Ignati; speed on before us, and see that there is no one on the watch.
If you find Gondrin, send him to the chapel without a moment's delay.
We must fly, sweet Marie; we must fly, as your uncle has ordered. It
is clear--though it is terrible to say--it is clear that he is dead.
They would not have dared to arrest his son and mother had he been
living. But we must find you some cloak or covering, sweet girl. You
cannot go forth in all this bridal array."
Marie bent down her head and wept, for though she had suffered much
within the last few months, it had not been with that withering kind
of suffering which dries up the fountain of our tears. She hurried on
with her lover, however, and in his apartments a mantle was speedily
found to cover the bright and happy attire which she had that morning
put on with feelings of hope and joy. In few but distinct words
Charles of Montsoreau told the two servants, whom he found there, to
get out, if possible, by any means into the town, and to bring round
the rest of his train and his horses to the farther side of the
gardens; and then hurrying on by the way which the boy had suggested,
he led Marie de Clairvaut towards the chapel, where they were to have
been united.
The little corridor which they followed entered at once into a small
room, called the revestry, by the side of the chapel itself, and as
Charles of Montsoreau approached, he heard voices and paused to
listen. He then plainly distinguished the tones of Gondrin and the
page; and though another deep voice was also heard, he hurried on,
feeling certain that they would have come to give him warning had
there been danger.
The door was partly open, and throwing it back, the Count beheld a
scene which made all his blood run cold, while the fair girl whom he
was leading forward recoiled in terror and dismay.
Stretched upon the floor, with his sword half drawn from the sheath,
and a deep wound in his left breast, lay Gaspar de Montsoreau.
A pool of blood surrounded him, and the expression of his whole
countenance showed in a moment that the spirit had departed some time.
Scattered--some upon the ground, some upon the table in the midst of
the room, some even in the midst of the blood itself--were a number of
pieces of gold; and two leathern bags, one open and half empty of its
contents, were seen upon the ground.
At the further side of the room, near the door leading into the
chapel, was standing Gondrin, with his sword naked, and his foot upon
the chest of the Italian Orbi; while the boy Ignati knelt beside the
assassin, and with his drawn dagger held over him, seemed putting to
him some quick and eager questions.
"I tell you true," answered the man, as Charles of Montsoreau entered;
"I tell you true. It was he who set me on and paid me: the Abbe de
Boisguerin, and no one else."
The boy sprang up and moved away on the young Count's appearance; and
a few words from Gondrin explained to him, that coming from the
gardens--where he had found all solitary, the key in the lock of the
postern gate, and the way clear--he had heard a low cry from the side
of the chapel, and on entering that room had discovered the unhappy
Marquis de Montsoreau weltering in his blood, and the Italian Orbi
gathering up some of the gold pieces, which seemed to have fallen to
the ground in a brief struggle between him and the Marquis.
During this account, Marie de Clairvaut, pale as death and terribly
agitated, supported herself by one of the high-backed chairs, and
turned her eyes from the horrible sight which that room exhibited; and
Charles of Montsoreau gazed for a moment on the dead form of his
brother, with those feelings of fraternal love which no unkindness or
ill treatment had been able to banish.
Every instant, however, was precious; and recovering himself as
speedily as possible, he turned to Gondrin, bidding him disarm the
Italian who had still his sword, though the weapon with which he had
committed the murder had been dropped beside the dead body.
"Shall I kill him, sir?" said Gondrin, pressing the man down more
firmly with his foot, as he found him make a slight effort to escape.
"Oh, in pity, in pity, Charles," cried Marie, clasping her hands
towards him, "do not; do not!"
"No, no!" replied Charles of Montsoreau; "cut that rope from the
window, Ignati. Bind him hand and foot, Gondrin, and leave him to the
justice of those who come after."
It was done in a moment; and Charles of Montsoreau only pausing once
more for a moment to gaze on his brother's corpse, exclaimed with
sincere sorrow, "Alas, poor Gaspar!" and then with a quick step led
Marie de Clairvaut from that terrible chamber into the gardens and
towards the postern gate.
All was clear, and Charles of Montsoreau turned the key and threw the
gate back. The moment that it was opened, two men darted forward from
the other side, as if to seize the person coming out, and in one of
them, though entirely changed in dress and appearance, Charles
instantly recognised the Abbe de Boisguerin, who, before he saw that
any one had accompanied Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, had caught her
violently by the arm.
