It was to sustain 
 the prerogatives of a Sovereign of France that he did 
 battle, for five fuil years, with Edward ti.e First of- 
 England : to sustain those same prerogatives, he waged a 
 bloody war, for eight years longer, with Guy, Count of 
 Flanders: and, again, to maintain those prerogatives, even 
 against the spiritual supreme of Christendom, he braved 
 all the thunders of the Vatican, for seven full years, in a 
 contest which only ceased with the terrible death of his 
 foe.— or. more properly, his victim. 
 
 - But this incessant warfare, though invariablv success- 
 lul, was expensive, and involved the enterprising mon- 
 arch in extreme liuancial embarrassment, . To relieve 
 
308 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 
 
 this, lie Lad recourse to tlie usual resort of princes at 
 that era, in such einergencies : — he debased the coin of 
 his realm, and, at the same time, enhanced its nominal 
 value. To such ^'shameful and ridiculous excess" was 
 this debasement and enhancement carried, that one denier 
 of the stamp of 1300 was worth three deniers of the 
 stan)p of 1806; and, yet, under severest penalties, he 
 commanded all men to receive the base coin at the same 
 value as the true 1 But there was a scarcity of precious 
 metal as well as of coin. To obviate this, he forced all 
 his subjects, the barons and prelates only excepted, to 
 bear one-half of all their silver plate to the mint! The 
 exportation of gold and the hoarding of specie were 
 declared capital crimes! Imposts were enormous, and 
 the direct tax on each individual was one-fifth part of 
 all his revenue; while fi:ve hundred livres of income 
 paid twenty-five livres tax ! 
 
 The unhappy Hebrews presented to Philip, as to every 
 other Prince of Europe of that age, another, and a most 
 fruitful source of plunder, of which he scrupled not to 
 avail himself; and, at length, in the year 1305, came the 
 grand blow upon this injured people. An ordinance — 
 (like that subsequently against the Templars) — was 
 issued upon special permission of Clement Fifth, by 
 which every Jew in the realm was arrested, at the hour 
 of noon, on the festival of St. Madelaine, when all were 
 on their knees in their synagogues: and every man was 
 banished the kingdom, — forbidden to return under pen- 
 alty of immediate execution, — and suffered to take v/ith 
 Lim no more of his effects than would defray his expenses 
 
THE POLITIC PRIXCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 309 
 
 to tlie frontiers. Manj of tlie poor wretclies perished 
 hy the way; some few loved their gold better thnii 
 tlieir lives and some loved their lives better than their 
 roligioa, and received the baptismal sign; but all were 
 reduced to abject poverty, and, of course, as their sole 
 recompense, every Hebrew of them all cursed Philip the 
 Fourth of France by Abraham, and Isaac, and Jacob, 
 and all the patriarchs and prophets of the old Testa- 
 ment, to their very soul's content! And it is quite 
 probable that there did not come a single curse amiss ! ^ 
 But the Jews were not the only people in France who 
 cursed Pliilip le Bel. His own subjects, — Frenchmen, — • 
 descendants of the stern old Gauls, and but a few cen- 
 turies removed, — cursed him for h's extortions and 
 cruelties. At lens-th came an emeute — an insurrection, 
 = — a three-days " — a Revolution, exactly as is always 
 tlie case, at a moment it was least apprehended ! The 
 Palace of the Louvre was, of course, as in more modern 
 revolutions, — the first place assailed, and Philip, like his 
 descendants of the same name of more recent date, — was 
 besieged and exposed to every insult and indignit}'. But, 
 unlike the Philip of the Js'ineteenth Century, Philip le 
 Bel sallied out from his stronghold with his men-at-arms 
 clad in steel, at his back, and he swept the streets at 
 once of the poor varlets that had rebelled; and, hanged 
 twenty-eight of tlie first he could catch, as high as 
 Haman, at the city gates, as a terror to the rest! And 
 
 * The history of the TTebrews in France, in the Fourteenth Century, is full 
 of horrible interest. The persecutious to wliicli tliey were subjected are 
 almost incredible. 
 
810 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 
 
 SO efficient was lliis terror, tliat all of the residue slunk 
 away into their work-aliops, and betook themselves to 
 their toil, as if nothing had happened, and never after 
 dared whisper a syllable about extortion, however ex- 
 tortionate it might prove ! 
 
 Bat Philip was a politic prince, and a wise one. He 
 knew it would not be always thus, and he immediately 
 assembled the States General to relieve the grievances 
 of which his people complained, and because of which 
 they had revolted. 
 
 The same course he pursued in the provinces as in 
 Paris. Normandy revolted because of an oppressive 
 tax. lie quelled the revolt, and hung up a dozen or 
 two of the I'ebels, and then — repealed the tax ! 
 
 As for the Templar- Knights, whatever Philip's motive 
 for their unjust and iniquitous persecution, — whether 
 avarice,— apprehension, or revenge, — he certainly had 
 done all in his power to make his people believe them 
 guilty of all the crimes of which they were accused : and, 
 quite as certainly, he had, to a deplorable extent, been 
 successful. 
 
 The death of thirty-six Templars on the rack, in the 
 dungeons of Paris, afiected the citizens but little. That 
 scene they had not witnessed. But they had witnessed 
 the execution of fifty-nine Templars, at the stake, in the 
 field of St. Antoine, and they had murmured. And now 
 Philip was informed that murmurs loud and deep had. 
 been heard at the Cathedral of Notre Dame, during the 
 examination of Jacques de Molai, by the Papal Com- 
 mission. It was plain the populace sympathized with 
 
THE POLITIC PRIXCE AXD THE POLITIC PEELATE. 311 
 
 tliat cliiYalric old Avarrior. Like themselves, lie ^y^.s 
 unlearned in laws and unskilled in letters : and, from 
 their very hearts, notwithstanding all their prejudices, 
 the_v longed to see him on his wardiorse, — as he him- 
 self prayed, with his mail on his majestic form, and 
 his dreadful falchion in his hand, mowing down all 
 assailants, right or wrong. , - 
 
 What Avas Philip to do? Eesign his purpose he 
 would not, — pursue it just then he dared not. He 
 resolved to temporize. The Papal Commission met the 
 next day and adjourned for five whole months. 
 
 On that same day issued from the Palace of the Tern* 
 pie letters-patent to the Templars, throughout all France, 
 ■who desired to defend their order, to convene at Paris 
 during the month of March ensuing. 
 
 In accordance with this summons, large numbers of 
 the knights, who had been imprisoned in the provinces, 
 repaired to Paris; and, on Monday, April 11th, 1310, 
 nine hundred of the Temphirs being assembled, they 
 selected seventy-five to superintend their defense, at the 
 head of whom were Eaynaud of Oideans and John de 
 Boulogne, the Attorne}^ General of the order — the Grand 
 Master not being suffered to bo present o 
 • The trial now formalh^ commenced in the Cathedral 
 Church of Notre Dame, in the presence of immense mul- 
 titudes of spectators, by the publication of the commis- 
 sion of the Sovereign Pontiff, under which the council 
 sat, and the articles of inquiry, on Avhich the accused 
 were to be interrogated. Examination of witnesses 
 immediately commenced, and up to the evening of May 
 
312 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 
 
 11th, just one montli from tliat commencement, only 
 fourteen had been examined. But sufficient had trans- 
 pired during this month to convince tlie accused that, 
 tVom tliis commission, thej could expect no justice. On 
 the morning^ of the 12th, therefore, John de Bouloo^ne, in 
 tlie name and behalf of the order, presented a memorial^ 
 in which was declared — That the charges preferred 
 against the oi'der were infamous, detestable, abomina- 
 ble, and horribly false, — fabricated by apostates, liars and 
 forgers, who were avowedly their foes ; that the religion 
 of the Temple was pure and unpolluted, and utterly 
 exempt from all the abominations with which it had 
 been charged, and that t\\ey who dared maintain the 
 reverse were worse than heretics and infidels; that it 
 could not, for an instant, be supposed that any man 
 Avould ]-emain connected with an order, which ensured 
 the loss of his soul, and that order was composed ot 
 gentlemen oF the most illustrious families in Europe, 
 who would, surely, never have continued members, or 
 even have continued silent, — had they known, . seen, 
 heard-oP, or suspected the infamous abominations with 
 which it had been charged. Finally, the bold, and 
 eloquent Knight-Advocate declared that he and his fol. 
 lowers were resolved to maintain the honor of their 
 beloved order at the sacrifice of life ; — that they appealed 
 from all provincial synods, or papal commissions, to the 
 Sovereign Pontiff',* and demanded liberty to attend a 
 General Council, to the end that they might, in the 
 
 * Dupuy. 
 
THE POLITIC PEIXCE .AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 313 
 
 presence of the Holy Eatlier liimself, tlieir spiritual 
 supreme, maintaia their innocence. 
 
 When the Attorney General of the order had con- 
 cluded, Tonsard de Gi si, one of tlie most intrepid and 
 chivalric men of that or of anj^ age, stepped h)r\vard. 
 
 " Tonsard de Gisi, do you defend this order?" asked 
 tlie Cardinah 
 
 "I do," sternly rephed De Gisi. "I defend it in mine 
 own name, and m the name of all my companions;— I 
 defend it against every charge adduced by its enemies, 
 and 1 demand the assistance of counsel in this defense, 
 and a sufficiency from the coffers of the Temple to 
 meet the expense, which that defense may involve." 
 
 " Tonsard de Gisi, have yon not confessed yourself 
 guilty of infamous crimes?" demanded the Cardinal. 
 
 "B}^ command of our Grand Master, whom next to 
 God we revere and obey, I have, in common with him 
 and with all the best and purest knights of our order, 
 confessed myself guilty of crimes, — ^impossible crimes — - 
 of which he, and thej^, and myself, are equally and 
 utterly innocent.""^ 
 
 The Cardinal started at this bold declaration bat 
 continued. 
 
 "Were you put to the torture?" he ashed. 
 
 "Not only myself, but all with me in the dungeons of 
 the Louvre were subjected to every torture which those 
 fiends, William Imbert, Inquisitor General, AVilliam da 
 Plessis, a monk of St. Dominic, and llexian de Beziers, 
 
 * Americ de Villiers had confessed on the rack his personal presence 
 and participation in the crucifixion of the Saviour! ^'—Villani. 
 
314 THE POLITIC PRINCE AND THE POLITIC PRELATE. 
 
 Prior of Montfangon,— an apostate Templar, who, long 
 ago, bad his cloak stripped from his back bj our Grand 
 Master, and was condemned to perpetual imprisonment 
 for infamous crimes, — all the tortures, I say, which 
 those fiends could invent, or inflict. Thirty-six noble 
 and intrepid knights died in their hands, in the prisons 
 of Paris; and multitudes, besides, expired on tlicir rack? 
 in all of the provinces." 
 
 The peo|)le looked on each other in terror and disr 
 may. 
 
 "Eemove the prisoner, guards," cried De Prato, "and 
 bring forward the next." 
 
 The Cardinal was promptly obeyed, and Bernard de 
 Yado, another distinguished knight of the order, who 
 had recanted his confession, was produced. The tenor 
 of his demands and declarations, and of his answers to 
 interrogatories was much that reheai'sed in the examina- 
 tion of h:s immediate predecessor; but, when the queS' 
 tion was asked — "Were you put to the torture?" — he 
 tlirurit his manacled hand with difficulty into his bosom^ 
 and, producing a handful of small white bones, lie 
 advanced with halting steps to the table, and laid them 
 rattling before the conned. > 
 
 "Behold the proof," he exclaimed, with flashing eyes. 
 The flesh of my feet was consumed by slow fire, and 
 those fragments fell off." 
 
 At this fearful sight a groan arose from the vast 
 assemblage. Even the Cardinals were shocked, and 
 they quailed before the fierce glance of that injured 
 and innocent man; while murmurs of indignation rari 
 
THE POLITIC PRIXCE AXD THE POLITIC PRELATE. 315 
 
 througli tlie immense multitudes tliat tlarouged the 
 Cathedral. 
 
 "The council is adjourned!" cried De Prato instantly, 
 rising from his chair. 
 
 * 5}J * * * 
 
 Philip le Bel was a politic prince, and Cardinal de 
 Prato was a no less politic prelate ! 
 
 20 1: 
 
816 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIL 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 
 
 TO detail all the proceedings of tlie Papal Commis- 
 sion appointed to examine tlie Templar Knights, 
 in the Cathedi'al Church at Paris, — their numbei'less 
 adjournments and re- assemblings — tlieir iniquitous con- 
 nivance witli Phil'p and his Ministers for the de- 
 stractioii of the fated and hated order, and the active 
 exertions of Blanche of Artois, who, throughout the 
 Avhole, continued the very soul of the persecution; as 
 well as the vacillation and yielding of the Pontiff* during 
 a period of several months comprising all the winter of 
 1310, and a portion of the spring of the following year, 
 would prove as needless as it would be tedious. 
 
 Suffice it to say that, between the date of the first 
 meeting of the Commission, on the 7tli day of August, 
 1310, until its final adjournment, on tlie 26th day of 
 May, 1311, no less than two hundred and tAventy-one 
 depositions, r,s toucliing tlie charges against the order, 
 had been filed, of which one hundred and fifty were 
 those of Templars. The large proportion of the latter 
 asserted their innocence; many of the most intrepid 
 expired in their dungeons, from the effects of the tor- 
 tures to which tiiey had been subjected and a protracted 
 confinement in a poisonous atmosphere ; while those 
 
THE COUXCIL OF AIEXXE. 
 
 817 
 
 ^tli whom it Tvas deemed dangerons to heal, chief 
 among ^\-iiom Avere Tonsard de G-isi and Bernard de 
 Yado. — were not suffered to appear and bear witness for 
 tlieir order at all. 
 
