The journey was long and tedious, the road heavy and bad, the coach
which had been procured at Chartres ponderous and cumbersome, and the
horses which had been placed in it unequal to drag its weight except
at a slow and lingering pace. Poor Rose d'Albret sat far back in the
vehicle, with her hands over her eyes, and the tears streaming fast
down her cheek as they passed through the gates of Chartres, and as
the last faint traces of the dream of happiness in which she had been
indulging, faded away, and left her a reality of misery, anxiety, and
care.
Tardy as was their progress, the feet of the horses seemed all too
quick in drawing her towards a scene in which she anticipated nothing
but distress of many kinds; reproach from those who themselves
deserved the bitterest censure, threats, importunity, persecution, and
that constant effort to deceive, which she knew would require on her
part continual watchfulness and a guard upon every word, and look, and
action. She could no longer hope to give way to one feeling of the
heart; the free spirit was to be chained down and bound; the candid
and the frank, was to put on reserve and policy; the trustful and the
confiding, was to assume doubt and suspicion: every bright quality of
her own mind was to be cast away for the time, as useless in the
warfare in which she was about to engage; and she was to be called
upon to take up the weapons of her adversaries, in order to meet them
upon equal terms. It was all bitters, in short; and Rose shrank from
the contemplation, and felt a sickening hopelessness of heart, to
which she had never given way before.
Then her thoughts turned to De Montigni; and for the first time she
felt to the full how much she loved him. Short as had been the time
that they had passed together since his return to France, those few
hours had been as much as years in binding heart to heart, so full had
they been of events, thoughts, and feelings; and now that she was
separated from him, she asked herself, what would be his fate;
meditated over all that he would suffer on her account, as well as the
weary weight of imprisonment; and, judging rightly of his sensations,
knew that his grief and anguish for her, would be the most painful
part of all he had to endure. She felt as if she were bound in
gratitude to repay his anxiety, by equal grief for him; and, instead
of endeavouring to console herself by listening to the voice of hope,
she added, I may say voluntarily, to her own sorrow, by dwelling upon
his.
Thus passed hour after hour, as they rolled slowly on, while the party
of horsemen who guarded her, urged the coachman to greater speed,
though, if her voice could have obtained a hearing, she would have
besought him to delay at every step, rather than hurry on to a place,
the very thought of which was horrible to her. The driver, however,
was not one to be moved in any degree by the exhortations of his
companions; and neither slower nor faster did he go, for all that
could be said to him. At the same dilatory pace he proceeded, paused
twice to water and to feed his horses, and seemed as deaf to the
apprehensions of the guard, lest they should be overtaken by any party
of the enemy, as to the threats which they held out of the anger of
the governor and the Duke of Nemours. Thus night fell just before they
reached a little town, not much more than half way to Marzay; and the
coachman, declaring that his horses could proceed no further that day,
pulled up at the door of what was then called a _Gîte_ or sleeping
place, and proceeded unceremoniously to detach the cattle from the
vehicle, giving no heed whatsoever, either to the questions or
remonstrance of an old man who was in command of the troop.
As nothing could be done but to remain where they were, Rose was led
to her bed-chamber, and told, in civil terms enough, that, by her
leave, they would proceed at daybreak on the following morning. The
old man paid every attention to her comfort, according to the orders
he had received; and even listened, while, encouraged by his courteous
manner, she ventured to remonstrate upon the conduct pursued towards
her, in carrying her against her will to a place so hateful to her. He
replied coldly, that the affair was none of his; he did but obey his
orders; and Rose soon found, by the strictness with which she was
watched, and by the placing of a guard at her chamber door, that the
hope of escaping, and flying on foot at any risk, was altogether vain.
The journey of the next day went on as that of the day just gone; and
it was evening when the sight of many well known objects, the wood
through which she had often ridden, the little chapel where she had
frequently stopped to pray, the hamlet, the church, the fountain, the
stream, all of which she recollected, showed her that they were within
a few miles of the place in which her youth had been spent. How
changed were now all her feelings, from those with which she had
wandered through the same scenes in girlhood! Where was now the
sunshine of the heart, which at once lighted up every object around?
