RICHELIEU,
A TALE OF FRANCE.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
RICHELIEU,
A TALE OF FRANCE.
I advise you that you read
The Cardinal's malice and his potency
Together: to consider further, that
What his high hatred would effect, wants not
A minister in his power.
SHAKSPEARE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1829.
DEDICATION.
TO
MY DEAR SIR,
YOUR name is too great a one to be trifled with, and therefore, I do not
put it at the head of this page. Should your anticipations in favour of
this work be realized, and its success be equal to my utmost hopes, I
dedicate it to you in testimony both of my gratitude for your kindness,
and my admiration for your genius; but should the hand of criticism cut
it short hereafter, or the frost of neglect wither it in the bud, I take
a humbler tone, and beg you only to accept my thanks for your good
wishes and kind encouragement. If it should succeed, you will, I am
sure, receive the work with some pleasure on my account;--if it fail,
you will still accept it as the only means I have of expressing my
feeling of obligation towards you; and, at all events, you will
understand my motive for not prefixing your name to the Dedication of a
book, the fate of which is yet doubtful.
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE.
DEARLY BELOVED READER,
ALTHOUGH I call the following pages _mine_, and upon the strength of
them write myself Author, yet I must in truth confess, that I have very
little to do with them, and still less to do with the story they record;
and therefore I am fain to treat the world with something of my own
exclusive composition, in the shape of a preface. The facts of the case
are as follow: I one day possessed myself of a bundle of manuscript
notes--no matter when or how, so that they were honestly come by, for
that is all that you, or I, or Sir Richard Birnie, have to do with the
matter. Now I say they were honestly come by, and the _onus probandi_
must rest upon the other party. So no more of that.
My dear Mr. Colburn, where was I? I quite forget--Oh, now I have it!
Having one day possessed myself of a bundle of manuscript
notes,--honestly come by,--I proceeded to read them, and although the
hand was small and crooked, with all the _k_'s shaped like Laocoons, and
every _g_ like a pair of spectacles, yet there was something in the tale
there written, that made me read it through before I rose off my chair,
although I did not then know, what I have since discovered, that every
word of it was true. Now this is an advantage which you, my dear reader,
have over me in perusing this history for the first time; for
unquestionably even upon my pure _ipse dixit_, you will believe that the
whole of the three volumes which follow, is neither more nor less than a
plain and simple narration of facts. Nevertheless, in case there should
be in the world any person so sceptical as to doubt the assertion, even
of a novelist, I will refer my reader to the well-known authorities of
the day, and merely observe, that though there may be some discrepancy
in the dates and some difference in the names, yet every individual
circumstance recorded in these pages, will be found to be collaterally
verified by contemporary writers of good repute, who, however, did not
know so much of the detail of the events in question as are disclosed in
the old manuscript alluded to, nor were they, like the writer of that
document, acquainted with the real causes of those movements which shook
the whole of France, and which, originating in the heart of the Court,
could only be detected by one who was himself a resident there. To you,
my dear reader, whose confidence in my word I know to be as unbounded as
the conscience of a tailor, or the stomach of an alderman, I have only
to remark, that the Hero of my tale is by no means a fabulous person.
My story opens with the latter years of the reign of Louis XIII. King of
France--a period memorable in English annals from the civil wars which
then raged between Charles I. and his rebellious Parliament, and no less
memorable in the history of France, as the most terrific portion of
Richelieu's bloody domination.
At the death of Henry IV. the Regency of the kingdom during her son's
minority, was seized upon by Mary de Medicis, a woman of considerable
talent and of vast ambition, whose primary object seems to have been, so
to secure the sovereign power to herself, that Louis during her life
should remain in a state of tutelage.
