Chapter V: Part 5

The fair girl he left had gone out into the gardens, as we have seen, once more to weep alone over the sad and painful situation in which she was placed, and over the dark and irreparable loss which she had sustained; but ere she had gone out, she had taken the only precaution in her power to insure that her solitude would remain inviolate, directing the servants--who acted indeed the part of turnkeys--if the Marquis of Montsoreau applied to see her, to state at once that she was not well enough to receive him, and wished to pass some days alone and in tranquillity.

She wept long and bitterly; but in about an hour after she had gone out, the sound of horses' feet reached her ear, and voices speaking at the gateway made themselves heard. She could distinguish even the tones of the young Marquis, and indistinctly the words of the servant in reply. But Gaspar of Montsoreau was hurt and offended by the message she had left, and a certain inclination to tyranny in his disposition broke forth with his usual impetuosity.

"Inform Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said, "who it is that desires to see her, and let me have an answer quick. Say that I much wish for a few minutes' conversation with her. What, fellow! Would you shut the gates upon me like a horseboy? Get ye gone and return quickly. I will walk in the gardens till you come back." And striding in he threw the gate violently to, and advanced directly to the water's side, as if he could have divined that the object of his search was there.

Marie de Clairvaut was indignant, and that feeling for a moment enabled her to throw off the overwhelming load of grief. Rising at once she came forth, and crossed the green slope towards the chateau, passing directly by Gaspar of Montsoreau as she did so, and intending merely to bow her head by way of salutation. He placed himself in such a manner, however, that she could not pass on, although he must have seen the tears fresh upon her cheeks, and her indignation was more roused than before.

"I directed the servant, sir," she said, when forced to pause, "to inform you, if you came, that I was not well enough to see you; and that I wished for solitude and tranquillity."

"Nay, indeed, dear Lady," said the young Marquis, conquering the feelings of anger with which he had entered, and speaking with a calm and tender tone, "I thought, if you knew that I was here, pity, if nothing else, would induce you to see, but for a few moments, one who has languished for weeks and months for a single glance of your eyes--one who so deeply, so tenderly, so devotedly, loves you."

Those words sounded harsh, painful, and insulting to the ears of Marie de Clairvaut--words which, from the lips of him she loved, would have been all joy and sweetness, but were now abhorrent to her ear; and looking at him sternly, with her bright eye no longer dimmed, though her lip quivered, she said, "Never let me hear such words again, sir!--I beg that you would let me pass!--Marquis of Montsoreau, this is cruel and ungentlemanly! Learn that I look upon myself as your brother's widow, and ever shall so look upon myself till my dying day." And thus saying she passed him, and entered the house.

She listened eagerly for the sound of horses' feet after she had entered her own apartments, and was very soon satisfied that the young Marquis had gone back. As soon as she was assured of this, she once more went out into the open grounds--for the load of grief ever makes the air of human dwellings feel oppressive; and again going down to the bank of the river, she gazed upon its tranquil current as she walked by the side; and though her sorrow certainly found no relief, yet the sight of the waters flowing beneath her eyes, calm, tranquil, incessant, led, as it were, her thoughts along with them. They became less agitated, though still as deep and powerful; they seemed to imitate the course of the river, running on incessantly in the same dark stream, but in quiet and in silence. The tears indeed would, from time to time, rise into her eyes and roll over her cheeks, but no sob accompanied them; and though a sigh often broke from her lip, it was the sigh of deep, calm despair, not of struggling pain.

It is wonderful how, when we are in deep grief, the ordinary sounds and sights of joyous nature strike harsh and inharmonious upon us. Things that would pass by unheard at other times, as amongst the smaller tones in the great general concert of the day, then become painfully acute. The lark that sung up in the sky above her head, made no pleasant melody for her ear; a country boy crossing the opposite fields, and whistling as he went, pained her so much, and made her gentle heart feel so harsh towards him, that she schooled herself for such sensations, saying, "He cannot tell that I am so sorrowful! He cannot tell that the sounds which I once was fond of, are now the most distasteful to me."

A minute or two after a few notes upon a pipe were played immediately beneath the garden wall--a little sort of prelude, to see that the instrument was clear; and unable to endure it longer, Marie de Clairvaut turned to seek shelter in her prison.

Ere she had taken three steps, however, she paused. The air was not one of the country; a finer hand, too, a more exquisite taste than France could produce woke the instrument into sounds most musical, and in a moment after, she recognised the sweet air which she had twice before heard, and both times from the lips of Charles of Montsoreau.

The memory of the first time that it had met her ear was sweet and delightful; but the memory of the second time was as the memory of hope; and, in despite of all, it woke again the feelings it had awakened before; and an indistinct feeling of glad expectation came across her mind, like a golden sunbeam, shining through the mist of an autumnal morning. What was it she hoped? what was it she expected? She knew not herself; but still there was an indistinct brightening came over her heart, and feelings; and when the air was over, instead of flying from the music, she listened eagerly for its renewal.

