page, the Duke bade him admit the party who were waiting without. It
consisted of Chapelle Marteau, the President de Neuilli, a gentleman
of the name of Mandreville, the Duke's brother the Cardinal de Guise,
and the Archbishop of Lyons.
The Duke received them with that winning grace for which he was
famous, and soon learned from them that their visit was owing to the
information received from the Count de Schomberg. Every one then
present, but the Archbishop of Lyons, urged him strongly to quit Blois
immediately. They had come in a body, they said, in hopes that their
remonstrances might have the greater effect. Each had heard in the
course of the evening those rumours which generally announce great
events; some had been told that the Duke was arrested; some that he
had been absolutely assassinated in the gardens of the chateau; and
some that the act was to be performed that night by a number of
soldiers, who had been privately introduced into the castle.
Guise listened silently and with great attention, displaying in
demeanour every sort of deference and respect for the opinions of
those who showed such an interest in his fate. He replied, however,
that he trusted and hoped that both the rumours they had heard, and
the intelligence given by Schomberg, originated in nothing but
mistaken words, or in those idle and unfounded reports which always
multiply themselves in moments of great political agitation and
excitement. Besides this, he said, even if the King were disposed to
attempt his life, the execution of such an act would be very
difficult, if not impossible; and that, considering before all things
his duty to his country, the very fact of the King seeking such a
thing ought to be the strongest reason for his stay, inasmuch as the
Monarch's animosity could only be excited towards him out of enmity to
the Catholic Church, and a disposition to repress and tyrannise over
the States.
"If such be his feelings," continued the Duke, "we must consider
ourselves as two armies in presence of each other, and the one that
retreats of course awards the victory to his adversary."
The Archbishop of Lyons, perhaps, was the person who decided the fate
of the Duke of Guise; for had the party which came to him been
unanimous and urgent in their remonstrance, there is a probability
that he would have yielded; but the Archbishop seemed doubtful and
undecided. He said that he thought, indeed, it might be well the Duke
should go; at least for a time. But they had to consider, also, the
probabilities of the King making any attempt upon the Duke. Though
weak, timid, and indolent, Henry was shrewd and farseeing, he said.
The only result that could follow an attempt upon a person so beloved
by the whole nation, and especially by the States, as the Duke of
Guise, would be to arm the people of France in an instant against the
sovereign authority. This the King must well know, he continued; and
that consideration made him less eager upon the subject, though he
thought it might be as well that his Highness should retire for a
time.
His speech more than counterbalanced the exhortations of all the rest;
and from that moment the resolution of the Duke became immovable. His
dauntless mind, which might have yielded had he stood absolutely alone
in opinion, came instantly to the conclusion, that if there were a
single individual who doubted whether he should fly or not, he himself
ought to decide upon remaining. He made no answer to the Archbishop's
speech, but suffered Mandreville to combat his arguments without
interruption. That gentleman replied that Henry, far from being the
person represented, though cunning, was any thing but prudent. Had
they ever seen, he demanded, the cunning of the King, even in the
least degree, restrain or control him? Had the self-evident risk of
his throne, of his life, and of the welfare of his people, ever made
him pause in the commission of one frantic, vicious, or criminal act?
He was no better, the deputy said, than a cunning madman, such as was
frequently seen, who, having determined upon any act, however absurd
or evil might be the consequences, even to the destruction of his own
self, would arrive at it by some means, and go directly to his
purpose, in despite of all obstacles. He contended that they had good
reason to know that the King devised evil against the Duke; and they
might depend upon it that no consideration of policy, right, or
religion, would prevent him from executing his purpose by some means.
He spoke truly, and with more thorough insight into the character of
the King than any one previously had done; but the resolution of the
Duke of Guise, as we have said before, was already taken.
"My good friends," he said in conclusion, "I thank you most sincerely,
and I shall ever feel grateful for the interest that you have taken in
me, and for your anxiety regarding me on the present occasion. But my
resolution is taken, and must be unalterable. I cannot but acknowledge
that the view of Monsieur de Mandreville may have much truth in it;
but, nevertheless, matters are now at such a point, that if I were to
see death coming in at that window, I would not seek the door."
