Chapter VI: Part 6

In a small, dark, oaken cabinet with one window high up and barred, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, a table with books and a musical instrument, several chairs, and a silver bell, Charles of Montsoreau was seated several days after the period at which we last left him. A bedroom well furnished in every respect was beyond; the least sound of the silver bell produced immediate attendance; nothing was refused him that he demanded; nothing was wanting to his comfort except liberty and the sound of some other human being's voice. Yet, strange to say, although he knew that he was in the city of Paris, he knew nothing more of the position of the building in which he was placed. He had been brought into the capital at night, had been conducted through a number of narrow and tortuous streets, and had at length been led through a deep archway and several large courts, to the place in which he was now confined.

It may seem perhaps that such a state of imprisonment did not offer much to complain of; and yet it had bent his spirit and bowed down his heart. The want of all knowledge of what was passing around him, the absence of every one that he loved, the loss of liberty, the perfect silence, joined with anxiety for one who was dearer to him than himself, wore him day by day, and took from him the power of enjoying any of those things which were provided for his convenience or amusement.

The servant who attended upon him never opened his lips, he obeyed any orders that were given to him, he brought any thing that was demanded; but he replied to no questions, he made no observations, he afforded no information even by a look. Every bolt and bar that was on the outside of the door was invariably drawn behind him, and the high window in either room could only be so far reached even by standing on the table or one of the chairs, as to enable the young nobleman to open or shut it at pleasure, so to admit the free air from without.

Such had been the condition of Charles of Montsoreau, as we have said, for many days; but he had not yet become reconciled in any degree to his fate, though he strove, as far as possible, to while away the moments in any way that was permitted, either by books or music. But it was with impatience and disgust that he did so, and the lute was taken up and laid down, the book read and cast away, without remaining in his hands for the space of five minutes.

The sun shone bright through the high window, and traced a moving spot of golden light upon the dark oak of the opposite wainscot; the air of spring came sweet and pleasantly through, and gave him back the thoughts and dreams of liberty; a wild plant rooted in the stonework of the building without, cast its light feathery shadow on the wall where the sun shone, and the hum and roar of distant multitudes, pursuing their busy course in the thronged thoroughfares of the city, brought him his only tidings from the hurried and struggling scene of human life.

He took a pleasure in watching the leaves of the little plant as, waved about by the wind, they played against the bars of the window, and he was thus occupied on the day we have mentioned, when suddenly something crossed the light for a moment, as if some small bird had flown by; but at the same instant a roll of paper fell at his feet, and taking it up, he recognised the well-known writing of the Duke of Guise.

"You have suffered for my sake," the paper said, "and I hastened to deliver you. The day of the Epernons is over; your place of imprisonment is known. Be not dispirited, therefore, for relief is at hand."

It cannot be told how great was the relief which this note itself brought to the mind of the young Count, not alone by the promise that it held out, but by the very feeling that it gave him of not being utterly forgotten, of being not entirely alone and desolate. He read it over two or three times, and then hearing one of the bolts of the door undrawn, he concealed it hastily lest the attendant should see it.

Another bolt was immediately afterwards pulled back, and then the door was unlocked, though far more slowly than usual. It seemed to the young Count that an unaccustomed hand was busy with the fastenings, and a faint hope of speedy deliverance shot across his mind.

The next instant, however, the door was opened, and though it certainly was not the usual attendant who appeared, no face presented itself that was known to Charles of Montsoreau. The figure was that of a woman, tall, stately, and dressed in garments of deep black, fitting tightly round the shoulders and the waist, and flowing away in ample folds below. Her hair was entirely covered by black silk and lace, but her face was seen, and that face was one which instantly drew all attention to itself.

It was not indeed the beauty which attracted, though there were great remains of beauty too, but it was the face not only of an old woman, but of one who had been somewhat a spendthrift of youth's charms. There was, however, a keen fire in the eyes, a strong determination on the brow, an expansion of the nostril, which gave the idea of quick and eager feelings, and a degree of sternness about the whole line of the features, which would have made the whole countenance commanding, but harsh and severe, had it not been for a light and playful smile that gleamed across the whole, like some of the bright and sudden rays of light that from to time we see run across the bosom of deep still shady waters.

There was a degree of mockery in that smile, too; and yet it spoke affections and feelings which as strangely blended with the general character of that woman's life, as the smile itself did with the general expression of her countenance. The hands were beautiful and delicately small, and the figure good, with but few signs of age about it.

The young Count gazed upon her with some surprise as she entered, but instantly rose from the seat in which he had been sitting while reading the Duke of Guise's note; and the lady, with a graceful inclination of the head, closed the door, advanced and seated herself, examining the young Count from head to foot with a look of calm consideration, which he very well understood implied the habitual exercise of authority and power.

After thus gazing at him for a moment or two, she said, "Monsieur le Comte de Logeres, do you know me?"

