have been. Neither, to say the truth, did it appear to afford the
young nobleman himself the pleasure which he had anticipated. For the
first time, perhaps, in his life, the society and the conversation of
the Abbe de Boisguerin irritated and made him impatient. He himself
became often silent and moody; and after a time the Abbe seemed to
note his impatience, and divine the cause, for with one of his own
peculiar slight smiles, he betook himself to the side of the Marquise
de Saulny, and left Gaspar de Montsoreau to entertain his fair guest
without listeners or interruption.
The young lord's equanimity, however, had been overthrown; it was some
time ere he could regain it; and just as he was so doing, and the
conversation was becoming both more animated and more pleasing between
him and Marie de Clairvaut, his brother Charles was seen coming
rapidly over the hill, at the head of his gallant troop of horsemen,
with grace, and ease, and power in every line of his figure, the light
of high spirit and of chivalry breathing from every feature of his
face, and every movement of his person.
His keen eye instantly caught the party from the chateau, and turning
his horse that way, he sprang to the ground by Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut's side, and gave her the good morrow with frank and manly
courtesy. He said little of his expedition, except to laugh at the
unnecessary trouble he had taken, the band of men whom he had gone out
to reconnoitre proving to be a troop of Catholic soldiers, in the
service of the King of France. He showed no ill humour, however,
towards his brother, for having pressed him to undertake a useless
enterprise, when, undoubtedly, he would have preferred being by the
side of Marie de Clairvaut. But the smiles with which she received him
proved a sufficient recompense; and he now applied himself to make up
for lost time, by enjoying her conversation as much as possible during
the rest of the evening, without observing that his brother appeared
to be out of humour, and not very well satisfied with the attentions
that he paid her.
The first thing that at all roused him from this sort of
unconsciousness, was a sudden exclamation of the Marquis towards the
close of the evening, when he was performing some little act of
ceremonious courtesy towards their fair guest.
"Why, Charles," he exclaimed, "one would think that you were the Lord
of Montsoreau, you do the honours of the place so habitually."
Charles of Montsoreau had never heard such words from his brother's
lips before. He started, turned pale, and gazed with a silent glance
of inquiry in his brother's face. But he made no reply, and fell into
a fit of deep thought, which lasted till the party separated, and they
retired to rest.
Marie de Clairvaut had remarked those words also, and she felt pained
and grieved. She was not a person to believe, on the slightest
indication of her society being agreeable to any man she met with,
that he must be necessarily in the high road to become her lover. She
knew, she felt, that it was perfectly possible to be much pleased
with, to be fond of, to seek companionship with, a person of the other
sex, without one other feeling, without one other wish, than those
comprised within the simple name of friendship. She, therefore, did
not know, and would not fancy, that there was anything like love
towards herself springing up so soon in the bosom of Gaspar de
Montsoreau. But she did see, and saw evidently, that he sought to
monopolise her conversation and her society, and was displeased when
any one shared them with him. It made her uneasy to see this, for, to
say the truth, the conversation, the manners, the countenance, of his
younger brother, were all more pleasing to her--not that she felt the
slightest inclination to fall in love with Charles of Montsoreau, or
ever dreamt of such a thing. But, as we have before said, if she had a
preference, it was for him.
Nor was that preference a little increased by the manner in which he
bore his brother's conduct. He became more silent and thoughtful:
there was an air of melancholy, if not of sadness, came upon him from
the very moment Gaspar spoke those words, which struck Marie de
Clairvaut very much. He showed not, indeed, the slightest ill humour,
the slightest change of affection towards his brother. He seemed
mortified and grieved, but not in the least angry; and during the
ensuing days bore with a kindly dignity many a little mark of
irritation, on his brother's part, which evidently gave him pain.
"It is a sad thing to be a younger brother," thought Marie de
Clairvaut--"perhaps left entirely dependent upon the elder."
