Montsoreau drew his men out again from the wood, and, perfectly secure
from any further annoyance, began to count his loss, and to examine
into the state of the wounded men who had continued to fight on by his
side. He himself was bleeding from a sharp wound in the head, received
from so strong a blow of one of the reiter's heavy swords, that not
even his steel cap had been able to protect him. He had another wound,
also, from a pistol ball in the left arm; but it was very slight, and
had not prevented him from managing his horse with ease. Almost every
man about him was more or less wounded, and some severely, but only
two had been left on the ground from which he had been driven; and he
hastened on after the two parties still engaged in conflict, to see
for those who were thus missing.
Luckily, the reiters, in their retreat, had followed the straight road
behind them, instead of taking that by which they came; otherwise the
whole force of charging cavalry must have passed over the young
count's two followers.
One of them was still living, and afterwards recovered, though he was
at the time so severely wounded in the leg that he could not move from
the spot where he lay. The other was quite dead, a pistol ball having
passed through his head.
The road through the wood was now, for a minute or two, turned into an
hospital; and all that was possible was done to stanch the bleeding of
the wounds which had been received, and to put the men in a state to
pursue their onward journey towards Rheims. Nor were the wounded
reiters themselves neglected; for Charles of Montsoreau was not one to
forget, as soon as the eagerness of the actual strife was over, that
his adversaries were his fellow-men.
This had been scarcely completed, and the young count once more on
horseback again, when the sound of distant trumpets ringing merrily
through the wood gave notice that the horsemen of Lorraine were on
their return; and in a few minutes after a group of some six or seven
cavaliers, with Maitre Henri at their head, appeared coming up the
road, followed at the distance of a couple of hundred yards by the
body of cavalry he had met with so opportunely. All was laughter and
merriment amongst the little group of officers; and, though Maitre
Henri himself was not loud in his mirth, he came on smiling at the
jests and gibes of the others, and sometimes answering them in the
same strain, though with a manner somewhat chastened and stately.
At the distance of about twenty or five and twenty yards from the
young count, he held up his hand to the troops that followed,
pronouncing die word "Halt!" Then riding up with his group of
officers, he grasped Charles of Montsoreau warmly by the hand; and,
turning to those who followed, said, "Noble lords, to this gallant
gentleman, to his courage, skill, determination, and good faith, I owe
life or liberty. You are witnesses that, in the fullest manner, I
acknowledge the debt, and that in no manner will I fail to pay it,
when he chooses to call upon me."
"Your highness is too generous in your consideration of the service,"
replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I came from a distant part of France
to seek you, in order to offer you my poor services--perhaps somewhat
tardily--in your efforts to chase from the soil of our native country
bands of foreign adventurers who have no business to meddle with our
intestine quarrels. I found you likely to be surprised by accident by
one of those bands; and what could I do less than assist you to the
utmost of my power?"
"Our views of the extent of the service," replied the Duke of Guise,
with the bright smile of his house playing on his lip, "must be
somewhat different, I fear, my young friend. But now we have met, we
will not part speedily. You must be my guest, and go on with me, first
to Rheims, and then to Soissons, with all speed. There we will talk of
our future alliance; for the Count de Logeres and the Duke of Guise
shall treat together as crown to crown, and nobody call it treason. I
have," he continued in a lower voice, but with a marked and meaning
smile--"I have to ask you many questions in regard to a fair child of
our house, who has, according to her letters and to yours, received
the same protection and defence at your hands which you have this day
afforded her uncle. Perhaps it may be on her account that you come to
seek me. Is it so, good friend?"
The words of the Duke--those words which, under other circumstances,
might have been the brightest and the dearest to the heart of Charles
of Montsoreau--now entered into his spirit like a sword. The beaming
smile of his race upon the lip of the princely Guise called up
before the eye of fancy in a moment the form of the beautiful and
beloved being on whose countenance he had first seen it. All his
tenderness--all his affection for her--all the deep, unchangeable
attachment of his heart--were felt at that moment more deeply, more
powerfully, than ever; but, at the same time, strong upon his mind,
came the bitter resolution he had taken to yield his hopes of
happiness, to cast away his chance, his most probable chance, of the
brightest joy that fancy could dream of, and to yield to the brother
who had ill-treated him all those advantages which he himself of right
possessed.
