Chapter IV: Part 4

"Why, the King told me," replied Villequier, "that the Duke demanded her at all events till the Parliament of Paris had decided our cause. The next day the Duke and I had an interview on the subject; but ere that, I had placed her in the hands of a friend, and begged him to remove her for a time from the house where she then was. The Duke was as imperious and unceremonious as an executioner. He vowed that I should give her up to him at once; and though we did our best to deceive him, exactly as we had done with your wild thoughtless brother, the Duke did not so easily believe us; and both I and the King were obliged to swear upon the mass that she was not in our power, and that we knew not where she was. That was easily done; but Henry's low laugh had nearly betrayed the whole; and the Duke swore loudly, and menaced high, that if he were deceived, he would have vengeance."

"And now, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis, "where is she now? And who is the friend in whose hands you have placed her?"

Villequier paused for a single moment, as if to consider whether he should tell him or not. But a moment after he answered with a smile, "The friend in whose hands she is placed, Monsieur de Montsoreau, is one in whom at that time you yourself placed great confidence. I trust the same feelings exist still towards him. I mean the Abbe de Boisguerin."

Gaspar de Montsoreau started at the intelligence with feelings of angry dissatisfaction, which he could hardly account for to himself, but which he instantly strove to conceal from the keen eyes of the artful man with whom he was dealing. The exclamation of "Indeed!" however, which broke from his lips, was uttered in a tone which instantly showed Villequier that the tidings were by no means pleasing; and while he suffered the young Marquis to digest them at leisure he laid out in his own mind a plan for keeping the Abbe and his former pupil at variance, not with any clear and definite object, indeed, but for the purpose of having a check upon the young Marquis at any future moment, in case of necessity. Villequier felt, too, that the clear, artful, and unscrupulous mind of the Abbe de Boisguerin was far better fitted to deal with, and frustrate him in any purpose that he might entertain, than that of the young Marquis, which, though not deficient either in acuteness or policy, was constantly misled by inexperience, or by the impetuosity of strong passions. He felt that the counsels of the Abbe might under many circumstances, if given sincerely, be a safeguard to Gaspar de Montsoreau against his arts; and he therefore saw no slight advantage in encouraging feelings of doubt and dissatisfaction in the mind of his young companion.

"It is surprising," said the Marquis, "that the Abbe did not communicate to me the facts which you have mentioned, Monsieur de Villequier; but I suppose that you bound him down to secrecy."

"To general secrecy," replied Villequier, "as was absolutely necessary. But you, of course, as my friend, and as the person most interested--you, of course, were excepted. No, Monsieur de Montsoreau, no! In this business the Abbe has acted upon his own judgment. He was then at Blois, you know. I was in great haste, knew no other person to whom I could apply, and therefore entrusted him with the task, thinking him also, at that time, you must remember, sincerely, truly, and devotedly your friend."

"And have you any cause. Monsieur de Villequier," demanded the Marquis, "have you any cause to suppose now that he is not my friend?"

"Nay, Monsieur de Montsoreau!" replied Villequier. "If you are satisfied, I have nothing to say. I only thought you seemed dissatisfied, and----"

"And what, Monsieur de Villequier?" demanded the Marquis, seeing that he paused.

"I was going to say," replied Villequier, "that it might be as well for you to be upon your guard. We are living in troublous times, Monsieur de Montsoreau. We are both of us placed in a delicate situation; every word and action ought to be guided by policy and forethought; and though I do not wish to wound the delicacy of your friendship towards your relation and friend, Monsieur de Boisguerin, yet we all know that he is a skilful politician, and that when, some years ago, even as a young man he appeared at the Court of France, her Majesty the Queen-mother was heard to say, she was glad when he was gone, for she was confident that he would outwit Satan himself, and therefore might go far to outwit her."

"I should not mind his policy," replied the Marquis. "I should not mind his policy, if you had not insinuated doubts as to whether he was at heart my friend."

Villequier answered nothing, but gazed down upon the ground with his brow somewhat contracted, and then stirred the rushes on the floor with the point of his sword, as if determined not to make any reply.

"You are silent, Monsieur de Villequier," said Gaspar of Montsoreau; "and yet there is hanging a cloud of much thought upon your brow, as if there were intelligence in your breast which you could give, but would not. I beseech you, if you are really friendly to me--or to speak more plainly--if our interests in this business are in some degree linked together, I beseech you to let me know fully and fairly what you think, and what you know, of the Abbe de Boisguerin."

"Thus adjured, Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, "I can but answer you, that I do not think Monsieur de Boisguerin is as friendly to you as you suppose. Depend upon it, he has his own purposes to answer first, and you are but a secondary consideration, if not, perhaps, a tool."

"These are grave charges, sir," said Gaspar de Montsoreau, somewhat angry at the term tool. "I should like to have some proofs to sustain them."

