not, indeed, confident that he was beloved; but he was confident that
Marie de Clairvaut herself saw his affection, and had done nothing to
check it. From all that he knew of her himself--from all that he had
heard of her--from the casual conversation of Madame de Saulny, he was
very, very sure, that the conduct of Marie de Clairvaut would have
been quite different, if she had not felt a sufficient degree of
regard for him, to know that love might follow if he sought it. This
was quite enough to give him hope and happiness. He had, indeed,
remarked his brother's ill humour upon many occasions, and he had
attributed it justly to the disappointment of a desire to engross all
their fair guest's conversation; but he had not the slightest idea of
the eager and fiery passions that were rising up in the breast of
Gaspar of Montsoreau.
When he mounted his horse, then, to visit the old Count de Morly--one
who, though only distantly related to his family, had been his
father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor--Charles of Montsoreau
looked forward to his return in the evening, and to the audience he
had craved of Marie de Clairvaut, with a heart full of joyful
emotions, and with fear bearing a very small proportion to hope. There
was much happiness in his whole air; but it was thoughtful happiness,
and for two or three miles he rode on in silence.
His companion, the Abbe de Boisguerin, was silent too, and thoughtful,
and from time to time, as they rode along, he gazed upon his former
pupil with a look of contemplative earnestness, a slight frown upon
his calm, cold brow, and the thin nostril raised with something
between triumph and scorn in the expression. He said not a single word
till he saw that Charles of Montsoreau himself began to feel his own
silence strange, and looked round as if about to commence some
conversation. Then, however, the Abbe spoke.
"If you are awake, Charles," he said, "I should wish some conference
with you; if you are dreaming, dream on: Heaven forbid that I should
disturb you, for your visions seem pleasant ones."
"They were, dear friend," replied Charles, with a smile; "but I can
give them up for a time, in the hopes of their being realised."
"Visions are often realised," replied the Abbe.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you surely are jesting, my
sage friend. I thought to hear you reprove such idle fancies, and tell
me that visions, however specious, were seldom, if ever, realised."
"No, far from it," replied the Abbe: "the visions of a strong,
sensible, and reasoning mind like yours, Charles, are, on the
contrary, very often realised; for they are seldom formed but upon
some sufficient basis. But still I must have my lesson; and I will
tell you, my dear Charles, that the visions which we have formed upon
the best grounds, and which are consequently often realised in all
their parts, are not unfrequently those productive of the utmost
misery to ourselves, even when we thought them the most hopeful, the
most happy. It is, Charles, that a thousand other things mingle with
the realisation of our dreams, which in our dreams we dreamt not of,
turning as with a fairy's wand the pure gold to dross, rendering the
sweetness bitter, and changing wholesome food to poison. Look at that
distant hill--the Peak of Geran--how soft, and blue, and smooth, and
beautiful it looks, and yet you and I know that the small sharp stones
with which it is covered will cut, till they bleed, the feet of the
person who attempts to climb it. That soft blue mountain in the
distance, Charles, is as the vision of an eager mind, and the rough
impracticable stony side, as the realisation of the dream itself. I
would always ask every one who indulges in a vision--Have you
calculated beyond all question of doubt what may be the concomitant
pangs, sorrows, and evils that even probably will accompany the
realisation of that which you desire?--I would ask everyone this
question, Charles; and I now ask you."
"I should think, my dear friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "that
it would be utterly impossible for any one to answer such a question
in the affirmative. The very fallibility of our human nature would
prevent our doing so with truth. Good and evil must, of course, be
always mingled in this world; and all that we can do is to think
calmly, and endeavour to judge rationally, of that which is the best
for our ultimate happiness. We must prepare ourselves to take the
consequences, be they what they may. If you ask me the question you
have mentioned, I should at once reply--No, I have not calculated all
even of the probable evils which might attend the realisation of the
visions with which I was occupied, because my mind is not capable of
discovering one half of the chances attending any future event."
