herself clasped in his arms, with his heart beating against her bosom,
with his cheek touching hers; she recollected that he had unclasped
the collar round her neck; that he had chafed and warmed her hands in
his; that he had dried her hair; that he had braided it back from her
forehead; that he had borne her in his arms close to his heart: she
recollected that her own hand, from the impulse of her heart, had
pressed his; and that she herself had felt happy while resting on his
bosom. As she thought of all these things, so different from any of
the ideas that usually filled her mind, the warm blood rose in her
cheek, though no one could see her; and turning round, she buried her
eyes in the pillow with feelings of ingenuous shame; and yet even then
the image of Charles of Montsoreau rose before her. She saw him, as
she had beheld him when first they met, galloping down to aid her
attendants in her defence; she saw him pointing the cannon of the
castle against her pursuers; she saw him bearing with calm dignity the
ill humour of his brother; she saw him, with passionate tenderness and
grief, bending over her, and weeping when he thought her dead. She saw
all this, and a consciousness came over her that there was no other
being on all the earth on whose bosom she could rest with such
happiness as on his.
Nor did love want the advocates of nature and reason to support his
cause. First came the thought of gratitude: she was grateful to God as
the great cause of her deliverance; but ought she not to be grateful
to him also, she asked herself, who was indeed--as every other human
being is--an agent in the hand of the Almighty, but who was carried
forward to that agency by every kindly, noble, and generous feeling,
the contempt of danger and of death, and all those sensations and
impulses which show most clearly the divinity that stirs within us?
In being grateful to him, she felt that she was grateful to God; and
it was easy for Marie de Clairvaut to believe that such gratitude
should only be bounded by the vast extent of the service rendered.
She did not exactly, in clear and distinct terms, ask herself whether
she could refuse to devote to him the life that he had saved; but her
heart answered the same question indirectly, and she thought that she
could have no right to refuse him any thing that he might choose to
ask as the recompense of the great benefit which he had conferred.
What might he not ask? was her next question; and then came back the
memory of every look which she had seen, of every word which she had
heard, at the moment when she was just recovering; and those memories
at once told her what he might and would seek as his guerdon. Was it
painful for her to think that he might even crave herself as the
boon?--Oh no! A week before, indeed, she would have shrunk from the
very idea with pain. The only alternative she could have seen would
have been to be miserable herself, or to make him miserable.
Now such feelings were all changed and gone; and Marie de
Clairvaut--having entertained those feelings sincerely, candidly, and
without the slightest affectation--might feel surprised, and, perhaps,
a little alarmed, at the change within herself; but she was by no
means one to cling with any degree of pride or vanity to thoughts and
purposes that were changed.
It is true that those thoughts and purposes had been changing
gradually towards Charles of Montsoreau. But it was the events of that
day which suddenly and strangely had completed the alteration. The
near approach of death--the plunge, as it were, into the jaws of the
grave, from which she had been rescued as by a miracle--had seemed to
waken in her new sensations towards all the warm relationships of
life, a clinging to her kindred beings of the world, a tenderer, a
nearer affection for the thrilling ties of human life.
Then again, as regarded her young deliverer, and that near
familiarity, from which the habit of her thoughts and the coldness of
a heart unenlightened by love, had made her hitherto shrink with
something more than maiden modesty:--in regard to these, her feelings
had been suddenly and entirely changed by the circumstances in which
she had been placed. It seemed as if to him, and for him, the first of
all those icy barriers had been broken down, and was cast away for
ever. She had been clasped in his arms--she had been pressed to his
bosom--the warmth of his breath seemed still to play upon her
cheek--her hand seemed still grasped in his; and when her mind
returned to those ideas, after more than an hour of solitary thought,
the memories--which at first had called the blood into her cheek, and
made her hide her eyes for shame--were sweet and consoling. She
thought that it was well to be thus--that it was well, as she could
not but consent out of mere gratitude, to be the wife of Charles of
Montsoreau if he sought her hand, that he should be the only man she
could have ever made up her mind to wed; and that she could wed him
with happiness.