"See! you are angry already," cried Villequier. "However, at the present moment I have no proofs to give. At some future time--ay, before the period of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I may give you such proof of what is the Abbe's real character and real feelings towards you, that you will say I am well justified. In the meantime I have warned you sufficiently to put you on your guard. That is enough for the present moment: you must act as you think fit; but still you will be prepared. Farther, I have only to say, that it is not I that keep you from seeing Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You have my full will and consent to see her whom you will. I would not, indeed, have you visit her too often, lest discovery should ensue, and Guise obtain possession of her at once. But your own discretion must be your guide. I will now leave you, Monsieur de Montsoreau; and, depend upon it, you will not find that I will fail you in any of the promises I have made, and will very soon return to you with the business arranged by the King, in the manner that you desire. We must then wait until further delay be judged dangerous: then if nothing occurs to relieve us from the other obstacles, we must in the end step over them; and, forgetting a little law, conclude your marriage, whether the Parliament awards me the guardianship or not. When once she is made your wife, they cannot easily unwife her."

Gaspar de Montsoreau, full of thoughts rather than words, did not pursue the conversation further. "I have but shown you scanty courtesy, Monsieur de Villequier," he said, "in not asking you to make your home of my poor house. It is not, indeed, such as I could wish to offer you, having been taken from its bankrupt lord in some slight haste. But still----"

"I thank you most humbly, Marquis," replied Villequier. "But I am bound farther to the city on the hill there. I must lodge with Epernon to-night, for I have messages to him from the King."

Thus saying, after various more such ceremonious speeches as the age required, Villequier took his departure, and mounting his horse, which he had ordered to be kept still saddled in the court-yard, he rode on towards Augouleme, followed by his train. As he did so, he once more thought over the alliance between Gaspar de Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut. "If I can bring it about," he thought, "I not only gain this sum he promises, but bind him to me for ever. I am her nearest male relation, and I could not well find such an alliance in France. Montsoreau, Morly, Logeres; it is a wonderful combination! But even, were it not for that--were it half as good, where should I get the man in France who would give a hundred thousand golden crowns for the possession of such a cold piece of pretty marble as that."

CHAP. VI.

While the conversation just narrated was taking place, and the character and views of the Abbe de Boisguerin were being commented upon in a manner which he could but little have wished, he himself was pursuing his way towards the town of Augouleme, with feelings and purposes varying at every step; though in his case it was not the slightest sting of remorse or regret which occasioned this vacillation of purpose.

Probably there never was a man on earth who wholly and entirely stilled the voice of conscience, and there might be moments when the Abbe's own heart reproached him for things which he had done. But the habit of his thoughts was different. He had been brought up in a school where right and wrong were so frequently confounded for the purpose of maintaining the temporal dominion of the church that, at a very early period of his life, he had arrived at that conclusion, which the sceptical followers of Pyrrho arrive at by a more lengthened process, namely, that on earth there is no absolute and invariable right and wrong.

The Jesuits had taught him, that what was wrong under some circumstances, and marked by the reprobation both of God and man, was right under other circumstances, and even praiseworthy; and forgetting the cautious restrictions under which the wiser and the better members of the order attempted, though vainly, to guard the doctrine, his keen and clear mind at once determined, that if fraud could ever be pious, virtue of any kind could be but a name. If there were no invariable and universal standard: if his thoughts and his actions were to be governed by the opinions, and directed to the purposes of men, the only rule of virtue, he saw, must be the approbation of others like himself; and as every course of action must have an end and object to secure energy in pursuing it, he readily fell into the belief that gratification was the great object, and men's good opinion but to be sought as a means to that end.

It may be easily conceived how far he went on upon such a course of reasoning. It naturally ended in the disbelief of every thing that other men hold sacred: yet he put on all the semblances of religion; for as he believed in no hereafter, to do so, did not seem to him an impious mockery, but merely an unmeaning ceremony required by society. Every thing had become with him a matter of calculation; any thing that was to be obtained, was to be obtained by a certain price; and, as he himself declared, he never regretted giving any price, provided the object was attained, and was of equal value.

It was his passions alone that led him wrong, and made him calculate falsely. They had done so more than once in life, but yet not frequently; not indeed that he sought to subdue them, but that they were not naturally easily roused.

It was no remorse then, or regret, that moved him in the varying state of his thoughts as he rode on. It was doubt as to the means that he was employing; It was doubt as to whether the strong passion, which he felt within his breast, was not blinding his eyes, and misleading his judgment, as to the choice of paths and instruments. He felt that on the present occasion he calculated not so coolly as he was accustomed to do; he felt that the object he had proposed to himself--or rather which passion, and rash passion had suggested--was one so great and so little likely to be obtained, that the means employed must be great and extraordinary also; and that no single false step could be taken without the loss of every hope. His sensations were all strangely complicated, however. He felt and reproached himself for feeling that the passion in his heart had grown up so powerful, so overwhelming, that when he thought of staking life itself upon the issue, not a hesitation crossed his mind, and that he was ready to say, like a love-sick boy, "Let me die, if she be not mine!" But with that passion, he had mingled ambition, both as a means and as an end; prospects had opened before his eyes which had roused in his heart aspirations, which he thought he had put down; and not only to succeed in his love, but to gild that love with pageantry and state and power, had now become his object.