Charles spoke somewhat warmly; for there is always a degree of
bitterness to the confident mind of youth in any words that tend to
shadow the bright promises of hope, and to teach us by doctrine that
which we can only learn by experience, the fallacy of expectations,
the mingled nature of our best pleasures, the dust and ashes of human
enjoyment. The Abbe gazed upon his face for a moment ere he replied;
but then said, "I would put my question closer to you, Charles of
Montsoreau, and I will put it seriously. Have you calculated all the
self-evident evils that would attend the realisation of the visions
which you were pondering?"
"Why, my dear Abbe," replied Charles with a smile, "it would seem by
your serious aspect, that to-day you had turned prophet as well as
preacher, could divine my thoughts, and see their results."
"I can divine your thoughts, Charles, and do," replied the Abbe; "and
as it is a subject on which, however unwillingly, I must speak, I will
tell you at once what these thoughts were. The results are in the hand
of God, and in the hand of God alone. But I can and will show you some
of the probable results."
"Nay, then," replied Charles, seeing that the Abbe spoke quite
seriously, "such being the case, my dear Abbe, I need not tell you,
that if you speak to me with warning, as your words imply, I will
listen to you with every sort of deference. Speak, I beg you, and
speak freely. Though no longer your pupil in name, I will gladly be so
in reality. So now let me hear entirely what you have to say."
"Well, then, Charles," replied the Abbe, "what I have to say is this,
and simply this. Your visions were of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You
fancied that by the various services which you have rendered her you
have obtained a strong hold upon her regard, a claim even upon her
hand; that she showed a fondness for your society, a degree of
affection for your person, which promised you fair in every respect;
and, in fact, believing--and with some degree of justice--that you
yourself love her deeply, you saw every prospect of that love being
gratified by obtaining hers, and ultimately, perhaps, her hand. Now,
Charles, was this, or was this not, the matter in your thoughts? was
this the vision upon which your mind was bent? were not these the
prospects which you contemplated just now?"
"They were," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I do not deny it."
"Well, then," replied the Abbe, "I will not now dwell for even a
single moment upon difficulties, obstacles, obstructions, upon the
pride of the race of Guise, upon the views of self-interest and
ambition, upon the probability of their treating your love for their
niece with contempt, and rejecting your proffered alliance with scorn.
I will not pause for a moment on such things; but I will speak of the
matter with which we began; namely, of the probable, the self-evident
evils which must attend the realisation of your hopes and wishes.
Charles of Montsoreau, have you thought of your brother?"
The blood came somewhat warmly up into Charles's countenance. "I have
thought of him," he replied, "most assuredly; but I have merely
thought, my excellent friend, that though he might have some degree of
admiration for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, yet he has neither had the
opportunities, nor the occasion, if I may use the term, of feeling
towards her as I do. Fate has willed it that I should be the person to
aid her upon all occasions; fate has established between us links of
connection which do not exist between her and Gaspar."
"But fate has not willed it," replied the Abbe sternly, "that you
should love her a bit better than he does. On the contrary, Charles,
fate has willed that he should love her deeply, passionately,
strongly, with the whole intensity of feeling of which he is capable.
This has been the will of fate, Charles of Montsoreau, and let not the
selfishness of passion blind you. In your pursuit of Marie de
Clairvaut, you are the rival of your brother."
Charles of Montsoreau cast down his eyes as they rode along, and for
several minutes remained in deep silence. "You mean to say," he
replied at length, "that my brother is my rival, for I first loved
her, I first won her regard: he strives to snatch her from me, not I
from him, and why should I hesitate at the consequences? He must learn
to overcome his passion, a passion which is evidently not returned. I
go on with hope; and in love, thank God, at least, there is no elder
brother's right to bar us from success."
