In change lies all our joy; in change lies all our pain. Change is the
true Janus whose two faces are always looking different ways. I know
not whether it may please the reader, but I must change the place and
the time, and change it so suddenly and so far as to pass over for a
time, events not only interesting in themselves, but affecting deeply
the fate of those who have formed the principal objects of my history.
Yet it must be so, for there are inexorable laws established by judges
against whom is no appealing, which limit the teller of a tale to a
certain space; and were I to relate in detail all the events which
occupied the two years succeeding the events last mentioned in this
book, I should far transgress the regulations of the craft, and
perhaps exhaust the patience of my readers. Those events, therefore,
must be gathered from others which followed, and, indeed, perhaps this
is the best, as it certainly is the shortest way of giving them to the
public.
There is a fine old chateau in the south of France, two towers of
which are still standing, and hardly injured by the tooth of time. I
have a picture of it before me by the hand of one who, born in lofty
station and of surpassing excellence, was, as a beacon at a port of
refuge, raised high to direct aright all who approached her, who lived
not only honoured, but beloved, and has not left a nobler or a better
behind. Her eye can never see these lines; her ear can never hear
these words; but I would that this work were worthy to be a monument
more lasting than brass, to write on it an epitaph truer than any that
ever consoled the living or eulogised the dead.
I have the picture before me, with two great towers standing on the
wooded hill, with vineyards at the foot, and many a ruined fragment
scattered round, showing where the happy and the gay once trod, and
commenting silently upon the universal doom. Oh! a ruin is the best
_memento mori_, for it tells not the fate of one, but of many
generations, and gives to death that universality which most impresses
the mind and most prepares the heart.
Those buildings were all fresh, and many of them new at the time of
which I write. Not a century had passed since the first stone of the
whole edifice was laid; and sumptuously furnished, after the fashion
of those times, was the great suite of rooms occupying one floor of
both those great towers and of the connecting building, now fallen.
In one of these rooms was a fine hall, lighted by windows of
many-coloured glass, with two oriels or bays penetrating the thick
walls and projecting into air, supported by light brackets and corbels
of stonework without. The floor of those bays was raised two or three
steps above the ordinary level of the hall, and each formed, as it
were, a separate room within the room.
In one of those bays, just two years after the event which closed the
last chapter, sat a tall, powerful man of perhaps thirty-six years of
age, dressed in those gorgeous garments of peace which were common to
the higher classes in that day. His face was somewhat weather-beaten;
there was a scar upon his cheek and on his hand, and the short,
curling hair over the forehead had been somewhat worn away by the
pressure of the helmet. On the back of the head and on the temples it
flowed in unrestrained luxuriance, somewhat grey, indeed, but with the
deep brown predominating.
At his knee, on a stool of Genoa velvet--it was her favourite
seat--was a beautiful girl, seemingly sixteen or seventeen years of
age, fair as a snow-drop, with light, flowing hair, and eyes of
violet-blue, deep fringed and tender. Her head rested against his
side, her arm lay negligently upon his knee, and those blue eyes were
turned towards his face with a look of love--nay, almost of adoration.
They were De Vitry and Blanche Marie, some two months after their
marriage. Her good old grandsire, on his bed of death, had committed
her to the guardianship of the King of France, with the request that
in two years he would bestow her hand upon the gallant soldier, if she
loved him still. Nor had that love for a moment faltered, while, under
the care of fair Anne of Brittany, she had passed the allotted time at
the court of France; and now she was happy--oh! how supremely blessed
with him whose character, without shade or concealment, with all its
faults and all its perfections, had stood plain and straightforward
from the first.
But why does De Vitry turn his eyes so often towards the window and
gaze forth upon the road, which, winding down from the castle, ploughs
its way through the thick vineyard, and, crossing the Isere by its
bridge of stone, ascends the opposite slopes?
"Is he coming, love?" said Blanche Marie. "Do you see him, De Vitry?
yes, you do; there is the falcon look in your eyes. They are upon
something now."
"How can I tell what it is at this distance, lady mine?" answered her
husband; "falcon, indeed, if I could see so far. There is a dark
something moving yonder on the far verge of the hills. It may be a
train of horsemen; it may be some country carts, for aught I know.
But, Madame Blanche," he added, casting his right arm round her, "by
my fay, I shall be jealous of this Lorenzo, if you are so eager for
his coming."
"Out, false knight," she answered; "I defy you to be jealous of any
man on earth. To make you jealous, is alas! beyond my power, for like
a foolish girl, I have let you know too well how much I love you."