The pipe, however, sounded not again; but in a moment after she heard some one say, "Hark!" and the sweetest possible voice began to sing:--

SONG.

Weep not, Lady, weep not,
Grief shall pass away;
Angels' eyes that sleep not
Watch thee on thy way.

Heavenly hands are twining
Garlands of glad flowers.
Joy and Hope combining
Wreath thy future hours.

Diff'rent powers are near thee--
Bright Hope, dark Despair;
Let the Goddess cheer thee--
Fly the Fiend of Care.

Son of Sin and Sorrow
Despair by earth was given;
Child of the bright to-morrow,
Hope was born of Heaven.

What could it mean? Marie de Clairvaut asked herself. The words seemed directly addressed to her, and applicable to her own situation: yet the voice, as far as she could judge, she had never heard before. But still every note, every word, appeared to counsel hope. "Can I have been deceived?" she thought. "Can the Abbe de Boisguerin and Gaspar de Montsoreau have combined for their own dark purposes to cheat me, to induce me to believe that the one I love so well is dead?"

But, alas no! The Abbe had left, inclosed in his own, the brief note which he had received from Paris, announcing the event, and that note bore every appearance of being an ordinary matter of business, passing regularly through the post-office of the capital. Could the song that she had heard, she asked herself, again--could it have been accidental; could it have been sung at that moment through one of those strange combinations, which sometimes arise out of entirely indifferent circumstances, to give zest to our joy, or poignancy to our sorrow? She determined, if possible, to ascertain; and raising her voice a little above its ordinary tone, she said, "Who is there? To whom do you sing?"

She did not seem to have made herself heard, however, for a moment after the same voice demanded, "Is there any one that listens?"

"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "I listen; speak on!"

"Well then, hearken," said the voice, and again a new air and a new song began.

SONG.

He goes away to a far distant land,
With cross on his shoulder and lance in his hand;
And news soon comes how his lightning brand
Has scattered the hosts of paninrie.
His beautiful Lady sits weeping and lone,
And wishes she were where her Knight has gone;
But she grieves not his absence with angry moan,
For her spirit is full of his chivalry.

But what are the tidings come next to her ear?
Oh! tidings dark and heavy to hear;
How her fearless warrior, her husband dear,
Has fallen 'neath the lance of the Moslema.
How, gallantly staking his life, to save
From infidel hands, the Redeemer's grave,
He has fought for the righteous and sleeps with the brave,
'Neath the walls of Hierosolima!

'Tis true, oh, 'tis true!--yet she will not believe,
"Ah, no! e'en in dying he would not deceive;
And he promised, if spirit such power could receive,
And he fell in his holy chivalry.
To visit my side in the watches of night,
To comfort my heart, and to gladden my sight,
And call me to join him in countries of light,
And dwell in his breast through eternity."

Years pass; and he comes not. Nor yet she believes!
'Tis his absence, but 'tis not his death that she grieves.
Hope strong in affection, her heart still deceives,
Lo! she watches yon Palmer how eagerly,
To ask him some tidings of Syria to say--
But what is thy magic, oh, thou Palmer gray?
She is clasped in his arms! she has fainted away!
And he kisses her fair cheek how tenderly.

As the song had gone on, Marie de Clairvaut could no longer doubt that, though allegorical, those words were applicable to herself. Joy--joy beyond all conception took the place of grief; all that she had suffered, all that she had endured in the past, she now felt, indeed, to be nothing to what she had lately undergone. But the extatic delight which the last words of that song gave, the sudden dissipation of grief was too much for her to endure. It was like the light that blinds us when we suddenly rush from the darkness into the sunshine; and she who had gone through dangers, and horrors, and perils of many a kind, firm and unshaken, fell fainting under the sudden effect of joy. How long she remained so she knew not; but at all events it was not long enough to attract the attention of the people of the house, from the windows, of which she was screened by a thick alley of trees. Some one, however, had been near her, for there were the prints of small feet in the grass, extending from the wall to the spot where she lay, and immediately under her hand was placed a small packet addressed to herself.

Fearful of discovery, she hid it instantly in her bosom, and, as soon as she could, rose, and with a step far slower than her wishes, sped back again to the house to read the paper she had received, in secret.

It was written in a bold, free hand; the date was that very morning; and the first words, "My beloved."

Marie de Clairvaut laid the letter down and gasped for breath. It was sufficient, it was altogether sufficient; every doubt, every fear that had remained was now at an end, and she once more burst into tears; but, oh, how sweet were those tears! how happy! how unlike the past! Soon she took up the letter again, and through the dazzling drops that still hung in her eyes read the bright assurance, that he lived for her who loved him.