"If such be your thoughts and feelings, Charles," replied the Abbe, in
a slow and solemn manner, "I see no hope but strife, contention,
misery--perhaps bloodshed! between two brothers, who were born to
love, to succour, to support each other. And now they will draw their
swords upon each other for a woman's smile."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau. "Fear not that,
Abbe! My sword shall never be drawn against my brother, were he to
urge me to the utmost. But you view this matter too gravely, you
deceive yourself, I am sure. In the first place, though angry, and
mortified, and somewhat jealous, perhaps, that I have had
opportunities of serving Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, which he has not
obtained--though somewhat charmed with her beauty, and captivated with
her graces--I do not, I cannot, believe that Gaspar feels that love
towards her which cannot easily be conquered. He feels not, Abbe, as I
feel--he cannot feel as I feel towards her."
"Charles, you deceive yourself," replied the Abbe, "nay more, you
deceive yourself wilfully. Last night in the great hall, after you had
retired to rest, your brother walked up and down with me in a state
almost of frenzy. He told me how deeply, how passionately, he
loved her; he poured forth into the bosom which has been accustomed
to receive all his thoughts, his grief, his agony, his madness
itself--for I can call it nothing but madness. He spoke of you--of
you, the brother of his love, the being who has gone on nurtured with
him from infancy till now without one harsh word or angry feeling
between you--he spoke of you, I say, with hatred and abhorrence; he
longed to imbrue his hands in your blood; he called you the destroyer
of his peace, the obstacle of his happiness, the being who had driven
him to wretchedness and despair."
Charles of Montsoreau dropped the bridle on his horse's neck,
and covered his eyes with his hands. "This is very terrible!" he
said--"this is very terrible!"
"It is terrible," replied the Abbe--"it is very terrible, Charles; but
it is no less true. Your brother so mild, so kind-hearted as he was,
is now changed by his rivalry with you, is now full of the feelings of
a murderer, is now ready to become a second Cain, and slay his
brother, because his offering has not found favour in the sight of the
being he worships, as yours has done! Of all this you knew not, and
therefore you could not judge; but when I said you were deceiving
yourself wilfully, Charles, I said not so without cause. Think of what
your brother was, one bare fortnight ago--all gay, all cheerful, all
good-humoured, bearing contradiction with a smile, laughing at the
thought of care, putting you always in the first place before himself.
See what he is now, Charles, even when restrained by the eyes of many
upon him--moody, irritable, passionate, evidently abhorring the
brother he so lately loved. Can this entire change have come over a
man's nature, I ask you, this sad, this terrible, this blighting
change, without some strong and overpowering passion? and will you
tell me you do not see he loves, loves with all the intensity of an
eager, a warm, a fiery heart, loves passionately, loves to madness?"
Again Charles of Montsoreau bent his eyes down upon the ground, again
he remained silent for a considerable space of time; and in that
space, terrible was the conflict which went on within him. At length
he raised his eyes gravely, even sternly, to the face of the Abbe de
Boisguerin, and demanded, "Abbe, what would you have me do?"
"It is not for me to dictate, Charles," said the Abbe, in a sad and
solemn tone. "You are your own master, you are lord of princely lands
and great wealth, you are lord also of yourself. It is not for me to
say what you shall do. But I can tell you, Charles of Montsoreau, what
you would do if you were the same generous, noble, kind-hearted,
self-denying youth that was once under my charge. You would labour
zealously, constantly, firmly, to overcome a passion which can produce
nothing but misery."
"What!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, "and see the woman I love
become the bride of my brother! What! witness their union, when she
loves me rather than him! Why is this to be put upon me, Abbe?--why,
when there is every right on my side, and none on his? Why am I to be
the sacrifice rather than Gaspar? Why do you address these words of
exhortation to me rather than to him?"
