which had taken place in the demeanour of the Abbe de Boisguerin. She
could never love him; she could never like him: his society could
never even become tolerable to her: but yet it was no slight
satisfaction to find that she was no more to hear words which she
considered as little less than sacrilegious, or to endure the eager
passion in his eye, and hear him dare to talk to her of love. She
looked upon him as her gaoler indeed, though he often denied that he
had power to liberate her; but yet she felt that peace and comfort at
least depended much upon that gaoler's will, and was not a little
pleased to find that during the three or four last visits which he had
paid, no word which could offend her had been spoken, no tone or even
look that she could take amiss was to be seen, though a certain
tenderness and melancholy seemed to have fallen upon him, which she
could well have wished removed, or not so openly displayed.
During the very morning of which we are now speaking, he had come
there again, and his conduct towards her had been all that she could
have desired. He had not spoken directly of the cause of the deep
grief which he saw his intelligence of the former day had brought upon
her, but all his words were chosen so as to harmonise with that grief;
and the object of his visit itself, as he expressed it, was only to
see whether he could do any thing to console her, or to alleviate the
sorrow under which she laboured. She had thanked him for his courtesy
and kindness; but, ere he had left her, he said with a tone of what
seemed real regret, that he was sorry to say his own visit would be
followed by another, which he feared might, in some degree, importune
her.
"The young Marquis of Montsoreau," he added, "will be restrained no
longer from seeing you; and you know, Madam, it is impossible for me
to prevent him, which I would willingly have done, especially as the
view he takes of the recent most lamentable event is not likely to do
aught but give you pain."
"Oh, cannot you stay him?" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut. "Cannot you
stay him at this terrible moment, when the very sight of him will be
horrible to me?"
"I fear not indeed. Lady," replied the Abbe. "I would have given my
right hand to prevent his coming, but he seemed perfectly determined.
However, when I return, I will do my best once more, in the hope that
he may yet be moved." And after a visit very much shorter than usual,
he had taken his leave and departed.
The fair girl he left had gone out into the gardens, as we have seen,
once more to weep alone over the sad and painful situation in which
she was placed, and over the dark and irreparable loss which she had
sustained; but ere she had gone out, she had taken the only precaution
in her power to insure that her solitude would remain inviolate,
directing the servants--who acted indeed the part of turnkeys--if the
Marquis of Montsoreau applied to see her, to state at once that she
was not well enough to receive him, and wished to pass some days alone
and in tranquillity.
She wept long and bitterly; but in about an hour after she had gone
out, the sound of horses' feet reached her ear, and voices speaking at
the gateway made themselves heard. She could distinguish even the
tones of the young Marquis, and indistinctly the words of the servant
in reply. But Gaspar of Montsoreau was hurt and offended by the
message she had left, and a certain inclination to tyranny in his
disposition broke forth with his usual impetuosity.
"Inform Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said, "who it is that desires
to see her, and let me have an answer quick. Say that I much wish for
a few minutes' conversation with her. What, fellow! Would you shut the
gates upon me like a horseboy? Get ye gone and return quickly. I will
walk in the gardens till you come back." And striding in he threw the
gate violently to, and advanced directly to the water's side, as if he
could have divined that the object of his search was there.
Marie de Clairvaut was indignant, and that feeling for a moment
enabled her to throw off the overwhelming load of grief. Rising at
once she came forth, and crossed the green slope towards the chateau,
passing directly by Gaspar of Montsoreau as she did so, and intending
merely to bow her head by way of salutation. He placed himself in such
a manner, however, that she could not pass on, although he must have
seen the tears fresh upon her cheeks, and her indignation was more
roused than before.
"I directed the servant, sir," she said, when forced to pause, "to
inform you, if you came, that I was not well enough to see you; and
that I wished for solitude and tranquillity."
"Nay, indeed, dear Lady," said the young Marquis, conquering the
feelings of anger with which he had entered, and speaking with a calm
and tender tone, "I thought, if you knew that I was here, pity, if
nothing else, would induce you to see, but for a few moments, one
who has languished for weeks and months for a single glance of your
eyes--one who so deeply, so tenderly, so devotedly, loves you."
