HENRY OF GUISE;
OR,
THE STATES OF BLOIS.
VOL. II.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square
HENRY OF GUISE
OR,
THE STATES OF BLOIS.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF
"THE ROBBER," "THE GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL,"
ETC. ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1839.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
HENRY OF GUISE;
OR,
THE STATES OF BLOIS.
CHAPTER I.
All was bustle round the door of the little inn of Montigny; twenty or thirty horses employed the hands and attention of as many grooms and stable-boys; and while they put their heads together, and talked over the perfections or imperfections of the beasts they held, sixty or seventy respectable citizens, the great cloth merchant, and the wholesale dealer in millstones, the curé of the little town, the bailiff of the high-justiciary, the ironmonger, the grocer, and the butcher, stood in knots on the outside, discussing more important particulars than the appearance of the horses. The sign of the inn was the Croix de Lorraine, and the name of the Duke of Guise was frequently heard mingling in the conversation of the people round the door.
"A great pity," cries one, "that his Highness does not stay here the night."
"Some say that the King's troops are pursuing him," replied another.
"Sure enough he came at full speed," said a third; "but I heard his people talk about the reiters."
"Oh, we would protect him against the reiters," cried one of the bold citizens of Montigny.
"Well," said another, "if he be likely to bring the reiters upon us, I think his Highness very wise to go. How could we defend an open town? and he has not twenty men behind him."
"I will tell you something, my masters," said another, with an air of importance, and a low bow:--"When my boy was over towards Montreuil to-night, he heard a report of the reiters having been defeated near Gandelu."
"Oh, nonsense!" replied the courageous burgher; "who should defeat them if the Duke was not there?"
"But hark!" cried another, "I hear trumpets, as I live. Now, if these should be the King's troops we will defend the Duke at the peril of our lives. But let us look out and see."
"Come up to my windows," cried one.
"Go up the tower of the church," said the curé.
But another remarked that the sounds did not come from the side of Paris; and, in a minute or two after, a well-dressed citizen like themselves rode gaily in amongst them, jumped from his horse, threw up his cap in the air, and exclaimed, "Long life to the Duke of Guise! The reiters have been cut to pieces!"
"What is that you say, young man?" exclaimed a voice from one of the windows of the inn above; and looking up, the citizen saw a young and gay-looking man sitting in the open casement, and leaning out with his arm round the iron bar that ran up the centre.
"I said, my Lord," replied the man, "that the reiters have been cut to pieces, and I saw the troops that defeated them bring in the wounded and prisoners last night into La Ferté."
"Ventre bleu! This is news indeed," cried the other; and instantly turning, he quitted the window and advanced into the room.
While this conversation had been going on without, a quick conference had been going on between the personages whose horses were held without. The chamber in which they were assembled was an upstairs' room, with two beds in two several corners, and a table in the midst covered with a clean white table-cloth, and ornamented in the centre with a mustard-pot, a salt-seller, and a small bottle of vinegar, while four or five spoons were ranged around.
At the side of the table appeared the Duke of Guise, dining with as good an appetite off a large piece of unsalted boiled beef, as off any of the fine stews and salmis of his cook Maître Lanecque. Five or six other gentlemen were around, diligently employed in the same occupation; and one who had finished two bowls of soup at a place where they had previously stopped, now declaring that
"It is most unfortunate," said the Duke of Guise, as soon as he had seated himself at the table, "it is most unfortunate that this youth has not kept his word with me. Our horses and men are both fatigued to death; and yet, after what happened the other day at Mareuil, it would be madness to remain here all night with only twenty horsemen."
"You have got timid, fair cousin," replied one of the gentlemen present. "We shall have you wrapping yourself up in a velvet gown, and setting up a conférrie, in imitation of our excellent, noble, and manly king."
The Duke w as habitually rash enough to be justified in laughing at the charge, and he replied, "It is on your account, my pretty cousin, that I fear the most. You know what the reiters have sworn to do with you, if they catch you."
"It is most unfortunate indeed," said an older and a graver man; "most unfortunate, that this Count de Logères should have deceived you. It might have been better, perhaps, to trust to some more tried and experienced friend."
"Oh, you do him wrong, Laval; you do him wrong," replied the Duke. "It is neither want of faith or good will, I can be sworn. Some accident, such as may happen to any of us, has detained him. I am very anxious about him, and somewhat reproach myself for having made him march with only half his numbers. Had his whole band been with him, he might have made head against the reiters, if he met with them. But now he has less than half their reputed number. Nevertheless," he continued, "his absence is, as you say, most unfortunate; for--with these Germans on our left, and the movements of Henry's Swiss upon our right--they might catch us as the Gascons do wild ducks, in the net, through the meshes of which we have been foolish enough to thrust our own heads. I pray thee, Brissac, go down to mine host of the house, and gather together some of the notable men of the place, to see if we cannot by any means purchase horses to carry us on. Who are you speaking to, Aumale?" he continued, raising his voice, and addressing the youth who sat in the window.
"Good news, good news!" cried the young man springing down, and coming forward into the room. "The reiters have been cut to pieces near Gandelu. There is a fellow below who has seen the victorious troops, and the wounded and the prisoners."
"My young falcon for a thousand crowns!" cried the Duke of Guise. "If that be the case, we shall soon hear more of him. Hark! are not those trumpets? Yet go out, Brissac; go out. We must not suffer ourselves to be surprised whatever we do. Aumale, have the horses ready. If they should prove the Swiss, we must march out at the one gate while they march in at the other."
But at that moment Brissac, who had run down at a word, and was by this time in the street, held up his hand to one of the others who was looking out of the window, exclaiming, "Crosses of Lorraine, crosses of Lorraine! A gallant body of some fifty spears; but all crosses of Lorraine.--Ay, and I can see the arms of Montsoreau and Logères! All is right, tell the Duke; all is right!" And thus saying he advanced along the street to meet the troops that were approaching.
The Duke of Guise, who had risen from the table, seated himself again quietly, drew a deep breath as a man relieved from some embarrassment, and filling the glass that stood beside him, half full of the good small wine of Beaugency, rested his head upon his hand, and remained in thought for several minutes.
