CHAPTER V.

It was a soft calm night, with the moon shining clear and sweet in the

sky, and one or two planets wandering like boats of light over the

surface of the profound blue ocean of the heavens. All the world, too,

was hushed in sleep; and, as the young Vendean took his way toward the

spot appointed for the exchange of the two prisoners, not a sound was

to be heard but the steps of his own party. That party, however, was

reduced to four; for, feeling that he had no right to peril lives

which might be of infinite import to the noble cause he had espoused,

in an enterprise which he could not but acknowledge was wholly

inspired by personal attachment, Auguste had positively refused the

company of any but old La Brousse, and one other attached friend who

would take no refusal. Between them they led the young soldier who had

remained in their hands as a hostage; and as they advanced through a

winding dell, the tall trees of which hid the Loire from their sight,

they paused at every aperture in the thick foliage, to gaze out

anxiously over the waters. A thin light haze, however, was rising over

the river, and though its course could be plainly discerned, yet

the more minute objects which moved upon its bosom--if there were

any--were hidden from their sight. At the low sandy landing-place,

where they at length arrived, all was still obscure; and they remained

till the wind brought upon their ears, the chime of the distant clocks

of Nantes, striking the hour of midnight. Almost immediately

afterwards, the dull sound of oars was heard from the water, and a

small boat was seen shooting up the middle of the stream. In it there

appeared but two persons, and one of them was evidently a female. The

heart of the young Vendean beat quick, while the rower pulled on and

then guided his boat direct to the landing-place. It glided rapidly

through the water, touched the shore, and in a moment after the hand

of Clara de la Roche was clasped in that of her deliverer.

The young soldier was immediately set at liberty; and, without the

interchange of a word, sprang into the boat, and was dropping down the

Loire with his father, while Clara, hardly believing her senses, was

hurrying on with her new companions towards a spot where horses had

been prepared to carry them away from pursuit.

"Oh, sir, I feel that I have to thank you for more than life!" she

said at length, turning to him whom we have called Auguste.

"For nothing--nothing, dearest girl!" he answered. "Nay, do not

start!" he added, marking the surprise which the expression he had

used towards her called forth: "nay, do not start! Did not the man who

set you at liberty tell you, that it was into the hands of Auguste de

Beaumont he was about to deliver you? Did he not say, that it was to

the care and guidance of your promised husband that he was about to

yield you?"

Clara had no time to reply; for, ere she could express by one word any

of the mingled emotions which such tidings might well call up in her

heart, there was a rustle in the trees--a rush of many feet--a

momentary struggle; and, in the end, she found herself once more a

prisoner by the side of her lover, while a troop of revolutionary

soldiers from Nantes insulted them by every sort of bitter mockery and

coarse jest.

"Well, well! we have set the rat-trap to some purpose!" cried one.

"So, brigand, you thought to carry a prisoner away from the town of

Nantes without even paying the fees!" exclaimed another. "She is your

promised wife, too, is she?" said a third. "Well, to-morrow you shall

have a republican marriage of it!" Amidst such jeers, the prisoners

were dragged on to Nantes, now understanding well that the brief

liberation of Mademoiselle de la Roche had been but a trap to decoy

the whole party. Few words were spoken amongst the prisoners.

Consolation was in vain--hope there was none--Robespierre lived, and

death was the only prospect. Auguste de Beaumont pressed the hand of

Clara, and Clara whispered with a few bitter tears, "You have

sacrificed yourself for me!"

This was all that passed, ere in separate dungeons they were left to

wait their approaching fate--Clara enduring with the true fortitude of

woman, and Auguste de Beaumont chafing at his chains, with the

impetuosity of one who had never been aught but free.

It would be more harrowing than interesting to detail the passing of a

night in the dungeons of a revolutionary prison. That night, however

long and dreadful it might seem to Clara de la Roche, passed at

length; and, by daylight, the minions of the grossest tyranny that

ever darkened the earth, came to drag the unhappy girl to the fate

reserved for all that was great and noble in France. Strange however

to say, that fate did not seem in her eyes so appalling as one might

suppose. Weary of persecution, and terror, and flight, and

uncertainty, and grief, there was an anticipation very like a feeling

of relief; in the thought of one brief step leading to immortality,

and peace, and joy; and she advanced to the cart destined to drag her

to the place of execution, with greater alacrity than her tyrants were

accustomed or willing to behold. In the fatal vehicle were already

placed Auguste de Beaumont, the friend who had accompanied him on his

ill-starred expedition, and good old La Brousse, the farmer of

Dervais. They waited but for her alone, and, when she was placed in

the car, the word was given to march.

The procession moved forward through the streets of Nantes, towards

the river, escorted by a small body of cavalry; and, though the hour

was yet early, it was remarked that large crowds were collected to see

a sight which certainly had not the advantage of novelty in that

unhappy town. There was a deep solemn stillness, too, in the

multitude, as the cart rolled through the midst of them, that had

something in it portentous as well as awful; and a low murmur, like

the rush of a receding wave, was heard as the history of the two

younger victims was whispered amongst the people.

The tyrants, however, had no dread, and the vehicle went slowly on;

when, in passing the end of a narrow street which led towards the

Place d'Armes, the clatter of a horse's feet at full gallop was heard

from a parallel avenue. The horse galloped on, but the street was

filled with people, and for a moment there were heard loud murmurs at

the further end. The next instant came a profound silence, during

which nothing was distinguishable but the creaking of the heavy

cartwheels, and the slow tramp of the soldiers' horses; but then, one

loud stentorian voice shouted, with a sound that was heard through the

whole street, "ROBESPIERRE IS DEAD!!! DOWN WITH THE TYRANTS!!!"

A cry of joy, and triumph, and encouragement, burst from the multitudes

around. As if bound together by some secret arrangement--though none,

in truth, existed, save detestation of the sanguinary tyranny of the

Jacobins--As if animated by one spirit--though men of almost every

party were present--the crowds rushed on from every quarter upon the

cart, which was dragging new victims to immolation. The soldiers were

overpowered in a moment; one or two were killed on the spot. The cords

that tied the prisoners were cut--a thousand hands were held out to

give them aid--a thousand voices cried, fly here, or fly there; but at

length one more prudent than the rest, exclaimed, "To the gates! To

the gates!" and in five minutes Auguste de Beaumont, bearing Clara in

his arms, and followed by their fellow prisoners, was clear of the

city of Nantes.

One of the heroes of the Bocage, Auguste was well experienced in every

art for baffling a pursuing enemy. No sooner was the tumult in the

city known, than Lamberty called forth the troops, and Carrier mounted

his horse. But the news met them in the street, that on July the 27th

just four days before--Robespierre, their patron and example, had

ended his days upon the public scaffold.

Terror took possession of them; their measures for repressing the

rising, or for overtaking the fugitives, were weak and vacillating;

and ere night, Auguste de Beaumont and Clara de la Roche were far from

all pursuit.

Time passed, and the struggle of loyalty and good faith against

oppression, tyranny, and crime, continued in La Vendée for some months

longer; but when, at length, the cause became desperate, and hope was

at an end in France, a small fishing-boat conveyed Auguste de Beaumont

and his bride to England. In regard to old La Brousse, he calmly

returned to the house he had ever inhabited, and, strange to say,

received no molestation therein, till death fell upon his eyelids as a

tranquil sleep.

Carrier and Lamberty, it is true, had little time to think of the

victims who had escaped them, or to point them out to others. Their

fate is well known, and surely was well deserved. As for Ninette, who

had betrayed to the revolutionary rulers the refuge of Mademoiselle de

la Roche, she is said to have married a corporal in the guard, who

afterwards rose to the rank of a general, and who displayed no great

tenderness towards his lady in subsequent years, although her chief

fault in his eyes was, that she did not bear her blushing honours with

as much grace as he could have desired.

THE DISASTERS.

After visiting the cottage of old La Brousse, I proceeded by a cross

road, and hired horses to the little town of Redon which I had never

seen; and, arriving at night, I entered, as usual, the public room of

the inn. A party of four French officers were there assembled; and

amongst them one with whom I had been well acquainted at Rennes. He

was a frank, gallant young fellow, somewhat hasty and irascible, but

still generous and kind-hearted withal. It is the rarest thing in the

world to see French officers drink too much; but, on the present

occasion, the bottle had evidently been circulating rapidly, and my

friend, whom I shall call Monsieur de la Grange, in order to cover his

real name, rose and embraced me, on perceiving who it was, with a

degree of enthusiasm proportioned to the quantity of wine he had

imbibed. I, for my part, was affected by a sort of intoxication of

another kind, and forgetting that many of the French officers were but

the children of the revolution, I related my visit to the cottage of

old La Brousse in very high-flown language. La Grange scarcely

suffered me to come to an end before he called the object of my

admiration. "A cursed old Chouan!" Words ensued of a sharp and angry

nature, generating others bitterer still; and before I had tasted the

supper which the aubergiste busied himself to prepare for me, a

challenge had been given and received. The only difficulty was the

time and place. I had no friends in that neighbourhood who could give

me assistance on such an occasion, and I proposed to void our

differences at Rennes. This, however, the French officers could not

agree to, as they had been detached from the garrison of Rennes only

two days before, and my want of a friend was removed by the kindness

of an officer of infantry who was present; and who offered, if I would

trust in him, to give me every aid in his power.

I accepted his proposal with pleasure; the meadows near the town were

appointed for the meeting, and the hour named five o'clock the next

morning. I will not dwell upon my feelings during that night, nor even

upon the rencontre of the next morning, as the consequences were more

important to me than the event itself. To say the truth, I felt less

upon the subject than I ought to have done, and could scarcely get my

mind to grasp the belief that I might be killed. I knew that such

might be the case, but yet it did not come home to me; and though I

sat down calmly to write to Emily in case of the worst, and to make my

will in her favour, yet I did it but with little care, making sure

that I should have to tear it next day. I was woke out of a sound

sleep by my second, whose gentlemanly kindness and attention towards a

foreigner, under such circumstances, well deserve my gratitude, and

proceeded with him through a cold, damp, misty morning to the field.

Leaving every thing of course to be settled by those around us, my

adversary and myself soon brought our own part of the business to an

end, I remaining severely wounded in my right arm, and he being led

from the field with his hand so completely disabled, that I believe he

has never yet recovered the use thereof.

We had not taken the precaution to take a surgeon with us from the

town, and consequently, notwithstanding all our own efforts and those

of our seconds also, we were both faint from the loss of blood by the

time we reached the inn. To do my antagonist but justice, however, let

me say, ere I go further, that ere we quitted the field, he grasped my

left hand with his (for the right of each was disabled), and taking

all the blame upon himself, expressed bitter sorrow for what had

occurred. On arriving at the town, too, there was but one surgeon to

be found: La Grange insisted upon his attending to me first, and my

wounded arm was accordingly subjected to all the torture of surgical

investigation. The man of healing, however, seemed really to

understand his business; and according to his direction I went to bed,

where I soon fell asleep. It was but, however, to wake with great

fever, and when I proposed to go on to Rennes on the following day,

the surgeon assured me that the consequences of my stirring from my

bed for the next week might be the loss of my arm, the bone having

been injured though not broken.

Thus was I kept in the little town of Redon for nearly a month, my

wound seeming to get worse instead of better. One of the greatest

annoyances which I suffered, was the not being able to write to

various friends with whom my correspondence was already somewhat in

arrear; but I still took measures to relieve the minds of those who

were most dear to me from anxiety, by making my servant write twice

under my dictation to Mr. Somers, giving a full account of all that

had occurred, and begging him to assure Emily and my mother that I,

was not seriously hurt.

