The moment the priest and the Marchioness de Chazeul were gone, Rose
d'Albret cast herself down into her chair, and covered her eyes with
her hands. She would fain have shut out every sight and sound, in
order that she might bend the whole energies of her mind to
contemplation of that one question--were the dreadful tidings she had
heard, true or false? But the agitating beating of her heart, the
whirling confusion of her brain, prevented her for a long time, from
fixing her thoughts firmly upon all the different arguments for
believing or disbelieving the tale that had been told her. All was
wild, and vague, and indistinct. Apprehension at first was far more
powerful than hope; and, though reason pointed out many
improbabilities even in that part of the intelligence which, as the
reader knows, was absolutely true, yet she still dreaded the worst,
even while she resolved, if possible, to believe that all was false.
"Was it likely," she asked herself, "that so proud a prince as the
Duke of Nemours, should risk his life in single combat against his own
prisoner? Was it probable, that he, who had shown himself so haughty
towards De Montigni as scarcely to return him an answer, should place
himself in such a position as to be compelled to meet him in the
field? Was it not likely, most likely, that such a tale should be
invented by those who had already deceived her on other points, in
order to lead her the more easily to the objects they desired? Was it
not clear that it was so, from their refusal to produce the messenger?
Was not, in short, anything asserted by Jacqueline de Chazeul, more
likely to be false than true?"
Thus argued hope; but on the other side fear, though in fewer words,
spoke with a more powerful voice. "The priest had asserted that the
report had undoubtedly arrived. Would he venture to do so, after the
solemn adjuration she addressed to him, if he were not himself
convinced that what he said was true? Then, too, the pains he had
taken to prepare her mind for the tidings, showed care and
consideration for her; and, if the language he had used in so doing,
were but the preface to a falsehood, it must be blasphemous trifling
indeed. She suffered memory to run back over all the events lately
passed; she considered his conduct, she asked herself if he had ever
been guilty of deliberate falsehood? The answer was, no. He had
suffered others to do so; but he had not done it himself. Without
telling the exact truth, he had not uttered actual untruth. With that
species of art, which has acquired the name of a body of men famous
for employing it in all their dealings, he had made truth serve the
purposes of falsehood; and, by a jesuitical juggle, had countenanced
things that he knew to be untrue, without leaving those he deceived
any means of convicting him of a lie. But now he had boldly and
straightforwardly said, that the intelligence had certainly arrived.
There was no evading that, she thought; it must either be true or
false. She recollected, too, the fierce anger which De Montigni had
displayed when first made prisoner by Nemours, and the words and
glances which had passed between them in regard to herself. Might not
such a scene, she inquired, have been renewed, when her lover found
that she had been actually sent back without even being permitted
another interview with him? Might he not have used such language as
would compel a prince of fiery courage like Nemours to wave the
privileges of his rank, and meet him as had been reported. Nemours was
known to be daring, chivalrous, and of a character to carry the point
of honour to excess; and if they met, was not the result reported to
her, likely to take place."
Thus argued fear; and between his voice and that of hope, her mind was
left in that painful uncertainty, which is more wearing and agitating
to the human frame, than even grief itself. She was still busy with
these thoughts, when the door opened and the maid looked in; but Rose
waved her hand impatiently, exclaiming, "leave me, leave me, I do not
want you. You can go to bed."
The very sight of Blanchette, however, brought back to her mind all
the arts that had been practised upon her before, and made her once
more hope that this sad intelligence might be part of a similar plan.
"I will retire to bed;" she thought, "in the darkness and stillness of
the night, I can think over these things more quietly than now. The
sight of that girl is hateful to me. I will shut her out," but when
she looked round, she found that the lock of the door between her room
and the ante-chamber, had been removed.
"Ha!" she said, "am I to have no privacy? This is hard, indeed;" and,
sitting down, she wept, feeling that she was left alone to struggle
with all the arts and machinations of a number, amongst whom she had
no friend. Rising again, after a moment, she wiped away the tears,
murmuring to herself, "but they shall not conquer me. Even if he whom
I love be gone, and have left me in this cold-hearted world alone, I
can die and follow him; but I will never be the wife of that base and
hateful man, let the result be whatever it may." Thus saying, she
undressed without assistance, and retired to bed. But, for poor Rose
d'Albret, it was no couch of repose. The thorns of the pillow--busy
care, and sharp apprehension and bitter grief--banished all sleep from
her eyes; and hour after hour she lay turning in her mind the same
heavy thoughts which had burdened her since the visit of the priest
and Madame de Chazeul.
