Chapter VI: Part 6

"Our views of the extent of the service," replied the Duke of Guise, with the bright smile of his house playing on his lip, "must be somewhat different, I fear, my young friend. But now we have met, we will not part speedily. You must be my guest, and go on with me, first to Rheims, and then to Soissons, with all speed. There we will talk of our future alliance; for the Count de Logeres and the Duke of Guise shall treat together as crown to crown, and nobody call it treason. I have," he continued in a lower voice, but with a marked and meaning smile--"I have to ask you many questions in regard to a fair child of our house, who has, according to her letters and to yours, received the same protection and defence at your hands which you have this day afforded her uncle. Perhaps it may be on her account that you come to seek me. Is it so, good friend?"

The words of the Duke--those words which, under other circumstances, might have been the brightest and the dearest to the heart of Charles of Montsoreau--now entered into his spirit like a sword. The beaming smile of his race upon the lip of the princely Guise called up before the eye of fancy in a moment the form of the beautiful and beloved being on whose countenance he had first seen it. All his tenderness--all his affection for her--all the deep, unchangeable attachment of his heart--were felt at that moment more deeply, more powerfully, than ever; but, at the same time, strong upon his mind, came the bitter resolution he had taken to yield his hopes of happiness, to cast away his chance, his most probable chance, of the brightest joy that fancy could dream of, and to yield to the brother who had ill-treated him all those advantages which he himself of right possessed.

The blood fled from his cheek to his heart, as if to strengthen it against the pains and against the temptations of that moment; and the Duke of Guise, seeing him turn very pale, judged, perhaps, wrongly of his feelings, and again grasped him by the hand, saying, "Fear not, fear not, good friend. Come, let us on upon our way. I may meet with tidings at Rheims to hasten my progress onwards."

CHAP. XI.

During the two days that followed the events recorded in the last few pages, Charles of Montsoreau had scarcely any opportunity of speaking with the Duke of Guise, without that multitude of listeners around, which renders all conversation general and frequently insignificant. It is true he dwelt in the same splendid hotel which served the Duke for his residence in the city of Rheims; that he dined with him at the same table; that he was present on every occasion when he received the nobles who flocked around him. But the continual press of business of various kinds, the constant coming and going of couriers from and to Paris and Nancy; the writing of letters that seemed innumerable, and the almost hourly consultations with different members of the clergy and officers of the army, seemed to occupy the whole private time of the Duke of Guise, and to leave him no space for either thought or repose.

At length on the third morning, when the young nobleman had breakfasted with the Duke in company with the Duke of Nemours, the Baron d'Aussonville, the bailiff of St. Michael, and a number of other gentlemen, with two or three ladies of the good town of Rheims--who seemed not a little anxious to attract the attention of the Duke--Guise, on rising to proceed to other business, drew his young friend aside for a moment, and asked him some questions concerning the wounded men. The Count replied that they all bade fair to recover; and after a few words more, spoken in the same tone, and evidently intended for the ears of those around, though apparently addressed to him in private, the Duke dropped his voice nearly to a whisper, saying, "I have much to talk with you about. Sup with me alone to-night at nine o'clock, when I trust we shall have time to make all our arrangements."

Charles of Montsoreau did not miss the hour; but descending from the apartments which had been assigned to him, and which were immediately over those of the Duke, he proceeded to the hall where he had usually found him, but in which he now met with no one but a solitary lute-player, a great favourite with the Duke of Guise. The musician was now seated with his instrument in his hand, with one of his feet raised upon the huge andirons of the fireplace, and his hands employed in striking from time to time a few low and listless sounds from the instrument that lay upon his knee. The man had thus been apparently left solitary for some time; for no sooner did Charles of Montsoreau appear, than, seizing him by one of the buttons of his doublet, he began to tell him a long story, of not the most interesting kind, from which the young count would willingly have delivered himself.

Perhaps the greatest art of human benevolence that can be conceived, is that of listening with a tolerable appearance of satisfaction to a tiresome tale; and Charles of Montsoreau, whose heart was really kind and gentle, and who had not yet learned in the great wise school of the world the lesson of treading upon the feelings of others, did his best to seem interested, till one of the Duke's servants entered the room, and, after a glance around, retired without any further announcement. A moment or two after, while the young nobleman was still in the sort of durance in which the lute-player held him, the servant again made his appearance, and, walking straight up to him, informed him that the Duke wished to speak with him in his cabinet.

"Show me the way," said the young nobleman, detaching his button from the grasp of the musician--"show me the way, and I will come directly."

"Oh, I will go with you, and show you the way," exclaimed the lute-player: "I've no idea of staying here all by myself, as melancholy as a rat in a rat-trap."

"His Highness particularly said," observed the servant in a dry tone, "that he wished to converse with Monsieur de Logeres alone."