Still, however, he remembered that in grasping at these high things, he might overlook matters which would prevent him reaching them; and after riding on quickly for some time, he drew in his rein, to think more calmly, to review his situation, and to calculate exactly all the important, the critical steps which were now to be taken.

"What am I next going to do?" he thought. "To seek for a priest, who may work upon that impetuous, weak-minded boy, to yield the object of his passion, because, in the pursuit thereof, he has shed his brother's blood. And yet, is it likely that he will yield it? No! I fear not! and yet stronger minds than his have been bowed down by superstition to greater sacrifices. He may, it is true; and it may be as well to secure that chance: but then, even then, only one small step is gained. If one could get him to yield all his great possessions at the same time, that were something! But he will not do that! Two centuries ago we would have sent him to the holy land: but those good times are past. What then is to be done?--To hurry him on into some rash enterprise, and sharing his danger, take the equal chance of which shall live and which shall die?--That were a gamester's policy indeed.--No! we must find more easy means than that."

"However," continued the Abbe, after a pause "in the meantime, I must strike for myself alone. She hates and abhors him evidently. I myself have been too rash and rough with her. My passion has been too impetuous--too fiery. I know that those women who seem so cold and circumspect are often like AEtna, icy above but with fire at the heart. But I have been rash. She will easily forgive that offence, however, and forget it too, when I can woo her as one unbound by the clerical vows, and companion of the high and great. I must lose no time, however, for events are drawing clearly to a mighty issue. Here is the party of Henry, and the party of the League. I must choose between the two without delay. And yet the choice is soon made. In the first place, it would be long ere Guise would trust me: in the next, he would never love me: in the next, he himself is not long lived. As I have seen a bird, when hit by a skilful fowler, tower high into the air before it falls, so Guise is soaring up with mighty effort, which will end but in his own destruction. I will away to Epernon at once. He is the man whose fortunes will yet rise; his unconquerable spirit, his courage, determination, and activity, his gross selfishness, his insolence, his very weakness, will all contribute to support him still. This is a world in which such things thrive! Epernon must be the man; and if I show him such cause as I can show him, he may well be glad to attach me to himself, as increasing his power and enhancing his importance with the King. It is to him I will go! Doubtless his reverses have humbled him somewhat, otherwise it were no light task to deal on such subjects with Epernon."

In judging of Epernon the Abbe judged by mankind in general, for in almost every breast pride is a cowardly quality, and once depressed sinks into grovelling submission. Epernon, however, was the exception to the general rule, and seemed rather to rise in haughtiness under adversity.

With thoughts like those which we have just detailed, the Abbe spurred on towards Angouleme; but as he began to climb the steep ascent, he saw several indications of popular emotion, which made him hesitate for a moment, as to whether he should proceed or not. There were two or three groups of citizens all speaking eagerly together, and in low tones; and at the gates of the city he remarked a man whom he had seen before, and knew to be the mayor of the place, conversing in a low tone, but in what seemed an anxious manner, with the soldiers of the Corps de Garde. The Abbe contrived to make his horse pass as near them as possible, but at the same time affected to be deeply busied with his own thoughts while really listening attentively to their conversation. He could only catch, however, the end of one sentence and the beginning of a reply:--

"This Duke--a proud insufferable tyrant," said the voice of the mayor.

"Get along; if you were not what you are, I would put my pike into you," replied the soldier; and went on with some observations upon his companion's conduct, not very complimentary, the whole of which the Abbe de Boisguerin did not hear.

As he advanced into the town, however, his keen eye remarked many more signs and symptoms of the same kind, from all of which he drew his own deductions; and on entering the castle, which was then inhabited by the Duke of Epernon, he dismounted in the court of the guardhouse, as it was called, where there were a considerable number of the Duke's soldiery loitering about. Though it was not the usual place for visitors to dismount, they suffered him to attach his horse to one of the large iron hooks in the wall, and in a few minutes after he was in the presence of the Duke of Epernon. Not a trace of humiliation or abasement was to be seen in the Duke's countenance or demeanour. He was as proud, as fierce, as fiery as ever; and although he received the Abbe, having seen him more than once in Paris during the late events, and entertaining that degree of consideration for him which a keen and powerful mind almost always commands, he nevertheless seemed to doubt whether he should ask him even to sit down, and did it at length with an air of condescension.

"Well, Monsieur de Boisguerin," he said at length, "to what do I owe this visit?"

"I come, my Lord," replied the Abbe without a moment's hesitation, "to offer your Lordship my poor services."