Against a determination so forcibly expressed, there was, of course,
no possibility of holding further argument; and after a word or two
more on different subjects of less interest--the Duke of Guise
replying as briefly as possible to every thing that was said--the
party took their leave and retired.
CHAP. XII.
There was at that time a large open space round the church of St.
Sauveur, in Blois, where the people from the country used occasionally
to exhibit their fruits and flowers for sale; and exactly opposite the
great door of the church stood a large and splendid mansion, with an
internal court-yard, part of which had been let to some of the
deputies for the States-General. The principal floor, however,
consisting of sixteen rooms, and several large passages and corridors,
had been left untenanted, in consequence of the proprietor asking an
exorbitant rent, till two or three days before the period of which we
speak. Then, however, the apartment was taken suddenly, a number of
attendants in new and splendid dresses appeared therein; and, as we
have seen from the account of Villequier to the King, the Abbe de
Boisguerin arrived in Blois, with a splendid train of attendants, and
took up his abode as the master of that dwelling.
About the same time that the conversations which we have detailed in
the last chapter were going on in the cabinet of the Duke of Guise,
the Abbe was seated in one of the rooms, which he had fixed upon for
his own peculiar saloon. It was very customary in those days, and in
France, for every chamber, except a great hall of reception, to be
used also as a bed-room. But that was not the case in this instance;
for the chamber, which was small, though very lofty, had been used by
the former occupants as a cabinet, and had been chosen by the Abbe
probably on account of its being so completely detached from every
other chamber, that no sound of what was done or said therein could be
overheard by any one.
He sat in a large arm-chair, with his feet towards the fire, and with
his right elbow resting on a table covered with various sorts of
delicacies. Those delicacies, however, were not the productions of the
land in which he then lived, but rather such as he had been accustomed
to in other days, and which recalled former habits of life. There were
fine dried fruits from the Levant, tunny and other fish from the
Mediterranean; and the wines, though inferior to those of France, were
from foreign vineyards.
Before him was standing a man whom we have had occasion to mention
more than once--that Italian vagabond named Orbi, from whom, it may be
remembered, Charles of Montsoreau delivered the boy Ignati. He was now
dressed in a very different guise, however, from that which he had
borne while wandering as a mere stroller from house to house. His
shaggy black hair was trimmed and smooth; his beard was partially
shaved and reduced to fair proportions, with a sleek mustachio, well
turned and oiled, gracing his upper lip; his face, too, was clean; and
a suit somewhat sombre in colour, but of good materials, displaying in
the ruff and at the sleeves a great quantity of fine white linen and
rich lace, left scarcely a vestige of the fierce Italian vagabond,
half bravo, half minstrel, which he had appeared not a year before.
The conversation which was going on between him and the master he now
served, was evidently one of great interest. The Abbe's wine remained
half finished in the glass; the preserved fruits upon his plate were
scarcely tasted; and he exclaimed, "So, so! Villequier sends me no
answer to my letter! A bare message, by word of mouth, that the Duke
of Guise wills it to be so; and that the Duke's will is all powerful
at the Court of France! The King sets at nought his own royal word,
does he?"
"He said something, sir," said the Italian, "about his knowing, and
the King also, that they must pay a penalty; but that no sum was to be
grudged, rather than offend the Duke at this time."
"Sum!" cried the Abbe de Boisguerin, starting up and pushing the chair
vehemently from him. "What is any sum to me?" And with flashing eyes,
and a countenance all inflamed, he strode up and down the chamber for
a moment or two, with his heart swelling with bitterness and
disappointed passion. "A curse upon this bungling hand," he cried,
striking it upon the table, "that it should fail me at such a moment
as that! I thought the young viper had been swept from my way for
ever!--My aim was steady and true, too! His heart must be in some
other place than other men's."
"Ha! my Lord," joined in the Italian in the tone of a connoisseur,
"the arquebus is a pretty weapon, I dare say, in a general battle, but
it is desperate uncertain in private affairs like that. You can never
tell, to an inch or two, where the ball will hit. But, with a dagger,
you can make sure to a button-hole; and even if there should be a
struggle, it is always quite easy so to salve the point of your blade,
that you make sure of your friend, even if you give him but a scratch.