The lute-player looked confounded and mortified; but Charles of Montsoreau, not a little pleased to be rid of his company, followed the attendant, and in a few moments was ushered into the Duke's cabinet. It was a small but somewhat lengthened octangular room, lined throughout with dark black oak, carved in the most exquisite manner. From the centre of the ceiling hung a silver chain, bearing a large lamp of the same material, with eight burners. At the further end of the room was the fireplace, and in the midst a small table with two covers and a number of dishes and cups of silver, some plain, some jewelled at the rim.

The Duke himself was standing at the farther side with his back to the fire, reading a letter by the light of a small lamp which shed its rays over his shoulder; and certainly as he stood there, now dressed in the magnificent costume of those days, partially reclining against the projecting chimney, with the letter raised in his hand, the light of the lamp streaming over his shoulder, but catching brightly upon his cheek and lip, and on the rich brown beard and mustachio, with the deep carved oak behind him, and a certain sort of gloomy splendour round that part of the room, there probably never was any thing so graceful, so princely, so dignified, as his whole appearance.

He folded up the letter as soon as Charles of Montsoreau's step sounded in the cabinet, and banishing a slight frown which had been upon his brow while reading, he advanced to the table with a smile saying, "Our viands are getting cold, Monsieur le Comte."

"I went into the usual hall," replied the young nobleman, "not knowing where to find your Highness, and fearful of intruding upon you."

"I should have told you, I should have told you, dear friend," replied the Duke: "when I wish to have an hour in private for conversation with any of my most confidential friends, I sup in my own cabinet, which is the only place to which my worthy countrymen and acquaintances will grant the right of sanctuary.--Now Martinez," he continued, speaking to the servant, "uncover the dishes, put us down some good wine, bring me in a _naquet_ to hold our dirty platters, and then leave us."

"The attendant did as he was commanded, removed the tops of the dishes, put several bottles of wine down by the side of the Duke, and after bringing in a sort of buffet on a small scale, somewhat like what we now call a dumb waiter, but which was then called by the name of _naquet_, (though that word was only properly applied to the marker of a tennis-court), he retired, shutting the door closely behind him.

"This is an hour of relief," said the Duke, as soon as the man was gone; "for our business to-night, dear count, must of course be light and easy to us both--light to you, because you have nothing to do but to express your wishes and desires to Henry of Guise, and light to me, as nothing can be more joyful to my heart than to show my gratitude for the services that you have rendered me, and to express, in every manner in my power, my esteem and regard for yourself, and my admiration for your conduct."[3]

---------------------

[Footnote 3: Those who may be inclined to suppose such language inconsistent with the character of the proud, ambitious politician, which Guise is often represented to have been, need but read any of his letters to Bassonpierre, or any other of his personal friends, to see with what openhearted affection he dealt with them.]

---------------------

"Oh, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "I thought you had forgotten by this time to use such high-flown expressions towards me."

"Call them not high-flown, good friend," replied the Duke: "persons situated as I am, dealing with and often obliged of sheer necessity to excite the worst passions of our fellow-creatures, meet so rarely with frank, disinterested service, that when it comes upon us in the sudden way that yours has come upon me, without claim, without expectation, without any previous notice, it strikes us as something both wonderful and beautiful; and we admire, as we would the visit of an angel, that which gives us a view of a fairer state of being than the one with which our daily thoughts are familiar. Besides, if I must own the truth, too, there was something in the frankness--some of my adulators would call it the bluntness--with which you dealt with me in the little inn at Mareuil, evidently knowing me all the time, but still treating me as the comrade of an inn dining-room, which, as you may suppose, struck me not a little. But a truce to all fine speeches: let us begin our supper; and after doing justice to what Maitre Lanecque has set before us, we will discuss the matter further at our ease."

Although the cookery of that day, as exemplified in a small but refined supper of the Duke of Guise, might well astonish, both from its materials and its combinations, any of the culinary artists of the present day, both the Duke and his young friend found it excellent, and every thing was praised as it deserved. The wine also was of the finest kind that could be procured, and the Duke was liberal of it; but Charles of Montsoreau was not one to be tempted by any vintage to drink more than was beneficial to him either corporeally or mentally; and though the Duke of Guise drank more than himself, he pressed not the ruby juice of the grape upon his young friend after he once saw that it might become disagreeable to him.

Towards Charles of Montsoreau, indeed, he had none of those designs which lead wily politicians sometimes to press the wine-cup upon a tyro. He might, it is true, be somewhat surprised at the easy and courtly grace with which a young nobleman, educated almost entirely in the provinces, met and mingled with the highest and most stately in the land; and he might, consequently, be a little inclined to see him off his guard; but when he found that he was not disposed to take any more, he abstained from asking him, and pursued the subject of their former discourse, interrupted by various little remarks upon things of an ordinary character, touching them, however, with grace and ease, which raised them all, and made them harmonise with graver discourse.