"If you mean, madam," he replied, "to ask me if I recognise your person, I believe I do; but if you would ask absolutely whether I know you, I must say, no."

One of those light smiles passed quick across her countenance, and she said in a low voice, as if speaking to herself, "Who ever did know me?" She then added, "Who then do you suppose I am?"

"I conclude, madam," replied the young Count, "that I stand in the presence of her Majesty the Queen-mother."

"Such is the case," replied the Queen, "and I have come to visit you, Monsieur de Logeres, with views and purposes which, were I to tell them to any person at my son's court, would hardly be believed."

The Queen paused, as if waiting for an answer; and the young Count replied, "I trust, madam, that if I am detained here by the directions, and in the power of your Majesty, that you have come to give me liberty, which would, I suppose," he added with somewhat of a smile, "be rather marvellous to the courtiers of the King."

Catharine de Medici smiled also, but at the same time shook her head. "I fear I must not give you liberty," she said, "for I have promised not: but I have come with no bad intent towards you. I knew your mother, Monsieur de Logeres, and a virtuous and beautiful woman she was. God help us! it shows that I am growing old, my praising any woman for her virtue. However, she was what I have said, and as unlike myself as possible. Perhaps that was the reason that I liked her, for we like not things that are too near ourselves. However, I have come hither to see her son, and to do him a pleasure. You play upon the lute?" she continued. "Come, 'tis a long time since I have heard the lute well played. Take up the instrument, and add your voice to it."

"Alas, madam," replied the young Count, "I am but in an ill mood for music. If I sang you a melancholy lay it would find such stirring harmonies in my own heart, that I fear I should drown the song in tears; and if I sang you a gay one, it would be all discord. I would much rather open that door which you have left unlocked behind you, and go out."

The Queen did not stir in the slightest degree, but gazed upon him attentively with a look of compassion, answering, "Alas! poor bird, you would find that your cage has a double door. But come, do as I bid you; sit down there, take up the lute and sing. Let your song be neither gay nor sad! Let it be a song of love. I doubt not that such a youth as you are, will easily find a love ditty in your heart, though the present inspiration be no better than an old woman. Come, Monsieur de Logeres, come: sit down and sing. I am a judge of music, I can tell you."

With a faint smile the Count did as she bade him; and taking up the lute, he ran his fingers over the chords, thought for a moment or two, and recollecting nothing better suited to the moment, he sang an Italian song of love, in which sometime before he had ventured to shadow forth to Marie de Clairvaut, when she was at Montsoreau, the first feelings of affection that were growing up in his heart. The Queen sat by in the mean time, listening attentively, with her head a little bent forward, and her hand marking the cadences on her knee.

"Beautifully sung, Monsieur de Logeres," she said at length when he ended. "Beautifully sung, and as well accompanied. You do not know how much pleasure you have given.--Now, let us talk of other things. Are you sincere, man?"

"I trust so, madam," replied the Count. "I believe I have never borne any other character."

"Who taught you to play so well on the lute?" demanded the Queen abruptly.

"I have had no great instruction, madam," answered the Count somewhat surprised. "I taught myself a little in my boyhood. But afterwards my preceptor, the Abbe de Boisguerin, was my chief instructor. He had learned well in Italy."

"Did he teach you sincerity too?" demanded the Queen with a keen look; "and did he learn that in Italy?"

The Count was not a little surprised to find Catherine's questions touch so immediately upon the late discoveries he had made of the character of the Abbe de Boisguerin, and he replied with some bitterness, "He could but teach me, madam, that which he possessed himself. I trust that to my nature and my blood I owe whatever sincerity may be in me. I learned it from none but from God and my own heart."

"Then you know him," said the Queen, reaching the point at once; "that is sufficient at present on that subject. I know him too. He came to the court of France several years ago, with letters from my fair cousin the Cardinal; but he brought with him nothing that I wanted at that time. He had a wily head, a handsome person, manifold accomplishments, great learning, and services for the highest bidder. We had too many such things at the court already, so I thought that the sooner he was out of it the better, and looked cold upon him till he went. He understood the matter well, and did not return till he brought something in his hand to barter for favour. However, Monsieur de Logeres, to turn to other matters; I do believe you may be sincere after all. I shall discover in a minute, however. Will you answer me a question or two concerning the Duke of Guise?"

"It depends entirely upon what they are, madam," replied the Count at once.

"Then you will not answer me every question, even if it were to gain your liberty."

"Certainly not, madam," replied the Count.

"Then the Duke has been speaking ill of me," said Catherine at once, "otherwise you would not be so fearful."

"Not so, indeed," replied the Count, eagerly. "The Duke never, in my presence, uttered a word against your Majesty."

"Then will you tell me, as a man of honour," demanded the Queen, "exactly, word for word what you have ever heard the Duke say of me?"

Charles of Montsoreau paused and thought for a moment, and then answered, "I may promise you to do so in safety, madam, for I never heard the Duke speak of you but twice, and then it was in high praise."