 The great mass of testimony against the order was 
 taken from the lips of most infamous apostates, whose 
 Tile characters, apart entirely from tlie numberless con- 
 tradictions in their absurd and abominable statements, 
 should have divested them of the slightest credence. 
 Snch now, indeed was the ordy evidence, inasmuch as 
 every knight at all recognized as a companion had fnl-y 
 recanted all confessions of crime, and asserted his in- 
 nocence. Among the witnesses whose testimony was 
 deemed of Aveight was that of Raoul de Presle. an advo- 
 cate of the King's court, whose deposition alone, of all 
 those taken, is still of record and extant ; yet that sim- 
 ply details a conversation with a Templar, who told 
 deponent that he Vv-ould sooner lose his head than 
 reveal the strange occurrences which transpired in the 
 nocturnal conclaves of the order ; and that, in the Grand 
 Chapter, there was one secret so sacred, that were any 
 person, not a member, by any chance to become 
 acrjuainted therewith, the Templars would surely put 
 him to death P 
 
 At the close of the Papal Commission two copies of 
 the entire record of their proceedings embodying all the 
 depositions were engTOssed on parchment, one of which 
 was deposited in the treasury of the Cathedral of iDs'otre 
 Dame, the other forwarded to the Sovereign Pontiff.'^ 
 
 * Dupuy. t Verror ; also Fleiu'i. 
 
818 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 
 
 To decide jnstlj on tlie fate of the order upon the 
 facts set forth in this record, — absurd and contradictory 
 as thej were, — Clement found impossible, even had he 
 been so disposed. But he was not so disposed ; he was 
 not disposed, indeed, to decide the question at all, and 
 he had no idea of relieving his hated coadjutator from 
 the responsibility he had voluntarily assumed, or to per- 
 mit to be forced upon himself a decree involving the 
 abolition of an order, the persecution of which, from 
 the very first, against all his eflbrts, with extreme reluc- 
 tance, he had been compelled, by Philip of France, to 
 countenance. 
 
 In this painful emergency, Clement consulted his 
 friend, the Cardinal de Prato, who, anticipating this 
 embarrassment from the commencement, had taken his 
 measures accordingly. Turning over the leaves of the 
 record of the Commission, he pointed to the appeal of 
 John de Bou.logne to the Pope, and his demand, in the 
 name of the order, for a General Council of all the Pre- 
 lates of the Church at which his Holiness himself should 
 preside. Upon this appeal and demand, the council had 
 purposely taken no action. It was, therefore, an open 
 question, and both appeal and demand might now be 
 granted, thereby relieving the Papal See of the responsi- 
 bility so much dreaded, yet so insiduously and pertina- 
 ciously forced upon it by the King of France. 
 
 Gladly and gratefully did Clement avail himself of this 
 suggestion, and immediately issued a ball, convening a 
 General Council at Yienne, in Dauphiny, near Lyons, on 
 the 13th day of October next ensuing : and, inasmuch as 
 
THE COrXCIL OF VIEXXE. 
 
 319 
 
 the Templars liad appealed to sucli council and to tlie 
 Pope, all kuiglits ^vho designed defending tlieir order 
 were solemnly cited then and there to be present ; while 
 throngliout all Christendom was proclaimed the safe- 
 guard of the Church to all Templars lying in conceal- 
 ment, Avlio might desire to defend their order on that 
 occasion, — assuring them of entire freedom to come, to 
 stav, to plead, — and to return, w'ithoufc let or hindrance, 
 and that no infringement whatsocvtT on their liberties, 
 or lives, sliould be perpetrated or permitted. 
 
 In obedience to his proclamation, all tue prelates of 
 Europe, with the Sovereign Pontiff, hastened to Yienne, 
 as well as immense mimbers of the nobility, inferior 
 clergy and people, whom the interest and novelty of the 
 occasion drew to the spot."^ 
 
 On the morning of Friday, the 13th day of October, 
 1311. — tlie anniversary of the arrest of the Templars 
 four years before — the council assembled in the old 
 Cathedral Cliurch of Yienne, and proclamation was three 
 times made by the heralds, with blast of trumpet, that 
 all who would defend the Order of the Templars should 
 then and there appear. 
 
 At the third proclamation and sound of trumpet, the 
 multitudes around the Cathedrahporch parte ;1 their 
 ranks, and nine chevaliers of the Temple, in the full 
 costume and armor of the order, galloped up. Dis- 
 mounting, they at once entered the church, and, remov- 
 
 * Not less than three huiKli'ed Bishops constituted this Council, exclusive 
 of Cardinals. The Patriarchs of Alexandria and of Antiocli and the Abbes, 
 and Priors, were, also, present. Briand de Lagnieu was then Archbishop of 
 Vienue. 
 
320 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 
 
 ing tlieir steel caps from tlieir lieads, and bending one 
 knee before that venerable and imposing assemblage of 
 all tlie Primates of the Church, with the Sovereign Pon- 
 tiff at their head, arrayed in the gorgeous vestments of 
 the Cathohc priesthood and flashing with gems, — they 
 announced the purpose of their coming. That purpose 
 was to defend the Order of the Temple against any and 
 all assailants, in any manner that the Council might 
 deem fit; and they came under the safe guard of the 
 Church, in behalf of two thousand Templar- Knights, who 
 now, for a period of four years, since the general arrest 
 of October, 1307, had been wanderers among the cliffs 
 and caves of the Cevennes, in the mountain province 
 of Lyonnais. 
 
 The effect of the sudden appearance of this armed 
 deputation so unexpected, from a body of knights so 
 large, and of whose very existence the foes of the order 
 Lad never dreamed, may be imagined. 
 
 Their reception by the Pope was respectful but 
 guarded. He suggested to them the propriety of laying 
 aside the:r arms and nrmor, and presenting themselves, 
 at a fnture clay, of which they would receive due notifi- 
 cation, in their white robes of peace. The council, hav- 
 ing then been formally opened, adjourned, with the 
 notice that their next session would be devoted to a 
 consideration of the general interests of the Church. 
 
 >K * ^ ^ * 
 
 That night a swift cour-er left Yienne for Paris, with 
 a dispatch from the Pope to the King, detailing the 
 
THE COUXCIL OF VIEXXE. 
 
 321 
 
 events of the day, and the important facts It had dis- 
 closed. 
 
 The object of Clement in deferring the cause of tlie 
 Templars for consideration of the general interests of tlie 
 Church Avas, doubtless, to gain time for consultation with 
 Philip on the new phase that cause had assumed. 
 
 But, if it were so, vt-ry little occasion had he to felici- 
 tate liimseh' upon the aliernative lie had selected; for, at 
 the very next session of the council, memorials concern- 
 ing the vices and irregulariiies of the clergy were pre- 
 sented by two agefd prelates of Franco, which struck 
 horror even into the soul of the Sovereign Pontiff him- 
 self. These memorials set forth, that the grossest igno- 
 rance and depravity existed among all orders of tlio 
 clergy; that the arch-deacons inflicted the sentence of 
 excommunication for olfenses the most trivial, and from 
 motives the most corrupt, and that in a single parish not 
 less than seven hundred were under that awful ban; that 
 the canons were guilty of most unpricstly demeanor in 
 celebration of the service, that monks c[uitted their 
 cloisters to attend fairs and mai'kets, at wdiich they were 
 themselves hucksters, and mingled in all the vices of the 
 throng; that nuns w^ore silks and furs, and dressed their 
 hair in the style of the Court, and frequented balls, con- 
 certs, tournaments and all public places, and walked the 
 streets even at night: that the Papal See itself was the 
 seat of despotism, cupidity and licentiousness^ where 
 money alone could ensuie preferment, Avhence ignorant 
 and depraved men obtained the highest stations, and dis- 
 honored religion by the irregularity of their lives; tha.t 
 
822 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 
 
 incontinence was so universal tliat brothels existed 
 beside the very walls of chnrclies, and beneath even 
 those of the Papal Palace, and finally— horror of hor- 
 rors! — that the Holy Father himself had notoriously 
 intrigued with a lady of rank, who was another's wife 
 
 The consternation,— terror, — -amazement,— wrath of 
 the Council of Prelates may be imagined upon the pre- 
 sentation and reading of charges like these. Even those 
 against the persecuted Templars could with these main- 
 tain favorable comparison. To arrest the reading of the 
 memorials when the clerks had once commenced was, of 
 course, impossible, even had his Holiness so desired, 
 Avhich he did not, until the last terrible sentence had left 
 their lips. He then instantly arose and adjourned the 
 council ; and, when it was again convened, which was 
 not until the 11th of November, Clement was glad to 
 avail himself of the exciting cause of the Templars, or 
 any other cause, to engross the minds of the council, and 
 divert attention from the late disgraceful developments. 
 He was willing to rush upon any Charybdis, however 
 threatening, to escape the Scylla upon whose rocks he 
 was so near being wrecked. Bat the purpose of his 
 delay had been accomplished, — he had received letters 
 f]"om Philip of France. 
 
 The first step in the consideration of the cause of the 
 Templars was the reading of the entire record of the 
 proceedings of the Papal Commission at Par's. This 
 
 * Tins is of record. Those who douht can consult Flenry's Ecclesiastical" 
 History, in which the Memorials are set forth at length; or, a quoratioii theie- 
 froin ill Gifford's France. The Countess of Perigord, daughter to the Count of 
 Foix, a lady of high rank and exquisite fascinations, is said to have enslaved 
 Clement. 
 
THE COUNCIL OF YIEXXE. 
 
 823 
 
 having been completed, the Pope proposed indi viduallj^, 
 to the council, consisting of more than three hundred 
 mitred priests from all the nations of Europe, the ques- 
 tion — " Whether an order charged with such enormous 
 crimes, sustained hy the testimony of two thousand 
 witnesses, should not cease to exist?"* And, to this 
 interrogator}^, each one of the prelates, and each one of 
 the doctors of law, of all that vast council, replied that, 
 previous to a decree which abolished a most illustrious 
 order, established by pious men, confirmed by the Papal 
 See and a General Council, and which, for two hundred 
 years, had been tlic champion of the Church, it was 
 demanded by justice and religion that the chiefs of the 
 Templars should be heard in its defence, — each one of 
 that vast assemblage of pious and learned men said this, 
 — each prelate of France, and Italy, and Spain, and Grer- 
 manj", and Denmark, and England, and Scotland, and 
 Ireland, — each one, saA'c only a single bishop from Ital}^; 
 and from France the Archbishops of Eouen, and Eheims, 
 and Sens, — the last named being Philip de J^Iarigni, the 
 brother of Enguerrand de Marigni, avIio had received 
 his elevation to a prelacy from the King expressly to 
 persecute the Temple, and Avho had committed fiftj'-nine 
 of the fated order to the flames in the field of St. 
 Antoine as already stated. 
 
 By these four men it was contended that ample oppor- 
 tunity had already been afforded the Templars for their 
 defence, and no new fact could be elicited by the most 
 protracted examination. 
 
 * Life of Clement V. 
 
824 
 
 THE COUNCIL OF VIENNE. 
 
 The next question proposed by the Pope to the coun- 
 cil was this — "Shall the Deputies of the Templars who 
 have presented themselves be heard?" The decision was 
 similar to the former, with the same number of dissent- 
 ing votes, — "They shall!" 
 
 Instantly upon this decision, Clement declared the 
 session closed ; and the council adjourned until the third 
 clay of April, 1312 ; and that same night, by his order, 
 the deputation of the Templars, in defiance of every prin- 
 ciple of faith, humanity and justice, were seized, loaded 
 with chains and thrown into prison, — a more atrocious 
 and unheard-of act of perfidy than which the annals of 
 history have no record, and which, to the honor of the 
 Council of Yiennc, was, by the pious prelates wdio com- 
 posed it, most loudl^r, j^^stly and indignantly denounced! 
 
 But Clement Fifth had received letters of advice from 
 "his clear son, the King of France! " And on the 22nd 
 day of February, suddenly, without prior announcement, 
 appeared at Yienne, Philip le Bel^ accompanied by his 
 brother, the Count of Yalois, his sons, the King of 
 Navarre, tlie Counts of March e and Poitiers, with all 
 liis Ministry, Clergy, and Court and a strong body of 
 troops. And one of this splendid suite was Blanche of 
 Artois. 
 
 One month, from the date of that sudden arrival, being 
 Good Friday, Clement assembled a select number of pre- 
 lates in secret aonsistory, and there, in the plentitude of 
 Papal power, which he declared should supply all defects 
 of form, he pronounced a decree of abolition against the 
 Order of the Temple. 
 
THE CuUXcLL Or VIENXE. 
 
 825 
 
 On tlie Brd of April, pursuant to ndjouriiraent, tiie 
 crnincil sat. On the riglit liand of CJement appeared 
 Philip of France. — on his left Charles uf Valois, — ^^bel'ore 
 him the King of Xavarre aiid the Counts of Marehe and 
 Poitiers. Avith the who'e French Court. Clergv and !Min- 
 istrv. and all around a powerful array of ro\-al troops. 
 
 Clement then rose and read the decree of annulment 
 -with a lirm voice, and thus concluded: 
 
 AVe do. tlierefore. by virtue .of Apostolic power to 
 us, as God's vicegerent, entrusted, pronounce tlie Order 
 of Templar Knights provisionally suppressed and abol- 
 ished.^ reserving to the IIolv See, and to the Cliurch of 
 Pome, the ultimate disposal of the persons and posses- 
 sions of its members. Amen I And this council is 
 dissolved."' 
 
 And the council v:as dissolved : . and, vithont a vord 
 or sign, in ominous silence, each man went his Avay I 
 
 *Tlie Order of the Tein]ilars was annulled, iSl years after its confirmation by 
 the Council ol Tioyes, in lUS. 
 
826 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIIL 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 ERTEAND de Gotli, Pope Clement Fifth, was a 
 ' weak man. 
 
 Philip le Bel^ fourth sovereign of that name in France, 
 was not a weak man. 
 Both were bad men. 
 
 But the strong man had obtained, by means of the 
 weak one, as is ever the case, in the long run, all that he 
 originally designed ; while the weak man had, in reality, 
 accomplished none of his purposes, nor prevented the 
 accomplishment of any of those of his rival, however 
 much they had clashed with his own, or however 
 strongly he had vowed, or desperately striven against 
 them. 
 
 Philip of France had sworn the abolition of the hated 
 Order of the Red-Cross Knights. His oath was fulfilled. 
 
