"She and her good husband will be equally devoted to your service
without such a mark of your condescension."
After a few more words of the same kind, the Duke took leave, and
Henry remained in the garden walking to and fro, and growing every
moment more and more impatient for the arrival of Villequier.
"Where can he be?" he muttered to himself. "He promised to be back
before nine o'clock this morning. What can detain him? By Heavens! he
will lose the best part of our enterprise if he stays. Can he have met
with some mishap by the way--or has some lady poisoned him with
champignons or with Cyprus wine--or tried cold steel upon him--or shot
him with a silver bullet in honour of his great master. No steel would
touch him, I should think, if all tales are true. But here he comes;
here he comes, alive and well, with the eye of a wolf and the footfall
of a cat.--He is a handsome animal notwithstanding, even now, if he
would but paint his lips a little, for they are too pale. Something
has gone wrong. He seems agitated; and to see Villequier moved by any
thing is indeed a wonder. Why, how now, dear friend? What is it that
affects you? I declare your lip quivers, and your cheek is red. What
is the meaning of this?"
"Why, Sire," replied Villequier, "I just met the Duke of Guise in the
hall of the chateau, and he not only tells me that the marriage of his
niece goes forward, but that your Majesty has promised to sign the
contract, and to be present at the ceremony. How you intend to
withdraw yourself, I do not know: but to throw, at least, some
obstacle in the way, I said that my signature had not been asked; and
while my application was before the Parliament of Paris, the marriage
could not take place without that signature. He answered haughtily,
Sire, not by requesting, but by commanding, me to be in the revestry
of the chapel at the hour of half-past eleven; and he added, with a
significant tone, that he would teach me the use of pen and ink."
Henry showed no wrath: his mind was made up to his proceedings; his
dark determination taken; and utterly remorseless himself, he sported
in his own imagination with the idea of Guise's death, and only smiled
at his conduct to Villequier, as the skilful angler sees amused the
large trout dash at the gilded fly, knowing that a moment after he
will have the tyrant of the stream upon his own hook, and panting on
the bank.
"You shall be in the revestry, Villequier," said the King; "you shall
sign the marriage contract, for the King commands you as well as the
Duke of Guise; and surely two such potent voices must be obeyed."
Villequier paused for a minute or two ere he replied, calculating what
might be the King's motives in his present conduct. He knew Henry
well, and knew his vacillating changeable disposition; and he
suspected that he was determined to violate his promise to Gaspar de
Montsoreau upon some inducement, either of hope or fear, held out to
him by the Duke of Guise. He was well aware, however, that if the
means taken had been disagreeable, the King, though he might have
endured them smilingly in the presence of the Duke, would have burst
forth into passion, almost frantic, when conversing with him. He
therefore replied straightforwardly, "I suppose, Sire, the younger
brother has outbid the elder."
"Wrong, wrong, good friend," replied the King. "Your hawk has missed
its stroke, Villequier. The Duke of Guise wills it so! Is not that
quite sufficient in France?"
"I hope it will not be so long, Sire," replied Villequier, now
beginning, though indistinctly, to catch the King's meaning. "I hope
it will not be so long."
"Ha, Rene! Do you understand me now?" said Henry. "Hark ye! Are you
not this girl's guardian beyond all doubt, were the Duke out of the
way?"
"Indubitably," answered Villequier; "for the only thing that affects
my right, even now, is her father's will, appointing this same Henry,
Duke of Guise to be her guardian: the other brothers are not named."
"Well then," said Henry, "have a contract of marriage in due and
proper form drawn out, this very night, in the names of Marie de
Clairvaut and Gaspar, Marquis of Montsoreau. Be in the revestry at the
hour named, and bring with you your gay bridegroom with all his golden
crowns. You shall sign the contract, and I will sign the contract, and
we will find means I think to make the fair Lady sign the contract
too, while the Duke of Guise's bridegroom discovers his way into a
dungeon of the chateau. You have been so long absent, I feared you
would not come in time to hear all this."
"Why, Sire," replied Villequier, "I was forced to be absent; for
although your Majesty seems to have forgotten a certain paper given to
the Abbe de Boisguerin, I have not."