"Indeed!" she replied. "But still I believe you, for Villequier has been assuring me of the contrary, and, of course, what he says must be false. He cannot help himself, poor man. Now, tell me what the Duke said, Monsieur de Logeres. Perhaps I may be able to repay you some time."

"I seek for no bribe, your Majesty," replied the Count smiling; "and, indeed, the honour and the pleasure of this visit----"

"Nay, nay! You a courtier, young gentleman!" exclaimed the Queen, shaking her finger at him. "Another such word as that, and you will make me doubt the whole tale."

"The speech would not have been so courtier-like, madam, if it had been ended," replied the Count. "I was going to have said, that the honour and pleasure of this visit, after not having heard for many days, many weeks I believe, the sound of a human voice, or seen any other face but that of one attendant, is full repayment for the little that I have to tell. However, madam, to gratify you with regard to the Duke, the first time that I ever heard him mention you was in the city of Rheims, where a number of persons were collected together, and many violent opinions were expressed, with which I will not offend your ears; your past life was spoken of by some of the gentlemen present----"

"Pass over that, pass over that! I understand!" replied the Queen with a sarcastic smile; "I understand. But those things are not worth speaking of. What of the present, Monsieur de Logeres? What of the present?"

"Why, some one expressed an opinion, madam," the Count continued, "that in order to retain a great share of power, you did every thing you could to keep his Majesty in the lethargic and indolent state in which I grieve to say he appears to the great mass of his subjects."

"What said the Duke?" demanded the Queen. "What said the Duke? surely he knows me better."

"Why, madam," replied the Count, "his eye brightened and his colour rose, and he replied indignantly that it could not be so. 'Oh no,' he said, 'happy had it been for France if, instead of divided power, the Queen-mother had possessed the whole power. It is by petty minds mingling their leven with their great designs that ruin has come upon the land. She has had to deal with great men, great events, and great difficulties, and she was equal to deal with, if not to bow them all down before her, had she but been permitted to deal with them unshackled.'"[4]

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[Footnote 4: Such was undoubtedly the expressed opinion of the Duke of Guise.]

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"Indeed!" exclaimed the Queen; "did he say so?"

"He did, madam, upon my honour," replied the Count.

"I know not whether he was right or wrong," rejoined the Queen thoughtfully; "for though perhaps, Monsieur de Logeres, I possessed in some things the powers of a man--say, if you will, greater powers than most men--yet, alas! in others, I had all the weaknesses of a woman--perhaps I should say, to balance other qualities, more weaknesses than most women. But he must have said more. The answer was not pertinent to the remark, and Henry of Guise is not a man either in speech or action ever to forget his object."

"Nor did he in this instance," replied the Count; "but he said that, wearied out with seeing your best and greatest schemes frustrated by the weakness of others, you now contented yourself with warding off evils as far as possible from your son and from the state; that it was evident that such was your policy; and that, like Miron, the King's physician, unable from external circumstances to effect a cure, you treated the diseases of the times with a course of palliatives; that, as the greatest of all evils, you knew and saw the apathy of his Majesty, and did all that you could to rouse him, but that the poisonous counsels of Villequier, the soft indolence of his own nature, and the enfeebling society of Epernon and others, resisted all that you could do, and thwarted you here likewise."

"He spoke wisely, and he spoke truly," replied the Queen; "and I will tell you, Monsieur de Logeres, though Henry of Guise and I can never love each other much, yet I felt sure that he knew me too well to say all those things of me that have been reported by his enemies. I am satisfied with what I have heard, Count, and shall ask no further questions. But you have given me pleasure, and I will do my best to serve you. Once more, let us speak of other things. Have you all that you desire and want here?"

"No, madam," replied the young Count. "I want many things--liberty, the familiar voices of my friends, the sight of those I love. Every thing that the body wants I have; and you or some of your attendants have supplied me with books and music; but it is in such a situation as this, your Majesty, that one learns that the heart requires food as well as the body or the mind."

"The heart!" replied Catharine de Medici thoughtfully. "I once knew what the heart was, and I have not quite forgotten it yet. Did you mark my words after you had sung, Monsieur de Logeres?"

"You were pleased to praise my poor singing much more than it deserved, madam," replied the young Count.

"Something more than that, my good youth," replied the Queen. "I told you that it had given more pleasure than you knew of. I might have added, that it gave pleasure to more than you knew of, for there was another ear could hear it besides mine."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Count gazing eagerly in the Queen's face; "and pray who might that be?"

"One that loves you," replied Catharine de Medici. "One that loves you very well, Monsieur de Logeres." And rising from her chair she put her hand to her brow, as if in deep thought. "Well," she said at length; "something must be risked, and I will risk something for that purpose. The time is not far distant, Monsieur de Logeres--I see it clearly--when by some means you will be set at liberty; but, notwithstanding that, it may be long before you find such a thing even as an hour's happiness. You are a frank and generous man, I believe; you will not take advantage of an act of kindness to behave ungenerously. I go away from you for a moment or two, and leave that door open behind me, trusting to your honour."

