attachments absolutely local. There was far more of the dog than of
the cat in his nature. Where those he loved were, there was his home;
and if those he loved had not been with him, he would have felt a
stranger even in his birthplace. Our local attachments, indeed, are in
themselves almost all made up of associations; the pleasures that we
have tasted--the happy hours that we have known--the friends that we
have loved--the sports, the pastimes, the little incidents--ay, even
some of the pains of life are woven by memory and association into
ties to bind our affections to certain places. Our loves and our
friendships almost always derive the vigour of their bonds from the
present and the past together--the ties of local attachments are all
found in the past.
On the present occasion, Gondrin had with him the great object of his
love and admiration: his young lord, the Count of Logeres. He had with
him, too, in the train of his master, more than one old companion of
his forest sports. Two of the under piqueurs were to follow him as
soon as safe-conducts could be obtained for them, with six dogs, which
were the special joy of his heart; so that--with the abatement of a
certain degree of anxiety regarding the temporal welfare of the
aforesaid hounds--Gondrin was as happy as he could be; and whether on
his horse's back, or reposing in the inn-kitchen, or resting by the
roadside, he considered himself just as much at home as in his cottage
under the castle of Montsoreau.
He bowed low to his lord as the young nobleman came up, and would have
spoken to him also with his usual frank cheerfulness, but Gondrin was
as shrewd an observer of men's faces as he was of beasts' footmarks;
and he saw on the countenance of Charles of Montsoreau such
indubitable traces of care and thought, that he judged it better to
fall back at once amongst his companions in the rear, whose gay voices
and merry laughter soon showed the effect of his presence.
Of his young lord, Gondrin had judged rightly, when he thought
that he was in no mood to be interrupted in pursuing the current of
his own ideas. The heart of Charles of Montsoreau was too sad
and sorrowful--too full of bitter memories--too full of dark
anticipations--to bear any interruption with patience. He had parted
from Marie de Clairvaut--he had parted from her probably for ever--he
had been disappointed in his hopes of love returned--he had
voluntarily sacrificed the chance of winning her--he had cast away the
bright and golden opportunity--he had cast away the delight of her
society--he had left behind him the home of his infancy, a place
filled with every sweet memory--he had parted, too, from his brother,
the object of all his early affections, and had parted from him with
feelings changed, and with a heart wounded and bleeding.
Yet on his way he was borne up by the consciousness of rectitude, and
by the vigour of high resolves. He had determined resolutely and
firmly, not only to put down in his bosom any vain hopes of ever
obtaining the hand of her he loved, but, as far as possible, to
conquer that affection--not only to leave his brother full opportunity
of striving for her hand himself, but to aid, as far as it was in his
power, by every exertion and by every thought, to remove all ordinary
difficulties from his brother's path. He had already laid out his
plans, he had already made up his mind to his course of action. He
would go to Logeres, he thought; he would call out the numerous
retainers which were then at his disposal; he would take a part in the
strifes of the day; he would attach himself to the Princes of the
house of Guise; and he doubted not to be enabled to render such
service to their cause, as to obviate all opposition, on their part,
to the union of his brother with the daughter of one of the younger
branches of their family.
He hoped that it might be so; and he trusted that it might be so. He
could not, indeed, deceive himself into a belief that he could wish
Marie de Clairvaut to return his brother's love. That he could not do:
but if his brother won that love, he could at least contribute, he
thought, to his gaining her hand also; for there was something in his
bosom which told him--though they had never yet competed for any great
stake--that he possessed energies and powers which would enable him to
accomplish more, far more, than Gaspar could achieve in the eager
strife of the world.
Such were his views, and such his determinations; but it need hardly
be said, that in forming those views and determinations, there ran
through the whole web of his thoughts the dark and mournful threads of
disappointment, and care, and regret. He was gloomy then, and
melancholy; and though to all who approached him, he spoke
kindly--though he was ever considerate and thoughtful for their
comfort, he uttered not one word uncalled for, and ever fell back into
silent thought as soon as he had uttered any order or direction.