Such was the character of the thoughts that occupied her during the
rest of the day. Her mind might, indeed, turn from time to time to her
relations of the lordly house of Guise, and she might inquire what
would be their opinion in regard to her marriage with the young Count
of Logeres. The first time that she thus questioned herself, she was
somewhat startled to find that she entertained some apprehensions of
opposition, for those apprehensions showed her, more than aught else
had done before, how entirely changed her feelings were towards
Charles of Montsoreau. They made her feel that it was no longer a mere
cold consent she had to give to her marriage with him; but that it was
a hope and expectation which would be painful to lose.
The apprehensions themselves soon died away: she remembered the
anxiety of both the Duke of Guise and the Duke of Mayenne that she
should give her hand to some one, and she remembered, also, the half
angry, half jesting remonstrances of both on her declaring her
intention of entering a convent. She called to mind how they had urged
her, some eight months before, to make a choice, representing to her
that it was needful for their family to strengthen itself by every
possible tie, and promising in no degree to thwart her inclinations if
she chose one who would attach himself to them.
From the words of admiration and respect which she had more than once
heard Charles of Montsoreau employ in speaking of her uncles, she
doubted not that the only condition which they had made, would be
easily fulfilled in his case; and thus she lay in calm thought, her
fancy more busy than ever it had been before, and new but happy
feelings in her heart, agitating her, certainly, but gently and
sweetly. Glad visions, growing up one by one as she grew more familiar
with such contemplations, came up to gild the future days--visions of
peace, and home, and happiness--while the blessed blindness of our
mortal being shut out from her sight the pangs, the cares, the
horrors, the sorrows into which she was about to plunge.
She was like some traveller bewildered in a mountain mist, fancying
that he sees before him the clear road to bright and smiling lands,
when his footsteps are on the edge of the precipice that is to swallow
him up.
When she rose and left her chamber on the following morning, Marie de
Clairvaut was greeted with glad smiles from every one. Perhaps her
fair cheek was a little paler than ordinary, perhaps her bright eye
was softer and less lustrous: but the change proceeded not from the
consequences of either the fear or the danger she had undergone the
day before. The slight paleness of the cheek, the slight languor of
the eye, and the night without sleep, which gave rise to both, had a
sweeter cause in bright and happy thoughts which had shaken the soft
burden of slumber from her eyelids.
All present gazed upon her with interest. Madame de Saulny was loud in
her gratulations; Gaspar de Montsoreau himself showed a brow without a
cloud, and his brother smiled brightly with scarcely a shadow of
melancholy left upon his countenance. Her first act was to repeat the
thanks which she had given to the latter on the preceding day--to
repeat them warmly, tenderly, and enthusiastically; and Gaspar de
Montsoreau, who loved not to hear such words, or see such looks upon
her countenance, turned towards one of the windows, and spoke eagerly
with the Abbe de Boisguerin, while wise Madame de Saulny drew a few
steps back, and gave some orders to one of Marie's attendants.
"Do not thank me, sweet Marie," said Charles of Montsoreau, as soon as
he saw that he could speak unnoticed by any other ears but her own: "I
have not an opportunity of answering you now, as I ought to answer
you. After my return this evening I shall seek to be heard for a few
moments, for I have matter for your private ear."
He saw the warm blood coming up into her cheek, and her eyes cast
down, and he added, "I have to excuse part of my conduct yesterday--I
have to see if you will forgive me."
"Forgive you!" she exclaimed, raising her bright eyes to his, and
speaking eagerly, though low, "Oh, there is nothing in any part of
your conduct to forgive--every thing to be grateful for: whether your
devotion and courage in saving me from death--or your care and
tenderness," she added in a still lower voice, "after you had saved
me."
The eyes of Gaspar de Montsoreau were upon them both; he marked the
downcast look, the rising colour in Marie de Clairvaut's cheek; he
marked the sudden raising of her eyes, and the tender light with which
they looked in the face of her young deliverer. He marked the beaming
expression of joy and gratitude that came over his brother's
countenance, and it was scarcely possible for him to restrain the
fiery feelings in his own bosom, and prevent himself from rushing like
a madman between them. Two or three low deep-toned words from the
Abbe, however, recalled him to himself, and advancing with a graceful,
though a somewhat agitated air, he offered Mademoiselle de Clairvaut
his hand to conduct her to the hall where the morning meal was
prepared.