"I have feared," the letter said, "I have feared, that a report of my death which has been current in this city of Paris should have reached my beloved Marie, and the more especially as, by the counsel and earnest entreaty of the Duke of Guise, I have myself contributed to the spread of the rumour, and have taken every means to suffer it to be confirmed. The object of this, however, was to deliver you alone by throwing those who so unjustly detain you off their guard; and some days ago I came on into this neighbourhood--where my brother, the Abbe de Boisguerin, and the Duke of Epernon, all are, and to which we have traced Villequier several times--in the confident belief that you were not far distant from Angouleme. It might have been some time ere I discovered your abode, but accident has befriended me, and my page, who bears you this, and undertakes positively to deliver it to you, saw you yesterday morning by a most extraordinary but fortunate chance. I dare not venture near you in the early part of the morning, but ere night has closed in, I will find some means to see and speak with you. As far as possible, dearest Marie, be prepared for any thing that it may be necessary to undertake. I fear that you have already suffered much; but I will not doubt that even the rash and violent men who have dared every crime to withdraw you from those that love you best, have treated you with tenderness and kindness. I too have suffered much, but far more from knowing that you were at the mercy of those who persecute you while I was lying stretched upon the bed of sickness, than from the very wounds that brought me there. I am now well: I am near you; and that is enough to enable me to say that I am happy, although there may be perils and dangers before us, as we are still in the midst of our adversaries, and must once more attempt to pass through a long track of country with obstacles at every step."

The letter ended with every expression of affection and of love; and again and again Marie de Clairvaut read it and wept, and fell into fits of deep thought, and could scarcely believe that the joyous tidings were true.

She next asked herself what she could do to favour her lover's efforts. The two or three women who had been appointed to wait upon her, as well as the male attendants by whom she was surrounded, were all strangers to her, and she felt that they were her gaolers. There was one of them, however, who had looked upon her during the preceding day with evident compassion, had watched her tears with sorrowful eyes, and had spoken a few words of consolation. At one time she thought of speaking to that woman, and trying to gain her to her interests for the purpose of facilitating any thing that Charles of Montsoreau might do to effect her liberation. She hesitated, however, and judging that if he succeeded in seeing her that evening it would be by passing over the wall at the spot where she had heard the boy singing in the evening; she lingered about during the whole of the evening, listening for the least sound. None was heard, however, and at length the bell at the gates of the enclosure was heard to ring.

Agitated and anxious, fearing that every moment might bring Charles of Montsoreau to the spot, at the very time that other persons were near, she came out from behind the trees, and walked slowly on by the side of the river. Just at that moment a small boat pushed slowly up the current by a country boy, passed by the spot where she stood; but the boy whistled lightly on his way, as he went, and took no notice of her; and in a minute after, she heard steps approaching from the other side, and turned with some anxiety to see who it was that approached.

It was the servant girl we have before mentioned, who came towards her quickly, saying, "You have been very sad these two days, lady, and I wish you would take comfort. Here is a good man, one of the preaching friars just called at the gate, and I'm sure, if you would but listen to him, he would give you consolation."

"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "he could give me no consolation, my good girl. My own thoughts just now are my best companions."

As she spoke, however, to her dismay, she saw the monk coming across the green from the side of the gates, and she determined at once to reject all his proffered advice and consolation, fearing that the precious minute for seeing him she loved might be lost by this unwonted intrusion.

"Do listen to him, dear lady," said the girl. "When I told him how sad you were, he said he was sure that he could give you comfort."

In the mean time the friar approached with a slow step, with his cowl drawn over his head, and his hand supported by his staff. Marie de Clairvaut trembled from anxiety and apprehension, and only returned the friar's benedicite by an inclination of the head and an assurance that she did not stand in need of the consolation he offered.

"Yet listen to me, daughter," he said, without withdrawing the cowl from his head. But the first tones of that full rich voice proved sufficient nearly to overpower the fair girl to whom he spoke. "If you will hear me but for five minutes, my daughter," he said, "I think and I believe, that I can suggest to you consolations that you may take to heart; and if not, the few words I have to speak can do you no harm at least."

Marie de Clairvaut bowed her head, and took a step or two nearer to the water, while the woman withdrew for a short space, so as to be out of ear shot. But still she remained watching the two, as if she were either afraid of having done wrong in admitting the friar at all, or had suddenly conceived some suspicion of his purpose. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut and of Charles of Montsoreau turned that way, and both saw that they were watched. Could they have followed the dictates of their own hearts, they would have cast themselves into each other's arms; but now they were forced to stand, ruling every look and every gesture, and assuming the demeanour of strangers, even while the words of love and affection were bursting from their lips. The young nobleman, however, gave but brief course to his feelings.

"This night, Marie," he said, after a few words of passionate tenderness, "this very night at twelve, a boat shall be ready for you underneath that bank, and means prepared for you to descend. It has already passed up the river in order that we may descend swiftly with the stream, for the current is too rapid to permit of our passing up without the risk of being stopped at every moment. At Jarnac, however, all is prepared for our escape, and though our journey thence may be longer, it will be more secure. Can you be here at that hour?"

"I can," she said, "and will, and, oh! may God grant, Charles, that this time we may not only come within sight of the haven, as we have twice done before, but reach it altogether; and never, never again will I suffer them to separate me from you, as I did on that awful day in Paris."

