world which characterised the two brothers, any thing in the least
degree laughable or extravagant, there might have been no occasion for
fear; but such was not the case: their manners and their tone were in
the highest degree courteous, nay, courtly. They felt within
themselves the station in which they were born, the high education
which they had received, the superiority of their mental and corporeal
powers over most of those with whom they had ever been brought in
contact; and that feeling added a dignified and somewhat commanding
ease to the grace which nature had bestowed and education improved.
Marie de Clairvaut then considered all these things calmly and
deliberately, wisely making use of her own dispassionate judgment, so
long as she knew that judgment to be cool and unbiassed. The reader,
skilful in the human heart, perhaps may be inclined to ask, whether
there was or was not really some little indication, in her own heart,
of a liking and admiration for one of the two brothers, which caused
her to be thus circumspect and careful? All that we can answer is,
that she herself did not think so; but merely feeling that, placed in
an unusual situation, she was responsible to herself, and to them, and
to her uncle, for her conduct, she took the very first opportunity of
contemplating all the circumstances that surrounded her, in order to
shape her conduct by the dictates of reason. She took a strong
resolution, indeed, but that was the only indication of weakness that
she discovered.
In the first place, then, she resolved, on her own part, not to be
betrayed by any circumstances whatever into falling in love with
either the elder or the younger brother; and, in the next place, she
resolved to do all in her power, without acting insincerely in any
degree, or discourteously, to prevent either of them from falling in
love with her. Such a resolution implied that she was not to allow
herself to be so happy as she had at first hoped and expected to be;
but, nevertheless, she framed her purposes accordingly, and determined
that only so much of her time should be given to the two brothers as
kindness and lady-like courtesy required. She would not attempt to
assume a false character, for such a thing was quite contrary to the
frankness and sincerity of her nature. While she was with them she
would appear what she really was, but she would avoid, as far as
possible, all those occasions of intimacy and constant communication,
which her residence in their mansion, during troublous times, might
naturally produce.
Now, all this was very wise and very prudent and we have endeavoured
to show, that Marie de Clairvaut was not one of those people whose
prudent resolutions are taken from a consciousness, secret or avowed,
that prudence itself is wanting. Nevertheless, Marie de Clairvaut was
a girl of less than nineteen years of age, and no more mistress,
either of events, or of her own conduct and resolutions, under
particular circumstances, than if she had been fifty. She began her
plan, indeed, on the following morning, by pleading occupations of
various kinds as an excuse for remaining the greater part of the day
in her own apartments. But, alas! there were two enemies in her own
camp.
One was Madame de Saulny, who thought herself bound to remain with her
fair cousin, and yet had a very strong inclination for the more
extended society which the chateau afforded. The other was a still
more dangerous foe, namely, herself, who, to say sooth, found the time
pass uncommonly heavily, having with her on her journey neither books,
nor any other of those sources of occupation which might have helped
to while away the hours in the solitude of her own chamber. Having but
a fretful companion in the good marquise, and none of any interest
amongst her inferior followers, the first day wore away tediously,
and, if we may say the truth, the hours that she gave up in solitude
had the evil effect of making those that she spent with three
intelligent and highminded men appear far more delightful than they
might otherwise have done.
She found, also, that all three possessed accomplishments very rare
amongst the high nobility of that day; that the whole world of art and
nature, as far as it was then known, had been opened to their
inquiries: and not only did music, and song, and poetry, aid to make
the day pass pleasantly, but they also rendered the conversation that
occupied another portion of the time refined, and bright, and
comprehensive. They were not driven to talk of nothing but horses, or
armour, or the battlefield, or the chase, though such matters were not
altogether excluded; but, as must ever be the case, every subject
spoken of received a peculiar colour, a tone, a shade from the mind
and habitual feelings of the speaker. If Charles of Montsoreau spoke
of a horse, it was not in the terms of a horse-dealer, but it was
either as the sculptor, the painter, the poet, or the soldier: he
dwelt upon the beauty of its form, the docility of its nature, the
fiery energies which render it the most poetical object in the whole
inferior creation. If he talked of the chase, it was not alone of the
slaughter of stout boars, or the tearing down the antlered quarry; but
it was of the eager excitement of the scene; the rapid motion through
fair woods and bright prospects; the music of echo and the hounds; the
expectation, the strife, the slight portion of danger; of all, in
short, which makes the real difference between the hunter and the
butcher.