"We are somewhat earlier than usual this morning," he said, "because
my fair brother, with our noble and excellent friend the Abbe here,
have a long ride before them, to visit a relation who we hear is
sick."
"And do you not go yourself, my lord?" demanded Marie. "Pray let not
my being in the chateau act as any restraint upon you."
"Oh no," replied the Marquis; "it is as well that one of us should
remain here in these troublous times; and this relation, this Count de
Morly, is an old man in his eightieth year, who may well expect that
health should fail, ay, and life too."
"Ay," said Marie; "but I should think that at that period, when life
itself is fleeting away from us, and almost all the bright things of
this existence are gone, any signs of human friendship, and
tenderness, and affection, must be a thousand fold more dear and
cheering, more valuable in every way, than when the energetic powers
of life are at their full. Then we want few companionships, for we are
sufficient to ourselves: but in the winter of our age, close by the
icy tomb, the warmth of human affection is all that we have to cheer
us; the voice of friendship, like the song of a spring bird in the
chill months of the early year, must seem prophetic of a brighter
season, when the cold days of earth are passed, and all glad sounds
and happy sights shall be renewed in a fresh summer. Oh, the tongue of
youth and health, speaking friendly sounds to the ear of sickness and
age, must be the last, the brightest, the sweetest of all things which
can smooth the soul's passage to eternity!"
There was an implied reproof in the words of Marie de Clairvaut, which
was not pleasant to the ear of Gaspar de Montsoreau; but it did not in
any degree alter his purpose; and merely saying that, if possible, he
would go on the following day, he led his fair guest on to the hall,
and gladly saw the meal concluded, and his brother quit the table with
the Abbe to proceed upon their way.
As soon as they were gone, a burden seemed off his mind; he became
gay, and bright, and pleasing; and his conversation resumed its usual
tone. The stores of his mind once put forth, and there were sufficient
indications of kind and generous feelings to give his society that
charm without which all other attractions are poor--the charm of the
heart. Towards Marie de Clairvaut his manner assumed a warmth and a
tenderness which alarmed and pained her; and with the new insight into
her own heart, which she had obtained, she was enabled at once to
decide upon her conduct towards him. She remained in conversation,
indeed, for some time after breakfast, and though grave and serious,
was by no means repulsive: but anxious to avoid any private
communication whatsoever with the young Marquis, no sooner did she see
Madame de Saulny make some movement as if about to quit the room, than
putting her arm through that of her relation, she said, "Come, ma
bonne de Saulny, I want to have a long conversation with you, and
after that I think I shall lie down and rest for an hour or two, for I
am much fatigued."
Madame de Saulny accompanied her to her apartments, leaving the young
Marquis of Montsoreau standing in moody silence in the midst of the
hall; and when, some hours afterwards, he sent up to inquire if
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut would not go forth to see some game taken in
the nets, the reply given by one of her maids in the anteroom was,
that finding herself somewhat indisposed, she had lain down to rest,
and was asleep. At this answer he broke away with an expression of
bitter anger, and mounting his horse, rode out with a furious pace.
He had been gone about an hour and a half, when Marie came down into
the room which we have described as the lady's bower, accompanied by
Madame de Saulny, and employed herself in somewhat listless mood with
the various occupations of a lady of that day. For a short space she
plied the busy needle at the embroidery frame, and then took up the
lute and played and sang; but the music was broken, and came but by
fits and starts; and it was evident that impatient expectation marred
the power of present enjoyment or occupation. At length the clattering
of horses' feet was heard below, and fain would she have looked forth
from the window to ascertain which of the two brothers it was that had
returned. At length, however, there was a step upon the stairs, and
her beating heart decided the matter in a moment. It was Charles of
Montsoreau that entered: but he was deadly pale, and that apparently
from no temporary cause; for though he spoke calmly and tranquilly to
Marie de Clairvaut and Madame de Saulny, the colour did not return
into his cheek.