 Clement Fifth had decreed, — had been forced to 
 decree, — the abolition of tliis order, but he had done it 
 with the salvo that witli himself should rest the ulti- 
 mate disposal of the persons and possessions of its mem- 
 bers. But the persons of four of its Grand Ofificejs were 
 in the dungeons of Philip, and all of their immense 
 estates in France were in his hands. And thus was it 
 to tlie end. "Philip declined," says history, "to part 
 with the Temple eflects, until he should have jeim- 
 
THE PEOPLE OF PARTS, 
 
 827 
 
 bursed liimself for the vast expciidltuvG Le had incurred 
 in suppressing the order;'' and that period never came! 
 Of course, it never came I 
 
 In Spain and Aragon, the Templar estates were given 
 the order of Oar Lady of Montesa, founded in 1817, and 
 were appropriated chiefly to the extirpation of the 
 Moors, who stili held Granada. In Castile, tliey became 
 a royal appanage. In Portugal, good King Denis left 
 the Templars in quiet possession under their new name, — - 
 " Knights of Christ.'* In Sicily, Charles tLe Second 
 grasped the real estate, and resigned tlie personal property 
 of the victims to his Holiness. In German^", the Teu- 
 tonic Knights sh fired the spoils of tbeir persecuted 
 brothers with tlie Knights of the Hospital. In England, 
 alone, was the final decree of Clement at all observed, 
 and tlie revenues of the martyred Templars secured to 
 the White-Cross Knights, — or the Knights of Rhodes^ 
 
 they now were called ; for, on the 15tli day of August, 
 1310, while the unhappy Grand Master of the Templars 
 was before the Papal Commiasion at Paris, the more for- 
 tunate Fnlk de Villaret, Grand Master of the Hospita- 
 lers, with his war-galleys was capturing the Island of 
 Eh odes 
 
 It is a pleasant reflection, after all, then, one which 
 may be safely indulged, that Clement never actually 
 
 * The Knights of the Hospital, or the White-cross Knights, in 1310 took the 
 title Knights of lUiodes ; andsuhsequentlv, wiien the Island of Malta became 
 the seat of the order Knights of Malta. When the estates of the Templars were 
 given to the Hospitalers, one order seems to liave become merged into the 
 otlier ; and the white mantle and red-cross became a black mantle niid white- 
 cross. At the i>resent day, the degrees of Templar Knight and Kniglitof 
 Malta are conferred in succession, and at the same time. The Tenipiar cos- 
 tume is lost, but tlie name remains, aM the degree takes precedence of its 
 ancient rival and conqueror. 
 
328 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PAEIS. 
 
 enjoyed the bribe for wlncli be Lad sold bis infemous 
 decree; and tbat tbe Knights of tbe White- Cross pro- 
 fited comparatively bat little by the unjust destruction of 
 their rival brothers of the Eed, although immense sums 
 of money and vast estates once belonging to the Temple 
 fell into their hands. In 1316, the Bishop of Limisso, in 
 Cyprus, transferred to tbe Hospitalers, by order of the 
 Pope, 26,000 bezants of coined gold, found in the Pre- 
 ceptor}^, and silver plate to tbe value of 1,500 marks, — 
 all of which enormous wealth must have accumulated 
 within a period of ten years ; for, in 1307, as we have 
 seen, De Mo^ai, by order of Clement, had borne all the 
 treasure of the order to Paris. 
 
 And Blanche of Artois, — she had, indeed, exulted at 
 the abolition of the hated order; bat, Jacques de Molai 
 yet lived, and her vengeance was but half- appeased. 
 The pale shade of her beloved Adrian still pursued ber, 
 go she wliitbcr sbc might. The vengeance of the King 
 "was satiated by the abolition of an order wbicli he abbo- 
 red ; — the avarice of the Pope was satisfied by revenues 
 and estates wbich he thought already in his grasp, and 
 each and both were now most anxious to justify in tbe 
 eyes of indignant Christendom the persecution they bad 
 so long and so implacably pursued. 
 
 Tbe fate of the Grand Officers of the abolished order 
 was reserved to the Papal See; and Clement and Philip 
 agreed in the resolution tbat, provided those men adhered 
 to the confession extorted at Cbinon, and thus justified all 
 their own acts of persecution before the indignant na- 
 tions, that their punishment should be commuted froni 
 
THE PEOFLE OF PARIS 
 
 829 
 
 the stake to perpetual imprisonment. But tLe rigor of 
 tliis irnprisonm.ent was now grea+ly mollified. The 
 accused Avere no longer immurccl in the dunyerjns of the 
 Temple, but confined in its Toicers ] and not onl^ vrere 
 they permitted to share each other s captivity, but to 
 receive the visits of distinguished knights of their abol- 
 ished order from distant cities. Among their visitors 
 was the chieT of the Templars at Cyprus, — John Mark 
 Amienius — who. for a month, shared their imprisonment. 
 
 The object of this decided amelioration was plain, 
 Tne order being now abolished, it was indispensable to 
 Philip that he might remove the odium he had incurred 
 by its persecution, that the Grand Officers should confess 
 its -enormities. Tids done, he cared not for their fate. — 
 nay. he would, gladly even, commute a sentence of death, 
 at the stake to mild imprisonment, if not to complete 
 and speedy enlargement. For his soul, he began to feel, 
 was charged with too much of their blood already ! 
 
 But with Blanche of Artois it was not so. All that was 
 gentie. — all that was amiable, — all that vras mild and lov- 
 ing in her bosom, was extinct. Hate — revenge — reigned 
 there and ruled supreme. Oh, how different was she now 
 from that fair — young — lovelv — tender being, which but a 
 few 3'ears ago Ave first saw her! Iler verv nature seemed 
 changed. She was no more Avhat she had been. Then, 
 she w^as an angel of gentleness and love. — now, alas 1 
 she Avas a furj' of vengeance and hate I To her insati- 
 ate soul it Avas not enough that the hated Order of the 
 Temple Avas no more ; the still more hated Grand Mas- 
 ter of the Temple must share its fate. 
 
330 
 
 THE PEOPLE Of PARIS. 
 
 ^ jfc 4^ 
 
 On the morning of Monday, the 18th day of March, 
 1314, there stood in the Place du Parvis, in front of the 
 porch of the Cathedral Church of Notre Dame of Paris, a 
 lofty seaflbld. In front was erected a huge pile of fag- 
 ots around a stake, and, in all the court, swarmed the 
 people of Paris. At one extremity of the scahbld sat 
 Philip de Marigni, Archbishop of Sens, while, on his 
 right hand and his left, sat a Cardinal Legate of the 
 Sovereign Pontiff, with the Bishop of Alba, deputed to 
 assist at the ceremony now to proceed. 
 
 Before this council and this assemblage, after some 
 delay, were brought, — surrounded by a powerful force, 
 the Grand Master of the Temple and the three Grand 
 Priors, who, for a p-eriod of six years, had been immured 
 in the glungeons of Paris. The confessions of Chinon 
 were then read by the Bishop of Alba, and a long and 
 elaborate sermon was delivered to the multitude, in which 
 the enormities there admitted were dwelt on with pecu- 
 liar force. In concliision, the Legate called upon the 
 Grand Officers there to renew those confessions and be 
 pardoned, or to refuse: — and before them stood the 
 stake fully prepared for the sacrifice. 
 
 Intimidated by the menaces of the Legate, the Grand 
 Priors of Prance and Acquitaine complied with the 
 concition proposed. 
 
 But not so, — oh, not so, was it with that noble old 
 man, Jacques de Molai, or his worthy companion, Guy, 
 Prior of Normandy. Resolutely and calmly they retained 
 their seats, while their fellow-sufferers renewed their 
 
THE PEOPLE OF PARIS, 
 
 331 
 
 confessions. This done, and tLe two Grand Templars 
 yet remaining motionless, tlie x\.rclib:sliop of Sens cried 
 ill a loud voice : 
 
 '^Jacq^es de Molai, in the name of the Holy Church, 
 and on pain of your immediate execution, at yonder 
 stake, I call upon you, be'fjre this cloud of witnesses, to 
 renew your recanted confession at Chinon, — I call on 
 you to proclaim your shame and crime, and thereby to 
 merit the clemency of your royal master : and thereby to 
 prove, also, beyond a doubt, to all the world, the justice 
 of your punishment and that of your iniquitous fi^a- 
 ternity ! 
 
 Firmly and calmly, De M(")lai rose from his seat, and 
 slightly bowing to the Archbishop and tlie Legates, as 
 he passed them, he advanced, with loftv bearing and 
 majtistic step, to the edge of the platform. 
 
 Every eye in that vast assemblage was fixed with 
 awe, yet compassion, on that veneral^le man; and. in 
 hushed and breathless silence thc}^ listened for tlie llrst 
 syllables of that confession of guilt which was to save 
 him from the awful doom now full behn^e him: and they 
 thought that never— never had they looked upon a more 
 grand and imposing form. 
 
 Eaising his manacled arms, and spreading out his 
 hands over the heads of that countless multitude, as 
 if bestowing upon them his patriarchal benediction, for 
 some moments he stood silent. 
 
 '■People of France! — citizens of Paris'."' he, at 
 length, exclaimed, in those deep and thnnder-tones, 
 which had so often been heard above the horn and the 
 21 
 
832 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 cymbal — tlie atabal and the trumpet, — above all the 
 clash of barbaric mnsic, and the clang of steel, and the 
 ronr of Paynim battle, — "People of France! — citizens 
 of Paris! — hear me, and nnderstaDd I Tbrongh you, to 
 all Europe, — to all Christendom, — to all the world, — to 
 nnborn ages, I speak! Hear- and record m}^ Avords.'^ T 
 am commanded to confess my guilt and to condemn my 
 order. Most humbly, — most penitently, — with sorrow 
 and with shame, — in the presence of God and of man, — • 
 to my own undying ignominj^, do I confess that I have 
 been guilty of the blackest of all crimes ! " 
 
 The old man paused. Tlie prelates looked at each 
 other with evident satisfaction, and the great mass of the 
 people seemed,. — also, gratified, — they seemed relieved 
 fi-om the apprehension of the fcarfid doom which 
 impended over the Templar's refusal to confess. There 
 were, however, some few who turned away with disap- 
 pointment and discontent. They had not expected this. 
 
 "Yes, people of Paris," continued the Grand Master, 
 elevating his sonorous voice, so as to be heard in ti^e 
 remotest corner of that spacious square, " I confess 
 myself gnilty of the blackest of crimes, by my confes- 
 sion of crime in the Castle of Chinou of which I was 
 never guilt}^!" 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen from the blue sky of that 
 wintrj'- day into the midst of that vast assemblage, a 
 
 * And tliey did record his words! Tt is a noticeable fact that Vertot. Vil- 
 lani, l)ui)uy, Fleury, and all other liistoriaiis, w liether Protestant or Cath(»lic, 
 ascribe tlie same sentiments to this speech of De INIolai, and almost the same 
 words; and, now, ap;reeably to liis wish, moretlian tive centuries after they 
 were uttered, tliey justify liis memory, and the character of an order vviiicli 
 l.iore than his life he loved I 
 
THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 833 
 
 greater slicck cOuld hardly have been experienced. The 
 prelates seemed stunned Avitli amazement. 
 
 "The blackest of crimes!"' reiterated the Templar; 
 "because, by that confession of my own ignominy, I, 
 Grand Master of the Temple, thereby entailed disgrace 
 on my pnre, and holy, and most beloved order I God 
 forgive I God forgive I For, oh, — it was to save that 
 order, and. with the vain hope of redeeming my perse- 
 cuted sons from the same agonies of torture I then 
 endured, that the confession of guilt was made. But 
 noAV — now," lie shouted in loud, distinct, yet rapid tones, 
 — '"now — in this last moment of my life, and with the 
 full knowledge that this avowal consigns my body to 
 immediate flames, — to all Paris, to all Christendom, to 
 all the world of man and before my God do I pronounce 
 that confession utterly and absolutely false I I pro- 
 nounce all the charges against the pure and hallowed 
 Order of the Temple base, and monstrous and infamous 
 calumnies I I pronounce Philip of France a traitor to 
 his people and his race, and Clement of Eome a traitor 
 to his God 1 " 
 
 "Treason! treason!'' shouted the Archbishop of 
 Sens, leaping to h'.s feet. 
 
 "Brave De Molai ! — brave De Zuolai!"' screamed the 
 people. 
 
 " Heresy ! —heresy 1 ^' — cried the Bishop of Alba. 
 "Seize him — stop his mouth!"' 
 
 The guards sprang forward to obey, but before they 
 could reach the Templar, his venerable companion. Guv, 
 Prior of Xormandy, his gray hair streaming to the 
 
834 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PAEIS. 
 
 winter blast and tlie cliains upon his raised arms rat- 
 tling as lie moved, rushed forward and exclaiming : " It 
 is God's truth 1 — It is God's truth ! " — threw himself into 
 the arms of his beloved chief. 
 
 Supporting his aged companion on one arm while the 
 other was still extended over the vast multitude, the 
 lion- tones of that brave old Grand Master still continued 
 to be heard, nntil both victims, locked in each other's 
 manacled embrace, were dragged down from the scaffold 
 and hurried into the church. 
 
 Oh, it was a sublime spectacle, — these aged and illus- 
 trious Templars, thus, with their latest breath, pro- 
 claiming the purity of their order, and, for that avowal, 
 resigning their lives! 
 
 But the prelates lied when they menaced their victims 
 with instant conflao-ration at the stake before them, if 
 thev refused to confess. Thcj had never designed it; 
 and, if thej had, they w^ould have dared not attempt it, 
 amid the tempest of indignation which now pervaded 
 the vast concourse around. 
 
 The prelates retired precipitately into the Cathedral 
 as a retreat they were glad to gain. 
 
 The populace, thinking the Templar chiefs in the 
 sanctuary, and for the present, at least, safe from violence, 
 slowly dispersed to their homes ; and, in a few hours, the 
 angry surges of popular rage had ceased to welter, and 
 roar, and mutter, and dash, around that dark old pile. 
 The aged prisoners were then committed to the Provost 
 of Paris, who, conducting them through secret passages, 
 conveyed them across the Seine to the dungeons of the 
 
THE PEOPLE OF PAPJS. 
 