Those words sounded harsh, painful, and insulting to the ears of Marie
de Clairvaut--words which, from the lips of him she loved, would have
been all joy and sweetness, but were now abhorrent to her ear; and
looking at him sternly, with her bright eye no longer dimmed, though
her lip quivered, she said, "Never let me hear such words again,
sir!--I beg that you would let me pass!--Marquis of Montsoreau, this
is cruel and ungentlemanly! Learn that I look upon myself as your
brother's widow, and ever shall so look upon myself till my dying
day." And thus saying she passed him, and entered the house.
She listened eagerly for the sound of horses' feet after she had
entered her own apartments, and was very soon satisfied that the young
Marquis had gone back. As soon as she was assured of this, she once
more went out into the open grounds--for the load of grief ever makes
the air of human dwellings feel oppressive; and again going down to
the bank of the river, she gazed upon its tranquil current as she
walked by the side; and though her sorrow certainly found no relief,
yet the sight of the waters flowing beneath her eyes, calm, tranquil,
incessant, led, as it were, her thoughts along with them. They became
less agitated, though still as deep and powerful; they seemed to
imitate the course of the river, running on incessantly in the same
dark stream, but in quiet and in silence. The tears indeed would, from
time to time, rise into her eyes and roll over her cheeks, but no sob
accompanied them; and though a sigh often broke from her lip, it was
the sigh of deep, calm despair, not of struggling pain.
It is wonderful how, when we are in deep grief, the ordinary sounds
and sights of joyous nature strike harsh and inharmonious upon us.
Things that would pass by unheard at other times, as amongst the
smaller tones in the great general concert of the day, then become
painfully acute. The lark that sung up in the sky above her head, made
no pleasant melody for her ear; a country boy crossing the opposite
fields, and whistling as he went, pained her so much, and made her
gentle heart feel so harsh towards him, that she schooled herself for
such sensations, saying, "He cannot tell that I am so sorrowful! He
cannot tell that the sounds which I once was fond of, are now the most
distasteful to me."
A minute or two after a few notes upon a pipe were played immediately
beneath the garden wall--a little sort of prelude, to see that the
instrument was clear; and unable to endure it longer, Marie de
Clairvaut turned to seek shelter in her prison.
Ere she had taken three steps, however, she paused. The air was not
one of the country; a finer hand, too, a more exquisite taste than
France could produce woke the instrument into sounds most musical, and
in a moment after, she recognised the sweet air which she had twice
before heard, and both times from the lips of Charles of Montsoreau.
The memory of the first time that it had met her ear was sweet and
delightful; but the memory of the second time was as the memory of
hope; and, in despite of all, it woke again the feelings it had
awakened before; and an indistinct feeling of glad expectation came
across her mind, like a golden sunbeam, shining through the mist of an
autumnal morning. What was it she hoped? what was it she expected? She
knew not herself; but still there was an indistinct brightening came
over her heart, and feelings; and when the air was over, instead of
flying from the music, she listened eagerly for its renewal.
The pipe, however, sounded not again; but in a moment after she heard
some one say, "Hark!" and the sweetest possible voice began to sing:--
SONG.
Weep not, Lady, weep not,
Grief shall pass away;
Angels' eyes that sleep not
Watch thee on thy way.
Heavenly hands are twining
Garlands of glad flowers.
Joy and Hope combining
Wreath thy future hours.
Diff'rent powers are near thee--
Bright Hope, dark Despair;
Let the Goddess cheer thee--
Fly the Fiend of Care.
Son of Sin and Sorrow
Despair by earth was given;
Child of the bright to-morrow,
Hope was born of Heaven.
What could it mean? Marie de Clairvaut asked herself. The words seemed
directly addressed to her, and applicable to her own situation: yet
the voice, as far as she could judge, she had never heard before. But
still every note, every word, appeared to counsel hope. "Can I have
been deceived?" she thought. "Can the Abbe de Boisguerin and Gaspar de
Montsoreau have combined for their own dark purposes to cheat me, to
induce me to believe that the one I love so well is dead?"