In such projects, but still more in her obstinate partiality for the
celebrated Marechal d'Ancre and his wife, originated a thousand
factions and civil wars, which kept the country in a continual state of
tumult during the King's minority. These factions, and the circumstances
which they engendered, necessarily gave rise to various rapid changes in
the Queen's ministry, and amidst these, for the first time, appeared on
the political stage Richelieu, then Bishop of Luçon. His prospects yet
doubtful, and his ambition still in its infancy, Richelieu made mildness
and courtesy his first steps towards pre-eminence. He contented himself
with an inferior station in the Council: his urbanity and his talents
proved equally agreeable and useful; and no one beheld in the calm and
polished Bishop of Luçon, any promise of the aspiring and remorseless
Cardinal de Richelieu.
A circumstance, however, occurred almost in the outset of his career,
which had nearly thrown him for ever from the destined scene of his
aggrandizement. This was the fall of the Marechal d'Ancre, and the
arrest of the Queen-mother.
On the marriage of Louis XIII., the jealous eye of Mary de Medicis soon
perceived her son's first affection towards his young wife, and, fearful
of an influence which might spring up to counteract her own, she found
means to destroy, without remorse, the domestic happiness of her child,
in order to secure her own dominion over him. But while she fomented
every disagreement between Louis and his wife, and watched the least
symptom of reviving affection with the suspicious anxiety of uncertain
power, she blindly suffered near his person a favourite who combined
with the genius to form great designs, the most consummate art to
conceal them. Monsieur de Luynes, it appears, from the first moment of
his intimacy with the King, projected his master's deliverance from the
tyranny of Mary de Medicis; but lest he should be suspected of such
designs, he hid them beneath the mask of levity and thoughtlessness. It
would be little appropriate here to enter more largely into the details
of these proceedings. Suffice it that in the end the Queen's favourite
was shot as he entered the palace of the Louvre, and she herself was
instantly arrested and exiled to Blois. Amongst others of her council
who shared in the fall of the Queen, was Richelieu, and for some time he
remained in exile at Avignon.
The Queen's party, however, was still strong in France; and in her
misfortunes, the factious and discontented, who had formerly opposed her
measures merely because she held the reins of government, now supported
her against the hand to which those reins had been transferred. A civil
war seemed inevitable, and in order to avert such an event, the King's
advisers found themselves obliged to negociate with the Princess, whom
they had dispossessed; but Mary rejected all intercession, and it was
not till the return of Richelieu that any compromise could be effected.
That minister, however, with the deep diplomatic skill for which he was
conspicuous, instantly availed himself of the weak point in the
character of his mistress, and through the medium of her confessor, won
her to his purpose. A reconciliation was now speedily effected between
Mary and her son, and Richelieu having become the friend of the one and
the confident of the other, saw himself placed more surely than ever in
the road to political eminence. Many circumstances combined to
accelerate his progress. The death of the Duke de Luynes, the religious
wars still raging in the heart of the kingdom, and the renewed
differences between the King and his mother,--all gave the rising
minister the means of increasing his power, and the opportunity of
displaying the vast energies of his extraordinary mind. All was subdued
before him; the Queen-mother was exiled; the Protestants were crushed;
and the King himself became the slave of Richelieu.
But power so acquired was only to be maintained at the expense of much
blood. Conspiracy after conspiracy was formed to cast off his dominion,
and more than one insurrection burst forth in opposition to his tyranny;
but each in turn was overthrown, and the blood of the conspirators only
served to cement the fabric of his greatness. Usurped power must still
have some object for suspicion, and after having quelled all his more
powerful adversaries, the jealousy of Richelieu turned towards the young
Queen, persecuting her with such uncalled for virulence as to induce
many to believe that his hatred proceeded from some more private and
personal cause than was apparent.