 335 
 
 Petit Cliatelet, Avliile tlie friglitened priests escaped by 
 the same route, and, seeking tlie lower extremity of tlie 
 Isle of the Cite^ crossed tlie otber arm of the Seine to 
 the palace. 
 
 From the summit of the tall central tower of the 
 Louv]'e, Blanche of Artois, overlooking the inter veiiiiig 
 roofs, had distinctly beheld all that had transpired in the 
 Place dii Par vis of Xotre Dame. She had watched the 
 vast crowd, which, from the dawn of day, had poured in 
 one imbroken stream over the two brld^'es connectino- 
 the Cite Avitli the Universite and the Yille^ and which, 
 disgorging itself through the various narrow streets and 
 thoroughfares into the A'ast quadrangle, and up to the 
 scaffold in front of the grand entrance of the Cathedral, 
 and beneath the shadow of its ponderous and beetling 
 towers, rushed and roared around the temporarj^ struc- 
 ture. She had beheld, at an early hour, the pr'estly Tri- 
 umvirate ascend the platform in their ecclesiastical robes, 
 girt by the dark cloud of their monkish servitors, and 
 immediately followed by the fettered Templars, sur- 
 rounded by glitteiing spears. The ceremonies which 
 succeeded, she had, also, witnessed, and well compre- 
 hended their significance, although, of course, not a svl- 
 lable, at that distance, could reach her ear. TTitli 
 intense solicitude she continued to gaze, that she might 
 Avitness the result, until, at length, the thunder-tones 
 of the people shouting, ''Brave De Molai ! — brave De 
 Molai!" sweeping on the blast told her that her fears 
 were vain, — that her hopes — her confident expectations 
 were fulfilled I 
 
336 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 "He will perish!" slie muttered, while a fiend-hke 
 exultation gleamed in her dark ej-e. " Beloved Adrian, 
 thj shade will, at last, be avenged ! " 
 
 She was turning to descend, thiuking all was over, 
 when the wild and hurried scenes that succeeded caught 
 her glance and arrested her attention. 
 
 "Ha! the people!" she exclaimed. "They declare 
 for the Templars! It is time then for to act I No 
 more delays ! " 
 
 And, hurrying down, she found Philip with his Min- 
 isters, De Marigni, De Nogaret, De Cliatilloo, and the 
 Inquisitor already in close council on the events of 
 which they had just been informed. They were shortly 
 joined by the Archbishop and the Legates, in a state of 
 excessive alarm, which they did not fail to communicate 
 to their associates. 
 
 Philip of Prance feared not foreign foes. His eques- 
 trian statue in Notre Dame commemorated their inva- 
 riable defeat. He feared not the Sovereign Pontiff. Of 
 this he had given abundant proof in three successive 
 pontificates. He feared not — he had never feared his 
 own nobility or clergy. He feared not now the once 
 mighty power of the Temple. He seemed hardly to fenr 
 God Himself; and he surely disregarded man. Yet, 
 there was one thiiig^ — an animate, — active, — powerful, 
 • — passionate, — migovernable, — hydra-headed thing, that 
 lie did fear. That thing was — the people ! 
 
 Philip the Fourth of France was a brave and wise 
 prince ; and when all the details of the scene which that 
 evening had transpired in the Parvis of Notre Dame 
 
1 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 337 
 
 were laid before liira, be paused and reflected, aud asked 
 his counsellors for counsel. 
 
 This counsel was given, and by almost unanimous 
 assent, the voice of De Marigni, who still bewailed the 
 loss of a son which he considered as one more wrong, 
 and the deepest from the hated order, alone dissenting. 
 This counsel was the immediate annonucement that tlio 
 penalty of the contumacy of the Templar chiefs shotdd 
 be perpetual imprisonment. The certainty that the 
 prisoners were not to be consigned to the flames, it was 
 hoped, would allay the popular excitement. This deci- 
 sion was strenuously opposed by De Marigni, who urged 
 the infliction of the awful alternative with which the 
 Templars had been menaced in event of recusancy, and 
 he was still speaking when the door of the council- 
 chamber opened, and, to the amazement of all, Blanche 
 of Artois entered. 
 
 Pale as death, — her long black hair hanging loosely 
 around her face, and her large azure eyes filled with sig- 
 nificant fire, the Countess of Marche, unannounced and 
 uninvited, entered the secret council-chamber of tho 
 King of France. The Minister stopped short in his 
 harangue, and all present gazed on this strange appari- 
 tion with surprise. 
 
 "You are astonished at th's intrusion. Sire," said 
 Blanche, bowing low to the King; *'and it would, indeed, 
 be an astonishing — an unheard-of thing, that even a 
 princess of the blood sliould obtrude herself upon the 
 private councils of the sovereign of France, did not 
 extreme emergency, involving his dearest interests, — • 
 
338 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 perliaps liis crown,— perhaps liis life,— demand, if not 
 warrant it ! " 
 
 "Ha!" cried Philip, springing to his feet. 
 
 The counsellors looked at eacli other with doubt and 
 dismay. 
 
 "Go on, Blanclie, go on I" continued the King, more 
 calndy, at the same time resuming his seat. " I have 
 always deemed you my wisest counsellor. The event 
 will prove me right, as a thousand times events have 
 proven. Sit beside me and go on ! " 
 
 "With, your permission, Sire," rejoined the Countess, 
 *'I will proceed witli the few words I have to say, and, 
 with your permission, will remain standing. You know, 
 Sire, your counsellors know, all Piiris knows the events 
 of this day, and especially of the past few hours in the 
 Parvis of Notre Dame." 
 
 "The people are excited, my daughter," said Philip, 
 calmly. "But it will pass away." 
 
 "The agitation of the good people of Paris, Sire," 
 rejoined Blanche, "and tke sympathy they manifest in 
 the behalf of the convicted Templars is known to all: 
 but the immediate consequence of that excitement and 
 sympathy, — and tbe ultimate most [probable result, — if 
 measures are not at once adopted to prevent, all do not 
 know." 
 
 " Well, Blanche, go on," said the King. 
 
 " There are many Templars in Paris, Sire, who have 
 never been arrested, or even suspected," continued the 
 Countess. 
 
 " So I have always feared," rejoined Philip. 
 
THE PEOPLE Of PARIS. 
 
 339 
 
 "These men have this day been active among the 
 peo|)]e."' 
 
 '■All, is it so? said the King. 
 
 ''I have just received positive proof of what I advance, 
 Sire," continued the Countess, " and, to declare it, I have 
 obtruded upon 3^ our privac}'." 
 
 This excitement must be cj_uieted," rejoined the 
 King, earnestly. '"Pe Marigni, you are Avroiig."' 
 
 "If the Templars again appear in pubhc, they 
 will be freed by a revolt of the people I " exclaimed the 
 Countess. 
 
 To-mori'ow the commntation of their sentence from 
 the stake to temporary imprisonment shall be proclaimed 
 throughout Paris," responded the King, Avith energy. 
 
 ."That will not Sire,"' calmly replied the Conntes.^, 
 repressing with difficulty the agitation this announce- 
 ment inspii'ed. 
 
 "Indeed, Blanche!" exclaimed the King, with some 
 surprise. "And why not ? " 
 
 "Because, to-morrow the Templars will not be in your 
 Majesty's power, — will not bo in Paris," was the c^uiet 
 response. 
 
 " Will not be in Paris ? " cried Philip. 
 
 " To-night, the Chatelet will be stormed, and the pris- 
 oners released, and before tlie dawn they will he far on 
 their flight, with tlieir deliA'ereJ'S, to the border," said 
 Blanche. 
 
 "You are sure that the Chatelet will be assailed to- 
 night, Blanche? " asked the King. 
 " I am sm-e," was the brief answer. 
 
340 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 " Then the Chatelet must be invested with troops 
 without delay," continued Pliilip. 
 
 "And then your Majesty will again be in colHsion 
 with your people. — will you not ? " asked Blanche. 
 ^'And mauy will be slain, as well as many of the troops, 
 and months may elapse, or years even, before quiet is 
 restored, if it ever is ! " 
 
 " True, — most true," was the moody response. " It 
 was so before. And all because of two old dotards, 
 who will not adhere to a confession ! " 
 
 " That, doubtless, is the cause," replied the Countess, 
 " and were these old Templars removed, all would be 
 well. It is to release these chiefs that their knights 
 secretly plot and agitate. And, so long as they live, and 
 are "imprisoned, so long will there be intrigues and 
 plots, and revolts for their release. Were they free all 
 this would cease." 
 
 "No doubt, but to free them is clearly impossible. 
 Besides, their power is st'.ll vast. Not a nation in Europe 
 could, probably, even now withstand the united assault 
 of these cowled warriors, with their Grand Officers at 
 their head. The order is only nominally abolished as 
 3^et. No — no — to free them is impossible !" 
 
 " Were they dead^ the result Avould be the same," 
 coolly rejoined the Countess. " The agitation would 
 cease." 
 
 " Ila ! dead ! " cried the King, starting. " It would be 
 so. But that, too, is now impossible to bring to pass, — ■ 
 at least at present." 
 
 "The alternative presented to the Templars to-day in 
 
THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 341 
 
 the Parvis of JSTotre Dame was this, — to confess or to be 
 burned, — was it not ? " asked Blanche. 
 The prelates bowed. 
 
 " Well, — two of these men did not confess ; and now, 
 if they be not burned, the royal authority and that of 
 the Sovereign Pontifl' will fall into contempt, — will it 
 not I" 
 
 " But, if they are burned, there will be a revolt of 
 Paris ! " cried the King, with evident vexation. " Indeed, 
 were but an attempt made to-morrow to burn these men, 
 they would be released by the people, as 3'Ou say." 
 
 " To-morrow, doubtless," quietly replied Blanche ; " or, 
 a w^eek, or a month, or a year hence: but not — to- 
 ni(jlit ! " 
 
 "To-night!" cried Philip. "Burn the Templars to- 
 night ? " 
 
 The Councillors exchanged looks of astonishment. 
 
 " To-night, or never," was the calm answer. 
 
 " But the people will release them ! " 
 
 " The people have gone home." 
 
 " They will re-assemble." 
 - "Yes, around the Chatelet, at midnight." 
 
 The King sprang to his feet and paced the chamber in 
 great perplexity. 
 
 "Surely," he exclaimed, "the people would at once 
 reassemble were there an attempt to carry this sentence 
 into execution, especially if the leaders of the people 
 are on the "^vatch, and have prepared them to assail the 
 Chatelet at midnight! " 
 
 "The people would hardly gather in great numbers 
 
B42 
 
 THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 an hour hence, to witness an execution, quietly con- 
 ducted, and of which, after the exciting events of the 
 day, they did not even dream," said Blanche ; " and if 
 they would, they could not, if that execution took place 
 upon tho uninhabite'ii island of the Passeur aux vaches^ 
 in the middle of the Seine ! " 
 
 *■ Ha ! " ci'ied the King with joy. " Blanche is right, 
 methinks ! Blanche is right ! What is your scheme, 
 niy daughter ? " 
 
 *' Briefly this, Sire : You wish France free of the Tem- 
 plars. Yet were tho Grand Officers free^ France would bo 
 endangered. Efforts to free these men by agitating your 
 people will not cease while they live. Tliis very night 
 such an effort is contemplated, which can only be 
 quelled, if quelled at all it can bo, by the saci'ifice of 
 many of the citizens of Paris, and th.o agitation of all. 
 If not quelled, and the attempt succeed, tho worst con- 
 sequences may be apprehended. Tlio doom of these 
 men by the solemn declaration of this day is death ; if 
 it be not executed, it will bring contempt on those who 
 declared it. If an attempt is made to execute it to- 
 morrow, or a month, or a year, hence, it will be suc- 
 cessfully resisted. At this moment, such an event is 
 not apprehended, and there can bo no organization to 
 prevent it." 
 
 " What then is your counsel, Blanche ? " asked 
 Philip. 
 
 "This, Sire: One hour hence it will be dark. Let 
 the two Tem])lar chiefs who are sentenced be then 
 secretly taken from their dungeons, by the water-gate of 
 
THE PEOPLE OF PARIS. 
 
 843 
 
 tlie Cluitelet, and in boafs be transported to tlie islet of 
 the Seine. Let that island be secretly invested with a 
 strong guard. Let preparations for the execution be 
 made at once. At the stake let full pai'don and liberty 
 be proclaimed to the Templars, if they will confess. 
 They will not confess. Their sentence will be executed. 
 There can be no rescue. The royal authority wdll be sus- 
 tained and continue to be respected. Agitation among 
 the people will cease. The Order of the Templars will 
 then, and not till then, be truly extinct. And you, Sire, 
 will then, and not till then, be truly King of France ! " 
 
 "But, will not survivors of the order seek revenge for 
 the execution of their chief?" asked the King. 
 
 "And if they did, wliere could they find it?" returned 
 the Countess. "Agitation of your own people, Sire, is 
 all you have to dread, and these Templars, once dead, 
 that agitation would cease. Besides, the agitators seek 
 the release of their chief, — not a fruitless, and barren, 
 and impossible vengeance. Were he free and their 
 head, their vengeance might well be dreaded; but cut 
 off that head, and the monster is pow^erless !" 
 
 "Blanche — Blanche — you arc rioht!" cried the Kinpr. 
 " Blanche is alw a \^s right ! Gentlemen and prelates, we 
 have decided. The Council is dissolved. You, Be Cha» 
 tillon, Lord Constable of France, will preside over tho 
 execution of the Master of the Templars and the Prioj 
 of JSTormandy, on the isle of the Seine, west of the Cite iii 
 one hour from this time. The Council is dismissed." 
 
 The Tower-clock tolled six. Blanche glided from the 
 apartment. Iler purpose was accomplished. 
 