"Even yet, neither I nor the Duke know how it happened," said Charles of Montsoreau.

"As I was following the Queen," replied Marie, rapidly, "some one pulled me by the sleeve, and on turning to see who it was, the crowd closed in between me and Catherine. The person who had touched me was dressed in the colours of the house of Guise, and he said, 'The Duke expects you Mademoiselle. If you will come round this way, I will lead you to the other gate where there is no crowd.' I followed willingly, and nothing doubting; and he led me round into one of the streets behind, when suddenly I was seized by the arms on either side, and hurried along without the power of resistance. I cried for help as loud as I could, indeed, but they bore me rapidly into the house opposite, where I saw the Abbe de Boisguerin, and could hear your brother's voice talking to Monsieur de Villequier. They then put me into a chair, the blinds of which I could not undraw, and carried me rapidly to another house, where I remained for some time, till Villequier and the rest again appeared. I did all that woman could do, Charles, to make them set me free; but what could I do? what means had I to use?--entreaties, to which they were deaf; menaces, at which they laughed. Your brother, indeed, said something that he intended for kindness, and the Abbe looked gloomy and sad. But Villequier only smiled for all answer; till at length tidings were brought them that they were discovered, and that people were coming rapidly in pursuit of them. I was then once more borne away by Villequier, after a few words between him and your brother; and I heard your brother say as they parted, 'I will delay them as long as possible.' Where they took me I know not well, but I believe it was the Hotel de Villequier.--But see, the woman is coming near! We must part, dear Charles; I fear we must once more part."

Nothing more could be said, for the girl now approached; and Charles of Montsoreau, assuming the tone of the friar, bade Marie remember his words, and take them to heart; and then, giving her his blessing, departed.

Shortly before midnight, wrapt in a cloak of a dark colour, in order, as far as possible, to pass unobserved if any eye should be watching, Marie de Clairvaut passed through one of the lower windows of the chateau, and with a light step, sprang into the little cloister that ran along one side of the building, at no great depth from the window. The moon was shining bright and full, and every object around, except where the shadow of the cloister fell, was as clear as if the sun had been in the sky.

She paused and listened with a beating heart. There was no sound but the murmur of the quick Charente; and then, putting her ear to the open window, she listened there to ascertain that all was quiet in the house. Nothing stirred; and, knowing how important it was to leave no trace of the manner in which her flight had been effected, she closed the casement carefully, and prepared to go forth into the moonlight.

There was something, however, in the stillness, and the clearness, and the calmness of every thing that was in itself fearful; and she hesitated for a moment before she went out. At length, however, she ventured across the green and shining turf, and with a quick step approached the edge of the water. Looking down upon it from above, she could see nothing in the deep shadow of the bank; but, suddenly, a bright ripple caught some stray rays of moonlight, and chequered the dark bosom of the water with quick lines of silver.

"Are you there?" said the voice of Charles of Montsoreau from below.

"Yes," she said. "How shall I descend?"

But, even as she spoke, a figure glided out from the shrubs beside her, and, uttering a low cry, Marie de Clairvaut perceived the girl who had given admittance to the supposed friar on the preceding evening. The sound which she had uttered had instantly caught the attention of Charles of Montsoreau; and, springing up the bank, he found the girl with her hand clasped round the Lady's wrist, but holding up the other hand as if enjoining silence.

"You are unkind," said the girl, in a low tone, "when I was kind to you. I have already been bitterly reproached for letting in the monk; and now, if you fly, what will become of me? They will say that I did it."

"Fear not, fear not!" answered Charles of Montsoreau, "and attempt not to detain the Lady, my good girl; for go she must and will; and, as there is no other boat here, any attempt to pursue us will be vain. All you can do by endeavouring to detain her will be useless, and but injure yourself. Here is money for you," he continued.

The girl put it away with her hand, replying, "I want no money, sir; but if she goes, I will go with her. I will not stay here in the power of that dark Abbe. I will come with her if she will let me."

"Willingly, willingly," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "but say not a word, and come quick; and remember, till the Lady is safe under the protection of the Duke of Guise, we pause for no one, so there must be no pretences of fatigue."

"Fear not," replied the girl; "I can bear more than she can. But how can we get down the bank?"

"There is a short ladder," said the young Count. "Come quick!" And in a moment after he aided Marie de Clairvaut to descend. It was all done in a moment. The girl followed the Lady, the ladder was taken into the boat, and, with joy and satisfaction beyond all conception, the fair girl, whose days had lately passed so sorrowfully, felt the little vessel fluctuating beneath her feet as she seated herself in it; while Charles of Montsoreau, with a man who had been waiting therein, pushed the boat away from the bank, and a boy seated at the stern guided it into the deeper parts of the water. There were but a few words spoken by any one.

"You are sure, Ignati," said the young Count, "that you marked every rock and shoal as you came up?"