"Now, Monsieur de Logeres," he said, as soon as he had passed to his young friend the dish at his end of the table with which they commenced the meal, "tell me clearly and exactly what were your motives and your views in coming hither from so far to seek me; for it would seem that you have been acting entirely independently of your brother. Speak to me, my good friend, without reserve of any kind, as to a brother--as to a father, if you will--for I am old enough surely, both in years and experience, to claim that title, though indeed it is not I who have given you life, but you to whom I owe it."

"It is scarcely either needful or possible, my Lord," replied the young count, "for me to tell your Highness more than I have already told. In the first place, I came to see my lands of Logeres, which, as you well know, lie not above forty or fifty miles from this spot--a long day's journey. I have only seen them once since the death of my father. I have withdrawn but a small part of the revenues from the improvement of the territory, and the encouragement of the peasantry; and it is time that I should now see what is the state of the whole. At the same time, I thought and believed that I had remained somewhat too long a spectator of the contentions which distract my native land. Now, my Lord Duke, I had to choose between three personages, the great leaders of the present day--Henry of Navarre, Henry of France, and Henry Duke of Guise, The first seemed to me out of the question, though a gallant and a noble prince; for, waging war as he does, for the advancement of heresy, it was not for me to draw my sword in such a cause. Between the other two there could surely be no question; for though I may not think your Highness always right in every thing that you have done, yet as a gallant and a knightly leader, as one whom a brave and true-hearted man may follow, there is none whom I know that I could choose against yourself from one end of Europe to the other. In attaching myself to you, too, I trust and am sure that I do not ill serve my king; and, to say but the truth, I would far rather serve his Majesty under another, than come within the reach of his perfumes and cosmetics."

The Duke of Guise smiled, and leaning his arm upon the table, gazed down for a moment or two in a meditative mood, not a little struck and surprised at the calm and reasoning, but bold and straight-forward frankness with which his young companion spoke. Perhaps, too, he traced back into the past the various motives and views with which the different distinguished men, who appeared as followers of the three leaders mentioned, had chosen their party, and he might find none amongst them all who were actuated by such feelings as the young man before him. He was silent for several moments then; and the first thing that roused him was the young count adding, to what he had said, "Indeed, my Lord, this was my pure and simple motive."

"I doubt it not. Monsieur de Logeres," replied the Duke, drawing towards him another dish--"I doubt it not; and this is a pure and simple salmi, and apparently as good a one as ever was cooked; but still, if you were to ask Maitre Lanecque to analyse it--try it, good friend, you will find it an antidote against all the poisons and evils of the inn at Mareuil, and other such pestiferous places--but, as I was saying, if you were to ask Maitre Lanecque to analyse this simple salmi, you would find it composed of some hundreds of different things besides the woodcock, which is the basis of the whole. All these accessories are admirable in themselves, and contribute to make the woodcock better. And thus it is in life. Every human motive is a salmi, cooked by a skilful artist, for our own palates as well as those that observe them. There is one grand and apparent cause of action, which may be considered as the woodcock, but there are a thousand minor motives, incentives, and inducements, the condiments, the gravies, the truffles, the toast, which nobody ever thinks of counting, which pass, in fact, under cover of the woodcock, and which, nevertheless, all tend to make the salmi what it is. Now, I have no doubt on earth, my dear young friend, that the great motive of your coming hither was what you say; but were there not other motives joined therewith--feelings, designs, views, and purposes of your own, all mingling together, to aid and strengthen your original motive--in fact, to make up the salmi?"

Charles of Montsoreau knew and felt that there were; for he could not help remembering the real cause of his quitting his brother's dwelling in such haste, and the resolutions then taken, which were still strong within him, to be generous, even to the utmost extent of human generosity, towards one who had been ungenerous to him. He now looked down thoughtfully for a moment; but he was by nature far too frank and open to conceal his thoughts from one who sought them in the way which they were sought by the Duke of Guise.

"My Lord," he said, "if your Highness means to ask, whether there were or were not private feelings which induced me at once to plunge into contentions from which I had long withheld myself, and combined with the general public motives which otherwise called upon me so to do, I by no means deny that there were such feelings; and had it not been for them--though I certainly think I should have joined your Highness before many months were over--yet it might not have been so early or so opportunely as it has turned out."

The Duke smiled frankly, and replied, "I thought so, Monsieur de Logeres. You are always candid and true, and you shall see at once, by my next question, why I asked you this so particularly. Tell me, has not a fair relation of mine, who has found a place of refuge in the castle of Montsoreau--has she not something to do with the motives that you speak of?"

"She has, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau--"but not in the way which I see you imagine."