While he remained in this meditative mood the sounds of the trumpets became louder and louder; the trampling of horses' feet were heard before the inn, and then was given, in a loud tone, the order to halt. Several of the companions of the Duke had gone down stairs to witness the arrival of the troops, and in a minute or two after, feet were heard coming up, and the Duke turned his head to welcome the young Count on his arrival. He was somewhat surprised, however, to see an old white-headed man, who had doffed his steel cap to enter the Duke's presence, come in between Brissac and Laval, and make him a low inclination of the head.
"Who are you, my good friend?" demanded the Duke. "And where is the young Count of Logères?"
"I know not, your Highness," replied the other. "I am the Count's seneschal, and expected to find him here. He set off four days ago with one half of his men, commanding me to join him at Montigny with the rest, as soon as their arms arrived from Rhetel. They came sooner than we expected, so I followed him the day after."
"Then is it to you, my worthy old friend," said the Duke, "that the country is obliged for the defeat of this band of marauders?"
"No, your Highness," replied the old man bluntly. "I have not had the good fortune to meet with any thing to defeat, though, indeed, we heard of something of the kind this morning as we passed by Grisolles."
"I hope the news is true," said the Duke; "I have heard of many a victory in my day, where it turned out that the victors were vanquished; and I hear that these reiters numbered from a hundred to a hundred and fifty men. How many had your Lord with him, good seneschal?"
"He had fifty-one men at arms," replied the old soldier, "besides some lackeys and a page; and some men leading horses with the baggage he could not do without."
"I shall not be easy till I hear more of him," said the Duke, walking up and down the room. "However, your coming, good seneschal, will enable us to make good this place against any force that may be brought against it. Quick, send me up the aubergiste. We must despatch some one to bring us in intelligence: and now, good seneschal, rest and refresh your horses, get your men some food, and have every thing ready to put foot in stirrup again at a moment's notice; for if we find that your Lord has fallen into the hands of these reiters, we must mount to deliver him. Let their numbers be what they may, Henry of Guise cannot make up his mind to leave a noble friend in the hands of the foemen."
"We are all ready this minute, my Lord," replied the old seneschal. "There is not a man of Logères who is not ready to ride forty miles, and fight two reiters this very night in defence of his Lord."
"The old cock's not behind the young one," said the Chevalier d'Aumale to Brissac. But the Duke of Guise overruled the zealous eagerness of the old soldier; and as soon as the aubergiste appeared, directed him to send off a boy in the direction of Montreuil and La Ferté, in order to gain intelligence of the movements of the Count de Logères, and to ascertain whether the report of the defeat of the reiters was correct or not. His own horses he ordered now to be unsaddled, and casting off his corselet, gave himself up to repose for the evening.
During the next hour, or hour and a half, manifold were the reports which reached the town concerning the conflict which had taken place between the Count of Logères and the reiters on the preceding evening. All sorts of stories were told: every peasant that brought in a basket of apples had his own version of the affair; and the accounts were the most opposite, as well as the most various. The Duke of Guise, however, was too much accustomed to sifting the various rumours of the day, not to be able to glean some true information from the midst of these conflicting statements. It seemed clear to him that the reiters had been defeated, and without having any very certain cause for his belief, he felt convinced that Charles of Montsoreau was already upon his
"Come," he added, after expressing these opinions to the Chevalier d'Aumale, "we must at least give our young champion a good meal on his arrival. See to it, Brissac; see to it. You, who are a connoisseur in such things, deal with our worthy landlord of the Cross, and see if he cannot procure something for supper more dainty than he gave us for dinner."
"The poor man was taken by surprise," replied Brissac; "but since he heard that you were to remain here, there has been such a cackling and screaming in the court-yard, and such a riot in the dovecote, that I doubt not all the luxuries of Montigny will be poured forth this night upon the table."
In less than an hour after this order was given, the arrival of fresh horses was heard; and Laval, who went to the window, announced, that as well as he could see through the increasing darkness, for it was now night, this new party consisted only of five or six persons. In a few minutes, however, the door was thrown open by the aubergiste, and Charles of Montsoreau himself appeared, dusty with the march, and with but few traces of triumph or satisfaction on his countenance.
"What, my young hero!" cried the Duke, rising and taking him by the hand; "you look as gloomy as if you had suffered a defeat, rather than gained a victory. Are the tidings which we have heard not true then, or are they exaggerated? If you have even brought off your forces safe from the reiters, that is a great thing, so overmatched as you were."
"It is not that, your Highness," replied Charles of Montsoreau: "the numbers were not very disproportionate, but the reiters have certainly suffered a complete rout, and I do not think that they will ever meet in a body again. They lost a good many men on the field, and I fear the peasantry have murdered all the wounded."
"So much the better," cried the Chevalier d'Aumale; "so much the better. One could have done nothing with them but hang them."
"I fear then," said the Duke of Guise, addressing the Count, "I fear then that your own loss has been severe by the gloominess of your countenance, Logères."
"There are a good many severely wounded, sir," replied the Count; "but very few killed. This, however, is not the cause of my vexation, which I must explain to your Highness alone. I have, however, to apologise to you for not being here last night, as I fully intended. I did not go to seek the reiters, but fell in with them accidentally, and after the skirmish I was forced to turn towards La Ferté instead of coming here, in order to get surgeons to my wounded men. I find, however, sir," he continued, "that my good old seneschal has made more speed than his master, and has arrived here with his band before me. I must go and take order for the comfort of my people, and prepare lodging for the rest who are coming up, for I rode on at all speed as soon as I met with the messenger whom you had sent out to seek me. After that I will return and crave a few minutes' audience of your Grace alone."
"Come back to supper, dear friend," replied the Duke; "we must let our gay friends now sup with us; but then we will drive them to their beds, and hold solitary council together, and be not long Logères, for you need both refreshment and repose."
When the young Count returned to the apartments of the Duke, after he had seen the rest of his troop arrive, and had taken every measure to secure the comfort of the men under his command, he found that Prince standing in one of the deep windows speaking in a low tone with the page Ignati, while his own officers were gathered together in the window on the other side.