Where was the interest with which imagination had invested all that
now seemed so dead and cold? Some light had gone out in life since she
was last there; and the visionary splendour had departed.
In about half an hour more, they came to the side of a hill, from
which the Château of Marzay was visible, at the distance of about a
mile. The evening sun was just setting, and casting long streams of
light and shadow over the undulating country below. The snow had
disappeared; the green herbage of the fields was seen; the brown
branches of the wood grew warm and glowing in the evening rays; the
river swollen with rain rushed on like a torrent of blood, reflecting
the glowing crimson of the west, and every window of the château
flashed back the bright beams of light, in lines almost too dazzling
for the eye. Round the summits of the towers, however, as they rose
above the eminence on which the castle was built, rolled a thin dull
cloud of leaden vapour, faintly tinged with red, on the side next to
the sun; and as the carriage moved slowly on, it descended lower and
lower over the building, rendering the lines and angles indistinct to
the eye, like the fate which awaited the poor girl who was journeying
thither. She gazed out eagerly towards it with a heavy sigh, and a
heart weighed down with the certainty of coming sorrow; and then
turning her eyes over the open ground below, she traced the road which
she had followed in her flight with De Montigni, and could have wept
to think how vain had proved all the hopes that bore her up through
the fatigues and discomforts of that journey.
Suddenly from behind a clump of trees, at the distance of about a
quarter of a mile, emerged slowly a figure on horse-back, bearing in
his hand what Rose at first imagined to be a lance. The next moment,
however, she perceived that it was a cross; and, at the same solemn
pace, following the first on foot, came six other men carrying
something like a litter on their shoulders. The light caught upon it,
however, as they began to ascend the slope towards the château, and
Rose saw the fluttering of a pall; several other persons followed,
likewise, on foot, and then a party of some fifteen or sixteen
horsemen, with lances lowered, and a pennon flickering in the wind.
"They are bearing back a dead body to the château, Mademoiselle," said
the old man, who was riding by the side of the carriage at the moment;
"likely some one who has fallen at Ivry. Perhaps we had better stop
and let them get before us. It is unlucky to go in with a corpse."
"Unlucky to go in at all," said Rose, sadly; "do as you will. Sir, I
am a captive, and have no authority in such matters."
The old man gave orders to halt; and the funeral procession of the
good old Commander de Liancourt, which was following a road that
formed an acute angle with the one they were themselves pursuing,
moved slowly on towards the château. When it had come within three or
four hundred yards of the gates, the Count de Liancourt, with his
nephew Chazeul, and a number of the soldiers and attendants, came
forth to meet it, preceded by father Walter, and two boys, belonging
to the chapel, dressed in their robes. The procession immediately
halted; and Estoc dismounting from his horse, advanced a few steps in
front to confer with the Count and his companions.
The loss of a brother, to a man in the decline of life, can never be a
matter of indifference, and Monsieur de Liancourt was evidently much
agitated; but there were other feelings in his bosom, besides those of
mere grief, and his manner was hesitating and embarrassed, as he
returned Estoc's grave salutation, and listened to the solemn words,
"I have brought back to you, Sir, the corpse of your brother, Michael
de Liancourt, Commander of the Order of St. John, who fell, gallantly
fighting for his King, on the glorious field between St. André and
Ivry; and I claim your permission to carry it into the chapel of the
château, according to his own request."
"I receive my poor brother's body at your hands, Monsieur Estoc,"
replied the Count, "and thank you for your letter of this morning; but
as you know we have few people in the castle, and many of us not
altogether holding the same opinions as yourself; you cannot, expect
us to suffer you to enter with such a body of armed men."
"We are armed, Sir Count," answered Estoc, "as soldiers carrying the
body of a soldier; but you know right well, we come in peace upon so
sad an errand. As soon as we have performed our duty, we will depart
in peace, if we are suffered to do so; but what we have undertaken we
will perform, and trust to meet with no opposition."
"This is foolishness, Sir," cried Chazeul, sharply; "you cannot expect
such permission, after all that has taken place; and, in one word, you
may enter yourself with any two or three, but no more shall have
admission."
