Chapter XV: Nicola

After these occurrences, a fortnight elapsed, and during all that time I did not visit the Countess, and I never received any message from her, a circumstance which rather piqued and surprised me; so, during that fortnight I imitated a little of the dissipation of my companions.

One night Raynold Cheyne and I had a desperate brawl in the Rue St. Honoré with the archers of the Provost des Marchands, led by the Chevalier de Guet, or commander of the night watch; but we knocked them over like nine-pins, and fought our way off. Moreover, in this devilish fortnight, I was involved in no less than two duels, having to fight one for myself and another for a friend.

I had become acquainted with a pretty little actress of the Hotel d'Argent aux Marais, and we used to take occasional rambles together in the Garden of Plants, and have other meetings, which were duly arranged for us by little Foquelin, the _Molière_ of later times. These proceedings one of M. de Treville's musketeers resented so highly, that he asked me to give him a meeting, which I did one morning about five o'clock. Why abroad so early? the reader may ask; but the truth is, that to suit my own convenience I met him on my way home to the Louvre. We engaged, but after a few passes he burst into a fit of laughter, sheathed his sword, and proposed that we should toss up for my actress over a bottle of the wine of Artois, which we did accordingly, and, as fortune would have it, she fell to him.

My next affair was more serious.

Our comrade, the Viscount Dundrennan, when crossing at the ferry of the Nesle, was incommoded by a chevalier of St. Esprit, and a meeting was arranged; but the Viscount having to attend an assignation with a little citoyenne, in the Marais, asked me to take his place; and, wearing his rocquelaure and a lofty plume, by which he was as well known in Paris as the statue of Henry IV., I met the chevalier of St. Esprit outside the gate of St. Marcel, and at the fourth pass disarmed and laid him flat on his back by a blow with my shell on the mouth. As he was a friend of Mademoiselle de l'Orme, I feared that for this exploit I might have to cool my heels in Holland, and take service under those very pious and proper persons, the States General; but the Countess stood my friend with the Procureur du Roi, the Chevalier got a false set of teeth, the affair blew over, and Dundrennan was my friend for life.

One night I was sentinel at a private gate of the Louvre, armed completely, in helmet, breast and back plates, with sword and carbine. My orders simply were, to admit none by that postern without receiving from them the parole, which, as already related, the King daily gave to the Marquis de Gordon. In the chapel of the ancient palace, Louis was holding a solemn chapter of the fifty knights of the Holy Ghost (an order instituted by himself), for the purpose of receiving my friend, Cheyne of Dundargle, whose new honours were owing to the interest taken in his affairs by Madame d'Amboise.

I had still the miniature of that gay countess, and while whistling or humming an air to wile away the lonely two hours of my watch, I occasionally, by a lamp that hung overhead, surveyed this effort of the pencil of Poussin, who had caught with wonderful skill her voluptuous style of beauty, the wanton lustre that shone in her rich hazel eye, and the seductive droop of her eyelash.

Two old crones connected with the palace amused me for some time by gravely discussing whether Madame la Marechale d'Ancre really lodged devils at her house in Paris, and consequently deserved the stake; and then of the newer sorceries of Urbain Grandier among the poor nuns at Loudun, in the Vienne, which began to be much talked of about that time; and as all the ladies were in turn possessed by devils, which were only expelled by bringing them before a statue of our Lady of Recovery, the Carmelites, its possessors, were making quite a fortune by the fame of its miracles. After a little, the two crones shut their windows, and all became still and silent, save the strains of music that came at times from the illuminated windows of the Hôtel de Bourbon, which stood opposite; and now the time approached when the venerable clock of St. Germain l'Auxerrois would toll the hour for relieving me until morning.

A dark figure, about a pistol-shot distant, glided across the rays of light that fell from the Hotel windows towards the postern, and attracted my attention.

'Qui vive?' I challenged.

Without replying, a female, masked, and shrouded from head to foot in a long black veil, approached hurriedly, and, to my great surprise, laid a hand timidly upon my arm, saying--

'Ah! M. Arthur, I overheard some one say you were on duty here.'

'At your service, mademoiselle,' I replied, while my heart beat rapidly on recognising my little masker of the Place de la Grève, Nicola, the attendant of the Countess; 'but why are you alone here, and at this time of night?'

'Why was I alone that night in the Quai de la Grève?'

'I know not; you are a charming enigma, Nicola; but twelve will strike shortly. Ah! mademoiselle, if you have a lover!'

'I have been at the masque in the Hotel de Bourbon; I have been close to the Cardinal twenty times, and heard him discuss some notable projects with the Chevalier Hepburn and the Duke de Lavalette.'

'Projects--concerning what?'

'The war in Lorraine.'

'Then your information will be of considerable value to my friend, M. le Chevalier d'Ische,' said I, angrily.

'Hush!' said she, haughtily, and with alarm, while she cast a rapid glance over the mighty mass of the Louvre; 'it is not of d'Ische, but of yourself I came to speak.'

'A thousand thanks, dear mademoiselle,' said I, surveying with a new emotion of pleasure her beautiful golden hair, which shone beneath her veil, in the lamp that swung in the archway above me.