The Duke instantly took him by the hand as he approached, and said in a low but kindly tone, "You see I have been questioning the spy I set upon you, Logères, and he has let me into a number of your secrets; but you must not be angry with him on that account, for Henry of Guise will not abuse the trust. Come, let us sit down to table, and we will afterwards find an opportunity of talking over all these affairs. You have acted nobly and gallantly, my young friend, and have served your country while you benefited me. For your brother's conduct you are not responsible: but I think this morning's events, if the boy speaks correctly, must bar your tongue from speaking his praises for the future."
"Indeed, my Lord," exclaimed the young Count, "my brother may----"
"Hush! hush!" cried the Duke. "There is nothing sits so ill upon the lips of a noble-hearted man as an excuse for bad actions, either in himself or others. It is false generosity, Charles of Montsoreau, to say the least of it. But let us to table. Come, Aumale. See! our good Aubergiste looks reproachfully at you for letting his fragrant ragouts grow cold. Come, we will to meat, gentlemen. Sit down, sit down, We will have no ceremony here at the Cross of Lorraine."
Thus saying, the Duke seated himself at table, and the rest took their places around. The supper proved better than had been expected, and wine and good appetites supplied the place of all deficiencies. The Chevalier d'Aumale indeed had every now and then a light jest at some of the various dishes: he declared that a certain capon had blunted his dagger, and asked Charles of Montsoreau whether it was not tougher than a veteran reiter. He declared that a matelote d'anguille which was placed before him, had a strong flavour of a hedge; but added, that as his own appetite was viperous, he must get through it as best he might. He was not without a profane jest either, upon a dish of pigeons; but though he addressed the greater part of these gaily to the young Count de Logères, he could hardly wring a smile from one who in former days would have laughed with the best, but whose heart was now anxiously occupied with many a bitter feeling.
Charles of Montsoreau was eager, too, that the meal should be over, for he longed for that private communication with the Duke which weighed upon his mind in anticipation. He felt that it would be difficult to exculpate his brother; and yet, in pursuance of his own high resolutions, he longed to do so: and then again he eagerly hoped that the powerful prince beside whom he sat would find some means of delivering Marie de Clairvaut from the hands into which she had fallen; and yet he feared, from all he heard and saw, that that deliverance might be difficult and remote.
Thus the banquet passed somewhat cheerlessly to him; and it was not very much enlivened by a little incident which happened towards the close of supper, when the landlord, who had come into the room followed by a man dressed in the garb of a surgeon, whispered something in the Duke's ear which called his attention immediately.
"How many did you say?" demanded the Duke.
"Only two at present, your Highness," replied the surgeon; "but three more sinking, I think."
"All in the same house?" said the Duke.
"No, my Lord, in different houses," replied the man; "but near the same spot."
"The only thing to be done," replied the Duke, "is to draw a barrier across the end of that street, and mark the houses with a white cross."
"What is the matter, your Highness?" said Laval, from the other end of the table.
"Oh, nothing," replied the Duke of Guise, "only a few cases of the plague; and because it was very bad last autumn at Morfontaine, the people here have got into a fright."
The Duke of Guise concluded his supper as lightly and gaily as if nothing had happened, for his mind had become so accustomed to deal with and to contemplate things of great moment, that they made not that impression upon him which they do upon those whose course is laid in a smoother
Charles of Montsoreau, however, could not feel in the same way. "War and pestilence!" he thought, "bloodshed and death! These are the common every-day ideas of men in this unhappy country, now. Perhaps famine may be added some day soon, and yet there will be light laughter, and merriment, and jest. Well, let it be so. Why should we cast away enjoyment because it can but be small? Life is at best but made up of chequered visions: let us enjoy the bright ones while we may, and make the dark ones short if we can."
While he thus thought, the Duke of Guise whispered a word or two to the Count of Brissac, and that gentleman nodded to Laval. Shortly after, both rose; and, with an air of affected unwillingness, the Chevalier d'Aumale followed their example. The two or three other gentlemen who had partaken of the meal, but who either from inferior situation or natural taciturnity had mingled but little in the conversation, left the table at the same time, and accompanied the others out of the room, so that the Duke of Guise and the young Count were left alone.
CHAP. II.
The weak-minded and the vulgar are cowed by the aspect of high station; the humble in mind, and the moderate in talent, are subdued by high genius, and bend lowly to the majesty of mind; the powerful, the firm, and the elevated spring up to meet their like, and with them there is nothing earthly that can overawe but a consciousness of evil in themselves, or a sensation of abasement for those they love.
Such was the case with Charles of Montsoreau, who undoubtedly was a man of high and powerful mind. He was in his first youth, it is true; he had no great or intimate knowledge of the world, except that knowledge of the world which, in a few rare instances, comes as it were by intuition. He had been bred up from his youth in love and admiration for the princes of the House of Lorraine, and especially of Henry, Duke of Guise; and yet, when he had met him for the first time, and recognised him at once in the inn at Mareuil, he felt no diffidence--no alarm. Nor had this confidence in himself any thing whatsoever to do with conceit: he thought not of himself for a moment; he thought only of the Duke of Guise and his situation, and impulse guided by habit did the rest. Seeing that the Duke had assumed an inferior character, he treated him accordingly; and acting as nature dictated to him, he acted right.
Neither, at Rheims, when the Duke appeared surrounded by pomp and splendour, did the young nobleman feel differently. He paid every tribute of external reverence to the Prince's station and high renown; but he conferred with him upon equal terms, feeling that if in mind he was not absolutely equal to that great leader, he was competent to appreciate his character, and was not inferior to him in elevation of thought and purpose.
But now, how changed were all his feelings, when, sitting by one whom he venerated and respected--more than perhaps was deserved--he had to discuss with him the painful subject of a brother's errors, and torture imagination to find excuses which judgment would not ratify! He sat humiliated, and pained, and hesitating: he knew not what to say, and he felt that any thing he could say was vain.
For a few minutes after the rest of the party quitted the room, the Duke of Guise remained silent, sometimes gazing down, as was his habit, upon his clasped hands, sometimes raising his eyes for a single moment to the countenance of his young companion. He seemed to feel for him, indeed; and when he did speak, led the conversation to the subject gradually and delicately.
