the young Marquis has rendered the matter hopeless. You yourself
remarked it, when you spoke with her at Vincennes; and he is now
convinced of it himself. The grief and depression thus produced have
impaired his health; and, indeed, it would seem as if ten years had
gone over him, instead of a few months, since all this affair began."
"I hope, Monsieur de Boisguerin," said the Duke of Epernon with a
bitter smile, "I hope that you have not been taking too deep lessons
of our friend Villequier. I would rather be a prisoner on a charge of
high treason, and with Guise for my enemy, than I would be next akin
to Villequier, and between him and lands and lordships."
The Abbe's brow grew as dark as night. "My Lord," he said, "I will not
affect to misunderstand you; but I am sure that fate will work out its
own will without any aid of mine; and had I been disposed to clear the
way for myself, who should have stopped me, or who could have
discovered any thing I did, when these two youths have been under my
care and guardianship ever since their father's death?"
"I did but jest, Abbe," replied the Duke. "But supposing that the
events which you anticipate were really to occur, what would be your
conduct then?"
"So sure am I, my Lord," replied the Abbe, "that they will occur, that
my conduct has been put beyond doubt. I have already demanded of the
Court of Rome to be freed from this black dress; and my last letters
from the eternal city announce to me, that the dispensation is already
granted, and, drawn up in full form, is now upon the road."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon. "Is it so, indeed? You must have
powerful protectors in the conclave."
"I have," replied the Abbe; "and though his Holiness is not fond of
relaxing the vows of any one without some puissant motive; yet, when
there is a strong one, he does not let the opportunity of unbinding
slip, lest his key should grow rusty. But however, my Lord, supposing
these things done away, and I Marquis of Montsoreau and Lord of
Logeres, my first aim and object would be to raise what power and
forces I could, and with my sword, my wealth, and my life, were it
necessary, serve his Majesty the King, under him whom I hope soon to
see directing the state, namely, the Duke of Epernon, if----"
"Ay, there is still an _if_," replied the Duke. "Well, sir, what is
the condition?"
"It is, my Lord," said the Abbe after a pause, in which it was evident
that he considered the way he was to put his demand, "It is, that the
Duke of Epernon will pledge me his princely word, that as far as his
power and influence go, he will support my claim to the hand of
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."
The Duke actually started back with surprise; and, forgetting
altogether the splendid future with which the Abbe had been
endeavouring to invest his pretensions, he exclaimed, in a tone of
anger and contempt that chafed and galled the spirit of the ambitious
man with whom he spoke, "Yours,--yours? Abbe de Boisguerin? you, a
poor preceptor in your cousin's house, an insignificant churchman,
unbeneficed and unknown--you, to lay claim to the heiress of
Clairvaut, a niece of the Guise, a lady nor far removed from a
sovereign house? On my soul and honour, I mind me to write to
Villequier at once, and bid him marry his cousin to this young Marquis
out of hand, in order to save your brains from being cracked
altogether!"
"Villequier can marry his cousin to no one," answered the Abbe,
"without my full consent. No, nor can the King either!"
"Mort-bleu!" exclaimed Epernon with a scornful laugh. "Vanity and
ambition have driven the poor man mad. Get you gone, Monsieur de
Boisguerin; get you gone! I shall not trust with any mighty faith to
your fine prophecies."
Though the Abbe de Boisguerin felt no slight inclination to put his
hand into his bosom, and taking forth the dagger that lay calmly
there, to plunge it up to the hilt in the heart of Epernon, he showed
not in the slightest degree the wrath which internally moved him. Nay,
the great object that he had in view made him in some degree conquer
that wrath, and he replied, "Well, my good Lord, I _will_ get me gone.
But, before I go, you shall hear another warning, which may enable you
to judge whether my divinations are false or not. It is destined that,
in the course of today or to-morrow, you should encounter a great
peril. Remember my words! be upon your guard! and take measures to
ensure yourself against danger! Go not out into the streets scantily
attended----"
"Oh no!" replied the Duke with a sneer. "I do not trust myself alone
in the streets and high roads without a footboy to hold my horse, like
the noble aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. I am not
so bold a man, nor so loved of the people; and as to chance perils, I
fear them not."
