In which the learned reader will discover that it is easy to raise
suspicions without any cause, and that royalty is not patent
against superstition.
We must now return to the principal personage of our history, and
accompany him on his way towards St. Germain, whither he was wending
when last we left him.
There are some authors fond of holding their readers in suspense, of
bringing them into unexpected situations, and surprising them into
applause. All such things are extremely appropriate in a novel or
romance; but as this is a true and authentic history, and as eke I
detest what theatrical folks call "claptrap," I shall proceed to record
the facts in the order in which they took place, as nearly as it is
possible to do so, and will, like our old friend Othello, "a round
unvarnished tale deliver."
The distance to St. Germain was considerable, and naturally appeared
still longer than it really was, to persons unacquainted with one step
of the road before them, and apprehensive of a thousand occurrences both
likely and unlikely. Nothing, however, happened to interrupt them on the
way; and their journey passed over, not only in peace, but pretty much
in silence also. Both the ladies who occupied the inside of the
carriage, seemed to be very sufficiently taken up with their own
thoughts, and no way disposed to loquacity, so that the only break to
the melancholy stillness which hung over them, was now and then a
half-formed sentence, proceeding from what was rapidly passing in the
mind of each, or the complaining creak of the heavy wheels, as they
ground their unwilling way through the less practicable parts of the
forest road.
At times, too, a groan from the lips of their wounded companion
interrupted the silence, as the roughness of the way jolted the
ponderous vehicle in which he was carried, and re-awakened him to a
sense of pain.
Long ere they had reached St. Germain, night had fallen over their road,
and nothing could be distinguished by those within the carriage, but the
figures of the two horsemen who kept close to the windows. The interior
was still darker, and it was only a kind of inarticulate sob from the
other side, which made the Marchioness inquire, "Pauline! you are not
weeping?"
The young lady did not positively say whether she was so or not, but
replied in a voice which showed her mother's conjecture to be well
founded.
"It was not thus, Mamma," she said, "that I had hoped to arrive at
St-Germain."
"Fie, fie! Pauline," replied the old lady; "I have long tried to make
you feel like a woman, and you are still a child, a weak child. These
accidents, and worse than these, occur to every one in the course of
life, and they must be met with fortitude. Have you flattered yourself
that _you_ would be exempt from the common sorrows of humanity?"
"But if he should die?" said Pauline, with the tone of one who longs to
be soothed out of their fears. The old lady, however, applied no such
unction to the wound in her daughter's heart. Madame de Beaumont had
herself been reared in the school of adversity; and while her mind and
principles had been thus strengthened and confirmed, her feelings had
not been rendered more acute. In the present instance, whether she spoke
it heedlessly, or whether she intended to destroy one passion by
exciting another, to cure Pauline's grief by rousing her anger, her
answer afforded but little consolation. "If he dies," said she dryly,
"why I suppose the fair lady, whose picture he has in his bosom, would
weep, and you----"
A deep groan from their wounded companion broke in upon her speech, and
suggested to the Marchioness that he might not be quite so insensible
as he seemed. Such an answer, too, was not so palatable to Pauline as to
induce her to urge the conversation any farther; so that Silence again
resumed her empire over the party, remaining undisturbed till the old
lady, drawing back the curtain, announced that they were entering St.
Germain.
A few minutes more brought them to the lodging of the Count de Blenau;
and here the Marchioness descending, gave all the necessary directions
in order that the young gentleman might be carried to his
sleeping-chamber in the easiest and most convenient method, while
Pauline, without proffering any aid, sat back in a dark corner of the
carriage. Nor would any thing have shown that she was interested in what
passed around her, but when the light of a torch glared into the
vehicle, discovering a handkerchief pressed over her eyes to hide the
tears she could not restrain.
As soon as the Count was safely lodged in his own dwelling, the carriage
proceeded towards the palace, which showed but little appearance of
regal state. However the mind of Pauline might have been accustomed to
picture a court in all the gay and splendid colouring which youthful
imagination lends to anticipated pleasure, her thoughts were now far too
fully occupied, to admit of her noticing the lonely and deserted
appearance of the scene. But to Madame de Beaumont it was different.