In the mean time, Louis himself, seldom called upon, except as a state
puppet, to sign some ordonnance, or hold some council under the
direction of Richelieu, lingered on in inactivity, yielding one
privilege after another to the grasping ambition of his minister,
without the dignity of royalty or the peace of private life. It is true
that, on more than one occasion, he was roused by circumstances to put
forth the native energies of his mind, but this was most frequently on
some trifling occurrence. And though the momentary flashes of a vigorous
intellect would show that nature had been originally bountiful to him,
yet he never evinced any steady determination of purpose. Richelieu
spared no pains to secure the power he had acquired; and that he might
leave the King no means of extricating himself, plunged the kingdom in
wars and negociations which he well knew that none but himself could
conduct with success. But here indeed his genius showed itself
resplendent. The government of a world seemed in his hands, and yet he
managed the complicated machine steadily and firmly, with a clear,
discerning eye, and a calm, unshrinking heart. Nevertheless, whether it
was that the multitude of his other avocations diverted his attention
from the minor regulations of the kingdom, or whether, as some believe,
he encouraged a disorganized state of the interior for political
purposes, it must be acknowledged that all contemporary accounts
represent the internal police of France during his administration, as in
a strangely deranged condition--a condition little to have been expected
from the vigour of his government, and the severe exactitude of his
disposition.
But so it was. The partizans of the various factions which had long been
embodied as armies, were fain, after his measures had dispersed them as
considerable bodies, to take refuge in the less cultivated parts of the
country--the mountains, the forests, or the wastes; and as they had
before lived by anarchy, they now contrived to subsist by plunder. The
nobles being called from their strong holds to expensive cities, and
compelled by Richelieu's jealousy to show themselves continually at his
luxurious Court, could no longer maintain the host of retainers which
had formerly revelled at their expense, and these also were obliged to
join themselves to the various bands of freebooters that infested the
country. Occasionally a merciless execution of some of these banditti
awed the rest for a time, but upon examining history, even to the end of
Richelieu's life, we find that while he governed the nobles with a rod
of iron, saw every attempt at conspiracy with a prophet's foresight, and
repressed it with a giant's strength, he overlooked or forgave those
crimes which did not affect his political situation.
Such was the state of France at the opening of the following history:
and now having attempted to prepare my reader's mind for what is to
follow, I have only farther to refer him to the notes at the end of the
third volume, in confirmation of my assertion, that this tale is
entirely true. The manuscript from which it is rendered in its present
form, possessed that air of fact which from the first left very little
doubt on my mind that the narrative was authentic; but not content with
this, I examined the best authorities, and had the pleasure of finding
that every material circumstance was perfectly unquestionable, and from
the acquaintance of the original writer with all the most minute points,
I cannot now divest myself of the idea that he must have been, in some
degree, an actor in what he narrates.
Be that as it may, I feel sure that whoever peruses it to the end will
be perfectly convinced of its truth; and in the hope that many will do
so, I leave them to commence their journey, wishing them all a safe and
happy arrival at its conclusion.
ERRATA.
VOL. I.
Page 49, line 5, _for_ 'illuminated,' _read_ 'illumined.'
-- 115, -- 16, _for_ 'shas hent,' _read_ 'has sent.'
-- 182, -- 15, _for_ 'the side,' _read_ 'your side.'
VOL. II.
Page 65, line 5, _for_ 'end,' _read_ 'beginning.'
-- 185, -- 15, _for_ 'whom,' _read_ 'as.'
VOL. III.
Page 216, line 18, _for_ 'wave,' _read_ 'waive.'
-- 342, -- 17, _for_ 'laid,' _read_ 'lain.'
RICHELIEU.
CHAPTER I.
Which shows what a French forest was in the year of our Lord 1642,
and by whom it was inhabited.
The vast Sylva Lida, which in the days of Charlemagne stretched far
along the banks of the Seine, and formed a woody screen round the infant
city of Paris, has now dwindled to a few thousand acres in the
neighbourhood of St. Germain en Laye. Not so in the time of Louis the
Thirteenth. It was then one of the most magnificent forests of France,
and extending as far as the town of Mantes, took indifferently the name
of the Wood of Mantes, or the Forest of Laye. That portion to the North
of St. Germain has been long cut down: yet there were persons living,
not many years since, who remembered some of the old trees still
standing, bare, desolate, and alone, like parents who had seen the
children of their hopes die around them in their prime.