"Ha!" said the King, "I had forgotten indeed. We must suppress that,
Villequier; we must suppress that, if he will not consent to our
plans; which, I see by your face, it is not your opinion that the
worthy Abbe will do. You must get it from him and suppress it."
Villequier smiled at the very thought. "He will never give it up to be
suppressed, Sire," replied the Marquis. "Your Majesty little knows the
man."
"Well, then, suppress him!" said the King with a laugh; "suppress him,
Villequier, and the paper with him. Under the great blaze made by this
business of the Guise, his affair will be but as one of the wax tapers
that a country girl, with a sore eye, buys for half a denier to hang
up before St. Radigonde. Suppress him, Villequier; suppress him. I
know no one so capable of sweeping the window clear of such flies."
"Yes, Sire," replied Villequier; "but he is a wasp, not a fly. He has
antidotes for poison, and sureties against the knife. He has, besides,
more powerful friends, it seems, than any of us believed, or at least
more powerful means of gaining them. The Pope has been induced to set
him free of his vows. I find, too, that Epernon sent for him
immediately after that business of the attempt upon his life at
Augouleme, and they are now sworn friends and comrades, levying forces
together, holding counsel every other hour; and here is the former
Abbe now disporting himself as Seigneur de Boisguerin; and, just like
a butterfly that has cast its slough, he arrives in Blois last night
in gilded apparel, with a train of twenty horse behind him, and a
number of sumpter mules. I saw him in his gay attire near Augouleme,
and find that he aspires to the hand of the fair heiress himself."
"But what is to be done, Villequier?" said the King smiling. "It seems
to me that all the world are seeking her. Suppose we send for an
auctioneer, and set her up _aux encheres_. But, to speak seriously,
what will you do with this cidevant Abbe?"
"I have done with him something already," replied Villequier, "that
with all his art he could not prevent nor know. I found this young
Marquis of Montsoreau somewhat stubborn to counsel. He loved not the
plan of coming and lying concealed at Blois. Though he is politic and
artful at seasons himself, yet now he was all passion and fury.
Nothing would serve him but he must come to Blois in open day, with a
hundred lances at his back. He would fight his brother, it seemed, and
cut his throat. He would beard the Guise; and he would compel your
Majesty and me to fulfil our promise to the letter. That the girl had
escaped he attributed to my connivance; and, by Heavens! I almost
feared he would have laid violent hands upon me. In short, Sire, by a
little skilful teazing, I found that this same Abbe de Boisguerin,
whose credit I had once greatly shaken, had resumed the mastery, and
was urging on his former pupil to every sort of rash and violent act,
probably with the hope of getting him killed out of his way. I soothed
the good youth down, however, and told him I would give him proof of
his friend's regard. I hid him where he could hear all that passed,
and then entrapped the Abbe into talking of the paper that we had
signed for him. I told him that the person for whom your Majesty and I
destined this fair Helen, was the young Marquis of Montsoreau. I
reminded him that he had obtained that paper with an absolute and
direct view to that marriage; at least, that he had told me so; and I
asked him immediately to sign his consent to the alliance. Your
Majesty may imagine his answers; and the youth's rage was such that
most assuredly he would have broken in upon us, if I had not stationed
two men to stop him. However, he became afterwards as docile as a
lamb, was convinced, by what passed, that we had throughout been
dealing sincerely with him, and will be ready at the hour to-morrow.
When the good Abbe, perhaps, hears that the whole affair is concluded,
that Guise is gone, and your Majesty powerful, he may judge it more
wise to be silent and resigned. We can tempt him, first, with some
post; we can alarm him, if that will not do, with some peril; and
lastly, if we fail in both, then we must find some way of putting an
end to the matter altogether."
"That will be easily done," replied the King, his mind reverting to
the Duke of Guise. "But come, Villequier, let us go and consult with
Laugnac. I told him, before you came, to seek for you and consult with
you. We must trust as few as possible in this business, and I must see
to the whole myself, for this is a step on which, if we but slip, we
fall to inevitable perdition."
CHAP. XI.
Was the Duke of Guise unconscious of the dangers that surrounded him?
