Chapter V: Part 5

"But it was no love of your brother, Charles," she said; "it was no love of your brother moved him then; for if your brother trusted him, he betrayed him too. Now hear me, Charles, and let me, as quickly as possible, tell a tale that makes my cheek burn, for it must be told. After you were gone, I avoided your brother's presence as far as might be. I was never with him for a moment alone if I could help it, for I could not but see feelings that were never to be returned. Although there was something from the first in the Abbe de Boisguerin that I loved not, though I could not tell why--something in his eye that made me shrink into myself with a kind of fear,--I now courted him to be with me, in order to avoid the persecution of love for which I could not feel even grateful. At first he seemed inclined to give your brother opportunities; and I believe, I firmly believe, that he did so because he knew that those opportunities would but serve to confirm the coldness of my feelings towards him. When he saw that I sought him to be with us, he seemed to yield, and was now with me often almost alone, when there was none but one or two of my women in the further end of the room. He timed his visits well; and, for a space, well did he choose his conversation too. It was such as he knew must please my ear. He told me of other lands, and of princely scenes beyond the Alps, the beauties of nature, the miracles of art, the graceful but dangerous race of the Medici, the treasures, the unrivalled treasures of Florence and of Rome. I learned to forget the prejudices--I had first taken towards him, and he saw that I listened well pleased, and then he ventured to speak of you and of your brother. But oh, Charles, he spoke not as a friend to either. He blamed not, indeed; he even somewhat praised; but he undervalued all and every thing. There was not a word of censure, but there was every now and then a light sneer in the tone, a scornful turn of the lip, and curl of the nostril. It pleased me not, and seeing it, he wisely dropped such themes. He spoke of you no more; but he spoke of himself and of his own history. He told me that his was the more ancient branch of your own family, but that reverses and misfortunes had overtaken it; and that, careless of wealth or station, and any of the bubbles which the world's grown children follow, he had made no effort to raise his own branch from the ground to which it had fallen. But he said, however, that if he had had an object, a great and powerful object, he felt within himself those capabilities of mind which might raise him over some of the highest heads in the land: and none could hear his voice, and see the keen astuteness of his eye, without believing that what he said was true. And then again he spoke of the objects, the few, the only objects, which could induce a man of great and expansive intellect to mingle in the strife and turmoil of the world; and the chief of those objects, Charles, was woman's love. He was a churchman, Charles, and had taken vows which should have frozen such words upon his lips. I was silent, and I think turned pale, and he instantly changed the conversation to other things, speaking eloquently and nobly upon great and fine feelings, as I have seen one of the modellers in wax cast on the rough harsh form that he intended to give, and then soften it down with fine and delicate touches, so as to leave it smooth and pleasant to the eye. At length we set out to join my uncle; and your brother now had opportunities of paining me greatly by the open and the rash display of feelings that grieved and hurt me. He took means too to find moments to speak with me alone, which I must not dwell upon--means which were unworthy of one of your race, Charles. He tried to deceive me into such interviews by every sort of petty art; and if the Abbe de Boisguerin came to my relief, alas! it was but now to inflict upon me worse persecution. He dared to speak to me, Charles, words that none had ever dared to speak before--words that I must not repeat, that I must not even think of here, so near the holy calmness of the dead. These words were not, indeed, addressed to me directly; but they were used to figure forth what were the passions which an ardent and fiery heart might feel. They were intended evidently to let me know of what he himself was capable: though they breathed of love, there was somewhat of menace in them likewise. The very sound of his voice, the very glare of his eyes, now became terrible to me: but he seemed to consider that I was more in his power now than I had been at Montsoreau; and I need not tell you that to me the journey was a terrible one. To end it all, Charles--as I take it for granted that you know some part of what has taken place, even by seeing you here this night--I feel sure that it was by his machinations that I was betrayed into the hands of the King, whom I have all my life been taught to abhor, and by him given up to the power of a relation, from whom I have been sheltered by all my better friends as from the most venomous of serpents."

Charles of Montsoreau had heard all in deep silence, without interrupting her once. He gazed indeed, from time to time, upon her fair face, watching with love and admiration the bright but transient expressions that came across it: but he listened with full attention and deep thought; and when she had done, he replied, "What you have told me, dear Marie, indignant as it well may make me, was most necessary for me to hear, and is most satisfactory, for it explains all that I did not before comprehend or understand. His machinations, however, dear Marie, I now trust are at an end. What may be between Villequier and him I do not know; but I trust, dear Marie, I trust in that God who never does fail them that trust in him, that I come to bring you deliverance and to lead you to happiness. It would be long and tedious to tell you, beloved, all that has happened to me since I left you at Montsoreau. Suffice it that I have seen the Duke of Guise; that I have spent the greater part of the time with him; that I have been able, Marie, to serve him--he says, to save his life; and that to me he has entrusted the charge of seeking you and bringing you to join him at Soissons, in despite of any one that may oppose us."