She waited for no reply, but quitted the room; and Charles of Montsoreau stood gazing upon the door, doubtful of what was her meaning, and how he was to act. Some of her words might be interpreted as a hint to escape; but others had directly a contrary tendency, and a moment after he heard her unlock and pass another door, and close but not lock it behind her.

CHAP. XI.

"What is her meaning?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau, as he gazed earnestly upon the door; and as he thus thought his heart beat vehemently, for there was a hope in it which he would not suffer his reason to rest upon for a moment, so improbable did it seem, and so fearful would be disappointment. "What is her meaning?" And he still asked himself the question, as one minute flew by after another, and to his impatience it seemed long ere she returned.

But a few minutes elapsed, however, in reality, ere there were steps heard coming back, and in another minute Catharine de Medici again appeared, saying, "For one hour, remember! For one hour only!"

There was somebody behind her, and the brightest hope that Charles of Montsoreau had dared to entertain was fully realised.

The Queen had drawn Marie de Clairvaut forward; and passing out again, she closed the door, leaving her alone with her lover. If his heart had wanted any confirmation of the deep, earnest, overpowering affection which she entertained towards him, it might have been found in the manner in which--apparently without the power even to move forward, trembling, gasping for breath--she stood before him on so suddenly seeing him again, without having been forewarned, after long and painful and anxious absence. As he had himself acknowledged, he was ignorant in the heart of woman; but love had been a mighty instructor, and he now needed no explanation of the agitation that he beheld.

Starting instantly forward, he threw his arms around her; and it was then, held to his bosom, pressed to his heart, that all Marie de Clairvaut's love and tenderness burst forth. Gentle, timid, modest in her own nature as she was, love and joy triumphed over all. The agony of mind she had been made to suffer, was greater than even he could fancy, and the relief of that moment swept away all other thoughts: the tears, the happy but agitated tears, flowed rapidly from her eyes; but her lips sought his cheek from time to time, her arms clasped tenderly round him, and as soon as she could speak, she said, "Oh Charles, Charles, do I see you again? Am I, am I held in your arms once more; the only one that I have ever loved in life, my saviour, my protector, my defender. For days, for weeks, I have not known whether you were living or dead. They had the cruelty, they had the barbarity not even to let me know whether you had or had not escaped the plague. They have kept me in utter ignorance of where you were, of all and of every thing concerning you." And again she kissed his cheek, though even while she did so, under the overpowering emotions of her heart, the blush of shame came up into her own: and then she hid her eyes upon his bosom, and wept once more in agitation but in happiness.

"As they have acted to you, dearest Marie," he replied, "as they have acted to you, so they have acted to me. The day they separated me from you at Epernon, was the last day that I have spoken with any living creature up to this morning. No answers have been returned to my questions; not a word of intelligence could I obtain concerning your fate; and oh, dear, dear Marie, you would feel, you would know how terrible has been that state to me, if you could tell how ardently, how deeply, how passionately I love you." And his lips met hers, and sealed the assurance there.

"I know it, I know it all, Charles," replied Marie. "I know it by what I have felt; I know it by what I feel myself, for I believe, I do believe, from my very heart, that if it be possible for two people to feel exactly alike, we so feel."

"But tell me, dear Marie, tell me," exclaimed her lover, "tell me where you have been. Have they treated you kindly? Does the Duke of Guise know where you are?"

"Alas, no, Charles!" replied Marie de Clairvaut; "he does not, I grieve to say. Well treated indeed I may say that I have been, for all that could contribute to my mere comfort has been done for me. Nothing that I could desire or wish for, Charles, has been ungiven, and I have ever had the society of the good sisters in the neighbouring convent. But the society that I love has of course been denied me; and no news, no tidings of any kind have reached me. I have lived in short with numbers of people surrounding me, as if I were not in the world at all, and the moment that I asked a question, a deep silence fell upon every one, and I could obtain no reply."

"This is strange indeed," said Charles, "very strange. However, we must be grateful that our treatment has been kind indeed in some respects."

"Oh, and most grateful," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "for these bright moments of happiness. Do you not think, Charles, do you not think, that perhaps the Queen may kindly grant us such interviews again?"

Who is there that does not know how lovers while away the time? Who is there that has not known how short is a lover's hour? But with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut that hour seemed shorter than it otherwise would have done; for it was not alone the endearing caress, the words, the acknowledgments, the hopes of love, but they had a thousand things in the past to tell each other; they had cares and fears, and plans and purposes for the future, to communicate.

