Chapter III: The Chateau

'In the affairs of every one,' says a French writer, 'there is a moment which decides upon his future. It is almost always chance, which takes a man as the wind does a leaf, and throws him into some new and unknown path, where, once entered, he is obliged to obey a superior force, and where, while believing himself free, he is but _the slave of circumstances, and the plaything of events_.'

I have been much struck by the force and truth of this passage, which seems to bear directly upon my own career in life:--to resume.

A long, dark, and narrow street, lighted by only two lanterns that flickered like glow-worms at each end of it, led me towards the Rue St. Antoine; and heedless of everything but the desire to leave Paris, I hurried along the deserted thoroughfares, with a swimming head and a sickened heart.

The streets of Paris, like those of London, were then in a deplorable condition; unpaved, and encumbered by heaps of rubbish and cinders, the daily débris of the household, that festered in the stagnant gutters and watercourses, with the blood of the slaughter-booths, all matted and plashed by the feet of passengers, the hoofs of horses, and the wheels of waggons, carriages, and fiacres. Many of the tortuous and intricate alleys were literally dunghills. In the deep central gutters the swine revelled, and contested with kites and crows, dogs and beggars, for the offal of Paris. A French prince of the royal blood was killed in the city by a privileged pig of St. Anthony running between the legs of his horse; the splendid rider was brought prone into the mud with a broken neck. Moreover, in this good city every variety of slops and utensils were emptied nightly over the windows, with the same warning cry that was used in Scottish towns, and which never failed to strike the belated with alarm--_Gardez l'eau!_

I dashed on, my sword still unsheathed, leaping the chains at the ends of the greater thoroughfares; on past the Porte St. Antoine, unseen by the watch, unchallenged by the sentinels, and leaving the town behind me, hurried along a country road, which afterwards proved to be the way to Vincennes. At length the fields, the trees, and solitude were around me, and I paused to draw breath, and look back to where the vastness of Paris, like a wilderness of stone, lay buried in sleep, and overtopped by the huge dark towers of Notre Dame.

Another black and frowning mass rose above the roofs and spires: it resembled the keep of a castle. I remembered the Bastille, that place of dreadful memories; and when recalling the rank of those I had so recently encountered, for one had been termed _chevalier_, and the other _monseigneur_, I felt more than one retrospective pang of anxiety or panic, and while endeavouring to imagine in what part of yonder wilderness my antagonist was lying, I turned my back upon it, and, with a glow of sad and fierce satisfaction, inhaled the free, pure breeze that came over the fallow fields. The sound of hoofs made me pause, listen eagerly, and then hurriedly to pierce a hedge and leave the road; for a mounted party, to my consternation too evidently the night patrol bent in pursuit of me, galloped along the highway. I had the ring of the discomfited chevalier, but I cared not to test its virtue on the lieutenant of police.

After wandering for nearly an hour in a park or lawn, the smooth and grassy level of which was broken at intervals by thickets of trees and shrubbery, I found myself close to a large and handsome château. Its turreted façade cut the sky, and its numerous vanes of gilt copper were creaking in the wind, as I ascended the paved and balustraded terrace, which formed a broad plateau around the walls. The edifice formed three sides of a quadrangle; the centre was evidently appropriated to the principal inmates; but the whole was covered by rich carving, coats of arms, florid cornices and gablets. The wings were apparently the residence of servants, with the stables and offices. On the highest slate-roofed turret creaked a large swallow-tailed vane--in fact, a girouette, which, of old, was permitted only to those of the ancient French noblesse who had been foremost in entering a breach, or planting his pennon on a hostile rampart--hence the modern vane.