"Well, my dear Count," he said, "let us speak of this affair of the reiters. You made me as many excuses but now, for defeating our enemies, as if you had let them defeat you. Such gallant actions are easily pardoned, Logères; and if you but proceed to commit many such faults, Henry of Navarre and Henry of Guise had both need look to their renown. There was a third Henry once," he continued, half closing his eyes, and speaking with a sigh, as he thought of Henry III. and fair promises of his youth; "there was a third Henry once, who might perhaps have borne the meed of fame away from us both: but that light has gone out in the socket, and left nothing but an unsavory smell behind. However, there was no excuse needed, good friend, for cutting to pieces double your own number of German marauders."
"My excuse was not for that," replied the Count, calmly, "but your Highness directed me to go no farther than Montigny, and I went to La Ferté, on account of the wounded men."
"That is easily excused too," said the Duke. "But now give me your own account of the affair. The boy told me the story but imperfectly. How fell you in with the reiters at first?"
Charles of Montsoreau did as the Prince required, giving a full and minute, but modest, account of all that had taken place. But when he spoke of retreating up the river to the spot where the banks were deeper, and the stream more profound, Guise caught him by the hand, exclaiming eagerly, "Did you know that the banks were steeper? Did you see that they would guard your flank?"
"That was my object, my Lord," replied the young Count, somewhat surprised. "I noticed the nature of the ground as we charged them at first."
"Kneel down!" cried the Duke; "kneel down! Would to God that I were a Bayard for thy sake!--In the name of God, St. Michael and St. George, I dub thee knight;" and drawing his sword he struck him on the collar with the blade, adding with a smile, in which melancholy was blended with gaiety, "Perchance this may be the last chivalrous knighthood conferred in France. Indeed, as matters go, I think it will be: but if it should, I can but say that it never was won more nobly."
The young Count rose with sparkling eyes. The memory of the chivalrous ages was not yet obliterated by dust and lichens; the fire of a more enthusiastic epoch was not yet quite extinct; and he felt as if what had passed gave him greater strength to go through what was to come.
The Duke, however, relaxing soon into his former manner, made him a sign to proceed; and Charles of Montsoreau went on to detail the complete defeat and dispersion of the different bodies of reiters. He then began to hesitate again: but Guise was determined to hear all, and said, "But your brother; where did you find your brother? Be frank with me, Logères."
Thus pressed, the young Count went on to say, that he did not again meet with his brother till he found him in the market-place at La Ferté. "My brother," he continued, "having been driven by the party that pursued him beyond the carriage, and judging that I was coming up with a superior force, imagined that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and her attendants had fallen under my protection: but finding that such was not the case, he mounted his horse again, and proceeded to seek for her during the greater part of the night, while I did the same in another direction."
He was then hurrying on as fast as possible to speak of the following morning, but the Duke interrupted him, demanding, "There was a sharp dispute in the market-place, I think; was there not, Monsieur de Logères? Pray let me hear the particulars."
But Charles of Montsoreau, driven to the point, answered boldly and at once, "It was a dispute between two brothers, my Lord; in regard to which none but God and their own consciences can judge. You will therefore pardon me if I keep that which is private to my private bosom."
Guise gazed at him
"If you know all, my Lord," said Charles of Montsoreau, a good deal affected by the Duke's kindness, "will you not spare me the telling of that which must be painful to me?"
"I fear I must ask you to go on," replied the Duke. "What you have now to tell me is the most important part of all to me at the present moment, for by it must my conduct be regulated, in regard to the measures for rescuing our poor Marie from the hands of that----." He checked himself suddenly, and then added, "the King, in short. A single word may cause a difference in our view of the matter; and therefore I would fain hear you tell it, if you will do me that favour."
"All that I know, my Lord, I will tell," replied the Count; "but of my own knowledge I have little to tell, for the principal part of my information was derived from the boy with whom you have already spoken. All then that I personally know is, that, having slept long from great fatigue, I was roused by the boy in the morning; that he told me my brother was about to depart; and that, on descending, I found his report true. My brother was already on horseback, and his troop in the act of setting out; but he was accompanied by a gentleman whom I had never seen before, whose name is Colombel, and who, I found afterwards, is an officer in the service of the King."
"Oh yes," said the Duke of Guise; "I have heard him named; a person of no great repute, but some cunning."
"My conversation with my brother," continued the Count, "was not the most agreeable. On his side it was all taunts; but the only part of which it is needful to inform your Highness, was, that when I asked tidings of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, he would afford me no information, except that she was in safe hands. I am grieved, also, to be compelled to say that he told me, if I did not join you before he did, I should be long parted from you."
"We have lost an ally," replied the Duke; "but one which, to say sooth, I do not covet. If he be not treacherous, he is at best unsteady; but I cannot help fearing, Charles of Montsoreau, that your brother himself, apprehending that my regard for you might not suit his purposes, has had some share in suffering Marie to fall into the hands of Henry."
"Oh no, my Lord, oh no!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you do him wrong, believe me. My Lord, a few words will explain to you the cause of his conduct. He is possessed with a passion for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, so strong, so vehement, so intense, as to have a portion of madness in it,--a sufficient portion to make him cast away his former nature altogether, to hate his brother, to abandon his friends, to abjure all the thoughts and feelings of his youth, and to follow her still where-ever she goes, seeking to obtain her by means which the very blindness of his passion prevents him from seeing are those which must insure his losing her."
"This is the passion of a weak and unstable mind," said the Duke. "Love, my young friend, is in itself a grand and ennobling thing, leading us to do great actions for the esteem and approbation of her we love. The love of a bright woman," he added, "the love of a bright woman--I speak it with all due reverence," and he put his hand to his hat, "is the next finest sensation, the next grand mover in human actions, to the love of God. The object is undoubtedly inferior, but the course is the same, namely, the striving to do high and excellent things for the approbation of a being that we love and venerate. Alas that it should be so! but in this world I fear the love of woman is amongst us the strongest mover of the two: the other is so remote, so high, so pure, that our dull senses strain their wings in reaching it. The love of woman appeals to the earthly as well as to the heavenly part of man's nature, and consequently is heard more easily. Perhaps--and Heaven grant it!--that, as some of our fathers held, the one love may lead us on to the other, and the perishable be but a step to the immortal. However," he added, "such love as that which you say possesses your brother, will certainly never lead him on to any thing that is great, or high, or noble. Most certainly it will not lead him to the hand of Marie de Clairvaut as long as Henry of Guise can draw a sword. If he have not betrayed me, he has abandoned me; if he have not shown himself a coward, he has shown himself a weak defender of those intrusted to his charge; and under such circumstances, had he the wealth of either India and the power of Cæsar, he should never wed Marie de Clairvaut." He laid his hand upon the shoulder of Charles of Montsoreau, and he said, "You have heard my words, good friend; those words are irrevocable: and now knowing that your brother can never be really your rival, act as you will. I would fain have your confidence, Charles, but I will not wring it from you. This girl is beautiful and sweet and fascinating; and if I judge right, you love her not less but more nobly than your brother. Tell me, or tell me not as you will, but we all feel pleased with confidence."