Marie de Clairvaut was not so much of a recluse the second day as the
first; and with music, and song, and conversation, such as we have
described, it passed as pleasantly as might be; but there were several
other little incidents which from time to time took place to vary any
monotony that might have been felt. A report of reiters having been
seen at a small distance reached the castle in the morning, and some
horsemen were sent out to ascertain the fact. Preparations of
different kinds were made for offering indomitable resistance in case
of any fresh attack by a larger force. The armoury was explored; and
while every sort of weapon needful for arming the peasantry was
brought forth, pikes, and arquebuses, and morions, Charles of
Montsoreau pointed out to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut many a curious old
relic of other days, to each of which some legend was attached--the
casque and hauberk of the crusader, the arms of some noble ancestor
slain on the bloody field of Poitiers, or still older and less
certain, the gigantic gauntlets of a follower of Hugh Capet, and the
mighty sword and horn of one of the paladins of the Great Charles.
Then came in the youthful peasantry to be enrolled--some called upon
as of right by their young lords, but many flocking with voluntary
readiness to the chateau at the first sound of war; then a tour of the
battlements was to be made, and Marie de Clairvaut, accompanied her
two young hosts round the towers and the walls, gazing from breastwork
and embrasure over as bright, but as curious, a scene, as it was
possible to conceive. The light mist which we have mentioned as
occupying the lower parts of the ground on the day before, had been
dispelled during the night by the severity of the frost; but it had
settled down upon all the branches and stems of the bare trees in
glittering crystals of white, which now reflected with dazzling
brilliancy the rays of the clear unclouded sun.
Perched, as was usually the custom at that time, upon one of the
highest points of the country round, even the windows of the castle
commanded a very extensive view: but from the tops of the higher
towers on which Marie de Clairvaut now stood, miles beyond miles were
extended beneath her eye on every side; and the whole shone bright and
clear in the sun's light, displaying a varied landscape of forest and
field, and hill and plain, all covered with the same glistening
frostwork, and only varied in hue by the deep shadows cast by the low
winter sun, and by the blue tints of the far distance, where the
distinction between field and forest was lost, and some high hills
bounded the prospect.
Though somewhat monotonous, there was much to admire; and Marie, and
those who accompanied her, stopped often to gaze and to comment on the
scene. It must be acknowledged, that Charles of Montsoreau kept not
far from her side as she walked on, and that, though his brother was
near her on the other hand, it was towards the younger that she
generally turned, either to hear what he said, or to make some
observations on the objects beneath her eyes. Throughout the course of
that day, indeed, she gave him much of her attention, perhaps a
greater share than his brother thought quite equitable; and certainly
had Marie been asked, when she retired to rest that night, which of
the two brothers was the most graceful, which sang, or spoke, or acted
most pleasingly, she would undoubtedly have fixed upon Charles.
Perhaps she might ask herself some questions on the subject; but her
heart was sufficiently free and at ease, to make her believe that
there could be no earthly harm in preferring the society of one in a
slight degree to that of the other, and of rendering justice, as she
considered it, to both. If there was, indeed, in her own mind the
slightest idea that any particular feeling of preference was growing
up in her bosom for Charles of Montsoreau, the only effect that it had
was, to make her think it was very natural such a thing should be the
case, as he had been the first to give her assistance and protection,
and to peril his life in her behalf. Though the elder was very
courteous, she thought, and very kind, and graceful, and agreeable, it
could not be expected that she should like him as well as the person
who had been actively interested in her defence; and thus she slept at
ease, imagining that both brothers were but mere common acquaintances,
who might never be thought of three times after she left them; though,
in comparing the one with the other, she was inclined to like the
younger better than the elder brother.