This stately château was nearly all sunk in gloom; one or two lights amid its sombre masses alone pierced the darkness; and, fearing to be taken for a robber, and perhaps fired on by the arquebuse of some pot-valiant butler or officious lacquey, I stood upon the paved terrace, irresolute whether to strike the bell at the porter's lodge, or retire altogether; but an end was put to my indecision, when a curtain was suddenly withdrawn at one of the large windows on the ground-floor; a flood of light streamed across the terrace and lawn, and the figure of a handsome woman, richly dressed, was seen for a moment, as she peered inquiringly into the darkness without.

As she withdrew and the curtain fell from her hand, but without completely closing, I approached softly and peeped in, for in my present desperate emergency I was resolved to trust rather to the advice and protection of a woman than of a man.

The apartment was small, and richly decorated in the florid French taste: I took in the whole scene at a glance. The walls were hung with the finest specimen of Gobelin tapestry, representing the judgment of Solomon. The chairs were cushioned with pale-blue satin, fringed with silver, and, like the tables, they were richly gilt. On a buhl table stood a gorgeous silver lamp, the soft light of which fell on the figures of two ladies. One was tall, high-bosomed, and round-armed--full and ample every way, even to voluptuousness. She seemed to be about thirty-five years of age, and had magnificent eyes, with a bewitching droop in their long lashes, and an irresistible smile over all her face. Her complexion was brilliant, and her manner was full of vivacity. She wore a green silk dress, starred with gold; and carried in her jewelled hand a large fan of painted feathers. Her fingers, her chesnut hair, her bosom and taper arms were sparkling with diamonds; and by the richness of her costume, and the languid air that pervaded her manner, I supposed that she had just returned from some brilliant Parisian fête.

Her companion was a fair young girl with white shoulders, and a complexion of excessive delicacy; soft and pale, but it seemed the pallor of high birth and gentle breeding, rather than want of health. Her hair, which hung about her in great volume, was of the lightest auburn; thus her ringlets shone like clusters of gold in the lamplight; her eyes were a deep blue or violet colour, and their brows and lashes a dark-brown tint. Her attire was singularly plain; in one hand she carried a thick serge mantle; in the other a black velvet mask.

She was excited apparently, for she spoke in low and hurried tones, while delivering certain letters and papers to the taller lady, who might have passed for her aunt or elder sister; yet there was no resemblance in face or manner between them.

Unwilling to play the eavesdropper even for a moment, I tapped gently on the window.

The younger lady uttered a faint cry of alarm, and assumed her mask; but the elder thrust all the papers into her ample bosom, and coming resolutely forward, threw back the rich arras, and her eyes flashed with evident anger, astonishment, and perhaps alarm, when they met my figure immediately outside the window; but, with my broad beaver in my left hand, and my right pressed upon my heart, I bowed with the utmost respect, and muttered a few words, I know not what, by way of apology for my untimely appearance there.

Reassured by my aspect or my respectful bearing, she quickly opened the folding sash of the window, and from the apartment and her presence a sense of perfume floated round me.

'Who are you, monsieur, and what seek you here?' she asked in a charming voice.

'Alas, madame!' said I, feeling that sad sinking of a proud heart, which all but prostrates every energy, for never until then had my utter friendlessness so oppressed me; 'I am an unfortunate gentleman,--a stranger who has lost his way, and knows not in which direction to turn.'

'This is the Château d'Amboise; the way to Paris lies yonder,--straight across the lawn you will find the high-road, and then pursue it to your left.'

'Thanks, madame--

'I have the honour to wish you a good night, monsieur.'

'Stay, madame, and pardon me--' I paused and cast down my eyes.

'Speak--what would you say?'

'Within this hour I have had to fly from Paris, pursued by the watch.'

'Ah--indeed!' she said, suspiciously.

'Having become involved in a brawl while protecting a fugitive female from two drunken gallants who were pursuing her, I was roughly set upon, and had the misfortune to--to--'

'To--what, monsieur?'

'Run one through the body.'

'And this was in the Place de la Grève, where the great pillory stands?' said the lady.

'It was close to the bridge of the Seine.'

'Ah! the Pont de Notre Dame?'