The scene through which he passed was certainly not one well
calculated to dissipate gloomy thoughts. After the first four or five
miles, it subsided into a flat watery country, with manifold streams
and marshes, and long rows of stunted osiers and low woods seen in dim
straight lines for many miles over the horizon, with nothing breaking
the continuity of brown but thin white mists rising up from the dells
and hollows, and looking cold, and sickly, and mysterious. The pale
grey overhanging sky vouchsafed but little light to the earth; and
though the sun at one period struggled to break through, his radiant
countenance looked wan and faint. The road itself was heavy and
tiresome for the horses, and relieved by nothing but an occasional
plashy meadow; while ever and anon a wild duck flapped heavily up from
the morass, or a snipe started away at the sound of the horses' feet
with a shrill, low cry.
Seldom, if ever, does it happen that the aspect of the scene through
which we pass has not some effect upon us. When deeply absorbed in our
own thoughts; when filled with grief, or care, or anxiety; or even
when occupied altogether with thoughts of joy and happiness to come,
we know not, we do not perceive the scene around us stealing into our
spirit, mingling with, and giving a colouring to, all our thoughts and
feelings, softening or deepening, rendering brighter or more dark, the
colouring of all our affections at the moment. But still it does so:
still every object that our eyes rest upon, every sound that greets
our ear, has its effect upon the mood of the moment; and the sadness
of Charles of Montsoreau, the dark disappointment, the bitter regret,
the withering of all his hopes, the casting behind him of his home and
all sweet associations, were rendered darker, more painful, more
terrible than they otherwise would have been, by the sky, which seemed
to frown back the frown of fate, and by the misty prospect, as dim, as
vague, as cheerless as the future of life appeared to his mind's eye.
At length, between ten and eleven o'clock, a little village presented
itself; but the population was few and scanty, while a sickly shade,
as if from the bad air of the place, pervaded more or less almost
every countenance, and bespoke the marshy nature of the soil. In the
middle of this little place, where in England would have been a
village green, was an old stone cross covered with lichens, and
exactly opposite to it, at the side, appeared a large stone building
with a bush over the door, and written above it, "The Inn for
Travellers on horseback.--Dinner at fourteen sols a head."
The horses and the servants wanted both rest and food, and Charles of
Montsoreau turned in thither. He himself, however, ate nothing, and
continued walking up and down before the door, musing bitterly of the
future. It mattered not to the innkeeper, indeed, whether the young
nobleman ate his viands or not; for though he had a certain pride
therein, he charged as much for each man that entered the doors,
whether they ate or not, as if they had consumed the best of his
larder; and though he would fain have bestowed the solace of his
company upon the young traveller, the manner of Charles of Montsoreau,
joined with a few words, soon showed him that his company would be
burdensome, and he wisely desisted.
Peace and quietness, however, were not to be the portion of Charles of
Montsoreau; for scarcely had the aubergiste left him to his own
reflections, when a number of gay sounds made themselves heard from
the other side of the village, and looking that way, the young count
saw a company of itinerant musicians, who, even in that time of war
and bloodshed, did not cease to practise their merry avocation,
wandering in gay dresses from city to city, sometimes exposed to
plunder and injury, but often strong enough and well enough armed to
defend themselves, or perhaps to pillage others.
To tell the truth, these traders in sweet sounds did not altogether
bear the very best of characters; and yet, in that time of discord and
tumult, when the greater part of men's time was given up to painful
thoughts of self-defence, or the fierce struggles of civil contention,
the wandering musicians were generally received with a glad heart to
every abode, and obtained payment of some kind, either in food or
money, for the temporary enjoyment they afforded.
The party which now approached consisted of two men, a woman, and a
boy. The two men were ferocious-looking persons enough, with dresses
of gay colours, embroidered with tinsel, and each bearing in his
girdle a dagger, the meretricious ornaments of which seemed adopted
for the purpose of persuading people that it was there only for show,
though in reality the sharp broad blade of highly tempered steel was
very well calculated to effect any murderous purpose. The woman had
once, perhaps, been pretty, and she now decked out charms, blighted
perhaps by vice as much as faded by time, with every ornament within
her reach. The boy, however, was the personage of the group certainly
the most interesting. He preceded his brethren along the street,
playing on a small pipe, from which he produced most exquisite sounds;
while a small spaniel dog ran on before him, and from time to time
stood upon his hind legs, much to the amusement of the children and
women that followed the musicians.