But, alas no! The Abbe had left, inclosed in his own, the brief note
which he had received from Paris, announcing the event, and that note
bore every appearance of being an ordinary matter of business, passing
regularly through the post-office of the capital. Could the song that
she had heard, she asked herself, again--could it have been
accidental; could it have been sung at that moment through one of
those strange combinations, which sometimes arise out of entirely
indifferent circumstances, to give zest to our joy, or poignancy to
our sorrow? She determined, if possible, to ascertain; and raising her
voice a little above its ordinary tone, she said, "Who is there? To
whom do you sing?"
She did not seem to have made herself heard, however, for a moment
after the same voice demanded, "Is there any one that listens?"
"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "I listen; speak on!"
"Well then, hearken," said the voice, and again a new air and a new
song began.
SONG.
He goes away to a far distant land,
With cross on his shoulder and lance in his hand;
And news soon comes how his lightning brand
Has scattered the hosts of paninrie.
His beautiful Lady sits weeping and lone,
And wishes she were where her Knight has gone;
But she grieves not his absence with angry moan,
For her spirit is full of his chivalry.
But what are the tidings come next to her ear?
Oh! tidings dark and heavy to hear;
How her fearless warrior, her husband dear,
Has fallen 'neath the lance of the Moslema.
How, gallantly staking his life, to save
From infidel hands, the Redeemer's grave,
He has fought for the righteous and sleeps with the brave,
'Neath the walls of Hierosolima!
'Tis true, oh, 'tis true!--yet she will not believe,
"Ah, no! e'en in dying he would not deceive;
And he promised, if spirit such power could receive,
And he fell in his holy chivalry.
To visit my side in the watches of night,
To comfort my heart, and to gladden my sight,
And call me to join him in countries of light,
And dwell in his breast through eternity."
Years pass; and he comes not. Nor yet she believes!
'Tis his absence, but 'tis not his death that she grieves.
Hope strong in affection, her heart still deceives,
Lo! she watches yon Palmer how eagerly,
To ask him some tidings of Syria to say--
But what is thy magic, oh, thou Palmer gray?
She is clasped in his arms! she has fainted away!
And he kisses her fair cheek how tenderly.
As the song had gone on, Marie de Clairvaut could no longer doubt
that, though allegorical, those words were applicable to herself.
Joy--joy beyond all conception took the place of grief; all that she
had suffered, all that she had endured in the past, she now felt,
indeed, to be nothing to what she had lately undergone. But the
extatic delight which the last words of that song gave, the sudden
dissipation of grief was too much for her to endure. It was like the
light that blinds us when we suddenly rush from the darkness into the
sunshine; and she who had gone through dangers, and horrors, and
perils of many a kind, firm and unshaken, fell fainting under the
sudden effect of joy. How long she remained so she knew not; but at
all events it was not long enough to attract the attention of the
people of the house, from the windows, of which she was screened by a
thick alley of trees. Some one, however, had been near her, for there
were the prints of small feet in the grass, extending from the wall to
the spot where she lay, and immediately under her hand was placed a
small packet addressed to herself.
Fearful of discovery, she hid it instantly in her bosom, and, as soon
as she could, rose, and with a step far slower than her wishes, sped
back again to the house to read the paper she had received, in secret.
It was written in a bold, free hand; the date was that very morning;
and the first words, "My beloved."
Marie de Clairvaut laid the letter down and gasped for breath. It was
sufficient, it was altogether sufficient; every doubt, every fear that
had remained was now at an end, and she once more burst into tears;
but, oh, how sweet were those tears! how happy! how unlike the past!
Soon she took up the letter again, and through the dazzling drops that
still hung in her eyes read the bright assurance, that he lived for
her who loved him.