The blood fled from his cheek to his heart, as if to strengthen it
against the pains and against the temptations of that moment; and the
Duke of Guise, seeing him turn very pale, judged, perhaps, wrongly of
his feelings, and again grasped him by the hand, saying, "Fear not,
fear not, good friend. Come, let us on upon our way. I may meet with
tidings at Rheims to hasten my progress onwards."
CHAP. XI.
During the two days that followed the events recorded in the last few
pages, Charles of Montsoreau had scarcely any opportunity of speaking
with the Duke of Guise, without that multitude of listeners around,
which renders all conversation general and frequently insignificant.
It is true he dwelt in the same splendid hotel which served the Duke
for his residence in the city of Rheims; that he dined with him at the
same table; that he was present on every occasion when he received the
nobles who flocked around him. But the continual press of business of
various kinds, the constant coming and going of couriers from and to
Paris and Nancy; the writing of letters that seemed innumerable, and
the almost hourly consultations with different members of the clergy
and officers of the army, seemed to occupy the whole private time of
the Duke of Guise, and to leave him no space for either thought or
repose.
At length on the third morning, when the young nobleman had
breakfasted with the Duke in company with the Duke of Nemours, the
Baron d'Aussonville, the bailiff of St. Michael, and a number of other
gentlemen, with two or three ladies of the good town of Rheims--who
seemed not a little anxious to attract the attention of the
Duke--Guise, on rising to proceed to other business, drew his young
friend aside for a moment, and asked him some questions concerning the
wounded men. The Count replied that they all bade fair to recover; and
after a few words more, spoken in the same tone, and evidently
intended for the ears of those around, though apparently addressed to
him in private, the Duke dropped his voice nearly to a whisper,
saying, "I have much to talk with you about. Sup with me alone
to-night at nine o'clock, when I trust we shall have time to make all
our arrangements."
Charles of Montsoreau did not miss the hour; but descending from the
apartments which had been assigned to him, and which were immediately
over those of the Duke, he proceeded to the hall where he had usually
found him, but in which he now met with no one but a solitary
lute-player, a great favourite with the Duke of Guise. The musician
was now seated with his instrument in his hand, with one of his feet
raised upon the huge andirons of the fireplace, and his hands employed
in striking from time to time a few low and listless sounds from the
instrument that lay upon his knee. The man had thus been apparently
left solitary for some time; for no sooner did Charles of Montsoreau
appear, than, seizing him by one of the buttons of his doublet, he
began to tell him a long story, of not the most interesting kind, from
which the young count would willingly have delivered himself.
Perhaps the greatest art of human benevolence that can be conceived,
is that of listening with a tolerable appearance of satisfaction to a
tiresome tale; and Charles of Montsoreau, whose heart was really kind
and gentle, and who had not yet learned in the great wise school of
the world the lesson of treading upon the feelings of others, did his
best to seem interested, till one of the Duke's servants entered the
room, and, after a glance around, retired without any further
announcement. A moment or two after, while the young nobleman was
still in the sort of durance in which the lute-player held him, the
servant again made his appearance, and, walking straight up to him,
informed him that the Duke wished to speak with him in his cabinet.
"Show me the way," said the young nobleman, detaching his button from
the grasp of the musician--"show me the way, and I will come
directly."
"Oh, I will go with you, and show you the way," exclaimed the
lute-player: "I've no idea of staying here all by myself, as
melancholy as a rat in a rat-trap."
"His Highness particularly said," observed the servant in a dry tone,
"that he wished to converse with Monsieur de Logeres alone."