Even had not all shyness, all timidity been done away before, that was not a moment in which Marie de Clairvaut could have affected aught towards her lover; so that what between tidings of the past and thoughts of the future, and the dear dalliance of that spendthrift of invaluable moments, love, an envious clock in some church-tower hard by, had marked the arrival of the last quarter of an hour they were to remain together, ere one tenth part of what they had to think of or to say was either thought or said. The sound startled them, and it became a choice whether they should give up the brief remaining space to serious thoughts of the future, or whether they should yield it all to love. Who is it with such a choice before him that ever hesitated long?

The space allotted for their interview had drawn near its close, and the very scantiness of the period that remained was causing them to spend it in regrets that it was not longer, when suddenly the general sounds which came from the streets became louder and more loud, as if some door or gate had been opened which admitted the noise more distinctly. Both Marie de Clairvaut and her lover listened, and almost at the same instant loud cries were heard of "The Duke of Guise! The Duke of Guise! Long live the Duke of Guise! Long live the great pillar of the Catholic church! Long live the House of Lorraine!" And this was followed by the noise and trampling of horses, as if entering into a court below.

Marie and her lover gazed in each other's faces, but she it was that first spoke the joyful hopes that were in the heart of both.

"He has come to deliver us!" she cried. "Oh Charles, he has come to deliver us! Hear how gladly the people shout his well-loved name! Surely they will not deceive him, and tell him we are not here."

"Oh no, dear Marie," replied her lover; "he has certain information, depend upon it, and will not be easily deceived. He has already discovered my abode, dear Marie; and this letter was thrown through the window this morning, though I myself know not where we are--that is to say, I am well aware that we are now in Paris, but I know not in what part of the city."

"Oh, that I discovered from one of the nuns," replied Marie. "We are at the house of the Black Penitents, in the Rue St. Denis. I remember the outside of it well; a large dark building with only two windows to the street. Do you not remember it? You must have seen it in passing."

"I am not so well acquainted with the city as you are, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "but, depend upon it, where they have confined me is not in the house of the Black Penitents. It would be a violation of the rules of the order which could not be."

"It communicates with their dwelling," replied Marie de Clairvaut; "of that at least I am certain; for the Queen, when she brought me hither, took me not into the open air. She led me indeed through numerous passages, one of which, some ten or twelve yards in length, was nearly dark, for it had no windows, and was only lighted by the door left open behind us. I was then placed in a little room while the Queen went on, and a short time after I heard a voice, that made my heart beat strangely, begin to sing a song that you once sung at Montsoreau; and when I was thinking of you Charles, and all that you had done for me--how you had first saved me from the reiters, and then rescued me from the deep stream, and had then come to seek me and deliver me in the midst of death and pestilence--I was thinking of all these things, when Catherine came back, and without telling me what was her intention, led me hither."

"Hark!" cried Charles of Montsoreau. "They shout again. I wonder that we have heard no farther tidings."

And they both sat and listened for some minutes, but no indication of any farther event took place, and they gradually resumed their conversation, beginning in a low tone, as if afraid of losing a sound from without. Marie de Clairvaut had already told her lover how she had remained at Epernon for a day or two under the protection of the wife of the Duke, and had been thence brought by her to Paris and placed in the convent at a late hour of the evening; but as the time wore away, and their hopes of liberation did not seem about to be realized, she recurred to the subject of her arrival, saying, "There is one thing which makes me almost fear they will deceive him, Charles. I forgot to tell you, that as we paused before this building on the night that I was brought hither, while the gates were being opened by the portress, a horseman rode up to the side of the carriage and gazed in. There were torches on the other side held by the servants round the gate, and though I could not see that horseman as well as he could see me, yet I feel almost sure that it was the face of the Abbe de Boisguerin I beheld."

"I know he was to return to Paris," said Charles of Montsoreau, "after accompanying my brother some part of the way back to the chateau. But fear not him, dear Marie; he has no power or influence here."

"Oh, but I fear far more wile and intrigue," cried Marie de Clairvaut, "than I do power and influence, Charles. Power is like a lion, bold and open; but when once satisfied, injures little; but art is like a serpent that stings us, without cause, when we least expect it. But hark!" she continued again. "They are once more shouting loudly."

Charles of Montsoreau listened also, and the cries, repeated again and again, of "Long live the Duke of Guise! Long live the House of Lorraine! Long live the good Queen Catherine![5] Life to the Queen! Life to the Queen!" were heard mingled with thundering huzzas and acclamations. The heart of the young Count sank, for he judged that the Duke had gone forth again amongst the people, and had either forgotten his fate altogether in more important affairs, or had been deceived by false information regarding himself and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut.

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[Footnote 5: The progress of the Duke of Guise and the Queen-mother, from the convent of the Penitents to the Louvre, was in triumph. "Il y en avoit," says Auvigny, "qui se mettoient a genoux devant lui, d'autres lui baisoient les mains; quelques uns se trouverent trop heureux de pouvoir en passant toucher son habit," A farther account of this famous event is given a few pages farther on.]