"In the first place," replied the Abbe, "what you fear--what you
seem most to fear, what it would be almost too much to demand from
you--never will, never can take place. Marie de Clairvaut will never
be your brother's bride. She loves him not; she rather dislikes him:
that is evident. You cannot suppose, Charles, that she will ever be
his. So I remove that from all consideration. You next ask me why I
put the hard task on you rather than him; why I exhort you rather than
him. I will tell you, Charles; because with you I believe exhortation
will have effect; with him it will have none. I have told you before,
this passion with him is a madness. He is more violent, he is less
generous, in his nature than you are, Charles; and if you would know
more, know that I have already exhorted him, and found my exhortations
vain. If you persist in your passion, if you, too, do not make a great
effort to conquer it, misery, agony, and bloodshed will be the
consequence. The despair, the death of him who hung at the same
bosom with yourself will lie heavy on your head. You, you will be
more to blame than he is; for you are acting with determinate reason
and forethought, when I tell you that his reason is gone. And,
moreover----"
"Then," exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, interrupting him, "then I
ought to become a madman, too, to put myself in the right! Abbe, your
reasoning is not just; but I understand and feel your motives, though
I cannot admit your arguments--hear me, hear me out. Were my own
feelings and my own happiness alone concerned, I could--yes, I think I
could--sacrifice them all to my brother, if by so doing I thought I
could secure his peace. But, in the first place, you do not even hold
out to me the supposition that any sacrifice on my part would secure
his happiness; and, in the next place, I have to remember that there
is another whose feelings and whose comfort are to be considered. Much
may have passed between Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and myself to make
me sure that she knows my love, and to make me hope that she returns
it. And, if such be the case, I have no right to draw back a single
step, nor will I for any consideration upon earth. If I love her
without her loving me, I can struggle against my love, though I can
never overcome it; but if she love me too, I will trifle with her
happiness for no man upon earth--no, not my brother!"
The Abbe remained silent for a moment or two; and then replied,
"Charles, your hopes are deceiving you. Mademoiselle de Clairvaut's
feelings may be favourable to you, may be kindly; but, believe me," he
added, and a very slight appearance of a sneering smile hung about his
lip--"but, believe me, there is no chance of your injuring her
happiness by ceasing to seek her love. I speak from good authority,
Charles; as it is not two days ago, from Madame de Saulny's own
account, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut declared her intention to be
stronger than ever of going into a convent. It is very natural, my
dear Charles, that you, knowing and feeling the passion in your own
breast, should think it equally evident to her. Very likely you may
have addressed to her words of passion and of love, displayed signs of
tenderness and affection, which you think fully sufficient to convince
her; and yet she may not have the slightest idea that your feelings
are any thing but those of common courtesy and kindness. You must
remember, that a pure and fine-minded woman shuns the very idea of any
man being in love with her, till his absolute assurance that such is
the case, leaves her no longer any room to doubt. Pure, modest, and
retiring, as Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is, such, depend upon it, are
her feelings; and be you perfectly sure that nothing you have done for
her has been construed by her in any other light than that of common
kindness and courtesy."
"I will soon know that," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I will know
that this very night; and if I find that I have been deceiving myself,
I will make any sacrifice for my brother. I will quit the place; I
will stand in his way no longer; although you yourself," he added
bitterly, "give me no hope that, by any of the sacrifices you demand,
I shall contribute in the least to my brother's happiness."
"I think," replied the Abbe, "that you will contribute greatly to the
happiness of both; or, at all events, remove those causes of
dissension which would have made you both miserable. Your own
happiness, too, may be served in the end more than you imagine. The
obstacles to your brother's happiness will come from her, not from
you. He may grow wearied of a pursuit that he finds to be fruitless;
he may conquer a passion which he sees can never be returned. Your
generosity and forbearance may, in turn, have their natural effect
upon his heart; and he may learn to see with pleasure your union with
her who never could be his. Thus, in fact, by making a sacrifice, you
may make none; and by seeming to abandon, may win but the more
surely."
"No!" replied the young nobleman--"No, Abbe! I will do nothing by
halves. I will act upon no motives but straightforward ones. I believe
that Marie de Clairvaut knows, has seen, and returns my affection. If
she love me, if her happiness is implicated, nothing on earth shall
make me abandon her. I will love her, and seek her unto death. But if
I find that I have deceived myself; if I learn that she has not seen
and does not return my love, I will fly from her at once. To-morrow's
sunset shall see me far away; and then I will do every thing that lies
in my power to contribute to my brother's happiness. He shall be
forced to say that I have laboured for his gratification and my own
disappointment, though he has embittered his heart towards his
brother, and suffered passion to turn the milk of our mother into
gall. Let us ride on, Abbe, let us ride on: my determinations are
taken. It is better to know our fate at once. I shall stay but a short
time with the good Count de Morly; and I will then leave you with him,
and ride back with all speed."