The Duke smiled. "They are of course," he said, "welcome. Monsieur de Boisguerin. But the time of offering them is somewhat singular, when all men think my fortunes on the decline, or, perhaps, I should say, utterly down."

"Such it may seem to them, my Lord," replied the Abbe; "but such it seems not to me. There are sciences, my Lord, which teach us what the future is destined to produce; and I own that I am quite selfish in my present act, seeking to attach myself to one who is yet destined to uphold the throne of France, to affect the fortunes of the times, to triumph over all his enemies, and to outlive most of them now living."

"Indeed!" said the Duke thoughtfully; "and am I to believe this prophecy seriously?"

"Most seriously, my Lord," replied the Abbe. "I myself believe it and know it, as I believe and know the great fortunes that are likely to attend myself--otherwise, perhaps, you might not have seen me here to-day."

"That is candid, at all events," said the Duke; "and to say truth, I think that your prophecy, in some things, may be right; for I feel within my breast that undiminished power, that sense of my own strength, that confidence in my own destiny, which surely never can be given to a falling man. But you spoke of your own future high fortunes, sir. What may they be?"

The Abbe paused and looked down for a moment, but then replied, "I tell not the prophecy to every one, my Lord; but to you, to whose services I hope to dedicate those high fortunes, I fear not to relate it. It was pronounced long ago, in the city of Rome, when I was there studying, and as a rash young man had entangled myself in an affair with a fair girl of the city, who suffered our intercourse to be discovered, and consequently well nigh ruined all my prospects. I thought indeed it was so, and was turning my back upon Rome for ever, when I met with an old monk, who from certain facts I told him drew my horoscope, and assured me that I should find my fate in France; that my fortune would be brought about by the death of two relations far younger than myself; and that I should suddenly take a share in great events, and rule the destiny of others when I least expected it. Such was the old man's prophecy now many years ago; and I have seen no sign of its accomplishment till the present time."

"And what signs have you seen now?" demanded Epernon.

"That I have been suddenly led, my Lord," replied the Abbe, "from the calm and tranquil quiet of a provincial life, without my own will or agency, into scenes of activity and strife; and that one, out of the two lives which lay between me and the great possessions of Montsoreau, Logeres, and Morly--lives, which in their youth and healthfulness seemed to cut me off from all hope--has already lapsed, and left but one."

"How is that?" exclaimed the Duke. "What life has lapsed?"

"That of the young Count of Logeres," replied the Abbe.

"Indeed!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon in a tone somewhat sorrowful. "I had not heard that. He was a bold, rash youth; but yet there was in him the seeds of great things. He was fearless, and proud, and firm: virtues, the parents of all dignity and greatness.--You say then that there is but one life between you and all these lordships."

"But one," replied the Abbe; "that of Gaspar of Montsoreau, in regard to whom you took some slight interest, at the time his marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was talked of."

"Was talked of?" said the Duke. "Is it not talked of still?"

"Why, my Lord," replied the Abbe, "the Lady's evident detestation of the young Marquis has rendered the matter hopeless. You yourself remarked it, when you spoke with her at Vincennes; and he is now convinced of it himself. The grief and depression thus produced have impaired his health; and, indeed, it would seem as if ten years had gone over him, instead of a few months, since all this affair began."

"I hope, Monsieur de Boisguerin," said the Duke of Epernon with a bitter smile, "I hope that you have not been taking too deep lessons of our friend Villequier. I would rather be a prisoner on a charge of high treason, and with Guise for my enemy, than I would be next akin to Villequier, and between him and lands and lordships."

The Abbe's brow grew as dark as night. "My Lord," he said, "I will not affect to misunderstand you; but I am sure that fate will work out its own will without any aid of mine; and had I been disposed to clear the way for myself, who should have stopped me, or who could have discovered any thing I did, when these two youths have been under my care and guardianship ever since their father's death?"

"I did but jest, Abbe," replied the Duke. "But supposing that the events which you anticipate were really to occur, what would be your conduct then?"

"So sure am I, my Lord," replied the Abbe, "that they will occur, that my conduct has been put beyond doubt. I have already demanded of the Court of Rome to be freed from this black dress; and my last letters from the eternal city announce to me, that the dispensation is already granted, and, drawn up in full form, is now upon the road."

"Ha!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon. "Is it so, indeed? You must have powerful protectors in the conclave."

"I have," replied the Abbe; "and though his Holiness is not fond of relaxing the vows of any one without some puissant motive; yet, when there is a strong one, he does not let the opportunity of unbinding slip, lest his key should grow rusty. But however, my Lord, supposing these things done away, and I Marquis of Montsoreau and Lord of Logeres, my first aim and object would be to raise what power and forces I could, and with my sword, my wealth, and my life, were it necessary, serve his Majesty the King, under him whom I hope soon to see directing the state, namely, the Duke of Epernon, if----"

"Ay, there is still an _if_," replied the Duke. "Well, sir, what is the condition?"