"Oh, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "how can I deny you my confidence when you load me with such proofs of your goodness? I do love Mademoiselle de Clairvaut as deeply, as intensely, as passionately, as my brother,--more, more a thousand fold than he or any body else, I believe, is capable of loving. I had some opportunities of rendering her services, and on one of those occasions I was betrayed into words and actions which I fancied must have made her acquainted with all my feelings. It was after that I discovered, my Lord, how madly my brother loved her: it was after that I discovered that the pursuit of my love must bring contention and destruction on my father's house. Had I believed that she loved me, nothing should have made me yield her to any one; for I had the prior claim, I had the prior right: but when I had reason to believe that she had not marked, and did not comprehend all the signs of my affection; when I felt that I could quit her without the appearance of trifling with her regard, though not without the continued misery of my own life, my determination was taken in a moment, and I determined to make the sacrifice, be the consequences what they might. Such, my Lord, is the simple truth; such is the only secret of all my actions."
The Duke of Guise bent down his eyes upon the ground with a smile, in the expression of which there was a degree of cynical bitterness. It was somewhat like one of the smiles of the Abbé de Boisguerin; but the Duke's words explained it at once, which the Abbé's never did.
"I fear, my young friend," he said, "that the science of women's hearts is a more difficult one than the science of war. You have learnt the one, it would seem, by intuition; in the other you are yet a novice. However, you shall pursue your own course, bearing with you the remembrance that I swear by my own honour--"
"Oh swear not, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "circumstances may change; she may love him; her love may alter him, and lead him back to noble things."
The Duke smiled again. "What I have said," he answered, "is as good as sworn. But have it your own way; I thank you for the confidence you have reposed in me. And now, to show you how I can return it, I have a task to put upon you, an adventure on which to send forth my new made knight. I do not think
Charles of Montsoreau paused thoughtfully for a moment, ere he replied. All the difficulties and dangers to which he might be exposed, in acting against the views of the King of France, were to him as nothing; but the difficulties and dangers which might arise from his opposition to his own brother, were painful and fearful to him to contemplate. He saw not, however, how he could refuse the task; and it cannot be denied that love for Marie de Clairvaut had its share also in making him accept it. He doubted not for a moment, that if she were in the hands of the King, she was there against her own will; and could he, he asked himself, could he even hesitate to aid in delivering her from a situation of difficulty, danger, and distress? The thought of aiding her, the thought of seeing her again, the thought of hearing the sweet tones of that beloved voice, the thought of once more soothing and supporting her, all had their share; the very contemplation made his heart beat; and lifting his eyes, he found those of the Duke of Guise fixed upon his countenance, reading all the passing emotions, the shadows of which were brought across him by those thoughts. The colour mounted slightly into his cheek as he replied, "My Lord, I will do your bidding to the best of my ability. When shall I march?"
"Oh, you mistake," said the Duke, laughing; "you are not to go at the head of your men, armed cap-à-pie, to deliver the damsel from the giant's castle; but in the quality of my envoy to Henry; first of all demanding, quietly and gently, where the Lady is, and then requiring him to deliver her into your hands, for the purpose of escorting her to me, where-ever I may be. You shall have full powers for the latter purpose; but you must keep them concealed till such time as you have discovered, either from the King's own lips--though no sincerity dwells upon them--or by your own private inquiries and investigations, where this poor girl is. Then you may produce to the King your powers from me, and to herself I will give you a letter, requesting her to follow your directions in all things. Now, you must show yourself as great a diplomatist as a soldier, for I can assure you that you will have to deal with as artful and as wily a man as any now living in Europe."
"I will do my best, my Lord; and to enable me to deal with them before all their plans are prepared, I had better set out at break of day to-morrow, with as many men as your Highness thinks fit should accompany me."
The Duke mused for a moment or two; "No," he said, "no; I must not let you go, Logères, without providing for your safety. You have risked your life sufficiently for me and mine already. You go into new scenes, with which you are unacquainted; into dangers, with which you may find it more difficult to cope than any that you have hitherto met with. I cannot then suffer you to depart without such passports and safeguards as may diminish those dangers as far as possible."
"Oh, I fear not, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "the King and your Highness are not at war. I have done nothing to offend, and--"
"It cannot be, it cannot be," replied the Duke. "You must go back with me to Soissons. I will send a messenger from this place to demand the necessary passports for you. No great time will be lost, for a common courier can pass where you or I would be stopped. Then," he continued, "as to the men that you should take with you, I should say, the fewer the better. Mark me," he continued, with a smile, "there are secret springs in all things; and I will give you letters to people in Paris, which will put at your disposal five hundred men on the notice of half an hour. Ay, more, should you require them. But use not these letters except in the last necessity, for they might hurry on events which I would rather see advance slowly till they were forced upon me, than do aught to bring them forward myself. No; you shall go back with me to Soissons, guarding me with your band; and I doubt not, our messenger from Paris will not be many hours after us. Now leave me, and to rest, good Logères, and send in the servant, whom you will find half way down the stairs."
The young Count withdrew without another word, and he found that while the conversation between himself and the Duke had been going on, a man had been stationed, both above and below the door of the apartment, as if to insure that nobody approached to listen. Such were the sad precautions necessary in those days.