"Quite sure," replied the boy; and, leaving the current, which was rapid and powerful, to bear them on, without disturbing its smooth surface by the splash of oars, they glided along quickly down the stream: now in moonlight, now in shade, with the high rocky banks and promontories filled with holes and caverns, which border the valley of the Charente, now seen in bright clear light--now rising up against the silvery sky wrapped in deep shadows and obscurity.

The hand of Marie de Clairvaut lay clasped in that of her lover as they sat side by side. Their hearts were full, though their lips were silent; and the eyes of both were raised towards the sky, filled with thankfulness, and hope, and trust. Thus they went on for about two hours, saying but little, and that little in low and murmured tones; but as they went, Charles of Montsoreau found occasion to tell her that he had luckily effected a new arrangement, and that he had procured means of landing and proceeding on their journey before they reached Jarnac.

At length, after a voyage of about two hours and a half, as the moon was beginning to decline, a rushing sound was heard over the bow of the boat, and the waters of the river were seen fretting against a dyke, which had been built to confine it in its proper course. A couple of houses, sheltered by two sloping hills which swept down to the very bank of the river, appeared upon the left hand, with what seemed a number of living objects gathered about them.

Marie de Clairvaut turned her eyes to Charles of Montsoreau with some apprehension, but he pressed her hand tenderly, saying, "Fear not, fear not. They are my own people, waiting for our arrival."

The boy guided the boat safely up to the landing place, and the question, "Who comes here?" was demanded, as if at a regular warlike post.

"A friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, and gave the word Chateau Thierry. The man grounded his arms, and Charles of Montsoreau, springing to the shore, led Marie de Clairvaut and the girl who had followed her, to one of the houses, where every thing seemed prepared for their reception.

He paused for a moment to gaze upon the face of the girl who had accompanied them, and to ask her name, which he found to be Louise. The countenance was good, and frank, and gentle, and the natural spirit of physiognomy, which is in every one's brain, gave a pleasant reading of that face.

"Listen to me," he said, speaking to her. "As you have preferred the service of this lady to remaining behind where I found you, depend upon it every attention and devotion that you show to her by the way will be taken note of and well rewarded; and do not forget, that, if possible, you are never to leave her, but to do every thing in your power, under all circumstances, to enable her to reach the Duke of Guise, who is her near relation, and whom we expect to find at Blois or Chartres."

"Is she so great a lady?" said the girl.

"She is the niece and ward of the great Duke of Guise," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "and the time is rapidly coming when those who have injured and offended her will be severely punished, and those who have assisted and befriended her rewarded far beyond their expectations."

Having said this, he left them to see that all was properly prepared; and in a few minutes more Marie de Clairvaut, with the girl who accompanied her, were placed in one of the rude but roomy chaises of the country, and with six horses to drag it through the heavy roads, was rolling away in the direction of Limoges, followed by Charles of Montsoreau, and a party of five or six servants on horseback.

CHAP. VIII.

The autumn was far spent, an early winter had set intensely in, frost once more covered the ground, the last leaves had fallen from the trees, and looking round upon the thick tapestry that covered the walls, and the immense logs of wood which blazed in the deep arched fire-place, the tenant of a splendid room in the old chateau of Blois smiled when he thought of where he had last passed a similar frosty day: in arms in the open field against the enemies of the land.

Now, however, the appearance of Henry Duke of Guise was in some degree different from that which it had ever been before. Loaded with honours by the King, adored by the people, gratified in every demand, ruling almost despotically the state, the height to which he had risen had impressed itself upon his countenance, and added to that expression of conscious power, which his face had ever borne, the expression also of conscious success. His dress, too, was more splendid than it had ever been--not that he had adopted the silken refinements of Epernon or Joyeuse; not that his person was loaded with jewels, or that his ear hung with rubies: but every thing that he wore was of the richest and most costly kind; and as he now stood ready dressed to go down to hold the table of grand master of the King's household and generalissimo of the armies of France, at which Henry himself, and all the great nobles of the Court were that day to be present, it would have been difficult, throughout all Europe--nay, it would have been impossible, to match his princely look, or to excel in taste his rich apparel. One single star gleamed upon his bosom, the collars of manifold orders hung around his neck, the hilt of his sword was of massy gold, and thin lines of gold embroidery marked the slashings of his green velvet doublet, where, slightly opening as he moved with easy dignity, the pure white lining below appeared from time to time. There were no jewels on his hands, but one large signet ring. He wore no hat, and the brown hair curling round his forehead was the only ornament that decked his head. There was a jewel in his belt, indeed, a single jewel of high price, and the pommel of the dagger, which lay across his loins, was a single emerald.

From time to time, while he had been dressing;--indeed we might say almost every minute, some messenger, or page, or courier appeared, bearing him news or letters from the various provinces of the realm. His secretary stood beside him, but every line was read first by the Duke's own eye; and then he handed them to Pericard, either with some brief comment or some direction in regard to the answer to be returned.