I also directed Essex, for such was the servant's somewhat lordly

name, to write to the director of the post at Rennes, begging him to

forward all letters which might arrive at that place, to Redon; but no

letters reached me, and at length my anxiety grew so great that,

notwithstanding the damp heat of the weather, and my surgeon's

strenuous opposition, I put horses to my carriage, and set out for

Rennes.

I certainly had felt very feverish and ill for two or three days

before I took this resolution, but that only strengthened me in it, as

I attributed the feeling of general illness which I now experienced,

to the air of the place, which was not particularly healthy. This view

was perhaps right, but I had not acted upon it soon enough, for before

I reached Rennes, I was in a state of delirium from typhus fever, and

I have very little remembrance of any thing that occurred to me during

the fortnight which followed.

When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself in the wretched inn

at Rennes, in a state of the most deplorable weakness, mental and

corporeal; and strength returned so slowly, that for several days the

medical men would not even suffer me to speak, except to ask for what

I wanted. My first inquiry, after this prohibition was removed, was

for letters from England, but they would not suffer me to have those

which had arrived, merely telling me that all my friends were well.

At the end of another fortnight, several letters were given me, and I

looked over them eagerly to find the handwriting of Emily Somers.

There were none from either my mother, Mr. Somers or Emily, and I

hastily opened one which I saw was from the hand of my intimate friend

B----, but how did it begin?

"My dear Young,

"I have anxiously, but hesitatingly, thought of writing, to offer you

some words of consolation. Every day since your mother's death--"

The letter, dropped from my hand, and I fell back in the chair in a

state of stupor, from which it required three or four days to rouse

me. The letters, which had been sealed with red wax, had been given to

me by the surgeons not anticipating such a result; but the sudden news

which I then received, threw me back in my recovery, and ten days more

elapsed before they would suffer me to read those sealed with black,

which they had at first withheld, The first I now opened was from Mr.

Somers. It consisted merely of a few lines, informing me drily that my

mother had been taken ill in the night, and died before the following

morning.

"Sir Henry Halford informs me," he went on to say, "that the disease

which so speedily terminated her life, must have been long undermining

her constitution; but I cannot help adding, that the reports she has

heard of her son's conduct on the continent, had greatly affected her

spirits, whatever effect they might produce upon her health."

I looked to the date, it was more than two months old; and I hurriedly

turned to another letter, on which I recognised the handwriting of

Emily. It was of a later date, not more than a month had elapsed since

it had been written, and it began.

"Dearest, dearest James,

"I cannot--I will not--believe all they tell me of you, although your

long and unaccountable silence would seem to give weight to what they

say. I write to you by stealth, I confess, but I feel it my duty,

after all that has passed, to beg you, if you still love Emily Somers,

and would save her from misery, to come over to England without an

hour's delay----"

The surgeon stood by me while I read, but the effect was very

different now; my arm was nearly well, and in all respects I was

better than I had been when I read the former letter. These, too,

stirred up within me an energy to meet the exigency of the moment

which communicated itself even to my corporeal frame. I saw that there

was evil going on, and destruction to all my hopes hanging over my

head, like the Persian's sword, by a single hair; but it raised a

spirit to resist and to struggle, and, instead of yielding either to

grief or apprehension, I called loudly for my servant. As soon as he

appeared, I demanded if he had carefully sent the letters I had

dictated to him at Redon, and I fixed my eye upon him with a firm

conviction of having been deceived. His colour wavered like that of a

love-sick girl, while he replied that he had; and I instantly

answered, "Sir, you are a lying scoundrel, and no longer my servant!"

He then proceeded to be insolent, but I begged the surgeon to send him

out of the room, and in a few brief words explained to him, that

matters even more important to me than life called me to England, and

that I must set out the day after the subsequent one.

The worthy surgeon, who was both kind and skilful, seemed not a little

astounded at my determination; but finding that it was immovable, he

replied, "Well, then, you must make no exertion in the interim. Let me

arrange the business of your passport, settle your affairs, and make

all your preparations. I will then accompany you to the coast, and do

all I can to prevent this dangerous necessity from producing your

death."

I agreed to his proposal at once, and never had more cause to be

thankful than I had for having confided in him. He, at my request,

paid Master Essex, and sent him out of the house; engaged me another

servant, who saved me all exertion; and, after taking a world of

trouble, he not only got me safely started on my journey, but, by

skilful management, contrived that the fatigue and change of air

should not only not retard my convalescence, but should improve my

health. At Havre I entered the steam-boat, and kept myself perfectly

quiet on board till we landed, gaining strength from the sea air, and

preventing myself even from thinking, lest I should take from myself

the powers which I had a presentiment that I should need in their full

activity. I slept a good deal on board the vessel, so that when we

arrived at Southampton I felt myself quite sufficiently well to

proceed at once to Louden. I arrived in town about five o'clock in the

morning, and, forcing my way into the Clarendon, wrote a note to Mr.

Somers, telling him of my arrival, alluding briefly, but firmly, to

false reports having been spread of my conduct, and mentioning the

fact of my having been ill for two months, and ignorant of all that

had passed in London. This I left with the waiter, ordering it to be

sent at eight o'clock, at which time Mr. Somers rose, and then lay

down to rest myself till nine, When the servant called me at that

hour, he put an answer to my letter into my hands. It was to the

following effect:

"Dear Sir,

I have just received your's, which requires great consideration, and

in the course of the morning I will call upon you. In the mean time

let me hint, that as my daughter Emily is at present engaged to Mr.

Alfred Wild, your visits in Portland Place might be considered

indecorous.

"Your's truly,

CHARLES SOMERS."

The mystery, then, was solved. She was engaged to Alfred Wild; but

that engagement, I well knew, could only have been brought about by

some foul deceit; and I resolved, that, if I lived at least, it should

never be executed. Indignation was now my best friend, for it kept me

from feeling any thing else; and notwithstanding Mr. Somers's

injunction to the contrary, I instantly, I instantly ordered a coach

and proceeded to Portland Place. Mr. Somers, I found, had just gone

out; and, without asking any further questions, I walked straight up

stairs to the drawing-room, passing the servant who opened the door,

and in whose demeanour I observed a degree of lazy carelessness very

different from the smart activity which had reigned throughout the

household during my mother's life. In the great drawing-room there was

no one; but, pushing open the folding-doors, I entered the little

drawing-room, and was at once in the presence of Emily Somers.

She was sitting gazing on an unfolded letter--it was the one I had

sent her father in the morning--and the tears were still rolling

rapidly down her cheeks. At the sound of my step she started up, gazed

at me wildly for a moment, as if she hardly knew me--and well she

might doubt whether it was the same person who had left her--and then

at once cast herself into my arms and wept aloud.

It is scarcely possible to tell all that passed, but I found that her

father, after showing her my letter, had gone out in a state of

terrible agitation to the father of Alfred Wild, what to do she did

not fully explain; but in her whole account there was a confusion and

a wildness, which showed me that there was much, very much, that I did

not comprehend; and I should have been naturally led to investigate

all the facts in the first place, had not her reiterated exclamations

of "Then you do love me still, James? You have not forgotten me? You

have not acted as they said?" induced me first to vindicate myself. I

told her all that had happened. I related the duel, my sickness, the

conduct of my servant, and, with imprecations on the head of Alfred

Wild, I told her that I believed, from the first, the man Essex had

been bribed to furnish matter against me. She turned very pale at the

language which I used towards my enemy, and certainly it was violent

and improper; but, interrupting what she was about to say upon it, I

eagerly entreated her to explain how she had been entrapped into an

engagement with a man she neither loved nor esteemed, and to promise

me solemnly to consider that engagement as nothing when compared with

her troth plighted to myself.

"What could I do, James? What can I do?" she exclaimed, "when my own

father besought, entreated, almost went on his knees to his own

child--when they persuaded me that you loved me no longer, and that

you were living with the wife of another man!"

"But surely, Emily," I cried, "you do not hesitate now which

engagement is to be kept--the one obtained by fraud and falsehood, or

the prior one, sealed by affection and esteem. You do not, you cannot

hesitate, or you are not my Emily--not the Emily I left!"

"I am--I am your Emily," she replied, casting herself again upon my

bosom, "and I do not hesitate, James; but indeed you do not know all,

and I am afraid that I must not tell you all; but I will go on my

knees to my father to beseech him to tell you the whole, and if he

loves me as he says, to break all ties with that wretched man."

"Wretched indeed!" I cried; "but _I_ will find a means to break them,

Emily, and in the mean time promise me--"

But at that moment there was a furious knock at the street-door. "It

is he! It is he!" cried Emily, starting up as pale as death, "I

cannot, I will not see him any more! But, oh! James, go home quick,

for my father will be with you soon, and I would not have you miss him

for the world."

I tried to detain her for one word more, but there was the sound of a

hasty step running up stairs, and darting from me, she rushed out of

the room. I followed to the door, and just caught a sight of her

retreating figure as at the top of the great staircase she turned to

enter her own room. Coming up the flight of steps below me, however,

was an object which called all my thoughts into another direction. It

was Alfred Wild himself, and never shall I forget the expression of

his countenance as our eyes met. Rage, jealousy, disappointment, and

fiendish malice, were all as plainly to be read there, as the thunder

can be seen in the lurid cloud, even before it bursts: but feelings as

bitter were in my heart, and as he came rapidly up the staircase I

strode forward to meet him. We met at the top of the staircase. "What

do you do here?" I cried. "How dare you ever to set your foot again in

a house that you have made miserable by your falsehood and your

baseness?"

"Beggarly puppy!" he began to reply; but I gave him no time to proceed

further; for catching him by the collar and the back, with the

momentary strength of overpowering indignation, I cast him from the

top of the stairs to the bottom; and then following him, as he rose

bewildered with his rapid descent, I spurned him with my foot into the

hall. He did not offer to strike me again, but snatching his hat from

the hands of one of the servants who had picked it up as he rolled

down stairs, he shook his clenched fist at me, with his teeth set

fast, and darting through the open door, sprang into his curricle and

drove away.

For my part I hastened back to the Clarendon, and instantly wrote a

now to my friend B----, begging him to come to me directly; and even

while waiting his arrival, I sat down, I am sorry to say, with all the

fierce feelings of a Cain in my heart, and penned a note to the man

who had so bitterly injured me, calling upon him to meet me the next

morning in order to atone with his blood for the calumnies he had

uttered against me. In less than half an hour B---- was with me; and I

put the note into his hands, telling him the fact which had given rise

to such a measure. He read it over; but did not approve. It was so

fierce, he said, and violent, that he could not let me send it. I then

told him to dictate one to me, and I would write it, provided it

admitted of no compromise; for I would accept no apology. He agreed,

and I sat down to the task; but ere I had written the first words the

waiter came in and put a note into my hand.

It was from Emily, and contained but a few words, but those few words

were important. She wrote to me, she said, to warn me, lest I should

madly hurry forward to destroy both her happiness and mine. From what

I had let drop, she continued, while speaking with her, as well as

from the noise she had heard after she had left me, she augured ill of

my intentions towards the man who had injured me, and she wrote to

prevent me from committing an act which would place an eternal bar

between her and me. Her religion, she said, and all her feelings

taught her to look upon the man who killed another in a duel as a

murderer, and such a one should never have her hand. She could not,

she added, and would not attempt to argue the matter at length with

me, but she thought it right at once to inform me, however dearly she

might love me, she would never, under any change of circumstances,

become my wife if Alfred Wild were slain by my hand. A few words of

tenderness were added, which went sweetly to my heart, but did not at

all tend to make me suppose that Emily would fail in keeping her

determination. I knew her too well to believe that she would change;

and starting up, somewhat to B----'s surprise, I walked in much

agitation once or twice up and down the room. I felt myself obliged,

at length, to show him Emily's letter, and after some further

explanation, he advised me kindly to let the matter rest for the

present, as I had vindicated my own honour by inflicting personal

chastisement upon my adversary.