While the two young noblemen had been carried, by the most natural
feelings in the world, to bestow the chief share of their attention
upon the beautiful and interesting girl who had so suddenly and
strangely become an inmate of their dwelling, the Abbe de Boisguerin
had held more than one long and apparently interesting conversation
with the Marquise de Saulny. In those conversations--whether they took
place in the halls, or the armoury, or on the battlements while the
Marquise, with two of Marie's women, followed the young lady over the
chateau--the Abbe, as we have said, seemed to take considerable
interest: but still, from time to time, his eyes fixed upon the
graceful and beautiful form of Marie de Clairvaut, or gazed earnestly
upon the fair face as, beaming with the radiance of the heart, it
turned from one brother to the other at every interesting point of the
conversation. In the expression of his eyes, fine, intelligent, and
speaking as they were, there was something, perhaps, not altogether
pleasing--a look of admiration, indeed, but a look mingled with or
taking its meaning from, feelings, perhaps, not the most pure and
holy. It was more like the gratified admiration of a critic, than the
ordinary impression produced by beauty upon a fine mind.
However that might be, Madame de Saulny soon became aware, though she
was a woman and a French woman, that the Abbe de Boisguerin, in the
attentions which he paid her, was not actuated by any admiration of
her own personal charms; and as she was fond of such attentions, and
not very scrupulous as to any innocent means of attracting or holding
them, she made Marie de Clairvaut, her personal beauty, and the high
qualities of her mind and heart, one of the chief topics of her
conversation with a person whom she saw was already, in a great
degree, occupied with such subjects.
It may be asked, what were the real feelings of the Abbe de Boisguerin
himself? It will be fully time to dwell upon those feelings hereafter;
for at the time we speak of, if there were any feelings in his bosom
at all different from those which ordinarily occupied it, they were
yet but as seeds in which the first green bursting forth of the germ
was scarcely apparent, even to the closest inspection. It is true that
he sat up for more than two hours after the young lady herself and her
two noble hosts had all retired to rest. It is true that, with his
arms crossed upon his chest, he walked up and down the hall, in which
he was now left solitary, musing beneath the light of the untrimmed
lamps, and revolving many a strange fancy and shadowy imagination in
his own powerful mind. He felt that they were but fancies; but he told
himself that it is often from the storehouses of imagination that
strong minds draw the rich ore from which they manufacture splendid
realities. Ambition finds there her materials; love his gayest robes;
passion gains thence many a device for his own ends; and even science
and philosophy have often to thank imagination for many a grand
discovery, for many a bright thought and happy suggestion.
As he paced up and down that hall in silence and solitude, communing
with his own heart and his own mind, the consciousness of vast powers,
great courage, and mighty scope of intellect, became more distinct,
and clear, and potent in his own bosom. He asked himself, what, with
such a mind, he might not be, if, looking on the troublous times in
which he lived as a mere scene for his ambition, he were to plunge at
once into the contentions of the day, and, with the sole object of his
own aggrandisement in view, employ upon all things round him the
mastery of superior intellect. He asked himself this; and with that
thought, there might come up before his mind the thought of love
likewise, the thought of passions, which have so frequently gone hand
in hand with ambition, and of gratifications to be obtained by the
obtainment of power.
As he thought, he paused, casting down his eyes, and they accidentally
fell upon the sort of half clerical garments that he wore. He gazed
for a moment at his own dress, and then he murmured to himself, with a
meaning smile, "Thank Heaven! I have taken no vows but such as can be
thrown off as easily as this garment."
CHAP. V.