"Ha!" he said, smiling, after reading one epistle. "There is a curious letter from good Hubert de Vins. Hubert loves me as his own brother, and yet to read that letter one would think he respected me but little. There is no bad name he does not give me down to Maheutre and Huguenot, because I trust in King Henry, who, he says, is as treacherous as a Picardy cat."

"I think with Monsieur de Vins, your Highness," said Pericard, who had been reading the letter while the Duke spoke, "'that trusting in the semblances of the King's love, you expose your life every hour as if it were neither a value to yourself or your friends or your country.'"

"You mistake, Pericard," replied the Duke; "I trust not in Henry's love at all. Whether it be feigned or whether it be real for the time, matters not a straw. If it be feigned, it does me no harm, but, on the contrary, daily gives me greater power; if it be true, I receive the benefits thereof for the time, well knowing that to-morrow or the next day it will change completely into hate. I'll tell you what it is I trust to, Pericard: not to the King's love, but to his good sense; for were I dead to-morrow he could be ten times worse than he is to day. I am he who stands between him and destruction!--Ah! who have we hear?" he continued, as the door again opened. "From Provence;"--and taking the letter from the hand of a dusty courier, he read it over attentively and threw it to Pericard, saying, "That is good news surely, Pericard! In the room of the two deputies who were so difficult to manage that we were obliged to stuff them with carp and truffles till they both fell sick and fled, we have got two steady Leaguers not to be shaken by threats or moved by choice meats. If we could dislodge that viper, Epernon, from Angoumois, all would be clear before us till we reached the confines of Henry of Navarre. But Epernon is raising troops, I hear----" he added, although he saw that some one had entered the room and was approaching him.

"Which he will soon disband. Monsieur de Guise," said the stranger, "as I am charged by the King to set out to-morrow morning to give the Duke his commands to that effect."

"By my life, Monsieur Miron," said the Duke, "you will have soon to lay aside altogether the exercise of your esculapean powers, at least upon his Majesty's person. You show yourself so skilful in healing the wounds of the state, and curing the sickness of the body politic."

"Your Highness is good unto me," replied the King's physician, looking humble; "but I came to pay my respects to your Highness now, not having seen you since the exile of Villeroy, Pinar and the rest. I hope your Highness does not think that their disgrace is likely to affect your interests at court."

"Not in the least, Monsieur Miron," replied the Duke: "far from it. I seek to exercise no influence amongst the King's ministers. Those who are good for the state are good to me. On the King's good feeling and good sense I firmly rely."

"Some body," said the physician, "informed his Majesty that you were grieved at the dismissal of Villeroy. I may tell him, then, that such is not the case, for he was pained to hear it."

"Tell him so, I beseech you," replied the Duke. "I know the King would not wish without some good reason to dismiss any one that I especially esteemed."

"Most assuredly," replied Miron; "but might I give your Highness one slight warning as a friend, and a most sincere one?"

"Most gratefully will it be received," replied the Duke. "Speak freely, my learned sir," he continued, seeing that the physician had fixed his eyes upon Pericard. "Our good Pericard is as silent as your friend death, Monsieur Miron, who tells no tales you know to those on this side the grave, whatever he may do to those on the other. What is it you have to say?"

"It is this, my Lord," replied Miron. "I should tell you first, that I do believe the King sincerely loves you, and that if you deal but politicly with his humours, there is none in whom he will place such confidence. But my good lord the King's temperament is a strange one.--I speak as a physician. It is indeed injured by some excesses, but though by nature full of the mercurial character, there was always much of the saturnine in it. The balance between these has been overthrown by many circumstances, and in certain conjunctions of the planets he is strangely and variably affected. Such also is the case in the time of these hard frosts. In soft and genial weather he may be easily dealt with: you will then find him but as a thing of wax in your hands. But I beseech you, my Lord, remember that, when the pores of the earth are shut up and filled with this black and acrid frost, 'tis then that all the humours of the body are likewise congealed, and Henry is at that time filled with black and terrible vapours, which are dangerous not alone to himself, but to every one who approaches him unprepared. I say it advisedly, my good Lord. Any one who urges the King far, at such moments, is in peril of his life.[6] But I must say no more, for here comes a messenger."

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[Footnote 6: Such, and in such terms, strange and fantastic as they may seem, was undoubtedly the warning given by the physician Miron to the Duke of Guise not many days before the catastrophe of Blois.]

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"I thank you most sincerely," replied the Duke. "Who is this packet from? I must speedily descend to supper."

"From his Highness of Mayenne," replied the messenger. "He said it was matter of life and death, and commanded me to ride post haste."

"Ha!" said Guise, as he opened the packets and saw the contents. "Our cousin of Savoy in arms in France. This shows the need of unanimity amongst ourselves. He shall find himself mistaken, however, if he thinks Guise will forget his duty to his country. Write Charles of Mayenne word, Pericard, to bring his troops into such a position that they can act against Savoy at a moment's notice, and tell him that he shall have orders to do so ere three days be over. Send, too, to Rouen, thanking them for their attachment; and see that our agent at the court of Rome have full instructions regarding the Count de Soissons. Ha! here comes our brother of the church. My good Lord Cardinal, we will descend together. We shall scarcely reach the hall before the King arrives."