"Oh, joy, joy!" cried Marie de Clairvaut. "When can we set out?" And she rose from her seat as if she hoped their departure might take place that minute. Charles of Montsoreau drew her gently to his heart, and, gazing into her deep tender eyes, he asked, "Will your joy be less, dear Marie, if you know that you go to be at once the bride of Charles of Montsoreau, with the full consent of your princely guardian, given by one who is well worthy to give, to one who is scarcely worthy to receive, such a jewel as yourself?"

Marie de Clairvaut hid her face upon his bosom, murmuring, in a scarcely audible tone, "Can you ask me, Charles?--But oh, let us speed away quickly; for though I, who have been here now several days, and have seen nothing but death and desolation round me ever since I came, have become accustomed to the scene, and doubtless to the air also, yet I fear for every moment that you remain here."

"I still fear not, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "Nevertheless, most glad am I to bear you away to happier scenes; and as soon as the horses have taken some rest, we will set out. And now, dear girl," he added, "I will send you from me. You need some repose, Marie; you need some tranquillity. Leave me then, dear girl, and try to sleep till the hour of our departure, while I will watch here for you, and call you before break of day."

"If you watch, Charles," replied Marie, "I will watch with you, for I need not repose. This morning, after closing the eyes of poor Madame de Saulny, and weeping long and bitterly over her and the poor girl who was the only one that chose to remain with me, exhausted with watching, anxiety, and grief, I fell asleep, and slept long. Before that, I had felt so weary and so heated, that I almost fancied--though without fearing it--that the plague might be coming upon me; but I woke refreshed and comforted just as the sun was going down, and I felt, as it were, a hope and expectation that some change would soon come over my fate. But you need at least refreshment, Charles. In the next room remains my last untasted meal--the last that the poor frightened beings who abandoned me, set before their mistress yesterday. I fear not to take you there, Charles, for no one has died in this part of the house."

Charles of Montsoreau followed her, and persuaded her also to take some light refreshment; and there they sat through the live-long night, speaking kind words from time to time, and watching each other's countenances with hope strong at the hearts of both, though somewhat chequered by fears, each for the other.

CHAP. VIII.

By the time that the first grey streak chequered the dark expanse of the eastern sky, the horses of Charles of Montsoreau, with three others, were standing on the terrace at the foot of the marble steps. The page and Gondrin were there, and also the old groom, a white-headed man of some sixty years of age, who had booted and spurred himself, and buckled on a sword, declaring that he would accompany his young mistress, if it were but to lead the sumpter horse which carried her baggage. A moment after, Marie herself appeared, and Charles of Montsoreau placed her on the beast that had been prepared for her, while the old groom kissed her hand, saying, "I am glad to see you well, dear lady. But fear not; none of your race and none of mine ever died of the plague either, though I have seen it pass by this place twice before now, and I remember eleven corpses lying on those steps at once."

"There are six within those chambers now," replied Marie, shaking her head mournfully. "But I fear not, good Robin,--for myself at least. But you had better lead the way towards Chalet, for the Count tells me that Morvillette is deserted."

"Oh, I will lead you safely, Lady," replied the old man; "and though very likely they may keep us out of many a house on account of where we come from, there is my daughter's cottage where they will take us in, for they do not fear the plague there."

Thus saying, he mounted his horse, and rode on before, through the forest roads, while the lady and her lover followed side by side. As they went on circling round the highest parts of the hills, the grey streaks gradually turned into crimson; the dim objects became more defined in the twilight of morning; a few far distant clouds at the edge of the sky, tossed into fantastic shapes, began to glow like the burning masses of a furnace; the crimson floated like the waves of a sea up towards the zenith; the fiery red next became mingled with bright streaks of gold; the forest world, just budding into light green, was seen below with its multitude of hills and dales, and rocks and streams; the air blew warm and sweet, and full of all the balm of spring; and a thousand birds burst forth on every tree, and carolled joyous hymns to the dawning day.

Never broke there a brighter morning upon earth; never rose the sun in greater splendour; never was the air more balmy, or the voices of the birds more sweet. It seemed as if all were destined to afford to those two lovers the strongest, the strangest, the brightest contrast to the dark dull night of anxiety and emotion which they had passed within the palace they had just left behind them. It seemed to both as an image of the dawn of immortality after the tomb--anxiety, sorrow, danger, death, left behind, and brightness and splendour spread out before.

Each instinctively drew in the rein as the sun's golden edge was raised above the horizon; each gazed in the countenance of the other, as if to see that no trace of the pestilence was there; and each held out the hand to grasp that of the being most loved on earth, and then they raised their eyes to Heaven in thankfulness and joy.