The Duke laughed. "What!" he exclaimed,--"pretty Mistress Marie of Clairvaut has, I suppose, been acting the prude with you, as usual, and gave you warning, when it was too late, that she intended to plunge herself into a convent. Take heart of grace, man--take heart of grace. Though she has ever yet shown herself, in these affairs of love, as cold as the top of the Vosges, and as hard as the nether-millstone, yet she is always candid and true, poor girl; and in two letters which have reached me from her hand, the one sent by your own courier, the other arriving to-day, she speaks of you, and of your services towards her, in terms that admit of no mistake. I do not mean to say you know that you have won her heart, because her heart is not one easily won, but I do most assuredly think that you may win it; and if you do, as far as Henry of Guise's power goes, you win her too."

There is nothing so terrible on earth, as when some friendly hand approaches to our lips the cup of joy, seeing not, knowing not, that we must not, that we dare not, that we cannot drink, when accidental words, perhaps most kindly spoken, present to the eye of fancy, in colours more vivid than ever, the pictures that were once painted by the hand of hope, after every fair reality that they represented is done away, and nothing remains but the memory and the endurance. Terrible, indeed, was the temptation of Charles of Montsoreau, and terrible the struggle in his bosom. Not the arch-fiend himself could exhort man to break high resolutions more powerfully, than did the words spoken with the best intentions by the Duke of Guise. But amongst those words were a few, which, by recalling to the mind of the young nobleman most strongly the circumstances on which his determination was founded, gave him strength to endure. Had the Duke said that he knew her heart was won, those few words would have put all his resolutions to an end; but he implied that her heart was not won, and it was upon that persuasion that all his purposes had been hitherto framed.

The Duke of Guise saw him once more turn very pale, and was not a little puzzled to divine the cause. "Why do you not answer?" he demanded, after pausing for a moment or two. "In consideration of a vast service, I have spoken to you as I would to no other man under a prince's dignity in Europe."

"And I am most grateful, my Lord," replied the Count; "but your Highness has mistaken me. My pretensions to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut are too small, too few to be thought of even by myself. My brother, indeed, may have greater pretensions. Your Highness knows that his estates in the south are considerable; that his race, though certainly not equal to that of the princely house of Guise, is as old and as pure as any in France; but he has a thousand high qualities that you do not know. He is brave, skilful, with far more experience than myself, faithful and true in his attachments, and even more zealous and eager than I am in every thing he undertakes. Let any little services of mine, my Lord, be attributed to him; let him also serve and attach himself to your Highness; and let the sum of the affection and zeal of both in your cause induce you to look favourably upon his suit, even should he aspire to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."

"By my faith," exclaimed the Duke of Guise, pushing the glass of wine which he was just about to drink away from him--"By my faith, this is the most extraordinary piece of business, I think, I ever heard of!" And he paused, thoughtfully gazing down upon the table. "You are a strange youth," he continued, "and there is something under this which I do not understand. But, be you sure, Maitre Charles, that Maitre Henri will unriddle it. And now let me tell you something that you do not know yourself. I have this very morning received an epistle from your brother; an epistle which, though eloquent enough, well written, clear, and masterly, yet I love not altogether. He tells me, that the passports for my niece, from Henri of Navarre, have arrived; but that he judges it best, seeing the troubled state of the country, to escort her towards Soissons himself, with a sufficient band to protect her against any attack. He speaks of you, too, as '_a brother of his_,' and gives as a reason for delaying a day or two ere he sets out, that you had taken with you on your journey some men from the castle, so that it is necessary for him to increase his numbers ere he departs."

"That was hardly generous of him," said Charles of Montsoreau, calmly; "for I took no more than my own immediate retainers, except, indeed, the one man, Gondrin, whom your Highness knows, and who was born upon my own lands of Logeres."

"Oh, I know him well, indeed," replied the Duke, "and owe him much. We will have him and the page in before we part, that I may thank them. And so, Monsieur de Logeres, you will let me do nothing for you."

"Say not so, my Lord," replied the Count, "I ask you much, when I ask you for the honour and the pleasure of serving under you, and also express the hope that you will always treat me and consider me as now."

"Oh, such requests are easily granted," said the Duke: "you shall command a company of my Albanians, and be ever near my person; but still I shall consider that there is a debt to be paid, and shall reserve the payment thereof for a year; and if you name not your own boon by that time, I shall force my gratitude upon you. There is some mystery in your conduct which at present I do not understand. But all earthly mysteries disappear, my good young friend. When they represented Time, they would have done well to put a torch in his hand as well as a scythe, for he throws light upon all things. I will write about the Albanian company this night."

"Your pardon, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau--"but I would fain serve you at the head of my own people. Give me but a month away from you, and I will bring you a hundred steel-caps from Logeres, mounted, armed, and trained as well as any cavaliers in France. All the tenantry are bred to arms there from their infancy, so that but a short space will suffice."