Marie, on her part, was anxious and agitated; she spoke low, for she
feared that her voice might tremble if she used a louder tone. Her eye
fell beneath that of her lover, and the colour came and went in her
cheek like light quivering on the wings of a bird; and yet she was the
first to propose that they should go forth together.
"Your brother is absent," she said, "and I understand sent up some
time ago, while I was asleep, to ask if I would go out to see some
game taken in the nets. Would it please you to go and join him?"
"Much," replied the young nobleman. "He is not far; I know where the
nets were to be laid."
"Then we will walk thither," she said: "I fear I shall be afraid of
horses for many a long day. Madame de Saulny, you will come with us,
will you not?"
But Madame de Saulny declined; and Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de
Clairvaut went forth, followed by two of her maids, and some other
attendants, at a respectful distance. The hearts of both beat even
painfully; and for some steps from the castle gates they proceeded in
silence, till at length she inquired how he had found the friend he
went to visit. The young nobleman replied that he feared he was dying;
and, after a few words more on that subject, the conversation again
dropped.
At length, as they descended the side of the hill, Charles of
Montsoreau lifted his eyes to the face of his fair companion, saying
in a low tone, "I told you this morning, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut,
that I should ask a few minutes' audience of you. Let me offer you my
arm--nay, be not agitated, I have nothing to say which should move
you. I have to apologise, as I told you, for some parts of my conduct
yesterday, and to ask you to forgive me."
"Oh, I told you," she replied, "and I tell you again, that there is
nothing to apologise for, nothing that I have to forgive; every thing
that I have to be grateful for, every thing that will make me thankful
to you through my whole life."
"Would that I could believe it were so!" replied Charles of
Montsoreau. "But I remember that in the first agony of thinking you
lost for ever, of thinking that bright spirit gone, that gentle heart
cold, that beautiful form inanimate for ever, I gave way to transports
of grief and sorrow, I spoke words, I used actions, that I neither
would have dared to speak or use towards you, if I had known that you
were then living and conscious. And yet I am sure, quite sure, that
you knew, and saw, and heard those words and actions; and I fear that
they may have offended you."
"Oh no, no, indeed!" replied Marie de Clairvaut, with her eyes bent
down, her hand trembling upon his arm, and the colour glowing bright
in her cheek--"Oh no, no, indeed! I did see, I did hear; but----"
In the course of that bright and beautiful thing called Love, very
often between two beings in every respect worthy of each other there
comes a moment when the very slightest touch of that pardonable
hypocrisy in woman, which, from a combination of many bright and
beautiful feelings, teaches her in some degree to veil or hide the
passion of her heart--when the slightest touch of that hypocrisy, I
say, at a moment when it should be all cast away together, and the
bosom of love laid bare to the eye of love--when the slightest touch
of that hypocrisy seals the misery of both for ever.
It was such a moment then with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de
Clairvaut. She knew not all that was in his heart at that moment, she
could not know it; but she knew herself beloved, and might well have
acknowledged her love in return. Had she done so, had she acknowledged
that her own feelings towards him had rendered the caresses which he
bestowed upon what he thought her dead form easily pardonable, the
passionate grief for her death deeply touching to her heart--had she
done this, their course might have gone on in brightness. But she knew
not all that was in his heart at that moment, she could not know it;
and the first impulse was to give way to woman's habitual hypocrisy,
to cast a veil over the true feelings of her heart, and to hide the
timid love of her bosom till it was drawn forth by him.
"Oh no, no, indeed!" she said; "I did see, I did hear; but--I thought
it was but natural grief for one under your charge and protection that
you thought lost in so terrible a manner----"
She hesitated to go on; she feared that she spoke coldly; and she
thought of adding some word or two more which might take from the
chilliness of such an answer, and let her real feelings more truly
appear. Before she could collect herself to do so, however, Charles of
Montsoreau answered, with a deep sigh, "You thought it was but
natural, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; you thought it was but natural;
and so, indeed----"
But as he spoke, his brother turned the angle of the little wood
through which they were proceeding down the hill, and came towards
them, followed by several of the huntsmen. There was a frown upon
his brow, a fire in his dark eye, which Charles of Montsoreau saw
and understood full well. But he met his brother calmly and
steadfastly--with deep and bitter grief in his heart, it is true, but
with grief which he had power over himself to conceal.