344 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 CHAPTEE XXIX. 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 THE SEINE, as it flowed througli Paris, in tLe 
 early part of the Fourteenth Century, embraced six 
 ishmds — three above, or east of the Cite^ and two west, 
 or below. It has no\\^ but two, the three above being 
 united into one, and that one being connected with the 
 eastern extremity of the Cite by a bridge of stone — both 
 bridge and islands being covered with honses ; while 
 those at the foot of the Cite have been united to its 
 western extremity and are also covered with houses. 
 
 But in 1314 tlie only one of the six islands — or more 
 properly of the three islands and three islets — at all 
 inhabited was L^lle de la Cite] which then constituted 
 perhaps the most considerable of the three districts — 
 Universite^ Cite and Yille — of which Paris Avas and is 
 composed. 
 
 On the evening of the eighteenth of March, 1314, one 
 hour after sunset, a strange and memorable spectacle Avns 
 Avitnessed on the most eastern of these uninhabited 
 islands — then used as a garden for the Louvre — on a spot 
 Avhere now stands the equestrian statue of Henry the 
 Fourth* — that square area which projects eastwardly 
 from the platform of the Pont jSTeuf, at the junction of ita 
 
 * Erected by Louis XVIir., in 1818— the original bronze statue bv Mary de 
 Medicis, Queen Dowauer of Henry II., erected in 1('>69, having heeu'destruyed 
 Ui 17y2. i^apoleou designed a granite obelisk for this spot, 200 feet high. 
 
THE MART YE DOM. 
 
 3^5 
 
 northern and southern branches: and which, by- tlie -bye, 
 can ba quite as plainl\' denned on a map as from the 
 bridge itself, if not more so. 
 
 A strange and memorable spectacle ! 
 
 The couDsel of Blanche of Artois was observed. 
 
 The decree of the Pope Avas pronounced. 
 
 Tlie orders of the King were obeyed. 
 
 The Grand Omcers of the Temple were doomed. 
 
 In the centre of that solitary islet of the Seine two 
 stakes Avere planted, famished with fetters and chains:; 
 and fagots were heaped in circles around, while the islet 
 itself was invested hy troops. 
 
 From the deep dungeons of the Chatelet, at the liead 
 of the Petit Pont, on the south bank of the Seine, 
 through a Ioav portal Avhich opened on the stream 
 beneath the abutment of the bridge, the noble victims 
 were brought forth, and in darkness and silence con- 
 veyed in barges to the place of execution. 
 
 De Chatillon, the Constable ; De Xogaret, the Chancel- 
 lor : I)e ^[arigni, the Minister; and the infamous TTil- 
 liam Imbert, Grand Inquisitor, all in their robes of ofhce, 
 were already there. 
 
 " Jacques de Molai," said Imbert, at this last 
 moment, Avill you renew your confession of Chinon 
 and. save yo^n: life?"' 
 
 "iNTever ! was the prompt response. 
 
 ''Gay of Xormandy, at this last moment, will you 
 renew your confession and saA'e your life? " 
 
 The same stern answer Avas giA'en. 
 
 "Constable of France/' cried Imbert, '"the Holy 
 
846 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 Clmrcli resigns tlie heretics to secular power for punisli- 
 ment." 
 
 Instantly a circle of dark figures, in black vizards, 
 environed tlie victims and hurried each to one of the 
 spots of execution. 
 
 For tbe last time, will you confess ? " cried the 
 Inquisitor. 
 
 "Never!" was the simultaneous and immediate reply. 
 " Constable of France, — your duty ! " rejoined the 
 monk. 
 
 And at once dark forms swarmed around the heaped- 
 np fagots, and applied to the combustible materials 
 tlieir blazing torches. At that moment, from the tower 
 of JSTotre Dame, tolled seven. 
 
 Then, for the first time, was the foul scene, hitherto 
 wrapt in profoundest gloom, revealed — the dark forms, 
 of the executioners, appropriately garbed in sable robes, 
 which strongly contrasted their livid and terror-struck 
 faces — the serene and placid countenances of tlie ven- 
 erable victims, who, with hands clasped meekly on 
 their bosoms, and lips moving in prayer, looked trust- 
 fully up to {hose quiet skies with the bright stars above 
 them, whither their pure souls were so soon to wend 
 their way. 
 
 As the red glare of the funeral pyres mounted and 
 spread, fanned into fury by the night-blast of winter, the 
 whole surrounding scenery became illumed by the lurid 
 light. The outlines of the islet itself, hemmed in by a 
 fringe of glittering spears, stood out in strong relief, 
 while the rushing waters of the swollen Seine all around 
 
THE ^^lARTYErOAI. 
 
 3^7 
 
 seemed like liquid flarne in tlie lieiy reflect'ou. On tlie 
 left the Convent of t'.ie Augustines and. below, tlie 
 tall, dark Tower of Xesie gleamed redly in tlie glare. 
 On the right rose the Church of St. Germain TAuxer- 
 rois. vrith its stuoendoas rose-window, and. bevond, the 
 multitudinous towers of the Louvi'e ; while, in the rear, 
 the vast mass of tlie Palace of Justice and. more dis- 
 tantly, the huge front of Xotre Dame loomed up in giant 
 shapes against the bleak eastern sky. 
 
 Along the quays, too, on either side, anvl over the 
 bridges, began to be viewed numerous tigures liurrying 
 wildly along as the flames increased, demanding in vain 
 their cause. From either bank, also, put out innumer- 
 able river craft to that lonely islet. For a moment tliev 
 were seen glancing across the broad stream of blool-red 
 rushing water, and then thev disappeared beneath the 
 shadows of the high banks and were seen no more. But 
 above the shadows of the bank, in the flashino; flames, 
 still gleamed the glittering spear-points of the palace 
 guards 
 
 Upon all this strange and memorable scene gazed 
 more than one from the casements of the Louvre, with 
 ■intense solicitude and interest. r)Ut one was there, who, 
 alone — alone on the highest summit of the tower nearest 
 to the scene, gazed on with excitement almost delirious 
 with excess. That one was a Avoman, and that woman 
 'was Blanclie of Arto's ! 
 
 From the council-chamber of the King she had repaired 
 .to her own apanment, and, having enveloped her form 
 in the folds of an ample cloak, was shortly after -finding 
 22 
 
348 
 
 THE MAKTYRDOM. 
 
 lier way up tlie spiral stair of tlie central tower of tlie 
 Lonvre. For nearly an hour slie waited and watched, — 
 patiently ; most patiently, despite the keen and cutting 
 blasts, which, in her elevated position, swept with win- 
 try fierceness around her delicate form. But she felt 
 tliem not — she felt them no more than she w^ould have 
 felt those devouring flames for which she now w^atched. 
 There was a flame within, which defied all flames with- 
 out, and rendered to her all the sensations of humanity 
 alike ! 
 
 Breathless she listened ; but she heard not a word. 
 Her counsel and the King's commands were well obeyed. 
 All was still — still as tlie grave. 
 
 At length the clock beneath her struck the hour of 
 seven, and the whole tower trembled with the vibrations 
 of the heavy bell. At that moment two spiral flames 
 shot up from the solitary islet, on which her eyes had 
 been so long and so anxiously fastened, and the' whole 
 scene became instantly illumed, as described. 
 
 So brilliant were the flames that, even from the dis- 
 tant and elevated spot on which she st(wd, she could 
 almost distinguish the forms and faces of her victims ; 
 and they were reflected back by the exulting and venge- 
 ful flames of her own dark eyes. 
 
 Higher and higher mounted the flames — fiercer and 
 fiercer glowed the fire — brighter and brighter became 
 the illumination, until all Paris, and the gliding Seine, 
 and the towers, and massive churches, and palaces, and 
 prisons, and even the very welkin itself seemed 
 suffused in the blood-red glare I 
 
THE MAETYRDOM. 
 
 349 
 
 But the victims moved not, spake not, sLrieked not, 
 as had been the Avont of other victims before them. 
 Like their great Grand Master, Christ, when on the 
 cross, they uttered not a word ! On their broad breasts 
 were still folded their hands — to the starry heavens were 
 still raised their eyes — in praj^er still moved their lips.'^ 
 
 And, verih", that prayer seemed granted! Yerily 
 from those aged and innooent sufferers did the pangs of 
 mortality seem to j^ass ! It would, A'erilj^, seem that 
 they suffered not at all ; else, how, how, amid those 
 awful tortures with which, as with a garment, they were 
 wrapt, could those venerable faces have retained the 
 calm serenity they bore ! It would, verily, seem that, 
 by a miracle vouchsafed them, the extremest tortiures of 
 frail humanity had over them no power! 
 
 Tlie flames — they roared and raved, and rushed, and 
 raged : exultiugly they leaped up like lions around their 
 pre\^ ; they advanced and retreated — they fell and rose 
 again — they danced and played, and murmured and 
 menaced, and sent forth their mad music in defiance on 
 tlie blast. Purple and silver, and blue and pink, and 
 yellow and bloody red, they flung forth their irised hues 
 on all things, animate or inanimate, around; and when 
 for a single instant, the pitiless monster paused in its 
 purpose, and its raA^ening seemed to subside, the dark 
 shades of ready fiends again hovered around, and fresh 
 fao;ots were fluno- from a distance — so fierce was the 
 fervor — and again the flames flashed wildlj^ up and 
 brightly sparkled in ascending showers, as if to defy the 
 
 ^ Veliy. 
 
850 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 pure heavens, wliose many stars looked sorrowfully down 
 on that scene of man's madness: and then they swept 
 and whirled as wildlj^ and roared and raved as fiercely, 
 and danced and leaped as merrily, as ever before. 
 
 This could not last. Long since Lad the flames reached 
 their victims. Slowly the extremities consumed, and in 
 blackened fragments dropped off. Sinews sliriveled, 
 bones crackled, tendons snapped, arteries burst, flesh fell 
 away into ashes ! But, wonderful to recite, the venerable 
 victims offered no sign or sound of anguish! 
 
 Once more the triumphant element sprang madly 
 upward — then — all was veiled in cloud and flame. And 
 then, from the midst of that cloud and flame, which in 
 fury rioted around the great Templars, came forth a 
 voice as of Sinai itself. And it was heard by the dark 
 ministers of pain who presided over the torture, and the 
 darker ministers of fate who had bidden it ; and by all 
 Paris, now assembled, with pale and horror-struck faces, 
 along the illuminated banks; and by the prelates and 
 princes at the Louvre ; and by Philip of France, in his 
 council-chamber; and by Blanche of Artois in her 
 tower; and in tones of thunder it said: 
 
 "Clement, thou unjust judge, I summon thee, within 
 forty days, to the judgment seat of God ! " 
 
 And all was still, and all was terror ! 
 
 Again that fearful voice was heard : 
 
 "Philip of France, within one year and one day, I 
 summon thee to meet me! ""^ 
 
 * Seretti of Vicenza asserts that De Molai cited Clement within forty days, 
 and Philip witUiu a year and a day, to meet hira before the judgment seat of 
 
 CrOd. 
 
THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 351 
 
 At tliat instant the flames whirled and swept anew. 
 The stake fell! A cloud of sparks leaped and eddied 
 upward. All was over! 
 
 , And then, from tjiat tall palace- tower, Avas heard a 
 woman's shriek of joy : 
 
 ''Ha! ha! ha! It is done! Adrian, Adrian, thou art 
 avenged ! " 
 
 Midnight pealed over Paris. The flames had burned 
 out: — the multitude had dispersed: — in terror and dis- 
 may, and in grief and rage, the people had gone to thc'r 
 homes: — the Inquisitors with their vile familiars had 
 returned to the Louvre: they were surrounded by guards; 
 and well were it for them it was so: they wou.ld other- 
 wise have been torn into fragments by an infuriate people. 
 
 The last light liad gone out in the palace,~thG last 
 sound, had ceased. All was still, — dark and still, save 
 the everlasting murmur of the rusliing Seine, as its 
 waves swept on, and eddied arou.nd the sliores, of tliat 
 lonely isle, so lately the scene of a S23ectacle so horrid, 
 now lonelier than ever, and evermore tlius doomed ; 
 accursed — accursed forever! And the solitary boatman 
 of the Tower of Nesle as, this night, even as on a:l 
 nights before, for nine long years, in storm or in calm, in 
 darkness or in moonliglit, — he glided past that deserted 
 spot, sliuddered and turned pale, and over him crept a 
 dark presentiment of his own approaching and dreadful 
 doom ! 
 
 And, wken the gray dawn was breaking, — and the 
 icy breath of winter was sweeping down the Seine, — • 
 
852 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 and tlie lonely boatman, hurrying back to tlie Louvre, 
 was passing that unhallowed islefc on his way from an 
 unhallowed couch, — strange shapes were hovering around 
 the fatal spot, — and the long white mantle of the Tem- 
 ple was caught gleaming faintly in the ashy dawn; and 
 mystic rites and solemn ceremonies seemed celebrated 
 there. 
 
 And when the morning broke, and sorrowing, jet 
 indignant multitudes crossed over the water to rake up 
 the cold ashes of the martyred men, to give them con- 
 secrated burial, or to hand them down in reliquaries to 
 their children's children, — lo ! those ashes were already 
 gone! and the keen northern blast swept a naked spot! 
 And each said to the other that the winds of Heaven 
 had given them burial — had taken them to their rest ! 
 
 But not so said Philip de Launai. He said nothing. 
 He, too, was a Templar: — but, alas! he was an apostate! 
 He had sacrificed all things most sacred to a guilty love I 
 
 ^ "Sf ^ "X" ^ 
 
 r- 
 
 Thus perished the last of the Military Templars, — ■ 
 the last of the Soldier-monks. But thus perished not 
 the Order of the Temple, though thus, by its foes, was it 
 designed, and hoped, and believed. 
 
 Prescient of his approaching doom, with prophetic 
 kea, a whole year before his death, Jacques de Molai 
 had sent the mystic cipher to John Mark Lamienius of 
 Jerusalem, then presiding at Limisso, in the Island of 
 Cyprus, bidding him, at once, to his chamber, in the 
 Temple at Paris. Instantly the knight obeyed. Had be 
 
THE MARTYELCM. 
 
