Guise as they came up. "They exchanged it some fifty years ago for
their house further down. But there are two or three back ways out, I
know; and if you have not put a guard there, they have escaped you."
It proved as the Duke anticipated. The house was found completely
vacant, and though strict orders were sent to all the different gates
to suffer no one to pass out without close examination, either the
order came too late, or those against whom it was levelled proved too
politic for the guards; for none of those whom the Duke of Guise
wished to secure, except Pereuse, the Prevot des Marchands, were taken
in the attempt to escape.
The shots, the sound of which, Guise had heard, proved to be those
which had struck the unfortunate Count de Logeres, and no difficulty
was found in inducing the people who surrounded the soldiery near the
Chatelet, to suffer them to depart, as their companions had done.
On entering the Cemetery of the Innocents, however, the Duke instantly
saw that the danger of the troops was greater; for, shut up within,
those walls, together with the Swiss, he found the famous Baron de
Biron and Pomponne de Bellievre, while the people without were loudly
clamouring for their blood. They both advanced towards him as soon as
he appeared; and the Duke, gazing around him, said with a sigh, "Alas,
Monsieur de Biron! those who stirred up this fire should have been
able to extinguish it."
"I say so, too, my Lord," replied Biron sadly. "Evil be to those who
gave the counsel that has been followed. God knows I opposed it to the
utmost of my power, and only obeyed the King's absolute commands in
bringing these poor fellows hither, who, I fear, will never be
suffered to pass out as they came."
"For the soldiery I have no fear," replied the Duke, "and as for you,
gentlemen, I must do the best that I can. But the people look upon you
as partially authors of the evil, and they will not be easily
satisfied."
The Duke of Guise, however, succeeded, though not without difficulty,
in his purpose of saving all. The people yielded to him, but for the
first time showed some degree of resistance; and he returned to the
Hotel de Guise feeling more sensibly, from that little incident, the
truth of the warning which Catherine de Medici had given him,
regarding the instability of popularity, than from all the arguments
or examples that reason or history could produce.
We may easily imagine the reception of the Duke in his own dwelling:
the joy, the congratulations, the inquiries; and we may imagine, also,
the passing of that busy night, while messengers were coming to and
fro at every instant, and couriers were dispatched from the Hotel de
Guise to almost every part of France.
Henry of Guise was well aware, that whatever deference and humility he
might assume in his words towards the King, or whatever testimonies of
forgiveness and affection Henry might offer to him, his own safety
now, for the rest of his life, depended on his power, and that his
armour must be the apprehensions of the King, rather than his regard.
Up to a very late hour, notwithstanding all the fatigues and
agitations of the day, he sat with his secretary Pericard, writing
letters to all his different friends in various parts of the country,
demanding their immediate assistance and support, even while he
expressed the most devoted attachment to the King; and thus, in the
letter we have already cited to Bassompiere, he makes use of such
expressions as the following:--
"Thus it is necessary that you should make a journey here to see your
friends, whom you will not find, thank God! either wanting in means or
resolution. We must have good intelligence from Germany, however, that
we be not taken by surprise. We are not without forces, courage,
friends, nor means; but still less without honour, or respect and
fidelity to the King, which we will preserve inviolably, doing our
duty, as people of worth, of honour, and as good Catholics."
It was about twelve o'clock at night, when Reignaut, the surgeon,
entered the cabinet of the Duke, and bowing low said, "I come,
according to your Highness's order, to tell you the state of the young
Count of Logeres. Soon after I saw you about six to-day, we extracted
both balls. He bore the operation well, and has slept since for
several hours."
"Is he sleeping still?" demanded the Duke.
"No," replied the surgeon. "He awoke about a quarter of an hour ago,
and seems anxious to see your Highness. He questioned me closely as to
his state, when I told him the truth."
"You did right, you did right," replied the Duke. "He is one that can
bear it. What is your real opinion, Reignaut, in regard to the
result?"
"I can hardly tell your Highness," replied the surgeon. "Two or three
days more are necessary, before we can judge. The wound in the
shoulder is not dangerous, though the most painful. The shot which
passed through his body, and lodged in the back, is one which we
generally consider mortal; but then, in ordinary cases, death either
takes place almost immediately, or indications of such a result are
seen in an hour or two, as to leave no further doubt on the subject.
No such indications have appeared here, and it may have happened that
the ball has passed through without touching any vital part. We must
remember, also," he continued, "that the wound was received when the
moon was in her first quarter, which is, of course, very favourable;
and we shall also, if there be any chance of life being saved, have
made some progress towards recovery before any crisis is brought on by
the moon reaching the full."