"You are resolved to make me still more your debtor," said the Duke; "and I will acknowledge, that at the present moment the assistance of every brave and true-hearted man in France is needful to Henry of Guise; for oh, my young friend, I have to deal with as wily a serpent as ever was hatched in the Asiatic deserts. Were it but Henry of Navarre I had to deal with, the contest in this country would soon be settled, for as gallant a knight, and as noble a gentleman is he, as ever lived; frank, generous, and true; and with our lances in our hands and our helmets on our heads, we could decide the fate of France between us in an hour. But when I have to deal with one who, professing love and friendship, would poison the chalice, or arm the assassin's hand against me; who, while he feigns to listen to my counsel, deals secretly with every enemy of his state and of his country; who betrays every secret that is intrusted to him as soon as he finds an interest in so doing; and who only sinks from the activity of evil-doing into voluptuous, effeminate, indecent repose;--when I have to deal with such a man as that, I say, the support of every true man in France is needful to me, to free my country from the evils that afflict her--never forgetting my duty to the crown. Go, my young friend, arm your vassals, bring to me every man that you can command, and you shall find Henry of Lorraine as deeply grateful to you for this new service as he is for that which is past. I will make no further professions to you. What I have said already ought to be enough to convince you, that with me, at least, neither the pride nor the ambition, of which they unjustly accuse our race, can stand in the way of gratitude. Now, however, let us have in your man Gondrin and your little page. He speaks, it seems to me, with a foreign accent. Where did you get him?"

As he spoke, the Duke rang a silver bell which stood by his side, and gave orders to the servant who appeared to seek for the two attendants of the young Count, and bring them before him. While he was absent, Charles of Montsoreau gave him a full account of his accidental meeting with the boy Ignati, and of his redeeming him from the hands of the Italians. The tale seemed to interest the Duke not a little; and, after musing for a moment, he said, "You see, my young friend, how kindness and services always render men greedy. I would to heaven that you would give me these two who have gone with me through such a moment of peril. I feel as if that boy were destined again to do me some great service."

"Take him, my Lord, with all my heart," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "not that I put any great faith in such presentiments; but as I redeemed the boy from these men only for his own good, far be it from me to stay him in any way from advancement. Your Highness remembers, however, that he is not noble, and therefore can scarcely be your page."

"Oh, we set our foot upon such things now," replied the Duke--"the service of the Guise shall make him noble. But here they are. Come hither, good youth," he added, as the boy and Gondrin entered--"let me look in your face: it seems to me as if I had seen you somewhere before. Your look pleases me, and memory seems to bring it back with pleasure. Where have I beheld you?"

The boy looked up in the Duke's face, with his colour slightly heightened, but his manner calm and self-possessed. "You have seen me, my Lord," he said, "in the good town of Nancy, in the palace of the noble Duke of Lorraine, upon the night of a high festival, where many a gallant lord and many a bright lady sat around you; and a poor Italian boy was brought in to dance and sing before the high table at which you feasted. The princes, and the nobles round, the beautiful women, and the politic matrons, poured their money into the cap which my hard taskmaster handed round; but the Duke of Guise alone called up poor Ignati to his side, laid his hand upon his head, thanked him for his music, and gave him a broad piece of gold for himself."

"I remember," said the Duke, thoughtfully, "I remember. Well, boy, by that kind word, and that broad piece, it seems I have purchased service that never was bought at so light a rate. My good Lord of Logeres, when the pistol of a reiter was within a foot of my breast, his finger on the trigger, and my life apparently at his mercy, with nothing but a grey doublet between, me and destruction, this boy proved better to me than a breastplate of Milan steel, and, by driving his dagger into the heart of my adversary, saved the life of Henry of Guise, for whatever period God in his grace may grant it further. Will you give me this youth, my Lord, to be my page?"

The young Count bowed his head in token of assent, and the Duke went on. "What say you, boy? would you willingly serve me?"

The boy paused, and looked down, while the tears rose in his eyes. Then, turning his look to Charles of Montsoreau, he said, "He has been very kind to me!"

"Come, come, Ignati," said the young Count, "I will not have your heart spoil your fortunes, my good youth. I took you for your own service, not for mine; and though I like you well, and would willingly have you with me, yet this is a noble offer, and must not be refused."

The boy then knelt down and kissed the Duke of Guise's hand, saying, "I am your Highness's servant."

"So shalt thou be, Ignati," replied the Duke, with one of the bright smiles of the Guise. "But I will tell thee what thou shalt do. Thou shalt go with this young lord to his lands of Logeres, and be my spy upon all his actions and his thoughts. Then, if thou findest out that thing on all the earth which he most wishes and desires to possess, and bringest me the tidings thereof, thou shalt have a purse of broad pieces for thy pains. When he comes back, thou shalt come to be of my household; and, as I trust that he will be ever near me, thou mayest find many a way of serving him also.--Now, good soldier," he continued, turning to Gondrin, "you, too, have aided me well in a moment of great need: what recompense shall the Duke of Guise offer you? Will you take service with him, and he will care for your fortunes?"