Daylight returned, at length; and, raising herself upon her arm, she
gazed round, as the faint grey stream of early morning poured through
the window, and showed the various objects in the room. Then came a
warmer tint, as the sun actually rose, and with it some of the
thoughts which usually accompany the rising day. How beautiful is the
revival of nature from her dark slumber in the arms of night! what an
image of the dawning of eternal life to the emancipated spirit after
the shadow of the grave! How good, how great, how wise, is the
Almighty Author of all, who plants in the seasons, and in the
elements, in the changes of the world, and in all the revolutions of
nature, the signs and symbols of his beneficence and his power, with
promises of love and blessing and protection! There was consolation
even in the pale beams of morning; but then came back the sad thought,
the bitter unanswerable question, to the mind of Rose d'Albret--"Do
the eyes of Louis de Montigni see, like mine, the return of dawning
day, or are they closed for ever in the tomb?" And rising from her bed
she knelt, and prayed, and wept, till the increasing sounds in the
house told her, that her oppressors were once more waking into active
life, and that she must prepare her mind to suffer and resist.
Oh, how most painful of all the many grievous tasks of life, is that
of resistance! and yet it is the unceasing lot of humanity; for this
is all a battle field, and at every point--within and without, against
ourselves and others, against circumstances, temptations, cares,
griefs, fears, pleasures, successes, triumphs, vanity, hope,
expectation, pride, disappointment, opposition, regret, and despair;
against man and fiends--it is all resistance; and he who would
ultimately win the garland of victory, must be armed and awake at
every moment of existence. From the moment when the foot of Adam first
trod the garden, until the now in which we stand against the foe, the
conflict has gone on; and happy are they who do resist.
Yet 'tis a weary and a terrible task, especially for those who buckle
on their armour for the first time; and poor Rose d'Albret felt her
heart sink as she prepared herself for it. But still, the thought of
him she loved, and her repugnance to the man who would have injured
him, nerved her for the effort; and again and again, she repeated,
"They shall never move me! My voice must speak the falsehood, my own
hand must sign my folly, my own heart must prove the traitor, ere they
can conquer."
Her knowledge, too, of those with whom she had to deal, was not a
little serviceable in guarding her against all arts. That knowledge
had come slowly, not by study or inquiry, but sinking in daily into
her mind, as act after act, and word after word, developed the
characters of the persons who now surrounded her.
"If they have doubts of De Montigni's fate," she argued, "they will
urge me to this abhorred marriage with Chazeul at once and
immediately; they will give me no time--they may even try threats, and
violence, and force. If they have no doubt they will be less
importunate; they will allow me to deliberate, to mourn. But, good
heaven, if they try force, what shall I do?--It matters not, I will
die first. But, by their course, I shall know whether the tale be true
or false; and if from their urgency I judge that it is false, I shall
gain strength from hope, and courage even from their cruelty. Poor
Helen de la Tremblade! They cannot make me as thou art--they cannot
add self-reproach to all I suffer, but by my own fault. Would that I
had not promised, never to tell her tale, till she herself thought
fit. I might perhaps find a friend, if I could do so, in the only one
who could well befriend me. She knew not how much her story might
serve me now; and I little thought that I should long to tell it for
my own safety, rather than for her comfort. But hark, there are people
speaking near! I will be dressed and prepared to meet them when they
come hither. Blanchette," she continued aloud, "Blanchette!"
The girl made her call several times, and then appeared with a dull
and sullen countenance; and Rose proceeding with her toilet, exchanged
but few words with one whom she had never either loved or esteemed,
and now despised.
When she was fully dressed she advanced towards the door, saying, "I
will go out upon the ramparts. Put the room in order against my
return."
But the girl planted herself in the way, and replied, "You cannot,
Mademoiselle. There are strict orders that you remain here, till the
Count or the Marchioness come for you."
There was a low suppressed laugh--a laugh of triumph in her
power--mingled with the girl's words, which was hard to bear; and Rose
felt at first inclined to resist, and then to weep; but she gave way
to neither temptation; and, after gazing at her for a minute, merely
replied, "What, I am a prisoner, then; and my own maid the gaoler? It
is well; but it will prove fruitless. Give me a book, I will read."
The girl inquired what book, and gave her mistress the pain--and she
well knew it was a pain,--to speak more than once before she chose to
comprehend.
At length, however, a book was brought; and poor Rose d'Albret,
placing herself near the window, strove to read with an unconcerned
air. But it was in vain she did so; the letters swam before her eyes:
her mind wandered to other things: her eye ran over the lines without
gathering their sense; and, ere she had mastered more than two or
three sentences, there was a step in the ante-room, a knock at the
door, and before she could say "Come in," Madame de Chazeul entered,
followed by Monsieur de Liancourt. The conflict, she saw, was about to
begin, and with an anxious gasp for breath, and a haggard eye, she
gazed upon them as they approached, unable to speak, though she strove
to do so.
"Be calm, Rose, be calm," said Monsieur de Liancourt, placing a seat
for his sister, and taking one himself. "I have come to you thus early
in the morning, because Madame de Chazeul and father Walter informed
me last night, that you entertained suspicions as to the reality of
the sad intelligence which we received last night, and I wish to
assure you with my own lips that there is no doubt--that I entertain
no doubt of the fact."
Rose wept but could not reply; and after a brief pause, the Count
proceeded: "Of course I feel deeply grieved that such a fate should
have overtaken my nephew; but I cannot help at the same time
remembering, that he has not lately acted as became him, nor shown
towards me that respect and gratitude which I trust I deserved at his
hands."