While we were still talking over the matter, the waiter announced that

a gentleman desired to speak with me, and I ordered him to be shown

in, expecting to see Mr. Somers. The visitor, however, was a stranger,

but his business was soon explained. He came on the part of Mr. Alfred

Wild, he said, to ask the name of any friend with whom he could

arrange the preliminaries of a meeting, which I must perceive was

inevitable. I immediately pointed to my friend B----, and informed

Captain Truro that we had been already talking over the matter, and

then whispering to B---- not to let the meeting be deferred beyond the

next morning, I left them together, retiring to my own bed-room.

In about ten minutes B---- called me, and informed me that the hour

and place had been fixed for six, on Wandsworth Common. Captain Truro

was gone, and my friend remained with me some time, making every sort

of necessary arrangement, but he remarked my eye often resting upon

Emily's letter, and kindly said, "You must not think of that letter,

Young. I dare say Miss Somers will view the matter in a different

light when she finds that you have not been the challenger."

"No, no!" replied I, "in her opinion it will be just the same. But as

you say, I must not think of the letter, for I have but one course

before me. I do not feel at all inclined to let such a scoundrel

escape, and I cannot do so if I would; for not to fire at him would be

tacitly to acknowledge that I felt myself in the wrong."

"I am afraid it might be so construed, indeed!" replied my friend;

"but at all events take my advice, and make up your mind exactly how

you are to act, for I have known very fatal consequences ensue from

hesitation in such circumstances."

The rest of the day past much as may be imagined. I was agitated,

undoubtedly; but it was with strong contending passions. I had some

faint conviction that Emily was in the right, and that to kill another

in a duel was as much murder as to slay a fellow-creature under the

influence of any passion whatever. Against this thought I had nothing

to support me but the world's opinion; and in order to feel as little

like a murderer as possible, I strove to forget the injuries I had

received, and to think that I was only acting in conformity to the

code of honour; but still, whenever my mind dwelt upon Alfred Wild,

and I thought of how nearly he had deprived me of Emily, or fancied

that he might still bar my way to her I loved so deeply, I felt

passions rising up in my bosom which I trembled to examine. I tried

then to occupy my mind with the expectation of Mr. Somers's visit; but

he never came, and at dinner my friend B---- returned, having

determined to sleep at the Clarendon that night, that his early rising

might not alarm his own family, and perhaps produce some interruption

of our proceedings.

During the evening he strove to occupy my mind with other thoughts,

after having satisfied himself that I was quite prepared, as far as

worldly matters went, for any event which might occur on the following

morning. At four o'clock the next day we were called, and breakfasted

by candle-light, and in the gray of an autumnal morning got into the

carriage with the case of pistols, and with my new French servant upon

the box; wondering what it all could mean. We first drove to the house

of the surgeon, who had been previously warned of our coming, and then

rolled on to Wandsworth as fast as we could. Here we arrived a full

quarter of an hour before our time, and leaving the carriage on the

road we wandered about the common. I was very chilly from the morning

air, and I could not but wonder at how differently I now felt,

agitated as I was by violent and terrible passions, from what I had

experienced on the former silly duel in Brittany, where I was agitated

by no passions at all, and could almost have laughed at the whole

business. Some five minutes before the time, also, my adversary

appeared, and never did I see a countenance expressing more malevolent

feelings than his did at the moment when we met. I could see his eye

fixing fiercely upon me, and his lips muttering, as if he could

scarcely refrain from giving utterance to all the hatred that was in

his heart. I felt not much less towards him; but I had sufficient

command over myself to prevent it from appearing, and waited with

sufficient appearance of calmness while the ground was measured and

the pistols loaded. The only words which were spoken by either my

adversary or myself, were occasioned by the seconds measuring twelve

paces.

"Twelve!" he exclaimed; "why the devil not make it eight?"

"Eight, by all means, gentlemen," I said. "I cannot be too near him."

"Over a handkerchief, if you like," he added; but B---- interfered,

exclaiming, "Nonsense! Nonsense, gentlemen! You must leave all that to

us, if you please."

The ground was accordingly measured, and B----, putting the pistol in

my hand, said, in a low tone, "Keep your side to him, and your arm

masking your side. The words will be, _One--two--three--Fire!_ You are

a good shot, I know of old, and he is too angry to hit you; so, if you

try, you may perhaps wound him without killing him."

Whether it was that he saw my eye upon him, marking him well, or what,

I do not know; but while the seconds were taking their places, I saw a

degree of agitation suddenly come over my adversary, and his knees

rather bend and shake. At that moment, however, Captain Truro began to

give the signals; and as he went on I raised my pistol, exactly at the

word "Fire" pulling the trigger. It went off with a sharp, clear,

ringing sound, and I evidently saw him reel. But he now slowly and

deliberately raised his weapon, which he had not done before, and

pointed it at me with a steady aim. We all looked on with some feeling

of anxiety, no doubt; but at that moment his left knee began to bend.

His hand seemed agitated with a convulsive jerk, and at the very

instant that he pulled the trigger he fell back upon the turf. The

ball passed through my hat, half an inch above my head; but I

instantly ran forward with the other, to see what had occasioned his

fall. Captain Truro and B---- raised him, and we found the ground

beneath dyed with blood. The surgeon, who was at a little distance,

now came up, and, aided by the rest, stripped off his coat and

waistcoat. The bosom of his shirt was actually dripping with gore;

and, pulling it down, there instantly appeared that small aperture

through which the waters of life were flowing away so fast. For a

moment the cold air seemed to revive him. At least he opened his eyes

as the surgeon held his head upon his knees, and I am certain that he

saw me, for the expression of his pale, ghastly features, which at

first had been calm, became, for an instant, full of hatred. The next

instant, his eyes rolled fearfully in his head ere they became fixed;

and never will the sight of that countenance be obliterated from my

memory.

The surgeon pointed with his finger to the carriage.

"Do you want your instruments?" demanded Captain Truro.

"There is no use of instruments here, sir," replied the surgeon in a

low voice, "he is dead! What I mean is that you had all better get

into the carriage, and be gone as fast as possible. Stop not till you

are in France, for this seems to have been a bad business. Send me one

of the servants, however, and bid the other carriage drive up as near

as possible."

I would fain have lingered; but B---- and Captain Truro forced me

away, and the former got into my carriage with me. The latter declared

he would stay by the body of his friend, and take care of his own

safety afterwards.

"On the road to Brighton!" cried B---- to the postilions, "As fast as

you can go!"

They very well understood the cause, and set off at full gallop, while

I sank back in the corner of the carriage, clasping my hands over my

eyes, in the vain attempt to shut out the image of that dark ghastly

countenance, with the rolling meaningless eyes, as they had glared

upon me, ere the triumph of death was complete.

B---- was also very much affected, and for some way not a word was

spoken. At length, fancying that he ought to attempt to console me, he

spoke a few words, to which I replied, intending to answer as firmly

as I could; but it was with the strangest sensation that I ever

experienced that I found that I was talking incoherent nonsense;

knowing what I ought to say, conscious that I was not saying it, and

yet feeling it impossible so to rule my mind as to utter what I

wished. B---- looked at me aghast, and I could just contrive to say

"Wait a little! wait a little! I am confused and ill!" That was the

last sensation and those the last words that I remember for some time.

It was hardly to be expected, that rising from a sick bed, I should

take such a journey, undergo such agitations, and pass through such

scenes without suffering in the end. I did not exactly what is called

relapse, for the illness that followed bore but little analogy to that

which I had suffered before. They called it a brain fever, which I

suppose means inflammation of the brain, but at all events, it kept me

for three weeks on a sick bed without the use of my senses; and, when

I was restored to consciousness, it seemed only to be that I might

suffer the more acutely; for what was I to wake to?--the consciousness

of being a murderer, the knowledge that Emily was lost to me for ever!

I found myself in a small cottage at Worthing, with my French servant

and my friend B---- attending me with the most devoted kindness. As

soon as he found that I was able to comprehend him, B---- told me that

before I reached Brighton, I had been in a state of furious delirium,

raving incessantly of a hideous face that looked at me; and that

consequently perceiving that it would be impossible to cross in the

public steam-boat next morning, he had turned off with me from

Brighton to Worthing, where he had taken the first cottage he could

find.

"At first," he continued, "I assumed feigned names both for yourself

and me; but I perceive already by the newspapers, that it was

unnecessary, as the family have announced their intention not to

prosecute."

My health now daily improved; but still it was very slowly, for the

physician who attended me could in no way minister to the mind

diseased, and in addition to deep remorse for what I had done--for

sending a sinful fellow-creature to his long account, with all his

worst failings hot about him--in addition to grief for the loss of her

I loved, a loss which I felt to be as certain as if she no longer

existed, there was yet another dreadful weight upon my mind, which

overcame all powers of resistance in my heart, and rendered my

recovery slow and imperfect. I never attempted to close my eyes at

night without being visited by a horrid vision, the effect of an

over-excited imagination, which kept me awake till two or three

o'clock in the morning.

The ghastly countenance of him I had slain seemed gazing at me from

between the curtains. Whichever way I turned, whichever way I looked,

there it was, with the two dim rolling eyes fixed upon me, and that

same look of inveterate hatred animating every pale feature. In vain I

reasoned, in vain I struggled: there it was every night, and sometimes

it haunted me in the day also. At first the torture was dreadful, for

I tormented myself beforehand with the expectation of its appearance;

but as my corporeal strength increased, and the powers of my mind in

some degree returned, I struggled with the delusion, and so far

conquered my own feelings, as to banish the sight from my thoughts

when the object was not actually before me.

After I had been gradually recovering for about a week, however, I met

with another blow, which not only threw me back, but embittered

feelings which were sad enough before. Not being able to write myself,

I had dictated to B---- a few lines to Emily, telling her how I had

suffered, and that I was convalescent; trusting that, however firm she

might be in her determination, she would be glad to hear of my

recovery, and perhaps hoping, against my better knowledge of her

character, that by gradually renewing our intercourse I might

eventually lead her to break her resolution against me. At the end of

three days, however, B----'s letter was returned to him, opened,

indeed, and evidently read, but without a word of comment or reply. He

found himself bound to tell me, and a dead sort of desolation,

amounting to despair, fell upon my heart, which it is impossible to

describe.

Nevertheless, my corporeal health continued to improve, and my mental

health also; at least so far, that the wild and horrible vision of my

dying adversary began to trouble me less frequently. If I fatigued

myself severely, I could fall asleep without seeing that ghastly

countenance; and, after discovering that it was so, I took means to

produce that effect every night, so that in time I banished it from my

pillow entirely. In the day, however, it would still sometimes intrude

upon me; and though my mind had recovered a sufficient degree of

vigour to struggle against my own feelings, though I revolved many a

plan for conquering them altogether, and determined and re-determined

to make some great effort in order to shake off the melancholy that

hung upon me, yet for several weeks I failed to carry my schemes into

effect, and remained in a state of hopeless despondency. All the

morning I passed in walking along the sea-shore, gazing upon the

rolling waves, or siting with my hands covering my eyes, and brooding

over the past. Towards night I always endeavoured to fatigue myself as

much as possible, but this was the only exertion I made. I never

opened a book--I never wrote a line--and all my days passed in the

same dull monotony.