She, who remembered St. Germain in other days, looked in vain for the
lights flashing from every window of the palace; for the servants
hurrying along the different avenues, the sentinels parading before
every entrance, and the gay groups of courtiers and ladies, in all the
brilliant costume of the time, which used to crowd the terrace and
gardens to enjoy the cool of the evening after the sun had gone down.
All that she remembered had had its day; and nothing remained but
silence and solitude. A single sentry, at the principal gate, was all
that indicated the dwelling of a king; and it was not till the carriage
had passed under the archway, that even an attendant presented himself
to inquire who were the comers at that late hour.
The principal domestic of Madame de Beaumont, who had already descended
from his horse, gave the name of his lady with all ceremony, and also
tendered a card (as he had been instructed by the Marchioness), on which
her style and title were fully displayed. The royal servant bowed low,
saying that the Queen, his mistress, had expected the Marchioness
before; and seizing the rope of a great bell, which hung above the
staircase, he rang such a peal that the empty galleries of the palace
returned a kind of groaning echo to the rude clang which seemed to mock
their loneliness.
Two or three more servants appeared, in answer to the bell's noisy
summons; yet such was still the paucity of attendants, that Madame de
Beaumont, even while she descended from her carriage, and began to
ascend the "grand escalier," had need to look, from time to time, at the
splendid fresco paintings which decorated the walls, and the crowns and
fleurs-de-lis with which all the cornices were ornamented, before she
could satisfy herself that she really was in the royal chateau of St.
Germain.
Pauline's eyes, fixed on the floor, wandered little to any of the
objects round, yet, perhaps, the vast spaciousness of the palace,
contrasted with the scarcity of its inhabitants, might cast even an
additional degree of gloom over her mind, saddened, as it already was,
by the occurrences of the day. Doubtless, in the remote parts of
Languedoc, where Pauline de Beaumont had hitherto dwelt, gay visions of
a court had come floating upon imagination like the lamps which the
Hindoos commit to the waters of the Ganges, casting a wild and uncertain
light upon the distant prospect; and it is probable, that even if St.
Germain had possessed all its former splendour, Pauline would still have
been disappointed, for youthful imagination always outrivals plain
reality; and besides, there is an unpleasing feeling of solitude
communicated by the aspect of a strange place, which detracts greatly
from the first pleasure of novelty. Thus there were a thousand reasons
why Mademoiselle de Beaumont, as she followed the attendant through the
long empty galleries and vacant chambers of the palace, towards the
apartments prepared for her mother and herself, felt none of those happy
sensations which she had anticipated from her arrival at court; nor was
it till, on entering the antechamber of their suite of rooms, she beheld
the gay smiling face of her Lyonaise waiting-maid, that she felt there
was any thing akin to old recollections within those cold and pompous
walls, which seemed to look upon her as a stranger.
The soubrette had been sent forward the day before with a part of the
Marchioness de Beaumont's equipage; and now, having endured a whole
day's comparative silence with the patience and fortitude of a martyr,
she advanced to the two ladies with loquacity in her countenance, as if
resolved to make up, as speedily as possible, for the restraint under
which her tongue had laboured during her short sojourn in the palace;
but the deep gravity of Madame de Beaumont, and the melancholy air of
her daughter, checked Louise in full career; so that, having kissed her
mistress on both cheeks, she paused, while her lip, like an overfilled
reservoir whose waters are trembling on the very brink, seemed ready to
pour forth the torrent of words which she had so long suppressed.
Pauline, as she passed through the anteroom, wiped the last tears from
her eyes, and on entering the saloon, advanced towards a mirror which
hung between the windows, as if to ascertain what traces they had left
behind. The soubrette did not fail to advance, in order to adjust her
young lady's dress, and finding herself once more in the exercise of her
functions, the right of chattering seemed equally restored; for she
commenced immediately, beginning in a low and respectful voice, but
gradually increasing as the thought of her mistress was swallowed up in
the more comprehensive idea of herself.
"Oh, dear Mademoiselle," said she, "I am so glad you are come at last.