"Your acts on your own head, my Lord Duke!" replied his companion. "I
give you good day." And turning away abruptly, he passed out of the
room through the long corridor, and part of the way down the stairs
which led to the court of the guard.
He was scarcely half way down, however, when some sounds which he
heard coming from the other side of the building made him suddenly
stop, listen, and then turn round; and, with a step of light, he
retrod his way to the chamber where he had left the Duke.
Epernon was busy writing, and looking up fiercely, demanded "What
now?"
"Fly, my Lord, fly quick!" exclaimed the Abbe. "I come to give you
time to save yourself, for the mayor and his faction are upon you.
They have come in by the great court, and I think have killed the
Swiss at your gate. Believe me, my Lord, for what I say is true! Fly
quickly, while I run down to send the guard to your assistance."
His words received instant confirmation, even as the Duke gazed
doubtfully in his face; for a door on the opposite side of the room
burst open, and a terrified attendant rushed in, while eight or nine
fierce faces were seen pursuing him quickly.
The Duke darted to a staircase, which led to a little turret, and the
first steps of which entered the room, without any door, just behind
his chair. He sprang up eagerly towards the small dressing-room above,
and the mayor and his armed companions pursued as fiercely, leaving
the Abbe to make his escape towards the court of the guard, without
giving any heed to his proceedings. Before the Abbe had passed the
door, however, he heard a loud crash, and turned his head to see by
what it was occasioned, when, at a single glance he perceived that the
very eagerness of his pursuers had saved the Duke of Epernon. Ten or
twelve heavily armed men had all rushed at once upon the old and crazy
staircase which led to the Duke's dressing-room. The wood work had
given way beneath them, precipitating one or two into the story below,
and the greater part back into the room itself, but leaving a chasm
between them and the Duke, which it was impossible for them to
pass.[5]
---------------------
[Footnote 5: Such is the account given by the most credible
historians. The author of the life of the Duke, M. Girard, who was
nearly contemporary, gives a different version: acknowledges that the
Duke fled into his cabinet, but adds that he there defended himself
like a lion.]
---------------------
Without pausing to make any farther remark, the Abbe ran down hastily
and alarmed the guard; and while the soldiers rushed tumultuously up
to defend a commander whom they all enthusiastically loved, the Abbe
de Boisguerin mounted his horse and rode quietly out of the town. He
doubted not, as indeed it happened, that the soldiery would arrive in
time to save their Lord, and to compel the mayor and his comrades to
make a hasty retreat.
It was not, however, towards the Chateau of Islay, where he had left
Gaspar de Montsoreau, that the solitary horseman took his way; but, on
the contrary, crossing the Charente, he rode rapidly onward by the
banks of the river, in the direction of that field of Jarnac, where,
in his early days, Henry III. had given such striking promises of
heroism and conduct which his after life so signally failed to fulfil.
As he rode along, he thought with somewhat of a smile upon his
countenance, that his last prophecy to the Duke of Epernon had met
with a speedy fulfilment; and he pondered with some bitterness over
the parting words which that nobleman had spoken to him.
"The aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said to
himself, "without a single footboy to hold his horse! That may be in
the present instance policy rather than any thing else, my good Lord
Duke. But still we may learn wisdom, even, from such bitter words as
those. I had forgotten how much all men value the gilded exterior. But
it shall be so no longer. This that I aim at must be soon lost or won.
I have staked life upon the pursuit, and all that makes life valuable.
And why should I not stake fortune also? 'Fortune buys fortune,' says
the old adage; and as the stake is great, so shall my game be bold."
His resolution was instantly taken. He possessed, as we have said
before, sufficient wealth to give him competence, and to enable him to
mingle with decent splendour in the society in which he was born. But
he calculated that the same fortune which put him at ease for life,
might afford him the means of magnificence and display, if he resolved
to expend the whole within a few years. He did so resolve, saying to
himself, "I shall either be at the height of fortune and enjoyment ere
two years be over, or I shall be no more. It suits me not to go on
playing stake after stake, as many men do, beaten, like a tennis-ball,
from prosperity to ruin, and from ruin to prosperity. I have bent
myself to one great purpose, and I will attain it or die. That is
always within one's power, to shake off life when it is no longer a
source of happiness."