B---- was very kind, endeavouring by all means to soothe me, and bring

my mind back to some degree of tone. Almost all his time he devoted to

me; once or twice, indeed, visiting London, and now and then going

upon a fishing excursion, into which he endeavoured to tempt me, by

many an eloquent description of the pleasures he derived from the

sport. At length, one day when he returned from London, and found me

still apparently in the same state, though in truth I had passed the

two preceding days in fresh determinations to exert myself, he sat

down and read me a homily on mental weakness, wilful repining, and

self-abandonment, with so much kindness and feeling, joined to so much

good sense and eloquence, that my often broken resolutions took a

firmer character than they had ever yet done, and I replied, "Well,

well, B----, do not suppose that I have not been thinking of all this;

and I have determined to change my conduct, as far as possible to cast

away thought, and to mingle again with the world, seeking in its noise

and turbulence, distraction from my own thoughts. But I cannot do it

here in England, B----. If you like to accompany me, I am ready now to

set out for any part of the world. I will try to make you as good a

companion as I can; and though I shall never again be what I have

been, yet I feel now that I can cover over my melancholy from the eyes

of the world, and may soon, perhaps, laugh the more loudly because it

is all hollow within; and if I laugh, 'tis that I may not cry; but

never mind, I am prepared to do it now. A few days ago I could not

have done it; but I have been schooling and tutoring my own heart, and

I find that I can play my unreal part in the world's drama like

another; feeling that I am but acting all the time, it is true, but

not without a hope, indeed, that I may sometimes deceive my own heart

as well as the eyes of others. My plan now will be, to give my mind

constant occupation--to leave no moment of the day unemployed--to see

every thing--to mark every thing--to mingle with every thing, as I

travel on. If the road offer nothing but stones, to examine every

stone as I pass, sooner than let my mind rest even for one moment on

itself; and, in short, to live as much out of myself as it be possible

for man to do. You said, the other day, that you had no tie to

England; and if such a plan suit you, let us set out together. Leave

me when you are tired of me and my ways; but in the mean time be to me

a companion and friend, and keep me, by your presence, from many of

those evil actions into which I might otherwise perhaps be hurried, by

the recklessness of bitter disappointment, and the hopeless, fearless

dreariness of remorse."

My friend B---- willingly entered into my views. Few arrangements were

necessary to either of us. I had but one letter to write, and it was

merely a letter of business to my banker; for Mr. Somers, on settling

his executorial accounts with me on my coming of age, had requested

that I should bank with another house, as he thought it better in

general for friends and relatives to keep all their money matters

separate. Thus my first act in mingling again with the world was as

simple and uninteresting as it well could be; but yet it was a trial,

and I delayed a whole day before I could make up my mind to begin.

When I did, the matter proved more easy than I had expected. The

answer was merely one of business, written by a clerk; though in the

banker's own hand appeared a postscript, saying, "Mr. Somers and Miss

Emily are as well as can be expected."

Those few words had nearly overset all my firmness, but after a

struggle I regained it again, and, two days afterwards, we left our

cottage for Brighton. Three days had now elapsed since my imagination

had called up again that dreadful countenance, and with a sort of

fearful, anxious hope, I began to trust that I should see it no more.

As the carriage drove up to "The York," however, it was dark; and

there it was again before me, in the very passage, and it required

every exertion of my reason to enable me to go on. B---- saw me

shudder and hesitate, and in a low voice asked what was the matter.

"Oh that face!" I answered with a groan. "Hush!" he said,

understanding me in a moment, for I had before told him of this

infirmity, "Hush! Conquer it always, and it will go of entirely in

time. It is less frequent, you see, already!" The sight of the waiters

hanging round stimulated me to exertion, and walking on I entered the

inn, the face of course vanishing before me.

During the whole evening I hardly dared look round the room, however;

and to begin at once with my plan of occupation, I made my servant

give me my writing-desk, and sat down to write sketches of any thing

on earth,--my own observations, my own feelings, the appearance of

external objects, any thing in short that would engross my mind. I

have preserved the first night's work of the pen even to the present

moment; but it is wild, vague, and scarcely coherent. Nevertheless I

pursued the same plan afterwards, with better success, whenever I had

an evening unoccupied, writing down whatever I happened to recollect

of occurrences last past. Those stray sheets give a better picture of

my mind, and the progress which I made towards a better state of

health and feeling, than any thing I could write at present; and I add

them therefore to these pages, with no further alteration than may

leave the narrative unbroken.

Late at night we embarked in the steam-boat for Dieppe, intending to

follow nearly the same route which I had pursued on a former occasion,

but instead of turning into Brittany, to go on from Tours into the

south of France, the air of which provinces the physician at Worthing

thought might be beneficial to me.

Of course there was much in England that I wished to forget. Sickness,

and sorrow, and pain of every kind, and I felt sure that nothing would

do me more general good, than to leave my own land, and all its

remembrances behind me, according to the plan I have just mentioned,

and to travel into France, where I had spent many happy days once

before. As I pondered over my journey, the thought of those times had

come back upon my heart like a gleam of sunshine in the midst of

winter, and warmed me into energy to undertake it.

It was night, then, when we set out; and while the steam-boat cut her

way through the darkness, I felt as if I were leaving sorrow behind

me, but as day broke, and the far faint line of my native land

appeared bright and soft between the waters and the sky, all the

remembrance of my youth, all the hopes that had failed, and the

pleasures that had fled, came rushing upon memory, and made it one of

the most painful moments of existence. Thank God, there was no one to

see me. I was alone upon the deck.

The rising of the sun is always one of the most superb sights in

nature, but is never so splendid as when he comes over the sea. The

very waves seemed emulous to catch his beams, and a flight of light

feathery clouds in the zenith, met the rays even before they reached

the earth, and kept blushing with brighter and brighter hues till the

whole day burst upon the sky.

"El sol, velando en centellantes fuegos

Su inaccessible magestad, preside

Qual Rey al universo, esclarecido

De un mar de luz, que de su treno corre."

It was one of the most magnificent mornings I ever beheld, and I tried

to fix my whole mind upon it, and to call up every train of ideas that

might occupy my attention. I brought to my remembrance a multitude of

descriptions from various poets of the rising day, and wondered to

what poetical fancy the ancients were indebted for the allegory of

Aurora (one of the most splendid fictions which adorns their

mythology), I tried to imagine that I saw the goddess of the morning

opening the gates of light. I forced upon recollection the paintings

of Marmontel, and Byron, and Shakspeare, and Milton, and Homer. But in

vain--my thoughts still wandered to all I was leaving, and my eye

still turned towards the lessening shores of England; till the far

lumen of my native land grew fainter and fainter upon the sky, till

one object after another, like every joy of existence, was gradually

lost to the sight, and blue distance closing over all, I was in the

midst of the ocean with nothing but waves around me. It was but too

good an image of my own fate.

THE WAKING.

Ah! che non sol quelle, ch' io canto o scrivo

Favole son; ma quanto temo, o spero,

Tutto è menzogna, e delirando io vivo

Sogno della mia vita è il corso intero.

--METASTASIO.

It was one of the sweetest sleeps I had ever enjoyed. Fatigue had been

bountiful to me, and given me back a blessing I had not known for many

a weary night. It is only when we have lost them, for a time, that we

learn to appreciate Heaven's gifts. The whole world is full of sweets

that we taste not, till sickness teaches us that our very faculties

are joys, or confinement makes us esteem the wooing of Heaven's free

air, the choicest blessing of existence. God has loaded us with

bounties, and yet man, the spoiled child of creation, whimpers for the

toys he cannot gain.

It was one of the sweetest sleeps I had enjoyed for long, and when I

woke and saw the sun shining through a window down to the floor, the

massy black rafters of the ceiling, with wood enough to build twenty

modern houses, the old-fashioned gilt chairs, and the cabinet with

cherubim's heads at all the corners, the tiled floor, and wide vacant

chimney, together with the looking-glass and its long frame, half

occupied by the portrait of a lack-a-daisical shepherd piping behind a

squinting shepherdess, and Cupid looking out from behind a bush, all

sorts of recollections of a French seaport came crowding upon me.

From the window was a gay scene, with the people of the market

jostling, bustling, and chattering, and flirting about, with a

thousand lively colours in their garments. And there was the old

lumbering diligence before the door, and the pump, and the beggars,

and the shoe-blacks; those that will do any thing, and those that will

do nothing, and all the hangers-on of a French inn. Wherever I turned,

it was France all over; and for a moment I fancied that I had never

quitted it, that I had never gone back to England, that I stood there

still, where I had stood less than a year before, and that the

interval, with all its sorrows, was but a dream, a melancholy dream.

I cherished the illusion: I called up every image of those days; I

thought of all the gay scenes I had witnessed, and the bright, and the

kind, and the happy with whom I had then mingled. I recalled the

friends that had entwined themselves with the best feelings of my

nature: those who had made me no stranger in a foreign land. I saw the

smile with which I had always been welcomed, and the extended hand and

the beaming eye. My thoughts were turned from every painful

recollection. I dwelt for one moment in the temple of oblivion, and

then busy craving memory, that "meddlesome officious ill," came in,

and did it all away.

It was but a moment, but it was a moment snatched from pain. It was

but an illusion, but it was a happy one. Passing on rapidly through

the country, my mind seemed every day to recover its tone. I saw no

more of the horrid countenance which had so fearfully haunted me, till

one day entering the cathedral of Suez, in Normandy, while the horses

were changing, we stopped near a new and handsome monument, the white

stone of which shone out in strong contrast with the dim and gloomy

aisles. B---- asked the sacristan who was with us, the name of the

person to whom it was erected.

"It is raised by the family of Monsieur Guillon," he said. "Poor young

gentleman! He was killed in a duel about three years ago!"

I started, and raised my eyes, and instantly from behind one of the

large heavy pillars looked out the ghastly countenance of my dying

enemy, with the same look of bitter hatred convulsing his pale

features, that they had borne ere his eyes closed for ever.

THE PLACE OF DREAMS.

I suppose that all human beings feel alike on those points, but

certainly when the sun shines I am materially happier; his brightness

seems to penetrate into the heart, and to make it expand like a

flower.

The first decidedly fine weather we had had since our arrival in

France, began at Le Mans, and during our journey towards Tours,

through a country that became richer and more rich as we advanced;

scarcely a cloud overshadowed the sky, except occasionally one of

those light summer vapours that, skimming along over the landscape,

gave a partial shadow as it passed, enough to vary, but not darken,

the scene.

At Château du Loir we began to meet with the abundance of Touraine.

Fine peaches at six for four sous, and delicious pears at a price

still lower, with grapes for a penny the cluster, all began to show

that we progressed in a land of summer. It was here, too, that the

first vineyards made their appearance, climbing up the sides of the

hills on each side of the road, and giving a luxuriant colouring to

the view, though not, indeed, offering half the picturesque beauties

which are attributed to them by imagination.

Tours--I know not why, but it excited in my mind a sensation of

melancholy. When I visited it before, was at the time of the unhappy

and ill-contrived revolt of Berton at Saumur; and returning with the

officers of a party of the troops that had been sent to disperse his

undisciplined forces, we spent several agreeable days in the antique

capital of Touraine. In general, we are fond of fixing upon some spot

for building our castles in the air, and Tours and the Loire had

yielded me many a foundation for those unsubstantial structures,

which, as they so often do, had crumbled away, and left me nothing but

the ruins behind.

Independent of individual associations, too, Tours is one of those

places which has many recollections attached to it, especially since

the Wizard of the North has raised again the fallen walls of Plessis

les Tours, and conjured up the king of the people, Louis XI., the

effects of whose hatred to the nobility were felt even in the

eighteenth century. But his mulberry-trees are no more, and all that

he did for the commerce of his favourite city is equally fallen to

nothing. The abbey of St. Martin, whose abbots were once kings of

France, is almost entirely destroyed, though there are two of the old

towers still standing, at so great a distance from each other as to

show the enormous extent of the ancient building. Besides all this,

are there not a thousand shadowy visions come floating down the sea of

time from the dreamy ages of chivalry and romance--Charles VII. and

his knights, Alençon, Dunois, the Maid of Arc, and Agnes Sorrel? The

beautiful Gabrielle d'Estrées too, owed her birth to Tours: but,

unlike Agnes Sorrel, her best quality was her beauty, and for _that_

her countrywomen are still deservedly famed.