The luxury of the present age has perhaps made no greater progress
than in the cultivation of flowers, and in nothing, perhaps, has it
produced its usual effect, of depriving men of the sweet zest of
simplicity, more than in our enjoyment of those sweetest of the
earth's children. Heaven forbid that we should lose any of the many
bright and beautiful blossoms which have been added so abundantly to
our stock within the last few years: having possessed them, we cannot
lose them without pain; and, perhaps, in the very variety we receive a
compensation for the something that is lost. But yet there can be no
doubt that in the present day we do not feel the same keen pleasure
and enjoyment in our gardens thronging with ten thousand flowers which
men did in those old days, when few but the native plants of the soil
had yet received cultivation.
At the time that we are now speaking of, the attention of men in
general was first strongly turned in France to the cultivation of
their gardens; and Du Bellay, Bishop of Mans, was about that very
period importing from foreign countries multitudes of those plants
which are in general supposed to be indigenous to the country. One of
the first efforts in the art of gardening had been to multiply those
shrubs, which, though not, as generally supposed, indeciduous, retain
their leaves and their colouring through the colder parts of the year,
and cover the frozen limbs of winter with the green garmenture of the
spring. Amongst the next efforts that took place, were those directed
to the production of flowers and fruits at seasons of the year when
they are denied to us by the common course of nature; and any little
miracles of this sort, which from day to day were achieved, gave a
greater degree of pleasure than we can probably conceive at this time,
when such things are of daily occurrence.
In passing round the battlements of the castle, as we have described
in the last chapter, Marie de Clairvaut had remarked a considerable
garden within the walls of the chateau itself. She had seen the rows
of the neatly clipped yew, and the green holly, and she had thought
that she could discover here and there a flower, even in the midst of
that ungenial season of the year. How it happened, or why, matters
not, but upon the third morning of her stay, she woke at a far earlier
hour than usual, and rising, after a vain effort to sleep again, she
dressed herself without assistance; and believing that she should have
no other companion but the morning sun, she proceeded to seek her way
to the garden, with a feeling of pleasant expectation, which may seem
strange to us in the present day, but was then quite natural to one of
her disposition and habits. The garden was easily found, many of the
servants of the chateau were up and about; and one of them with haste
and care proceeded to open the gates, and unlock the doors, for the
fair lady, and usher her on her way.
It were needless to enter into any description of the garden; for few,
scanty, and poor were the flowers that it contained, even in its
brightest moments, compared with those now produced in the garden of a
cottage in England. At that season, too, every thing was frozen up,
and the more severe frost of the preceding nights had killed even
those hardy blossoms that seemed to dare the touch of their great
enemy, the winter.
It was enough, however, for Marie de Clairvaut, that the plentiful
rows of evergreens refreshed her eye; and she walked along the
straight alleys with a feeling of joyous refreshment, while the
hoar-frost upon the grass crackled under her feet, or, catching the
morning light upon the yews and hollies, melted into golden drops in
the cheerful sunshine.
She hoped for half an hour of that sort of solitude, when, though
there is no one near us, the heart is not solitary; when we hold
companionship with nature, and in a humble, though rejoicing spirit,
converse with God in his great works.
At such moments, dear, indeed, must be the person, sweet to our heart
must be our ordinary commune with them, harmonious must be their
sensations with every feeling of our bosom, if we find not their
coming upon us an interruption; if we can turn from the bright face of
nature to the dear aspect of human love, and feel the scene, and the
companionship, and ourselves, all attuned together.
Such we cannot say was the case with Marie de Clairvaut, when, on
hearing a step behind her, she turned and saw the young Marquis de
Montsoreau. She felt disappointed of her solitude; but, nevertheless,
she was far too courteous in her nature to suffer such sensations to
appear for a moment, and she returned his greeting with a kindly
smile, and listened to his words with that degree of pleasure which
the intention of being pleased is sure to carry with it. Gaspar de
Montsoreau talked to her of many things, and spoke on every subject so
gracefully, so clearly, and so pleasingly, that when memory brought
back the conversation which she was accustomed to hear in courts and
cities, it seemed to her a sort of miracle, that wit and talent, such
as those two brothers possessed, should have grown up like a beautiful
flower in a desert, so far removed from any ordinary means of
cultivation. She felt, too, that, on her return to Paris, a comparison
of the sort of communion which she now held in the country, with the
only kind of society which the capital could afford, would be very,
very detrimental to the latter.
