not done any of these things you talk of. I have not aided in any one
degree to take from you the happiness you formerly had. There is but
one secret for the preservation of happiness, Gaspar. It matters not
what is the object of desire, for any thing that we thirst for really
may give us happiness in nearly the same portion as another. Happiness
is gained by the right estimation of the means. If a man ever uses
means that he regrets, to obtain any object that he desires, he loses
the double happiness which may be obtained in life, the happiness of
pursuit and the happiness of enjoyment. Every means must, of course,
be proportioned to its end; where much is to be won, much must be
risked or paid: but the firm strong mind, the powerful understanding,
weighs the object against the price; and, if it be worthy, whatever
that price may be, after it is once paid and the object attained,
regrets not the payment. It is like an idle child who covets a gilt
toy, spoils it in half an hour, and then regrets the money it has
cost, ever to sorrow over means we have used, when those means have
proved successful. Say not, Gaspar, that I disturbed your happiness!
While you were in your own lands, enjoying the calm pleasures of a
provincial life, knowing no joys, seeking no pleasures but those
which, like light winds that ruffle the surface and plough not up the
bosom of the water, amuse the mind but never agitate the heart, I
lived contented and happy amongst you, believing that, but once or
twice at most in the life of man, a joy is set before him, which is
worthy of being bartered against amusement. I joined in all your
sports, I furnished you with new sources of the same calm pleasures;
and as long as I saw the passions were shut out, I sought no change
for myself or for you either. But when the moment came, that strong
and deep passions were to be introduced; when I saw that your heart,
and that of your brother, like the moulded figure by the demigod, had
been touched with the ethereal fire, and woke from slumber never to
sleep again, then it was but befitting that I should aid him who
confided in me, in the pursuit that he was now destined to follow. If
the object was a great and worthy one, the means to obtain it were
necessarily powerful and hazardous. No man ought to yield his repose
for any thing that is not worth all risks; but having once begun the
course, he must go on; and weak and idle is he who cannot overleap the
barriers that he meets with, or, when the race is won, turns to regret
this flower or that which he may have trampled down in his course."
"You are harsh, Abbe," replied the Marquis thoughtfully, somewhat
shaken by his words--for though the wounds of remorse admit no balm,
they are sometimes forgotten in strong excitement. "You are harsh, but
yet it is a terrible thing to have slain one's brother."
"It is," replied the Abbe; "but circumstances give the value of every
fact. It is a terrible thing to slay any human being; to take the life
of a creature, full of the same high intelligences as ourselves: but
if I slay that man in a room, and for no purpose, it is called murder;
if I slay him in a battle-field, in order to obtain a crown, it is a
glorious act, and worthy of immortal renown."
The Marquis listened to his sophistry, eager to take any theme of
consolation to his heart. But any one who heard him, would have
supposed that the Abbe de Boisguerin thought his companion too easily
consoled. Perhaps it might be that the Abbe himself sought to defend
his share in the transaction, rather than to give any comfort to his
unhappy cousin. At all events, after a brief pause, during which both
fell into thought, he added, "What I grieve the most for is, that
Charles was kind-hearted and generous, frank and true, and I believe
sincerely that, but for this unhappy business, he loved us both."
"Ay, there is the horror! there is the horror!" exclaimed the Marquis,
casting himself down into a chair, and covering his eyes with his
hands. "He did love me, I know he did; and I believe he sought to act
generously by me."
The Abbe suffered him to indulge in his grief for a moment or two, and
then replied, "But the misfortune is, that, with all this, your object
is not yet secured; that though you have once more snatched her from
the power of the Guises, you have not contrived to keep her in your
own."
The Marquis waved his hand impatiently, saying, "I cannot--I will not
talk of such things now. Leave me, Abbe, leave me! I can but grieve;
there is no way that I can turn without encountering sorrow."
The Abbe turned and left him; and descending the steps into the
gardens, he walked on in the calm sunshine, as tranquilly as if purity
and holiness had dwelt within his breast. "I must bear this yet a
while longer," he said to himself. "But now, if I could find some
enthusiastic priest, full of wild eloquence, such as we have in Italy,
to seize this deep moment of remorse, we might do much with him to
make him abjure this pursuit; perhaps abjure the world! The foolish
boy thinks that it was his hand that did it, and does not know that I
fired at all, when his hand shook so that he could not well have
struck him. Perhaps there may be such a priest as I need up there," he
continued, looking towards Augouleme, "perhaps there may be such a
priest up there, of the kind I want. Epernon has his fits of devotion
too, I believe. At all events, I will go up and see. The madder the
better for my purpose."