In many respects it is a magnificent town. The Rue Royale, the

Cathedral, the bishop's palace, and a fine bridge over the river, are

the first objects the eye falls upon in entering the city; but before

all, is the Loire itself, flowing on in calm majesty through the

richest part of one of the most fertile countries in the world. Its

banks were covered with all nature's choicest gifts at the time we

entered Touraine, and, as if feeling the loneliness of the scene, the

stream seemed to linger amidst the beauty that surrounded it. Long,

long ago, it was the song of the troubadours. The Langue d'Oc and the

Langue d'Oil took its waters for a boundary, and many noble deeds have

rendered it famous in history. It was the birth-place, too, of the

Count of St. Maurice, whose fate, with all its curious turns of

fortune, told over the glowing fruit and the sparkling wine of the

land in which he dwelt, had deeper interest than it may have here. He

who narrated the tale called it.

THE FATE OF THE DUC DE BIRON.

Francis, Count of St. Maurice, was born at Tours, in the year 1580.

His father perished in battle before his eyes opened to the day, and

his mother scarcely survived his birth a week. His patrimonial

property had been wasted in the wars of the League, and his only

inheritance was his father's sword, and a few trembling lines written

by his dying mother to the famous Baron de Biron, with whom she was

distantly connected by the ties of blood. A trinket or two, the

remnant of all the jewels that had decked her on her bridal day, paid

the expense of arraying the dead wife of the fallen soldier for the

grave, and furnished a few masses for the repose of both their souls;

and an old servant, who had seen her mistress blossom into woman's

loveliness, and then so soon fade into the tomb, after beholding the

last dread dear offices bestowed upon the cold clay, took up the

unhappy fruit of departed love, and bore it in her arms, on foot, to

the only one on whom it seemed to have a claim. Biron, though stern,

rude, and selfish, did not resist the demand. Ambition had not yet

hardened his heart wholly, nor poisoned the purer stream of his

affections; and gazing on the infant for a moment, he declared it was

a lovely child, and wondrous like his cousin. He would make a soldier

of the brat, he said, and he gave liberal orders for its care and

tending. The child grew up, and the slight unmeaning features of the

infant were moulded by time's hand--as ready to perfect as to

destroy--into the face of as fair a boy as ever the eye beheld. Biron

often saw and sported with the child, and its bold, sweet, and

fearless mood, tempered by all the graces of youth and innocence, won

upon the soldier's heart. He took a pride in his education, made him

his page and his companion, led him early to the battle-field, and

inured him almost from infancy to danger and to arms.

Although occasionally fond of softer occupations--of music, of

reading, and the dance--the young Count of St. Maurice loved the

profession in which he was trained. Quick-sighted and talented, brave

as a lion, and firm as a rock, he rose in his profession, and obtained

several of those posts which, together with the liberality of his

benefactor, enabled him, in some degree, to maintain the rank which

had come down to him without the fortune to support it. Attaching

himself more and more to Biron every year, he followed him in all his

campaigns and expeditions, and paid him back, by many a service and

many a care, the kindness he had shown him in his infancy: so that

twice had he saved the marshal's life, and twice, by his active

vigilance, had he enabled his leader to defeat the enemy, before he

himself had reached the age of eighteen.

Gradually, however, a change came over the mind of Marshal Biron.

Henry IV., his too good master, became firmly seated on the throne of

France, and Biron, attributing all the king's success to his own

support, thought no recompense sufficient for his services, no honours

high enough for his merit and his deeds. Henry was anything but

ungrateful, and though, in fact, he owed his throne to his birth, and

to his own right-hand, more than to any man on earth, he,

nevertheless, loaded Marshal Biron with all the honours in his power

to bestow. He was created a duke and peer of France, high-admiral, and

lieutenant-general of the king's armies; and many a post of

distinction and emolument raised his revenues and his dignity

together. But still he was not satisfied: pride, ambition, and

discontent, took possession of his heart; and he meditated schemes of

elevating himself, till the insanity of ambition led him to thoughts

of treason. His manners, too, grew morose and haughty: he was reserved

and distant to those he had formerly favoured, and his household

became cold and stately.

At the same time, a change, but a very different change, had taken

place in the bosom of the young St. Maurice; and to explain what that

change was, a fact must be mentioned, which is in itself a key to all

the new feelings and the new thoughts, the new speculations and the

new hopes, which entered into the bosom of the young, but fortuneless

count, about the end of the year 1600. About eight years before that

period, there had been added to the family of the Duke de Biron a

young niece, of about nine years old, a lively, gentle girl, with

bright hair and soft blue eyes, and pretty childish features, that had

no look but that of innocence when they were in repose, but which

occasionally took a glance of warm, happy eagerness, with which we

might suppose an angel to gaze on the completion of some bright and

mighty work. In her childhood, she played with the young St. Maurice,

till they loved each other as children love; and just at that age when

such things become dangerous to a young girl's heart, fluttering

between infancy and womanhood, the Duke de Biron was ordered to

Brussels on the arrangements of the peace, and taking St. Maurice with

him, he sent Mademoiselle de la Roche-sur-Marne to a convent, which

she thought very hard, for her father and mother were both dead, and

all that she loved on earth the Duke carried away with him.

St. Maurice was left behind at Brussels to terminate some business

which Marshal Biron had not concluded, and when, after some lapse of

time, he returned to France, and joined the Duke at the Citadel of

Bourg, where that nobleman commanded for the King, he found Marie de

la Roche no longer the same being he had left her. The bud had at once

burst forth into a flower, and a flower of most transcendent

loveliness. The form which his arm had encircled a thousand times, in

boyish sport, had changed in the whole tone of its beauty. Every line,

every movement, breathed a different spirit, and woke a different

feeling. The features too, though soft as infancy, had lost the

roundness of infancy, and in the still innocent imploring eyes, which

yet called up all the memory of the past, there was an eloquent glance

beaming from the woman's heart, in which childhood was all outshone.

The young Count felt no alteration in himself, but was dazzled and

surprised with the change in her, and felt a sudden diffidence take

possession of him, which the first warm unchanged welcome could hardly

dispel. She seemed scarce to dream that there was a difference, for

the time that she had spent in the convent was an unfilled blank,

which afforded scarce a circumstance to mark the passage of a brief

two years. The Duke de Biron received his young follower with rough

kindness, but there were always various causes which kept him more

from the society of St. Maurice than formerly. There were many

strangers about him, some of whom were Italians, and St. Maurice saw

that much private business was transacted, from a knowledge of which

he was purposely excluded. The Duke would take long, and almost

solitary rides, or go upon distant expeditions, to visit the different

posts under his government, and then, instead of commanding at once

the young soldier's company, he left him to escort Mademoiselle de la

Roche to this fair sight or that beautiful view. In the pride and

selfishness of his heart, he never dreamed it possible that the poor

and friendless Count of St. Maurice would dare to love the niece of

the great Duke de Biron, or that Marie de la Roche would ever feel

towards him in any other way than as the dependent follower of her

uncle.

But he knew not human nature. Mademoiselle de la Roche leaned upon the

arm of St. Maurice as they strayed though the beautiful scenery near

Bourg, or yielded her light form to his grasp, as he lifted her on

horseback; or listened to him while he told of battles and dangers

when he had followed her uncle to the field, or gazed upon his

flashing features and speaking eye while he spoke of great deeds, till

her heart beat almost to pain whenever his step sounded along the

corridors, and her veins thrilled at the slightest touch of his hand.

St. Maurice, too, for months plunged blindly into the vortex before

him. He thought not--he hesitated not at the consequences. But one

feeling, one emotion, one passion filled his bosom,--annihilated

foresight, prudence, reflection, altogether,--took possession of heart

and brain, and left the only object for his mind's conception--love!

It went on silently in the bosom of each; they spoke not what was in

their hearts; they hardly dared to look in each other's eyes for fear

the secret should find too eloquent a voice; and yet they each felt

and knew, that loving, they were beloved. They could not but know it,

for, constantly together, there were a thousand voiceless, unconscious

modes of expression, which told again and again a tale that was but

too dear to the heart of each. And yet there is something in the

strong confirmation of language which each required for the full

satisfaction of their mutual hopes, and there are moments when passion

will have voice. Such a moment came to them. They were alone; the sun

had just sunk, and the few gray minutes of the twilight were speeding

on irrevocable wings. There was no eye to see, no ear to hear, and

their love was at length spoken.

They had felt it--they had known it long; but the moment it was

uttered--its hopelessness--its perfect hopelessness--seemed suddenly

to flash upon their minds, and they stood gazing on each other in awe

and fear, like the First Two, when they had tasted the fatal fruit of

the knowledge of good and evil. But the never-to-be-recalled words had

been breathed, and there was a dread, and a hope, and a tenderness,

mingled with every glance that they turned upon one another.

Still the Duke de Biron did not see, for his mind was so deeply

engrossed with the schemes of his mad ambition, and the selfishness of

his pride, that nothing else rested in his thoughts for a moment.

Messengers were coming and going between him and the Duke of Savoy, a

known enemy to France, and whenever he spoke with St. Maurice, it was

in terms of anger towards the good King Henry IV., and of praise and

pleasure towards the cold-hearted monarch of Spain. Often, too, he

would apparently strive to sound the disposition of his young

follower, and would throw him into company with men of more art and

cunning than himself, who would speak of the destruction of the

Bourbon line as necessary for the good of France and the tranquillity

of Europe, and insinuate that a time might be at hand when such a

sacrifice would be completed. St. Maurice frowned, and was silent when

the design was covered, as often happened, with much art, and boldly

spoke his mind against traitors when the treason was apparent.

At length one day he was called to the presence of the Duke, whom he

found alone. "Come hither, St. Maurice," said his friend; "I have

brought you up, young Count, from your infancy to your manhood--I have

been your friend in fair days and foul--I taught you the duty of a

soldier, and the duty of an officer--I have raised you higher than any

other man in France could do, or would do--and now tell me--whether do

you love best Henry of Bearn or me?"

"Your words, my lord," replied St. Maurice, "taught me in early years

to love the King, and your actions taught me to love yourself; but the

honour of a French noble teaches me to love my duty, and that joins

ever with my love towards my King."

"Ha!" exclaimed Biron, his dark brow burning, "must you teach me what

is duty?--Begone, ungrateful boy!--leave me--thus, like the man in

the fable, we nourish serpents in our bosom, that will one day sting

us--begone, I say!"--St. Maurice turned to quit the cabinet, with

feelings of sorrow and indignation in his heart: but grief to see his

benefactor thus standing on the brink of dishonour and destruction,

overcame all personal feeling, and he paused, exclaiming, "Oh! my

lord, my lord! beware how you bring certain ruin on your own

head ----." But remonstrance only called up wrath. Biron lost all

command over himself. He stamped with his heavy boot till the chamber

rang; he bade St. Maurice quit his presence and his dwelling; he

stripped him, with a word, of all the posts and employments which he

had conferred upon him, and bade him, ere two days were over, leave

the castle of Bourg, and go forth from his family; a beggar as he had

entered it. Nor alone, in his rash passion, did he content himself

with venting his wrath upon his young follower, but he dropped words

against the monarch and the state, which left his treasonable

practices beyond a doubt.

