Chapter XXXII: Happiness

One night I had fallen into an uneasy slumber, and without undressing lay on my bed untrimmed and unshaven, for I was fast becoming careless of an existence so monotonous. As usual, I was dreaming of freedom and of home, and I saw the broad blue Dee sweeping on its course, past the old turreted stronghold of the Maclellans; I saw St. Mary's Isle, with all its waving woods and ruined pinnacles of the monkish times; I heard the bell of St. Cuthbert's ancient kirk, as it jangled in its spire of stone, and the notes of the mavis and merle, as they soared aloft with wings outspread on the glittering air; and I seemed to feel the pure breeze that came from the purple muirlands, laden with the perfumes of the blooming heather, and the golden broom; all--all spoke to me of home, my native land, and I wept in my sleep with joy.

'_Number thirty-two!_' cried a voice.

Suddenly a light flashed into my eyes, and I awoke. Martin Omelette stood before me, bearing a lamp, and in the shadowy background were two female figures masked and muffled.

'Pardon, monsieur,' said Martin; 'but here are two ladies who bear an order to the Governor of the Bastille, permitting them to visit you; so I shall set down the lamp, and wait outside.'

He bowed and withdrew.

As he did so one of my visitors removed her mask, and I recognised the Countess d'Amboise, with her bewitching eyes, her full white bosom displayed as much as ever, her charming embonpoint, her grace and winning sweetness. A golden tress which escaped between the broad hat and mask of her companion acquainted me that she was the attendant Nicola the little Lorrainer.

Clara d'Ische certainly looked dazzling, and her dress was magnificent; yet I gazed at her coldly, for I remembered, that with all her powerful interest she had allowed me to pine a prisoner for months in the Bastille.

'Alas! M. Arthur, have you nothing to say to me?'

'Yes, madame--this visit is most welcome--for save the voice of honest Martin my gaoler, no other has broken the solitude of this chamber for months.'

'Poor Monsieur Blane!' said the soft voice of Nicola.

'You knew that I was here, I presume, Madame la Comtesse?' said I, with some asperity.

'I knew that you were arrested--'

'Indeed--I thought so.'

'Arrested,' she continued, her hazel eyes flashing, 'when coming from the house of the base courtesan De l'Orme, in the Rue de St. Jacques.'

'I merely visited Mademoiselle de l'Orme to deliver six letters from the camp. On my honour I had no other purpose.'

'Keep your own secrets, Monsieur, they are nothing to me. I might have had you released within a week, had I chosen.'

'But you did not choose it, madame?'

'No.'

'Alas!--it was very cruel of you. Had any one told me that I should have lived in this place so long without my heart breaking I could not have believed it.'

The Countess gazed at me fully and pitilessly; but little Nicola cast down her soft eyes sadly as I spoke.

'And was my visit to the Rue de St. Jacques my sole crime?' I asked furiously.

'It was not.'

'Then madame will perhaps have the kindness to inform me whether I am indebted to the King or to M. de Brissac for my quarters here?'

'To Louis of France himself.'

'But he was most gracious to me when I delivered my standard and the despatches.'

'He who knows not how to _dissemble_ knows not how to reign,' said the Countess, smiling again; ''tis an old regal proverb--but at that moment the King was in no way incensed at you.'

'My crime--my error, Countess,' said I, angrily; 'to the point, madame.'

'You fell asleep on the terrace at Versailles, M. Blane, under an elm-tree. The King passed near you, and saw the miniature of a lady openly suspended from your neck. He loves pretty women after his own maudlin fashion, and curiosity prompted him to draw near. He recognised my features, and then jealousy urged him to send you here, where, but for me, you might remain with many others until France hails as Louis XIV. the infant son of Anne of Austria; and I fear that your black, curly hair would be silvery enough by that time, my dear M. Blane.'

'I should attempt to escape, or perish!'

'Escape!--for what purpose?'

'To return home.'

'Home--poor M. Blane, you forget--'

'True, madame,' said I, clasping my hands; 'alas! proscribed and expatriated, I dare not; but I can turn my steps to Holland.'

'To make love to clumsy vrows, and Dutch dairy-maids with coarse red fingers--to learn the mysteries of cheese-making and tulip-rearing?'

'No, madame! to fight against France, perhaps--to serve under the banner of the Scottish Brigade.'

'Hush--if you value life!'

'And so this was all my mighty crime--my error!'

'Nay, you also committed another most grievous one.'

'Indeed! I am all attention,' said I, bitterly.

'You delivered your despatches to the King instead of the Cardinal.'

'Heavens, madame! the despatches from the army were for the eye of Louis alone.'

'So are his Majesty's love-letters--yet his Eminence contrives to receive and read them all first. Then why not a mere despatch?'

'How many wheels revolve within each other at this wretched court of France!' I exclaimed.

'You were justly punished for your falsehood to me,' said the Countess, with one of her most seductive smiles, and an artful droop of the eyelid; 'for I will not understand all about your visit to the Rue de St. Jacques. But listen,' she added, laying her soft, pretty hand engagingly on mine: 'his Majesty's private ring has opened up to me every avenue of this terrible chatelet, to the governor of which he had previously sent M. de Brissac with instructions that I was to be obeyed in all things--hence I am here, to free and to forgive you.'