The memory of a thousand wrongs flashed upon the young Count's mind in
a moment; his sword sprung from the sheath, glittered for a single
instant in the air, and then passed through the body of the base man
before him, piercing him from side to side.
The Abbe uttered a shrill and piercing cry, and, when the Count
withdrew his weapon, fell instantly back upon the ground, quivering in
the agonies of death. The other man who had stood beside the Abbe fled
amain; but on the road, about fifty yards from the garden wall, stood
a carriage with six horses and their drivers, with a group of some
nine or ten men on horseback.
On the Abbe's first cry the horsemen began to ride towards the spot,
but the appearance of Gondrin coming through the low door behind the
Count, and then the page, made them pause, hesitate, and seem to
consult. In another moment or two the sound of horses coming from the
side of the town caused them to withdraw still farther from the spot;
and with joy that is scarcely to be expressed, Charles of Montsoreau
saw his own colours in the scarfs of the horsemen that approached. In
a moment after, he was surrounded by at least twenty of his own armed
attendants: led horses, too, were there in plenty; and he now
whispered words of hope that he really felt to Marie de Clairvaut, who
clung almost fainting to his arm.
"Stop the carriage, Gondrin!" he exclaimed, seeing the drivers in the
act of mounting, as if to hasten away after the horsemen, who, on
their part, had taken flight at the first sight of the young Count's
followers. "We must make use of it, whether they will or not; but
promise them large rewards. There is a mystery here I do not
understand; but it is evidently some new villany. Come, dear Marie,
come; we must not pause." And leading her forward to the carriage, he
spoke to the drivers himself.
One of them was the master of the horses which the Abbe had hired, and
he was found not at all unwilling to enter into any arrangement that
the Count chose to propose. Marie de Clairvaut was placed in the
carriage, the horsemen surrounded it, and Charles himself was about to
mount his horse, when he perceived that the boy Ignati had not
followed him, but remained kneeling by the side of the Abbe de
Boisguerin. Turning quickly back, to his utter surprise he found the
youth weeping bitterly; and when he urged him to rise and come with
the carriage, Ignati shook his head saying, "No, no! I cannot leave
him like dead carrion for the hawks and ravens.--He was my father! Go
on, my Lord Count, and God speed you!--I must see him buried, and
masses said for his soul!"
The Count was moved, but he could not remain; and giving the boy some
money, he said, "Spend that upon his funeral, Ignati; and then follow
me with all speed to Lyons. I grieve for you, my boy, though I
understand not how this can be."
Only one more difficulty existed, which was, to pass through that part
of the town leading to the bridge over the Loire. But the servants who
had made their escape from the castle, and brought round their fellows
to his assistance, assured the Count that the news of the Duke of
Guise's murder had already spread through the city, and that every
thing was in such a state of confusion and dismay, he might pass with
the greatest security.
Such he found to be the case; all the guard of the King was within the
walls of the chateau; the gates of the bridges, and of the town
itself, were in the hands of the faction of the League; and no
questions were asked of one who was known to have been the dear and
intimate friend of the murdered Duke.
Taking his way through a part of the country devoted to the League,
Charles of Montsoreau and his fair companion found no difficulty in
reaching Lyons, where the history of all that had taken place was soon
told to the Duke of Mayenne, and the last lines which the hand of
Henry of Guise ever traced were shown to him, who was destined
thenceforth to be the great head of the League.
Had the words and the wishes of his brother not been sufficient for
Mayenne, the necessity of binding to his cause for ever one whose aid
was so important as that of Charles of Montsoreau, would have been
enough to decide the Duke's conduct towards him: and as soon as
possible, after all the anguish, difficulty, and danger, which they
had undergone together, the fate of the young Count of Logeres and
Marie de Clairvaut was united for ever.
In regard to them it need only be said that they loved each other to
the last hours of life.
The boy Ignati followed the young Count to Lyons, but he would not
remain with the man who had taken his father's life. He subsequently
devoted himself to the church, and in the end rose high, by the great
interest that was exercised on his behalf.
The wars of the League succeeded: but the feelings of Charles of
Montsoreau were greatly changed by the death of the Duke of Guise; and
though he waged war, as zealously as any body could possibly do,
against the murderer of his lost friend, yet, when Henry III. himself
fell under the blow of an assassin, the young Count of Logeres would
no longer contend against a monarch so generous, so noble, and so
chivalrous, as the King who next ascended the throne.
He sheathed the sword then, after the accession of Henri Quatre, and
the rest of his days passed in peace and calm retirement, in the
society of her whom he loved ever, and loved alone.
THE END.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square