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Updated: May 9, 2025
This was he who was reputed to have been killed in battle, and to have left no issue. And this was he whom I afterward found to be my own good father. There was also contained an account of the later life of Pedro d'Ortez, who, profiting not by his blood-gotten gains, threw himself, while in delirium, into the same old well whereon he had hanged his brother, Henri d'Artin.
When the noisy troop rode up to the gates of Cartillon their leader paused, a head appeared upon the battlements. "Guise," cried Ortez, giving the watchword of that day of slaughter. The drawbridge lowered, and open swung the gates. "Welcome to Cartillon, d'Artin," Ortez bowed. "Here at last we find rest and refreshment. Let a feast be spread in the great hall, ransack the place for good cheer.
"Henri Francois Placide d'Artin, what hast thou to say why we shall not declare thy blood attainted, thy name dishonored, thy estate forfeited, why we shall not hang thee for a Huguenot dog, traitor to King and church? Speak."
Died August 26th, 1572, at Cartillon, Henri Francois Placide d'Artin, Count of Cartillon, Seigneur de Massignac, etc., a heretic and apostate, falling before the wrath of God on occasion of the pious stratagem of the Feast of the Blessed Bartholomew, arranged by Her Most Gentle Majesty, and the dutiful son of Church, Henri, duc de Guise.
As men think of trifles even in times of deadly fear, so did my lips frame over and over again the last question I had in mind before all sense forsook me, "Where is the last d'Artin? Where is the last d'Artin? Where ?" And in answer to my question, that long, rigid finger pointed directly at me from out the dusty glass. It was as if the hand of the dead had told me who I was.
For there, there was the same pallid countenance, death-distorted and drawn, which I had conjured up in many a frightened dream as that of the murdered Count there was Henri d'Artin. How long I stood transfixed, pointing into the mirror, I know not.
Some further notes by the good abbot told of how Raoul, the second son of Pedro, slew his own brother, before their father's eyes, in order that he, Raoul, might be Count of Cartillon. And this same Raoul, some years later, did have the locket made and forced his own son to swear that he would restore the real sons of d'Artin, the true children of the Black Wolf's Breed, to their own again.
"I am Henri d'Artin, by murder's hand laid low; I would tell you much." "Let us go, Monsieur, let us go. He speaks of unholy things," the boy pleaded fearfully. Meeting no response he turned and fled down the slope, away in the twilight beneath the trees. "Dost hear the clanking arms, the rolling drums of war? List unto the shouts, the cries within.
It was as though I witnessed in my own person the wretched death of Henri d'Artin, and stood within his castle's court when the ruthless deed was done. Verily man knoweth not the rebellious vagaries of an unhinged brain; knoweth not what be but unmeaning phantasies, or what be solemn revelations from the very lips of God.
The lad whispered: "It's old mad Michel; he lives up there," pointing to a tumbled down tower, "and believes himself the Count the Count, and him long dead lying yonder in the well." The boy shuddered and crossed himself. The old man gazed steadily at me for some moments then bowing low, he cried: "Hail! Son of d'Artin! Hast come to view thine own again? Let us into the walls."
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