Now the attempt to poison a ball is all nonsense, for the fire
destroys the venom."
"At what hour said you, Orbi?" demanded the Abbe, without attending to
his dissertation.
"Half an hour before high mass," replied the man, "the marriage is to
take place."
Again the Abbe de Boisguerin burst into a vehement fit of passion, and
strode up and down the room cursing and blaspheming, till accidentally
his eyes fell upon a small Venetian mirror, and the aspect of his own
countenance, ordinarily so calm and unmoved, now distorted by rage and
disappointment, made him start. A smile of scorn, even at himself,
curled his lip; and calming his countenance by a great effort, he
again seated himself, and mused for a moment.
"This must not, and shall not be," he said at length. "Orbi, you are
an experienced hand, and doubtless dexterous. Will you stop this going
forward?"
The man smiled, stroked back his mustachios, and replied, "I thought
you would be obliged to take my way at last. Well, Monseigneur, I have
no objection; but the time is short. I told you what I expected for
such an affair when I offered to do it in Paris."
"You shall have it! you shall have it!" replied the Abbe. "But if you
do it, so that no suspicion ever falls on me, you shall have as much
again this day two years; for nothing but the lives of these two young
men stands between me and immense wealth."
"The worst of it all is," said the Italian, "that there is so short a
time. It is to take place in the castle chapel; so there will be no
going through the streets. To find him alone will be a matter of
difficulty; and though I went over the passages, thinking it might
come to this, yet I saw no one place, but at the door of the room
called the revestry, where one could strike easily."
"I have seen the place," said the Abbe, "long ago; but I do not
remember it so perfectly as to give you any aid. I know that the
window of the room you mention looks into the court and gardens, and
under the garden wall shall be a swift horse to bear you away. That is
all I can do for you."
"I must do the rest for myself," replied the man, "and will find some
means, depend upon it. Perhaps he may not wait for the other if he be
eager, but may come first by himself, and then it will be easily done.
However, I will now go and get the dagger ready, and I can undertake
that the least scratch shall not leave an hour's life in him."
The Abbe de Boisguerin nodded his head and smiled as the other
departed. "They know not," he said to himself, "they know not the man
they have to deal with. These mighty men, these haughty Guises, may
find that every man of strong determination and unflinching courage
may thwart, if he cannot master, them; may destroy their plans, if he
cannot accomplish his own. But there is another still to be dealt
with. There is this proud, unfeeling, contemptuous girl; she who
has been rejoicing in the reappearance of this crafty fair-faced
boy.--There is now no going back; and why should I not risk life to
win her too, and gratify both my love and my revenge?--Yet that seems
scarcely possible," he continued. "Closely watched within the castle,
never going out but strongly accompanied, she is put, it would seem,
entirely out of my power, now that Villequier has fallen off from
me.--And yet," he continued meditating, "and yet, there is nothing
impossible to the dauntless and the daring.--Could I not bring her to
the postern gate of the garden an hour before this marriage is to take
place, and then, with swift horses and a carriage ready, convey her
once more far away?--We have done as bold and difficult a feat before;
and methinks, if I could tell her that I have news to give her
concerning her uncle's safety--for rumours of his danger must have
reached her ears--she will not fail to come, and come alone.--Oh! if I
once more get her in my power, she shall find no means to fly again,
till, on the contrary, she shall be more inclined to kneel at my feet,
and beseech that I would wed her.--So it shall be! I will write to her
that, if at ten o'clock she will be alone at the postern gate of the
castle, she will hear news that may save her uncle's life. Then, with
the swiftest horses we can find, a few hours will take us far from
pursuit!--I will carry her into Spain! Epernon is with me and the
way open!--It shall be done!" he said aloud; "it shall be done! But,
then, this boy's death is scarcely needful! Why should I mind his
living?--It will be but the greater torture to him to know that she is
mine!--And yet, it were better he should die. All the tidings, and the
rumours, and the bustle of his violent death in the castle will too
much occupy the minds of men to let them notice our flight; so that we
shall gain an hour or two. There is an eager and a daring spirit,
also, within him--a keen and active mind--which might frustrate me
once more in the very moment of hope. He must die! I have set my own
life upon the chance; and what matters it whether one or two others
are swept away before me? He must die! and then, without protection,
she is mine. Once into Tourraine, and I am safe!--Ha! you are back
again quickly, my good friend Orbi. Is all ready?"
