Chapter XXXVI: Our Journey Together

We put up at a quiet auberge in the suburbs--such a place as I usually chose. It was kept by a reverend-looking old man, who told me that he had been a soldier in the wars of the League, and was the comrade of Nicholas Poussin in the regiment of the Vicomte de Tavannes. The moment we entered this auberge, Nicola, as usual, retired to her chamber, and on this occasion without even bestowing on me the sweet smile and farewell bow, or waving to me a kiss with her pretty hand, according to her usual wont when we separated for the long hours that must intervene until the morrow; and this pained me more than I could have believed the coldness or slight of any girl would do--especially a girl in her position.

That night I was very sleepless and miserable.

Love should be pure, true, and humble; for true love, as the Scripture saith of charity, seeketh not its own; and such, I hope, was mine for this French girl. I watched the chamber where Nicola slept, and listened to her soft breathing through the door, which was slightly ajar. I saw the shadow of her curtained bed thrown by the night lamp across the floor, and I would have given the world (as the phrase is) to peep in and see her dear little face as she slept; but if discovered, the intrusion would have been deemed an unpardonable offence by one so proud, so pure, and modest as Nicola; so I lingered without--listening, watching, and hoping I scarcely knew what.

I counted the miles, the days, and hours of our journey, past and those to come; and reckoned the time at which she must leave me--when we would separate, and, too probably, never to meet again. This approaching fate greatly enhanced the delight I felt in the society of Nicola, and I returned to bed, full of strange thoughts.

'Either I am of a singularly inflammable nature,' said I, while turning restlessly on my pillow, 'or by what magic or miracle, other than her beauty, does this girl so fascinate me?'

I had asked myself this question a hundred times before.

Then there was that proud reserve and occasional constraint of manner, which in a soubrette--and especially the soubrette of so gay a beauty as the Countess d'Amboise--were so difficult of analysis; and for which, even the peculiarity of our positions--a young man and a beautiful young woman, unwedded and unrelated, travelling thus together, and apart from all the world, could not entirely account.

Why did I not fall in love with this girl in Paris, when I had a thousand favourable opportunities for entangling her in one of those countless intrigues which make the sum of human life there? Simply, because I had never thought of it when there--and our positions were then altogether different.

Besides propinquity, which causes half or perhaps nearly all the love affairs in the world, daily companionship, and the country, are all peculiarly adapted to develope and foster the tender passion. Isolate any two young persons of opposite sexes together in the country for a short season, and if they are passably handsome, and their hearts previously unoccupied, some mysterious principle of animal magnetism will infallibly draw them nearer to each other, and a very decided flirtation, if not an actual passion, will be the result. Thus, in the country, when wandering with a young and pretty companion, she will become all the more interesting, because we see her face and hear her voice alone, without being contrasted with the faces, voices, or manners of others; and surrounded by the blue sky, the bright sunshine, the green fields, or the shady woods, a thousand new charms and graces that were unheeded before will develope themselves. Away from the bustle of towns, camps, and garrisons--away from the glitter, gloss, and buzz of life, our thoughts will run, as it were, all to one focus; imagination gets fuller and freer play, all the impulses of the heart are more joyous and pure; and thus a girl on whom we might scarcely have bestowed a thought had we met her in the bustle of the world, may become a very divinity, enshrined by a halo of such beauty as the eye or fancy of a lover alone can see.

But Nicola was charming enough to have attracted attention even amid the court beauties of Louis XIII.; thus it was very natural to expect that I, in whose protection she confided, and on whose friendship and honour she relied, should feel a dangerous interest in her, during our solitary journey through Champagne and Lorraine to the frontiers of France. Alas! I could neither know nor foresee all the bitterness this growing passion, which I so heedlessly fostered, would yet cost my heart.

At breakfast, next morning, my attention was attracted by a silver medal which the maitre d'hôtel wore suspended from his neck by a little steel chain. It proved to be one of those struck at Rome by order of Pope Gregory XIII., to eternise the infamous massacre of St. Bartholomew; and as the existence of such a memorial is but little known in my native country, I may as well describe it.

It bore the destroying angel, his right hand armed with a sword; his left arm bearing a cross; below him were several figures with their throats cut, and around was this motto:

'_Hugonetorwn strages_, 1572.'

'Were you engaged in that scene of blood?' I asked, with a lowering brow.

'Yes, monsieur, in some manner, I was.'

'But that was sixty-three years ago.'

'Well, M. l'Abbé, I am just sixty-three years old.'

'And you were engaged in a massacre when a year old--what a blood thirsty young imp you must have been!'

'Monsieur, I was born on the very day of the massacre. Listen to me. There was a fleuriste in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec: does Monsieur happen to know the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, at Paris?'

'Perfectly.'

'Ah--there are always pretty girls there.'

'Well--about your fleuriste?'

'In that street, there was one named Jeanette Lavardin, very pretty and very much admired by all the gallants of Paris, who frequented her little shop and bought kisses and flowers; for in those days every cavalier carried a nosegay; but unfortunately poor Jeanette was a Huguenot; and on the day of the massacre, after the King's Guards, led by Monsieur d'O, their colonel, had so barbarously slain the Comte de la Rochefoucault, who was grand huntsman and hereditary master of the royal wardrobe, the Marquise de Renel, Francourt the Chancellor of Navarre, and more than two hundred other gentlemen, who had sought shelter in the Louvre, all smeared with blood, and panting for fresh slaughter, they issued into the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, and murdered Jeanette, though she sank on her knees, and implored them to save her life, saying that she was not in a fit state to die. One mousquetaire made her promise to be a good Catholic, which she accordingly promised, and was instantly stabbed by swords and poignards, to prevent her, as the destroyers said, relapsing into heresy; and then they departed to seek new victims.

'Next day, when the Catholics were throwing all the bodies into the Seine, they found that the murdered Jeanette in her death throes had given birth to an infant. Many persons were deeply moved by beholding a birth under circumstances so appalling; others were for throwing "the Huguenot's brat" into the river with its dead mother; and for that fell purpose the poor naked youngling was seized by one of Colonel d'O's soldiers, but was saved by a gentleman of the Scottish Guard of Charles IX., who threw his velvet mantle over it--so this child lived to be a man, and has now the honour of addressing you.'

'A strange and terrible story!' said I: 'and this gentleman of the Scottish Guard--'

'Was the bosom friend of the King of Navarre--the Chevalier Blane.'

'My father!' I exclaimed with joy.

'Yours, Monsieur l'Abbé!' exclaimed the maitre d'hôtel, almost embracing me: 'your father! tell me, then, is this brave chevalier alive?'

'Alas, no! he was slain last year in cold blood; but I shall yet avenge him, if ever I tread on Scottish ground again!'