The angry feelings of the heart of Gaspar de Montsoreau were not so
easily repressed, and he spoke in a tone and manner well calculated to
produce angry words between himself and his brother.
"Why, how now, Charles!" he exclaimed; "are you back so soon? Where is
the Abbe? Montsoreau seems to possess greater attractions for you than
Morly."
"Of course," replied Charles of Montsoreau, calmly; "but even if it
did not, I should have returned in haste. The Abbe I left behind at
Morly, as he has no other occupation here."
"And you have pleasant occupation," rejoined his brother, with a tone
in which assumed courtesy but covered ill the intended sneer--"and you
have pleasant occupation as squire to this fairest of all fair
ladies."
"It is, indeed, so sweet to attend upon her," replied Charles, "that I
grieve I must lose the task so soon. In consideration of various
circumstances, my dear Gaspar, I find that it will be absolutely
necessary for me to proceed to Logeres immediately. I have lingered
too long here already. My people will think that I neglect them; and I
have determined to set off by dawn to-morrow morning."
The first expression that came upon the countenance of Gaspar de
Montsoreau was undoubtedly that of satisfaction; but, with the pause
of a single instant, better feelings sprang up, and he grasped his
brother's hand with a look of real anxiety, exclaiming, "Good God,
Charles, at this season of the year! In this disturbed state of the
country! Remember, Logeres is more than a hundred and fifty leagues
distant!"
"If this fair lady undertook as long a journey," replied Charles of
Montsoreau with a melancholy smile, "in still severer weather, merely
for the sake of doing what she thought was right, should I hesitate,
Gaspar? Fie; she will think us all a household of priests and friars,
who go not forth but when the sun shines, and think an easterly wind
excuse sufficient for not visiting the neighbouring village. I will
not diminish your garrison, either, very much, my dear brother. You
must give me Gondrin with me, as he comes originally from Logeres;
but, besides him, I shall only take my own ordinary attendants, and I
will find means to fight my way through, depend upon it."
Gaspar de Montsoreau was easily reconciled to this arrangement. He
still raised some objections, indeed; but, when he looked at Marie de
Clairvaut, those objections became more and more faint in their tone,
and he could scarcely refrain from a gaiety so different from the
gloom of the morning, as to mark painfully how little he wished for
his brother's stay. Marie de Clairvaut returned to the chateau in
sadness and grief. She knew not, indeed, to the full extent, how much
the departure of Charles of Montsoreau was attributable to her own
words; but she felt that it was so, in some degree. She blamed herself
more bitterly than she even deserved; and, hastening to her own room,
she locked the door, and wept long and bitterly.
After some time, she was visited by Madame de Saulny, who pressed so
eagerly for admittance, that she could not refuse her. Tears were
still in her eyes, and traces of those she had shed fresh upon her
cheeks; but Marie would give no explanation; and it was not till about
an hour after, when the good marquise heard of Charles of Montsoreau's
intended departure for Logeres, that she divined the cause of her
young relation's grief.
When she did so, Madame de Saulny felt that, in some degree, she
herself might have been instrumental in producing it. But it was one
good trait in the character of that lady, that, if she committed an
error, she was sorry for it with her whole heart, and sought to remedy
it. She loved Marie de Clairvaut deeply and truly; she grieved much to
see her grieve; but she hoped that there was no such great cause for
grief, and that the matter might be easily remedied.
CHAP. VII.
The conduct which, as we have seen, was pursued by Charles of
Montsoreau, had not been framed alone upon the supposition that his
love for Marie de Clairvaut was without return. That belief, indeed,
ultimately decided his determination; but a thousand other
considerations had previously led him up to a point, where it wanted
but one word to change the balance in either direction.