The lute-player looked confounded and mortified; but Charles of
Montsoreau, not a little pleased to be rid of his company, followed
the attendant, and in a few moments was ushered into the Duke's
cabinet. It was a small but somewhat lengthened octangular room, lined
throughout with dark black oak, carved in the most exquisite manner.
From the centre of the ceiling hung a silver chain, bearing a large
lamp of the same material, with eight burners. At the further end of
the room was the fireplace, and in the midst a small table with two
covers and a number of dishes and cups of silver, some plain, some
jewelled at the rim.
The Duke himself was standing at the farther side with his back to the
fire, reading a letter by the light of a small lamp which shed its
rays over his shoulder; and certainly as he stood there, now dressed
in the magnificent costume of those days, partially reclining against
the projecting chimney, with the letter raised in his hand, the light
of the lamp streaming over his shoulder, but catching brightly upon
his cheek and lip, and on the rich brown beard and mustachio, with the
deep carved oak behind him, and a certain sort of gloomy splendour
round that part of the room, there probably never was any thing so
graceful, so princely, so dignified, as his whole appearance.
He folded up the letter as soon as Charles of Montsoreau's step
sounded in the cabinet, and banishing a slight frown which had been
upon his brow while reading, he advanced to the table with a smile
saying, "Our viands are getting cold, Monsieur le Comte."
"I went into the usual hall," replied the young nobleman, "not knowing
where to find your Highness, and fearful of intruding upon you."
"I should have told you, I should have told you, dear friend," replied
the Duke: "when I wish to have an hour in private for conversation
with any of my most confidential friends, I sup in my own cabinet,
which is the only place to which my worthy countrymen and
acquaintances will grant the right of sanctuary.--Now Martinez," he
continued, speaking to the servant, "uncover the dishes, put us down
some good wine, bring me in a _naquet_ to hold our dirty platters, and
then leave us."
"The attendant did as he was commanded, removed the tops of the
dishes, put several bottles of wine down by the side of the Duke, and
after bringing in a sort of buffet on a small scale, somewhat like
what we now call a dumb waiter, but which was then called by the name
of _naquet_, (though that word was only properly applied to the marker
of a tennis-court), he retired, shutting the door closely behind him.
"This is an hour of relief," said the Duke, as soon as the man was
gone; "for our business to-night, dear count, must of course be light
and easy to us both--light to you, because you have nothing to do but
to express your wishes and desires to Henry of Guise, and light to me,
as nothing can be more joyful to my heart than to show my gratitude
for the services that you have rendered me, and to express, in every
manner in my power, my esteem and regard for yourself, and my
admiration for your conduct."[3]
---------------------
[Footnote 3: Those who may be inclined to suppose such language
inconsistent with the character of the proud, ambitious politician,
which Guise is often represented to have been, need but read any of
his letters to Bassonpierre, or any other of his personal friends, to
see with what openhearted affection he dealt with them.]
---------------------
"Oh, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "I thought you had
forgotten by this time to use such high-flown expressions towards me."
"Call them not high-flown, good friend," replied the Duke: "persons
situated as I am, dealing with and often obliged of sheer necessity to
excite the worst passions of our fellow-creatures, meet so rarely with
frank, disinterested service, that when it comes upon us in the sudden
way that yours has come upon me, without claim, without expectation,
without any previous notice, it strikes us as something both wonderful
and beautiful; and we admire, as we would the visit of an angel, that
which gives us a view of a fairer state of being than the one with
which our daily thoughts are familiar. Besides, if I must own the
truth, too, there was something in the frankness--some of my adulators
would call it the bluntness--with which you dealt with me in the
little inn at Mareuil, evidently knowing me all the time, but still
treating me as the comrade of an inn dining-room, which, as you may
suppose, struck me not a little. But a truce to all fine speeches: let
us begin our supper; and after doing justice to what Maitre Lanecque
has set before us, we will discuss the matter further at our ease."