The truth is, the whole band had been lodging at the other end of the
village, in one of those little public houses called, in those days,
_Repues_; but hearing of the arrival of a body of gay cavaliers at the
larger inn, they were coming up in haste to see how many sous their
music could extract from the pockets of the troop. The two elder men
and the woman were pushing in at once into the auberge, without taking
any note of the young Count de Logeres, whom they looked upon as a
mere idler at an inn-door; but the boy stopped, and, uncovering his
dark curly head, gazed for a moment in the count's face, with eyes
full of fire and intelligence.
He had scarcely paused a moment, however, when one of the men
returning, caught him violently by the arm, exclaiming, "What are you
lingering for, idle fool?" and struck him a blow upon the face with
the open hand, which left the print of his fingers upon the boy's
young cheek. The boy neither wept nor complained, but stood with his
hands by his sides, a dark and bitter frown upon his brow, and a
flashing fire in his eye, which showed that his passive calmness
proceeded from no want of indignant sensibility to the injury. The
blow might very likely have been repeated, had not the man's eye, at
that moment, fallen upon Charles of Montsoreau, and perceived in his
countenance a look of angry indignation, while his apparel and bearing
at once showed that he was superior to the party whom the musicians
had met with within.
"Come in, Ignati," cried the musician, with somewhat of a foreign
accent; "either play on your pipe to the gentleman here, or come and
help us to sing to the company within doors."
"I will not go in," said the boy, "unless you make me; but I will sing
the gentleman a song here, if he likes it."
"Ay, do, do," said the man; "sing him that Gaillard song with the
chorus."
"I am in no mood, my poor boy," said Charles of Montsoreau, "to take
pleasure in your music. My heart is too sad for your gay sounds. There
is something for you, however. Go in, and sing to the lighter hearts
within."
And giving him a small piece of money, he was turning away; but the
boy drew closer to him, and looking up in his face with a sweet and
kindly smile, pressed him to hear his music.
"Oh let me sing to you," he said, "let me sing to you, noble
gentleman. You don't know what music can do for a sad heart. It often
makes mine less heavy; and I will choose you a song, where even the
gay words are sad, so that they shall not be harsh to the most
sorrowful ear."
"Well, my good boy," replied the count, "if you must sing, let it be
so; but you must expect me to listen but lightly, for I have many
things to think of."
The boy instantly laid down his pipe on a bench by the door, and
lifting his two hands gracefully, which had before been clasped
together, he looked up for a minute to the sky, and then began his
song, as follows:--
SONG.
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Dost thou remember brighter hours
Shining upon thy happy way,
Like morning sunshine upon dewy flowers?
Oh, join my lay,
And with me say,
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Has fortune's favour left thee
(Ebbing fast away),
Like stranded vessel by a summer sea?
Oh, join my lay,
And with me say,
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Have the eyes that once were smiling
Now learnt to stray,
Other hearts as fond as thine beguiling?
Then join my lay,
And with me say,
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
Has love's blossom suffer'd blight
'Neath misfortune grey,
Like flow'rs in the frost of a wintry night?
Oh, join my lay,
And with me say,
Gue, gue, well-a-day!
The boy's music had contrived to fix the attention of Charles of
Montsoreau, and awakened an unexpected interest in the fate of the
youth, who seemed capable, not only of the mere mechanical art of
singing the words of others, or, like a taught bird, whistling music
by rote, but of feeling every word and every tone that he uttered. As
the young nobleman looked from his face to that of the man whom he
accompanied, and who sat by his side on the bench at the door, gazing
at him with an affected smile upon his coarse assassin-like features,
he could not but think that it must be a hard fate for that poor,
sensitive-looking boy to wander on under the domination of a harsh
being like that, and he almost longed to deliver him from it. He gave
the boy some additional money, however, which made the man's eyes
gleam; and he was proceeding to ask some questions regarding the fate
and history of the whole party, when Gondrin and the rest of the
servants issued forth with the horses, and Charles of Montsoreau
prepared to mount.