The person who entered bore a strong family likeness to the Duke, but was neither so tall nor so powerful in person. He was dressed in the crimson robes of a prince of the church of Rome; and his countenance, which had much shrewdness and some dignity, accorded well with his station, Miron had retired quietly while the Duke spoke; a sign had dismissed the messenger from the Duke of Mayenne, and none but Pericard remained in the room. But yet the Cardinal spoke in a whisper to his brother, who merely smiled, replying, "Come, come; we have no time now to jest." And thus saying, he led the way down to a hall, where supper was prepared at the table of the Grand Master for all the most distinguished guests then resident at Blois.

The table was covered, as was then much the custom, with jewelled plate of many kinds, and various fanciful devices. The room was in a blaze of light, and all the guests, but the King and his particular train, had already arrived. They were standing back from the table, and gathered together in the magnificent dresses of that period, formed splendid groups in different parts of the chamber, while sewers and other attendants, hurrying backwards and forwards, brought in the various dishes, and set them in their regular order.

The appearance of the Duke and his brother, the Cardinal de Guise, occasioned an instant movement amongst the guests, and the proudest there bowed lowly to the gallant Prince, whose fortunes hitherto had gone on from height to height. Nobles and generals of the highest distinction eagerly sought a word with him, and bishops and prelates of many a various character crowded forward, but to touch the hand of one who had stood forth so prominently in defence of the church.

In a few minutes the table was covered with the various dishes, and intimation that supper was served was immediately given to the King, who appeared the moment after, while the Duke of Guise advanced to the door to receive him, and with every testimony of lowly respect led him to the raised seat appointed for him. The King was followed by six gentlemen, for whom places had been reserved, and amongst them the eye of Guise rested upon Villequier. That eye flashed for a single moment as it saw him; but the next instant all was calm, and the Duke noticed him especially by an inclination of the head.

As soon as the King had taken his seat, saying, "Sit, my Lord Duke, I pray you; stand upon no further ceremonies," Guise and the rest seated themselves at the table, and the monarch and his princely officer bent forward to say some complimentary nothing to each other, each at the same time unfolding the napkin that lay before them. As they did so, from the napkin of the Duke of Guise fell out upon his plate a folded letter; and Henry, who was all gaiety and condescension at that moment, exclaimed aloud with a light laugh, "Some letter from his lady-love, upon my honour. Read, read, my Lord Duke! Read, read! Carvers, touch not a dish till the Duke has read."

The Duke opened the letter smiling, while the King bent a little towards that side, as if jestingly, to see the contents. All eyes round the table were fixed upon those two; and it was seen that the colour mounted into the cheek of the Duke of Guise, that his brow gathered into a frown, and his lip curled with a scornful smile. As far as the paint on the King's countenance would admit, he appeared to turn pale at the same moment. But Guise, crushing the letter together in his hand, threw it contemptuously under the table, saving aloud, "They dare not!"[7]

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[Footnote 7: Some of the Duke's historians say, that he did not speak the words aloud, but merely wrote at the bottom of the note, "On n'oseroit," and then threw it under the table.]

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None but the King around the table knew to what those words alluded: but Henry had seen the words, "Beware, Duke of Guise, your life is in danger every day. There are those round you from morning to night, who are ready to spill your blood."

The Duke seemed to forget the matter in a moment, and by the graces of his demeanour soon caused it to be forgotten also by all those around. Henry resumed his gaiety and tranquillity; wine and feasting did their part; and some short time after the King, with his glass filled with the most exquisite wine of France, exclaimed, "Let us drink to some one, my Lord Duke. To whom shall it be?"

"It is for your Majesty to command," replied the Duke gaily. "Let us drink to our good friends the Huguenots!"

"Willingly, willingly," cried Henry laughing. "To the Huguenots, cousin of Guise: ay, and to our good barricaders, too; let us not forget them."

The King smiled, and many around smiled also, at what they thought would be a mortification to the Duke. But Guise answered immediately, after drinking the toast, "It is well bethought of your Majesty, while you give us the health of your bitter enemies, to give us that of your most faithful servants, who will never cease to defend you against them."

He spoke with such an air of good humour, that none could see he had taken any offence, and this matter was also forgotten in a few moments. Shortly before the dessert was placed upon the table, a page slipped a small scrap of paper with a few words written upon it into the hands of the Duke, who gathered the meaning at a single glance, while his whole countenance brightened with satisfaction. "Come, Monsieur de Villequier," he said, "honour me by drinking with me to a mutual relation of ours. Here is to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, as sweet, as good, as fair a lady as any in France. Let us drink her health, and a gallant husband to her soon."

"Willingly, willingly, my Lord," replied Villequier; "and I wish your Lordship would let me name that husband. But here is to her health." And he drank the wine.