She trembled, and said--

'I know not how to begin all I have to say, but the message comes to you partly from the Chevalier d'Ische, and from the Prince, his companion.'

'De Vaudemont?'

'Hush! oh, hush!' she cried, in a stifled voice; 'were that name heard here I should be destroyed. Well, monsieur, they are charmed by your courage and bearing.'

'They do me infinite honour, mademoiselle, no less by the compliment than by the messenger they have chosen; and this message--'

'Concerns Madame d'Amboise.'

'Your mistress?'

'My mistress?' reiterated Nicola, with a haughty laugh.

'Your friend then.'

'Neither my mistress nor my friend; but one day you may know this enigma. Well, 'tis of this lady I would speak: M. Blane, you do not love this woman--foolish boy, you cannot love her!'

'You call me boy, who are but yourself a girl.'

'A girl? true; but a woman in experience. We begin life early in this lively city of Paris, my dear M. Blane. Can you hope to fix such a heart as that of the Countess?'

'I dare hope anything,' said I, as all Clara's beauty and fascination came before me.

'Is it worth fixing, a heart that is full of vanity, and finds no charm in religion, or in virtue? You cannot raise this woman to the rank even of a citizen's wife if you married her.'

'Married her!' I reiterated; 'by my faith, mademoiselle,' I added, after a long pause of perplexity, 'you are a bold little chit to speak thus of the Countess--'

'Of the wretched mistress of Louis XIII.!' said Nicola, with a gesture of contempt.

'Marriage was never thought of, by me, at least; on my honour, I assure you, Nicola.'

''Tis well,' she replied, with singular dignity; 'for by that act you would lower yourself for ever, and adopt the stigma of her shame, and of her crimes.'

'Crimes! oh, mademoiselle, whither is your energy carrying you?'

'Crimes, or sins, you would soon learn to despise her, while your own purity would render you an object of hate; your youth, as contrasted with her riper years, an object of intolerant jealousy. Avoid her, M. Blane, and love one who is young, beautiful, and worthy of you.'

'Like yourself, charming Nicola,' said I, gallantly, and attempting to take her hand; 'the deuce! you are reading me quite a motherly lecture, little one.'

She blushed under her velvet mask, and drew back, for kindness and earnestness had borne her thus away, and my perhaps mistimed gallantry offended her.

'Do you not perceive how she receives you? She is always dressing her hair, or reclining on a couch, her neck and shoulders bare; her dress a dishabille. Her eyes are ever rolling, drooping, or languishing, and she courts compliments and kisses, which take the rouge from her cheeks; and thus has she dallied with many before you knew her. Oh, fie! M. Blane, you have been both very naughty, and very silly. There is no love in all this, it is mere allurement. Pure love,' she added, in her tremulously gentle voice, 'should be pure and chaste as an infant's dream.'

'May such a love be yours, beautiful Nicola!' said I, struck by the truth of all she advanced, and charmed by the kindness of this interesting girl; 'I will ever esteem you as my kindest friend.'

'Money or favour may find you a hundred mistresses, but never a friend. Shameless and intriguing, brilliant and subtle, the Countess seeks only to allure you, as she has allured others, by studied coquetry, and inviting you by a thousand pretty ways to love her; but everything on earth passes away, and so, I trust, will your regard for Madame d'Amboise: her love for you is but the fancy of an hour, and it will pass, leaving perhaps shame, and it may be danger or death behind it.'

I stood for a minute silent, confounded by the lofty bearing, impressed by the sense, and piqued by the monitory tone of this little waiting-maid, whose excessive beauty gave her the privilege of an empress, and, in truth, she seemed quite disposed to take it.

'Mademoiselle,' said I, 'whether all these admonitions have come from the reckless chevalier, or are the pure offspring of your own amiable heart, I shall not be vain enough to determine; but war will fortunately soon remove me from the sphere you deem so dangerous, for to remain in it, and treat the Countess with real or apparent coldness, would destroy me as readily as if the King discovered her troublesome passion for me.'

'Farewell, M. Blane, I am glad that you see your position so well,' said she, giving me her white hand to kiss; 'farewell! remember all I have said; that I shall ever be your friend, and as a proof that I am well informed, be prepared for a journey--you will leave Paris to-morrow evening!'

'To-morrow?'

'Farewell!'

'But how will you reach the château?'

'Antoine awaits me with a fiacre, at the corner of the Rue de l'Arbre Sec.'

'But an escort?'

'I have the Chevalier d'Ische, and his friend, disguised as Swiss musketeers--adieu!'

'Adieu, dear Nicola!' and we separated.

'Fool that I was not to get a parting kiss from her!' thought I, as she tripped away and disappeared. 'In all this there is some strange mystery; that young girl is no more a waiting-maid than I am shah of Persia!'

At that moment the clock of St. Germain l'Auxerrois struck twelve, and the Viscount Dundrennan came to take my place at the postern.

'Bravo! a petticoat!' said he, just as Nicola disappeared; 'are the sentinels doubled here at night? I deemed this the most dreary post on the Louvre.'

I made him an answer in the same jocular vein, and rejoined my comrades in the guard-room, or salon of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, and the events of the morrow left me little time for reflection, and less for inquiry.