"Nay, my dear Charles," replied the Abbe, "I will go back with you. I
cannot suffer you to tread a long road companioned by such painful
thoughts as I fear you will have."
"No, no," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "I would rather go alone. I
must deal with this business singly, Abbe; and, besides, some of us
should stay awhile with the good count. He is your cousin as well as
ours, you know; and, as he has no other relations, may leave you all
his wealth."
The Abbe turned quickly round, with an inquiring and half-angry look,
as if there was something in his own bosom told him that he might find
a sneer upon the countenance of his young companion. Such, however,
was not the case. All was clear and calm upon the face of Charles of
Montsoreau, except a melancholy smile, as if the motives which he
jestingly attributed to the Abbe were too absurd for any one to
believe he spoke in earnest. They conversed no more on a subject so
painful as that which they had already discussed, but rode on quickly
and in silence. Such had been the conversation which preceded the
interview between Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut.
CHAP. VIII.
It was in the grey of the dawn, that about ten horses were assembled
in the court-yard of the chateau of Montsoreau, on the following
morning. Six were saddled and bridled, as if for instant departure;
and the men who stood by the sides of those six were armed up to the
teeth. Steel-caps, then called salads, crowned the head of each; and
long swords slung high up on the hip, with the point of the scabbard
almost touching the ground, showed a preparation for desperate
resistance in case of attack; while the small pistols in the girdle
were accompanied by several others attached to the saddle, so as to
give every man an opportunity of firing five or six shots without the
necessity of pausing to reload.
The other four horses were burdened with various packages; and after
the whole had been assembled for a few minutes in the court-yard,
Charles of Montsoreau himself, accompanied by his brother and the Abbe
de Boisguerin, descended the steps from the great hall, while his own
strong charger was led forth, together with a spare horse to be led in
hand by one of the grooms.
The countenance of the young nobleman was pale as the day before, and
deep emotions were certainly busy in his bosom. But his aspect was
calm and collected; and he gazed round the chateau of his fathers,
from which he was going forth, perhaps for the last time, with an air
of grave and tranquil resolution, which contrasted strongly and
strangely with the agitation evident on the countenance of his
brother. He grasped the hand of the Abbe de Boisguerin in silence;
then spoke a few words, and made a few inquiries of his attendants;
and at length turning to his brother, extended his hand to him, fixing
his full eyes upon his countenance, and saying, "Farewell, Gaspar!"
The Marquis pressed his hand eagerly, but he did not speak, for he was
agitated in a very terrible degree; and his brother put his foot into
the stirrup, and slowly threw himself into the saddle, in a manner
very different from that light and buoyant one with which he usually
mounted his horse to go forth from the same walls.
As he was passing through the archway, however, something suddenly
seemed to strike him; and he turned his horse round to say to his
brother, "Remember my poor dog Lupo, and be kind to him, Gaspar," and
his eye ran for a moment over the upper windows, at one of which the
curtain was partly drawn back, though neither the hand that drew it,
nor the eyes which gazed from behind it, were visible to the sight of
those below.
Charles of Montsoreau turned his horse again, and rode through the
archway.--"God bless you, sir!" said the warder who stood near;--"God
prosper you, my noble young count," said the porter of the gates--and
in another minute Charles was riding away from his home.
At the bridge across the stream, the party which thus left the chateau
of Montsoreau found another horseman waiting to join them on their
way; no other than the blithe-looking forester, Gondrin, who, with all
his earthly goods enclosed in a large pack behind him, and mounted on
a powerful horse which had borne him many a mile in various forest
sports, looked not a whit the less cheerful--not a whit the more
depressed--at quitting the place which he had made his home for
several years, than he did upon going out in the morning to track the
footsteps of a boar or deer in the course of his usual occupations.