"Nay," answered Guise, "that cannot be, Monsieur de Villequier, for I have named him myself already."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Villequier, with no slight surprise in his look. But he instantly overcame the first emotion, adding, "I suppose, then, that the young Lady is under your protection at the present moment?"

"At which you can neither be displeased nor surprised. Monsieur de Villequier," replied the Duke, still bearing a courteous and affable look. "As you know you swore upon the mass some weeks ago that she was not under your protection, and that you knew not where she was, it must be a relief to your mind to find that she is well cared for."

"Oh, my good Lord of Guise," replied Villequier in the same courteous tone, "no one ever doubts that his Highness of Guise cares for every one that comes within his influence. Have we not an instance of it here, when no sooner is one of the good Duke's friends, and the allotted husband of his fair niece, dead, than another of his friends is raised to the same happy prospect. But, pray, may I ask if the young Lady herself is well pleased with this rapid substitution of lovers?"

"Delighted, I believe," replied the Duke with a smile full of meaning. "Though I have had no particular communication with her yet, inasmuch as, it having been discovered that she had escaped from the hands of some base persons who unjustly detained her, the worthy and respectable governor of Angoumois took pains to guard the country all round, in order to stop her on her journey to Blois. This has much delayed her coming, and would most likely have delayed it still longer, had she not taken refuge with Monsieur and Madame Montmorin, till I sent a force sufficient to open the way for her through all the La Valettes in France. It is thus only this night--nay, this very moment, that I hear of her arrival in Blois."

"Well, my Lord," answered Villequier with a laugh, "it is evident that he who attempts to strive with the Duke of Guise, either in stratagem or in force, must be a bold man, and should be a clever one. As I told your Highness, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was not in my hands, but how she was set free from the hands in which she was placed must remain a mystery rather difficult to solve. A servant girl, it seems, became the immediate instrument; but the skill with which every trace of her path was concealed, and even the manner in which her flight itself was effected, bespeaks a better brain than that of a peasant of Angoumois. Is it permitted, my Lord, to ask the name of the favoured gentleman you destine for her husband?"

"His Majesty receives his Court to-night, I think," replied the Duke, "and then, Monsieur de Villequier, I shall have much pleasure in presenting that gentleman to you. But, Monsieur de Villequier, if, as your words imply, you have suffered yourself to be out-man[oe]uvered in this business, I will mortify your pride in your own skill by telling you that you have been foiled and frustrated by no efforts of mine, but by the wit of a girl and the courage and stratagem of a mere youth. My Lord the King, may I humbly beseech your Majesty to let us drink better policy to Monsieur de Villequier."

Henry laughed lightly and drank the wine; and the rest of the supper passed off gaily, though Villequier from time to time fell into a momentary fit of thought, from which he was twice roused to find the eye of the Duke of Guise upon him. At length, as the hour for the reception of the Court in the King's own apartments approached, Henry rose and retired, followed by Villequier and the rest of the gentlemen who had accompanied him.

The Duke of Guise paused for a moment after, speaking rapidly to several of those around him; and then, calling a page, he whispered to him, "Go with speed to Monsieur Chapelle Marteau. Tell him to let me see him at midnight. I should also like to see Monsieur de Magnac, one of the Presidents of the Nobles. You will very likely find him in his cabinet at the Palais de Justice. I would fain see them both.--Gentlemen, the King will soon be in the hall, where you had better meet his Majesty. I must be absent for a few moments, and you will therefore pardon me."

Thus saying the Duke left them, and followed by one or two attendants, proceeded to the apartments assigned especially to himself.

In the mean while the rest of the nobles hurried from the chateau to various parts of the town, in order to accompany their wives and daughters to a great assembly of the Court, which was to be held that night in the grand hall of the castle. In the same hall the meetings of the States-General of the kingdom usually took place, when the three orders assembled together; but, as it was considered probable that they would deliberate separately for some days to come, the hall had been arranged that night, as we have said, for the reception of the Court; and in it soon appeared almost all the splendid nobility of France brought into Blois by the meeting of the States. The Duke of Guise, however, had not yet arrived when the King appeared, and much was the surprise and wonder of all that he did not show himself. In about ten minutes after, however, there was a whisper near the great doors of "The Duke! the Duke is coming! He is in the corridor speaking to Brissac:" and after the pause of an instant, the two wings of the door were thrown open, and Guise, followed by a long and brilliant train, and himself decorated with the collars and jewels of all the first orders in Europe, entered the great hall and advanced towards the King. With him appeared the lovely form of Marie de Clairvaut, leaning on his left arm, while, dressed with all that splendour to which the fashion of the day lent itself, appeared upon his right the young Count of Logeres, somewhat thinner and somewhat paler than he had been when he before presented himself at the Court of France, but with his head high, and proud with the best kind of pride, the consciousness of rectitude, and his eye bright with the excitement of the moment and the scene. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut were bent down, and there was a slight but not ungraceful embarrassment in her manner, from the consciousness that many late events which had befallen her would attract more than usual attention to herself.