Although much improvement in all the arts of life, and much increase of
population had taken place during the latter years of Henry the Fourth,
and under the regency of Mary de Medicis; yet at the time of their son
Louis the Thirteenth, the country was still but thinly peopled, and far
different from the gay, thronged land, that it appears to-day. For
besides that it was in earlier days, there had been many a bitter and a
heavy war, not only of France against her enemies, but of France against
her children. Religious and political differences had caused disunion
between man and man, had banished mutual confidence and social
intercourse, and raised up those feuds and hatreds, which destroy
domestic peace, and retard public improvement. Amidst general distrust
and civil wars, industry had received no encouragement; and where stand
at present many a full hamlet and busy village, where the vineyard
yields its abundance, and the peasant gathers in peace the bounty of
Nature, were then the green copses of the forest, the haunt of the wild
boar and the deer. The savage tenants of the wood, however, did not
enjoy its shelter undisturbed; for, in those days of suspicion, hunting
was a safer sport than conversation, and the boughs of the oak a more
secure covering than the gilded ceilings of the saloon.
To our pampered countrymen, long nurtured in that peculiar species of
luxury called comfort, the roads of France even now must seem but rude
and barbarous constructions, when compared with the smooth, joltless
causeways over which they are borne in their own land; but in the time
of Louis the Thirteenth, when all works of the kind were carried on by
the Seigneur through whose estates they passed, few but the principal
roads between one great town and another were even passable for a
carriage. Those, however, which traversing the wood of Mantes, served as
means of access to the royal residence of St. Germain, were of a
superior kind, and would have been absolutely good, had the nature of
the soil afforded a steady foundation: but this was not always to be
found in the forest, and the engineer had shown no small ingenuity in
taking advantage of all the most solid parts of the land, and in
avoiding those places where the marshy or sandy quality of the ground
offered no secure basis. By these circumstances, however, he was obliged
to deviate sadly from those principles of direct progression, so dear to
all Frenchmen; and the road from St. Germain to Mantes, as well as that
which branched off from it to join the high-road to Chartres, instead of
being one interminable, monotonous, straight line, with a long row of
trees, like a file of grenadiers, on each side, went winding in and out
with a thousand turnings amongst the old oaks of the forest, that seemed
to stand forward, and stretch their broad branches across it, as if
willing to shelter it from the obtrusive rays of the sun. Sometimes,
climbing the side of a hill, it would suddenly display a wide view over
the leafy ocean below, till the eye caught the towers and spires of
distant cities breaking the far grey line of the horizon. Sometimes,
descending into the depths of the forest, it would almost seem to lose
itself amongst the wild groves and savannas, being itself the only trace
of man's laborious hand amidst the wilderness around.
In the heart of the wood, at that point where the two roads (which I
have mentioned) divaricated from each other, stood the hut of a Woodman,
and the _abreuvoir_ where many a gay lord of the Court would stop when
his hunting was over, and give his horse time to drink. There, too, many
a traveller would pause to ask his way through the forest; so that
Philip, the woodman, and his young family, were known to almost all whom
business or pleasure brought through the wood of Mantes; and although
during the course of this true history, princes and heroes may become
the subjects of discourse, it is with Philip that we must commence our
tale.
It was at that season of the year, when the first leaves of summer begin
to leave the branches from which they sprang, like the bright and tender
hopes of early years, that fade and fall before the autumn of life has
fully commenced. The sun had abated but little of his force, and the
days scarcely seemed to have contracted their span.
The time of day, too, was like the period of the year, "falling gently
into the sear," so that it was only a scarce perceptible shadow,
stealing over the landscape, which told that the great power of light
was quitting that quarter of the globe, to bestow the equal blessing of
his smile on other nations and on distant climes. That shadow had been
the signal for Philip the woodman to return towards his home, and he
issued forth from one of the forest paths, near his dwelling, singing
as he came the old hunting-song of _Le bon roi Dagobert_.[A]
"King Dagobert in days of yore
Put on his hose wrong side before.