Estoc's cheek grew red. "To you, young man," he replied, "I do not
speak, for you are not the lord of that château, and never will be;
but to you, Monsieur de Liancourt, I answer, we have all of us sworn
to lay the body of our old leader before the altar of the chapel of
Marzay, and we will do it. If you will give us admission, well; if
not, I will bear it back to the church in the village, there set it
down till we are joined by the men of Montigni, and then forcing my
way in at the point of the sword, will keep my oath, whoever tries to
stay me. You know old Estoc too well to believe that he will break his
word; so choose, and that quickly, for it is growing late."
But at this moment father Walter interposed, advancing with an air of
grave authority, and saying, "Cease, cease! in the name of decency and
Christian charity, cease! and in the presence of the dead, let us have
peace. My son," he continued, turning to the Count, "you will never, I
am sure, oppose Monsieur Estoc in carrying in the body of our poor
friend into the chapel according to his vow, if he pledge his word to
retire immediately after it be accomplished. You, Monsieur Estoc, will
never refuse to plight your word as a French gentleman, to re-tread
your steps as soon as you have laid the corpse before the altar,
without doing injury to any one, or interfering in any way with the
affairs of the castle."
"Most willingly, good father," replied Estoc; "I come but for one
purpose; and as soon as that is accomplished, I am more anxious than
any one to leave this place at once, for I have promised to lead these
good fellows back to join the King, and reap our share in the fruits
of this great victory."
"Then it is true that Henry won the battle?" asked Monsieur de
Liancourt.
"Ay, Sir!" answered Estoc, "most true--and a decisive battle it was.
The League is now, nothing but a name."
Chazeul smiled contemptuously; but the priest brought back the
discussion to the point, saying, "Monsieur de Liancourt, you have not
answered. I trust you will be satisfied with this promise."
The Count hesitated; but Estoc, turning towards him with a reproachful
look, demanded, "Have you known me so long, Monsieur de Liancourt, and
yet doubt my word? I promise you, Sir, to quit the castle with these
good men, as soon as I have laid that bier before the altar, and given
father Walter here the message which I have to deliver to him,
regarding the watching of the body and the masses for the soul."
"Well," said the Count, whose eyes had been turned for a moment to the
hill behind Estoc, "well, I consent on condition, Sir, that you
immediately retire to the village without meddling in any way with
what you may see within the castle. Do you promise as a man of
honour?"
"I do!" replied Estoc; "though I know not what you are afraid I should
interfere with. But as I come here for a fixed purpose, when that is
accomplished, I will go."
"Well, then, march on!" said the Count; "and we, as mourners for my
brother, will bring up the rear."
The order was accordingly given, and the funeral train was once more
put in motion. The party of the Count, with the exception of father
Walter, who remained in front, paused till the rest had passed, and
then fell in behind; but, on a word from Monsieur de Liancourt, one of
his attendants quitted the line, and at a quick pace sped up the hill
to the spot where the coach, containing poor Rose d'Albret, was still
standing. Had Estoc been aware of whom that vehicle contained, it
might have changed the fate of many an after day; but as yet he had
not perceived it at all; and following the corpse of his old leader
with a slow and heavy step, while a thousand memories of other days,
associated with the very building he was now entering, pressed sadly
on his mind, he ascended the slope with his eyes bent down upon the
ground, till the body passed the low arch of the gate, and he found
himself in the outer court, so long familiar to his footsteps.
The priest, in the meantime, sped on into the chapel, in order to
receive the body with the usual ceremonies; and, dismounting from
their horses, the soldiers who had followed the old commander to the
field of Ivry, soon thronged the space before the altar, with their
armed forms falling into fine but sombre groups, as the last faint
rays of the setting sun streamed through the stained glass window on
the western side, and cast their long shadows across the floor,
covered with many a monumental stone and inscription. The Count de
Liancourt and Chazeul stood behind, with their followers and
attendants; and even when the ceremony was over, they lingered still,
as if to see the old soldier and his comrades quit the chapel.
Estoc looked round more than once in the hope that they were gone.