The old man led them on with scarcely a pause towards Chalet; but about a mile from that place he turned to a little hamlet near, where, in a good farm-house inhabited by his daughter and her husband, they found their first resting-place. They were gladly received and heartily welcomed, without the slightest appearance of fear, though the circumstances of their flight were known. The farmer and the farmer's wife set before them the best of all they had, the children served them at the table, and the good woman of the house brought forth a large flask of plague water, and made them drink abundantly, assuring them that it was a sovereign antidote that was never known to fail. They then assigned a room to each, and though it was still daylight they gladly retired to rest. Charles of Montsoreau, though much fatigued, slept not for near an hour, but the house was all kept quiet and still, and, with his thoughts full of her he loved, he fancied and trusted that she was sleeping calmly near him, and in an earnest prayer to Heaven he called down blessings on her slumber. At length sleep visited his own eyes, and he rose refreshed and well. Some fears, some anxieties still remained in his bosom till he again saw the countenance of Marie de Clairvaut. When he did see it, however, fears on her account vanished altogether, for the paleness which had overspread her face the night before had been banished by repose, and the soft warm glow of health was once more upon her cheek. He saw the same anxious look of inquiry upon her countenance; and oh! surely there is something not only sweet and endearing, but elevating also, in the knowledge of such mutual thoughts and cares for each other; something that draws forth even from scenes of pain and peril a joy tender and pure and high for those who love well and truly!

"Fear not, dear Marie," he said; "fear not; for I feel well, and you too look well, so that I trust the danger is over."

"Pray God it be!" said Marie de Clairvaut. "But now, when you will, Charles, I am ready to go on; we may soon reach Maintenon."

"We must avoid the road by Maintenon," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "for that would bring us on the lands of the grasping Duke of Epernon, and we could not run a greater risk. Chartres itself is doubtful; but we must take our way thither, and act according to circumstances. However, dear Marie, our next journey must be long and fatiguing: would it not be better for you to stay here to-night, and take as much repose as you can obtain before you go on?"

"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut; "I am well and strong now, and eager to get forward out of all danger. The bright moon will soon be rising, the sun has not yet set, and we may have five or six hours of calm light to pursue our way."

Her wishes were followed; and they were soon once more upon their way towards the fair old town of Chartres. Their former journey had passed greatly in thought, for deep emotions lay fresh upon their hearts, and burthened them: but now they spoke long and frequently upon every part of their mutual situation. The history of every event that had happened to either, since they had parted at Montsoreau, was told and dwelt upon with all its details: and while the love of Charles of Montsoreau for his fair companion certainly did not diminish, every word that fell from his lips, every act that she heard him relate, and the manner of relating it also, increased in her bosom that love which she had at first perceived with shame, but in which she now began to take a pride as well as a joy.

Nor, indeed, did his conduct and demeanour to herself in the circumstances which surrounded them--circumstances of some difficulty and delicacy--change one bright feeling of her heart towards him. There was very much of that tenderness in his nature, that soft, that gentle kindness, which, when joined with courage and strength, is more powerful on the affections of woman than, perhaps, any other quality; and her feelings were changed and rendered more devoted by being dependent upon him for every thing--protection, and consolation, and support, and affection, and all those little cares and kindnesses which their mutual situation enabled him to show.

Thus they journeyed on for several hours, and at length reached the town of Chartres, having agreed to pass for brother and sister, as the safest means of escaping observation. It was about eleven o'clock at night when they reached the inn, but they were received with all kindness and hospitality, such as innkeepers ever show to those who seem capable of paying for good treatment. No questions were asked, supper was set before them, and the night passed over again in ease and comfort. Every hour, indeed, that went by without displaying any sign of illness was in itself a joy; and there was a stillness and a quietness about the old town of Chartres which seemed to quiet all fears of annoyance or interruption.

Charles of Montsoreau was early up, and was waiting for the appearance of Marie de Clairvaut, when the landlord of the inn appeared to inform him that a horse-litter, which he had ordered to be ready for his inspection, had been brought into the court-yard, and was waiting for him to see. At that moment, however, there was a flourish of trumpets in the street; and, looking forth from the window, the young Count saw a considerable band of mounted soldiers, drawn up, as if about to proceed on their march.

"My sister," he said, turning to the host, "has not yet risen, and she must see the litter, too, as it is for her convenience. But who are these gallant gentlemen before the house, and whither are they going?"

"Why, you might know them, sir, by their plumes and their scarfs," replied the host. "They are a body of the light horse of the guard of the Queen-mother. They are easily distinguished, I ween."

"Ay, but I am a rustic from the provinces," replied the young nobleman: "but they seem gallant-looking soldiers."

"The Captain was making manifold inquiries about you and the young lady who arrived last night," replied the landlord, "for he has come with orders to seek and bring back to Paris some young lady and gentleman that have made their escape lately with eight or nine attendants. But when I told him that you were going to Paris, not coming from it, and that you had only three servants with you, and the young lady was your sister, he said it was not the same, and is now going on. But I must go, lest he should ask for me."

"Well, well," answered the young Count with an air of indifference. "I will be down presently to see the litter; let it wait."