Says St. Eloi, the king's old squire,
'I would not offend, most gracious Sire,
But may your slave be soundly switch'd,
If your Majesty is not oddly breech'd,'
For you've got the wrong side before.'
Says the King, 'I do not care a groat;
One's breeches are scarcely worth a thought;
A beggar's a king when he's at his ease,
So turn them about which way you please,
And be quick, you s----"
[A] This song of _Le bon roi Dagobert_ is in the original very long,
and contains a great deal of witty ribaldry, unfit to be inserted here.
The above is a somewhat free translation of the first verse, which
stands thus in the French:
"Le bon roy Dagobert
Mettoit ses culottes à renvers.
Le bon St. Eloi
Lui dit, Oh mon Roy!
Que votre Majesté
Est bien mal culotté.
Eh bien, dit ce bon Roy,
Je consens qu'on les mête à l'endroit."
Now St. Hubert, in all probability, is the only person who correctly
knows how it happened, that the very unmeaning and inapplicable ditty of
_Le bon roi Dagobert_, should have been appropriated exclusively to the
noble exercise of hunting, to which it has no reference whatever; but so
it has been, and even to the present day where is the chasseur who
cannot, as he returns from the chace, blow the notes, or sing the words
of _Le bon roi Dagobert_?
Philip, as woodman, had heard it echoed and re-echoed through the forest
from his very infancy; and now, without even knowing that he did so, he
sang it as a matter of habit, although his mind was occupied upon
another subject: as men are always naturally inclined to employ their
corporeal faculties on some indifferent object, when their mental ones
are intensely engaged in things of deeper interest.
Philip advanced slowly along the road, with his brow knit in such a
manner as to evince that his light song had no part in his thoughts. He
was a man perhaps nearly fifty, still hale and athletic, though a life
of labour had changed the once dark locks of his hair to grey. His
occupation was at once denoted by his dress, which consisted simply of a
long-bodied blue coat of coarse cloth, covered over, except the arms,
with what is called in Britanny, a _Peau de bicque_, or goat-skin: a
pair of leather breeches, cut off above the knee, with thick gaiters to
defend his legs from the thorns, completed his dress below; and a round
broad-brimmed hat was brought far over his eyes, to keep them from the
glare of the declining sun. His apparel was girded round him by a broad
buff belt, in the left of which hung his woodman's knife; in the right
he had placed the huge axe, which he had been using in his morning's
occupation: and thus accoutred, Philip would have been no insignificant
opponent, had he met with any of those lawless rovers, who occasionally
frequented the forest.
As he approached his dwelling, he suddenly stopped, broke off his song,
and turning round, listened for a moment attentively; but the only
noise to be heard was the discordant cry of the jay in the trees round
about; and the only living things visible were a few wild birds
overhead, slowly winging their flight from the distant fields and
vineyards towards their forest home.
Philip proceeded, but he sang no more; and opening the cottage door, he
spoke without entering. "Charles," demanded he, "has the young gentleman
returned, who passed by this morning to hunt?"
"No, father," answered the boy coming forward; "nobody has passed since
you went--I am sure no one has, for I sat on the old tree all the
morning, carving you a sun-dial out of the willow branch you brought
home yesterday;" and he drew forth one of those ingenious little
machines, by means of which the French shepherds tell the time.
"Thou art a good boy," said his father, laying his hand on his head,
"thou art a good boy." But still, as the Woodman spoke, his mind seemed
occupied by some anxiety, for again he looked up the road and listened.
"There are strange faces in the forest," said Philip, not exactly
soliloquizing, for his son was present, but certainly speaking more to
himself than to the boy. "There are strange faces in the forest, and I
fear me some ill deed is to be done. But here they come, thank God!--No!
what is this?"