Was he unaware that the power which he assumed, and the power which
the States also put upon him, could not but render him obnoxious in
the highest degree to the King, who, though weak and indolent, was
jealous of that authority which he failed himself to exercise for the
benefit of his people? Was the Duke ignorant that the Monarch was as
treacherous as feeble, was as remorseless as vicious? Was it unknown
to him, that to all the creatures who surrounded the King he was an
object of hatred and jealousy; and that there were ready hands and
base hearts enough to attempt any thing which the royal authority
might warrant?
He was not so ignorant, or so unaware: he had been warned
sufficiently, days and weeks before; but even had that not been the
case, on that very night he received sufficient intimations of his
danger to put him on his guard.
He had presided at the supper-table as Grand Master of the King's
household, and he had received his guests with easy courtesy. The meal
was over somewhat sooner than usual; and, the business of the State
being considerably slackened, in consequence of the approaching
festival of Christmas, he sat in his cabinet with Charles of
Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut only, enjoying an hour of
refreshment in calm and tranquil conversation upon subjects, which,
however agitating to them, was merely a matter of pleasant interest to
him.
Charles of Montsoreau sat by his side making some notes of various
little things that the Duke told him, and Marie de Clairvaut was
seated on a stool at his feet, while he looked down upon her, from
time to time, with the sort of parental tenderness which he had
displayed towards her from her infancy.
A pleasing sort of melancholy had come over him,--a sadness without
grief, and mingling even occasionally with gaiety. It was that sort of
present consciousness of the emptiness of all worldly things, which
every man at some moment feels, even the ambitious, the greedy, the
zealous, the passionate. Perhaps that which had brought such a mood
upon him, was the contrast of all the arrangements for his fair ward's
marriage and the deep and intense feelings which that event excited in
the bosom of herself and Charles of Montsoreau, with the eager and
fiery struggles in which he had been lately taking part, while engaged
in the dark fierce strife of ambition, or tossed in the turbid
whirlpool of political intrigue. And thus he sat, and thus he talked
with them of their future prospects and their coming happiness,
sometimes speaking seriously, nay gravely--sometimes jesting lightly,
and smiling when he had made Marie cast down her eyes.
As he thus sat there was a tap at the door of his cabinet, and the
Duke knowing it to be the page, bade him enter; when the boy Ignati
appearing, informed him that the Count de Schomberg was without.
"Bid him come in," replied the Duke, keeping his seat, and making a
sign for his companions not to stir. "Welcome, Schomberg," he said;
"you see that I am plotting no treason here. What do you think of my
two children? Joinville will be jealous of my eldest son. But, jesting
apart, I think you know the Count de Logeres. My niece, Marie, I know
you have had many a time upon your knee in her infancy."
Schomberg bowed to each, but gravely; and replied to the Duke, who
held out his hand to him, "My dear Duke, I wish every body were as
well persuaded that you are plotting no treason as I am. But I come to
speak to your Highness upon a matter of business. I have a warning to
give you," he added in a whisper.
"Oh! speak it aloud; speak it aloud," replied the Duke. "If it
concerns myself, you may well speak it before these two."
"Indeed!" said Schomberg, apparently hesitating, and running his eyes
over the tapestry, as if calculating how he had best proceed. "My good
Lord Duke," he said, at length, "I believe you know that there are few
who love you better than myself, though I neither am nor affect to be
a zealot, but rather what your people call one of the Politics."
"I know Schomberg, what you mean," said the Duke; "you are my friend,
but not my partisan. I can make the distinction, Schomberg, and love
the friend no less. What have you to say?"
"Why this, my Lord," replied Schomberg. "Look up above the door
there, just before your eyes. Do you see how beautifully they have
carved in the black oak the figure of a porcupine, and how all the
sharp and prickly quills stick out, ready to wound the hand that
touches it?"
"Yes, I see," replied the Duke. "But do you know the history of that
porcupine, Schomberg?"
"Yes," answered the Count, "I know it well, my Lord of Guise. Both in
the stonework and the woodwork of this castle, there are many such.
They were placed there, I think, my Lord--am I not right?--by an old
monarch of France, as a sort of device, to signify that whoever grasps
royalty too rudely, will suffer injury in consequence."
The Duke smiled in the same placid mood as before, but replied, "In
the next chamber, Schomberg, which is my own bedchamber, you may see
the device of Francis the First too,--a salamander unhurt in the midst
of flames; which may be interpreted to mean, that strong courage is
never more at ease than in the midst of perils."