"It is, my Lord," said the Abbe after a pause, in which it was evident that he considered the way he was to put his demand, "It is, that the Duke of Epernon will pledge me his princely word, that as far as his power and influence go, he will support my claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."

The Duke actually started back with surprise; and, forgetting altogether the splendid future with which the Abbe had been endeavouring to invest his pretensions, he exclaimed, in a tone of anger and contempt that chafed and galled the spirit of the ambitious man with whom he spoke, "Yours,--yours? Abbe de Boisguerin? you, a poor preceptor in your cousin's house, an insignificant churchman, unbeneficed and unknown--you, to lay claim to the heiress of Clairvaut, a niece of the Guise, a lady nor far removed from a sovereign house? On my soul and honour, I mind me to write to Villequier at once, and bid him marry his cousin to this young Marquis out of hand, in order to save your brains from being cracked altogether!"

"Villequier can marry his cousin to no one," answered the Abbe, "without my full consent. No, nor can the King either!"

"Mort-bleu!" exclaimed Epernon with a scornful laugh. "Vanity and ambition have driven the poor man mad. Get you gone, Monsieur de Boisguerin; get you gone! I shall not trust with any mighty faith to your fine prophecies."

Though the Abbe de Boisguerin felt no slight inclination to put his hand into his bosom, and taking forth the dagger that lay calmly there, to plunge it up to the hilt in the heart of Epernon, he showed not in the slightest degree the wrath which internally moved him. Nay, the great object that he had in view made him in some degree conquer that wrath, and he replied, "Well, my good Lord, I _will_ get me gone. But, before I go, you shall hear another warning, which may enable you to judge whether my divinations are false or not. It is destined that, in the course of today or to-morrow, you should encounter a great peril. Remember my words! be upon your guard! and take measures to ensure yourself against danger! Go not out into the streets scantily attended----"

"Oh no!" replied the Duke with a sneer. "I do not trust myself alone in the streets and high roads without a footboy to hold my horse, like the noble aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. I am not so bold a man, nor so loved of the people; and as to chance perils, I fear them not."

"Your acts on your own head, my Lord Duke!" replied his companion. "I give you good day." And turning away abruptly, he passed out of the room through the long corridor, and part of the way down the stairs which led to the court of the guard.

He was scarcely half way down, however, when some sounds which he heard coming from the other side of the building made him suddenly stop, listen, and then turn round; and, with a step of light, he retrod his way to the chamber where he had left the Duke.

Epernon was busy writing, and looking up fiercely, demanded "What now?"

"Fly, my Lord, fly quick!" exclaimed the Abbe. "I come to give you time to save yourself, for the mayor and his faction are upon you. They have come in by the great court, and I think have killed the Swiss at your gate. Believe me, my Lord, for what I say is true! Fly quickly, while I run down to send the guard to your assistance."

His words received instant confirmation, even as the Duke gazed doubtfully in his face; for a door on the opposite side of the room burst open, and a terrified attendant rushed in, while eight or nine fierce faces were seen pursuing him quickly.

The Duke darted to a staircase, which led to a little turret, and the first steps of which entered the room, without any door, just behind his chair. He sprang up eagerly towards the small dressing-room above, and the mayor and his armed companions pursued as fiercely, leaving the Abbe to make his escape towards the court of the guard, without giving any heed to his proceedings. Before the Abbe had passed the door, however, he heard a loud crash, and turned his head to see by what it was occasioned, when, at a single glance he perceived that the very eagerness of his pursuers had saved the Duke of Epernon. Ten or twelve heavily armed men had all rushed at once upon the old and crazy staircase which led to the Duke's dressing-room. The wood work had given way beneath them, precipitating one or two into the story below, and the greater part back into the room itself, but leaving a chasm between them and the Duke, which it was impossible for them to pass.[5]

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[Footnote 5: Such is the account given by the most credible historians. The author of the life of the Duke, M. Girard, who was nearly contemporary, gives a different version: acknowledges that the Duke fled into his cabinet, but adds that he there defended himself like a lion.]

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Without pausing to make any farther remark, the Abbe ran down hastily and alarmed the guard; and while the soldiers rushed tumultuously up to defend a commander whom they all enthusiastically loved, the Abbe de Boisguerin mounted his horse and rode quietly out of the town. He doubted not, as indeed it happened, that the soldiery would arrive in time to save their Lord, and to compel the mayor and his comrades to make a hasty retreat.

It was not, however, towards the Chateau of Islay, where he had left Gaspar de Montsoreau, that the solitary horseman took his way; but, on the contrary, crossing the Charente, he rode rapidly onward by the banks of the river, in the direction of that field of Jarnac, where, in his early days, Henry III. had given such striking promises of heroism and conduct which his after life so signally failed to fulfil.