 353 
 
 "been bidden by tlie same sign and ciplier to tlie stake, he 
 ^voiild have obeyed none the less ^viHinglv nor quickly 1 
 
 On this distinguished Templar, avIio, for months, as 
 has been said, ^vas tlie companion of De Molai's confine- 
 ment, the old kniglit secretly, and without the knowl- 
 edge even of his fellow prisoners, conferred by nomina- 
 tion the degres of Grand Master of the Order, which he 
 then himself resigned . and, having, in due form, initi- 
 ated him into the mysteries of that degree, Avith all 
 anc'ent rites and ceremonies, and having presented to 
 him his own sword, together with his baton of office, the 
 mystic abacus, he comirnunicated tl:e word, and grip, 
 and sign of l\raster. even as they had been committed to 
 liim by TheobaL:! Gaudiuius, his y^redecessor, and which 
 by him alone in all -the world were known, and, uncom- 
 municated. would have perished vdili him fiix)m the etirth. 
 
 But they perished not, and, now. nearly six centuries 
 afterwards, they exist in all their efficacy, having been 
 handed down through twenty or thirty sitccessors, em- 
 bracing among them some of the most remarkable men 
 who haA'e ever lived,^ 
 
 Subsequently to the death of De Molai, his sticcessoT 
 made known to the order his nomination to the rank 
 thus vacated, to the dismay and amazement of all its 
 foes; and, thus nominated, Lamieniiis was, of course, 
 
 * Tiio great B -L Trand dii Gue-sclin was O- rand Ma^^ter of tlip. Templars for 
 more rtiau twenty years.— from l->57 to July 13, ISSCi, when lie died, at the age 
 nf six^y-six. while" b"e>ie,2;in2; the Eu>ilish in' the Castle of Randon. in Guienne. 
 In I'^S^. Sir Sidney Smith was Grand Master, l")eing the 51st from Hugh des 
 Pavt-ns in lllS, and th-^ ■2oth from Jacqu-^s d^ Molai in 129-S. Several of the 
 Moutmor^^neies held this illustrioas rank and durins the last century it was 
 filled hv Princes of the House of B(^urb(»n. aniont: whom was Philip Egalite, 
 Duke of Orleans. Some years since tU" Grand blaster ^^■a.s Bernard Piaymond 
 Fabre Palprat. _ , 
 
354 
 
 THE MARTYRDOM. 
 
 elected, ill accordance witli due and ancient forms. A 
 grand chapter secretly assembled at Cyprus, — an Elect- 
 ing Prior and his assistant were cliosen, — all night in the 
 chapel they prayed, — in the morning they selected two 
 other Priors, and the four two more, and the six two 
 more, until the number of twelve, — that of the Apostles, 
 — was completed. These twelve selected a chaplain, 
 and the thirteen then in retirement elected a Grand Mas- 
 ter of tlio order. And then the Grand Prior, entering 
 the chapter at the liead of the twelve Electors, in stately 
 procession, exclaimed : 
 
 "John Mai'li Lamienius, in iho name of God the 
 Father, and of God the Son, and of God the IIol}^ Ghost, 
 thou art our Master! Brothers, give thanks! — behold 
 your Master! — advance and receive his orders! " 
 
 Then the whole chapter gathered around th.e successor 
 of De Molai, and vowed to obey him, in all things, all 
 their lives. 
 
 And ever since, from age to age, and from generation 
 to generation, have the same election rites and mysteries 
 been observed. The Order of the Templars still exists 
 in all the chief cities of Europe and the world ; and 
 though no more a military, or an ecclesiastical brother- 
 hood, its rites and forms, its ceremonies and mj^steries, 
 its obligations and ties of unity as a secret affiliation, are 
 the self-same they were eight hundred years ago. This 
 the archives oTtlie order preserved in that portion of the 
 Palace of the Temple which 3^et remains, going back to 
 the date of its foundation, abundantly demonstrate. 
 Among these ancient and ponderous tomes is a Greek 
 
THE JIAllTYEDOM. 
 
 355 
 
 manuscript of the Twelfth Century, containing tlie orig- 
 inal record of the institution of the order; also, St. Ber- 
 nard's Eule, and the confirmation of the Pontiff, and the 
 Golden Table or the c;ita]ogue of Grand Masters, from 
 period of its date down to the present day. Here, too, 
 are the ancient seals, and standards, and reliques and 
 regalia of the Temple, and the massive falchion of 
 Jacques de Molai, together with a few fi'agments of 
 charred bone which were gathered up witii his aslies, 
 and sacredly preserved, enveloped in an ancient napkin. 
 
 For six centnries, the Temple at Paris has been tlie 
 seat of the order; and here, every year, fi-om all Europe, 
 on the eighteenth day ot* March, assemble representatives 
 of tliat ancient fraternity, to commemorate the martyr- 
 dom of its great Master, Jacques de Molai. And in sol- 
 emu procession, thence proceed they to the spot now 
 indicated by the statue of Henri Quatre, at the Pont 
 jSTeuf, and, after many a mystic rite and impressive cere- 
 mony, they march around the memorable place, and, as 
 they came, return.^ 
 
 * On the IStli of ^March, 1S48. notwithstiiiKlins; the convulspd ccnidition of 
 Paris, then hi revolution, this procession was wituessecl. It coiisisteil of only 
 forty-eight persons ; but of these, two were members of tlie most lllustrioiis 
 fiimilies in France, one was a prince of the hlood roval of Spain, one a Greek 
 Boyard. tlu-f^e noblemen of Great Brita'n, ami all of them men of influence 
 and celeb.-lty. Their costume was black: and, on the left lappel of the long 
 frock coat was embroidered a scarlet crucifix, which, the coat beijig bun- 
 toned, would escape observation. An American writinu" from Paris und^r 
 date of M,ii-ch, 1831, says-— The Order of Knights Templar, which is srill 
 existing in Eu -oi^e. celebrated, on 'i'uesday last, the anniversarv of the deatli 
 of .Taqiies M,)lHi. who was burnt Ave hundred and thirty-eight years aiio, 
 under the accusation of felony, sorcery and higli treason. This'executiou 
 took place on the same spot where now stands the bronze horse of Henry tlie 
 JVth, on the Pont Nenf. The Templars, who have never ceased to exist.'hehl 
 their annaal meeting in their lodge. Rue Notre Dame des Victoii-es. and 
 many new knights were received as luemhen-s nu that occasion. 'I he ceremoiiy 
 was imposing a lid cr^-ated a deep impiessiou upon the small number of persons 
 who were admitted in the tribunes." 
 
856 
 
 THE MAKTYRDOM. 
 
 Ill England, tlie encampment at Bristol founded by 
 Templars, who, in 1194, returned witli Kicliard from 
 Palestine, is still in vigorous existence, as are, also, tlie 
 original encampments at Bath, and York. 
 
 In Portugal, tlie cross of the "Kniglits of Christ" is 
 one of the most distinguished badges of honor conferred 
 by the crown; while, in every capital of Christendom, 
 many of the most influential men are Templar Knights. 
 
 Truly, then, — most truly spake the venerable Jacques 
 de Molai, when, with prophetic prescience, he declared 
 that, though he might perish, his beloved order would 
 survive. It has survived; and so long as purity and 
 piety are respected upon the eartli,^so long as Faith, 
 and Hope, and Charity continue to be recognized, so long 
 will it continue to exist ! 
 
 Truth crushed to earth will rise again, 
 Th* eternal years of God are hers ! " 
 
THE EETEIBUTIOX. 
 
 857 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 THE RETPJEUTIOX. 
 
 HO^iV strikinglv is exempliiiod a retriljutive Prov- 
 idence in tiie destinies of men of nations! 
 AVlien Jacques de i\rOiai died, Le summoned Pope 
 Clement Fifth, witliin fortv davs, to ti.e judgment seat 
 of God. 
 
 And so it vras. Brief and terrible Tv'as Clernent's 1-fc, 
 after tliat summons was c slivered liim. A strange con- 
 viction seize:! his rnind, — a strange malady seized Lis 
 frame. Ilis pnysicians told Lirn lie could find relief 
 only by inhaling the atmosphere of his native place ; 
 and. in a litter, he started for Bordeaux. But all vas 
 vain. His hour came before he reache.! his home. On 
 the evening of April 20th, 1314, he Avas compelled to 
 stop at the little village of Eonuemare, on the Ehone. in 
 the diocese of Xisrnes. and there, in despair and anguish, 
 in a feAV short hours, he breathed his last. 
 
 And Philip of France: — immediately after the execu- 
 cution of the Templars, in order to divert the thoughts 
 of the People of Paris from that avrful event, he took 
 occasion to confer the distinction of knightiiood on his 
 tliree sons, a ceremony signalized by a succession oP 
 pubhc fetes, which continued several days. In the 
 midst of theBe festivities came intelligence that G-uy, 
 Count of Flanders, was in arms, and swept his border 
 
35S 
 
 THE RETRIBUTION, 
 
 with fire aDcl sv/ord. Philip was at ODce in the war- 
 saddle. But bis star was in rapid decadence. Only 
 defeat awaited liim. Bruges, Ghent, Courtraye, one 
 after the other, were retaken; and he, who, a victor, had 
 ever before prescribed whatsoever articles of treaty 
 might seem good to him, was now forced to sign such 
 as it might seem good to his once- vanquished foes ta 
 prescribe. 
 
 His own kingdom, too, — and this touched him more 
 nearly, — was in avovv^ed revolt! Picard}^, Ciiampaigne, 
 Artois, BargLiridy, Forez, openly conspired to resist the 
 imposts, taxes, and debasement of coin, instituted to meet 
 tbe expenses of an unsuccessful conflict; and they laid 
 down their arms only Vvdien all they asked wiis conceded. 
 
 From England, also, cnme evil tidings. His royal son- 
 in-law, Edward, was at war with Scotland,^ and hnd sus- 
 tained overvr helming reverses; and of his only daugh- 
 ter enough may be inferred from the single sentence 
 / of the historian — "Since the days of the fair and false 
 Elfrida, of Saxon celebrity, no Queen of England has left 
 so dark a stain on the annals of female royalty as the 
 consort of Edward Second, Isabella of France." 
 
 But a more fearful blow than this awaited him. Pollu- 
 tion was on his own threshold — infamy was in his own 
 household! Suddenly, from the confessional, it is said, 
 came forth a dreadful charge — a charge of adultery 
 against Margaret of Burgundy, Queen of Navarre, and Jane 
 of Burgundy, Countess of Poitiers, immediately suc- 
 
 * T1»e defeat of Eclward, by the Scots, under Bruee, at BaniMcI)!!! ii, 
 oocnned June 24tli, 131-t, witli Hie loss of bC,vUU men, of vvliojii inaiiy ueie 
 nobles. Qi the Scots, only fell. 
 
THE eeteibutio:t. 
 
 359 
 
 ceeled by a similar accusation, — liorror of li errors !— 
 against tlie oiilj idol of liis dark bosom — Blaiielie of 
 Artois, tliG Countess of Marclic! 
 
 Had the massive tower of flic Louvre itself fallen upon 
 tlie guilty Lead of Philip of France, lie could not have been 
 more crushed than he vas now. ^J'he ignominy of his 
 daugliters, Jane and Margaret, terrible as it would have 
 been, he might have endured. But, BLanclie, — his ow]i 
 Blanche, — the being Avhom, more than all others, — whom 
 alone of all others, he had loved, — his pure, perfect, bril- 
 liant, beautiful Blanche, — his able counsellor in all per- 
 plexities, — his fond and faithful consoler in all sorrows: 
 
 "Oh, God!" he exclaimed, "the Templar's curse is 
 on mo now! 
 
 But grief was vain — regret was vain. The guilt was 
 proved beyond a doubt — beyond a peradventure — a guilt 
 on the part of the two sisters Margaret and Jane of nearly 
 nine years' duration. 
 
 Philip and AYalter de Launai were tried by special 
 commission at Pontoise and condemned. Then their 
 bodies were flayed and n:intilated, and di-agged throngh 
 stubble-fields and drawn, and the entrails burned before 
 their eyes and, finall}^, ihey were beheaded and suspended 
 on public gibbets there to rot for the vulture's maw. 
 
 Ilexian de Beziers, the infamous Prior of Montfau^on, 
 and William du Plessis, the monk of St. Dominic, who, 
 witli infernal zeal had presided with Imbert over the 
 torture of the Templars, shared, also, with the Inquis- 
 itor, the fate of the paramours, as confidants of their 
 guilty loves. 
 
360 
 
 THE RETRIBUTION. 
 
 The loiig-coD tinned and unblusliing criminality of tlie 
 Queen of Navarre was so clearly proved, and by so 
 many witDesses, tiiat not a doubt of Iter gnilt remaiued. 
 Her beautiful liair was shorn from her head, and Cha- 
 lean-Gaillard, an impregnable castle, erected by Kichard 
 Coeur-de-Lion on the edge of a precipice overhanging 
 the Seine, near the village of Andely, was the place 
 appointed for her imprisonment. But that imprison- 
 meut Y\^as brief. In a few months she was secretly 
 strangled in her dungeon, by order of her husband, 
 Louis, with her own shroud ; and her body was depos- 
 ited in the church of the CordeUers of Yernon.* 
 
 The chargo against the Countess of Poitiers was in- 
 vestigated by tbe Parliament in tlie presence of her uncle, 
 Charles of Yalois. But Philip, her husband, was more 
 politic, or less jealous than his brother. He cared too 
 little for his wife, and too much for another, to be very 
 regardful of her affections, or her favors : and, as to his 
 honor, he thought, and very Vvdsely, perhaps — that tbe 
 worst mode of sustaining that was to prove himself dis- 
 honored ! So he affected to believe the fair Countess an 
 innocent and injured woman; and the accommodating 
 Parhament, having no Avish to disoblige so amiable a 
 prince, thoLight the same, so, therefore, Jane's accusers 
 were all executed instead of herself; and she lived, for 
 some seven years, a most discreet life till Philip died. 
 " But," says the historian, her widowhood is stained by 
 crimes of tbe most revolting nature, and the scenes which 
 
 *After tlie assassination of Marg-aret, Louis married Clemence of Hungary, 
 a Neapolitan princess, (laughter of Charles, surnametl Matiet, the Hammer. 
 