This place is so sad and so dull! Who would think it was a court? Why,
I expected to see it all filled with lords and ladies, and instead of
that, I have seen nothing but dismal-looking men, who go gliding about
in silence, seeming afraid to open their lips, as if that cruel old
Cardinal, whom they all tremble at, could hear every word they say. I
did see one fine-looking gentleman this morning, to be sure, with his
servants all in beautiful liveries of blue and gold, and horses as if
there were fire coming out of their very eyes; but he rode away to hunt,
after he had been half an hour with the Queen and Mademoiselle de
Hauteford, as they call her."
"Mademoiselle who?" exclaimed Pauline, quickly, as if startled from her
reverie by something curious in the name. "Who did you say, Louise?"
"Oh, such a pretty young lady!" replied the waiting-woman. "Mademoiselle
de Hauteford is her name. I saw her this morning as she went to the
Queen's levee. She has eyes as blue as the sky, and teeth like pearls
themselves; but withal she looks as cold and as proud as if she were
the Queen's own self."
While the soubrette spoke, Pauline raised her large dark eyes to the
tall Venetian mirror which stood before her, and which had never
reflected any thing lovelier than herself, as hastily she passed her
fair small hand across her brow, brushing back the glossy ringlets that
hung clustering over her forehead. But she was tired and pale with
fatigue and anxiety; her eyes, too, bore the traces of tears, and with a
sigh and look of dissatisfaction, she turned away from the mirror,
which, like every other invention of human vanity, often procures us
disappointment as well as gratification.
Madame de Beaumont's eyes had been fixed upon Pauline; and translating
her daughter's looks with the instinctive acuteness of a mother, she
approached with more gentleness than was her wont. "You are beautiful
enough, my Pauline," said she, pressing a kiss upon her cheek; "you are
beautiful enough. Do not fear."
"Nay, Mamma," replied Pauline, "I have nothing to fear, either from
possessing or from wanting beauty."
"Thou art a silly girl, Pauline," continued her mother, "and take these
trifles far too much to heart. Perhaps I was wrong concerning this same
picture. It was but a random guess. Besides, even were it true, where
were the mighty harm? These men are all alike, Pauline--Like
butterflies, they rest on a thousand flowers before they settle on any
one. We all fancy that our own lover is different from his fellows; but,
believe me, my child, the best happiness a woman can boast, is that of
being most carefully deceived."
"Then no such butterfly love for me, Mamma," replied Pauline, her cheek
slightly colouring as she spoke. "I would rather not know this sweet
poison--love. My heart is still free, though my fancy may have--have--"
"May have what, Pauline?" demanded her mother, with a doubtful smile.
"My dear child, thy heart, and thy fancy, I trow, have not been so
separate as thou thinkest."
"Nay, Mamma," answered Pauline, "my fancy, like an insect, may have been
caught in the web of a spider; but the enemy has not yet seized me, and
I will break through while I can."
"But, first, let us be sure that we are right," said Madame de Beaumont.
"For as every rule has its exception, there be some men, whose hearts
are even worthy the acceptance of a squeamish girl, who, knowing nothing
of the world, expects to meet with purity like her own. At all events,
love, De Blenau is the soul of honour, and will not stoop to deceit. In
justice, you must not judge without hearing him."
"But," said Pauline, not at all displeased with the refutation of her
own ideas, and even wishing, perhaps, to afford her mother occasion to
combat them anew,--"but--"
The sentence, however, was never destined to be concluded; for, as she
spoke, the door of the apartment opened, and a form glided in, the
appearance of which instantly arrested the words on Pauline's lips, and
made her draw back with an instinctive feeling of respect.
The lady who entered had passed that earlier period of existence when
beauties and graces succeed each other without pause, like the flowers
of spring, that go blooming on from the violet to the rose. She was in
the summer of life, but it was the early summer, untouched by autumn;
and her form, though it possessed no longer the airy lightness of youth,
had acquired in dignity a degree of beauty which compensated for the
softer loveliness that years had stolen away. Her brown hair fell in a
profusion of large curls round a face, which, if not strictly handsome,
was highly pleasing: and even many sorrows and reverses, by mingling an
expression of patient melancholy with the gentle majesty of her
countenance, produced a greater degree of interest than the features
could have originally excited.