As he thus thought, his horse slowly descended a gentle hill by the
side of the river, with a meadow down to the Charente on the one side,
and a bank crowned with the wall of a vineyard on the other. Built up
against the wall was a little shrine, with a virgin and child behind a
net-work of iron, and the votive offering of a silver lamp burning
below.
Sitting on the little green spot which topped the bank at that
place--after having apparently said his prayers at the foot of the
shrine--was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age; and as
the Abbe came slowly near, the youth took a pipe out of his pocket and
began playing a wild plaintive Italian air, full of rich melody and
deep feeling. The music was not new to the Abbe; he had heard it
before in other lands, when the few pure feelings of the heart which
he had ever possessed had not been crushed, like accidental flowers
blossoming on a footpath, by the passing to and fro of other coarser
things.
He drew in his horse and paused to listen, and then gazed at the boy,
and thought he had seen him somewhere before. The eyes, the features,
the expression of the countenance, seemed to be all connected with
some old remembrances; and the air which he played too, brought his
memory suddenly back to early scenes, and a land that he had loved. As
he gazed at the boy, who went on with the air, the recollection of his
person again connected itself with different events; and, though now
he was clothed in simple grey, he fancied he recognised in him the
youth who had been seen with Charles of Montsoreau when he attacked
and defeated the small body of reiters near La Ferte, and whom he had
also beheld more than once in Paris, when he was watching the
proceedings of the young Count in the capital.
This conviction became so strong, that he went up and spoke to him,
and found that it was as he suspected. After conversing with him for a
few moments, he told him that if he would pursue that road for nearly
a league, he would meet with some buildings belonging to a farm; and
then, turning again down a road to the left, he would find him at a
chateau upon the banks of the river. The boy promised to come, and the
Abbe rode on, while Ignati putting up his pipe followed as fast as
possible, and soon arrived at the gates of the dwelling to which he
had been directed.
He was brought into the presence of the Abbe by an attendant wearing
the colours of no noble house in France, and found him with some fruit
and wine before him. But in regard to the subject on which the boy
expected to be questioned most closely, namely, the death of Charles
of Montsoreau, the Abbe spoke not one word. Notwithstanding all his
firmness of purpose, notwithstanding the remorseless character of his
mind and of his habitual thoughts, he loved not to touch upon the
subject of his young cousin's death, unless forced on to do so by
circumstances. He spoke of Paris and of the Duke of Guise; and where
he had first met with the young Count of Logeres, and of all the
accidents that had befallen him while in company with Charles of
Montsoreau. But he spoke not one word in regard to the day of the
barricades, or the young nobleman's death.
From time to time, while he talked with the boy, Ignati saw that the
Abbe's eyes fixed upon his countenance, and at length he asked him,
"You are an Italian by birth, are you not?"
"I am," replied the boy; "that is, I am a Roman." And he said it with
that pride which every person born within the precincts of the ancient
queen of empires feels, although glory has long departed from her
walls, and the memory of past greatness is rather a reproach than an
honour.
"And what is your name?" demanded the Abbe sharply.
"My name is Ignati," answered the youth.
"Ignati!" said the Abbe, "Ignati!" But you have some other name. What
was your father's?"
"I do not know," answered the boy, with his cheeks and his brow
glowing. "Why do you ask?"
"Your mother's then?" said the Abbe, without replying to his question.
"Your mother's? what was your mother's name?"
"Her name was Laura Pandolfini," replied the boy, gazing upon the Abbe
with a degree of sternness in his look. "Did you know her?"
The face of the Abbe changed from deadly pale to glowing red in a
moment; and after a pause he replied angrily and abruptly, "I know
her?--I know her? I know a common strumpet?"