A grave smile came over the face of Schomberg, to find the figures in
which he involved his warning so easily retorted by the Duke of Guise.
"I have heard of your Highness," he said, without noticing the Duke's
reply, "that not very many years ago you were known to swim against
the stream of the Loire armed at all points. You are a strong man, my
Lord Duke; but there are other streams you cannot swim against, depend
upon it."
"Then I will try to go with the current, Schomberg," replied the Duke.
"As long as that is with me, it will bear me up."
"But it may dash you against a rock, Duke," replied Schomberg; "and I
see one straight before you."
He spoke sternly and impressively, and Guise listened to him with more
attention. "Speak, Schomberg, he said; speak; you may speak clearly
before them. But sit, good friend; pray thee sit. Standing there
before me, with your sad aspect and warning voice, you look like a
spectre."
"Well, my Lord," said Schomberg, seating himself, "I have certain
information that there are evil designs against you, ripe, or almost
ripe, for execution. Your life is in danger. Guise; I tell you truly,
I tell you sincerely, and I beseech you to hear me. Your life is in
danger, and you have no time to lose if you would place it in safety."
"Why, what would you have me to do, Schomberg?" said the Duke in a
tone not exactly indifferent, but still showing no great interest in
the subject.
"I would have you mount your horse this night," replied Schomberg, "or
at day-break tomorrow. I would have you gather your train together,
take these two young people with you, and retiring to Paris, inform
the King that you had proof your life was not safe at Blois."
The Duke of Guise meditated for a moment, and then replied,
"Schomberg, I cannot grasp this fear. Brought up to arms from my
youth, cradled in the tented field, with death surrounding me at every
hour of life, I cannot feel as other men might feel in moments of
peril to myself. Neither will I ever have it said of me, that I
willingly fled from my post under the apprehension of any personal
danger."
"By our old friendship. Guise," replied Schomberg, "by our
companionship in the fields of other days, I beseech you to consider
and to judge wisely. Remember, if the vengeance of a monarch, or the
instigation of villanous courtiers, were to have success, and you were
to fall beneath the blow of an assassin, what would become of your
children, all yet in their youth? what would become of your relations
and your friends, placed, as you have placed them, on a high pinnacle,
to be aimed at by a crowd of idle minions with their bird-bolts? What
would become of your son?"
"Joinville must make his own fame," replied the Duke, "and guard his
own rights with his own sword. I was left earlier than he is without a
parent's care; with a host of enemies around me; with my father's
name, giving me a heritage of envy and hatred; and with no support but
my own sword. With that sword I have bowed those enemies to the dust,
and Joinville must show himself worthy to bear it too."
He paused, and meditated for a moment or two, and then added, "After
all, Schomberg, I do not see that there can be much danger. Here, in
the castle, I am as strong or stronger than the King. When I go forth,
I am so well accompanied, that it would be difficult to surprise me,
if they attacked me with numbers. A single assassin might dog my
steps, it is true; but I do not know that man upon the face of the
earth, who, hand to hand with me, would not have more than an equal
share of fear and danger. However, I will think of what you have said,
and will take good care to be more upon my guard than ever. At the
same time, Schomberg, I thank you most sincerely, and look upon your
regard as one of the best possessions that I have."
"Guise," said Schomberg, rising and approaching the door, "I have
failed with you. But I yield not my point yet. I will send those to
you who may have more influence."
"Stay, Schomberg, stay!" cried the Duke; but his friend passed through
the door and would not return.
Charles of Montsoreau then raised his voice in the same cause as
Schomberg, and Marie de Clairvaut entreated anxiously that he would
yield to what had been proposed. But at them the Duke only laughed.
"Hush, hush!" he said. "Logeres, you do not know what you say. There,
kiss her and be gone. To-morrow she shall be yours, no more to part.
Say no more, silly girl; say no more. You, a child of a Guise, talk to
me of fear! Call thy maidens, get thee to thy bed, and rise to-morrow
with bright eyes and blooming cheeks. Fare thee well, sweet one. I
long to be quit of thy guardianship."