Those even who sought for mere beauty of feature, would have perceived
that her eyes were quick and fine; that her skin was of the most
delicate whiteness, except where it was disfigured by the use of rouge;
and that her small mouth might have served as model to a statuary,
especially while her lips arched with a warm smile of pleasure and
affection, as advancing into the apartment, she pressed Madame de
Beaumont to her bosom, who on her part, bending low, received the
embrace of Anne of Austria with the humble deference of a respectful
subject towards the condescension of their sovereign.
"Once more restored to me, my dear Madame de Beaumont!" said the Queen.
"His Eminence of Richelieu does indeed give me back one of the best of
my friends--And this is your Pauline."--She added, turning to
Mademoiselle de Beaumont, "You were but young, my fair Demoiselle, when
last I saw you. You have grown up a lovely flower from a noble root; but
truly you will never be spoiled by splendour at our court."
As she spoke, her mind seemed naturally to return to other days, and her
eye fixed intently on the ground, as if engaged in tracing out the plan
of her past existence, running over all the lines of sorrow, danger and
disappointed hope, till the task became too bitter, and she turned to
the Marchioness with one of those long deep sighs, that almost always
follow a review of the days gone by, forming a sort of epitaph to the
dreams, the wishes, and the joys, that once were dear, and are now no
more.
"When you met me, De Beaumont," said the Queen, "with the proud Duke of
Guise on the banks of the Bidasoa--quitting the kingdom of my father,
and entering the kingdom of my husband--with an army for my escort, and
princes kneeling at my feet--little, little did ever you or I think,
that Anne of Austria, the wife of a great king, and daughter of a long
line of monarchs, would, in after years, be forced to dwell at St.
Germain, without guards, without court, without attendants, but such as
the Cardinal de Richelieu chooses to allow her.--The Cardinal de
Richelieu!" she proceeded thoughtfully; "the servant of my
husband!--but no less the master of his master, and the king of his
king."
"I can assure your Majesty," replied Madame de Beaumont, with a deep
tone of feeling which had no hypocrisy in it, for her whole heart was
bound by habit, principle, and inclination, to her royal mistress--"I
can assure your Majesty, that many a tear have I shed over the sorrows
of my Queen; and when his Eminence drove me from the court, I regretted
not the splendour of a palace, I regretted not the honour of serving my
sovereign, I regretted not the friends I left behind, or the hopes I
lost, but I regretted that I could not be the sharer of my mistress's
misfortunes.--But your Majesty has now received a blessing from Heaven,"
she continued, willing to turn the conversation from the troubled course
of memory to the more agreeable channels of hope--"a blessing which we
scarcely dreamed of, a consolation under all present sorrows, and a
bright prospect for the years to come.
"Oh, yes, my little Louis, you would say," replied the Queen, her face
lightening with all a mother's joy as she spoke of her son. "He is
indeed a cherub; and sure am I, that if God sends him years, he will
redress his mother's wrongs by proving the greatest of his race."
She spoke of the famous Louis the Fourteenth, and some might have
thought she prophesied. But it was only the fervour of a mother's hope,
an ebullition of that pure feeling, which alone, of all the affections
of the heart, the most sordid poverty cannot destroy, and the proudest
rank can hardly check.
"He is indeed a cherub," continued the Queen; "and such was your Pauline
to you, De Beaumont, when the Cardinal drove you from my side: a
consolation not only in your exile, but also in your mourning for your
noble lord. Come near, young lady; let me see if thou art like thy
father."
Pauline approached; and the Queen laying her hand gently upon her arm,
ran her eye rapidly over her face and figure, every now and then pausing
for a moment, and seeming to call memory to her aid, in the comparison
she was making between the dead and the living. But suddenly she
started back, "_Sainte Vierge!_" cried she, crossing herself, "your
dress is all dabbled with blood. What bad omen is this?"
"May it please your Majesty," said the Marchioness, half smiling at the
Queen's superstition, for her own strong mind rejected many of the
errors of the day, "that blood is only an omen of Pauline's charitable
disposition; for in the forest hard by, we came up with a wounded
cavalier, and, like a true _demoiselle errante_, Pauline rendered him
personal aid, even at the expense of her robe."