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The cries, which were at first loud and distinct, gradually sunk, till first the words could no longer be distinguished; then the acclamations became more and more faint, till the whole died away into a distant murmur, rising and falling like the sound of the sea beating upon a stormy shore. The young Count gazed in the countenance of Marie de Clairvaut, and saw therein written even more despairing feelings than were in his own heart.

"Fear not, dear Marie," he said pressing her to his bosom. "Fear not; the Duke must know that I am here by this letter: nor is he one to be easily deceived. Depend upon it he will find means to deliver us ere long."

Marie de Clairvaut shook her head with a deep sigh and with her eyes filled with tears. But she had not time to reply, for steps were heard in the passage, and the moment after the door of the room was opened.

It was no longer, however, the figure of Catherine de Medici that presented itself, but the homely person and somewhat unmeaning face of a good lady, dressed in the habit of a prioress. Behind her, again, was a lay-sister, and beside them both the attendant who was accustomed to wait upon the young Count. The good lady who first appeared looked round the scene that the opening door disclosed to her with evident marks of curiosity and surprise; and, indeed, the whole expression of her countenance left little doubt that she had never been in that place before.

After giving up a minute to her curiosity, however, she turned to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, saying, "I have been sent by the Queen, madam, to conduct you back to your apartments."

"Let me first ask one question," replied Marie de Clairvaut. "Has not the Duke of Guise been here?"

The nun answered not a word.

"We need no assurance of it, dear Marie," said Charles of Montsoreau, hoping to drive the Prioress to some answer. "We know that he has, and must have been deceived in regard to your state and mine."

The Prioress was still silent; and Marie de Clairvaut, after waiting for a moment, added, "If he have been deceived, Charles, woe to those who have deceived him. He is not a man to pass over lightly such conduct as has been shown to me already."

"Madam," said the Prioress, "I have been sent by the Queen to show you to your apartments."

It was vain to resist or to linger. Marie de Clairvaut gave her hand to her lover, and they gazed in each other's faces for a moment with a long and anxious glance, not knowing when they might meet again. Charles of Montsoreau could not resist; and notwithstanding the presence of nun, prioress, and attendant, he drew the fair creature whose hand he held in his gently to his bosom, and pressed a parting kiss upon her lips.

Marie turned away with her eyes full of tears, and leaving her hand in his till the last moment, she slowly approached the door. She turned for one other look ere she departed, and then, dashing the tears from her eyes, passed rapidly out. The door closed behind her, and Charles of Montsoreau alone, and almost without hope, buried his face in his hands, and gave himself up to think over the sweet moments of the past.

CHAP. XII.

It was on the morning of Monday, the 9th of May, 1588, at about half past eleven o'clock, that a party, consisting of sixteen horsemen, of whom eight were gentlemen and the rest grooms, appeared at the gates of Paris. But though each of those eight persons who led the cavalcade were strong and powerful men, in the prime of life, highly educated, and generally distinguished in appearance, yet there was one on whom all eyes rested wherever he passed, and rested with that degree of wonder and admiration which might be well called forth by the union of the most perfect graces of person, with the appearance of the greatest vigour and activity, and with a dignity and beauty of expression which breathed not only from the countenance, but from the whole person, and shone out in every movement, as well as in every look.

The gates of the city were at this time open, and though a certain number of guards were hanging about the buildings on either hand, yet no questions were asked of any one who came in or went out of the city. The moment, however, that the party we have mentioned appeared, and he who was at its head paused for a moment on the inside of the gate and gazed round, as if looking for some one that he expected to see there, one of the bystanders whispered eagerly to the other, "It is the Duke! It is the Duke of Guise!"

All hats were off in a moment; all voices cried, "The Duke! The Duke!" A loud acclamation ran round the gate, and the people from the small houses in the neighbourhood poured forth at the sound, rending the air with their acclamations, and pressing forward round his horse with such eagerness that it was scarcely possible for him to pass along his way. Some kissed his hand, some threw themselves upon their knees before him, some satisfied themselves by merely touching his cloak, as if it had saintly virtue in it, and still the cry ran on of "The Duke of Guise! The Duke of Guise! Long live the Duke of Guise!" while every door-way and alley and court-yard poured forth its multitudes, till the people seemed literally to crush each other in the streets, and all Paris echoed with the thundering acclamations.

After that momentary pause at the gates, the Duke of Guise rode on, uncovering his splendid head, and bowing lowly to the people as he went. His face had been flushed by exercise when he arrived, but now the deep excitement of such a reception had taken the colour from his cheek; he was somewhat pale, and his lip quivered with intense feeling. But there was a fire in his eye which seemed to speak that his heart was conscious of great purposes, and ready to fulfil its high emprise; and there was a degree of stern determination on that lordly brow, which spoke also the knowledge but the contempt of danger, and the resolution of meeting peril and overcoming resistance.