THE RETRIBUTION. 
 
 361 
 
 took place at the Abbejr of Maubuisson v/ere enacted at 
 her resideoce, the Hotel de Nesle, with double depravity. 
 The towers of that dark edifice were bathed by the wa- 
 terii of the Seine, and all those wlio had the niisfortaue 
 to attract Jane's criminal regards were invited to the 
 eliateau, and were afterward precipitated from the heights 
 into the water, to prevent a recital of her infamy." 
 
 And Blanche of Artois : — For a time she was a willing 
 prisoner in the Castle of Gauray, near Contances. But 
 she was never brought to trial, as the evidence against 
 her was e::ceeclingiy vague, although among other charges 
 she was accused of having secretly given birth to a child 
 at the Abbey of Manbuisson. For herself, she admitted 
 nothing, and she denied nothing. Of the enormity of 
 the offences of which she was accused she seemed to en- 
 tertain not the slightest appreciation. Indeed, for both 
 accusations and accusers alike she manifested only jn'o- 
 found indifterence. She reachly united with her husband 
 in a petition to the Pope for a divorce, and it was 
 granted.* She then retired to the Abbey of Manbuis- 
 son, the early scene of her guilty love. With her went 
 her now inseparable companion, Marie MorfontairiC ; 
 and, after brief penance and novitiate, the Countess took 
 the veil. 
 
 Broken down in spirit by these repeated end heavy 
 reverses and many others f and consumed by the cease- 
 
 * Tliedivnrce of Charles and Blanche was pronounced by John XXII.. on 
 plea that Matilda, Countess of Artois, her inotlier, had been liis godmother! 
 The kindred was close, indeed ! 
 
 t Bussey says, that Jane, Queen of Philip, not long married, was poisoned 
 shortly after the execution of De iSIoIai ! Jane of Navarre, his first wife, died 
 at the'Chateau of Vlncenues, April 2, 1305, 
 
862 
 
 THE RETRIBUTION. 
 
 less gnawings of remorse, Philip of France soon became 
 as shattered in body and mind, as be already was in heartc 
 The summons of tlie dying Temphar to follow him within 
 the year seemed forever to hang over and oppress his 
 mind, especially since tlie remarkable death of Clement; 
 while the loss of his favorite Blanche deprived him of 
 his sole consolation when it was needed most. Pale, 
 emaciated, sad, broken-spirited, who could imagine in 
 him the brave, impetuous, chivalric Philip le Bel as we 
 have known him at the Abbey of St. Jean d'Angely, 
 rnd of Lis belter and happier days, as he now tottered 
 feebly about the Louvre, amid the scenes of his former 
 splendor ? 
 
 At length the physicians of the King said to Philip 
 what the phj^sicians of the Pope had said to Clement — 
 " You must breathe 3^our native air, or, you must die " — • 
 the last advice of physicians then, as now, when that, 
 as well as all else, is vain. The King was accordingly 
 conveyed to his birth-spot, — Fontainebleau, some fifleen 
 leagues from Paris, on the Lyons route. But not the 
 flowery shades, nor the perfumed a'rs, nor the leafy 
 groves of Araby the blest can minister health to a 
 " mind diseased " — a spirit crushed — a conscience haunted 
 by inexpiable crime. Dailj^ and hourly Philip sank. 
 L[is malady Avas called consumption. It was so. Con- 
 sumption of the heart. He felt that he must die, — that 
 he was doomed ; and he sent for Louis, his eldest son and 
 successor, and gave him his last, and most ealutary ad- 
 vice, respecting the governance of the realm whose throne 
 Le was about to mount. His own errors he most freely 
 
THE RETRIBUTION 
 
 S63 
 
 and fully confessed and sorrowed over ; and lie bade liis son 
 take warning by liis fate. Ail the edicts of liis reign, by 
 wliicli be bad oppressed bis people, be revoked; and, 
 after conjuring bis successor to avoid liis own errors, and 
 to provide a remed}^ for tl^eir injurious effects, especial 1}^ 
 toward tbe injured Templars, be died. And witb princely 
 pomp and regal obsequ}-, bis body was conveyed to St. 
 Denis and bis beart to tbe Abbey of Poissy erected by 
 bis fatber."^ 
 
 Pbilip of France died on tbe 29tb day of Xoveniber, 
 1314: and then was remembered tbe dying summons 
 of Jacques de Molai, just seven montbs before — " AVitbin 
 tills year I summon tbee to tbe judgment of God ! " 
 
 On tbe decease of Pbilip, all bis Ministers, wbo by' 
 tbeir active zeal in executing bis iniquitous scbemes bad 
 secured bis favor and tbe batred of all otbers, experienced.' 
 tbe severest rcA^erses. Upon tbem, of course, was cbarged 
 all tbe embarrassments of tbe government, and all tbe- 
 oppression and disaffection of tbe people wliicb bad tbeir 
 origin under tbeir administration of tbe government. 
 But upon Enguerrand de Marigni, wbo, after tlie arrest 
 as a Templar of tbe Grand Prior of Acquitaine avIio had 
 been Minister of Finance, bad bim self assumed tbe regu-: 
 lation of tbat department, descended tbe liea,viest blow." 
 Cbarged by Charles of Yalois, bis ancient and inveterate 
 foe, ^^utb pecubation upon tbe public treasures, be was ar- 
 rested, at tbe door of tbe Hotel of tbe Fosses St. Germain, 
 loaded witb chains and plunged into tbe dungeons of the 
 
 * Philip's end is said bvsome writers to have been hastened by a fail from 
 bis horse, through debility, while hunting the wild boar iu the forests of Fon- 
 taiuebleau. - - 
 
 23 
 
864 
 
 THE RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Temple, — those yerj dungeons, into wliicli liimself had 
 plunged the victim knights ! Then, arose against him 
 another cliarge, more dreadful in that age than all others, 
 as had been proven by the fate of tlieuuliappj Templars; 
 and, in this, with himself, was associated his wife, Alips 
 de Mons, and his sister, the Lady of Canteleu, and their 
 alleged familiar, Jacques Delor. That charge was .sor- 
 ccT?/, — the very charge himself had instituted against the 
 Templar Knights ! Nothing could save him ! From the 
 dungeon he was conveyed to the rack, — from the rack to 
 the wood of Yincennes where he was sentenced, and thence, 
 in the habit of a convict, bearing in his hand a taper of 
 yellow wax, to the gibbet of Montfaugon, which himself 
 had just erected. And there, at break of day, just one 
 year^ after the summons of De Molai, he was hanged, 
 and his body was suspended in chains. 
 
 Raoul de Presle, the Advocate-General of the King, 
 who had deposed against the Templars, was arrested 
 with De Marigni, of whom he was the intimate friend, 
 on charge of having conspired against the life of the late 
 King. All his lands and effects wei-e at once confis- 
 cated, — his body was consigned to the dungeons of St. 
 Genevieve and to the rack ; and, though, subsequently, 
 he was acquitted, his property was never restored. 
 Happily for William de ISTogaret, he 231'eceded to the 
 grave the master he had served so Avickedly and so 
 well. 
 
 Henry Cape tal. Provost of Paris, under whose charge, 
 
 * April, 30, 1315. Tlie wife and sister of De Marigni were immured in dun- 
 geons fov life! Delor hanged himself in his cell, and his wife was burned 
 alive I 
 
THE RETRIBUTION^. 
 
 365 
 
 in tlie dungeons of tlie Chatelet, tlie iinliappj Templars 
 liad been so rigorously imprisoned and so heavily fet- 
 tered, and led tlieiice to the stake, was accused of having 
 substituted, on the gibbet, in place of a rich assassin, 
 justly doomed, a friendless citizen, incarcerated for theft, 
 in consideration of an enormous bribe. Tlie crime ^vas 
 proven, and the Provost and the prisoner both swung on 
 the same gibbet which had borne their victim. 
 
 The apostate Tem})lar, Noffo Dei, was hanged for 
 robbery; and S:j_uin de Florian was slain in a drunken 
 quarrel. 
 
 In view of these events, well may we exclaim — " If 
 this be chance, it is wonderful!'' 
 
866 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 BUT Blanclie of Artois, — slie died not. The miser- 
 able seldom die as others do. Not that she was 
 really now as miserable as she had been. She was only 
 hopeless, — senseless. Earth and earth's objects were to 
 lier — nothing! A wild revenge had succeeded in her 
 bosom a wilder love; and, between them, her heai't had 
 been consnmed to ashes. That heart, once inhabited by 
 the angel. Love, became the dwelling of the fiend, 
 Vengeance. That fiend had, accomplished its purpose, 
 and had departed; and the heart was a tenantless 
 sepulchre. 
 
 It is impossible to conceive a vacuum more complete 
 than wa^ now tte heart of Blanche of Artois, or an 
 indifference more utt^r than that felt and manifested by 
 her for all earthly objects, and interests, and individuals. 
 
 What to her were accusations of infamy? True, those 
 charges were vague, and undefined, and there had been 
 little effort on her part to render them less so; but, once, 
 a breath only of suspicion on her fair fame would have 
 roused her to frenzy. To her now it was a thing of 
 entire unconcern whether she was, or was not, deemed 
 pure. She cared for no one — she cared for nothing. If 
 the world respected not lier, it could hardly have less 
 respect for her than she had for it, or for its laws, or for 
 
THE CCXCLUSIOX. 867 
 
 its penalties. She was as regardless of its love as of its 
 hate. — of its worship as of its contumely; aii'l she cared 
 to 3 httle for either to indulge for them — eveu coniewpt. 
 
 Her heart was a tomb without a tenant. All passioi]^ 
 and all emotions, and all sympathies, — almost all sensa- 
 tio:is were dead in her. Her veios were as cold as those 
 of a hronze statue, and the blood that comsed thei^i as 
 gelid as are the ice-lakes of the Alps. Over her reigned 
 an ererlasting stupor. 
 
 - And, yet, she lived, and moved, and breathed. — she 
 slept, she ate. she drank, even as others do. Her bodily 
 health seemed never better, — her frame was never 
 stronger. — ^never more capable of endurance. Disease, 
 that laid low others, touched not her: — the black wins: 
 ol pestilence shadowed not her brow, though if swept 
 others away with its pall; the angel of death circled her 
 with coi'pses, and then passed on ; his deadly spear-point 
 touched her not ; she coidd, not die I IN'or did she care 
 to die; no more, at least, than she cared to live; to life 
 or to death, she seemed alike, equally, and most incon- 
 ceivably indifferent. 
 
 - In all the penance and all the prayers, and all the 
 countless devotions of the cloister whither she had 
 sought rest, no saint could have been more severely 
 observant than was she. Yet her worship was not of 
 the soul. Her heart had nothing to do with it. She 
 had no heart, indeed, for anything. — not even for the 
 service of her God. — not even for her God Himself! 
 i^ight after night, in the depths of winter, she knee-led 
 until the dawn before the altar, .on- the rough stones o£ 
 
363 
 
 THE CONCLasiON". 
 
 the damp, cliill cloister chapel. But she felt not. Her 
 bosom glowed not with that piety, which renders 
 humanity unconscious of its weaknesses and indifferent 
 to the severity of the elements ; nor was her body a suf- 
 ferer for the sins of the soul. She suffered not as a mortal, 
 she repented not as a saint. Severest penance was no 
 penance to her. Mechanically — uniformly — unvaryingly 
 ■ — unfeelingly — most exemplarily — she went through all 
 the exactest requisitions of the Beguine Bule. But she 
 fdt nothing. How could she ? All penitential cere- 
 monies and inflictions she unflinchingly observed ; but 
 of true repentance she knew nothing. 
 
 Of what should she repent ? Of her mad love ? Alas ! 
 that now to her was the dearest — the only dear thing in 
 existence ! Eepent of her love for Adrian !* Impossible ! 
 If there had been one pure, one sacred, one hallowed 
 impulse in the history of her wdiole life, her wild love 
 seemed to her that one. If that love had been guilt, 
 then, alas! was she most guilty ; for to her it had been 
 the most sacred emotion of her life. How could she 
 repent of that fvir the brief indulgence of which, — so bit- 
 terly recompensed, — she could realize no crime ? Had 
 not Adrian, in the sight of God, and in her own heart, 
 been her husband? — her only true and actual husband? 
 Had not be for one whole 3^ear slumbered on her bosom ? 
 — was he not the father of her child? And whose 
 rights, or whose love, or whose covenant, — (broken as 
 all covenants had been broken by him whom man called 
 her husband) — ii;/iose transcended Adrian's ? Who had 
 ever loved her as he had? Whom had she ever loved 
 
THE CONCLLXIOX. 
 
 309 
 
 as slie Lad loved liim? And no^r to re^oent of tliat love 
 - — the dearest — purest tiling in all lier life I Slie could 
 suffer for it ; — suffering she cared not for. Kay, gladly 
 would she Lave braved all, and endured all, had all Leen 
 before Ler again to brave, and to endure. Oh 1 Lo\v 
 cheaply, by years of suffering, would she have purchased 
 a single Lour of the past! 
 
 • now then could she repent of that which she regarded 
 thus? She felt, — she knew, — that were she on her 
 dying-bed, and about going in spirit before Ler God, Ler 
 last ejaculation would be Ler lover's name, and Ler last 
 memory of earth, and Ler brightest Lope of Heaven, Ler 
 ill-starred love. 
 
 If tliat were guilt, then gladly would she go a guilty 
 being into eternity. She felt that any Avorld with 
 Adrian would be Heaven, — tliat any world without Lini 
 would be — Hell! 
 
 . And her wild — mad — awful vengeance — could she 
 repent of that ? Alas I on that side Ler Leart was iron. 
 To her, the sufferings of others were nothing. "What 
 tortures could equal Lers? "Who Lad suffered, — could 
 suffer, as sLe had? Whose wrongs Lad been like Ler 
 own? Wliat retribution could exceed their just re- 
 compense ? 
 