She spoke gaily, but the moment after she said, in a saddened tone:
"But poor Lorenzo! he is so unfortunate--so unhappy, De Vitry. I may
well wish for my cousin's coming when I know that only with you and me
he finds any consolation. And yet every time I see him I feel almost
self-reproach, as if I had a share in making him so miserable. I loved
her so; I believed her so good, so noble, so kind, that I foolishly
planned their marriage long before they ever met, and did all I could
to promote their love when they did meet; and now to think that she
should be so faithless, so cold, so cruel, when she knows he loves her
more than life."
"It is indeed strange," said De Vitry with a clouded brow; "she seemed
to me as she seemed to you, one of the noblest girls I ever saw. She
is not married yet, however. That story is false. I saw a messenger
from Rome three days ago. He says she is living with her father, who
is now one of the vicars in the Church in Romagna, and she is
certainly unmarried."
"That is but poor consolation for Lorenzo," replied Blanche Marie; "he
has too much pride, too much nobility of heart, to take her hand now,
were it offered him after such conduct."
"I trust he has," said De Vitry; "and were I he, I would cast her from
my thoughts for ever. Beauty is something, my love, but there must be
goodness, too; otherwise one might as well fall in love with a
picture, my dear girl. But tell me, Blanche, when last she wrote to
you did she show any such signs of strange caprice?"
"It is near eighteen months since she wrote at all," replied the young
wife, "and then her billet, it is true, was somewhat strange and
constrained, but it gave no indication of such a change. Oh, how happy
is it, De Vitry, to have a constant heart? How dreadful it must be to
see one we love change toward us without cause. It is that which makes
me pity Lorenzo so much, for it is plain he loves her still.
"We must have that away," said her husband; "he must be reasoned with,
amused, engaged in some new pursuit, my Blanche. I will do my best,
and you must help me. Look there! upon my life 'tis he. Those are
mounted men coming down the hill; but they are bringing thunder with
them, and if they do not ride faster the storm will catch them ere
they reach us. Do you not see those clouds rising above the trees,
looking as hard as iron and as grey as lead. By my faith! dear lass,
you have never seen a storm in the valley of the Isere, and it is
something to see. I have been in many lands, my Blanche, but I never
beheld any like it, when the clouds rolled down from the mountains
like black smoke, pouring forth a deluge such as no other part of the
world has ever been soaked with since the days of Noah. In less than
half an hour you will see the valley a lake, and the bridge quite
covered. Your little heart will rejoice to think that the castle is
built upon a hill, for I never saw the water come higher than the edge
of the vineyard there."
"Does it come as high as that?" exclaimed Blanche, with a look of
alarm; "why, how will Lorenzo cross!"
"He will not be able to cross at all unless he make more haste,"
answered her husband. "Pardieu, I cannot guess what has come to him;
he who, for the last eighteen months, has never ridden up hill or down
dale at less than a gallop, as if some devil were tempting him to
break his own neck or his horse's, is now creeping down the hill as if
he were at a funeral or a procession."
By this time De Vitry had risen and gone near the open window. The sun
had near an hour to run before its course for the day would be ended.
The clouds, as he said, were rapidly and heavily descending the
mountains, and the rain could be seen at the distance of three or four
miles sweeping the valley like a black pall. The sun was still shining
bright and clear upon the chateau, and the bridge, and the vineyard.
But a moment after De Vitry had taken his place, a redder and a
fiercer light blazed fitfully across the scene, followed a few moments
after by a peal of thunder which seemed to shake the castle to its
foundations.
"Oh, come away, De Vitry, come away," cried Blanche Marie; "the
lightning might strike you at that open window."
De Vitry turned round his head with a laugh, calling her a little
coward, and then resumed his watch again upon the party of horsemen
coming down the opposite hill.
"Ay, ride fast," cried the marquis, "or you will not be in time; but
what are all the people thinking of? they have lost their way."
As he spoke the party on whom his eyes were fixed turned from the
direct road toward the chateau, and took a smaller path, which,
slanting along the hill side, led down the stream.
"Lorenzo is not among them," said De Vitry, abruptly; "he knows the
way here as well as I do, my love; but that party of fools will get
into a scrape if they do not mind; there is no shelter for ten miles
down the river, and the road on the bank will be under water in ten
minutes. Ha! they have seen their mistake, and are turning back. Now
ride hard, my gallants, and you may reach the bridge yet."