As he rode along, he thought with somewhat of a smile upon his countenance, that his last prophecy to the Duke of Epernon had met with a speedy fulfilment; and he pondered with some bitterness over the parting words which that nobleman had spoken to him.

"The aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said to himself, "without a single footboy to hold his horse! That may be in the present instance policy rather than any thing else, my good Lord Duke. But still we may learn wisdom, even, from such bitter words as those. I had forgotten how much all men value the gilded exterior. But it shall be so no longer. This that I aim at must be soon lost or won. I have staked life upon the pursuit, and all that makes life valuable. And why should I not stake fortune also? 'Fortune buys fortune,' says the old adage; and as the stake is great, so shall my game be bold."

His resolution was instantly taken. He possessed, as we have said before, sufficient wealth to give him competence, and to enable him to mingle with decent splendour in the society in which he was born. But he calculated that the same fortune which put him at ease for life, might afford him the means of magnificence and display, if he resolved to expend the whole within a few years. He did so resolve, saying to himself, "I shall either be at the height of fortune and enjoyment ere two years be over, or I shall be no more. It suits me not to go on playing stake after stake, as many men do, beaten, like a tennis-ball, from prosperity to ruin, and from ruin to prosperity. I have bent myself to one great purpose, and I will attain it or die. That is always within one's power, to shake off life when it is no longer a source of happiness."

As he thus thought, his horse slowly descended a gentle hill by the side of the river, with a meadow down to the Charente on the one side, and a bank crowned with the wall of a vineyard on the other. Built up against the wall was a little shrine, with a virgin and child behind a net-work of iron, and the votive offering of a silver lamp burning below.

Sitting on the little green spot which topped the bank at that place--after having apparently said his prayers at the foot of the shrine--was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age; and as the Abbe came slowly near, the youth took a pipe out of his pocket and began playing a wild plaintive Italian air, full of rich melody and deep feeling. The music was not new to the Abbe; he had heard it before in other lands, when the few pure feelings of the heart which he had ever possessed had not been crushed, like accidental flowers blossoming on a footpath, by the passing to and fro of other coarser things.

He drew in his horse and paused to listen, and then gazed at the boy, and thought he had seen him somewhere before. The eyes, the features, the expression of the countenance, seemed to be all connected with some old remembrances; and the air which he played too, brought his memory suddenly back to early scenes, and a land that he had loved. As he gazed at the boy, who went on with the air, the recollection of his person again connected itself with different events; and, though now he was clothed in simple grey, he fancied he recognised in him the youth who had been seen with Charles of Montsoreau when he attacked and defeated the small body of reiters near La Ferte, and whom he had also beheld more than once in Paris, when he was watching the proceedings of the young Count in the capital.

This conviction became so strong, that he went up and spoke to him, and found that it was as he suspected. After conversing with him for a few moments, he told him that if he would pursue that road for nearly a league, he would meet with some buildings belonging to a farm; and then, turning again down a road to the left, he would find him at a chateau upon the banks of the river. The boy promised to come, and the Abbe rode on, while Ignati putting up his pipe followed as fast as possible, and soon arrived at the gates of the dwelling to which he had been directed.

He was brought into the presence of the Abbe by an attendant wearing the colours of no noble house in France, and found him with some fruit and wine before him. But in regard to the subject on which the boy expected to be questioned most closely, namely, the death of Charles of Montsoreau, the Abbe spoke not one word. Notwithstanding all his firmness of purpose, notwithstanding the remorseless character of his mind and of his habitual thoughts, he loved not to touch upon the subject of his young cousin's death, unless forced on to do so by circumstances. He spoke of Paris and of the Duke of Guise; and where he had first met with the young Count of Logeres, and of all the accidents that had befallen him while in company with Charles of Montsoreau. But he spoke not one word in regard to the day of the barricades, or the young nobleman's death.

From time to time, while he talked with the boy, Ignati saw that the Abbe's eyes fixed upon his countenance, and at length he asked him, "You are an Italian by birth, are you not?"

"I am," replied the boy; "that is, I am a Roman." And he said it with that pride which every person born within the precincts of the ancient queen of empires feels, although glory has long departed from her walls, and the memory of past greatness is rather a reproach than an honour.

"And what is your name?" demanded the Abbe sharply.

"My name is Ignati," answered the youth.

"Ignati!" said the Abbe, "Ignati!" But you have some other name. What was your father's?"

"I do not know," answered the boy, with his cheeks and his brow glowing. "Why do you ask?"

"Your mother's then?" said the Abbe, without replying to his question. "Your mother's? what was your mother's name?"

"Her name was Laura Pandolfini," replied the boy, gazing upon the Abbe with a degree of sternness in his look. "Did you know her?"

The face of the Abbe changed from deadly pale to glowing red in a moment; and after a pause he replied angrily and abruptly, "I know her?--I know her? I know a common strumpet?"