But that very night it happened that Madame de Saulny informed her
that Charles of Montsoreau was, in his own right, Count of Logeres,
and considerably superior to his brother, both in power and wealth. It
need hardly be said that her esteem for himself, and her admiration of
his conduct, rose from a knowledge of the circumstances under which it
was displayed; and she could not help, by her manner and demeanour
towards him, marking how much she was pleased and interested. She gave
him no cause to believe, indeed, that the interest which she did feel
went beyond the point of simple friendship. But a very slight change
in her demeanour was sufficient to mark her feelings distinctly; for
her character and her habits of thought and feeling at that time were
peculiar, and affected, or we may say regulated, her whole behaviour
in society.
As yet, she knew not in the slightest degree what love is; and though,
in her heart, there were all the materials for strong, deep,
passionate attachment of the warmest and the most ardent kind, still
those materials had never been touched by any fire, and they lay cold
and inactive, so that she believed herself utterly incapable of so
loving any being upon earth, as man must be loved for happiness. From
a very early age she had made up her mind, when permitted, to enter a
convent; and though neither of her uncles would consent to her so
doing, yet she adhered to her resolution, and only delayed its
execution. She knew that at that time, and she believed it would ever
be so, that all her hopes and affections were turned towards a higher
Being; and these feelings in some degree against her will, gave a
degree of shrinking coldness to her demeanour when in the society of
men, which made the slightest warmth of manner remarkable. The
exquisite lines of Andrew Marvell upon the drop of dew might well have
been applied to her general demeanour in the world:--
"See how the orient dew,
Shed from the bosom of the morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new
For the clear region where 'twas born,
It in itself encloses,
And in its little globe's extent
Frames as it can its native element.
How it the purple flower does slight!
Scarce touching where it lies,
But, gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like their own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it rolls and insecure,
Trembling lest it grow impure,
Till the warm sun pities its pain,
And to the skies exhales it back again."
Notwithstanding the words of his brother, and the impatience which
Gaspar more than once displayed, Charles of Montsoreau changed his
conduct not in the slightest degree towards Marie de Clairvaut. He was
kind, attentive, courteous, evidently fond of her conversation and
society; and more than once, when he was seated at some distance,
while she was talking with others, she accidentally caught his eyes
fixed upon her with a calm, intense, and melancholy gaze, which
interested and even confused her.
The conduct of the elder brother, however, gave her some degree of
pain. He was always perfectly courteous and kind, indeed, but there
was a warmth and an eagerness in his manner which alarmed her. She was
afraid of fancying herself beloved when she was not; she was afraid of
having to reproach herself with vanity and idle conceit, and yet a
thousand times a day she wished she had not stayed at the chateau of
Montsoreau; for she saw evidently that she had been the cause of pain,
and she feared that she might be the cause of more. In one thing,
however, she could not well be mistaken, which was, that the Marquis
found frequent pretexts, and not the most ingenuous ones either, for
inducing his brother to absent himself from the chateau. Charles
yielded readily; but Marie de Clairvaut saw that it was not willingly;
and once, when he consented to go to a town at some distance, which
was proposed to him with scarcely any reasonable cause, she saw a
slight smile come upon his lips, but so sad, so melancholy, that it
made her heart ache.
In the mean while the weather had turned finer; the frost had
disappeared; some of the bright days which occasionally cheer the end
of February had come in; the country immediately around was
ascertained to be in a state of perfect tranquillity; and Marie
readily consented to ride and walk daily through the environs, knowing
that on these excursions, accompanied by her woman and Madame de
Saulny, she was thrown less into the society of Gaspar of Montsoreau
than while sitting alone at the chateau. On one occasion of this kind,
when the morning was peculiarly bright, and the day happy and genial,
it had been proposed to bring forth the falcons, who had not stirred
their wings for many a day, as several herons had been heard of by the
river since the thaw had come on.
An hour or two before the appointed time, however, intelligence was
brought to the castle, which proved afterwards to be fabricated, that
a neighbouring baron of small importance had gone over to the party of
the King of Navarre.
Gaspar of Montsoreau seized the pretext, and endeavoured to persuade
his brother to visit that part of the country, and ascertain the
facts. But, for once, Charles of Montsoreau positively refused, and
his air was so grave and stern, that his brother did not press it
farther.