"I have feared," the letter said, "I have feared, that a report of my
death which has been current in this city of Paris should have reached
my beloved Marie, and the more especially as, by the counsel and
earnest entreaty of the Duke of Guise, I have myself contributed to
the spread of the rumour, and have taken every means to suffer it to
be confirmed. The object of this, however, was to deliver you alone by
throwing those who so unjustly detain you off their guard; and some
days ago I came on into this neighbourhood--where my brother, the Abbe
de Boisguerin, and the Duke of Epernon, all are, and to which we have
traced Villequier several times--in the confident belief that you were
not far distant from Angouleme. It might have been some time ere I
discovered your abode, but accident has befriended me, and my page,
who bears you this, and undertakes positively to deliver it to you,
saw you yesterday morning by a most extraordinary but fortunate
chance. I dare not venture near you in the early part of the morning,
but ere night has closed in, I will find some means to see and speak
with you. As far as possible, dearest Marie, be prepared for any thing
that it may be necessary to undertake. I fear that you have already
suffered much; but I will not doubt that even the rash and violent men
who have dared every crime to withdraw you from those that love you
best, have treated you with tenderness and kindness. I too have
suffered much, but far more from knowing that you were at the mercy of
those who persecute you while I was lying stretched upon the bed of
sickness, than from the very wounds that brought me there. I am now
well: I am near you; and that is enough to enable me to say that I am
happy, although there may be perils and dangers before us, as we are
still in the midst of our adversaries, and must once more attempt to
pass through a long track of country with obstacles at every step."
The letter ended with every expression of affection and of love; and
again and again Marie de Clairvaut read it and wept, and fell into
fits of deep thought, and could scarcely believe that the joyous
tidings were true.
She next asked herself what she could do to favour her lover's
efforts. The two or three women who had been appointed to wait upon
her, as well as the male attendants by whom she was surrounded, were
all strangers to her, and she felt that they were her gaolers. There
was one of them, however, who had looked upon her during the preceding
day with evident compassion, had watched her tears with sorrowful
eyes, and had spoken a few words of consolation. At one time she
thought of speaking to that woman, and trying to gain her to her
interests for the purpose of facilitating any thing that Charles of
Montsoreau might do to effect her liberation. She hesitated, however,
and judging that if he succeeded in seeing her that evening it would
be by passing over the wall at the spot where she had heard the boy
singing in the evening; she lingered about during the whole of the
evening, listening for the least sound. None was heard, however, and
at length the bell at the gates of the enclosure was heard to ring.
Agitated and anxious, fearing that every moment might bring Charles of
Montsoreau to the spot, at the very time that other persons were near,
she came out from behind the trees, and walked slowly on by the side
of the river. Just at that moment a small boat pushed slowly up the
current by a country boy, passed by the spot where she stood; but the
boy whistled lightly on his way, as he went, and took no notice of
her; and in a minute after, she heard steps approaching from the other
side, and turned with some anxiety to see who it was that approached.
It was the servant girl we have before mentioned, who came towards her
quickly, saying, "You have been very sad these two days, lady, and I
wish you would take comfort. Here is a good man, one of the preaching
friars just called at the gate, and I'm sure, if you would but listen
to him, he would give you consolation."
"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "he could give me no consolation,
my good girl. My own thoughts just now are my best companions."
As she spoke, however, to her dismay, she saw the monk coming across
the green from the side of the gates, and she determined at once to
reject all his proffered advice and consolation, fearing that the
precious minute for seeing him she loved might be lost by this
unwonted intrusion.
"Do listen to him, dear lady," said the girl. "When I told him how sad
you were, he said he was sure that he could give you comfort."
In the mean time the friar approached with a slow step, with his cowl
drawn over his head, and his hand supported by his staff. Marie de
Clairvaut trembled from anxiety and apprehension, and only returned
the friar's benedicite by an inclination of the head and an assurance
that she did not stand in need of the consolation he offered.
"Yet listen to me, daughter," he said, without withdrawing the cowl
from his head. But the first tones of that full rich voice proved
sufficient nearly to overpower the fair girl to whom he spoke. "If you
will hear me but for five minutes, my daughter," he said, "I think and
I believe, that I can suggest to you consolations that you may take to
heart; and if not, the few words I have to speak can do you no harm at
least."