"I thank you, my Lord," replied Gondrin, bluntly. "But on this young gentleman's lands was I born, his race have I served, his forest sports have I tended through all my life, and I think I will not leave him now, unless he dismount me out of his troop; and then, pardie! I think I shall follow him on foot. What I did for your Highness was done by his orders. I knew you but as Maitre Henri, with a grey doublet and a cock's feather, so that I deserve neither thanks nor recompense, though I will gladly serve your Highness under him, if God and the good Count so will it."

"Would that there were many such as thou art!" said the Duke of Guise, thoughtfully. "There are few who will not quit old kindness for new preferment. Here, my friend, take you that ring, in memory of Henry of Guise. It is a diamond, for which the goldsmiths will give five hundred crowns; but, should you ever want money, he who now gives it will gladly give a thousand crowns for it back again."

CHAP. XII.

The rock which it meets with in its course turns the impetuous river from the way it was pursuing, even when it comes down in all the fury of the mountain torrent. The slight slope of a green hill, the rise of a grassy bank at an after-period, bends the calm stream hither and thither through the plains, offering the most beautiful image of the effect of circumstances on the course of human life. Some streams also become coloured by the earth they pass over, or mingle readily with the waters that flow into theirs. But there are a few--and they are always the mightiest and most profound--which retain their original hue and character, receive the tribute of other streams, pass over rocks and mountains, and through the midst of deep lakes, without the Rhone losing its glossy blue in the bosom of Lake Leman, or the Rhine mingling its clear stream with the waters of Constance or the current of the Maine.

The firm and powerful mind may be affected in its operations by circumstances, but not in its nature, and the depths of original character remain unchanged from the beginning to the end of life. Even strong feelings in such hearts, like objects cast upon a grand and rapid river, are borne along with the current through all scenes and circumstances, till with the waters themselves they plunge into the ocean of eternity.

Neither by nature nor by the period of his life was Charles of Montsoreau likely to retain and nourish long any light feelings of disappointment, but such was not the case with deep sorrows or with strong affections. His heart was of that firm and tenacious kind that it lost not readily any thing once strongly impressed upon it. The love of Marie de Clairvaut was one of those things never to be forgotten; the sorrows by which that love had been followed were never to be obliterated from his mind.

In the gay scenes of the sort of second court which the Duke of Guise held for some days in the city of Rheims, Charles of Montsoreau mingled without any apparent grief weighing upon his mind, or any dark and gloomy memory seeming to oppress his spirit. He smiled with those who smiled, he admired all that was fine, and bright, and beautiful; and if he felt for a moment coming over him the deep melancholy with which he had quitted his own home, and which had now concentrated itself in his heart, he struggled against it and banished the outward appearance of it speedily, deriving only from those deeper feelings which lay concealed within, that degree of indifference towards the pleasures and amusements of youth which is seldom obtained but by experience. He forgot not Marie de Clairvaut, however--he forgot not the painful task which he had imposed upon himself; but he gladly occupied his immediate thoughts with the objects around him, and remained for some days well pleased himself, and not un-noted by others for his calm and graceful demeanour, amongst all the proud nobles who now surrounded the princely Guise.

At length, however, all his attendants but two, whose wounds promised a tedious convalescence, were sufficiently recovered to enable him to pursue his journey to Logeres; and he set out, with his train increased by six or seven veteran soldiers, whom the Duke spared to him, for the purpose of completing, as rapidly as possible, the discipline and training of his own retainers. As the distance was not far, and the Duke of Guise had given him more than one hint that no time was to be lost, he resolved to accomplish the march in one day; and, setting off early in the morning, approached Logeres towards sunset upon a short spring day.

It was a wild and wooded country, on the borders of the ancient Ardennes, with the scene continually varying in minor points, but never changing the character of rough, solitary nature, which that part of France, and indeed many other parts, at that time displayed. Here the ground was rocky and mountainous, shooting up into tall hills covered with old woods; there, smooth and even, with the feet of the primeval oaks carpeted with green turf. Then, again, came deep dells, and banks, and ravines, and dingles, so thick that the boar could scarcely force his way through the bushes; and then the trees fell back, and left the wild stream wandering through green meadows, or sporting amongst the masses of stone. If a village appeared, it was perched high up above the road, as if afraid of the passing strangers; if a cottage, it was nested in the brown wood, and scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding banks. The air was now as warm as May, and all the sweet things that haunt the first dream of summer had come forth: the birds were tuning their earliest songs; the flowers were gathering round the roots of the trees, and the branches above them were making an effort, though but faint, to cast away the brown cloak of winter, and put on the green garmenture of the spring.

The evening sunshine was clear and smiling. Pouring from under a light cloud, which covered a part of the sky, it streamed in amongst the bolls and branches of the trees; it gilded the green turf, and danced upon the yellow banks: and what between the wild music of the blackbird, and the thrush, and the woodlark, the flowers upon the ground, the balminess of the air, the spring sunshine, and the peaceful scene, Charles of Montsoreau felt his sorrows softened; and though not less deeply melancholy than before, yet owned the influence of that season, which is so near akin to youth and hope, and rode on with a vague, but sweet feeling, that brighter hours might come.