He watched, however, with some anxiety the departure of the body of light horse, for though he did not feel by any means sure that it was himself whom they sought, he did not feel at all secure till the last faint note of their trumpets was heard, as they issued forth from one of the further gates of Chartres. As soon as Marie de Clairvaut appeared, he purchased the litter without much hesitation, and determined to proceed with all speed towards Dourdan and Corbeil.

The host of the inn would have fain had them stay some time longer, for the young Count had paid so readily for the litter, that he judged some gold might be further extracted from his purse. He asked him, therefore, whether there was nothing in the good town of Chartres to excite his curiosity, and was beginning a long list of marvels; but Charles of Montsoreau cut him short, saying, as he looked up at the sign covered with fleurs-de-lis, "No, no, my good host. I have much business on my hands in which his Majesty is not a little concerned, and therefore I must lose no time."

The host nodded his head, looked wise, and suffered the Count and his party to depart without further opposition.

As it was not a part of their plan to follow the high road more than they were actually obliged to do, soon after leaving Chartres they took a path to the left, which they were informed would lead them by Gellardon to Bonnelle, through the fields and woods. Before they had gone a league, however, the noise of dogs and horses, and the shouts, as it seemed, of huntsmen, were heard at no great distance; and turning towards Gondrin the young Count asked, "What can they be hunting at this time of year?"

"The wolf, my Lord, the wolf," replied the man. "They hunt wolves at all times."

Scarcely had he spoken, when a loud yell of the dogs was heard; and nodding his head sagaciously, as if he had seen the whole proceeding with his mind's eye, Gondrin added, "They have killed him;" which was confirmed by a number of joyous morts on the horns of the huntsmen.

"Let us proceed as fast as possible," said Charles of Montsoreau; "we know not who those huntsmen may be:" and he was urging the driver of the litter to hurry on his horses rapidly, when the whole road before them was suddenly filled with a gay party of cavaliers, splendidly dressed and accoutred, and coming direct towards them. There was nothing now to be done but to pass on quietly if possible; and, taking no apparent notice, but bending his head and speaking into the litter, without even seeing of whom the other party was composed, Charles of Montsoreau was riding on, when a loud voice was heard exclaiming "Halt there! halt! A word with you if you please, young sir;" and, looking up, he saw the Duke of Epernon.

Without suffering the slightest surprise to appear upon his countenance, or the slightest apprehension, Charles of Montsoreau turned his head, demanding calmly, "Well, my Lord, what is your pleasure with me?"

"My pleasure is," replied the Duke, "that you instantly turn your horse's head and go back to Epernon with me."

"I am extremely sorry, my Lord," replied the Count, "that it is quite impossible for me to do what you propose, as I am upon urgent business for the Duke of Guise, and bear the King's passport and safe-conduct, which I presume your Lordship will not despise."

"You may bear the King's passport, sir," said the Duke, "but you certainly do not bear his authorisation to carry away from his power the young lady who I suppose is in that litter. As to the Duke of Guise, your authority from him is very much doubted also."

"That doubt is easily removed, my Lord," replied the Count, seeing clearly that he would be forced to yield, but fully resolved not to do so till he had tried every means to avoid it. "That doubt is easily removed, my Lord. Allow me to show you the authority given me by the Duke under his own hand, which I think even the Duke of Epernon must respect."

The Duke took the paper which he tendered him, and then saying, "I will show you how I respect it," he tore it into a thousand pieces, and cast it beneath his horse's feet, while a laugh ran through the men that attended him. "Turn your horse's head," he continued, "without more ado, or I will have your arms tied behind your back, and the horse led."

"My Lord," replied the young Count, "I must obey, for I have no means of resisting; but let me remind you, that the Duke of Epernon was always considered, even before what he is now, a gallant gentleman and a man of good feeling, who would not insult those who were too weak to oppose him, and who did their duty honourably as far as it was possible for them to do it."

"Your civility now, sir," replied the Duke, "like your rash folly a week or two ago, is too contemptible to make any change in the Duke of Epernon. That foolish party of light horse," he continued, speaking to one of his attendants, "must have suffered this malapert youth and his fair charge to have passed it. Turn the litter round there; take care that none of them escape."

"The boy has made off already," replied one of the men. "Shall I gallop after him, my Lord? He may tell the Duke of Guise."

"Let him!" answered Epernon. "Go not one of you; but bring the rest of them along hither."

Without giving any intimation of his intent, Charles of Montsoreau turned his horse suddenly back to the side of the litter, and drew the curtain back, saying to Marie de Clairvaut, who sat pale and anxious within it, "You hear what has happened; there is no power of resistance, for they are ten to one: but the boy has escaped, and will give the Duke notice of where you are. In the mean time it is one comfort, that now you are in the hands of one who is, at all events, a man of honour and a gentleman in feeling."