Thus passing on amidst the people, and bowing as he went to their repeated cheers, the Duke of Guise reached the convent of the Black Penitents, where for the time the Queen-mother had taken up her abode. The gates of the outer court into which men were suffered to enter were thrown open to admit him; and signifying to such of the crowd as were nearest to the gate that they had better not follow him into the court, the Duke of Guise rode in with his attendants, and the gates were again closed. The servants and the gentlemen who accompanied him remained beside their horses in the court, while he alone entered the parlour of the convent to speak with the Queen-mother.

She did not detain him an instant, but came in with a countenance on which much alarm was painted, either by nature or by art. The Duke at once advanced to meet her, and bending low his towering head, he kissed the hand which she held out to him.

"Alas! my Lord of Guise," she said, "I must not so far falsify the truth as to say that I am glad to see you. Glad, most glad should I have been to see you, any where but here. But, alas! I fear you have come at great peril to yourself, good cousin! You know not how angry the minds of men are; you know not how much hostility reigns against you in the breasts of many of the highest of the land; you have not bethought you, that on every step to the throne there stands an enemy----"

"Who shall fall before me, madam," replied the Duke of Guise.

"Till you have reached the throne itself, fair cousin?" said the Queen-mother.

"No, madam, no," answered the Duke of Guise eagerly. "I thought your Majesty had known me better. I have always believed that you were one of those who felt and understood that I never dreamt of wronging my master and my king, or of snatching, as you now hinted, the crown from its lawful possessor."

"I _have_ felt it, and I _have_ understood it, cousin of Guise," replied Catharine de Medici. "But, alas! my Lord, I know how ambition grows upon the heart. It begins with an acorn, Guise, but it ends with an oak. Those that watch it, the very soil that bears it, perceive not its increase; and yet it soon overshadows all things, and root it out who can!"

"Madam," answered the Duke of Guise, boldly, "to follow the figure that you have used, the axe soon reduces the oak; and may the axe be used on me, and ease me of earth's ambition for ever, if any such designs as have been attributed to me exist within my bosom! You see, madam, I meet you boldly, look to ultimate consequences of ambitious designs, and fear not the result. It is such accusations that I come to repel, and it is those who have propagated them, and instilled them both into the mind of his Majesty, and, as it would appear, your own, that I come to punish. Trusting that, humble though I be, your Majesty was the best friend I had at the court of France, I have ridden straight hither, without even stopping at my own abode, to beseech you to accompany me to the presence of the King."

"I do believe, cousin of Guise, that I am your best friend at the court of France," replied the Princess. "In fact, I may say, I know that none there loves you but myself. Nor must you think that I accuse you of actual ambition, or believe the rumours that have been circulated against you. I merely wish to warn you of the growth of such things in your own bosom."

"Dear madam," replied the Duke, "had I been ambitious, what might I not have become? Here am I simply the Duke of Guise; a poor officer, commanding part of the King's troops, and contributing no small part of my own to swell his forces; with scarcely a place, a post, a government, an emolument, or a revenue, except what I derive from my own estates. Am I the most ambitious man in France? Am I so ambitious as he who adds, to the government of Metz, the government of Normandy, and piles upon that Touraine, Anjou, Saintonge, the Angoumois, seizes upon the office of High-admiral, creates himself Colonel-general of the Infantry? This, lady, is the ambitious man; but of him you seem to entertain no fear."

"There are two ambitions, my Lord Duke," replied the Queen: "the ambition which grasps at power, and the ambition which snatches at wealth: the moment that ambition mingles itself with avarice, the grovelling passion, chained in its own sordid bonds, is no longer to be feared. It is where the object is power; where there is a mind to conceive the means, and a heart to dare all the risks, that there is indeed occasion for apprehension and for precaution. Still, my Lord, I believe you; still I believe that the hand of Guise will never be raised to pull down the bonnet of Valois. You may strip the minion Epernon of the golden plumes with which he has decked his mid-air wings, for aught I care or think of; you may cast down the dark and plotting Villequier, and sweep the court of apes and parrots, fools and villains, and the whole tribe of natural and human beasts, without my saying one word to oppose you, or without my dreaming for a moment that you aim at higher things; you may even soar higher still, and like your great father become at once the guide and the defender of the state, and still I will not fear you. But Guise," she added in a softer tone, "I must and will still fear _for_ you; and though I will go with you to the King if you continue to demand it, yet I tell you, and I warn you, that every step you take is perilous, and that I cannot be your safeguard nor your surety for a moment!"

"Madam, I must fulfil my fate," replied the Duke of Guise looking up. "I came here to justify myself; I came here to deliver and to support my friends; I came here to secure honour and safety to the Catholic Church; and did I know that the daggers of a hundred assassins would be in my bosom at the first step I took beyond those gates, I would go forth as resolutely as I came hither."

"Then I must send to announce your coming to the King," said the Queen. "Of course I cannot take you to the Louvre unannounced."