Early on the following morning the whole party mounted their horses, the wounded men of Logères were left under the care and attendance of the good townsmen of Montigny, and the young Count riding with the party of the Duke of Guise, proceeded on the road to Soissons. No adventure occurred to disturb their progress; and, as so constantly happens in the midst of scenes of danger, pain, and difficulty, almost every one of the whole party endeavoured to compensate for the frequent endurance of peril and pain by filling up the intervals with light laughter and unthinking gaiety. The Duke of Guise himself was not the least cheerful of the party, though occasionally the cloud of thought would settle again upon his brow, and a pause of deep meditation would interrupt the jest or the sally. It was late at night when they arrived at Soissons, and the Duke, after supping with the Cardinal de Bourbon, retired to rest, without conversing with any of his party. It was about eight o'clock on the following morning, and while, by the dull grey light of a cloudy spring day, Charles of Montsoreau was dressing himself, with the aid of one of his servants, that the door opened without any previous announcement, and the Duke of Guise, clad in a dressing-gown of crimson velvet trimmed with miniver, entered the room, bearing in his hand a packet of sealed letters, and one open one. A page followed him with something wrapped up in a skin of leather, which he placed upon one of the stools, and instantly retired.
"Send away your man, Count," said the Duke, seating himself; "resume your dressing-gown, and kindly give me your full attention for half an hour. You will be so good," he continued, turning to the man who was quitting the chamber, "as to take your stand on the first landing-place below this door. You will tell any body whom you see coming up to pass by the other staircase; any one you may see coming down, you will direct to pass by this door quickly."
There was a stern command in the eye of the Duke of Guise which had a strong effect upon those it rested on; and the man to whom he now spoke made his exit from the room, stumbling over twenty things in his haste to obey. As soon as he was gone, the Duke turned to his young friend, and continued, "Here is the King's safeguard under his own hand, and the necessary passports for yourself and two attendants. Here is your letter of credit to him in my name, requiring him to give you every sort of information which he may be possessed of regarding the subjects which you will mention to him; and here is a third letter giving you full power to demand at his hands the person of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, for the purpose of escorting her and placing her under my protection. This, again, is to Mary herself, bidding her follow your counsels and direction in every thing; and these others are to certain citizens of Paris, whose names you will find written thereon. If you will take my advice, you will again take with you the boy Ignati, and one stout man-at-arms, unarmed, however, except in
"I believe, my Lord, I do," replied the Count. "But how am I to insure safety for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut on the road, without an adequate force?"
"Write to me but one word," replied the Duke of Guise, "as soon as she is delivered into your hands, and I will send you with all speed whatever forces I can spare. But I have one or two things to communicate to you, which it is necessary for you to know, both for your own security and the success of your mission. The principal part of my niece's lands lie in the neighbourhood of Chateauneuf, between Dreux and Mortagne in Normandy. It is not at all unlikely, that, if driven to remove her from your sight, Henry may be tempted to send her thither, well knowing that it is what I have always opposed, and that I preferred rather that she should dwell even in Languedoc than be in that neighbourhood. For this I had a reason; and that reason is the near relationship in which her father stood to the most daring and the most dangerous man in France. One of the first of those whom you will see near the person of the King, the man who governs and rules him to his own infamy and destruction, in whose hands the minions are but tools and Henry an instrument, who, more than any one else, has tended to change a gracious prince, a skilful general, and a brave man, into an effeminate and vicious king, is René de Villequier, Baron of Clairvaut. He was first cousin to Marie de Clairvaut's father, and he is consequently her nearest male relation out of the family of Guise. He has, indeed, sometimes hinted at a right to share in the guardianship of his cousin's daughter. But such things a Guise permits not. However, with this claim upon the disposal of her hand, Henry may, perhaps, hesitate to yield her, unless with the consent of Villequier. With him, then, you may be called upon to deal; but Villequier, I think, knows the hand of a Guise too well to call down a blow from it unnecessarily. However, he is as daring as he is artful, and impunity in crime has rendered him perfectly careless of committing it. He is Governor of Paris, one of the King's ministers, a Knight of the Holy Ghost. Now hear what he has done to merit all this. More than one assassin broken on the wheel has avowed himself the instrument of Villequier, sent to administer poison to those he did not love. Complaisant in every thing to his King, he sought to sacrifice to him the honour of his wife: but she differed from him in her tastes; and, on the eighteenth of last September, in broad daylight, in the midst of an effeminate court, he murdered her with his own hand at her dressing-table. Nor was this all: there was a girl--a young sweet girl--the natural daughter of a noble house, who was holding before the unhappy lady a mirror to arrange her dress when the fatal blow was struck. The fiend's taste for blood was roused. One victim was not enough, and he murdered the wretched girl by the side of her dead mistress. This was done in open day, was never disowned, was known to every one, and was rewarded by the order of the Holy Ghost--an insult to God, to France, and to humanity.[1]
However, as with this man you may have to deal, I have to give you two cautions. Never drink wine with him, or eat food at his table; never go into his presence without wearing under your other dress the bosom friend which I have brought you there;" and he took from the leathern skin in which it was wrapped, a shirt of mail, made of rings linked together, so fine that it seemed the lightest stroke would have broken it, and yet so strong, that the best tempered poinard, driven by the most powerful hand, could not have pierced it. "Have also in your bosom," continued the Duke of Guise, "a small pistol; and if the villain attempts to lay his hand upon you, kill him like a dog. This is the only way to deal with René de Villequier."
The young Count smiled: "And is it needful my Lord Duke," he asked, "to take all these precautions in the courtly world of Paris?--Do you yourself take them, my Lord?--I fear not sufficiently."
"Oh! with regard to myself," replied the Duke, it is different. "I am so marked out and noted, they dare not do any thing against me. They would raise up a thousand vengeful hands against them in a moment, and they know that, too well to run such a risk. Neither Henry nor Villequier would hold their lives by an hour's tenure after Guise was dead. But you must take these precautions, my young friend. And now I have nothing more to say, except that, whatever you do to withdraw Marie de Clairvaut from the hands into which she has fallen, I will justify. If any ill befall you, I will avenge you as my brother; and if you deliver her from those whom she hates and abhors, she shall, give you any testimony of her gratitude that she pleases, without a man in France saying you nay."
"Oh, my Lord, it is not for that I go!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, with the blood rushing up again into his cheek. "It is not; surely you believe--"
"Hush! hush!" replied the Duke. "I have fallen into the foolish error of saying too much, my good young friend. But now, fare you well. Make your arrangements as speedily as you can; mount your horse, and onward to Paris, while I apply myself to matters which may well occupy every minute and every thought."