The young Count heard as little as possible, but hurried from the

presence of a man whom pride and anger had frenzied, and hastening to

his chamber, he paused but to ponder over all the painful

circumstances of his own situation. Nothing was before him but

despair, and his brain whirled round and round with that vague, wild

confusion of painful ideas, which no corporeal agony can equal. The

predominant thought however, the idea that rose up with more and more

frightful prominence every moment, was the necessity of parting from

her he loved--and of parting for ever, without one hope, without one

expectation to soothe the long cold blank of absence. He could have

borne the unjust and cutting unkindness of the Duke--he could have

borne the loss of fortune, and the prospect of that hard, fierce

struggle which the world requires of men who would rise above their

original lot--he could have borne the reverse of state and of station,

comfort and fortune, without a murmur or a sigh; but to lose the

object in which all the ardent feelings of an ardent heart had been

concentrated, was more, far more than he could bear. Thus he pondered

for near an hour, letting the bitter stream of thought flow on, while

every moment added some new drop of sorrow, as reflection showed him

more and more the utter hopelessness of all his prospects.

The setting out of a large train from before his window, first roused

him from his painful dream, and though he knew not why, he felt

relieved when he beheld the Duke de Biron himself lead the way,

caparisoned as for a journey. The next moment found him beside

Mademoiselle de la Roche. Her eyes were full of tears, and he

instantly concluded she had heard his fate; but it was not so. She was

weeping, she said, because her uncle had come to her apartments very

angry on some account, and had harshly commanded her back to her

convent the next day; and as she told her lover, she wept more and

more. But when he in turn related the Duke's anger with him, and his

commands to quit the citadel--when he told her all the destitution of

his situation--and hopelessness of winning her when all his fortune on

the earth was his sword and a thousand crowns, Marie de la Roche wept

no more, but drying her bright eyes, she put her hand in his, saying,

"St. Maurice, we will go together! We love each other, and nobody in

the world cares aught about us--my uncle casts us both off--but my

inheritance must sooner or later be mine, and we will take our lot

together!"

Such words, spoken by such lips, were far more than a lover's heart

could resist. Had he been absent when that scheme was proposed--had he

not seen her--had he not held her hand in his--had her eyes not looked

upon him, he might have thought of difficulties, and prudence, and

danger, and discomfort to her. But now her very look lighted up hope

in his heart, and he would not let fear or doubt for a single instant

shadow the rekindled beams. He exacted but one thing--she should bring

him no fortune. The Duke de Biron should never say that he had wedded

his niece for her wealth--if she would sacrifice all, and share his

fate, he feared not that with his name and with his sword, and her

love to inspire him, he should find fortune in some distant land.

Marie doubted not either and willingly agreed to risk herself with him

upon the wide unknown ocean of events.

It seemed as if all circumstances combined to enable them more easily

to make the trial. The Duke de Biron had gone to Fontainbleau, boldly

to meet the generous master he had determined to betray, and the old

chaplain of the citadel, whose life St. Maurice had saved at the

battle of Vitry, after many an entreaty, consented to unite him that

very night to his young sweet bride. Their horses were to be prepared

in the gray of the morning, before the sun had risen, and they doubted

not that a few hours would take them over the frontier, beyond the

danger of pursuit.

The castle was suffered to sink into repose, and all was still; but at

midnight a solitary taper lighted the altar of the chapel, and St.

Maurice soon pressed Marie to his heart as his wife. In silence he led

her forth, while the priest followed with trembling steps, fearful

lest the lightest footfall should awaken notice and suspicion; but all

remained tranquil--the lights in the chapel were extinguished, and the

chaplain retreated in peace to his apartment.

There was scarcely a beam in the eastern sky when St. Maurice

glided forth to see if the horses were prepared. He paused and

listened--there was a noise below, and he thought he heard coming

steps along some of the more distant corridors. A long passage

separated him from his own chamber, and he feared to be seen near that

of Marie, and be obliged at once to proclaim his marriage, lest her

fair fame should be injured. He therefore determined to hasten

forward, and strive to gain his own part of the building. He strode on

like light, but at the top of the staircase a firm hand was laid upon

his shoulder, and a loud voice demanded, "Who are you?" St. Maurice

paused, undetermined whether to resist and still try to shake of the

person who stopped him, or to declare himself at once; but the dim

outline of several other figures against a window beyond, showed him

that opposition was vain, and he replied, "I am the Count of St.

Maurice; why do you stop me, sir?"

"In the King's name, I arrest you, Count of St. Maurice," replied the

voice; "give me your sword."

"In the King's name, or in Marshal Biron's, gentlemen?" demanded St.

Maurice, somewhat bitterly. "You jest with me, gentlemen; my lord the

Duke I may have offended, but the King never."

"I said in the King's name, young gentleman," replied the other

gravely, taking the sword, which St. Maurice yielded. "You, sirs," he

continued, turning to those who stood near, "guard the prisoner

closely, while I seek for the Baron de Lux."

St. Maurice was detained for a few minutes in the corridor, and then

bade to prepare to journey to Fontainbleau. The whole castle was now

in confusion, and all the principal officers of Marshal Biron, the

Count found, were, like himself, under arrest. At his earnest

entreaty, the Count de Belin, who commanded the party of royal troops,

permitted him to take leave of her he had so lately wedded, though

only in his presence. Marie de la Roche-sur-Marne was drowned in

tears, but alarm for her uncle's safety easily accounted for that, and

the few low words of comfort and assurance which St. Maurice spoke,

betrayed not at all the secret of their union. She suffered him to

speak uninterrupted but by her sobs; but when he bent over her hand he

raise it to his lips, with the formal courtesy of the day, all was

forgotten but her love and her despair, and casting herself into his

arms, she hid her eyes upon his shoulder, and wept with the bitter

agonizing tears of unavailing love.

The old Count de Belin gently unclasped her arms, and removed St.

Maurice, who turned, and grasping his hand, said, with a meaning look,

"Sir, you are a soldier and a gentleman--our confidence, I am sure, is

safe?"

"Upon my honour," replied the officer; laying his hand upon his heart,

and St. Maurice was satisfied. He was soon after put on horseback, and

conducted with several others to Fontainbleau, from whence he was

immediately carried to Paris, and lodged in the Bastile. But it may be

now time to turn to him whose weak ambition had brought ruin on his

own head.

As is well known, the Duke de Biron, summoned by the king to his

presence on clear information of his treason, proceeded at once to

Fontainbleau, depending fully on the fidelity of the very man who had

betrayed him, and entered the gardens in which Henry was walking, at

the very moment when the monarch was declaring, _that beyond all doubt

he would not come_. He advanced at once towards the king, and Henry,

whose frank and generous heart would fain have believed him less

guilty than he really was, embraced him according to his custom,

saying, "You did well to come, Lord Duke, otherwise I should have gone

to seek you;" and, taking him by the hand, he led him into another

garden, where he could speak with him unobserved. There Henry at once,

with the noble candour of a noble heart, told him that good

information had been received, of his having carried on a long

correspondence with the enemies of the state. "Speak the truth, my

lord," he added; "tell me all, and, good faith, no one shall know it;

the matter shall go no further, and all it shall cost you shall be a

sincere repentance."

The Marshal replied, proudly, that he had nothing to confess, and that

his purpose in coming, was to meet his accusers. There was a rudeness

in his answer, which was not the boldness of innocence; and Henry,

turning away, rejoined the court. Still the king tried more than once

during the day to win from the traitor one repentant word. He again

and again solicited him to speak. He sent his friends to him, and his

relations; and though urged by his council--before which full proofs

of the Marshal's guilt had long been laid, and which had taken

prompt measures, as we have seen, for securing his followers and

dependents--still Henry's heart rebelled against his better judgment,

and would not suffer him to order his arrest. "If this matter be

tried, and proved against him," said the King, "justice must have its

way, for the sake of public example; but I would fain avert the

necessity." At length, even at midnight, Henry once more called his

treacherous servant to his presence; and again begged him, for his own

sake, to confess his fault. "Let me hear from your own mouth," said

the monarch, "that which with great sorrow I have heard from too good

authority; and on a frank acknowledgment, I promise to grant you

pardon and kindness. Whatever crime you may have committed or

meditated against my person, if you will but confess it, I will cover

it over with the mantle of my protection, and forget it myself."[6]

--------------------

[Footnote 6: These two remarkable speeches are upon record.]

--------------------

"Sire!" replied the Marshal boldly, "I have nothing to say but what I

have said. I did not come to your majesty to justify myself, but to

beg you only to tell me my enemies, that I may seek justice against

them, or render it to myself."

Henry turned away disgusted, and the Duke advanced through the door of

the saloon into the antechambers beyond. At the door of that, however,

which led out upon the staircase, he was met by the Count de Vitry,

who, seizing his right hand in his own left, caught the hilt of

Biron's sword with the other hand, exclaiming, "The King commands me

to give an account of your person, sir. Yield me your sword."

Biron started, and a mortal paleness came over his face; for it would

seem that he never dreamed for a moment, either that the monarch had

accurate information of his treason, or would proceed to do justice

against him. He suffered himself to be disarmed, however, and led to a

secure apartment, where, after he had recovered from his first

surprise, he passed the night in violent and intemperate language,

injurious to his own cause, and indecent in itself. From thence he was

conveyed to the Bastile, and his trial proceeded with great rapidity.

A thousand efforts were made to save him, by his friends and

relations; and Henry was besieged, wherever he appeared, with tears

and petitions. But the day of mercy had gone by; and the same monarch

who had almost supplicated his rebellious subject to say one word that

might save himself, now sternly declared that justice must take its

course; and that whatever the law awarded, without fail should be put

in execution.

In the meanwhile, St. Maurice passed his time in bitter meditations,

confined in a dull cell of the Bastile, which, though not absolutely a

dungeon, contained nothing but one of those small narrow beds whose

very look was like that of the grave, a crucifix, and a missal. The

hours and the days wore on, and he saw no one but the people who

brought him his daily food, and a few persons passing occasionally

across the inner court of the Bastile; so that solitude and sad

thoughts traced every day deeper and deeper lines upon his heart, and

upon his brow. He thought of her whom he loved--of what her situation

was, and what it might be; and when that was too painful, he turned

his mind to his own fate, and tried to look it calmly in the face, but

still the image of Marie rose up in every scene, and reduced all the

native resolution of his heart to woman's weakness.

He was thus one day cast heedlessly on his bed, when the door of his

cell opened, and the jailer desired him to follow. St. Maurice rose

and obeyed, and a few minutes brought him to a larger chamber, which

he was bade to enter. At the other side of the room there stood a

middle-sized man, habited in a plain suit of rusty black velvet, with

strongly marked aquiline features, and gray hair and beard. His eye

was keen and quick, his forehead broad and high, and there was

something peculiar in the firm rooted attitude with which he stood,

bending his eyes upon the open door. Even had St. Maurice never seen

him before, he could never have doubted that he was a King.

"Come hither, Sir Count," said Henry IV. abruptly; "tell me all you

know of this treason of the Duke de Biron. Tell me all, tell me true,

and, by my faith, you shall have full pardon."

"Sire," replied St. Maurice, "when my father died in the service of

your majesty, and my mother left this world a few days after my birth,

I was left a penniless orphan, for all our fortunes had been lost in

your royal cause----" Henry knitted his brow--"I was a beggar,"

continued St. Maurice, "and the Duke de Biron took pity on me--brought

me up--led me to the field--protected--provided for me----"

"Hold! hold! Hold!" cried the King. "Say no more! say no more--get you

gone--yet stay--I seek not, sir, this unhappy man's death. Justice

shall be done, but no more than justice--not severity. If you know

anything which can mitigate his offence, speak it boldly, and the King

will thank you; anything that may render his crime less black."

"I know little, Sire, of the Marshal's late conduct," replied the

Count, "for in truth I have been less in his confidence than formerly;

but this I know, and do believe, that he is one of those men to speak,

aye, and to write, many base things in a hasty and a passionate mood,

that he would be the last on earth to act."