He had spent many a happy youthful day at Logeres; and though he had forgotten much, so that the charm of novelty was not altogether wanting, he remembered enough to make his heart beat with the thrill of memory, while many an object, once familiar to his eye, rose up, as if to greet him on his return. At length, the road passing straight over a ridge of rising-ground, showed him his own little village, in the sweet valley below, with the chateau rising on a tall hill that started up from the side of the little town, unconnected with any of the other heights around. The clouds that were in the zenith at that moment were pouring forth a light shower of spring rain; the sun was shining bright near the edge of the horizon, catching on the weathercocks, and turrets, and windows of the chateau; while spanning over the castle and the village, and wavering on the face of the light grey cloud above was seen the radiant bow of heaven, the pledge of brightness for the days to come.

The young Count, as he paused for a moment to gaze, could hear gay distant voices, borne on the wind, rising up from the village in the valley. It was a cheerful sound; but, more than any thing else, it recalled the former times, and wove between them and the present a tissue of associations both sweet and melancholy. He thought of the gallant father, by whose knee he had played in those very scenes in other days; he thought of the mother, whose inheritance those lands had been; he thought of the mutual love and harmony that had subsisted between them all, and how death had taken two, and how disunion had arisen between the two that remained. He thought of all this; and he thought of how--if fate had willed it otherwise--he might have led a happy bride to those glittering towers, have listened with her to the glad voices of the rejoicing peasantry, and have pointed to the sunshine that lit their dwelling, and the rainbow that waved across their sky, as auguries of hope, and happiness, and mutual love. He thought of all this, and how it was all in vain: and the tears filled his eyes, as he rode on towards the dwelling before him.

The two servants, whom he had sent on the day before, had spread the news, and given the probable hour of his coming; the street of the village was thronged with people, in their holy-day attire; the old grey cross, and the rude stone fountain, were decked with flowers; the light-hearted peasantry echoed his name with shouts when he appeared, and greetings and gratulations poured forth upon him: but the heart of the young Count of Logeres was sad. The face of nature reviving from the wintry cold, the voices of the birds, the eloquence of sunshine and of flowers, had soothed, and calmed, and inspirited his heart; but the rejoicings of fellow-beings like himself--he knew not why, and he was angry to feel it--made him even more melancholy than before.

The elders of the village, conscious of dignity, the Count's own intendant, and the seneschal of his lands, came forward to greet him, and conduct him on his way, while Gondrin lingered behind, shaking hands with many an old friend, and inquiring after many an old acquaintance, vaunting the high deeds and noble qualities of his lord, and gladdening the hearts of the villagers with the promise of great doings at Logeres.

Such was Charles of Montsoreau's arrival on his own estates; but the aspect of the interior of his dwelling again recalled bitter feelings and manifold regrets. But we must pass over such things, and merely notice briefly what followed after his arrival. Immediate inquiry showed him a state of things which few lords who absent themselves long from their own lands can ever hope to find:--his tenantry, his vassals, were in general contented and happy; no one had been pressed hard upon by his officers in his absence; no one brought forward any accusation of extortion or oppression; and though there were many who had their little petition to present, or their request to make for the future, there was none who found occasion to complain of the past. At the same time, he found that considerable sums, and a considerable quantity of produce, had accumulated for his own use; that there were large woods, the trees of which required to be thinned; that the wool of many years yet remained to be sold; that some distant mines had poured unexpected wealth into his coffers; and that, in fact, great riches, which seemed still greater to an inexperienced eye, were immediately at his command.

The secret of all this was, that those left in authority behind him were all old tried and attached servants of his mother's house; and the feudal system had that advantage at least, if it had no other, that it created an identity of interests between a lord and his servants, which nothing but blindness and folly could break through on either part.

On speaking with the old seneschal in regard to the military capacity and disposition of the people, the old man smiled at the question if he could raise a hundred strong troopers within the ensuing month.

"The ringing, sir, of the old ban-cloque," he said, "which, thank God, I have heard but once in my day, would bring double the number of well-armed lads round your gate in an hour. They are only angry because, in all the feuds that have lately fallen out, I would never let them go to join either one party or another, if I could help it. Your own orders upon that head were strict; and I certainly thought it very wise, as long as they judged fit to leave us at peace here, to avoid all occasion of bringing feuds upon ourselves. Some of the young men stole away, indeed, whether I would or not, and took service with the good Duke of Guise against the reiters. They have almost all come back now; but the tales they bring of battles here and there, and driving the Germans out of France like sheep, are not likely to make those that remained more fond of home."

"I have no wish," replied the Count, "to drain the place of its peasantry, good seneschal. A hundred men will be enough for my purpose, and of those, none but such as are willing. I would rather, of course, have those who have served already, if they are inclined to serve again under their own lord's banner. And now let this be arranged with all speed, for I have promised the Duke of Guise not to delay a day longer than necessary."