What he said was intended to give comfort and consolation to Marie de Clairvaut; but it reached the ear of the Duke of Epernon likewise. "I must suffer no farther conversation," he said in a gentler tone than he had before used. "You will understand, Monsieur de Logeres, that I have authority for what I do; and that I arrest you out of no personal vengeance, but because the order has been already given to that effect."

"My Lord," replied the young Count, "I care very little for my own arrest, as I know that I can but be detained a short time: but I confess I am most anxious for the young lady placed under my especial charge by the Duke of Guise, as I have shown your Lordship by the paper you have torn. If she is to remain in your Lordship's charge, I shall be more satisfied; but if she is to be given up to Monsieur de Villequier, the consequences will indeed be painful to all. You are perhaps not aware, my Lord, that he sent her to a place where the plague was raging at the time, where six persons of her household died of it, and the rest fled, leaving her utterly alone."

The Duke seemed moved, and after remaining silent for a minute, he replied, "I did not know it; the man who would murder his wife, would make no great scruple of killing his cousin, I suppose. However, sir, set your mind at ease: though I cannot promise that she shall remain with the Duchess of Epernon, she shall not be given up to Villequier either by myself or by any body in whose hands I may place her. Is that assurance sufficient for you?"

"Perfectly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "The Duke of Epernon's promise is as good as the bond of other men."

"Well, follow me, then," replied the Duke, and, riding on alone, he left the young Count in the hands of his attendants.

CHAP. IX.

It was in one of the saloons of the old Cardinal de Bourbon, in the town of Soissons, that Henry Duke of Guise, princely in his habit, princely in his aspect, with his foot raised upon a footstool of crimson and gold, a high plumed Spanish hat upon his head, manifold parchments before him, and a pen in his hand, sat alone on a day in the month of April with his eyes fixed upon a door at the other end of the room, as if waiting for the entrance of some one.

The next moment the door was thrown wide open, and, preceded by two servants announcing him to the Duke, appeared a small and not very striking personage plainly habited in black velvet. The moment the Duke saw him, he rose, and for an instant uncovered his head, then covering himself again he advanced to meet him, and took him by the hand, saying "Monsieur de Bellievre, I am delighted to see you. The King could not have chosen any one more gratifying to myself to receive: in the first place, because I know that I shall hear nothing but truth from the lips of Monsieur de Bellievre; and, in the next place, because I am sure no one will bear more exactly to his Majesty any reply I may have to make to the message with which I understand you are charged."

"The confidence which your Highness expresses in me," replied Bellievre, as the Duke led him towards the table, and made him seat himself beside him, "does great honour to so humble an individual as myself. Nevertheless, I must deliver the King's message, my Lord, precisely as it was given to me; and should there be any thing in it disagreeable to your Highness, I trust that you will excuse the bearer, and consider the matter dispassionately."

"Proceed, proceed," replied the Duke; "as in duty bound I shall receive his Majesty's communication with all deference and humility."

"Well, then," replied Bellievre, "I am charged by his Majesty to assure your Highness that his personal esteem and respect for you is very great; and that he has never, in any degree, given ear to the injurious reports which persons inimical to your Highness have been industrious in circulating to your disadvantage."

"Your pardon, Monsieur de Bellievre, for one moment," said the Duke, interrupting him. "To what injurious reports does his Majesty allude? I am ignorant that any one has dared to circulate injurious reports of me; and if such be the case, it is high time that I should proceed to the capital to confront and shame my accusers."

As this was not at all the point to which the King's envoy wished to bring the Duke, he looked not a little embarrassed what to reply. He answered, however, after a moment's pause, "It would, indeed, be requisite for you to do so, my Lord, if I did not bear you the King's most positive assurance that he gives no ear to such reports. But to proceed: his Majesty has bid me strongly express his full conviction of your attachment, fidelity, and affection, but has commanded me to add that, having heard it reported your intention is immediately to present yourself in Paris, he is unwillingly obliged, by state reasons of the utmost importance, to request that you would forbear the execution of that purpose."

It was not without some hesitation and apparent emotion that Bellievre spoke; but the Duke heard him with perfect calmness, though with a slight contraction of the brow.

"The report," he answered, "of my intention of visiting Paris is perfectly correct, Monsieur de Bellievre; nor can I, indeed, refrain from executing that purpose, with all due deference to his Majesty, for many reasons, amongst which those that you yourself give me of injurious rumours being rife in the capital regarding me, are not the least cogent. Thus, unless the King intends to signify by you, Monsieur de Bellievre, that he positively prohibits my coming into Paris--which, of course, he would not do--I see not how I can avoid doing simple justice to myself by returning to my own dwelling in the capital of this country."

"I grieve to say, your Highness," replied Bellievre, seeing that the worst must be told, "I grieve to say, that while the King has charged me to assure you of his regard and his confidence in you, he none the less instructed me to make the prohibition on his part absolute and distinct."