"Everything, sir," replied the man; "and if I could but get into the
chateau, and stumble upon the youth alone, I might be able to
accomplish the matter to-night. Could you not furnish me with a billet
to this Villequier, or some one? It matters not what; any empty words,
just to make them admit me at the gates."
"Not to Villequier," said the Abbe; "not to Villequier. But I will
write a few words to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut herself."
"That will do well! that will do well!" replied the man. "I am more
likely to find him hanging about her apartments than any where else;
and then one slight blow does the deed."
"Bring me paper and pens from the next room," cried the Abbe. "It
shall be done this moment." And as soon as implements for writing were
procured, he wrote a subtle epistle to Marie de Clairvaut, beseeching
her to speak for a moment, at the postern gate of the chateau gardens
early on the following day, to a person who would communicate
something to her, which might save the life of her guardian the Duke
of Guise. It was written in a feigned hand, and under the character of
an utter stranger to her. Some mistakes too were made in the
orthography of her name, and in regard to other circumstances, for the
purpose of rendering the deception complete. When this was concluded
and sealed, he placed it in the hands of Orbi, and after a few more
words they parted.
While the Abbe busied himself in causing a carriage to be bought for
the proposed enterprise of the following day, and in ordering the
swiftest horses that could be found, to be obtained--not from the
royal post, by which his course might have been tracked, but from one
of the keepers of _relais_, as the irregular posting houses were
called, which were then tolerated in France; the Italian proceeded on
his task, with feelings in his heart which might well have been
received as a reason for abating the price of the deed he was about to
perform.
To tell the truth it might be considered fully as much his own act as
that of the Abbe, for the same malevolent feelings were in the hearts
of each; and he went not there merely as the common hired assassin, to
do the work of his trade, as a matter of course; but he went also to
avenge a long remembered blow, which still rankled in his heart, with
the same bitterness that he had felt at the moment that it was
received.
He met with some difficulty in obtaining entrance to the chateau at so
late an hour of the night; but the letter addressed to Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut enabled him to effect that object at length, and he was
directed towards the suite of apartments assigned to the Duke of Guise
and his family. When he had once passed the two first gates, he met
with no obstruction, but wandered through the long dimly lighted
corridors, scarcely encountering a waking being on his way, and
certainly none who seemed inclined to speak to him.
When he had reached that part of the building to which he had been
directed, he looked round for some one to give him farther
information, not absolutely intending to seek the apartments of
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and deliver the note, but merely to obtain
a general knowledge of how the different chambers were allotted. After
passing on some way, without meeting any one or hearing a sound, he
saw a door half open, with the light streaming out, and quietly
approaching he looked in.
There was a boy in the dress of a page, sitting before a large
Christmas fire reading a book; but though he walked stealthily, the
first step which the Italian took in the room caught the youth's quick
ear, and starting up he showed the Italian the face of his former
bondman, Ignatius Marone. The man started when he saw him; but
recovering himself instantly, he went up and endeavoured to soothe the
boy with fair and flattering words.
"Ah, my little Ignati," he said, "here thou art then, and doubtless
well off with this young Lord of thine."
"I _am_ well off, Signor Orbi," was the boy's brief reply; and seeing
that the man paused and kept gazing round him, the boy added, "But
what is your business here?"
"I am only looking about me," replied the man in somewhat of a
contemptuous tone, which he could not smother, although it was his
full intention to cajole the boy into giving him all the information
he wanted, and perhaps even to induce him unconsciously to aid his
purpose.
