Lorenzo Visconti rode along but slenderly accompanied. A few
attendants and one or two pack-horses formed all the train which
followed him. A carelessness had come over him, not only of all
display, but of life and all things that life could give. He rode, as
De Vitry had described, at headlong speed. It seemed as if he were
flying from something--perhaps from bitterly contrasted memories; but,
as ever, black care sat behind the horseman, and no furious riding
could shake him off. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, but he saw
not loose stone or slippery rock, and never marked the heavy clouds
which, having ravaged the valley of the Isere, were now rising over
the hills upon his left, and threatening to pour down their fury upon
him.
Grave and, for him, strangely sad, Antonio was following close behind
him, watching with eager anxiety the obstructions in his master's way,
and marking also the coming tempest. "My lord," he said, at length,
with a somewhat hesitating voice, "were it not better to seek some
shelter and to ride more slowly?"
"Why?" asked Lorenzo; "the road is good."
"Because, my lord," replied the man, "if we do not seek some shelter
we shall be half drowned in ten minutes, and if we ride so hard,
though you may go safe, we worse mounted men will break both our necks
and our horses' knees, as soon as the sun sets, which will be in a
quarter of an hour."
Lorenzo drew in his rein; but the only word he spoke was "Well?"
"We just passed a handsome chateau, my lord," urged Antonio, "and I am
sure they will give you ready welcome there, if you like to rest there
for the night."
"Whose chateau is it?" inquired his lord, with no great signs of
interest.
"Is it that of Madame de Chaumont?" replied Antonio. "Do you not
remember her and her beautiful daughter at the court last year? They
were very fond of your society, and will gladly receive you, I will
warrant."
"Yes, she is very beautiful," said Lorenzo, carelessly, "but light as
vanity: what woman is not? But I cannot stay tonight, my good Antonio.
My cousin and her husband expect me, and I must on."
"But you will never be able to pass the Isere, my lord," said Antonio;
"that cloud has left half its burden there, depend upon it. Do you not
remember how the river rises in an hour? I will wager a crown to a
coronet there is ten feet of water on the bridge by this time. But
here come the drops, and we shall have water and fire too enough
before we have done. I have a hideous cold, my lord, and cold bathing
is not good for me."
Lorenzo turned towards him with a cynical smile; but, before he could
reply, there was a gay, ringing laugh came up from the gorge into
which they were just descending, and two ladies, followed by several
servants, some with falcons on their hands, some carrying dead game
across their saddles, came cantering up. They glanced towards Lorenzo
as they approached, and, at first did not seem to recognize him; but
the next moment the younger exclaimed, "Dear mother, it is the young
Seigneur Visconti. Give you good day, my lord--give you good day. We
cannot stay to greet you; but turn your horse and ride back with us,
for the roof of our chateau is a better covering for your head than
yonder black cloud. Mother, make him come."
Lorenzo carelessly turned his horse as the gay and beautiful girl
spoke, and a few words of common courtesy passed between him and the
Marquis de Chaumont. But Eloise de Chaumont would have her part in the
conversation, and she exclaimed, "Come, Seigneur Visconti, put spurs
to your steed and show your horsemanship. I am going home at full
gallop, otherwise the plumes in my beaver will be as draggled as those
of the poor heron that my bird struck in the river. The haggard kite
would not wait for him to tower. On! on! I will bet you my last
embroidered hawking-glove against an old gauntlet that my jennet
reaches the castle first." Thus saying, she applied the whip somewhat
unmercifully to her horse, and Lorenzo put spurs to his. The race was
not very equal, for Lorenzo's hackney was tired with a long journey
and hard riding; but still the young knight kept up side by side with
his fair companion till they came to a narrow pass between a high
cliff and a deep dell, where Lorenzo somewhat drew in the rein to
leave the lady better room.
"Ay," she exclaimed, "I shall beat you. See, your horse is out of
breath. Spur up, spur up, or the day is mine."