The Duke listened attentively, for though such things may appear to
us, in the present day, mere foolishness, that was not the case two
centuries and a half ago, and the power of the moon, in affecting the
wounded or sick, was never questioned. "Stay, Reignaut," said the
Duke, "I will go with you, and see this good youth. I love him much;
there is a frankness in his nature that wins upon the heart. Besides,
he has saved my life, and has come to my aid on all occasions, as if
there were a fate in it; and I believe, moreover, that he loves me
personally as much--nay, perhaps more, than any of my own family and
relations."
Thus saying the Duke rose, and, followed by Reignaut, passed through
the door of his cabinet into the anteroom. His pages instantly
presented themselves to light him on his way, and traversing some of
the long corridors of the vast building be inhabited, he reached the
chamber where his unhappy friend lay stretched upon the bed of pain
and sickness. The boy Ignati sat beside him, tending him with care and
affection; and at the foot of the bed, with his arms crossed upon his
chest, stood his faithful servant Gondrin, with tears in his eyes.
The Duke seated himself by the young Count, and remained with him for
nearly an hour; and knowing well what effect the mind has upon the
body, spoke to him cheerfully and hopefully of the time to come,
talked of his recovered health as a thing certain, and mentioned his
union with Marie de Clairvaut as beyond all doubt.
"It is upon that subject, my Lord," said the young gentleman, "that I
wished particularly to speak with your Highness. I have not had either
time or opportunity of telling you all that has occurred since I left
you at Soissons. But from all I have heard, I now judge better in
regard to the situation of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut than even you
can. Nay, Monsieur Reignaut, I must speak a few words, but I will be
as brief and as prudent as possible. In this business, my Lord,
suspect not the Queen. It is not in her hands that Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut will be found. Neither is she with Villequier, depend upon
it; nor in the power of the King. I grieve to say it, but I feel sure
my own brother has something to do with the events of this day as far
as they affect her so dear to me."
"But you surely do not think," exclaimed the Duke, "that it is your
brother's hand which inflicted these wounds upon you!"
"The ball would be poisoned, indeed, my Lord," replied Charles of
Montsoreau, "if I did believe such to be the case. But I trust it is
not so; most sincerely do I trust--ay, and believe--it is not so.
There is another hand, my Lord Duke; and not long ago I could as well
have believed that my own father's would have been raised against me
as the one of which I speak. But still there is another hand, my Lord,
which--actuated by motives dark and evil--I believe to have been
raised against my life. That hand is in general unerring in its aim;
and the moment before the shot was fired, I saw the calm cold features
which I know so well, at the window just above me."
"But whose is the hand?" exclaimed the Duke. "Whose are the features
that you mean?"
"I mean those of the Abbe de Boisguerin, my Lord," replied the Count;
"and to him, to him, I think, your Highness must look even rather than
to my brother. I believe Gaspar but to be a tool in his hands, and
that he uses him for his own dark and criminal designs."
"Have I not heard you say he was your tutor?" demanded the Duke. "What
then are his motives? what can be his inducements?"
"Love, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I have the word of
that sweet girl for his having dared to use words towards her, for
which he deserves and must meet with punishment. Him I would point out
to your Highness as the person to be watched, and sought for, and made
to account for all his actions; for, depend upon it, his are the
machinations which are ruling these events."
"He shall not be forgotten!" replied the Duke. "He shall not be
forgotten! But now, Logeres, speak no more, except indeed only to
answer me one question. I have heard that the county of Morly has
lately fallen to you by the death of the old Count. These, with the
estates of Logeres, if properly conducted, may afford me great
assistance. You are incapable for the time of directing them at all.
Do you authorise me to fill your post, and give orders in your name
till you are better?"
"Most willingly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "I had
already thought of it. But your Highness talks of my becoming better:
I have thought of that matter too, but in a different light; and
considering what may take place in case of my own death, I have
requested Monsieur Reignaut here to cause a will to be drawn up,
leaving the whole that I possess to the person whom I love best on
earth, with your Highness for her guardian. There are a few gifts
bestowed on those that love me, and a provision for all old servants:
but----"
"But it will not be wanted, Logeres," said the Duke, pressing his
hand. "I see it in your eye; I hear it in the tone of your voice. You
will recover and strike by my side yet--perhaps, in many a well-fought
field. Silence and perfect quiet, I know, are Monsieur Reignaut's best
medicines; but I shall come to you, from time to time, when I have got
any pleasant tidings to bear."
CHAP. IV.
We must now pass over a considerable lapse of time without taking any
note of the political intrigues with which it was occupied, and lead
the reader at once from the month of May to the end of summer, and
from the city of Paris to the distant town of Augouleme.
Under the high hill on which that city stands, at the distance of
about a league from the base, was in those days a beautiful park with
a pavilion of four towers; and in one of these towers, on a fine
summer day towards the end of July, sat the young Marquis of
Montsoreau together with the Abbe de Boisguerin: not exactly in
conversation, for the Marquis had not spoken a word for nearly an
hour; but in dull companionship.