Thus saying he called some servants, ordered his horse, and, as soon
as it was brought, rode away towards Augouleme.
CHAP. V.
Gaspar de Montsoreau remained in the same position in which the Abbe
had left him for nearly an hour, and the struggle of the various
passions which agitated his heart, were perhaps as terrible as any
that had ever been known to human being. His situation, indeed, was
one which exposed him more than most men are ever exposed, to the
contention of the most opposite feelings. He had not been led
gradually on, as many are, step by step, to evil; but he had been
taken from the midst of warm and kindly feelings, from the practice of
right, and an habitual course of calm and tranquil enjoyment, and by
the mastery of one strong and violent passion had been plunged into
the midst of crimes which had left anguish and remorse behind them.
Still, however, the passion which had at first led him astray, existed
in all its fierceness and all its intensity; and, like some quiet
field--from which the husbandman has been accustomed to gather yearly,
in the calm sunshine, a rich and kindly harvest--when suddenly made
the place of strife by contending armies, his heart, so tranquil and
so happy not a year before, had now become the battle-place of remorse
and love.
Sometimes the words of the Abbe came back upon his ear, urging him to
abandon for ever, as a penance for his crime, the pursuit which had
already led him to such awful deeds; but then again the thought of
Marie de Clairvaut, of never beholding that beautiful being again, of
yielding her for ever, perhaps, to the arms of others, came across his
brain, and almost drove him mad.
Then would rush remorse again upon his heart, the features of his
brother rose up before him, his graceful form seemed to move within
his sight; the frank warm-hearted, kindly smile, that had ever greeted
him when they met, was now painted by memory to his eye; and many a
trait of generous kindness, many a noble, many an endearing act, the
words and jests of boyhood and infancy, the long remembered sports of
early years, the accidents, the adventures, the tender and twining
associations of youth and happiness, forgotten in the strife of
passion and the contention of rivalry, now came back, as vividly as
the things of yesterday--came back, alas! now that death had ended the
struggle, rendered the deeds of the past irreparable, thrown the pall
of remorse over the last few months, and left memory alone to deck the
tomb of the dead with bright flowers gathered from their spring of
life.
It was too much to bear: he turned back again to the words, not of
consolation but of incitement, which the Abbe had spoken to him. He
tried to think it was folly to regret what had been done; he tried to
recollect that it was in a scene of contention, and in moments of
strife, that his brother had fallen; he strove to persuade himself
that Marie de Clairvaut had been under his care and guidance and
direction, and that his brother Charles had had no right even to
attempt to take her out of his hands. He laboured, in short, to steel
his heart; to render it as hard iron, in order to resist the things
that it had to endure. He sought anxiously to rouse it into activity;
and he tried to fix his mind still upon the thoughts of winning Marie
de Clairvaut. He resolved, at whatever price, by whatever sacrifice,
to gain her, to possess her, to make her his own beyond recall: with
the eagerness of passion and the recklessness of remorse, he
determined to pursue his course, trusting, as many have idly trusted,
that he should induce the woman, whose affections and feelings he
forced, to love the man to whose passions she was made a sacrifice.
The struggle was still going on, the voice of conscience was raising
itself loudly from time to time, memory was doing her work, and
passion was opposing all, when, without hearing any step, or knowing
that any one had arrived at the house, he felt a hand quietly laid
upon his arm, and starting up with a feeling almost of terror, which
was unusual to him, he beheld the dark and sinister, though handsome,
countenance of Villequier.
The courtier grasped his hand with enthusiastic warmth, and gazed in
his face with a look of deep interest. "You are sad, Monsieur de
Montsoreau," he said; "I grieve to see you so sad. I fear that the
news which I came to break to you has been told you, perhaps, in a
rash and inconsiderate manner. You are aware then that your brother is
no more. I hoped to have been in time, for I only heard it the day
before yesterday, in the evening, from the Duke of Guise, who is now
with the King, and, as you know, all powerful."
Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him to an end, and then merely bowed his
head, saying, "I have heard all, Monsieur de Villequier." But although
he saw that his companion--who had more than once witnessed the
fierceness of his feelings towards his brother regarding Mademoiselle
de Clairvaut--was surprised at the deep grief he now betrayed, he
dared not let him know how much that grief was aggravated by remorse,
from the belief that his own hand had cut the thread of his brother's
life.
"I am sorry. Monsieur de Montsoreau," added Villequier, "to see you so
deeply affected by this matter. Pray remember, that though Monsieur de
Logeres was your brother, he was struggling with you for the hand of
the person you love, and that his being now removed, renders your hope
of obtaining the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut no longer doubtful
and remote, but certain and almost immediate."
"I see not the matter in the same cheering light that you do, Monsieur
de Villequier," replied Gaspar de Montsoreau thoughtfully. "You say,
and I hear also that it is so, that the Duke of Guise is now all
powerful with the King; if such be the case, what results have we to
anticipate? Do you think that the Duke of Guise will ever consent to
the union of his ward with me? Do you think that, prejudging the
question as he has already done, he will give me the bride that he
promised to my brother? Have I not heard from those who were present,
that he has sworn by all he holds sacred, that never, under any
circumstances, should she be mine?"
"The Duke of Guise is not immortal," replied Villequier drily; "and
his death leaves her wholly in my power. Should such an event not take
place, however, and the period of her attaining free agency approach,
we must risk a little should need be, and employ a certain degree of
gentle compulsion to drive or lead her to that which we desire."
"When will it be?" demanded Gaspar of Montsoreau. "Why should we
pause? why should we risk any thing by delay?"
"She becomes a free agent by the law," replied Villequier, "on the
morrow of next Christmas. If that day passes, it is true, prayers and
supplications will be all that can be used, for the Parliament will
extend its protection to her, and not the King himself can force her
to wed any one she does not choose. Before that period her guardian
can, for such is the feudal law of this realm, that she can be forced
either to resign her lands or produce some one in her stead to lead
her retainers in the King's service. The law has been somewhat
stretched, it is true; but on more than one occasion, with the consent
of the King, the guardian of a young lady difficult to please, has
compelled her to make a choice, and the Parliament has sanctioned the
act."
"Are you not her lawful guardian, then?" demanded the young Marquis,
"that you should hesitate, in hopes of the Duke of Guise's death."
"I maintain that I am her guardian," replied Villequier, "and my suit
is before the Parliament; but I should be much more certainly her
guardian, if the Duke of Guise were dead."
"The Duke of Guise dead!" said Gaspar de Montsoreau sullenly. "A thing
improbable, unlikely, not to be counted upon. If that be all my hold
upon you, Monsieur de Villequier, the hopes that you have held out to
me are but slight in fabric and foundation."
"Hear me, my good young friend," replied Villequier. "They are not so
slight as you imagine. In the first place, we have for some time held
in France that rash and troublesome persons who oppose our progress,
or thwart our desires, are to be encountered for a certain time by the
arts of policy and by every soft and quiet inducement we may hold out
to them. When we have been patient as long as possible, and find that
they are not to be frustrated by any ordinary means, it becomes
necessary to put a stop to their opposition, and to remove them from
the way in which we are proceeding. Now, the Duke of Guise has been
very busily teaching a number of persons, both high and low, that his
prolonged life would be extremely inconvenient to them. Biron does not
love him, D'Aumont abominates him, D'O. has good cause to wish him a
step beyond Jerusalem; Henry of Navarre has in him a bitter enemy; the
rash, vain, Count of Soissons an obstacle and a stumbling-block; and
though I am his humble servant, and the King his very good friend, yet
both Henry and myself could do quite as well without him. Besides
these, there are at least ten thousand more in France who would walk
with their beavers far more gallantly, if there were a Guise the less
in the world; so that I say, on very probable reasoning, that I would
fully as soon reckon upon the life of a man of eighty, as I would upon
the robust, powerful existence of Henry of Guise even for an hour. But
putting all that aside. Monsieur de Montsoreau, taking it for granted
that he lives, what can I do but what I propose? You have the King's
promise and mine in writing; we can do no more. The cause is before
the Parliament, and Henry, restrained in his own court, at war with
his own subjects, and driven from his own capital, depend upon it,
will never sign your contract of marriage with Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut till every other hope has failed; ay, and what is more, till
he sees before him a very very great object to be gained by so doing."