The boy's eyes flashed fire; and his hand was in his bosom in a moment seeking the knife that lay there. But he had put the pipe in the breast of his doublet also, and ere he could reach a weapon, which, as we have seen, he was able to use with fatal effect, the form of a lady passing across the two open doors on the other side of the room made him suddenly pause; and after a moment's thought, he drew back his hand and said, "What you say is false! She deserved not the name you have given her!"

He was turning towards the door, when the Abbe cried "Stay!" and as the boy turned, he put his hand to his head and mused thoughtfully. Then starting suddenly he added, "No, no! It would be discovered!--Come hither, boy!" he added; and taking out his purse he counted out some pieces of gold, to no light amount; and giving them to the boy, he said, "There, you have lost your master and seem to be poorly off. Take those, and get thee into some reputable employment."

But the boy gave one fierce glance at his countenance, dashed down the gold upon the pavement, and exclaiming, "I will have no liar's money!" quitted the chamber and the house.

The Abbe gazed after him for a moment or two, fell into deep thought, and ended by pressing his hands over his eyes and exclaiming, "I am a fool!"

After pausing for a few moments more, he said to himself, "Well, I must wait no longer here. This girl seems pleased with my new demeanour towards her. Of my past language which frightened her, it seems that very soon no other impression will remain but the memory of the deep and passionate love I testified. That is never displeasing to any woman; and if I can lead her gently on, the matter will be soon accomplished, now that this her first fancy is at an end, and the grave has taken the great obstacle out of the way. Love him, she did not, with true, womanly, passionate, love; but fond of him she was, with the sickly fancy of an idle girl; and her grief will be sufficient to soften her proud heart. It is a wonderful softener, grief; and she will cling to whosoever is near her, that has skill and power to soothe and support her. I will teach her to love better than she has loved!--But I must write down these tidings. I must not tell them to her with my own voice, and with her eyes upon me, lest she learn to hate me as the bearer of evil tidings."

And seeking for pen and ink he wrote a note, such as few others but himself could have composed. It was tender, yet respectful,--not lover-like, yet through every word of it love's light was shining--sad, but not gloomy--melancholy, yet with words of hope. When he had done he folded and sealed it, and then listening to the distant village clock, he said--

"If I am absent much longer, Gaspar may suspect; and I am rather inclined to believe that some one has roused suspicions in his mind already. Well, we shall soon see; it is no very difficult task to rule a light-brained youth like that."

Thus thinking, and leaving the note behind him on the table, the Abbe proceeded to the stables, chose a fresh horse, caused it to be saddled and bridled, and rode back to the Chateau of Islay with all speed. Before he proceeded to the saloon to join the young Marquis, he questioned his own servants as to all that had taken place during his absence; heard of the long visit of Villequier; and planned his own conduct accordingly.

Gaspar of Montsoreau, when he joined him, expressed some surprise that he had not returned before, and added, in as gentle a tone as he could assume, "I trust, nay good friend, that you have been pursuing the inquiries which have so long frustrated us in regard to the dwelling of that sweet girl, whom we were very wrong to place again in the hands of Villequier, even though it might have cost us our lives had we either remained in Paris, or attempted to take her with us."

Though the young Marquis spoke quickly, his companion, who knew his character to the very bottom and could instantly see the workings of his mind when he used any of the arts he himself had taught him, perceived at once that Villequier had betrayed the secret of Marie de Clairvaut's abode; and he replied deliberately, "Yes, Gaspar, I have been more successful; and I think now--tamed down as you have been by grief, and requiring some consolation--I think now, I say, that it is not only safe but right, to let you know both that this fair girl is in the neighbourhood of the spot where we now stand, and that she is under my care and guidance."

"In the neighbourhood?" exclaimed Gaspar of Montsoreau. "Under your care and guidance? How happened I not to hear this before, Abbe?"

"Simply," replied the Abbe, "because the state of violence and irritation in which you were when I last returned to you from Blois--the period when I first became possessed of any knowledge on the subject--would have led you into acts of impetuosity, which, in the first place, would have terribly injured your cause with her; and, in the next, would have discovered the place of her abode to every one from whom we seek to conceal it. Now, however, I think you can command yourself, and you will find the benefit of what has been done to serve you. All I require is, that you would let me know when you visit Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; that you would do so with prudence and caution and forbearance; and though it is not of course necessary that you should desist from pleading your own cause with her, yet let it be as gently as may be."

The Abbe de Boisguerin knew that Gaspar de Montsoreau could not do as he asked him; that it was not in his nature to plead his own cause gently. He felt perfectly confident that the rash impetuosity of the young Marquis would alienate more and more the regard of Marie de Clairvaut, and thus, perhaps, facilitate even his own views and purposes. Could he have prevented it, he would not willingly have let him visit her at all; but it was now impossible to exclude him; and he knew that the secret of Charles of Montsoreau's death gave him the power of destroying at once all his former pupil's hopes, if he saw that he even made one step in removing the bad impressions Marie previously had received.