As he spoke, there appeared, just where the road turned into the wood, a
sort of procession, which would have puzzled any one of later days, more
than it did the Woodman. It consisted of four men on horseback, and four
on foot, escorting a vehicle, the most elegant and tasteful that the age
produced. The people of that day had doubtless very enlarged notions,
and certainly the carriage I speak of would have contained any three of
modern construction (always excepting that in which his most gracious
Majesty the King of England appears on state occasions, and also that of
the Lord Mayor of London City.)
Indeed the one in question was more like a state carriage than any
other; broad at the top, low in the axle, all covered over with painting
and gilding, with long wooden shafts for the horses, and green taffeta
curtains to the windows: and in this guise it came on, swaying and
swaggering about over the ruts in the road, not unlike the bloated Dutch
pug of some over-indulgent dame, waddling slowly on, with its legs far
apart, and its belly almost trailing on the ground.
When the carriage arrived at the _abreuvoir_, by the side of which
Philip had placed himself, the footmen took the bridles from the horses'
mouths to give them drink, and a small white hand, from within, drew
back the taffeta curtain, displaying to the Woodman one of the loveliest
faces he had ever beheld. The lady looked round for a moment at the
forest scene, in the midst of whose wild ruggedness they stood, and then
raised her eyes towards the sky, letting them roam over the clear
deepening expanse of blue, as if to satisfy herself how much daylight
still remained for their journey.
"How far is it to St. Germain, good friend?" said she, addressing the
Woodman, as she finished her contemplations; and her voice sounded to
Philip like the warble of a bird, notwithstanding a slight peculiarity
of intonation, which more refined ears would instantly have decided as
the accent of Roussillon, or some adjacent province: the lengthening of
the _i_, and the swelling roundness of the Spanish _u_, sounding very
differently from the sharp precision peculiar to the Parisian
pronunciation.
"I wish, Pauline, that you would get over that bad habit of softening
all your syllables," said an old lady who sat beside her in the
carriage. "Your French is scarcely comprehensible."
"Dear Mamma!" replied the young lady playfully, "am not I descended
lineally from Clemence Isaure, the patroness of song and chivalry? And I
should be sorry to speak aught but my own _langue d'oc_--the tongue of
the first knights and first poets of France.---- But hark! what is that
noise in the wood?"
"Now help, for the love of God!" cried the Woodman, snatching forth his
axe, and turning to the horsemen who accompanied the carriage; "murder
is doing in the forest. Help, for the love of God!"
But as he spoke, the trampling of a horse's feet was heard, and in a
moment after, a stout black charger came down the road like lightning;
the dust springing up under his feet, and the foam dropping from his
bit.
Half falling from the saddle, half supported by the reins, appeared the
form of a gallant young Cavalier; his naked sword still clasped in his
hand, but now fallen powerless and dragging by the side of the horse;
his head uncovered and thrown back, as if consciousness had almost left
him, and the blood flowing from a deep wound in his forehead, and
dripping amongst the thick curls of his dark brown hair.
The charger rushed furiously on; but the Woodman caught the bridle as he
passed, and with some difficulty reined him in; while one of the
footmen lifted the young gentleman to the ground, and placed him at the
foot of a tree.
The two ladies had not beheld this scene unconcerned; and were
descending from the carriage, when four or five servants in hunting
livery were seen issuing from the wood at the turn of the road,
contending with a very superior party of horsemen, whose rusty
equipments and wild anomalous sort of apparel, bespoke them free of the
forest by not the most honourable franchise.
"Ride on, ride on!" cried the young lady to those who had come with her:
"Ride on and help them;" and she herself advanced to give aid to the
wounded Cavalier, whose eyes seemed now closed for ever.