"Nay, nay, De Beaumont," said the Queen, "it matters not how it came; it
is a bad omen: some misfortune is about to happen. I remember the day
before my father died, the Conde de Saldaña came to court with a spot of
blood upon the lace of his cardinal; and on that fatal day which----"
The door of the apartment at this moment opened, and Anne of Austria,
filled with her own peculiar superstition, stopped in the midst of her
speech and turned her eye anxiously towards it, as if she expected the
coming of some ghastly apparition. The figure that entered, however,
though it possessed a dignity scarcely earthly, and a calm still
grace--an almost inanimate composure, rarely seen in beings agitated by
human passions, was, nevertheless, no form calculated to inspire alarm.
"Oh, Mademoiselle de Hauteford!" cried the Queen, her face brightening
as she spoke, "De Beaumont, you will love her, for that she is one of my
firmest friends."
At the name of De Hauteford, Pauline drew up her slight elegant figure
to its full height, with a wild start, like a deer suddenly frightened
by some distant sound, and drawing her hand across her forehead, brushed
back the two or three dark curls which had again fallen over her clear
fair brow.
"De Hauteford!" cried Anne of Austria as the young lady advanced, "what
has happened? You look pale--some evil is abroad."
"I would not have intruded on your Majesty, or on these ladies," said
Mademoiselle de Hauteford with a graceful but cold inclination of the
head towards the strangers, "had it not been that Monsieur Seguin, your
Majesty's Surgeon, requests the favour of an audience immediately. Nor
does he wish to be seen by the common attendants; in truth, he has
followed me to the antechamber, where he waits your Majesty's pleasure."
"Admit him, admit him!" cried the Queen. "What can he want at this
hour?"
The surgeon was instantly brought into the presence of the Queen by
Mademoiselle de Hauteford; but, after approaching his royal mistress
with a profound bow, he remained in silence glancing his eye towards the
strangers who stood in the apartment, in such a manner as to intimate
that his communication required to be made in private.
"Speak, speak, Seguin!" cried the Queen, translating his look and
answering it at once; "these are all friends, old and dear friends."
"If such be your Majesty's pleasure," replied the Surgeon, with that
sort of short dry voice, which generally denotes a man of few words. "I
must inform you at once, that young Count de Blenau has been this
morning attacked by robbers, while hunting in the forest, and is
severely hurt."
While Seguin communicated this intelligence, Pauline (she scarce knew
why) fixed her eye upon Mademoiselle de Hauteford, whose clear pale
cheek, ever almost of the hue of alabaster, showed that it could become
still paler. The Queen too, though the rouge she wore concealed any
change of complexion, appeared manifestly agitated. "I told you so, De
Beaumont," she exclaimed--"that blood foreboded evil: I never knew the
sign to fail. This is bad news truly, Seguin," she continued. "Poor De
Blenau! surely he will not die."
"I hope not, Madam," replied the Surgeon; "I see every chance of his
recovery."
"But speak more freely," said the Queen. "Have you learnt any thing from
him? These are all friends, I tell you."
"The Count is very weak, Madam," answered Seguin, "both from loss of
blood and a stunning blow on the head; but he desired me to tell your
Majesty, that though the wound is in his side, his heart is uninjured!"
"Oh, I understand, I understand," exclaimed the Queen. "De Blenau is one
out of a thousand; I must write him a note; follow me, Seguin. Good
night, dear Madame de Beaumont. Farewell, Pauline!--Come to my levee
to-morrow, and we will talk over old stories and new hopes.--But have a
care, Pauline--No more blood upon your robe. It is a bad sign in the
house of Austria."
The moment the Queen was gone, Pauline pleaded fatigue, and retired to
her chamber, followed by her maid Louise, who, be it remarked, had
remained in the room during the Royal visit.
"This is a strange place, this St. Germain," said the waiting-woman, as
she undressed her mistress.
"It is indeed!" replied Pauline. "I wish I had never seen it. But of
one thing let me warn you, Louise, before it is too late. Never repeat
any thing you may see or hear, while you are at the court; for if you
do, your life may answer for it."
"My life! Mademoiselle Pauline," exclaimed the soubrette, as if she
doubted her ears.
"Yes indeed, your life!" replied the young lady: "So beware."
"Then I wish I had never seen the place either," rejoined the maid; "for
what is the use of seeing and hearing things, if one may not talk about
them?--and who can be always watching one's tongue?"