On his part, though not quite satisfied with being deceived, Gaspar of Montsoreau believed that the Abbe had deceived him for his own good; and the selfish purposes which were most needful for him to discover, were still concealed in spite of the warnings of Villequier.

CHAP. VII.

In the gardens of the Chateau by the banks of the Charente; which the Abbe de Boisguerin had left to return to Gaspar de Montsoreau, and in an arbour which had been constructed, as is still ordinary with the people of that country, by a number of vines entwined over a light trellis work; with a soft and beautiful scene before her eyes, and the autumn sunshine gilding the glowing waters, Marie de Clairvaut sat and wept, with the note from the Abbe which had conveyed to her the bitterest tidings she ever had received on earth open in her hand. A day had passed since the events just recorded had taken place, and she had now received the news many hours, but her grief had not in the least subsided; and to herself it even seemed greater than it had been at first. Her whole thoughts at first had been bent upon the one painful fact, that he whom she had loved with all the fervour, and the depth, and the devotion of a heart that had never loved before, was lost to her for ever; that she should never behold again that frank and candid countenance, beaming with looks of deep and indubitable affection; that she should never again see those eyes poring into hers with the intense gaze of love, and seeming at once to give and receive fresh light; that she should never hear the tones of that musical voice, which had so often assured her of protection and support; that she should never cling to that arm, which had so often brought her rescue and deliverance in the moment of danger. Then, she had felt only that he was lost and gone, cut off in the brightness of his days, in the glory and strength of his youth, in the full blossom of his hopes, and ere he had yet more than lifted to his lips the cup, which, offered to him by honour, virtue, and sincerity, ought to have been a sweet one indeed.

Now, however, there had grown upon her mind feelings indeed more selfish, but which were the natural consequences of her situation, and connected intimately with the loss of him she loved. A feeling of desolation had come over her--of utter loneliness in all the world. It seemed as if she had never loved or esteemed or clung to any but himself; as if there were no one to protect her, to guide, support, direct, or cheer her upon earth; as if life's youth were over, the fortune of existence spent like a prodigal, the heart's treasury empty, and nothing left for the immortal spirit on this side the grave but penury of every rich and noble feeling, lone solitude and petty cares, and all the dull anxieties of a being without an object.

Desolate, desolate indeed, did she feel: and well too might she feel desolate! for though her grief did some wrong to many who loved her as friends and relations, and would have done much to aid and support her; yet, oh! what is such love and esteem? what is aid and support wrung from the midst of hours devoted to other things, and thoughts and feelings centered upon other objects, when compared with the entire devotion, the pure, single love of an upright, an honourable, and a feeling heart--where the being loved is the great end and object of every thought and every action--where all the feelings of the spirit are hovering by day round that one object, and guarding it like angels through the watches of the night? Oh yes, she was lonely, she was desolate, she was unprotected and unsupported, when she compared the present with the past! Well might she think so; well might she grieve and mourn over her own deprivation, when she wept for him and for his early end!

Some comfort, perhaps, had been indeed afforded her by the change which had taken place in the demeanour of the Abbe de Boisguerin. She could never love him; she could never like him: his society could never even become tolerable to her: but yet it was no slight satisfaction to find that she was no more to hear words which she considered as little less than sacrilegious, or to endure the eager passion in his eye, and hear him dare to talk to her of love. She looked upon him as her gaoler indeed, though he often denied that he had power to liberate her; but yet she felt that peace and comfort at least depended much upon that gaoler's will, and was not a little pleased to find that during the three or four last visits which he had paid, no word which could offend her had been spoken, no tone or even look that she could take amiss was to be seen, though a certain tenderness and melancholy seemed to have fallen upon him, which she could well have wished removed, or not so openly displayed.

During the very morning of which we are now speaking, he had come there again, and his conduct towards her had been all that she could have desired. He had not spoken directly of the cause of the deep grief which he saw his intelligence of the former day had brought upon her, but all his words were chosen so as to harmonise with that grief; and the object of his visit itself, as he expressed it, was only to see whether he could do any thing to console her, or to alleviate the sorrow under which she laboured. She had thanked him for his courtesy and kindness; but, ere he had left her, he said with a tone of what seemed real regret, that he was sorry to say his own visit would be followed by another, which he feared might, in some degree, importune her.

"The young Marquis of Montsoreau," he added, "will be restrained no longer from seeing you; and you know, Madam, it is impossible for me to prevent him, which I would willingly have done, especially as the view he takes of the recent most lamentable event is not likely to do aught but give you pain."

"Oh, cannot you stay him?" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut. "Cannot you stay him at this terrible moment, when the very sight of him will be horrible to me?"

"I fear not indeed. Lady," replied the Abbe. "I would have given my right hand to prevent his coming, but he seemed perfectly determined. However, when I return, I will do my best once more, in the hope that he may yet be moved." And after a visit very much shorter than usual, he had taken his leave and departed.