Gaspar was out of temper, however, and he showed it; and finding that
Charles kept close to the bridle rein of Marie de Clairvaut, he
affected to ride at a distance, with a discontented air, giving
directions to the falconers, and venting his impatience in harsh and
angry words when any little accident or mistake took place. No heron
was found for nearly an hour; and he was in the act of declaring that
it was useless to try any farther, and they had better go back, when a
bird was started from the long reeds, and the jesses of the falcons
were slipped.
Marie de Clairvaut had been conversing throughout the morning with
Charles of Montsoreau--conversing on subjects and in a manner which
drew the ties of friendship and intimacy nearer round the heart--and
it so happened that the moment before the heron rose, she remarked, in
a low tone, "Your brother seems angry this morning; something seems to
have displeased him."
"Oh, dear lady," replied the young nobleman, "I pray you do not judge
of Gaspar by what you have seen within these last few days. I fear
that he is either ill, or more deeply grieved about something than he
suffers me to know. He is of a kindly, affectionate, and gentle
disposition, lady, and from childhood up to manhood, I can most
solemnly assure you, I never yet saw his temper ruffled as it seems
now."
Marie de Clairvaut raised her eyes to his face with a look full of
sweet approbation; and she said, "I wish you would just ride up to
him, and try to calm him. Why should he not come near us, and behave
as usual?"
Charles of Montsoreau turned instantly to obey, merely saying, "Keep a
tight rein on your horse, dear lady, till I come back, for he is
somewhat fiery."
He had just reached his brother's side when the heron took wing; and
Gaspar de Montsoreau glad of an opportunity of marking his discontent
towards his brother, spurred on his horse with an angry "Pshaw!" and
galloped after the falcons as fast as possible.
In an instant every bridle was let loose, every face turned towards
the sky, every horse at full speed. We must except, indeed, Charles of
Montsoreau, for his first thought was of Marie de Clairvaut. His mind
had been greatly depressed during the morning: he had thought much of
her; he had felt a vague impression that some accident would happen to
her; and though he had endeavoured to laugh at himself for giving way
to such a feeling, yet the feeling had remained so strongly as to make
him refuse to go upon the expedition which his brother had proposed to
him. He turned then his horse rapidly to the spot where he had left
her; but she was no longer there.
"The lady has gone on at full speed, Count Charles," cried the voice
of Gondrin, the huntsman: "That way, sir, that way, to the right. It
seems as if she knew the country well, and was sure the heron would
take back again to the river."
Charles of Montsoreau spurred on at full speed in the direction
pointed out; but, from the woody nature of the ground, it was some
time before he caught even a glance of the horse that bore the lady.
That glance was intercepted immediately by fresh trees and low bushes
of osiers, and all that he could see was, that there was nobody with
her, and that her horse was at full speed. The country was difficult,
the road dangerous from numerous breaks and cuts. To set off at such a
pace and alone, seemed to him unlike the calm, sweet character of
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; and he heard, or fancied he heard, sounding
as from the path before him, a cry, lost in the whoops and halloos of
those who were following the flight of the birds along the stream.
The sport was forgotten in a moment: he spurred vehemently on upon the
road which Marie de Clairvaut had taken, while almost all the rest of
the people in the field crossed the stream by a bridge to the left,
and pursued the flight of the birds across a meadow round which the
river circled before it took a sharp turn to the right. All the more
eagerly did the young nobleman spur forward, knowing that about a
quarter of a mile in advance the path which he followed separated into
two, and that he might lose sight of the fair girl altogether if he
did not overtake her before she reached the point of separation.
When he arrived at it, however, she was not to be seen; but one glance
at the ground showed him the deep footmarks of the jennet following
the road to the right, which led far away from the point towards which
the heron seemed to have directed its flight, and to a dangerous part
of the river about a mile beyond. He now urged his horse on
vehemently--furiously.
The road wound in and out round the lower projections of the hill, and
through the thinner part of the forest that skirted its base; but
though he, who was generally tender and kind to every thing that fell
beneath his care, now dyed the rowels of his spurs in blood from his
horse's sides, he came not up with the swift jennet which carried
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. He gradually caught the sound of its feet,
indeed; and the sound became more and more distinct, showing that he
gained upon it.