He was as handsome a youth as one might look upon: one of those forms
which we are fond to bestow upon the knights and heroes that we read of
in our early days, when unchecked fancy is always ready to give her
bright conceptions "a local habitation and a name." The young lady,
whose heart had never been taught to regulate its beatings by the
frigid rules of society, or the sharp scourge of disappointment, now
took the wounded man's head upon her knee, and gazed for an instant upon
his countenance, the deadly paleness of which appeared still more
ghastly from the red streams that trickled over it from the wound in his
forehead. She then attempted to staunch the blood, but the trembling of
her hands defeated her purpose, and rendered her assistance of but
little avail.
The elder lady had hitherto been giving her directions to the footmen,
who remained with the carriage, while those on horseback rode on towards
the fray. "Stand to your arms, Michel!" cried she. "You take heed to the
coach. You three, draw up across the road, each with his arquebuse ready
to fire. Let none but the true men pass.--Fie! Pauline; I thought you
had a firmer heart." She continued, approaching the young lady, "Give me
the handkerchief.--That is a bad cut in his head, truly; but here is a
worse stab in his side." And she proceeded to unloose the gold loops of
his hunting-coat, that she might reach the wound. But that action
seemed to recall, in a degree, the senses of the wounded Cavalier.
"Never! never!" he exclaimed, clasping his hand upon his side, and
thrusting her fingers away from him, with no very ceremonious
courtesy,--"never, while I have life."
"I wish to do you no harm, young Sir, but good," replied the old
lady;--"I seek but to stop the bleeding of your side, which is draining
your heart dry."
The wounded man looked faintly round, his senses still bewildered,
either by weakness from loss of blood, or from the stunning effects of
the blow on his forehead. He seemed, however, to have caught and
comprehended some of the words which the old lady addressed to him, and
answered them by a slight inclination of the head, but still kept his
hand upon the breast of his coat, as if he had some cause for wishing it
not to be opened.
The time which had thus elapsed more than sufficed to bring the
horsemen, who had accompanied the carriage, (and who, as before stated,
had ridden on before) to the spot where the servants of the Cavalier
appeared contending with a party, not only greater in number, but
superior in arms.
The reinforcement which thus arrived, gave a degree of equality to the
two parties, though the freebooters might still have retained the
advantage, had not one of their companions commanded them, in rather a
peremptory manner, to quit the conflict. This personage, we must remark,
was very different, in point of costume, from the forest gentry with
whom he herded for the time. His dress was a rich livery suit of Isabel
and silver; and indeed he might have been confounded with the other
party, had not his active co-operation with the banditti (or whatever
they might be) placed the matter beyond a doubt.
Their obedience, also, to his commands showed, that if he were not the
instigator of the violence we have described, at least his influence
over his lawless companions was singularly powerful; for at a word from
him they drew off from a combat in which they were before engaged with
all the hungry fury of wolves eager for their prey; and retreated in
good order up the road, till its windings concealed them from the view
of the servants to whom they had been opposed.
These last did not attempt to follow, but turning their horses, together
with those who had brought them such timely aid, galloped up to the spot
where their master lay. When they arrived, he had again fallen into a
state of apparent insensibility, and they all flocked round him with
looks of eager anxiety, which seemed to speak more heartfelt interest
than generally existed between the murmuring vassal and his feudal lord.
One sprightly boy, who appeared to be his page, sprang like lightning
from the saddle, and kneeling by his side, gazed intently on his face,
as if to seek some trace of animation. "They have killed him!" he cried
at length, "I fear me they have killed him!"
"No, he is not dead," answered the old lady; "but I wish, Sir Page, that
you would prevail on your master to open his coat, that we may staunch
that deep wound in his side."
"No, no! that must not be," cried the boy quickly; "but I will tie my
scarf round the wound." So saying, he unloosed the rich scarf of blue
and gold, that passing over his right shoulder crossed his bosom till it
nearly reached the hilt of his sword, where forming a large knot it
covered the bucklings of his belt. This he bound tightly over the spot
in his master's side from whence the blood flowed; and then asked
thoughtfully, without raising his eyes, "But how shall we carry him to
St. Germain?"