Henry mused for a moment in silence, and then, without any farther

observation, ordered St. Maurice back again to his cell.

Another long week passed, and day after day grew more weary and

horrible than the last. Each hour, each moment, added to anxiety,

uncertainty, and expectation, already beyond endurance. The rising and

the setting of the sun, the heavy passing away of the long and tardy

minutes, the wide vague infinity through which apprehension and care

had leave to roam, overwhelmed his mind, and shook even his corporeal

strength. Each noise, each sound, made him start; and the very opening

of his cell door brought with it some quick indistinct fear. It is

said that those long accustomed to solitary confinement, get inured to

the dead, blank vacancy of existence without action, lose hope, and

fear, and thought, and care; and exist, but hardly can be said to

live. But St. Maurice had not yet had time to let one of the fresh

pangs of his situation become lulled by the opiate of custom, and

every moment of its endurance was a moment of new agony. He heard no

tidings, he received no comfort, no hope from any one. The very joys

that he had known, and the love he valued most, became a torture to

him; his own heart was a burden, and while the future was all dark and

lowering, the past was full of regret, and prolific of apprehension.

At length, one evening, an unusual number of footsteps traversing the

court below, called him from the bed on which he usually cast himself

in prostrate despondency, and he beheld, from the small window of his

cell, a number of people gathered together in the open space, of a

quality which showed at once that some great and formal act was about

to take place within the walls of the prison. The Chancellor was

there, and various judges and officers of the Parliament, and a number

of the municipal body of Paris were on the spot, with clerks and

serjeants, and the two chief _prévôts_. A small body of soldiers also

guarded the different doors of the court, and on the side next to the

garden was raised a scaffold, about five feet above the ground, at the

foot of which a strong man in black stood, with two others of an

inferior grade, examining the edge of a large heavy sword, which was

suddenly put into the sheath on the sound of some voices at the other

side of the court.

At that moment the Duke de Biron was brought in through the opposite

door, accompanied by several of the officers of the prison. His dark

swarthy countenance was not a shade paler than usual, and, with his

hat and plume upon his head, he walked boldly forward with an erect

and daring carriage; but as his eye first fell upon the scaffold, he

paused a single instant, exclaiming, "Ha!" He then strode forward

again, as if he had been marching against an enemy, and came to the

foot of the ladder which led to the scaffold. There he paused and

looked round him with furious and impatient eyes, as if he would fain

have vented the wrath that was in his heart upon some of those around

him.

"Sir Chancellor! Sir Chancellor!" he cried, "you have condemned a man

more innocent than many you have suffered to escape, and that upon the

evidence of two perjured villains. You have done injustice, sir, which

you could have prevented, and you shall answer it before God.--Yes,

sir, before Him to whose presence I summon you before a year pass

over." Then turning to the commandant, he added, "Ah, Monsieur de

Roissy, Monsieur de Roissy! had your father been alive, he would have

aided me to quit this place. Fie! fie! is this a fate for one who has

served his country as I have?"

"My Lord Duke," said the Chancellor, "you have heard the sentence of

your peers, and it must now be executed. The King commands me to

demand the insignia of that noble order to which you once belonged."

"There, sir, take it!" cried the Duke, giving him his star and riband.

"Tell the King, that though he treat me thus, I have never broken one

statute of the order to which my deeds in his service raised me.

Pshaw!" he continued, turning from the priest, who now pressed him

to confess--"I make my confession aloud. All my words are my

confession.--Still," he added, as his eye rested for a moment on the

scaffold and all the awful preparation for his fate, "still, I may as

well think awhile of where I am going."

He then spoke for a few minutes with the priest who stood by his side.

His countenance grew calmer and graver; and after having received

absolution and the sacrament, he looked for a brief space up towards

the sky, then knelt down before the scaffold, and prayed for same

time, while a dead silence was maintained around--you might have heard

a feather fall. As he still knelt, the sun broke out, and shone calmly

and sweetly over the whole array of death, while a bird in the

neighbouring garden, wakened by the sunshine and the deep stillness,

broke into a clear, shrill, joyful song, with the most painful music

that ever struck the ear.

The prisoner started on his feet, and, after looking round for an

instant, mounted the scaffold with the same bold step wherewith he had

approached it. His eyes, however, still had in them that sort of wild,

ferocious gleam, which they had exhibited ever since his arrest; and

though he seemed to strive for calmness, and displayed not a touch of

fear, yet there was an angry spirit in his tone as he addressed those

around him. "I have wronged the King," he said, sharply, "I have

wronged the King. 'Tis better to acknowledge it. But that I ever

sought his life is a lie and perjury. Had I listened to evil counsel,

he would have been dead ten years ago. Ah! my old friends and

fellow-soldiers," he added, turning to the guards, "why will none of

you fire your piece into my heart, instead of leaving me to the vile

hands of this common butcher?" And he pointed to the executioner.

"Touch me not," he continued, seeing the other approach him with a

handkerchief to bind his eyes--"touch me not with those hellish

fingers, or, by heavens, I will tear you limb from limb! Give me the

handkerchief."

He then cast his hat away from him, and bound his own

eyes--knelt--prayed again for a moment--rose suddenly up as the

executioner was about to draw the sword--withdrew the covering from

his sight--gazed wildly round him for an instant, and beckoned one of

the officers to tie up his long hair under the handkerchief. This was

immediately done, and his eyes being covered, he called out, "Haste!

haste!"

"Repeat the _In manus_, my lord," said the executioner, taking the

heavy sword, which had hitherto been concealed by the attendants.

Biron began to repeat the psalm of the dying--the blade glittered in

the air--swayed round the head of the executioner; and before the eye

could trace the blow which ended the earthly career of the unfortunate

but guilty soldier, his head was severed at once from his body, and

Biron was no more.

A feeling of intense and painful interest had kept St. Maurice at the

window till the moment that the unhappy soldier covered his own eyes

with the handkerchief; but then a sensation of giddy sickness forced

him away, and he cast himself down once more, with bitterer feelings

than ever at his heart. The world seemed all a hell of cares and

sorrows, and he could have died that moment with hardly a regret.

After he had lain there for nearly two hours, he once more rose, and

approached the window. The crowd were all gone, but the dark scaffold

still remained, and the young soldier drew back again, saying to

himself, "Who next? who next?" He lay down and tried to sleep, but his

throbbing temples and his heated blood rendered the effort vain.

Strange wild images rose up before his eyes. Fiends and foul shapes

where grinning at him in the air. Fire seemed circling through his

veins, and burning his heart; he talked; with no one to hear--he

raved--he struggled--and then came a long term of perfect

forgetfulness, at the end of which he woke as from a profound sleep.

He was weak as a child, and his ideas of the past were but faint and

confused. The first thing, however, that returned to memory was the

image of his cell, and he cast his heavy eyes around, in search of the

bolts, and bars, and grated windows; but no such things were near. He

was in a small but handsome room, with the open lattice admitting the

breath of many flowers, and by his side sat an old and reverend dame,

whom he had never seen before. A few faint but coherent words, and the

light of intelligence re-awakened in his eye, showed the nurse, for

such she was, that the fever had left him, and going out of the

chamber, she returned with a soldier-like man, whom St. Maurice at

once remembered as the old Count de Belin, who had arrested him at

Bourg. Many words of comfort and solace were spoken by the old

soldier, but St. Maurice was forbidden to utter a syllable, or ask a

question, for several days. A physician, too, with grave and solemn

face, visited him twice each day, and gave manifold cautions and

warnings as to his treatment, which the young gentleman began soon to

think unnecessary, as the firm calm pulse of health grew fuller and

fuller in his frame. At length one day, as he lay somewhat weary of

restraint, the door opened, and Henry IV. himself stood by his

bed-side. "New, faith, my good young Count," said the monarch, "I had

a hearty mind to keep you to silence and thin bouillon for some days

longer, to punish certain rash words spoken in the Bastile, casting a

stigma upon royal gratitude for leaving faithful friends, who had lost

all in our behalf, to poverty and want. But I have lately heard all

your story, and more of it than you thought I ever would hear; and

therefore, though I shall take care that there be no more reproaches

against my gratitude, as a punishment for your crimes, I shall sell

you as a slave for ever. Come hither, sweet taskmaster," he added,

raising his voice, "and be sure you do all that woman can--and that is

no small power--to tease this youth through all his life to come."

As the King spoke, the flutter of a woman's robe--the bright, dear

eyes--the sweet, all-graceful form,--the bland glad smile of her he

loved, burst upon the young soldier's sight; and she, forgetting fear,

timidity, the presence of royalty--all, all but love, sprang forward

at once, and bedewed his bosom with her happy tears.

SAINT RADIGONDE.

It was fair-time when we arrived at Poitiers, and twelve o'clock at

night, so that we had some difficulty in getting beds; but going into

the kitchen, by dint of a little love, and a great deal of civility, I

prevailed upon the chambermaid to give us two which had been reserved

for a couple of gentlemen expected from Tours.

When I returned to the hall I found my friend with two Frenchmen, Now,

under all circumstances, an Englishman generally keeps the distance of

two yards between him and a stranger; but as I had determined to go

through the world precisely as I would do through a menagerie, and to

see all the strange beasts that are in it, I approximated myself, in

general, to all those whom Heaven threw in my way. The two Frenchmen

were waiting for supper, and so were we; therefore without more ado we

all sat down together, and as I much wished to find out the famous

field of Poitiers, I soon began to ask a great many questions. But

they knew nothing about it. They had never heard of it; and they had

lived in the neighbourhood for years, so that they were sure the

battle I spoke of could not have happened in their day. "Most probably

not," said I. "It must have been before the revolution," said the

other Frenchman, who was a good, fat, substantial farmer, come into

the town to buy and sell at the fair. "But as Monsieur was fond of

curious things," he added, "he ought by all means to see the church of

St. Radigonde, where the mark of the Saviour's foot was still to be

beheld." And he set to tell me how it happened, and all about it. His

story was somewhat after his own fashion, it is true, but it is not a

whit the worse for that. "Saint Radigonde," he said, "was a Catholic,

and the sister of _Clovis_; who was father to _Henri Quatre_." "I

thought that they were more distantly related," said I. But he stuck

to his biography, and continued. "Well, Clovis was a very warlike

monarch as well as his son, and being engaged in a most tremendous

battle, he sent to his sister to desire her prayers, which she very

readily granted him; and while thus piously engaged, our Saviour

appeared to her and promised her the victory for her brother, leaving

the mark of his foot in the marble.

"Clovis triumphed over his enemy, and so great was his gratitude for

this manifest interference of Heaven in his favour, that he instantly

became a sincere Catholic. For you know," said the narrator, "that

before that time he was a _Protestant_."

"I have heard," replied I, "that he was a Pagan."

"A Pagan or a Protestant," said he, "it is all the same thing."

I was well pleased with any absurdity. The memory of more poignant

griefs had worn away so far as to permit my feeling amused with many

things--pleasure I derived from but few! Under the attack of very

severe griefs, imagination is the first of the mind's soldiers that

yields or revolts to the enemy; but, as those griefs pass on, leaving

us conquered, imagination, is the first to return to console us.

Grief, when it grows fanciful, is in its first stage of amelioration.

Then comes the power of laughing long before we learn again to enjoy.

THE CURIOSITIES.