The boy's eyes flashed fire; and his hand was in his bosom in a moment
seeking the knife that lay there. But he had put the pipe in the
breast of his doublet also, and ere he could reach a weapon, which, as
we have seen, he was able to use with fatal effect, the form of a lady
passing across the two open doors on the other side of the room made
him suddenly pause; and after a moment's thought, he drew back his
hand and said, "What you say is false! She deserved not the name you
have given her!"
He was turning towards the door, when the Abbe cried "Stay!"
and as the boy turned, he put his hand to his head and mused
thoughtfully. Then starting suddenly he added, "No, no! It would be
discovered!--Come hither, boy!" he added; and taking out his purse he
counted out some pieces of gold, to no light amount; and giving them
to the boy, he said, "There, you have lost your master and seem to be
poorly off. Take those, and get thee into some reputable employment."
But the boy gave one fierce glance at his countenance, dashed down the
gold upon the pavement, and exclaiming, "I will have no liar's money!"
quitted the chamber and the house.
The Abbe gazed after him for a moment or two, fell into deep thought,
and ended by pressing his hands over his eyes and exclaiming, "I am a
fool!"
After pausing for a few moments more, he said to himself, "Well, I
must wait no longer here. This girl seems pleased with my new
demeanour towards her. Of my past language which frightened her, it
seems that very soon no other impression will remain but the memory of
the deep and passionate love I testified. That is never displeasing to
any woman; and if I can lead her gently on, the matter will be soon
accomplished, now that this her first fancy is at an end, and the
grave has taken the great obstacle out of the way. Love him, she did
not, with true, womanly, passionate, love; but fond of him she was,
with the sickly fancy of an idle girl; and her grief will be
sufficient to soften her proud heart. It is a wonderful softener,
grief; and she will cling to whosoever is near her, that has skill and
power to soothe and support her. I will teach her to love better than
she has loved!--But I must write down these tidings. I must not tell
them to her with my own voice, and with her eyes upon me, lest she
learn to hate me as the bearer of evil tidings."
And seeking for pen and ink he wrote a note, such as few others but
himself could have composed. It was tender, yet respectful,--not
lover-like, yet through every word of it love's light was
shining--sad, but not gloomy--melancholy, yet with words of hope. When
he had done he folded and sealed it, and then listening to the distant
village clock, he said--
"If I am absent much longer, Gaspar may suspect; and I am rather
inclined to believe that some one has roused suspicions in his mind
already. Well, we shall soon see; it is no very difficult task to rule
a light-brained youth like that."
Thus thinking, and leaving the note behind him on the table, the Abbe
proceeded to the stables, chose a fresh horse, caused it to be saddled
and bridled, and rode back to the Chateau of Islay with all speed.
Before he proceeded to the saloon to join the young Marquis, he
questioned his own servants as to all that had taken place during his
absence; heard of the long visit of Villequier; and planned his own
conduct accordingly.
Gaspar of Montsoreau, when he joined him, expressed some surprise that
he had not returned before, and added, in as gentle a tone as he could
assume, "I trust, nay good friend, that you have been pursuing the
inquiries which have so long frustrated us in regard to the dwelling
of that sweet girl, whom we were very wrong to place again in the
hands of Villequier, even though it might have cost us our lives had
we either remained in Paris, or attempted to take her with us."
Though the young Marquis spoke quickly, his companion, who knew his
character to the very bottom and could instantly see the workings of
his mind when he used any of the arts he himself had taught him,
perceived at once that Villequier had betrayed the secret of Marie de
Clairvaut's abode; and he replied deliberately, "Yes, Gaspar, I have
been more successful; and I think now--tamed down as you have been by
grief, and requiring some consolation--I think now, I say, that it is
not only safe but right, to let you know both that this fair girl is
in the neighbourhood of the spot where we now stand, and that she is
under my care and guidance."
"In the neighbourhood?" exclaimed Gaspar of Montsoreau. "Under your
care and guidance? How happened I not to hear this before, Abbe?"