"A fresh object you mean, Monsieur de Villequier," replied Gaspar de
Montsoreau. "I know that this is the way in which kings and statesmen
deal with men less wise than themselves. There must be always one
object secured to obtain the promise, and another to obtain the
performance. Pray, what is the new object, Monsieur de Villequier? and
is it sure, that if an object be held out of sufficient worth and
importance, the King will not find some specious reason for drawing
back, or that some new irresistible obstacle does not present itself?"
"Consider the King's situation. Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied
Villequier, "with the Duke of Guise constantly at his side, dictating
to him all his movements, with the question, of guardianship even now
lying before the Parliament, he would run the very greatest risk at
this moment if he were to do as we both wish, and forcibly hurry on
this business to a conclusion. But the aspect of affairs is changing
every day,--the Count of Soissons has come to join him; Henry of
Navarre himself has sent him offers of assistance and support;
Epernon, roused into activity, is levying forces in all parts of the
country; every day the King may expect to make some way against the
party of his adversaries; and therefore every day is something gained.
But even were it not so very hazardous to attempt any thing of the
kind at present, you could not expect the King to risk much, and
embarrass his policy for your sake, without some individual motive.
That this business should take place, is your strong and intense
desire. It is very natural that it should be so; but neither the King
nor myself have any such feelings, passions, or wishes. Let us each
have our advantage, or our gratification, in that which is to ensue,
and I will undertake, and pledge myself in the most solemn manner,
that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut shall be your wife before next
Christmas-day."
Gaspar de Montsoreau paused, and thought carefully over all that had
been said. "I thank you. Monsieur de Villequier," he said, "for
speaking freely in this matter. Let us cast away all idle delicacy.
Things have happened to me lately which have taught me to hold all
such empty verbiage at naught. Let us look upon this business as a
matter of dealing, a matter of merchandise."
"Exactly!" replied Villequier raising his eyes slightly, but not
seeming in the least degree offended. "Let us consider it in such a
light. Every matter of policy is but trade upon a large scale."
"Well then," continued Gaspar de Montsoreau in the same bold tone, "I
will look upon you and the King, Monsieur de Villequier, as two
partners in a mercantile house. Now, what sort of merchandise is it
that you would prefer to have in barter for your signature to my
marriage contract with this young Lady. Shall it be money?"
"Money!" exclaimed Villequier, with a slight ironical smile playing
about the corners of his mouth. "Have you any money? It is indeed a
surprising thing to hear any one talk of money except the Duke of
Guise, or the Duke of Epernon. Why, Bellievre assures me, upon his
honour, that the very dispatch which he was ordered to send to
Soissons, to forbid positively the Duke of Guise coming to Paris, was
stopped, for what reason think you? Because, when he took it down to
the treasury, there was not found fifty livres to pay the courier's
expenses. The courier would not go without the money, Bellievre had
none to give him, so between them both they carried the King's
dispatch to the post, and put it in with the common letters. The
letters went to Rheims before they were sent to Soissons, and the Duke
of Guise was in Paris, while the order to forbid him was on the
road.[3] Money? Oh certainly, money above all things! But pray do not
let it be a large sum, lest, like an apoplectic epicure, the King's
treasury and my purse die of sudden repletion."
---------------------
[Footnote 3: This is historically true in regard to one of the
dispatches to the Duke of Guise; and in representing Henry and his
courtiers as occasionally acting the part of low and mercenary
swindlers, first fleecing and then laughing at a dupe, I am also borne
out by facts.]
---------------------
"Well then, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis, after taking
one or two turns up and down the room, "I will tell you what I will
do, to show you how dearly I hold the gift that is promised me. On the
day of my marriage with Marie de Clairvaut, when it is all completed,
the benediction said, the contract signed, your name as guardian, and
the King's in confirmation attached, I will place in your hands the
sum of one hundred thousand crowns of the sun."
"Heavens and earth!" exclaimed Villequier in the same tone in which he
had spoken before, "I did not know that there was such a sum in
France. If I were to tell it to Monsieur d'O. he would not believe
me."