Whether Lorenzo did imprudently use the spur, or that the horse shied
at something on the way, I do not know, but in trying to regain his
place by the lady's side the hackney (as lighter horses were then
called) swerved from the centre of the road and trod upon the loose
stones at the side. They gave way beneath his feet and went rattling
down into the glen, while the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled
around. The gallant beast made a strong effort to recover his footing,
but it was in vain; the ground yielded beneath his hoofs, and he fell
down the slope, rolling over his master as he went.
"Jesu Maria!" cried Eloise de Chaumont, with a scream, "I have killed
him."
That he was killed seemed for several minutes true, for he lay without
sense or motion. Antonio and several of the servants scrambled down
and raised the young lord's head, but he lay senseless still. Eloise
had bounded from her jennet and stood wringing her hands upon the
brink, and even Madame de Chaumont stayed for several minutes gazing
down; but at length the rain became too heavy for her patience, and
she said, "We can do no good here, Eloise. Let them carry him up to
the chateau. We shall only get cold and spoil all our housings. Mark,
look to that bird: its hood is all awry. Come, my child, come;" and,
without waiting for reply, she rode on.
Eloise remained, however, not doing much good, it is true, but at
least showing sympathy; and at length Lorenzo was raised, and with
difficulty brought up to the road again. A deep groan as they carried
him told that life was not yet extinct, and the rain falling in his
face revived him as three of the servants carried him in their arms
towards the chateau. When he opened his eyes Eloise de Chaumont was
walking by his side, weeping, and, as soon as memory of all that had
occurred came back, he said, with a great effort, "I am not much hurt,
I believe. Do not grieve, dear lady."
"O you are--you are, Lorenzo," she cried, "and I did it, foolish,
wicked girl that I am. But do not speak. We shall soon be at the
chateau. Ride, Guillaume, ride to the priest of St. Servan--he knows
all about chirurgy--bid him come up at all speed. Give the jennet to
Jean Graille. Ride on, I say, and be quick. Oh, Seigneur Visconti, I
am so sorry for my folly."
In a few minutes Lorenzo was borne into the chateau, and carried to a
chamber, where, stretched upon a bed, he waited the arrival of the
priest. But Eloise de Chaumont would not leave him, notwithstanding
several messages from her mother. With her own hands she wiped the
earth from his brow; with her own hands she gave him water to drink,
and more than ever she called him Lorenzo, bringing back to the young
lord's mind a suspicion which he had once entertained, but speedily
dismissed as a vain fancy, that Eloise de Chaumont viewed him with
more favour than most others at a court where she was universally
sought and admired.
It skills not to dwell upon the tedious process of a long sickness and
a slow recovery. Madame de Chaumont, a lady of a light and selfish
character, though not fond of witnessing suffering, visited Lorenzo
religiously once every day. Eloise de Chaumont, never accustomed to
restraint in anything, was in his chamber morning, noon, and night. In
his sickness she regarded him as a pet bird, or a favourite horse;
and, to say sooth, it would seem there were other feelings too, for
one time when he was sleeping he was wakened by the touch of her lips
upon his brow. Guests came and went at the chateau, but their presence
made no change in her conduct. When Mademoiselle de Chaumont was asked
for, the reply was, usually, "She is in the Seigneur de Visconti's
chamber;" and people began to wonder and to talk.
The circles made on the clear bosom of the waters by a pebble cast
into them differ in this from those produced by the spread of rumour;
in the one case they become more and more faint in proportion to their
distance from the centre; in the other, they are not only extended,
but deepened. The gossip of the neighbouring chateaux spread to the
neighbouring towns, thence to wider circles still. They reached the
chateau of De Vitry, and they reached the court, and many a
circumstance was added which had never existed. Blanche Marie and De
Vitry rejoiced, for they hoped that the tendance of Eloise de Chaumont
might not only aid to cure Lorenzo from mere physical evils, but to
apply still more efficacious remedies to his mind. She was young, she
was beautiful, she was wealthy, the only child left by one of the
first nobles in the land; and there seemed all the frankness and
freedom of innocence about her, with a kindly heart, and a mind which
was brilliant, if not strong. They rode over together to see their
young cousin, and Blanche Marie was charmed with all she saw. She knew
not how dangerous it is to give way to impulses where feelings are not
backed by principles. She thought Eloise one provided by Heaven to
wean Lorenzo from the memory of another more dear, whom she believed
to be unworthy of him.