Marie de Clairvaut bowed her head, and took a step or two nearer to
the water, while the woman withdrew for a short space, so as to be out
of ear shot. But still she remained watching the two, as if she were
either afraid of having done wrong in admitting the friar at all, or
had suddenly conceived some suspicion of his purpose. The eyes of
Marie de Clairvaut and of Charles of Montsoreau turned that way, and
both saw that they were watched. Could they have followed the dictates
of their own hearts, they would have cast themselves into each other's
arms; but now they were forced to stand, ruling every look and every
gesture, and assuming the demeanour of strangers, even while the words
of love and affection were bursting from their lips. The young
nobleman, however, gave but brief course to his feelings.
"This night, Marie," he said, after a few words of passionate
tenderness, "this very night at twelve, a boat shall be ready for you
underneath that bank, and means prepared for you to descend. It has
already passed up the river in order that we may descend swiftly with
the stream, for the current is too rapid to permit of our passing up
without the risk of being stopped at every moment. At Jarnac, however,
all is prepared for our escape, and though our journey thence may be
longer, it will be more secure. Can you be here at that hour?"
"I can," she said, "and will, and, oh! may God grant, Charles, that
this time we may not only come within sight of the haven, as we have
twice done before, but reach it altogether; and never, never again
will I suffer them to separate me from you, as I did on that awful day
in Paris."
"Even yet, neither I nor the Duke know how it happened," said Charles
of Montsoreau.
"As I was following the Queen," replied Marie, rapidly, "some one
pulled me by the sleeve, and on turning to see who it was, the crowd
closed in between me and Catherine. The person who had touched me was
dressed in the colours of the house of Guise, and he said, 'The Duke
expects you Mademoiselle. If you will come round this way, I will lead
you to the other gate where there is no crowd.' I followed willingly,
and nothing doubting; and he led me round into one of the streets
behind, when suddenly I was seized by the arms on either side, and
hurried along without the power of resistance. I cried for help as
loud as I could, indeed, but they bore me rapidly into the house
opposite, where I saw the Abbe de Boisguerin, and could hear your
brother's voice talking to Monsieur de Villequier. They then put me
into a chair, the blinds of which I could not undraw, and carried me
rapidly to another house, where I remained for some time, till
Villequier and the rest again appeared. I did all that woman could do,
Charles, to make them set me free; but what could I do? what means had
I to use?--entreaties, to which they were deaf; menaces, at which they
laughed. Your brother, indeed, said something that he intended for
kindness, and the Abbe looked gloomy and sad. But Villequier only
smiled for all answer; till at length tidings were brought them that
they were discovered, and that people were coming rapidly in pursuit
of them. I was then once more borne away by Villequier, after a few
words between him and your brother; and I heard your brother say as
they parted, 'I will delay them as long as possible.' Where they took
me I know not well, but I believe it was the Hotel de Villequier.--But
see, the woman is coming near! We must part, dear Charles; I fear we
must once more part."
Nothing more could be said, for the girl now approached; and Charles
of Montsoreau, assuming the tone of the friar, bade Marie remember his
words, and take them to heart; and then, giving her his blessing,
departed.
Shortly before midnight, wrapt in a cloak of a dark colour, in order,
as far as possible, to pass unobserved if any eye should be watching,
Marie de Clairvaut passed through one of the lower windows of the
chateau, and with a light step, sprang into the little cloister that
ran along one side of the building, at no great depth from the window.
The moon was shining bright and full, and every object around, except
where the shadow of the cloister fell, was as clear as if the sun had
been in the sky.
She paused and listened with a beating heart. There was no sound but
the murmur of the quick Charente; and then, putting her ear to the
open window, she listened there to ascertain that all was quiet in the
house. Nothing stirred; and, knowing how important it was to leave no
trace of the manner in which her flight had been effected, she closed
the casement carefully, and prepared to go forth into the moonlight.
There was something, however, in the stillness, and the clearness, and
the calmness of every thing that was in itself fearful; and she
hesitated for a moment before she went out. At length, however, she
ventured across the green and shining turf, and with a quick step
approached the edge of the water. Looking down upon it from above, she
could see nothing in the deep shadow of the bank; but, suddenly, a
bright ripple caught some stray rays of moonlight, and chequered the
dark bosom of the water with quick lines of silver.
"Are you there?" said the voice of Charles of Montsoreau from below.
"Yes," she said. "How shall I descend?"