Although the cookery of that day, as exemplified in a small but
refined supper of the Duke of Guise, might well astonish, both from
its materials and its combinations, any of the culinary artists of the
present day, both the Duke and his young friend found it excellent,
and every thing was praised as it deserved. The wine also was of the
finest kind that could be procured, and the Duke was liberal of it;
but Charles of Montsoreau was not one to be tempted by any vintage to
drink more than was beneficial to him either corporeally or mentally;
and though the Duke of Guise drank more than himself, he pressed not
the ruby juice of the grape upon his young friend after he once saw
that it might become disagreeable to him.
Towards Charles of Montsoreau, indeed, he had none of those designs
which lead wily politicians sometimes to press the wine-cup upon a
tyro. He might, it is true, be somewhat surprised at the easy and
courtly grace with which a young nobleman, educated almost entirely in
the provinces, met and mingled with the highest and most stately in
the land; and he might, consequently, be a little inclined to see him
off his guard; but when he found that he was not disposed to take any
more, he abstained from asking him, and pursued the subject of their
former discourse, interrupted by various little remarks upon things of
an ordinary character, touching them, however, with grace and ease,
which raised them all, and made them harmonise with graver discourse.
"Now, Monsieur de Logeres," he said, as soon as he had passed to his
young friend the dish at his end of the table with which they
commenced the meal, "tell me clearly and exactly what were your
motives and your views in coming hither from so far to seek me; for it
would seem that you have been acting entirely independently of your
brother. Speak to me, my good friend, without reserve of any kind, as
to a brother--as to a father, if you will--for I am old enough surely,
both in years and experience, to claim that title, though indeed it is
not I who have given you life, but you to whom I owe it."
"It is scarcely either needful or possible, my Lord," replied the
young count, "for me to tell your Highness more than I have already
told. In the first place, I came to see my lands of Logeres, which, as
you well know, lie not above forty or fifty miles from this spot--a
long day's journey. I have only seen them once since the death of my
father. I have withdrawn but a small part of the revenues from the
improvement of the territory, and the encouragement of the peasantry;
and it is time that I should now see what is the state of the whole.
At the same time, I thought and believed that I had remained somewhat
too long a spectator of the contentions which distract my native land.
Now, my Lord Duke, I had to choose between three personages, the great
leaders of the present day--Henry of Navarre, Henry of France, and
Henry Duke of Guise, The first seemed to me out of the question,
though a gallant and a noble prince; for, waging war as he does, for
the advancement of heresy, it was not for me to draw my sword in such
a cause. Between the other two there could surely be no question; for
though I may not think your Highness always right in every thing that
you have done, yet as a gallant and a knightly leader, as one whom a
brave and true-hearted man may follow, there is none whom I know that
I could choose against yourself from one end of Europe to the other.
In attaching myself to you, too, I trust and am sure that I do not ill
serve my king; and, to say but the truth, I would far rather serve his
Majesty under another, than come within the reach of his perfumes and
cosmetics."
The Duke of Guise smiled, and leaning his arm upon the table, gazed
down for a moment or two in a meditative mood, not a little struck and
surprised at the calm and reasoning, but bold and straight-forward
frankness with which his young companion spoke. Perhaps, too, he
traced back into the past the various motives and views with which the
different distinguished men, who appeared as followers of the three
leaders mentioned, had chosen their party, and he might find none
amongst them all who were actuated by such feelings as the young man
before him. He was silent for several moments then; and the first
thing that roused him was the young count adding, to what he had said,
"Indeed, my Lord, this was my pure and simple motive."