Remonstrance was useless, and they parted; and the Duke of Guise
sitting down for a moment, gave himself up to thought. His eyes were
fixed upon the dark tapestry opposite, where was depicted a woody
scene, the particulars of which could not be well distinguished by the
dim light of the lamp.
After he had gazed for a moment or two, however, his eyes assumed a
peculiar expression, a fixed, intense, and somewhat bewildered stare.
He passed his hand twice before them, as if he felt them dim or
dazzled; then clasped his hands together and gazed, still muttering to
himself, "Strange, very strange! It is there still!" And starting up
from the table, he seized the lamp, and advanced directly towards the
side of the room on which his eyes had been fixed, still gazing
stedfastly on the same spot. At length, as he approached close to the
wall, his features relaxed, and he said with a smile, "It is gone!
These delusions of the sight are wonderful!"
He had not yet returned to his seat, when the door on his right hand
opened gently, and the form of a woman glided in. It was that of the
beautiful being with whom he had parted in some anger at the King's
ball, and she gazed at him, evidently surprised to see him standing
with the lamp in his hand close to the wall, on a side where there was
no exit.
"In the name of Heaven, Guise! what is the matter?" she said. "I heard
you speaking as I came in. You are pale; your lip quivers!"
"It is nothing; it is nothing," replied the Duke, putting down the
lamp, and taking her hand. "This is, indeed, dear and kind of you,
Charlotte. I trusted, I was sure, that your anger for a light offence
would not last long."
"It would have lasted long, Guise," she said, "or at least its effects
would not have passed away, had it not been for the warning that I
have received concerning you. Guise, you would not have seen me
now--you would never have seen me in these rooms again----"
"Nay, nay," interrupted the Duke, "traduce not so your own nature. Say
not that a few unthinking words would render her so harsh, who is so
gentle."
"They were not unthinking words, Henry of Guise," replied the Lady.
"They were words of deep meaning, to be read and understood at once.
Think you that I could misunderstand them? Think you that I could not
read that Guise would not suffer the pure to dwell with the impure?
However," she added quickly, seeing that the Duke was going to
interrupt her, "let me speak of other things. I was about to say that
you would not have seen me this night, you would never have seen me in
these chambers again, had I not learned that your life was in danger;
and then my fears for you showed me that my love was unchanged, and I
came, at all risks, to warn you, and to beseech you to be gone."
"Nay, nay," replied the Duke. "How can I be gone when you are here,
Charlotte? And, besides, there is no real danger. It is Schomberg has
frightened you, I know. He came here with the same tale; but I showed
him there was no danger."
"It was not from Schomberg!" said Madame de Noirmontier vehemently. "I
have never seen Schomberg since I have been here. It was from the
Queen; it was from Catherine herself that I heard it. She told me to
tell you; she told me to warn you. Her son, she said, had not divulged
to her his scheme; but from her knowledge of the man, and from the
words he used, she was certain that he would attempt your life within
three days."
"Then his attempt will fail, dear Charlotte," said the Duke, holding
her hand tenderly in his. "Fear not for me; I am fully upon my guard;
and in this chateau, and this town, am stronger than the King
himself."
"Oh Guise, Guise, you are deceiving yourself," she said, bursting into
tears. "Twice I have been at your door this night, but the page told
me there was some one with you; and now I have come determined not to
leave you, till I see you making preparations to depart. Let me
entreat you, let me beseech you," she continued, as Guise wiped away
her tears. "Nay, Guise, nay; in this I will take no refusal. If not
for your own sake, for my love you shall fly. You shall treat me ill,
as you did before, again and again. You shall make a servant of me--a
slave. You will not surely refuse me, when you see me kneeling at your
feet." And she sunk upon her knees before him, and clasped her fair
hands in entreaty. The Duke was raising her tenderly, when the page's
knock was heard at the door; and before he could well give the command
to enter, the boy was in the room.
"My Lord," he said, "there is Monsieur Chapelle Marteau, and several
other gentlemen, desiring earnestly to speak with you."
Madame de Noirmontier looked wildly round the room, and seemed about
to pass through the door by which the page had entered. "Be not
alarmed," said the Duke, "you cannot pass there, Charlotte. These men
will not be with me above a few minutes. Pass into that room, and wait
till they are gone. I have a thousand things to say to you, and will
dismiss them soon."