"These are the vagabonds, my lord," said Gondrin, "who were up at the
castle gates on the day you saved Mademoiselle de Clairvaut from
drowning."
"I did not see them," replied Charles of Montsoreau with some
surprise--"I did not remark any one there."
"No," answered the boy with a light smile, "no, you were thinking too
much of some one else."
"You must have made speed to get here before me," said Charles of
Montsoreau.
"Ay, we go by paths, sir, that you cannot go on horseback," joined in
the man; "and we will be at the next inn gate before you to-night, if
you would like to hear the boy's music again."
"Perhaps I may," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "at all events, you
shan't go without reward."
"We will be there, we will be there," replied the man; and the Count
having ascertained that the reckoning was paid, rode on upon his way.
The little incident which had broken in upon the train of his
melancholy thoughts did not very long occupy his mind. "This must be a
shrewd boy," he thought, "to adapt his song so well to the
circumstances; for it is clearly from what he saw at the castle gates
that he judged of the nature of my feelings, and sang accordingly."
Thus thinking, he rode on, and his mind readily reverted to the darker
topics which had before occupied it. When he arrived at the sleeping
place, which were in those days called _Gites_, he found a large and
comfortable inn, such as was scarcely ever to be met with in any other
country but France in those days. He looked naturally for the band of
musicians at the door; but it seemed that they had either forgotten
their promise, or had not yet arrived; and the young count had entered
the hall and commenced his supper before there was a sign of their
approach.
The first thing that gave him any intimation of their coming was the
sound of voices speaking sharp and angrily in the Italian language;
and he thought he heard amongst them the tones of the boy uttering a
few, but indignant, words of remonstrance.
Rising from the table at which he sat, the young count approached the
window, and found that he was right in supposing the party of
musicians had arrived. The boy was standing in the midst, and the
woman, as well as the two men, were bending over him, talking to him
earnestly, with vehement grimaces on the countenance of each, while
the clenched fist of the elder man shaken unceasingly, though not
raised even so high as his own girdle, showed that some threats were
being used to the boy, in order, apparently, to drive him to
something, to do which he was unwilling. Although the window was on a
level with their heads, the count could not distinguish what they
said, for they were now speaking low, though still eagerly. They
raised their voices, indeed, almost to a scream, when they uttered
some wild Italian exclamation, but it was meaningless without the
context. At length, however, to the surprise of Charles of Montsoreau,
the boy seemed moved by a sudden fit of rage; and lifting the hand
which held his pipe, he dashed the instrument of music upon the
ground, shivering it to atoms, and exclaiming, "Never! never! I will
neither sing nor play a note!"
At that instant the elder man struck him a blow on the side of the
head, which knocked him at once down upon the road; and Charles of
Montsoreau opening the window, leaped out, and interfered, while
several of his attendants followed him from the supper room.
The faces of the Italians fell when they saw him; and there was a sort
of confused and guilty look about them, which might well have made any
one of a suspicious nature believe that they had been planning no very
good schemes, when the obstinacy of the boy had obstructed them.
"You treat this youth ill," said Charles of Montsoreau, frowning upon
the man who had struck him. "Are you his father?"
"No, the blessed Virgin be thanked!" exclaimed the Italian; "his name
is Carlo Ignatius Morone, though we call him Ignati. No, obstinate
little brute! he is no child of mine! I bought him of his mother to
sing and dance for us. A bad bargain I made of it too, for he does not
gain his own bread with his whims. His mother was a courtezan of
Genoa."
"She was not my mother!" cried the boy in an indignant tone. "My mother
was dead long before that. But whatever she was, Paulina Morone was
always kind to me; and she would never have sold me to you, if I had
not asked her, when she had no bread to eat herself, and had given me
the last crust she had to give."
"This is a sad history," said Charles of Montsoreau; "and as you say
the boy does not gain his own bread, you will, doubtless, be glad
enough to sell him to me, my good friend."
The man hesitated. "I don't know that exactly," he said, "noble lord.