CHAP. III.
It was about nine o'clock at night, in the spring of the year 1588, that Charles of Montsoreau, with two companions, his faithful Gondrin and the little page, presented himself at the gate of Paris which opened upon the Soissons road. A surly arquebusier with a steel cap on his head, his gun upon his shoulder, and the rest thereof in his hand, was the first person that he encountered at the bridge over the fosse. Some other soldiers were sitting before the guardhouse; and the wicket-gate of the city itself was open, with an armed head protruded through, talking to a country girl with a basket on her arm, who had just passed out of the gate, none the better probably for her visit to the city.
The arquebusier planted himself immediately in the way of the young cavalier and his followers, and seemed prepared to stop them, though on the young Count applying to him for admission, he replied in a surly tone, "I have nothing to do with it. Ask the lieutenant at the gate."
To him, in the next place, then, Charles of Montsoreau applied; but though his tone was somewhat more civil than that of the soldier, he made a great many difficulties, examining the young nobleman all over, and looking as if he thought him a very suspicious personage. The Count after a certain time grew impatient, and asked, "You do not mean, I suppose, to refuse the passport of the King?"
"No," replied the other grinning. "We won't refuse the passport of the King, or the King's passport; but in order that the passport may be verified, it were as well, young gentleman, that you come to the gates by day. You can sleep in the faubourg for one night I take it."
"Certainly not without great inconvenience to myself," replied the Count, "and more inconvenience to the affairs of the Duke of Guise."
"The Duke of Guise!" said the man starting. "Your tongue has not the twang of Lorraine."
"But nevertheless," replied the Count, "the business I come upon is that of the Duke of Guise, which you would have seen if you had read the passport and safe-conduct. Does it not direct
The man held the paper for a moment to a lantern that hung up against the heavy stonework of the arch, and then exclaimed in a loud voice, "Throw open the gates there, bring the keys. Monseigneur, I beg you a thousand pardons for detaining you a minute. If I had but seen the writing of the Duke of Guise the doors would have been opened instantly."
As rapidly as possible the heavy gates, which had remained immoveable at the order of the King, swang back at the name of the Guise, and one of the attendants and the captain of the night running by the side of the Count's horse to prevent all obstruction, caused the second gate to be opened as rapidly, and the Count entered the capital city of his native country for the first time in his life.
The streets were dark and gloomy, narrow and high; and as one rode along them looking up from time to time towards the sky, the small golden stars were seen twinkling above the deep walls of the houses, as if beheld from the bottom of a well. Charles of Montsoreau had not chosen to ask his way at the gate, and though utterly unacquainted with the great city in which he now plunged, he rode on, trusting to find some shop still open where he might inquire his way without the chance of being deceived. Every booth and shop was then shut, however; and for a very long way up the street which he had first entered, he met with not a single living creature to whom he could apply for direction. At length, however, that street ended abruptly in another turning to the left, and a sudden glare of light burst upon his eyes, proceeding from a building about a hundred yards farther on, which seemed to be on fire.
There was no bustle, however, or indication of any thing unusual in the street; and Charles of Montsoreau riding on, found that the blaze proceeded from a dozen or more of flambeaus planted in a sort of wooden barricade[2] before a large mansion, which fell back some yards from the general façade of the street, while a fat porter clothed in manifold colours, with a broad shoulder-belt and a sword by his side, walked to and fro in the light, trimming the torches with stately dignity. The young Count then remembered having heard of the custom of thus illuminating the barriers, which were before all the principal mansions in Paris during the first part of every night; and riding up towards the porter, he demanded whose hotel it was, and begged to be directed to one of the best inns in the neighbourhood.
The man gazed at him for a moment with the evident purpose of looking upon him as a bumpkin; but the porters of that day were required to be extremely discriminating, and the air and appearance of the young Count were not to be mistaken, and bowing low he replied, "I see you are a stranger, sir. This is the house of Monsieur d'Aumont. As to the best inn, inns are always but poor places; but I have heard a good account of the White House in the next street, at the sign of the Crown of France. If you go on quite to the end of this street and then turn to your right, you will come into another street as large and longer, at the very end of which, just looking down to the Pont Neuf, you will see a large white house with a gateway and the crown hanging over it. I have heard that every thing is good there, and the host civil; but he will make you pay for what you have."
"That is but just," replied the young Count; and giving the porter thanks for his information, he rode on and took up his abode at the sign of the Crown of France.
The aspect of the inn was very different from that of an auberge in the country; for, though the court-yard into which Charles of Montsoreau rode was littered with straw, and a large and splendid stable appeared behind, it was not now grooms and stable-boys that appeared on the first notice of a traveller's approach, but cooks and scullions and turnspits; while the master himself with a snow-white cap upon his head, a jacket of white cloth, and a white apron turned up sufficiently to show his black breeches and stockings with red clocks, appeared more like what he really was, the head of the kitchen, than the master of the house.
He looked a little suspiciously, at first, at the young stranger arriving with only two attendants, and with no other baggage than a small valise upon each horse, and an additional upon that of Ignati, to render the boy's weight equal to that of his fellow travellers. But the host was accustomed to deal with many kinds of men; and like the porter, after examining the Count for a moment, seeing some gold embroidery, but not much, upon his riding-dress, gilded spurs over his large boots of untanned leather, and a sword, the hilt and sheath of which were of no slight value, he also made a lowly reverence, and conducted him to one of the best apartments in his house. It consisted of three rooms, each entering into the other with a small cabinet beyond the chief bed-room; and the arrangements which the Count made at once--placing Gondrin's bed in the antechamber, and having the page's truckle-bed removed from his own bed-side to occupy the cabinet beyond--gave the host of the Crown of France a still greater idea of his importance.
Charles of Montsoreau did not fail to examine the face of the aubergiste, and to remark his proceedings with as much accuracy. The man's countenance was intelligent, his eyes quick and piercing, but withal there was an air of straightforward frankness, tempered by civility and habitual politeness, which was prepossessing; and as the young Count knew that he might have occasion to make use of him in various ways during his stay in Paris, he resolved to try him with those things which were the most immediately necessary, and which at the same time were of the least importance.