The lightning now flashed nearer, the thunder followed close upon its
flaming messenger, the heavy drops of rain began to fall, and poor
Blanche Marie, who had much more taste for the beauties than the
sublimities of nature, covered her face with her hands, while her
heart beat quick. The next moment she felt a warm and kindly kiss upon
her brow, and the voice of De Vitry said--
"Take courage, love, take courage; God is everywhere. In His hand we
stand, as much in that fierce blaze and amid that thunder roar, as in
the gay saloon with nothing but music near. Do not fear, my Blanche,
but remember you will soon have guests to entertain. These gentlemen
are coming hither. They have passed the bridge just in time, and five
minutes will see them in this hall. I would not have them say that De
Vitry's wife is afraid of a little thunder."
Blanche took her fingers from her eyes, and, looking up with a smile,
put De Vitry's great strong hand on her beating heart, and pressed her
own delicate hand upon it.
"See, De Vitry," she said, "just as your hand is stronger than my
hand, so is your heart firmer than my heart. Mine is a very weak one,
husband, but I will show no fear before your guests. I will be very
brave."
The words were hardly uttered when there came another flash, and
Blanche's promised bravery did not prevent her from starting and
covering her eyes again; and De Vitry, with a laugh, turned to the
window and gazed forth once more.
"By Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it is his highness the Duke of Orleans. I
heard he was coming down to Valence, but never dreamed of his coming
here. It is lucky the castle lies so near the road. But I must down
and meet him;" and he hastily quitted the room.
Blanche was left for some time alone to give way to all her terrors at
the storm, without any one to laugh at them, for De Vitry took every
hospitable care of his royal guest, and spared his young wife the
trouble of giving those orders for the entertainment of the duke and
his train which Blanche might have found it difficult to think of in
the perturbation of her mind at the time.
As every one knows, the storms on the Isere are frequently as brief as
they are fierce; and the one in question was passing away when De
Vitry led into the hall the Duke of Orleans, now clothed in fresh and
dry garments.
Always courteous and gentle in demeanour, the Duke of Orleans,
afterwards Louis XII. of France, applied himself to put his
entertainers at their ease. He took Blanche's hand and kissed it,
saying, "Your noble husband, dear lady, tells me you expect here
to-night your cousin and mine, Lorenzo Visconti. If he come, I shall
call it a lucky storm that drove me for shelter to your house, as I
have much to say to him; but I fear he cannot reach Vitry to-day. The
sun is well-nigh down, and the waters of the river seem as high as
ever."
"The storm, too, seems going directly along his road," said De Vitry,
"and if it reached him where I think he must have first felt it, he
will know that he cannot cross the bridge tonight, and find shelter
amongst the peasants' cottages out beyond the hills there. But I trust
your highness will stay over to-morrow, as you wish to see him. He is
certain to be here, I think, early in the morning."
"I must be away before noon," said the duke, "and in case he should
not arrive before I go, you must tell him from me, De Vitry, that I
have the king's permission to call any noble gentleman to my aid who
is willing to draw the sword for the recovery of my heritage of Milan.
Now I think a Visconti would rather see a child of a Visconti in the
ducal chair of Milan than any other. Thus I fully count upon his aid
toward the end of autumn, with all the men that we can raise. So tell
him from me, De Vitry."
"You may count surely, my lord the duke, upon Lorenzo's going to any
place where there is a chance of his losing his life," said De Vitry.
"He is in a curious mood just now."
"I have remarked it," replied the duke. "He used to be gentle,
courteous, gay, bright, and brave as his sword, but when last I saw
him he had grown stern and somewhat haughty, careless of courtesies,
and curt and sharp of speech. They said that some disappointment
weighed upon his mind."
"The most bitter, your highness, that can press down the heart of man
or woman," answered Blanche Marie; "no less than the faithlessness of
one he loved. She is my cousin, yet I cannot but blame her for
breaking so noble a heart. They parted with the fondest hopes. She
promised to wait his coming in Florence, where they were to be united
immediately. When he arrived there she was gone, without leaving
letter or message, or announcement of any kind. He could not follow
her to Rome, from the state of the country; and though he wrote, and
took every means to make her know where he was, his letters remained
unanswered, or were sent back. He might have doubted some foul play;
but a few words in her own hand, written carelessly on a scrap of
paper, in a packet returned to him, showed too well that she was
cognizant of all that had been done; and the last news was that she
was married, or to be married to another."
"Then let him marry another too," said the Duke of Orleans; but the
conversation was here cut short by the announcement that supper was
spread in the hall below, and the duke's noble followers assembled
there.