"Come, come, Signor Orbi," replied the boy, "I know you well,
remember; and I know, that though you may have changed your doublet,
you cannot have changed what is within it. If you do not say
immediately what you want, I will call those who will make you." And
he approached one of the other doors which the room displayed, and
raised his hand towards the latch.
"Hist, hist, Ignati!" cried the Italian. "By Heavens! if you do, you
shall never hear what I have got to tell you,--something that would
make your heart beat with joy if you knew it."
"And what is that?" said the boy, still standing near the door, and
looking at his fellow-countryman with a face of scorn and doubt.
"Come hither, and I will tell you," said the Italian; but the boy
shook his head, and Orbi added in a low tone, "You know who your
mother was, Ignati; but do you know your father?"
The boy gazed at him bitterly and in silence, without making any
further answer; and the man added, "He is now in Blois."
Ignati instantly sprang forward towards him, exclaiming, "Where?
Where? Where can I find him? I have still the letter from my dead
mother. I have still all the proofs given me by the Marone. Where is
he? where is he?"
"Come, let us sit down by the fire," said the man, "and I will tell
thee more;" and finding the boy now quite willing to do what he
wished, the man sat down by the fire with him, calculating the various
results of particular lines of conduct open before him, but without
suffering any one good principle or feeling to mingle at all with his
considerations.
He had spoken the words which had called Ignati to him simply as a
matter of impulse, and the first question he asked himself was,
whether he should tell the boy more of the truth or not. Various
considerations, however, induced him to go on, for he had a little
scheme in his head which rendered it expedient for him to embarrass
the proceedings of the Abbe de Boisguerin, on the following morning
after the deed proposed was done, as much as possible.
"You know, Ignati," he said, "that I always loved you, my good youth."
"You gave me bitter proofs of it," replied Ignati.
"Nay, nay; it was my way," replied the Italian. "If you had been my
own son, it would have been the same."
"I dare say," replied Ignati, "you would have murdered your own son
almost as readily as you tried to murder me."
"Nay, boy, I tried not to murder thee," rejoined the man. "I was not
such a fool; that would never have answered my purpose."
"You did it by halves," said the boy. "But come, Master Orbi, tell me
more about this matter you spoke of; and tell me too what brings you
here? Where is my father to be found, if, as you say, he is here?"
"He is to be found," said Orbi, "in the great house by the church of
St. Sauveur. I remember him well, for when your mother fled out of
Rome before you were born, and was glad to get what assistance she
could, she sent me three times back into the city to speak with the
Abbe of Laurans, as he was then called."
"And what is he called now?" exclaimed Ignati eagerly. "What is he
called now?"
"He is called the Abbe de Boisguerin," replied the man, "or the
Seigneur de Boisguerin, as it now is."
"Then I have seen him," cried Ignati. "Then I have seen him; and he
called her----" But the boy suddenly checked himself, "And now, what
is it you want here?" he said.
"No harm, Master Ignati," replied the man, with a look half sneering,
half dogged. "You seem as grateful as any one else, and as soon as you
get all you want, you turn upon one. I suppose you are waiting for
your young master coming back from some gay revel, for the whole place
seems as silent as if every body were gone to bed but you."
"Oh, no," answered Ignati. "There are six of the Duke's men sitting up
in the next room; and all I fear is, that the gentlemen who are with
the Duke himself should come out and find you here."
"Then, I suppose, your master is with them," said the Italian.
The boy smiled. "My master is with them," he said, "for my master is
the Duke of Guise; but if you mean the young Count who took me from
you, he has been gone to bed an hour ago. Ay, Master Orbi, and has two
stout men sleeping across his door. I hav'n't forgot that he struck
you a blow one day; nor you either, it seems."
"You are out there, Sharp-wits," said the Italian. "I bear the boy no
grudge. I got his money, if he gave me a blow into the bargain; so we
are quits."
"I doubt you," muttered Ignati to himself; but the man went on without
attending to him, saying, "No, no; what I came for really, if you want
to know, was to give a letter to a young lady here, from an old
gentleman at the other side of the castle. Here it is! Ma'mselle de
Clairvaut is the name."
"Ay, she is gone to bed long ago too," replied the page. "Let me look
at the letter."