But this slight success in the headlong race which he was pursuing was
not enough to calm the mind of the young cavalier. It was now evident
that the horse, frightened by the whoop and halloo of the falconers,
had run away with its fair burden; and every step that they advanced
brought the horses and their riders nearer to a part of the river
which was only to be passed in the hottest and driest days of summer,
and then with difficulty.
Oh, how the heart of Charles of Montsoreau beat when, at the distance
of about a hundred yards from the brink of the river, the trees began
to break away, and left the ground somewhat more open. But before he
could see any thing distinctly but a figure passing like lightning
across the distant bolls of the trees, he heard a loud scream, and a
sudden plunge into the water, and then another loud shriek.
He galloped to the very brink, so that his horse's feet dashed the
stones from the top of the high bank into the water, and then he gazed
with a glance of agony upon the stream. The sleeve of a velvet robe
and a hawking-glove rose to the surface of the water.
He cast down the rein--he sprang from his horse--he plunged at once
from the bank into the stream--he dived at the spot where he had seen
the glove, and, in a moment, his arms were round the object of his
search. At that instant he would have given rank, and station, and all
his wide domains, to have felt her clasp him with that convulsive
grasp which sometimes proves fatal to both under such circumstances.
But she remained still and calm; and bearing her rapidly to the
surface, and then to the lower part of the bank, he laid her down upon
the turf, and gazed for an instant on her fair face. Oh, how deep, and
terrible, and indescribable was the pain that he felt at that moment.
Sensations that he knew not to be in his heart--that he did not--that
he would not before believe to exist therein--now rushed upon him, to
fill up the cup of agony and sorrow to the brim; and, kneeling beside
the form of the beautiful girl he had just borne from the dark tomb of
the waters, he unclasped her garments, he chafed her hands, he raised
her head, he did all that he could think of to recall her to
animation; and then, pressing her wildly to his bosom, while unwonted
tears came rapidly into his eyes, he called her by every tender and
endearing name, adding still, "She is dead! she is dead!"
As he did so, as she was pressed most closely and most fondly to his
heart, as her hand was clasped in his, as her head leaned upon his
shoulder, he thought he felt that hand press slightly on his own; he
thought he felt the pulse of life beat in her temples. He lifted his
head for a moment--her eyes were open and fixed upon him. The colour
was coming back into her cheek. She spoke not, she made no effort to
escape from the embrace in which he held her: but it was evident that
she marked his actions, and heard his words; and if any thing had been
wanting to tell her how dear she was to his heart, it would have been
the joy, the almost frantic joy, with which he beheld the signs of
returning consciousness. Eagerly, actively, however, he ceased not to
give her whatever assistance he could, and then bent over her again to
lift her in his arms, saying, "Forgive me, forgive me! But I will
carry you to a cottage not far off, where you can have better
tending."
She raised her arm, however, and took his hand kindly in hers, making
him a sign to bend down his head.
"A thousand thanks," she said in a low voice; "but I am not so ill as
you suppose. I foolishly fainted with terror when the horse plunged
over, and I remember nothing from that moment till just now. But I
feel I shall soon be better."
It was not a moment in which Charles of Montsoreau could put much
restraint upon himself, for joy succeeding terror had already
displayed so much of the real feelings of his heart, that any attempt
at concealment must have been vain. He gave not way, indeed, to the
same ebullitions of feeling which he had before suffered to appear,
while he thought her dead; but every word and every action told the
same tale. He gazed eagerly, tenderly, joyfully in her eyes; he chafed
the small hands in his own; he wrung out the water from the beautiful
hair; he smoothed it back from the fair forehead; and he did it all
with words of tenderness and affection, that could not be mistaken.
Thus kneeling by her side, he again besought her to let him carry her
to the nearest cottage; but she pointed to the small hunting horn
which hung at his side, asking, "Will not that bring some one?"