 But all these thoughts Lad passed away now. SLe 
 thought of nothing, and felt nothing, even as she cared 
 for nothiug. She was a being of cold, calm intellect. 
 Feeling had in Ler no part. Man and woman, all 
 animate and all inanimate things — were alike to her. 
 Mechanically — as a Beguine Nun, she was charitable ; 
 
370 
 
 THE CONCLU3I02T. 
 
 nay, more, slie was profuse — extravagant in her cliarities. 
 All her vast revenues were thus expended ; and on her 
 descended unnumbered blessings of the wretched and. 
 the destitute. But for that she cared, not. Her benevo- 
 lence, her penance and her conventual observance were 
 all one. She was a mere automaton, self-moved and 
 acting in itself, and for itself. 
 
 There was but one being in the whole world for 
 whom Blanche of Artois seemed to manifest the most 
 distant approach to human sympathy. That being was 
 the poor orphan, Marie Morfontaine. 
 
 The feelings of Blanche towards tlio young girl she 
 had so deeply injured were strange — undefined — undefin- 
 able. She loved to haA^e the orphan, uear her, — to clasp 
 her to her heart at night, — to be beside her by day, and 
 to minister to her necessities at all times, especially when 
 ill ; and never chd mother sacrifice her own comfort to 
 an only child, as did Blanche of Artois to Marie Morfon- 
 taine at times .like these. Indeed, her own comfort or 
 wishes she would, at any time, cheerfully yield to the 
 merest caprice of her beloved cliarge. Marie could have 
 not a wish that Blanche did not anticipate and provide 
 for, — not an apprehension that Blanche did not foresee 
 and forefend. AYhy was this? 
 
 Marie Morfontaine was to Blanche of Artois the last 
 and the sole memorial of the only being she had ever 
 truly loved. Had her child survived, on that, doubt- 
 less, would her wealth of woman-tenderness have been 
 expended. But it died, — Adrian died ; — Marie, his first, 
 boy-love — -his school-playmate, — alone remainedj and 
 
THE conclusion; 
 
 371 
 
 she was the only living link that connected her with 
 him. 
 
 Why womler, then, that on ^Eai'ie Morfontaine alone 
 the rock thns smitten ponreil i'orth its floods, — cold, 
 indeed, though those floods might be ? 
 
 Thus passed away day after day — month after month 
 — year after year. But to Blanche of Artois what were 
 the changes of Time — of Dynasties, or of Kings ? What 
 cared she that the race of Hugh Capet was no longer on 
 the throne of France, and that the branch of Valois had 
 overshadowed and succeeded. Wliat cared she that 
 Philip le Long had succeeded Louis h HiUin to the crown, 
 and that her own former husband, Charles le Bel, hav- 
 ing married Mary of Luxembourg, daughter of the Em- 
 peror, had become the King of France? What cared 
 she that Isabella of England was in Paris with her par- 
 amour, Eoger Mortimer, an exile from her own throne 
 and realm ?^ What cared she for all or for any of the 
 mighty events that were now agitating the world — she, 
 secladed in the quiet shades of the Abbey of Maubuis- 
 son, hovering by day like a charmed bird around the 
 scenes of her once passionate love, and dreaming by night 
 of their events? The little grave of her child, of Yvhich 
 no one in all the wide world kncAV save herself,— the 
 spots which had witnessed the early interviews and 
 ripening passion of her ill-starred love, — oh, how strangely 
 dear were they all to her 1 
 
 And yet she exhibited not one pulse of emotion, — 
 
 * Charles le Bsl repudiated his \Yife for tlie very oSeuce he countenanced 
 ill his siiter ! _ 
 
872 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 no, not even to Marie Morfontaine Lerself! In lier "heart 
 all was huslied, — still, — sacred, — liallowed. To no 
 bumnn eye could that heart be laid bare. Alas! not 
 even to herself, or to her God, did she reveal its dread- 
 ful secrets 1 
 
 ^riiis stupor was terrible, — more terrible than even 
 death itself! 
 
 It is a fearful thing — whicli those only who have 
 witnessed can appreciate — to behold a human being, or 
 even to imagine one, who breathes the same air, and 
 walks the same earth, and Avears the same form, that we 
 all do, who is, yet, to all external objects, — to all 
 thoughts, and all sympathies, — to all the world of living 
 things, — only a statue of adamant; and who is moi'e 
 truly dead, than if the heavy tomb-tablet had, indeed, 
 closed over him. To part Avith the dead is hard. Alas! 
 is it less so than to part tlius with the living? 
 
 Yet thus was it with the once brilliant and beautiful 
 Blanclie of Artois. There is another insanity, — another 
 fatuity than that of the brain. It is a monomania — a 
 mono-paralysis of the heart ; and that was hers. 
 
 With the unhappy orphan, Marie Morfontaine, it was 
 not so. She was a different being from Blanche. She 
 was the pensile willow — not the stern oak. The bolt 
 that scathed or shattered the one only bowed the other 
 to the earth. 
 
 She faded — faded, that gentle girl, even as the autum- 
 nal flowers fade befoi'e the winter's breath. She had no 
 perceptible disease, — she never spoke of pain; and un- 
 complainingly, — meekly, — mildly, — piously, she passed 
 
THE COXCLUSION. 
 
 373 
 
 tlirougli all severest exaction of the iron rule to whicli 
 slie had resigneJ Lerself^ — 
 
 With not a word of mnniiur, — not, 
 A sigh o'er her untimely lot, 
 V\'\Ui all the wLile a cheek, whose bbom 
 Was as a mockery of the tomb." 
 
 Every impulse of resentment or revenge had long 
 since ceased to swell her gentle bosom. Bitterly, in tbe 
 dust and ashes of a penit-ential woe had sbe bewailed 
 tiiat rnad infatuation, vrbich had consigned the only 
 being she had ever loved to an untimely and dreadfal 
 doom, Evervthing which had once seemed to her 
 incomprehensible in his conduct was now revealed. She 
 knew now that of which before she had never dreamed, 
 that his parents, influenced by the unhappv Countess of 
 jyiaTche. had forbidden his suit for lier hand; and her 
 own heart confessed that to have resisteh iu i^is despair, 
 the consolation held out bv the overwhelmino; love — the 
 indescribable seductions, and the almost angelic loveli- 
 ness of the most accomphshed woman of the age, he 
 must have been more, or less than man. But, while, 
 mtli all her soul, she forgave her lover and her fidend, 
 to forgive herself seemed impossible. Could slie have 
 sacrificed her life in atonement for her fauh, how gladly 
 wonld not the ohermo- have been made 1 The world 
 ■with all its aspirations, and ail its splendors, and ah its 
 honors, had no charm for her. Hope, the enchantress 
 of youth, had for her youth no sorcery. Of love she 
 never though t, nor even dreamed; audj long before her 
 
374 
 
 THE CONCLUSION". 
 
 reti^ eineot to llie shades of Maubuisson, Eclmoad de Goth 
 aud bis proposals had beeu dismissed forever. Devoted 
 to most severe observance of the Begaine Rule,— though 
 she bad not as yet deemed herself worthy to assume its 
 vow and its veil— her days were employed in the dis- 
 tribution of her vast wealth for the relief of destitution 
 and the advancement of her holy faith, and her nights in 
 penitential prayer; with no thonght of earth — no pas- 
 sion of human frailt3^ save tbe sad memory of that buried 
 love, which partook more of tbe Heaven to Avhicli 
 she looked forward for its renewal than of the world 
 in which it originated. As the young wife mourns the 
 losG of that husband in whose grave is entombed her 
 heart, so mourned Marie Morfontaiiie for her beloved 
 Adrian; and, unconsciously and imperceptibly, each day, 
 as it elapsed, seemed to hasten, even more rapidly thaa 
 Time itself, to re-unite her to her loved and lost. 
 
 The devotedness of the young orphan to the obser^ 
 vances of her faith was only exceeded at Maubuisson by 
 that of Blanche of Artois; and hers Avas a devotion, 
 which was ere long to canonize as a saint one, who, as a 
 woman, had, like Mary of old, deeply loved and deeply 
 sinned. Often, in the stillness of the night-time, when 
 sleep weighed every eyelid of that vast convent save 
 her own, she would rise from the hard couch of her soli- 
 tary cell, and, pacing the dim aisles and chill corridors 
 of the cloister, repair to the altar, and, on the damp" 
 pavement of the chapel, kneel in prayer until the dawnj 
 and here she w^as often joined by her youthful friend. > 
 : At length, one morning, during the season of Lent^ 
 
THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 875 
 
 just as tlie grayligbt was beginning to steal tliroiigli tlie 
 tall Gothic casements of the cliurcb, a pious penitent of 
 tlie convent crept noiselessly np the aisle to bend before 
 tlie shrine. That spot was already filled. There kneeled 
 a form garbed in the black serge of the order ; and, as 
 the penitent paused and looked more closely, she recog- 
 nized by the increasing light the still matchless shape of 
 Blanche of Artois. On the cold pavement she kneeled; 
 her transparent hands were meekly folded on her bosom ; 
 her brow rested on the altar of her God. 
 ' Long did the pious penitent forbear to disturb tlie 
 seeming devotion of her yet more penitent sister. At 
 length, approaching, slie kneeled beside that form, tliat 
 their petitions might together ascend to Heaven. But 
 that Ibrm moved not — ^^seemed not conscious of the ap- 
 proach. Startled, the Beguine pressed the kneeling figure 
 with a gentle touch. Still it moved not — gave no sign. 
 She spoke — there was no answer ! 
 Blanche of Artois was dead ! 
 
 Amid the dread solitudes of that consecrated pile, — • 
 alone with her God, — in the deep stiUness of night when 
 sleep falleth on man and shades of the departed come 
 back to those they love ; — in loneliness and in darkness, 
 that proud, stern spirit — once gentle — once impassioned 
 -—had passed to its rest; to a world where earth's evil 
 troubleth not, — where human ties can no more cause 
 human misery, — there to join, as she hoped, and from 
 him never again to be parted, that being so wildly, so 
 guiltily, so fatally loved ! 
 
 * Hi * Jf: 4f 
 
876 
 
 THE CONCLUSION. 
 
 Some montlis Lad passed away, since, witli sorrowing 
 heart and streaming eyes, the orphan heiress, Marie 
 Morfontaine, had beheld her only friend entombed in the 
 consecrated ground of the cloister. It was now lenfy 
 June, and the woods and meadows of Maubuisson were 
 emerald with verdure. One evenino;, at a late bour, a 
 solitary horseman stopped at the lodge of the convent, 
 and craved entertainment for the night. Agreeably to 
 the hospitality of the age, the boon was granted ; and 
 yielding his weary steed to an attendant, the stranger 
 strode into the public hall. He was a man some thirty 
 or forty years of age, — with an erect and military bear- ' 
 ing, — his cheek and brow bronzed by exposure, and his 
 garments soiled by travel. His face was sad but hand- 
 some, and a mournful brilliancy burned in his large dark 
 eye. In reply to the friendly inquiries of the aged 
 porter, ho stated, briefly, that he was on his way to Paris, 
 and that he was no stranger to the hospitality of Mau- 
 buisson. lie then mentioned the name of the Countess 
 of March e, and when informed of her decease he buried 
 his face in his hands, and bowing his head, his form, for 
 an hour, was convulsed, with suppressed agitation. 
 
 "And Marie Morfontaine ? " asked the traveller, sadly, 
 ' — at length raising his head. 
 
 "She is a guest in this convent," replied the old man. 
 " Would you speak with her?" 
 
 A gleam of joy for a moment lighted up the woe-wcrn 
 features of the stranger, stained with the trace of tears, 
 
 "Most thankfully," was the agitated reply; "and at 
 once, good fatlier, if it be possible." 
 
THE COXCLUSIOX, 
 
 377 
 
 Tlie old man retired, and soon returned, conducting 
 tlie orphan heiress, Avhose pale, sweet face was strongly 
 contrasted the dai'k rol)e of a Beguine. Tiie tall . 
 ibrm of the stranger rose as she approached; but it Avas 
 enveloped in the heav\- Folds of a cloak, and his features 
 were shaded by a pilgrim's liat. 
 
 " What would you with me, Sir Traveller? " asked the 
 sad and silvery tones of the orjdian. 
 
 Tlie stranger trembled, and seemed too agitated to 
 reply until the question Avas repeated. 
 
 ''Know you, ladj^, Adrian de Marigni?" he asked, in 
 tones suppressed b\' emotion. 
 
 "Alas, sir," was the mournful reply, "the tomb alone 
 has long known him ! " 
 
 ''Yet, should I say," murmured the stranger, after a 
 pause, " that Adrian de Marigni yet lives — " 
 
 " Impossible ! " interrupted the lady sadh^, shaking her 
 head. 
 
 ''Marie!" exclaimed the strano-er, throwiuQ- aside his 
 hat and cloak, and extendino: his arms. 
 
 For an instant the orphan gazed bewildered on those 
 loved and longdost features. Then remembrance flashed 
 on her mind. That face — that voice! 
 
 "Adrian!" she exclaimed: and, springing forward 
 witli a low cry, her fainting form was clasped to the 
 broad breast of her lover. 
 
 Yes, it was, indeed, Adrian! Almost by miracle had 
 lie escaped the awful doom to which he had been con- 
 signed, on the very eve cf its execution, and, with two 
 companions, fled to the Cevennes, in'the^mountain prov- 
 
378 
 
 THE CON-CLUSION. 
 
 ince of Lyonnais. There, with a large number of other 
 knights, he remained concealed among the cliffs and 
 caves, until the final abolition of the order. Then, leav- 
 ing his retreat, he became a wanderer in other lands, 
 until he could safely return to his own. 
 
 Need we add that, before a twelve-month had elapjed, 
 Adrian de Marigni and Marie Moifontaine were united 
 by Holy Church never to part? For, though one bad 
 been a companion of the abolished Order of the Temple, 
 and the other had been the inmate of a Beguine con- 
 vent, neither of them had assumed vows forbidding their 
 union, from which they could not be and were not 
 absolved. 
 
 Forsaking the scenes which to both recalled so much 
 of pain, they retired to the extensive and beautiful 
 estates of the heiress in their own native Normandy ; 
 and from their union sprang one of the mosi illustrious 
 families in the realm. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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