The Duke of Guise started up with his brow knit and his eyes flashing. "Is this the reward," he exclaimed, "of all the services I have rendered the state? Is this the recompense for having shed my blood so often in defence of France? to be dishonoured in the eyes of all the people, by being banished from the metropolis, to be excluded from the companionship of all my friends, to be cut off from transacting my own private affairs, to be talked of and pointed at as the exiled Duke of Guise, and to have the boys singing in the streets the woeful ditty of my sufferings and a King's ingratitude?" And as he spoke, the Duke took two or three rapid strides up and down the room.

"Indeed, indeed, your Highness," cried Bellievre, "you take it up too warmly. The King is far from ungrateful, but most thankful for your high services; but it is for the good of the state that you love, for the safety and security of the people of the capital who are in a tumultuous and highly excitable state, that he wishes you to refrain from coming----"

"That he sends me a message dishonouring to myself and to my House," replied the Duke. "That he marks me out from the rest of the nobles of the land, by a prohibition which I may venture to say is unjust and unmerited. I must take some days to think of this, Monsieur de Bellievre; nor can I in any way promise not to visit Paris. Were it but to protect, support, and guide my friends and relations, I ought to go; were it but on account of the church for which I am ready to shed my blood if it be necessary, persecuted, reviled, assailed as that holy church is; were it but for my attendants and supporters, who are attacked, abused, and ill-treated in the streets and public ways."

"As for the church, your Highness," replied Bellievre, "none is more sincerely attached to it than the King and the King's advisers. It will stand long, my Lord, depend upon it, without any further assistance than that which you have already so ably given it. Your relations, my Lord, and household," he said, "are not and cannot be ill-treated."

"How?" exclaimed the Duke. "Is not my dear sister Margaret even now, as it were, proscribed by the King and his court? Is not every thing done to drive her from Paris? Have not her servants been struck by those of Villequier in the open streets?"

"I know," replied Bellievre, "that a month or two ago Madame de Montpensier was subject to some little annoyance, but as soon as it came to the King's ears he had it instantly remedied, and only wished her to quit Paris for her own security."

"The House of Guise, sir, have always been secure in the capital of France," replied the Duke; "and I trust always will be."

"Nothing has occurred since I trust, my Lord," continued Bellievre. "The King is most anxious that you should have satisfaction in every thing, and will give you the strongest assurances that your family, your household, and your friends, shall be in every respect well treated and protected, as indeed he has always wished them to be."

The Duke threw himself down in his chair and rang the bell that stood upon the table violently. "Ho! without there!" he exclaimed. "Bring in that page that arrived hither a night or two ago, when I was absent at Jamets."

The attendant who had appeared retired, and the Duke sat silent, gazing with a frown at the papers on the table. "May I ask your Highness," said Bellievre, not knowing what interpretation to put upon this conduct, "May I ask your Highness whether I am to conceive my audience at an end?"

"No, Monsieur de Bellievre, no," replied the Duke in a milder tone; "for _you_ I have a high respect and esteem, and will listen to you upon this subject longer than I would to most men. I wish you to hear and to know how the friends of the Duke of Guise are treated, what protection and favour is shown to them at the court of France. Perhaps you will hear some things that are new to you--perhaps they may be new to the King too," he added, a slight sneer curling his haughty lip. "But be that as it may, Monsieur de Bellievre, I think I can show you good cause why the Duke of Guise should be no longer absent from Paris. Come hither, boy," he added, as the page Ignati entered the room, "Come hither, boy, and answer my questions. Thou art both witty and honest, but give me plain straightforward replies. Stand at my knee and answer, so that this gentleman may hear."

The boy advanced, and did as the Duke bade him, turning his face towards Bellievre, with his left hand to the Duke.

"You went to Paris," said Guise, "with my friend the young Count of Logeres; did you not? Were you aware of the cause of his going?"

"He went, I understood your Highness," replied the boy, "to seek a young lady, a relation of your own, who had been carried to Paris by a body of the King's troops while on her way to join your Highness."

"Can you tell what was Monsieur de Logeres' success?" said the Duke.

"I know he saw the King," replied the boy, "and heard that he had been promised a letter to all the governors and commanders in different places to aid him in seeking for the young Lady, and bringing her back to your Highness. I heard also that it was for this paper he waited from day to day in Paris, but that it never came."

"I beg your Highness's pardon," said Bellievre interrupting the boy, "but you will remark that this is all hearsay. He does not seem to speak at all from his own knowledge."

"That will come after," answered the Duke somewhat sharply. "Go on, Ignati. What do you know more?"

"What I have said," replied the boy, "is more than hearsay, my Lord, for while we staid in Paris the good Count bade us always be ready at a moment's notice to set out, for he could not tell when the letter from Monsieur de Villequier would arrive. It never came, however, and one night the Count having, as I understood, gained information of where Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was, set out with his man Gondrin and myself to seek her. We found that she had been brought by a body of the King's troops to a chateau or a palace, for it looked more like a palace than a chateau, called Morvillette, I believe near Chateauneuf, where the plague was then raging, when the King's soldiers left her. By the time we arrived the plague had reached the chateau, six or seven people were dead, and all the rest had fled, leaving the young lady with nobody in the palace, and none but one old groom in the stables."