'Yes, madame.'

'Mon Dieu! how strange! Nicola, behold your preserver. Poor boy--for you are but a boy--how pale you look! Step in--quick my friend--tell me all this affair over again; and Nicola, hand him some wine; when I took you into my coach at the Pont de Notre Dame, how little we thought that one of your pursuers was being run through the body; but it served him right, the insolent--quite right!'

I entered by the window and the curtains were closed behind; and in the younger lady, who had so hastily assumed her disguise, and who tremblingly handed to me a glass of wine, I recognised my pretty friend, the mask of the Place de la Grève; and I remarked that the hand which gave me the glass, was small, white, and delicate as a lily leaf.

'You shall remain here until pursuit is over,' said the lady, approaching a hand-bell; but suddenly she paused; her brow clouded and her eyes sparkled. 'Oh, monsieur, if all this story be but the trick of a gallant, who may have followed us--'

'Madame!' I exclaimed, and drew myself up angrily.

'Enough, monsieur--forgive me; 'twas but the thought of a moment, and this Paris of ours is so full of tricks and tricksters. My house is yours--be assured, sir, it is large enough for us both.'

'May I ask to whom I have the honour of being indebted?'

She gave me one of her beautiful but inexplicable smiles, as she replied,

'I am Madame Clara d'Ische.'

'The Countess d'Amboise?

'Yes.'

'Oh, madame!' I exclaimed; 'this is a happy fatality! it is on you, and you only, that all my hopes in France depend.'

'On me?' she said, while her fine eyes dilated with astonishment, and I drew from my secret pocket the letter of the Duke of Lennox.

'Exiled from my own country, madame, for reasons which I can easily explain, I am most anxious to obtain military employment in one of the Scottish regiments of King Louis; and his Grace the Duke of Lennox favoured me with this letter of recommendation to you, saying that in Paris you were all powerful, and that Paris is France.'

She held out her hand, and as the trimmings of rich lace fell back to her elbow, she displayed an arm of dazzling whiteness, as with a proud and gratified smile she received and opened the letter of the duke. Its tenor and conception were no doubt complimentary and gallant; and perhaps it referred to old remembered days and passages of love between them in other times; for a half-repressed sigh escaped her; her fine eyelids drooped; a half blush flitted across her cheek with a soft smile of pleasure. Folding it hastily, she placed it in her bosom, and bending her bright hazel eyes upon me, said.

'Believe, monsieur, that all my little interest is wholly at your service.'

'Ah, Madame la Comtesse, how shall I thank you!'

'You will soon learn, monsieur,' and the eyelids drooped again to veil a cunning smile.

'The Duke informed me that you had but to express a wish, and his majesty King Louis would grant it--even were it to go to war with the empire.'

'His Grace of Lennox is almost right. Here at our French court the ladies guide the men, and have all their several departments in the science of government and intrigue.'

'So I have heard, madame.'

'Thus, the tender and pious Mademoiselle de Saujon has charge of Monseigneur le Duc d'Orleans; Madame de Chatillon, lively, tender, and black-eyed, has especial dominion over the Duc de Nemours and the great Prince of Condé; Mademoiselle de Chevreuse commands the amorous little Coadjutor Bishop of Paris; the tall, ample, fair, and dazzling Montbazon, with her snow-white shoulders, and bosom like a Juno, looks after the Duc de Beaufort; Madame de Longoville, with her saucy blue eyes, has charge of the Duc de Rochefoucault and le Marquis de Gordon, Captain of the Scottish guard; while that brilliant little blonde, the Duchesse de Bouillon, has a more terrible task than all assigned her--what is it, dear Nicola?'

'She actually looks after her own husband.'

'But, madame,' said I, 'in this catalogue of political beauties you forget yourself. You govern--'

'The King!' she replied with a triumphant smile that made her seem irresistibly beautiful; but the reply was whispered in my ear so closely that I started with confusion.