'Ah, Madame d'Amboise!' I exclaimed, kissing her hand with a greater burst of joy than gratitude at this delightful intelligence, 'my heart, my life, my sword are yours from this moment.'

I heard a sigh behind me, and turning, met the timid blue eyes of Nicola.

'Dear Mademoiselle Nicola,' said I, taking her hands in mine (and plump, warm little hands they were), 'I have thought of you and your kindness to me often, very often, in my loneliness here.'

I dared not kiss her pretty hands before the Countess; for, with all her loveliness, Nicola was but a waiting-maid; yet there was a difference in the manner and style of these two women that impressed me, and gave me occasion for much grave reflection afterwards.

'So, M. Blane, I have come to take you from the Bastille, whither the unfortunate work of M. Poussin brought you; and in future, when going to sleep under a tree, pray take care to button up your pourpoint--though never again shall you have a miniature of mine.'

'It would be needless; my heart bears all that is requisite.'

'Madame,' said Nicola, impatiently, 'the clock of the Bastille is striking two.'

'Let us go, then,' said Clara, resuming her velvet mask; and preceded by Martin Omelette and a few other armed officials, we descended the hateful labyrinth of passages, stairs, and corridors to the court of the fortress, where the governor, hastily wrapped in a cloak, stood near the gate to receive the credentials of my release from the Countess, whose face he endeavoured, but in vain, to discover through the holes in her black velvet mask. He restored to me my sword and belt, and a fierce and proud emotion swelled within me as I buckled them on.

'When free,' I whispered impetuously to Clara, 'I will no longer be the slave of a capricious king.'

'Have you quite lost your senses, M. Blane!' said she, placing a hand on my mouth, 'or do you forget the saying of Catherine de Medicis, that walls may have ears?'

'I shall be alike silent and at your service.'

'Come with me to Amboise--the château, I mean.'

'But,' said I, spitefully, remembering my former incarceration in the cabinet, 'what if the King--'

'The King is seriously indisposed; a fever has quite prostrated him.'

'Despite the Queen's pilgrimage to St. Fiacre?'

'And the prayers of Ninon's lover, Monseigneur the Archbishop of Paris--he is very ill.'

'Long may he remain so!' said I, angrily, as I thrust on my hat, and we heard the gate of that detested prison closed behind us.

The morning air was cold. The sky was dark, and the giant mass of that formidable donjon keep frowned gloomily over us, with all its towers and terrors. Nicola trembled and shrunk close to my side. I trembled, too, but it was with joy, ardour, and impatience to be beyond the precincts of that historical prison. I hurried past M. le Capitaine du Chatelet, forgetting even to bid farewell to poor Martin, who had become so attached to me that he actually wept at letting me go once more into the world; and handing the Countess and Nicola into a fiacre that awaited us near the Porte St. Antoine, we were driven rapidly off.

All this seemed a dream to me. Half an hour ago I was asleep in my chamber in the Bastille, and now I was whirled through the dark and empty streets of Paris, past the great arsenal, the Isles St. Louis and Louvier, and along the banks of the Seine; the barriers had opened and shut behind us like magic, for the Countess had obtained the parole from the captain of the watch, and now we were driving among hedges, trees, and fields in the open and star-lighted country. The hands of the Countess were in mine, and her left cheek rested on my shoulder. My heart was full of tumultuous joy, but not unmixed with alarm, for there were more pleasant positions in the world than finding oneself the favoured rival of Louis XIII.--one who had Bastilles, lettres de cachet, gendarmerie, mousquetaires of the guard, and the devil only knows all what more at his command. Yet I was happy, and, in secret, sometimes pressed the hand of Nicola, who sat silent in a corner, and quite in the dark.

At last the fiacre stopped suddenly, and we alighted at the private entrance of the Château d'Amboise, which was involved in obscurity. Antoine--the discreet and invaluable Antoine--received us, and in ten minutes after I found myself in an apartment familiar to me, and locally known as the Red Chamber.

It was completely hung with red amboisienne--a species of silk manufactured at the old town of Amboise, in Touraine, an ancient fief of the former lords of this château, in whose stronghold, similarly named and situated on the Loire, Charles VIII. of France died, Louis XI. founded the Order of St. Michael, and the Guises planned their formidable conspiracy against the Huguenots in 1560. The silk in the chamber was old and faded; but could it have spoken, it might have told me of a terrible story, for within its four walls was done a dreadful crime. Here perished Monsieur of France in 1471, and with him a lady whom he loved with all the devotion of chivalry.

'Monsieur adored,' says the quaint historian of France, 'a daughter of the Lord of Monsoreau, and widow of Louis d'Amboise, who had for confessor a certain Benedictine monk, named Jean Favre Versois, abbot of St. Jean d'Angely. This wicked monk poisoned a very fair peach, and gave it to that lady, who, at a collation, put it to steep in wine, and presented one half to the prince, while eating of the other herself. She, being tender, died in a short time; but the prince, being of a more robust nature, sustained for some time the assault of the venom, but could not conquer it, and in the end, yielded up his life thereto.' (_De Mezeray_, fol., 1683.)