Thus saying she quitted the room for a moment, and the Duke remained behind with his arms crossed upon his bosom in deep thought. She returned in a moment, however, saying that she had sent one of her gentlemen upon the errand, and the next minute as the gates were opened for some one to go out, long and reiterated shouts of "A Guise! A Guise! Long live the Guise!" were heard echoing round the building. Catharine de Medici smiled and looked at the Duke. "How often have I heard," she said, "those same light Parisian tongues exclaim the name of different princes! I remember well, Guise, when first I came from my fair native land, how the glad multitude shouted on my way; how all the streets were strewed with flowers; and how, if I had believed the words I heard, I should have fancied that not a man in all the land but would have died to serve me; and yet, not long after, I have heard execrations murmured in the throats of the dull multitude while I passed by, and the name of Diana of Poitiers echoed through the streets. Then have I not heard the names of a Francis and a Henry shouted far and wide? and after Jarnac and Moncontour, the heavens were scarcely high enough to hold the sounds of his name who now sits upon the throne of France. To-day it is Guise they call upon!--Who shall it be to-morrow? And then another and another still shall come, the object of an hour's love changed into hatred in a moment."

"It is too true, madam," replied the Duke. "Popularity is the most fleeting, the most vacillating--if you will, the most contemptible--of all those means and opportunities which Heaven gives us to be made use of for great ends. But nevertheless, madam, we must so make use of them all; and as this same popularity is one of the briefest of the whole, so must we be the more ready, the more prompt, the more decided in taking advantage of the short hour of brightness. I may be wrong in thinking," he continued after the pause of a moment or two, "I may be wrong in thinking that my well-being and that of the state and church of this realm are intimately bound up together. It may be, and probably is, a delusion of human vanity. Nevertheless, such being my opinion, none can say that I am wrong in taking advantage of the moment of my popularity to do the best that I can both for the church and for the state. Such, I assure you, madam, is my object; and if I benefit myself at all in these transactions, it can be, and shall be, but collaterally; while in the mean time I incur perils which I know and yet fear not."

Thus went on the conversation between the Queen and the Duke of Guise for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time the gentleman who had been dispatched to the King returned, bearing his Majesty's reply, which was, that since his mother desired it, she might bring the Duke of Guise to his presence, and Catherine prepared immediately to set out. Her chair was brought round; and after speaking a few words with the superior of the convent, she placed herself in the vehicle, the Duke of Guise walking by her side. The gentlemen who had come with him gave their horses to the grooms, and followed on foot; and several servants and attendants ran on before to clear the way through the people.

The moment the gates were opened, a spectacle struck the eyes of the Queen and the Duke, such as no city in the world perhaps, except Paris, could produce. In the short period which had elapsed since the Duke's arrival, the news had spread from one end of the capital to the other, and the whole of its multitudes were poured out into the streets or lining the windows, or crowning the house-tops. With a rapidity scarcely to be conceived, scaffoldings had been raised in that short space of time in different parts of the streets, to enable the multitude to see the Duke better as he passed[6]; in many places, velvets and rich tapestries were hung out upon the fronts of the houses, as if some solemn procession of the church were taking place; the ladies of the higher classes at the windows, or on their scaffolds, were generally without the masks which they usually wore in the streets; and again, when the gates of the convent opened, and the Queen and the Duke issued forth, the air seemed actually rent with the acclamations of the people, and a long line of waving hats and handkerchiefs was seen all the way up the Rue St. Denis.

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[Footnote 6: This fact is recorded in every account of the proceedings of that day.]

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The same gratulations as before met the Duke on every side as he passed along; the populace seemed absolutely inclined to worship him, and many threw themselves upon their knees as he passed. He looked round upon the dense mass of people, upon the crowded houses, upon the waving hands; he heard from every tongue a welcome, at every step a gratulation, and it was impossible for the heart of man not to feel at that moment a pride and a confidence fit to bear him strongly on his perilous way.

All the way down the Rue St. Denis, and through every other street that he passed, the same scene presented itself, the same acclamations followed him, so that the shouts thundered in the ear of the King as he sat in the Louvre.

At length the Queen and those who accompanied her approached the palace; and in the open space before it, which was at that time railed off, was drawn up a long double line of guards, forming a lane through which it was necessary to pass to the gates. The well-known Crillon, celebrated for his determination and bravery, was at their head; and the Duke of Guise, obliged to pause in order to suffer the chair of the Queen-mother to pass on first, bowed to the commander, whom he knew and respected.

Crillon scarcely returned his salutation, but looked frowning along the double row of his soldiery. The people, close by the railings, watched every movement, and a murmur of something like apprehension for their favourite ran through them as they watched these signs. But not a moment's pause marked the slightest hesitation in the Duke of Guise. With his head raised and his eyes flashing, he drew forward the hilt of his unconquered sword ready for his hand, and holding the scabbard in his left, strode after the chair of the Queen till the gates of the Louvre closed upon him and his train.