'So said the Duke of Lennox, adding, "she has but to smile, and the commander of the Scots will give you a pair of colours at once."'

'There M. le Duc de Lennox overrated my influence, for old M. de la Ferte Imbault, who has just been appointed Colonel-General des Ecossais, is a venerable military bear, who served under Henri Champernon and the Marshal de Tavannes, and is so old that 'tis said he really remembers the last tournament in the Place de Carrousel; so on him my smiles would be lavished in vain. Yet, take courage--I am your friend, and you have this night done me a greater service than you are aware of. Take some more wine--you still look pale,' said she, passing her soft warm hand caressingly over my cheek and forehead; 'but now tell me--and pray excuse the question--have you ever--'

'What, madame?'

'Been in love?'

The blood mounted to my temples as I almost quailed under the keen eye of the beautiful questioner, and felt my heart beat strongly--almost wildly, though she was my senior by at least fifteen years.

'In love--no, madame; but why that question?'

'Because to be successful now, in France, you must study the art, or rather theory of love as assiduously as that of war. You must learn to laugh at everything--to blush at nothing, and to fight with every man who affronts you; but pardon me, I am forgetting the proverb--_fier comme un Ecossais_! Among us in Paris, an assignation and a campaign are nearly of equal importance; and love sheds its divine halo over everything. As Cervantes says, a soldier without a mistress is like a ship without a rudder, or a pilot without his compass. Thus M. de Chatillon is so enamoured of the lovely Mademoiselle le Guerchi that he wears one of her silk garters round his right arm in battle; and should you fall in love with me, I will give you one of mine.'

'Oh, madame!' I murmured, overpowered by the beauty of the speaker and perplexed by the strange morality she displayed--a code which I now heard for the first time.

'And Monseigneur le Duc de Bellegarde, Peer and Marshal of France, the declared lover of the Queen Regent, before taking leave of her Majesty, to command the army on the frontiers, prayed, that as a parting favour she would lay her beautiful hand but once on the hilt of his sword. Thus it is, we still foster the spirit of gallantry which Anne of Austria brought among us from old Castille and the cavaliers of Madrid. But while I am running on in this way, monsieur my friend, I am quite forgetting that the night has passed, that the morning draws on apace, and that, as you have never been in love, it could not be an affair of the heart which made you leave your country so young. What was it then?'

'An affair of the dagger, madame,' said I, with a bitter sigh.

'Drink again, refresh yourself, and collect your thoughts before you speak.'

And while doing so, I will here insert a little paragraph for my reader's information.

His Majesty, Louis XIII., though not very much of a lover, sometimes did take a liking to the fair sex. His regard for Mademoiselle de la Fayette, a maid of honour to his queen, was notoriously known, but he was a man at times religious, weak, bigoted, scrupulous by fits, and not over-voluptuous by nature; hence, save for the honour his royal regard was supposed to confer, and the magnificent gifts it drew forth, his gallantries were neither dangerous nor much in request. His confessor, the Jesuit Coussin, permitted his mild liaison for the charming Fayette to favour the queen-mother's rival, and mademoiselle being in the interest of the minister, Cardinal Richelieu, smiled on the vapid love and clumsy gallantries of the most Christian king. But the tide of politics turned; and by desire of the Cardinal, and by the exordiums of Father Leslie, a Scot, who succeeded Coussin as keeper of the royal conscience, the beautiful Fayette was immured in a convent. Then his Majesty of France fell in love with Clara d'Ische, a lady of Lorraine, whom he created Countess d'Amboise; and on her, now, were the eagle eyes of Richelieu turned, to discover by what means she might be made subservient to himself or be crushed for ever. Thus, thanks to the secret agency of his familiar, Father Joseph du Tremblay, of terrible memory, nearly every servant in her château was the spy of the Cardinal Prime-minister, who, with what truth I say not, was at that moment accounted the lover of Anne of Austria and of Marion de l'Orme.