The Duke's eye fixed sternly upon the countenance of Bellievre, and he muttered between his teeth, "This is the doing, Monsieur de Bellievre, of my excellent good friend, the King of France. Go on, boy; go on! Proceed. What happened next?"

"The lady was most joyous of her deliverance," continued the boy, "and eager to come to your Highness; and we set out the next morning before day-break, and reached Chartres, where the Count bought a litter for her greater convenience. At a short distance from Chartres, however, we were met by the Duke of Epernon and his train wolf-hunting, and the Duke immediately stopped us, and insisted upon the Count going back with him to Epernon. The Count produced the King's passports, but the Duke said that there were doubts of his being authorised by you."

"Did he not show him my own letter?" exclaimed the Duke. "Did he not show him the authority I gave him under my own hand?"

"He did, my Lord; he did," replied the boy; "but the Duke of Epernon said he would show in what respect he held your Highness's letter, and tearing it in several pieces he threw it down under his horse's feet."

Bellievre continued to look down upon the ground with a brow which certainly displayed but little satisfaction. The Duke of Guise, however, though he had been frowning the moment before, now only smiled as the boy related the incident of the letter; the smile was somewhat contemptuous, indeed; but he said merely, "Go on, boy. What happened next?"

"Nay, my Lord," replied the boy, "what happened to them I know not, for seeing that the Duke held them prisoners, and was taking them back to Epernon, I made my escape as fast as I well could, and came hither to tell you into whose hands the young lady and Monsieur de Logeres had fallen."

"You did quite right, boy," said the Duke; "and now you may retire. You hear, Monsieur de Bellievre," he continued, "with what kindness, protection, support, and generosity the King treats the friends of the Duke of Guise! First he casts my poor niece's child into the hands of Villequier, something worse than those of the hangman of Paris, and then between them they send her into the midst of the pestilence; then comes Monsieur d'Epernon to confirm all, arrests my friend bearing the King's own passports and safeguard, seizes upon my own relation and ward, and carries them both I know not whither."

"Perhaps your Highness," said Bellievre, "the Duke of Epernon might have motives that we do not know. At all events the King----"

"Fie, Monsieur de Bellievre, fie!" exclaimed the Duke vehemently. "I will tell you what! It is time the Duke of Guise were in Paris, if but to deliver the King from such Dukes of Epernon who abuse his authority, disgrace his name, absorb his favours, ruin the state, overthrow the church, and dare do acts that make men blush for shame. France will no longer suffer him, sir; France will no longer suffer him! If I free not the King from him and such as he is, the people will rise up and commit some foul attempt upon the royal authority. What," he continued, with fierce scorn, "What, though he be Baron of Caumont, Duke of Epernon, raised out of his place to sit near the princes of the blood, Governor of Metz and Normandy, of the Boulonnais, and Aunis, of Touraine, Saintonge, and Angoumois, Colonel-general of Infantry, and Governor of Anjou, a Knight of the order of the Holy Ghost! he shall find this simple steel sword of Henry of Guise sufficiently sharp to cut his parchments into pieces, and send him back a beggar to the class he sprung from."

The Duke spoke so rapidly, that to interrupt him was impossible; and so angrily, that Bellievre, overawed, remained silent for a moment or two after he had done, while the Prince bent his eyes down upon the table, and played with the golden tassels of his sword-knot, as if half ashamed of the vehemence he had displayed.

"I did not come here, your Highness," he said, "either as the envoy or the advocate of the Duke of Epernon. You must well know that there is no great love between us; and I doubt not, when your Highness comes to call him to account for his deeds, that justice will be found entirely on your side. But I came on the part of the King; and I beseech you to consider, my good Lord, what may be the consequences of pressing even any severe charges against the Duke of Epernon at this moment, when his Majesty is contending with the heretics on the one side, and is somewhat troubled by an unruly people on the other."

"Is he indeed contending with any body or any thing, Bellievre?" demanded the Duke. "Is he indeed contending against the Bearnois? Is he contending against the indolence of his own nature, or rather against the indolence into which corrupt favourites have cast him? Is he contending against the iniquities of Villequier, or the exactions of Epernon? Is he contending against any thing less contemptible than a spaniel puppy or an unteachable parrot? My love and attachment to the King and his crown, Bellievre, are greater than yours; and, as my final reply, I beg you humbly to inform his Majesty on my part, that if I do not promptly and entirely obey him in this matter of not coming to Paris, it is solely because I am compelled to do as I do, for the good of the church, for the safety of the state, for the security of my own relations and friends, and even for the benefit of his Majesty himself. This is my final reply."

"Yet one word, my Lord," replied Bellievre. "At all events, if your determination to visit the capital be taken, will you not at least, at my earnest prayer, delay your journey till I myself can return to Paris, and obtaining more ample explanations of the King's purposes, come back to you and confer with you farther on the subject."