At the court of the King of France--the lawful guardian of the young
heiress--the rumours of what was taking place at Chaumont produced
some agitation. Eloise was a special favourite of sweet Anne of
Brittany, and the queen was vexed and alarmed. Men are not so easily
affected by scandal as women, and the king laughed at what had grieved
his wife. "My life for it," he said, "this matter will be easily
explained. My young cousin Lorenzo is not one to peril a lady's
reputation, and if he has done so he must make reparation. We will
send for him, however, my dear lady."
When the king's letter arrived, requiring in kindly terms Lorenzo's
presence at Amboise, that young nobleman, though able to rise from his
bed, was by no means sufficiently recovered to take a long journey, or
even to mount his horse. He assured the king in his reply, however,
that the moment he could ride he would get out on the journey; and, to
tell the truth, he longed not a little to leave the castle at
Chaumont. He himself felt that his residence there was becoming
somewhat dangerous to him. The memory of Leonora could not be banished
from his mind. Disappointment, indignation, and even a certain feeling
of contempt, which the indifference he believed her to have shown had
generated, could not extinguish entirely that first-born, fairy love,
which, once it has possession of the heart, rarely goes out entirely.
But yet Eloise de Chaumont was, as the poet says, "beautiful
exceedingly"--of a very different character from Leonora, more fair,
more laughing, with less soul in the look, less depth and intensity of
mind in the eyes, but still very beautiful. A sort of intimacy too, of
a nature difficult to describe, had sprung up during her long
attendance upon him; they called each other by their Christian names,
and, although no word of love had ever passed between them, it was
evident to everyone around that Eloise, knowing that her loveliness
and wealth gave her the choice of almost any man in France, looked
upon Lorenzo as her own, and would have been as much surprised as
grieved to think there was a doubt of her becoming his wife.
Lorenzo, for his part, could not but be grateful, could not but
admire. One thing, however, proved that he did not love--he saw in her
many faults. He wished she was not so light, so frivolous. He wished
he could see some indications of firm character and steadfast
principles. "And yet," he thought, "Where I believed they most existed
they were the most wanting. What matters it to me whom I wed now? If
Eloise can love me, that amounts to the utmost sum of happiness I can
now hope for."
Nevertheless, when, at the end of another fortnight, he mounted his
horse to proceed to Amboise, not a word had passed to bind him to her
who had nursed him so kindly.
"When will you be back, Lorenzo?" asked Eloise, as she gave him her
cheek to kiss at parting.
"I know not what the king wishes," replied Lorenzo, "or how long he
may detain me--not long, I hope."
Those words bound him to nothing in the common eye of the world; but,
as he pondered them while riding on his way, he felt that they implied
a promise to return as soon as the king left him free to do so. And
yet he hesitated, and yet he doubted, and yet he asked himself, "Can
she make my happiness, or can I make hers?"
"It is well to be off with the old love
Before we are on with the new,"
says an old song, and Lorenzo had reason to regret that he did not
apply the maxim it contains to his own heart.
After traversing one half of France, and at Blois increasing his
retinue by a number of his servants from Paris, he rode on to fair
Amboise, where the king was then engaged in erecting those splendid
buildings which since his day have been the scene of so many tragical
events. He arrived at the castle early in the morning, and was
immediately admitted to Charles's presence. The monarch received him
kindly, saying,
"So, my good cousin, you have come at length; your illness must have
been severe and tedious. What was its nature?"
"Some broken bones, may it please your Majesty, and a body all bruised
and shaken by my horse falling down a hill and rolling over me,"
replied Lorenzo.