I am as fond of seeing curiosities as any other grown child that ever

existed; and as my companion was of the same mind as myself, the first

thing we did the morning after our arrival at Poitiers, was to visit

the ruins of the amphitheatre; which are very little worth seeing,

except to those who love ruins for their own sake. The arena is filled

up with gardens, and though the whole site is perfectly well marked

out, but little of the walls exist at present. It was the son of the

proprietor who showed us over the spot. He might be an idiot, or he

might not, but he gave us no information, and kept grinning at us, and

listening to our foreign dialect with evident marks of horror and

astonishment. On our departure he followed us into the street, and

still kept staring in our faces, till my friend appealed to my better

knowledge of France to ascertain what he wanted. I answered, "_A

franc_." My companion was incredulous, but I put my hand in my pocket,

and drawing one out, I begged the young gentleman to give it to "_la

domestique_." He took it immediately, with great satisfaction, and

whether the servant ever received it or not, is between her young

master and herself.

We went to the church of St. Radigonde too. It is really singular how

prone the human mind is to lend itself to every sort of absurdity. We

are made of odd clay certainly, of so soft a temper in our youth, that

it takes the first form it happens to find, and then hardening there,

would sooner break than quit it. There were a dozen old women at the

church door, who make a livelihood by fixing themselves in the suite

of Saint Radigonde, and we were instantly assailed by _la bonne Ste.

Radigonde prie pour vous_, together with much counting of rosaries,

and all the rest of Catholic begging. On entering the church we found

an iron grating with a fine figure of the saint, dressed in a blue

cloak powdered with _fleurs de lys_, not at all unlike one of the

figures placed at the head of a ship. There, too, was what they are

pleased to call the foot-mark of our Saviour, covered with some bars

of iron, and an inscription above, to give authority to the falsehood.

Round about it were scattered several pieces of money, from a sous

to a franc, which my companion, in his fisherman's slang termed

ground-bait.

Farther on is the tomb of the saint, with a silver lamp ever burning,

the gift of Anne of Austria, in gratitude for the restored health of

Louis XIV. after his illness at Metz, which the Queen attributes

entirely to Saint Radigonde. In imitation of this royal credulity,

multitudes of persons affected with various maladies have hung up at

the shrine little effigies of the afflicted parts, modelled in wax: so

that there are enough of waxen legs and arms to furnish the largest

doll-shop in Europe. Passing through a low arch, we descended by a few

steps to the sort of vault in which lies the stone coffin, supposed to

contain the body of Saint Radigonde. This, the pious take care to

adorn with large tapers, much to the gratification of the priests and

the wax-chandlers.

THE BOTTLE OF SAUTERN.

Benedetto

Quel claretto

Che si spilla in Avignone.--BACCO IN TOSCANA.

We were tired with our ramble, for besides the amphitheatre and Saint

Radigonde, we had been to the cathedral and the promenades, and had

walked for two or three miles along the road towards Paris, to see the

beautiful rocky scenery which flanks the entrance to the town, and

which we had passed the night before by moonlight. Finding that we

could actually eat no dinner at the inn, (they were all so occupied

with the people of the fair,)we strolled out to a restaurateur's in

the neighbourhood, before the door of whose house a woman, with a

voice like a Stentor, and a face like Baron G----, was singing the

acts of our Saviour, in a sort of little booth covered all over with

gospel pictures, which the man who played the accompaniment pointed

out with his fiddlestick, one by one, as she came to them in her song.

We went into the _restaurant_, and notwithstanding the multitude of

the fair, met with a very good dinner, composed of heaven knows what.

There is no use of inquiring into these things.

After dinner we ordered a bottle of Sautern, which was marked in the

_carte_ at _two francs ten sous_. It was in a kind of despair that we

did it, for the red wine was worth nothing. It came.--People may talk

of Hocheim, and Burgundy, and Hermitage, and all the wines that ever

the Rhone or the Rhine produced, but never was there wine like that

one bottle of _Sautern_. It poured, out as clear as the stream of hope

ere it has been muddied by disappointment, and it was as soft and

generous as early joy ere youth finds out its fallacy. We drank it

slowly, and lingered over the last glass, as if we had a presentiment

that we should never meet with anything like it again. When it was

done, quite done, we ordered another bottle. But no--it was not the

same wine. We sent it away, and we had another--in vain--and

another--there was no more of it to be had.

It was like one of those days of pure unsophisticated happiness, that

sometimes break in upon life, and leave nothing to be desired; that

comes unexpectedly--last their own brief space, like things apart--and

are remembered for ever.

THE FIELD OF POITIERS.

"It is very strange," said I, "that no one can tell me where it lies."

But I forgot that the French, very wisely, never remember the battles

they lose: and as here their kingdom was overthrown, and its king

taken prisoner, they of course made the more haste to forget it. So I

desired my guide to conduct me to the Pierre Levée, and resolved to

seek the field of battle myself.

It is simply a Celtic monument, the Pierre Levée, and is only curious

from its insulated situation; but as I always like to have the best

information going, I asked the guide what he thought of it.

Common people have two ways of disposing of things that they would not

else know what to do with. If they want to send them away, they send

them to the devil; if they do not know where they come from, they

bring them from heaven. This latter was the case with my guide and the

Pierre Levée; so he told me, that it dropped from the skies four

hundred thousand years ago.

As _this_ is a more probable account than any I have read or heard of,

concerning these Celtic monuments; and as it fixes the date precisely,

I feel myself bound not to withhold it from the world.

I sought the field of battle by myself, and a long and weary search it

was. No one could give me any account of it, and many had never heard

of any battle there at all. There was a spot struck me at length, as

offering the most probable position. I pitched the Black Prince's camp

on a small rising ground, and disposed King John's army round about

him, so that he could not escape. There was a wood that covered the

archers, just in front; and a wide open space, having the advantage of

the field, which I filled up with horse. Then there was a body of

strong men at arms resting on the village below, flanked by the spears

of the guard; and down between the English and the river, was the

whole division of Ribemont and Clermont. I drew it out in my own mind

as clearly as possible. It was as fine a battle as ever was seen; and

I set my heart upon its being just there.

There was a group of peasants playing at the door of a grange, and as

I saw one whose face I liked. I went up and asked him whether there

had not once been a famous battle there. But he made me half angry by

telling me, "No, that it was farther on." He overthrew all my host, as

completely as Edward did that of France. "Tenez, monsieur," said he

"you see that high tree in the distance; if you walk straight towards

it, about a quarter of a league on this side, you will find a heap of

large stones which we call _les pierres brunes_. You are then on the

field of battle." I asked if he was sure. "He was certain," he said,

"for that he had ploughed there often; and many a large bone, and

rusty piece of armour, had he turned up with the ploughshare."

They were almost the words of Virgil.

"Scilicet et tempus veniet cum finibus illis

Agricola, incurvo terram molitus aratro,

Exesa inveniet scabrâ rubigine pila,

Aut gravibus rastris galeas pulsabit inanes,

Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulcris."

I followed the peasant's directions, and found myself certainly in the

midst of that field, where the few struggled against the many, and

conquered--where the mild warrior received his fallen enemy as a

brother, and taught him, if not to forget, to bear his captivity. Were

there many such adversaries, mankind would blush to draw a sword.

And it was here, that there were deeds of valour and of strength; of

cruelty and generosity, and fury and calmness; of inconsiderate daring

and cool calculating wisdom, and all that sum of good and evil which

buys the bauble glory.

And for what did they bleed? For what did they fall?--the heroes of

that splendid field of carnage?--to be forgotten! To have their bones

turned up and ground by the iron of the plough, and their unhonoured

dust trodden by the peasant's heel. The knight's sword rusting in

peace beside his enemy's corslet, and the ashes of the coward and the

brave amicably mingling in their native earth. To be forgotten! Their

very burial-place unknown, but to the hind whose ground they fattened

with their blood, and the pale antiquary who rakes amongst their bones

for something ancient! The deeds that, even in dying, they fondly

fancied would be immortal, overwhelmed beneath the lumber of history,

or blotted out by fresher comments on the same bloody theme! The names

they thought engraved deep in the column of Fame, erased by Time's

sure destroying hand! The thrones they fought for and the realms they

won, past unto other dynasties; and all the object of their mighty

daring as unachieved as if they had not been!

Such is the history of every field of battle.[7]

--------------------

[Footnote 7: I have left the above passage exactly as it was written

many years ago, though I perceive that the same ideas have returned to

me in writing another work, and have clothed themselves in very nearly

the same language. I did not perceive the fact till one work was

printed and the other in the press; but the accident was sufficiently

interesting to me to leave the passage here, where I could blot it

out.]

-------------------

THE DILIGENCE.

By this time we had given up the system of posting, A man who does not

travel in the diligence loses one half of what he ought to see. From

Poitiers to Angoulême, we had two places in the _coupée_, or front

part. Our companion was a tall, good-looking man, who at first did not

make any great show of politeness. He had been a military man, and

perhaps took us for what French soldiers were accustomed to call

Pekins.

Marshal ---- once being invited to dine with Talleyrand, was much

after the hour appointed.

"We have waited for you, sir," said Talleyrand, on his arrival. The

marshal said he could not help it, that he had been detained by a

Pekin, just as he was going out.

"What do you call a Pekin?" asked the statesman.

"Nous appelons Pekin," replied the marshal, "tout ce qui n'est pas

militaire."

"C'est comme nous," said Talleyrand coolly: "nous appelons militaire,

tout ce qui n'est pas civil."

Our companion, however, soon fell into conversation. It is a bait that

Frenchmen cannot resist; and now he was polite and agreeable as he had

at first been repulsive; but when he found that I was not only

acquainted with many persons he himself knew, but was also fond of all

field sports, his civility knew no bounds. Nothing would satisfy him

but a promise that we would visit him at M----, where he was

receiver-general: and there he would give us inexhaustible amusement

both in hunting and shooting. Pardon me, my dear Count, if this ever

falls into your hands; but when you can be so amiable a companion as

you afterwards proved, you ought never to repel a poor stranger, who

lies at your mercy for the comfort of a long journey.

We stayed but a day at Angoulême. Indeed there is nothing beautiful in

the town, except the view from the height on which it is placed; and

nothing amusing, except the marine school, which, the government have

placed here, in the most inland position they could find.

On the arrival of the diligence, which was to carry us to Bordeaux, we

found that all the places were taken but four, I forget who was in the

_coupèe_: in the centre there was the strangest mixture that can be

imagined. There appeared a Bordeaux merchant, three nuns, a libertine

officer of dragoons, and two pointer dogs his companions.

In the _rotonde_ with us were the keeper of the _bureau des

diligences_ (or stage-coach-office) and his daughter. If any were to

draw her picture from the same class in England, how much mistaken

they would be! She was everything that youth, and beauty, and simple

elegance, could make her. Set her in a drawing-room and call her a

princess, and there was nothing in her manners would give the lie to

the appellation. She had never before been from her home, and was now

going to see the great fair at Bordeaux; and she was full of the

eagerness of youth, curiosity, and inexperience: but there was no

inelegance about it: her sensations were always gracefully expressed,

and seemed to amuse her as much as any one else.

As the sun rose next morning and shone in at the window of the

diligence, the light fell upon her fair face and braided dark hair, as

she lay asleep upon the shoulder of her father, who gazed upon her

closed eyes and motionless features with that peculiar look of soft

affection alone to be seen in the face of a parent. It was as lovely a

picture as I ever saw. He caught my eyes fixed upon them; but there

was nothing in my look that could give offence, and he smiled, looking

back upon his child once more, and saying, "Pauvre enfant!" He spoke

as if he felt at once that I could enter into all his sensations. Many

a man--I am afraid many of my own countrymen--would conceal such

feelings, simply from the fear of being laughed at; yet surely, of all

sorts of _mauvaise honte_, that is the worst which makes us ashamed of

what is pure and noble, and natural and beautiful. A few more leagues

brought us to Bordeaux. But as I have a story to tell, I must not

pause long even to give an idea of the town in which the scene is

laid. I will allow myself two pages and a half.