The young nobleman's back was turned towards the light, his eyes were
bent down upon the ground, his head drooped forward in a desponding
attitude, the nostril was painfully expanded, as if he drew his breath
with difficulty, and the teeth were tight shut, as it were to keep
down some struggling emotions that swelled for utterance. An open
letter lay upon the table, and another much more closely written, and
written in cypher, was in the hand of the Abbe de Boisguerin. The
Abbe's brow too was a good deal contracted, and his lip was somewhat
pale, though it quivered not; but from time to time he addressed the
young nobleman with words of consolation, regarding some afflicting
tidings just received.
Those words, however, though well chosen, appropriate and elegant,
were not of the words that console, for they were not of the heart. He
reasoned logically on the inutility of human grief, and still more on
the vanity of regretting that which could not be recalled. He spoke
lightly of all deep feelings for any earthly thing, and he talked of
every deed upon the face of the earth being justified by the
importance of the objects to be obtained.
When he had talked thus for some time without obtaining any answer, he
was going on to justify the past; but Gaspar de Montsoreau suddenly
started up, and interrupted him with a vehemence which he had never
displayed before.
"Abbe de Boisguerin," he said, "talk not to me of consolation and of
comfort. Is not my brother dead? Is not my brother dead, killed by my
own hand? Can you tear that from the book of fate? Can you blot it out
from memory? Can you rase it for ever from the records of crimes done?
Can you find me a pillow on all the earth, where I can lay my head in
peace?"
"Your brother, indeed, is dead," said the Abbe de Boisguerin, without
in the least degree trying to relieve the mind of his young companion
from the crime with which conscience charged him. "Your brother,
indeed, is dead; and it is not to be denied that your hand, my dear
Gaspar, took his life; but yet you were in a city where war was
actually going on between two parties, one of which you served, and
the other your brother. These things have happened every day in civil
wars, and always will happen. They are to be grieved at, but who can
help them?"
"But I was engaged in no civil wars," exclaimed the young Marquis. "My
men were at the Louvre. I was not fighting on the part of the King: I
was not engaged in trampling down the people. But what was I busied
with, Abbe de Boisguerin? I was engaged in a scheme for carrying
off--from him she loved, and from those who had a right to protect
her--one whom I had no title to control, whom I was bound by honour to
guard and to defend. I was injuring her; I was preparing to injure
her. If I had not lied to her myself, I had caused her to be deceived
and lied to; and all that I had previously done made the act itself
which I had committed, but the more hateful. Speak not to me of
consolation, Abbe; speak not to me of hope or comfort. You of all men,
do not venture to mention to me a word like happiness or confidence."
"And why not, my Lord?" demanded the Abbe somewhat sternly. "What have
I done to merit reproach in the matter?"
"Has it not been you that have prompted me throughout?" demanded the
Marquis. "Was it not you who devised the scheme, prepared the means,
got possession of the Queen's letter by corrupting her servants. Was
it not your tool, that, upon pretence of assisting her to the other
gates of the hotel, got her into our power; and was it not you, when
her prayers and entreaties and agitation would have made me yield--was
it not you that resisted, and remorselessly bade the men carry her on?
Did you not yourself stand by me when the shot was fired; and was it
not your warning, that disgrace and death must follow hesitation,
which winged the ball that took my brother's life?"
"It is all true, Gaspar," replied the Abbe de Boisguerin in a sad but
no longer a harsh tone. "It is all true; and from you I meet the
reward, which all men will meet and well deserve who love others
better than themselves, and who do for them things that they would not
do for themselves. Nevertheless, I still think that there was not that
evil on our side with which you seem to reproach yourself. Shocked and
mourning for your brother's death, you see all things in dark and
gloomy colours. Those things which you regarded before as light, have
now become to you heavy and sombre as night. But all this is but mood,
and let me call to your remembrance what sense and reason say. You and
your brother loved the same person,--you vehemently, warmly,
devotedly; he coldly, and by halves. You, as the elder brother and as
lord of the dwelling in which she was received, had, if any thing, the
first claim upon her; and he himself rendered that claim still greater
by leaving her entirely to you, and absenting himself from her. You
had every right, therefore, to seek her hand by all means; and when
you found that, though he affected generous forbearance, he had gone
covertly to forestall your demand, and gain the promise of her hand
from her guardian, surely you were bound to keep no measures with him.
All I did subsequently was to serve you in a cause that I thought was
right, and it is but a few days ago that you were grateful to me for
so doing. I said at the time, and I say again, that if at the moment
when your brother commenced his attack upon the house in the Rue de la
Ferroniere, either you or I had been taken, death and eternal disgrace
would have been the consequence. We acted but in our own defence, and
those who assailed us cannot accuse us for so acting."
Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him in sullen silence, his dark eyes
rolling from side to side beneath his heavy eyebrows. In his dealings
with the Abbe de Boisguerin he had by this time learned fully how
artful and politic was the man who led him. He saw it, and he could
not doubt it, even while he shared in the things at which his better
spirit revolted. But that very knowledge taught him to doubt, whether
the art and the policy were used for his service, and out of affection
to him, or whether they were all directed in some secret way to the
benefit of him who wielded them so dexterously. The suspicions which
Villequier had instilled rose fresh in his mind at this very time; and
as his only answer to the Abbe's reasonings, he demanded with a keen
glance and a sharp tone, "Tell me. Abbe, was it, or was it not, you
who brought the reiters upon us, and who gave the King's forces notice
of our passage?"
"I did the one, but not the other," replied the Abbe calmly. "I dealt
not with the reiters, Gaspar de Montsoreau, for that would have been
dangerous to me, to her, and to you. But I did inform the troops of
the King, because I already had learned how deeply the Duke of Guise
was pledged to your brother; because I knew that no reasoning would
prevent either you or this fair girl from going on to Soissons; and
because I saw that there was no earthly chance of your obtaining her
hand, but by placing her under the charge of her father's nearest male
relation, from whom the Duke of Guise unjustly withholds the
guardianship. I own it, I acknowledge it, I am proud of it."
The way in which the Abbe replied was not such as Gaspar de Montsoreau
had expected; but dissatisfied with himself, and of course with every
thing else, Gaspar de Montsoreau still gazed sullenly on the floor,
and then raised his eyes to the open window of the pavilion, where the
warm sun was seen streaming through the green vines, with the birds
still singing sweetly in the woods without. But it was all to him as
the face of Eden to our first parents after the fall; a shade seemed
to come over his eyes when he looked upon the loveliness of nature;
the very sunshine seemed to him darkness; and the fair world a desert.
"Can you give me back my delight in that sunshine?" he said, after a
pause. "Can you make the notes of those birds again sound sweet to my
ear? Can you remove the heavy, heavy burden of remorse from this
heart? Can you ever, ever prove to me, that for this unrequited love I
have not made myself a guilty wretch, bearing the sign of Cain upon
his brow, the curse of Cain within his bosom?"
"If such be your feelings," replied the Abbe, "if such--contrary to
all justice and reason--is the state in which your mind is to remain,
there is one way that will alleviate and soothe you, that may seem in
your eyes some atonement, and put your conscience more at rest. Cast
off this love which you believe has led you into evil, yield the
pursuit of this fair girl, renounce the object for which you did that
whereof your heart reproaches you, and by that voluntary punishment
and self-command, do penance for aught in which you may have failed.
Doubtless, that penance will be severe and terrible to endure; but the
more it is so, the greater is the atonement."
The Marquis gazed him in the face thoughtfully while the Abbe spoke,
and then fell into a long reverie. His brow was raised and depressed,
his teeth gnawed his nether lip, his hand clenched and opened with the
struggle that was going on within, and at length, stamping his heel
upon the ground, he exclaimed, "No, no, no! I have paid a mighty
price, and I will save the jewel that I have bought with my soul's
salvation! That fiery love is the only thing now left me upon
earth.--She shall be mine, or I will die! What is there that shall
stop me now? What is there that shall hinder me? Have I not wealth,
and power, and courage, and strength, and daring, and determination?
The fear of crime! the fear of crime! that weak barrier is cast down
and trampled under my feet. Have I not broken the nearest and the
dearest ties of kindred and affection, murdered the brother that
hung on the same breast, dimmed the eyes that looked upon me in
infancy, frozen the warm heart that was cradled in the same womb with
mine?--Out upon it! What is there should stop me now? The lesser
crimes of earth, the smaller violences, seem ground into unseen dust
by this greater crime. Abbe, I will buy her of Villequier!--I know how
to win him!--I will force her to love me, or she shall hate her
husband! What is there shall stop me now? I will buy the priest as
well as the ring, or the wedding garment; and she shall be mine,
whether her heart be mine or not!".
While he spoke the Abbe de Boisguerin gazed upon him with one of his
calm dark smiles; but upon the present occasion that smile upon the
lip was at variance with a slight frown upon his brow. He replied
little, however, saying merely, "It is so, Gaspar! It is so, that men
seek to enjoy the fruit, and yet regret the means. They will never
find happiness thus, however."
"Happiness!" exclaimed the Marquis, with a look of agony upon his
face. "Is there such a thing as happiness? Oh yes, there is, and I
once knew it, when together with that brother who is now no more, and
you also, my friend, undisturbed by stormy passions, content with that
I had, blessed with the only friendship and affection that was needful
to content, I passed the sunny hours in sport and joy, and scarcely
knew the common pains incident to man's general nature. And you have
aided to destroy this state, and you have helped to drive me forth
from happiness, to blot it out so entirely, that I could almost forget
it ever existed."