"I doubt it not. Monsieur de Logeres," replied the Duke, drawing
towards him another dish--"I doubt it not; and this is a pure and
simple salmi, and apparently as good a one as ever was cooked; but
still, if you were to ask Maitre Lanecque to analyse it--try it, good
friend, you will find it an antidote against all the poisons and evils
of the inn at Mareuil, and other such pestiferous places--but, as I
was saying, if you were to ask Maitre Lanecque to analyse this simple
salmi, you would find it composed of some hundreds of different things
besides the woodcock, which is the basis of the whole. All these
accessories are admirable in themselves, and contribute to make the
woodcock better. And thus it is in life. Every human motive is a
salmi, cooked by a skilful artist, for our own palates as well as
those that observe them. There is one grand and apparent cause of
action, which may be considered as the woodcock, but there are a
thousand minor motives, incentives, and inducements, the condiments,
the gravies, the truffles, the toast, which nobody ever thinks of
counting, which pass, in fact, under cover of the woodcock, and which,
nevertheless, all tend to make the salmi what it is. Now, I have no
doubt on earth, my dear young friend, that the great motive of your
coming hither was what you say; but were there not other motives
joined therewith--feelings, designs, views, and purposes of your own,
all mingling together, to aid and strengthen your original motive--in
fact, to make up the salmi?"
Charles of Montsoreau knew and felt that there were; for he could not
help remembering the real cause of his quitting his brother's dwelling
in such haste, and the resolutions then taken, which were still strong
within him, to be generous, even to the utmost extent of human
generosity, towards one who had been ungenerous to him. He now looked
down thoughtfully for a moment; but he was by nature far too frank and
open to conceal his thoughts from one who sought them in the way which
they were sought by the Duke of Guise.
"My Lord," he said, "if your Highness means to ask, whether there were
or were not private feelings which induced me at once to plunge into
contentions from which I had long withheld myself, and combined with
the general public motives which otherwise called upon me so to do, I
by no means deny that there were such feelings; and had it not been
for them--though I certainly think I should have joined your Highness
before many months were over--yet it might not have been so early or
so opportunely as it has turned out."
The Duke smiled frankly, and replied, "I thought so, Monsieur de
Logeres. You are always candid and true, and you shall see at once, by
my next question, why I asked you this so particularly. Tell me, has
not a fair relation of mine, who has found a place of refuge in the
castle of Montsoreau--has she not something to do with the motives
that you speak of?"
"She has, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau--"but not in the way
which I see you imagine."
The Duke laughed. "What!" he exclaimed,--"pretty Mistress Marie of
Clairvaut has, I suppose, been acting the prude with you, as usual,
and gave you warning, when it was too late, that she intended to
plunge herself into a convent. Take heart of grace, man--take heart of
grace. Though she has ever yet shown herself, in these affairs of
love, as cold as the top of the Vosges, and as hard as the
nether-millstone, yet she is always candid and true, poor girl; and in
two letters which have reached me from her hand, the one sent by your
own courier, the other arriving to-day, she speaks of you, and of your
services towards her, in terms that admit of no mistake. I do not mean
to say you know that you have won her heart, because her heart is not
one easily won, but I do most assuredly think that you may win it; and
if you do, as far as Henry of Guise's power goes, you win her too."
There is nothing so terrible on earth, as when some friendly hand
approaches to our lips the cup of joy, seeing not, knowing not, that
we must not, that we dare not, that we cannot drink, when accidental
words, perhaps most kindly spoken, present to the eye of fancy, in
colours more vivid than ever, the pictures that were once painted by
the hand of hope, after every fair reality that they represented is
done away, and nothing remains but the memory and the endurance.
Terrible, indeed, was the temptation of Charles of Montsoreau, and
terrible the struggle in his bosom. Not the arch-fiend himself could
exhort man to break high resolutions more powerfully, than did the
words spoken with the best intentions by the Duke of Guise. But
amongst those words were a few, which, by recalling to the mind of the
young nobleman most strongly the circumstances on which his
determination was founded, gave him strength to endure. Had the Duke
said that he knew her heart was won, those few words would have put
all his resolutions to an end; but he implied that her heart was not
won, and it was upon that persuasion that all his purposes had been
hitherto framed.
The Duke of Guise saw him once more turn very pale, and was not a
little puzzled to divine the cause. "Why do you not answer?" he
demanded, after pausing for a moment or two. "In consideration of a
vast service, I have spoken to you as I would to no other man under a
prince's dignity in Europe."