He was not called upon to use it, however, for before he could raise
it to his lips, the sound of a horse's feet was heard coming from the
same path which they themselves had pursued; and in a moment after,
the good forester Gondrin emerged from the wood, with no slight
anxiety on his frank and honest countenance. His young lord supporting
Marie de Clairvaut as she lay partly stretched upon the ground, partly
resting on his arm, with the count's horse cropping the herbage close
by, instantly caught his attention, and riding up with prompt and
unquestioning alacrity, he gave every assistance in his power, seeming
to comprehend the whole without any explanation. His own cloak and
doublet were instantly stripped off, to wrap the chilled limbs of the
fair girl who lay before him, and scarcely five words were spoken
between him and his master. They were: "Bourgeios' cottage is close
by, my lord: shall we carry her there?"--"Is it nearer than
Henriot's?"--"Oh, by a quarter of a mile."--"There, then, there."
But without suffering the forester to give him any assistance in
carrying her, the young lord raised Marie de Clairvaut in his arms,
and bore her on into the wood, looking down in her face from time to
time, with a smile, as if to tell her how easy and how joyful was the
task.
Gondrin followed, leading the horses; but as he came on, he asked, in
a low voice, "Where is the jennet. Sir?"
"Drowned, I fancy," replied Charles of Montsoreau--"drowned, and no
great loss, after such doings as to-day."
The cottage was soon gained, and there every assistance was procured
for Marie de Clairvaut, which was necessary to restore fully the
diminished powers of life. A sort of hand litter was speedily formed;
some of the peasantry procured as bearers; and, stretched thereon,
dressed in the coarse, but warm and dry habiliments of a country girl;
the beautiful child of the lordly house of Guise was borne back
towards the chateau of Montsoreau with him who had rescued her from a
watery grave, gazing down upon her, and thinking that she looked even
more lovely in that humble attire than in the garb of her own station.
As they approached the chateau, horns, and whoops, and shouts made
themselves heard; and it was evident that the absence of the young
lord and the fair guest had at length been remarked by other than the
careful eye of Gondrin. Horseman after horseman came up one by one,
and at length Gaspar himself appeared with Madame de Saulny and one of
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut's women, who had followed her mistress to
the field; but, as was common with women of all classes in those days,
had forgotten every thing but the falcons and their quarry, the moment
that the birds took wing.[1]
---------------------
[Footnote 1: So extraordinary and remarkable was the passion for
falconry amongst the women of that day, that Catherine de Medici
herself, engaged as she was in all the wiles of policy during her
whole life, found time to pursue this sport day after day, and had
courage enough to follow it after having not only received several
severe falls, but after having once broken her leg and once fractured
her skull, by the imprudent habit of galloping at full speed after the
birds, with the eyes fixed upon them, and inattentive to every thing
else. The moment that the falcons were flown, every thing on earth was
forgotten, and the most serious accidents were of daily occurrence.]
---------------------
A multitude of questions and exclamations now took place; and without
suffering the bearers of the litter to stop, Charles explained in few
words what had occurred, dwelling upon the peril which their fair
guest had been in, and merely adding, that he had been fortunate
enough to arrive in time to rescue her from the water.
The brow of Gaspar de Montsoreau grew as dark as night, and forgetting
that, in his ill humour, he had voluntarily quitted her side, he
muttered to himself, "There seems a fate in it, that he should render
her every service, and I none."
He sprang off from his horse, however, and walked forward on the other
side of the litter, addressing all sorts of courteous speeches to
Marie de Clairvaut, who was now well enough to reply. Madame de
Saulny, however, had no great difficulty in persuading her to retire
at once to bed: not that she felt any corporeal disability to sit up
through the rest of the day; but her mind had many matters for
contemplation, and she insisted upon being left quite alone, with no
farther attendance than that of one of her women stationed in the
ante-room.
CHAP. VI.
The windows were half closed, the room was silent, no sound reached
the ear of Marie de Clairvaut, but the sweet wintry song of a robin
perched upon the castle wall. Her first thoughts were of gratitude to
Heaven for her escape from death, her next, of gratitude to him who
had risked his life to save her. But after that came somewhat anxious
and troublous thoughts.