Perhaps he wished to give way to the feelings of sorrow and regret
that were strong in his heart, without the presence of colder
witnesses. Perhaps he wished to have some private conversation with
the priest before he departed. But the Count and his companions
remained where they were; and finding that they had no intention of
retiring, he at length turned to the priest, saying, "Monsieur de la
Tremblade, I have now to ask you, on behalf of him who is gone, first,
to say one hundred masses for the repose of his soul."
The priest bowed his head, replying, "It shall be done right
willingly, my son."
And Estoc proceeded, "Secondly, to keep vigil this night and to-morrow
by the body, till the hour of matins."
"It is unusual, my son," answered the priest, "except in the case of
very high personages; but still, as you require it, it shall be done."
"I beseech you in charity to do so, father," replied Estoc: "and I
know that which you promise you will accomplish."
"Without fail," answered father Walter, and Estoc, turning from the
chapel led his men back into the court. The first object his eyes fell
upon was a carriage, apparently just arrived and surrounded by several
armed men, bearing the green scarfs of the League. The door of the
coach was open, and a lady in the act of alighting; and the next
moment Rose d'Albret held out her hands to the old soldier,
exclaiming, "Ah! good Estoc!"
Yielding to the first impulse, Estoc sprang forward towards her,
exclaiming, "Have they brought you here already, dear lady?"
"Much against my will," replied Mademoiselle d'Albret; but Chazeul and
the Count de Liancourt instantly interposed.
"You promised, Sir," exclaimed the latter, "to retire from the château
without interfering with anything that you might see or hear. Is this
the way you keep your word?"
"I will keep my word with you, Sir," answered Estoc, "better than you
have kept yours with this lady's father.--Alas! Mademoiselle
d'Albret," he continued, "I am bound to quit this place at once; and
all I can say is, that steadfast truth and firmness will prevail at
last, and so I must bid you farewell."
As he spoke, he kissed her hand and turned away; and Rose, yielding to
a violent burst of tears, suffered herself to be led into the building
by the Count de Liancourt, who remained silent till they reached the
hall, where the first object that presented itself to her eyes, in the
dim twilight that now reigned through the wide chamber, was the tall
harsh form of the Marchioness de Chazeul, advancing as if to meet her.
For a moment, Rose's heart sunk at the sight; but, the next instant,
she murmured to herself, "I must not give way. My task is one of
firmness, and I must not yield to any weakness like this."
"So, girl, so," cried Jacqueline de Chazeul, "all your fine plots have
proved of no avail! Was it not decent, delicate, and feminine, to fly
from your guardian's protection and cast yourself, unmarried, into the
arms of a man you scarcely know?"
"Scarcely know!" exclaimed Rose d'Albret; "whom do I know so well?
But, Madam, to fly with him was my only choice, in order to escape the
arts and persecutions which I was sure to encounter here. I believe
that I was justified by the contract of my father, which had been so
long concealed from me. I could trust to the honour of the man to whom
my father had engaged my hand; and I went to seek from the King that
protection and justice which I was not likely to meet with where I was
best entitled to except it."
"You have learned boldness enough, it seems, minion," replied Madame
de Chazeul, in a sharp tone, "and, if you think to justify yourself
here, by saying that it was to a heretic usurper you fled, to one
condemned and degraded by God and the apostolic church, from your
lawful guardian and the husband whom he has selected for you, you are
very much mistaken."
"To you, Madam, I seek not to justify myself at all," replied Rose; "I
have nought to do with you, nor you with me. To Monsieur de Liancourt,
when he thinks fit, I am ready, in private, to assign the motives of
my conduct, and to none else am I responsible."
"I will teach you that I have to do with you, pretty lady," replied
Madame de Chazeul. "Have you not deceived and ill-treated my son? and
you shall make him full atonement, before I quit this château."