"In our carriage," said the young lady; "we are on our way thither, even
now."
The sound of her voice made the Page start, for since his arrival on the
spot, he had scarcely noticed any one but his master, whose dangerous
situation seemed to occupy all his thoughts: but now there was something
in that sweet voice, with its soft Languedocian accent, which awakened
other ideas, and he turned his full sunny face towards the lady who
spoke.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed she, as that glance showed her a countenance
not at all unfamiliar to her memory: "Is not this Henry de La Mothe, son
of our old farmer Louis?"
"No other indeed, Mademoiselle Pauline," replied the boy; "though,
truly, I neither hoped nor expected to see you at such a moment as
this."
"Then who"--demanded the young lady, clasping her hands with a look of
impatient anxiety--"in the name of heaven, tell me who is this!"
For an instant, and but for an instant, a look of arch meaning played
over the boy's countenance; but it was like a flash of lightning on a
dark cloud, lost as quickly as it appeared, leaving a deep gloom behind
it, as his eye fell upon the inanimate form of his master. "That,
Madam," said he, while something glistened brightly, but sadly, in his
eye, "that is Claude Count de Blenau."
Pauline spoke not, but there was a deadly paleness come upon her face,
which very plainly showed, how secondary a feeling is general
benevolence, compared with personal interest.
"Is it possible?" exclaimed the elder lady, her brow darkening
thoughtfully. "Well, something must be done for him."
The Page did not seem particularly well pleased with the tone in which
the lady spoke, and, in truth, it had betrayed more pride than
compassion.
"The best thing that can be done for him, Madame la Marquise," answered
he, "is to put him in the carriage and convey him to St. Germain as soon
as possible, if you should not consider it too much trouble."
"Trouble!" exclaimed Pauline; "trouble! Henry de La Mothe, do you think
that my mother or myself would find any thing a trouble, that could
serve Claude de Blenau, in such a situation?"
"Hush, Pauline!" said her mother. "Of course we shall be glad to serve
the Count--Henry, help Michel and Regnard to place your master in the
carriage.--Michel, give me your arquebuse; I will hold it till you have
done.--Henry, support your master's head."
But Pauline took that post upon herself, notwithstanding a look from the
Marchioness, if not intended to forbid, at least to disapprove. The
young lady, however, was too much agitated with all that had occurred to
remark her mother's looks, and following the first impulse of her
feelings, while the servants carried him slowly to the carriage, she
supported the head of the wounded Cavalier on her arm, though the blood
continued to flow from the wound in his forehead, and dripped amidst the
rich slashing of her Spanish sleeves, dabbling the satin with which it
was lined.
"Oh Mademoiselle!" said the Page, when their task was accomplished,
"this has been a sad day's hunting. But if I might advise," he
continued, turning to the Marchioness, "the drivers must be told to go
with all speed."
"Saucy as a page!" said the old lady, "is a proverb, and a good one.
Now, Monsieur La Mothe, I do not think the drivers must go with all
speed; for humbly deferring to your better opinion, it would shake your
master to death."
The Page bit his lip, and his cheek grew somewhat red, in answer to the
high dame's rebuke, but he replied calmly, "You have seen, Madam, what
has happened to-day, and depend on it, if we be not speedy in getting
out of this accursed forest, we shall have the same good gentry upon us
again, and perhaps in greater numbers. Though they have wounded the
Count, they have not succeeded in their object; for he has still about
him that which they would hazard all to gain."
"You are in the right, boy," answered the lady: "I was over-hasty. Go
in, Pauline. Henry, your master's horse must carry one of my footmen, of
whom the other three can mount behind the carriage--thus we shall go
quicker. You, with the Count's servants, mix with my horsemen, and keep
close round the coach; and now bid them, on, with all speed." Thus
saying, she entered the vehicle; and the rest having disposed
themselves according to her orders, the whole cavalcade was soon in
motion on the road to St. Germain.