"But remember, Monsieur de Villequier," replied Gaspar of Montsoreau,
not quite liking the levity of his companion's speech, "this is no
jesting matter with me, whatever it may be with you; and I must have
such sure and perfect warranty that you will not betray my hopes
again, or ask for even the slightest further delay, that there cannot
be a doubt rest upon my mind; otherwise----"
"Otherwise what, Monsieur de Montsoreau?" demanded Villequier. "If we
do not keep our words, you know we shall lose the great advantage that
we hope to gain from you. That is the surest bond! Let the matter
stand thus, sir: if this marriage do take place, as I have promised
you it shall, the hundred thousand crowns of gold are paid; if not, we
are the losers. I see no alternative beyond this."
"By Heavens! but there is, and there shall be one," answered Gaspar de
Montsoreau impetuously. "I see that Monsieur de Villequier, who is
supposed to count upon every chance and circumstance collateral and
direct, has forgotten one or two points, although he has not forgotten
that I am heir of my brother's lands, both of Logeres and Morly. But I
will only put him in mind of what might take place on either side. The
King and Monsieur de Villequier might find obstacles of great import
rise up against my wishes, or they might find greater advantages in
some other quarter; they might think it worth while to keep me
trifling in inactivity, or employ me in their service against the
enemy. They might do all this, and then forego the sum named for a
greater. I, on the other hand. Monsieur de Villequier, might see
wavering and hesitation; I might grow tired of waiting and dependence;
I might say to-morrow I have no certainty in this business, and I
might give my banner to the wind, broider the cross of the League upon
my breast, or assume the double cross of Lorraine, and either range
the spears of Montsoreau and Logeres in the ranks of the army of
Mayenne, or marching to Chartres, Tours, or Blois, might bow me lowly
to my Lord of Guise, and begging him to forget the past, swear myself
his faithful servant."
Villequier gazed on him for a moment with certainly not the most
friendly expression of countenance, and was about to speak; but the
young Marquis, conscious of his own importance, waved his hand,
saying, "Nay, nay, Monsieur de Villequier! on all and on every account
the plan I am about to propose is the only one that can be followed.
Of course, in dealing with his Majesty, I cannot treat as crown to
crown;" and he smiled somewhat bitterly. "But I must treat with you as
gentleman to gentleman, and leave you to entreat his Majesty--urgently
and zealously, as I doubt not you will do it, to accede graciously to
our views. Thus then shall it be, that you and the King shall enter
into a bond with me, by which you shall engage that Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut shall, with the full consent of both parties expressed by
their signature to our marriage-contract, become my wife on or before
next Christmas-day, and in default shall be subject to amercement in
whatsoever amount the Parliament of Paris may judge that I am damaged
by the want of performance. This is merely to secure that the matter
be explicit; and in the same bond may be placed my engagement to pay
the sum named, upon the fulfilment of the contract. This is fair, and
only fair; and you know my last resolve."
"In truth, Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, "if you knew
but the state of our finances, you would see that we are far more
likely to be so eager in concluding this business as even to risk
dangerous consequences, than to trifle with you in any degree."
He remembered the curious engagement that he had entered into with the
Abbe de Boisguerin, and he paused a moment, in hopes that Gaspar de
Montsoreau might show even the slightest sign of hesitation: but, so
far from it, the frown deepened on the young nobleman's brow, and he
replied sharply, "I will trust to no contingencies. Monsieur de
Villequier. These are changing times, as you well know. The cross
Fleurdelisee in your arms[4] may well be changed, by the golden
billets dropped around it, into the cross of Lorraine. If what I have
offered be as good as you say, there is no earthly reason why his
Majesty of France or yourself, Monsieur de Villequier, should object
to enter into the engagement with me that I propose."
---------------------
[Footnote 4: Such were the arms of the Villequier family.]
---------------------
"Well," answered Villequier; "well, I must do my best with the King;
but I dare say, Monsieur de Montsoreau," he said in a lower voice, "I
dare say you are well aware that a little compulsion, perhaps, must be
used in this instance."
He thought he saw hesitation, and he went on the more eagerly, for he
wished to avoid the written engagement. "I must be permitted to use
what means I think fit to wring consent from the young Lady herself.
Nor must I have one word of objection on your part, whatever you see
or hear--no asking for delay!--no yielding to her tears. One word of
such a kind, remember, vitiates the engagement upon our part, but
leaves you as strictly bound as ever."