"Stop a minute, my good host," he said, as the man was about to withdraw to order fires to be lighted and suppers to be cooked. "There are some things which press for attention, and in which I must have your assistance."
"This youngster speaks with a tone of authority," thought the aubergiste; but he bowed low and said nothing, whilst the young Count went on, "What is your name, my good friend?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau.
"I am called Gamin la Chaise," replied the aubergiste with a smile.
"Well then, Master la Chaise, as you see," he continued, "I have come hither to Paris on some business which required a certain degree of despatch, and have ventured with few attendants and little baggage. As however the business on which I did come will call me into scenes where some greater degree of splendour is necessary than perhaps either suits my taste or my general convenience, I must before I go forth to-morrow morning, have my train increased by at least six attendants, who are always to be found in Paris ready fashioned I know; and therefore I must beseech you to find them for me in proper time, having them equipped in my proper colours and livery, according as the same shall be described to you by my good friend Gondrin here. This is the first service you must do me, my good host."
"Sir," replied the landlord, "the six lackeys shall be found and equipped in less time than would roast a woodcock. They are as plenty as sparrows or
"Yes, but my good host," answered the Count, "there is one great difficulty which you will understand in a moment. Amongst the six, I want you to find me one honest man if it be possible."
The landlord raised his shoulders above his ears, stuck out his two hands horizontally from his sides, and assumed an appearance of despair at the unheard of proposition of the Count, which had nearly brought a smile into the young nobleman's countenance. "That indeed, sir," he said, "is another affair; and I believe you might just as well ask me to catch you a wild roe in the garden of the Louvre, as to find you the thing that you demand. Nevertheless, labour and perseverance conquer all difficulties: and now I think of it, there is a youth who may answer your purpose; he knows Paris well too; but, strange to say, by some unaccountable fit of obstinacy, he would not tell a lie the other day to the Duke of Epernon in order to pass an item of the intendant's accounts, which would have come in for a good round sum every month if he would but have sworn that he used five quarts of milk every week to whiten the leather of his master's boots. He would not swear to this, and therefore the intendant discharged him, as he was a hired servant."
"Let me have him; let me have him," cried the Count. "I will only ask him to tell the truth, and hope he may not find that so difficult."
The Count then proceeded to speak about horses, and the host readily undertook, finding that money was abundant, to procure all the horse-dealers in Paris with their best steeds, before nine o'clock on the following day. The demeanour of the young nobleman, it must be confessed, puzzled the good aubergiste a good deal; and on going down to his own abode, he acknowledged to his wife, what he seldom acknowledged to any one, that he could not make his guest out at all.
"I should think," he said, "from the plenty of money, and the expensive way in which he seems inclined to deal, that he was some wild stripling from the provinces, the son of a rich president or advocate lately dead, who came hither to call himself Count, and spend his patrimony in haste. But then, again, in some things he is as shrewd as an old hawk, and can jest withal about rogues and honest men, while he keeps his own secrets close, and lets no one ask him a question."
On the following morning, at an early hour, the six attendants whom he had required were brought before him in array, exhibiting, with one exception, as sweet a congregation of roguish faces as the great capital of roguery ever yet produced. The countenance of the lad who had been discharged from the service of the Duke of Epernon pleased the young Count much, and without waiting till he was farther equipped, he put Gondrin under his charge for the purpose of notifying at the palace of the Louvre that he had arrived in the capital, bearing a letter from the Duke of Guise to the King, and of begging to have an hour named for its delivery. He found, however, with some mortification--for his eager spirit and his anxiety brooked no delay--that the King was at Vincennes; and his only consolation was that the communication which he had sent to the palace, bearing the fearful name of the Duke of Guise, was certain to be communicated to the monarch as soon as possible. Some short time was expended in the purchase of horses, and in making various additions to his own apparel, well knowing the ostentatious splendour of the court he was about to visit.
We have indeed remarked that there was perhaps a touch of foppery in his own nature, though it was but slight. Nevertheless, splendour of appearance certainly pleased him, even while a natural good taste led him to admire, and to seek in his own dress, all that was graceful and harmonising, rather than that which was rich or brilliant.
He was thus engaged, with several tradesmen around him, ordering the materials for various suits of apparel, which a tailor standing by engaged to produce in a miraculously short time, when the door of his apartment was opened, and a somewhat fat pursy man in black was admitted, entering with an air of importance, and receiving the lowly salutations of the good citizens who were present. Charles of Montsoreau gazed at him as a stranger; but the good man, with an air of importance, and an affectation of courtly breeding, besought him to finish what he was about, adding, that he had a word for his private ear which he would communicate afterwards. The young Count, without further ceremony, continued to give his orders, examining his new visiter from time to time, and with no very great feelings of satisfaction.
The countenance was fat, reddish, and, upon the whole, stupid, with an air of indecision about it which was very strongly marked, though there was every now and then a certain drawing in of the fringeless eyelids round the small black eyes, which gave the expression of intense cunning to features otherwise dull and flat.
When he had completely done with his mercers, and tailors, and cloth-makers--who had occupied him some time, for he did not hurry himself--Charles of Montsoreau dismissed them; and turning to his visiter said, "Now, sir, may I have the happiness of knowing your business with me?"
"Sir," replied the other, rising and speaking in a low and confidential tone, "my name is Nicolas Poulain. I am Lieutenant of the Prévôt de l'Isle."
He stopped short at this announcement; and the Count, after waiting a moment for something more, replied somewhat angrily, "Well, sir, I am very happy to hear it. I hope the office suits Nicolas Poulain, and Nicolas Poulain suits the office."
A slight redness came into the man's face, rendering it a shade deeper than it ordinarily was; but finding it necessary to reply, as the Count, without sitting down, remained looking him stedfastly in the face, he answered, "I thought, sir,--indeed I took it for granted, sir, that you might have some communication for me from the Duke of Guise."
"None whatever, sir," replied the young Count drily. "Have you any thing to tell me, Monsieur Nicolas Poulain, on the part of his Highness?"
"No, sir, no," replied the other, attempting to assume an air of spirit which did not become him. "If you have not seen him more lately than I have, I am misinformed."