No delay or obstruction of any kind was met with by the young Count in his proceedings. Though neither very populous nor very productive, except in wood and pasture, his territories were very extensive; and no sooner were his wishes known, than many more volunteers flocked in to serve beneath his banner than he was willing to receive. With the old soldiers who accompanied him, and the aid of such of his peasantry as had served before, whatever was wanting to the discipline of the rest was soon accomplished. The providing them with arms and horses occupied a some--what longer time; but every thing was in active preparation, when, at the expiration of about a fortnight, a courier from the Duke of Guise arrived at Logeres, bearing a letter dated from Soissons, and addressed to the young Count.

"I fear," the letter said, "that this will not find you in such a state of preparation as to enable you to join me at once, at the little town of Gonnesse, with all the men you promised. If you could, however, advance at once towards that place, with whatever men you can command at the moment, you might render the greatest of services to Henry of Guise.

"It would be as well," he continued in a postscript, "if you could cross the Aisne. My presence is required, with all speed, in the neighbourhood of Paris. I have not fifty men with me; and, notwithstanding the defeat of Auneau, I hear that a strong band of reiters has been seen in the neighbourhood of La Ferte sous Jouarre. If you can set off before night to-morrow, send me tidings that such is the case by the messenger who bears this letter; but do not go farther than Montigny before you hear more. God have you in his good keeping.

"Henry of Guise."

The consultation of Charles of Montsoreau with his seneschal was but short. He well knew that the field is the place to make good soldiers, and that but little more preparation was needful. He therefore caused his band to pass before the courier of the duke, and bade him tell that Prince what he saw, directing him to add, that he would, on the following day, make his first march towards La Ferte with fifty men; and that, in four days more, the rest would follow, if by any possibility their arms could be prepared by that time. With this message he mounted him afresh, and sent him back to Soissons.

A night of bustle and preparation succeeded, which left little time for that indulgence of calm thought during which the heart broods over its own griefs, and but increases them by contemplation. The first day's march was performed without danger or difficulty; and, not a little to the satisfaction of Charles of Montsoreau, the soldiers whom he had raised, being bred amongst a rural population, demeaned themselves peaceably and orderly amongst the inhabitants of the village where they halted for the night, so that no complaint was heard in the morning; and when they departed, many a villager was seen shaking hands with, and bidding God speed, the acquaintance of the evening before.

On the second day's march, which brought them to Grisolles, rumours and reports of the band of reiters which the Duke of Guise had mentioned began to reach their ears. The peasantry showed every sign of rejoicing on their appearance; and as they rode through the various villages, the young Count's horse was often surrounded by the peasantry, giving him this report or that, and expressing a hope that he had come to deliver them from the marauding strangers. On the third day's march towards Montigny, more accurate information was obtained concerning the real position and proceedings of the band of German adventurers, who were represented as lying further down towards the Marne, in the woods and hamlets about Gland and La Fern, intercepting the passengers on the roads between Chateau Thierry, Epernay, and La Ferte: the lower part of which latter town they were said to have attacked and plundered. Manifold were the entreaties now addressed to Charles of Montsoreau by the wealthy farmers and proprietors of that rich tract of country to go at once against the marauders, and drive them across the Marne. But he adhered firmly to his resolution of obeying the Duke's orders; and after halting for some hours to refresh his horses and men at Gandelu, he again began his march towards three o'clock in the evening, expecting to arrive at Montigny before nightfall.

On the whole of the road he had received no greater service from any one than from the boy Ignati, whose light weight and arms did not fatigue his horse so much as those of the other horsemen, and who was constantly riding hither and thither through the country obtaining intelligence, and bringing it rapidly to the young Count. He had left the little village of Gandelu about a quarter of an hour before the rest of the troop, and was not seen again for nearly an hour and a half after it had recommenced its march. The Count had asked for him more than once, and had become somewhat apprehensive regarding him, when, as they were passing through the wood of Ampon, his anxiety regarding the boy was not diminished by hearing a discharge of fire-arms at some distance, but apparently in advance. He was relieved on Ignati's account, however, in a moment after, by seeing him coming at full speed through the wood in apparent excitement and alarm.

"Quick! quick, my Lord!" he cried: "down in the meadow there, the Schwartz reiters have attacked a gallant little band just crossing a small stream, and are driving them back towards the Marne. I saw some ladies in a carriage, too; and they must have fallen by this time into the hands of the enemy."

No further inducement was wanting to Charles of Montsoreau. Giving orders to quicken his men's pace, he himself advanced at still greater speed, till he reached the point where the road issued forth from the wood upon the meadow, where he had at once before him, at the distance of scarcely three hundred yards, the whole scene which the boy had described, though it was, of course, somewhat changed in aspect during the time which had since elapsed.