The young marquis, after the first salutation of the morning,
commented on her early rising, and told her that both he and his
brother had been up even before sunrise.
"Some of our people roused us," he said, "with tidings of a large body
of armed men having encamped on the preceding night at the distance of
about seven leagues from Montsoreau." And he added, that his brother
had found it necessary to go forth with a small party of horse to
reconnoitre this force, and ascertain its purposes and destination. He
did not say, however--which he might have said--that other tidings,
regarding the movements of this body of men, had rendered it scarcely
necessary to pay any particular attention to them, and that it was
only in consequence of his pressing request that Charles of Montsoreau
had set out upon a distant expedition, which must keep him absent
during the greater part of the day from the side of Marie de
Clairvaut.
On their farther conversation we must not dwell, for we wish to hurry
forward as rapidly as possible towards more stirring events. Suffice
it to say, that it passed pleasantly enough to the fair girl herself,
and far more pleasantly, though also more dangerously, to Gaspar de
Montsoreau. He sat by her side, too, during the morning meal, while
the Abbe de Boisguerin occupied the chair on the other side, between
herself and Madame de Saulny. The Abbe spoke little during breakfast,
and left the conversation principally to the young marquis; but when
he did speak there was a depth, and a power, and a profoundness in his
words and thoughts, that struck Mademoiselle de Clairvaut much,
commanded her attention, and excited some feelings of admiration. But
it often happens, and happened in this case, that admiration is
excited without much pleasure, and also without much respect.
The mind of a pure and high-souled woman is the most terrible
touchstone which the conversation of any man can meet with. If there
be baser matter in it, however strong and specious may be the gilding,
that test is sure to discover it. We mistake greatly, I am sure, when
we think that the simplicity of innocence deprives us of the power of
detecting evil. We may know its existence, though we do not know its
particular nature, and our own purity, like Ithuriel's spear, detect
the demon under whatever shape he lurks.
Thus, while Marie de Clairvaut turned from time to time, struck and
surprised, towards the Abbe de Boisguerin, when he broke forth for a
moment with some sudden burst of eloquence, there came every now and
then upon her mind a doubt as to the sincerity of all he said--a doubt
of its being wholly true. That the great part was as true as it was
beautifully expressed, she did not doubt; but it seemed to her as if
there was frequently some small portion of what was doubtful, if not
of what was absolutely wrong, in what he said. She tried to detect
where it was, but in vain. It became a phantom as soon as ever she
strove to grasp it; and though at times she seemed to shrink from him
with doubts of his character, which she could not define nor account
for, at other times she reproached herself for such feelings; and
thinking of the two noble and high-spirited young men, whose education
he had conducted with so much skill, wisdom, and integrity, she felt
it difficult to believe that his own nature was any thing but upright,
noble, and just. She knew not, or recollected not, that the children
of darkness are, in their generation, wiser than the children of
light, and saw not that it had been the policy and first interest of
the Abbe de Boisguerin to acquit himself of the task he had undertaken
in the most careful and upright manner.
The greater part of the day passed over much as the preceding one had
done, with merely this difference, that the Marquis, aided by the
Abbe, persuaded his fair guest to wander forth for a short time beyond
the immediate walls of the chateau; assuring her, that as his brother
was out scouring the country, and the peasantry all round prepared to
bring intelligence to the castle rapidly, no danger could approach
without full time for escape and defence. The Marquis and the Abbe
accompanied her on either side, and a considerable train of servants
followed, so that Marie de Clairvaut felt herself in perfect security.