"I see not, Monsieur de Bellievre," said the Duke of Guise, "what good could be obtained by such delay. I do not at all mean to say that you would take advantage of my confidence to prepare any evil measures against me; but others might do so: and besides, my honour calls me not to leave my friends in peril for a moment, even though I called upon my head the enmity of a whole host in stepping forward to rescue them."

"I pledge you my honour, my Lord," replied Bellievre, "that if you will consent to delay, no measures shall be taken against you; and I will do the very best I can to induce the King to make any atonement in his power to your friends. As to this young Count of Logeres, I never heard of him before to-day, and know not what has been done with him at all; and in regard to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, she is doubtless in the hands of Villequier, who, I understand, claims the guardianship."

"To which he has less right," replied the Duke angrily, "than that footstool; and if he contends with me, I will spurn him as I do it;" and he suited the gesture to the word. "But still I see not," continued the Duke, "what is to be gained by this delay to either party."

"This, my good Lord," replied Bellievre. "I am well aware that his Majesty the King has sent me here without sufficient powers to make you just and definite proposals. This I believe to have been entirely from the haste in which I came away, there being no time for thought. But if you permit me to return with assurance that you will wait but a few days, I feel convinced that I shall come back to you with offers so abundant, so satisfactory, and so well secured, that your Lordship will change your resolution."

The Duke mused for a moment or two. "Well, Monsieur de Bellievre," he said at length, "though I entertain no such hopes as you do, I must yield something to my loyalty, and to my real desire of obeying the King; although, perhaps, my duty to my country and to the church might well lead me to more prompt proceedings. I will, therefore, delay my journey for a day or two; but you must use all speed, and I must have no trifling. You know all my just grievances: those must be remedied, the church must be secured; and for the quiet and the satisfaction of the people who abhor and detest him, as well as for the relief of the nobles who have long been shut out from all favour by that unworthy minion, this John of Nogaret, this Duke of Epernon, must be banished from the court and councils of the King, and stripped of the places and dignities which he has won from the weak condescension of the Monarch. You understand me, Monsieur de Bellievre," he said in a sterner tone, seeing that Bellievre looked somewhat dismayed at the extent of his demands. "Undertake not the mission if you think that you cannot succeed in it; but let me on my way without more opposition."

"My Lord, I will do my best to succeed," replied Bellievre; "and trust that I shall do so. How many days will your Highness give me?"

"Nay, nay," replied the Duke; "that I cannot tell, Monsieur de Bellievre. Suffice it, I will delay as long as my honour permits me; and you on your part lose not an hour in making the necessary arrangements, and bringing the King's reply."

As he spoke the Duke rose to terminate the conference; and then added, "I fear, Monsieur de Bellievre, as I am expecting every moment my brother, the Cardinal de Guise, and his Eminence of Bourbon, to confer with me upon matters of importance, I cannot do the honours of the house to you as I could wish; but Pericard, my secretary and friend, will attend upon you, and insure that you have every sort of refreshment. I will send for him this moment." And so doing, he placed Bellievre in the hands of his secretary, and turned once more to other business.

The King's envoy sped back to Paris, scarcely giving himself time to take necessary refreshment; but on his arrival in the capital he first found a difficulty even in seeing the Monarch; and when he did see him, found him once more plunged in that state of luxurious and effeminate indolence from which he was only roused by occasional fits of excitement, which sometimes enabled him to resume the monarch and the man, but more frequently carried him into the wildest and most frantic excesses of debauchery.

Henry would scarcely listen to the business of Bellievre even when he granted him an audience on the following morning. He asked many a question about his cousin of Guise, about his health, about his appearance, about his dress itself; whether his shoes were pointed or square, and how far the haut-de-chausses came down above his knees. Bellievre was impatient, and pressed the King with some fire; but Henry only laughed, and tickled the ears of a monkey that sat upon the arm of his chair with a parrot's feather. The animal mouthed and chattered at the King, and strove to snatch the feather out of his hands; and Henry, stroking it down the head, called it "Mon Duc de Guise."

Bellievre bowed low, and moved towards the door. "Come back to-morrow, Bellievre; come back to-morrow," said the King; "Villequier will be here then. You see at present how importantly I am occupied with my fair cousin of Guise here;" and he pulled the monkey's whiskers as he spoke. "Villequier has told me all about it," he added. "He says the Duke will not come, and so says my mother; and if they both say the same thing who never agreed upon any point before, it must be true, Bellievre, you know."

"I trust it may, Sire," replied Bellievre dryly, and quitted the room with anger and indignation at his heart. Before he had crossed the anteroom, he heard a loud laugh ringing like that of a fool from the lips of the Monarch; and although it was doubtless occasioned by some new gambol of the monkey, it did not serve to diminish the bitter feelings which were in the diplomatist's bosom.

CHAP. X.