"Simply," replied the Abbe, "because the state of violence and
irritation in which you were when I last returned to you from
Blois--the period when I first became possessed of any knowledge on
the subject--would have led you into acts of impetuosity, which, in
the first place, would have terribly injured your cause with her; and,
in the next, would have discovered the place of her abode to every one
from whom we seek to conceal it. Now, however, I think you can command
yourself, and you will find the benefit of what has been done to serve
you. All I require is, that you would let me know when you visit
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; that you would do so with prudence and
caution and forbearance; and though it is not of course necessary that
you should desist from pleading your own cause with her, yet let it be
as gently as may be."
The Abbe de Boisguerin knew that Gaspar de Montsoreau could not do as
he asked him; that it was not in his nature to plead his own cause
gently. He felt perfectly confident that the rash impetuosity of the
young Marquis would alienate more and more the regard of Marie de
Clairvaut, and thus, perhaps, facilitate even his own views and
purposes. Could he have prevented it, he would not willingly have let
him visit her at all; but it was now impossible to exclude him; and he
knew that the secret of Charles of Montsoreau's death gave him the
power of destroying at once all his former pupil's hopes, if he saw
that he even made one step in removing the bad impressions Marie
previously had received.
On his part, though not quite satisfied with being deceived, Gaspar of
Montsoreau believed that the Abbe had deceived him for his own good;
and the selfish purposes which were most needful for him to discover,
were still concealed in spite of the warnings of Villequier.
CHAP. VII.
In the gardens of the Chateau by the banks of the Charente; which the
Abbe de Boisguerin had left to return to Gaspar de Montsoreau, and in
an arbour which had been constructed, as is still ordinary with the
people of that country, by a number of vines entwined over a light
trellis work; with a soft and beautiful scene before her eyes, and the
autumn sunshine gilding the glowing waters, Marie de Clairvaut sat and
wept, with the note from the Abbe which had conveyed to her the
bitterest tidings she ever had received on earth open in her hand. A
day had passed since the events just recorded had taken place, and she
had now received the news many hours, but her grief had not in the
least subsided; and to herself it even seemed greater than it had been
at first. Her whole thoughts at first had been bent upon the one
painful fact, that he whom she had loved with all the fervour, and the
depth, and the devotion of a heart that had never loved before, was
lost to her for ever; that she should never behold again that frank
and candid countenance, beaming with looks of deep and indubitable
affection; that she should never again see those eyes poring into hers
with the intense gaze of love, and seeming at once to give and receive
fresh light; that she should never hear the tones of that musical
voice, which had so often assured her of protection and support; that
she should never cling to that arm, which had so often brought her
rescue and deliverance in the moment of danger. Then, she had felt
only that he was lost and gone, cut off in the brightness of his days,
in the glory and strength of his youth, in the full blossom of his
hopes, and ere he had yet more than lifted to his lips the cup, which,
offered to him by honour, virtue, and sincerity, ought to have been a
sweet one indeed.
Now, however, there had grown upon her mind feelings indeed more
selfish, but which were the natural consequences of her situation, and
connected intimately with the loss of him she loved. A feeling of
desolation had come over her--of utter loneliness in all the world. It
seemed as if she had never loved or esteemed or clung to any but
himself; as if there were no one to protect her, to guide, support,
direct, or cheer her upon earth; as if life's youth were over, the
fortune of existence spent like a prodigal, the heart's treasury
empty, and nothing left for the immortal spirit on this side the grave
but penury of every rich and noble feeling, lone solitude and petty
cares, and all the dull anxieties of a being without an object.
Desolate, desolate indeed, did she feel: and well too might she feel
desolate! for though her grief did some wrong to many who loved her as
friends and relations, and would have done much to aid and support
her; yet, oh! what is such love and esteem? what is aid and support
wrung from the midst of hours devoted to other things, and thoughts
and feelings centered upon other objects, when compared with the
entire devotion, the pure, single love of an upright, an honourable,
and a feeling heart--where the being loved is the great end and object
of every thought and every action--where all the feelings of the
spirit are hovering by day round that one object, and guarding it like
angels through the watches of the night? Oh yes, she was lonely, she
was desolate, she was unprotected and unsupported, when she compared
the present with the past! Well might she think so; well might she
grieve and mourn over her own deprivation, when she wept for him and
for his early end!