"I have not ill-treated nor deceived him, Madam," replied Rose. "'Tis
he that has ill-treated and deceived me, and many others, too. He
cannot say that I ever affected to love him, that I ever did more than
yield a cold and unwilling acquiescence to that which he made me
believe, by a shameless falsehood, was my poor father's will. I
learned, at length, what that father's intentions really were; and
then, contempt and abhorrence of the deceiver took place of the
indifference I before felt towards him. He knows it well," she
continued, "that I am bound to him by no tie, no promise, no
engagement whatsoever. I was told that I must marry him--"
"And so you must, fair lady," exclaimed Madame de Chazeul, in a
mocking tone, "and so you must, and so you shall! Assure as my name is
Jacqueline de Chazeul, you shall be his wife before two suns set."
"Nay, nay, my dear mother," said Chazeul, who had been speaking to the
Count de Liancourt at a little distance, "you are too harsh, and too
unkind to Mademoiselle d'Albret. She will yield when she finds that it
must be so. She will also yield, when she finds she is mistaken about
this contract, and that, in reality, her father left it open for
Monsieur de Liancourt to bestow her hand on which of his nephews he
thought fit. I can assure you, Rose," he continued, in a soft, but
emphatic tone, "Monsieur de Marennes believed that my uncle, here,
could bequeath his estates to myself, if he chose it; and, therefore,
I might as well be meant by the contract as my cousin."
"Cease, Sir, cease," answered Rose; "it is vain to stain yourselves
with any more deceits. I now know the whole truth, that the good
Commander resigned his claims in favour of Madame de Montigni; that to
her son those claims appertained when my father signed the contract,
and, therefore, it was to him he pledged me. But I have something more
to say, and I beg you will mark it. Had you been even meant by the
contract, which you know right well you were not, nothing on earth
should ever make me give you my hand, now that I know some other of
your doings. I would rather, a thousand-fold, vow myself to the
seclusion of a convent, than pass my life with a man whom I can
neither respect, esteem, nor love."
"We will not give you the choice, minion," cried Madame de Chazeul;
"your fate is sealed and determined; you are to be his wife, if not by
fair means, then by force. This will bear no farther trifling,
Liancourt; you must exert your power over her, and compel her to do
what is right."
"I hope he will exert it," exclaimed Rose, "to protect me from those
who would do me wrong. Monsieur de Liancourt," she continued, "I have
always loved you well. You have ever been kind to me, till this last
sad occasion, when, persuaded by others, I am sure, rather than by
your own inclination, you have well nigh sacrificed my happiness and
peace. For my part, I have tried, from my young days, to show you the
affection of a daughter, and I would willingly show you the obedience
of one, were it possible; but in this instance, it is not so. My
father's contract I will fulfil, happy that my own inclinations and
the earliest affections of my heart go with it, but still more happy
that it saves me from wedding one with whom I could expect nothing but
misery. I beseech you, then, give me that protection which you
promised my father you would afford me; suffer me not to be injured
and insulted in your own house, even by your sister; and do not allow
me to be persecuted to break the engagement made between you and your
wife's brother. Rather, aid to maintain it to the utmost of your
power; and be my support and stay in this hour of difficulty and
distress."
"You ask much at my hands, Mademoiselle d'Albret," replied the Count,
coldly, "and yet do not offer much in return. You cannot suppose that
I approve of your quitting my house with Monsieur de Montigni; and
your claim to protection on my part, must be founded on your obedience
to my commands, which I trust you will now honour somewhat more than
you have lately done."
Rose turned away, with a sad look, and sickening sinking at her heart.
Every one was against her; and, though it was what she had expected,
yet it made her feel more deeply desolate and hopeless. To reply, she
saw was vain; and she felt that she could not much longer keep up the
firm and determined tone in which she had forced herself to speak; for
tears, at every other moment, were ready to betray the feelings that
she laboured to conceal. "I am weary," she said, abruptly, "and I
would fain retire to rest. By your leave, Monsieur de Liancourt, I
will seek my chamber."
"I will show you which is your chamber," said Madame de Chazeul, "for
you must not fancy that you are to tenant a room so easy of access.
Who can tell," she continued, in a jesting tone, "what gay gallants we
may have in the castle, who may be pleased to scale a lady's window,
when they know she is so ready to receive them?"
Rose could bear no more, and burst into a flood of tears.
"Hush, Jacqueline, hush!" said Monsieur de Liancourt; "I will show her
the room myself;" and, taking her hand, he led her away from the hall.