"Oh, Sir," cried Rose, waving her hand mournfully; "touch not the
memory of the dead--of one who was willing to show you every
reverence, although, perhaps, he might feel that he had been wronged
and deceived. To you," she continued, seeing the Count's lip quiver,
"to you he attributed it not, but to the counsels of others; and you
would have found no one more affectionate no one more willing to
testify, in every way, his regard and respect."
"Well, well," cried Madame de Chazeul, "there is no use of disputing
about such things. That is all past. The question before us is of the
present. You had something to say on that score, brother, I think?"
"Why, simply this," replied the Count, "that as my nephew Chazeul is
now, without dispute, my heir, he is also, without dispute, the person
indicated by the contract between myself and Monsieur de Marennes--as
your husband, Rose!" he added, in a slow emphatic tone.
Rose gazed down and was silent, for her heart beat so violently that
she had no power to reply. Had she calculated her whole conduct,
however, to obtain an insight into the views of her two companions,
nothing could have served her better than that silence, for Madame de
Chazeul observed, after a momentary pause, "I am happy to see you make
no objection, for no longer delay can be admitted,--indeed it is
impossible--for the presence of Chazeul is instantly required by the
Duke of Mayenne, and you must go with him as his wife."
"Make no objection!" said Rose.
But Madame de Chazeul cut her short, saying, "Ay, and it is well that
you do not, for it could have no effect if you did. Everything is
determined and prepared. The contract, as before drawn up, waits for
your signature, and the marriage must take place at once."
"He is not dead," murmured Rose to herself, with a sudden look of joy
passing over her countenance, which those who saw it could in no
degree comprehend; and the next moment, turning to Monsieur de
Liancourt, she said, "Sir, I will ask if this be decent and proper, in
the very first day of mourning for your nephew, for him to whom my
heart was given, and my hand promised, to propose that I should wed
another?"
"Urgent circumstances, Rose," answered the Count, "must justify what
would not otherwise be right. The necessity for Chazeul's immediate
departure compels us to this course, and I must insist that you make
no opposition."
"If Monsieur de Chazeul must depart," said Rose, "let him; he can
return at some future period, when a widowed heart may have somewhat
recovered from the wound it has received. But it shall not be said,
that Rose d'Albret gave her hand to another, before her tears were dry
for him to whom her faith was plighted."
"This is all vain folly," cried Madame de Chazeul; "my son will find
means to dry your tears, if that be all."
"He can but make them flow more bitterly," replied Rose d'Albret; "was
ever such a monstrous and cruel thing proposed! Oh, Sir," she
continued, turning to the Count, "will you, a man of honour and a
gentleman, a man of feeling, and of a kindly heart--will you
countenance the attempt to force me, the very day after I have heard
of poor Louis de Montigni's bloody death, to wed a man for whom I
never entertained aught but indifference?"
"Well, Rose, well," said the Count, rising; "I will give you another
day; that is all that I can allow; for my word is pledged that, before
noon to-morrow, you shall be Chazeul's wife. Nay, say no more, for I
will hear no more. Make up your mind to it in the meanwhile; for on
this point I am firm, and your conduct in secretly quitting my roof
for the purpose of thwarting all my designs and wishes for your
benefit, well justifies me in compelling your immediate obedience."
Thus saying he turned and left the room; but Madame de Chazeul
remained gazing upon her poor victim with a bitter, and almost
contemptuous look, which might well teach Rose to apprehend no very
happy life if wedded to her son.
"What is the meaning of all this, girl?" exclaimed the Marchioness, as
soon as the door had closed upon Monsieur de Liancourt; "you are
plotting some stratagem,--your delays have some end in view."
"None, Madam," answered Rose d'Albret. "The only object that I can
have in life is, to avoid a union with a man I despise and abhor."
"Despise and abhor!" exclaimed Jacqueline de Chazeul, in a mocking
tone; "pray may I ask how it happens that such passions have found
their way into your gentle breast?"
"His own deeds, which have come to my ears in spite of your
precautions, Madam," replied Rose, "have planted those feelings there,
never to be rooted out."
"What deeds?" demanded the Marchioness, sternly.
"Unhappily I have promised never to name them," answered Rose; "but
you know to what I allude right well; and you cannot doubt with what
eyes I must look upon your son."
"You must be his wife, notwithstanding," said Madame de Chazeul.
But Rose could bear no more. "Never!" she exclaimed; "never! Come what
may I will never be his wife. You may drag me to the altar, but not
even by silence will I seem to give consent. I will refuse the vow, I
will cast away the ring, I will call God to witness that I am not his
wife. This hand shall never sign the contract till it moulders in the
grave; and if death be the consequence, I will not do one act that can
make me his;" and overpowered by her own vehemence, as well as by the
many emotions in her bosom, she burst into a bitter flood of tears.
Madame de Chazeul gazed at her for a moment, while her whole face
worked with passion, which she could not find words to express; and
then shaking her hand at her, she exclaimed, in a low bitter tone,
"You shall!" and quitted the room.