The boy can sing well, if he likes it, as you know; and he can play
well both upon the pipe and the lute when he likes it and is not
obstinate; and he is as active as a Basque, and can dance better than
any one I ever saw. Would you like to see him dance, my lord? I'll
make him dance fast enough. That I can always do with a good stout
stick, though sing he won't unless he likes it."
"I wonder not at it," replied the count. "But you shall not make him
dance for me. What I wish to know is, will you sell him to me? You
said you had made a bad bargain, and that he did not gain his own
bread, much less repay you."
"Not here in the provinces, sir," replied the man. "But I am sure if I
took him to Paris, I could make a good sum by showing him to the lords
and ladies there. However, I will sell him, if I can make something by
him, sooner than be burdened with him any more."
"What do you demand?" said Charles of Montsoreau. "If you are
moderate, perhaps I may give it to you, for I like to hear the boy
sing."
"I will have," said the man, "I will have at least a hundred and fifty
crowns of gold, crowns of the sun, sir, remember, or I'll not part
with the boy."
"That is three times as much as you gave to the Morone," cried the
boy--"you know it is."
"Ay, little villain," answered the man; "but have I not brought you
from Italy since, and fed you for more than a year?"
"And spent a fortune in cudgels too upon him," said the woman.
Charles of Montsoreau gave her a glance of contempt, and then turned
his look towards the boy, whose eyes were full of tears. The sum that
was asked for him was, in fact, considerable, each gold crown being in
that day worth sixty sous, and the value of money itself, as compared
with produce, being about five times that which it is at present. But
the young nobleman, unaccustomed to traffic in human flesh, that most
odious and horrible of all the rites of Mammon, looked upon the sum to
be given as a mere trifle when compared with the boy's deliverance
from the hands into which he had fallen.
"You shall have the money," he said.--"Gondrin, bid Martin bring me
the leathern bag which he carries, and I will pay the sum
immediately."
The first sensation of the Italian was joy, at having over-reached the
young French nobleman, the second was equally natural to the people,
and the class to which he belonged, sorrow at not having contrived to
over-reach him to a greater extent. The money, however, being
produced, and the sum paid, the boy demanded and received from the
younger man, who carried a pack upon his shoulders, some little
articles of property belonging, he said, to himself.
"The boy is now yours, my Lord," said the Italian, looking wistfully
at the closing mouth of the bag; "but surely your Lordship will give
me another crown for the bargain's sake."
"I will tell you what I will give you," replied Charles of
Montsoreau:--"if you and your base companions do not take yourselves
out of the place as fast as your legs can carry you, I will order my
horsemen to flog you for a mile along the road with their stirrup
leathers."
The man put his hand, with a meaning look, to the gilded hilt of his
dagger; but, in an instant, one buffet from the hand of Charles of
Montsoreau replied to the mute sign, by laying him prostrate on the
ground. A loud laugh echoed from the inn door at this conclusion of
the scene; and starting on his feet again, the Italian and his
companions hurried away as fast as possible, the elder one only
pausing for a moment, at about a hundred yards' distance, to shake his
clenched fist at the young nobleman, with a meaning look.
"Come, my boy," said the Count, "come and get thee some supper. Thou
shalt be better treated at least with me than with them."
The boy caught his hand, and kissed it a thousand times, and the young
nobleman led him towards the house, asking him as they went, "What was
it they wished you to do when I came out to stop them from maltreating
you?"
"To sing and play to you, and engage all your thoughts," replied the
boy, "while they stole the jewel out of your hat, and put a piece of
glass in its place."
CHAP. IX.
The sweetest of all balms to a hurt mind is the doing a good action;
and with that for his consolation, Charles of Montsoreau retired to
rest, and, though he slept not well, certainly, he obtained more
repose than he had expected. On the following morning, he found--that
which we so often find--that things done for kindly and benevolent
purposes bear with them sources of recompense to ourselves which we
never calculated upon. The unfortunate boy whom he had delivered from
the hands of his persecutors on the preceding day, afforded the young
count a subject of interest and occupation, that withdrew his thoughts
from more painful themes, and gave him a degree of relief, which,
though merely temporary, was in itself a blessing.