"By my faith! it does not please my Majesty at all," said the king,
laughing. "Odds life! dear Lorenzo, if your horse had served you so at
Fornovo, I should have been at the tender mercies of the Venetians,
most likely. But they tell me you found consolation in a fair lady's
society, and had plenty of it."
"Mademoiselle de Chaumont attended me most kindly, and gave me as much
of her time as she could spare," replied Lorenzo, gravely.
"She gave you a little of her reputation too, I am told," answered the
king, "and this is a subject on which I must speak to you seriously,
my cousin. You are perhaps not aware that idle and malicious tongues
have been busy with your name and that of Eloise de Chaumont. They say
that she would pass more than one half the night in your chamber."
The angry blood rushed up into Lorenzo's face, but he answered at
first scoffingly. "If she did, sire, it must have been when I was
insensible to the honour," said Lorenzo; but he added, in a sterner
tone, "in short, my lord the king, he who said so is a liar, and I
will prove it on his body with my lance."
"There is an easier manner to clear the young lady's reputation,"
replied Charles, "for cleared, of course, it must be. She is a ward of
the crown. Her father was one of our best subjects and most faithful
friends, and your own station and fortune, as well as our affection
for you, render you, of all others, the man on whom we should wish to
bestow her hand. But, my dear cousin," he continued, in a lighter
tone, "there was, if I remember right, a fair lady in Italy whose
knight you were when we were there?"
Lorenzo winced as if a serpent had stung him.
"She is nothing to me, my lord, nor I to her," he said; "her own will
has severed every bond between us."
"Then there is no impediment," said the king, "to your marriage to
Mademoiselle de Chaumont?"
"None whatever that I know of, sire," replied Lorenzo.
"And you promise me, whatever may happen to myself," said Charles,
"that you will heal this little scandal, produced by her great
kindness to yourself, by making her your wife as speedily as may be?"
"If she will accept my hand," replied Lorenzo, "of which as yet I know
nothing; for no one word of love has ever passed between us; but God
forbid that any evil chance should befall your Majesty, as your words
seem to anticipate."
"Who can tell?" said the king in a gloomy tone. "Of four children my
dear Anne has given me, not one remains alive; they have perished in
their beauty and their bloom. Why should I not perish with them? This
world is full of accidents and dangers, and we walk continually within
the shadow of death. My thoughts have been very gloomy lately, my good
cousin," and he laid his hand affectionately on Lorenzo's shoulder;
"and yet what matters it," he continued, "whether it be to-day,
to-morrow, or the next day? Stretch life out as long as we can, it is
but a span at last. However, it is well, in this uncertainty of being,
to delay not one hour anything that may be ruined by delay. I will
have the royal consent to your marriage with the ward of the crown
drawn out this morning. Come to me towards the hour of three, and it
shall be ready for you. The queen will then receive you more
graciously, when I have told her all, than she might do now."
When Lorenzo returned at the hour appointed, he was conducted into
that beautiful hall still to be seen at Amboise, where he found the
king, the queen, and several attendants, apparently ready to go forth.
Anne of Brittany did receive him most graciously; and Charles handed
him the paper authorizing his immediate marriage with Eloise de
Chaumont.
"We shall but give you time to bait your horses, Seigneur Visconti,"
said the Queen of France, "and then send you back to your fair bride.
No stain must rest upon a lady's reputation long; and though this be
but the work of evil tongues, without a shadow of foundation for the
scandal, the sooner they are silenced the better. We are now going out
by the old postern into the fosse to see a game of tennis played, in
which, perchance, my lord may take part. We invite you to go with us,
that all the world may see we give no credit to these wild rumours."
One of the chamberlains hastened to open the door of the hall, and the
royal party passed out, followed by Lorenzo and the attendants. They
took their way through the great marble hall below, and through a
long, narrow corridor or passage in the thick wall of the castle. It
was terminated by a low-browed, stone archway, with an oaken door, in
passing through which Charles, miscalculating its height, struck his
head violently against the arch, and would have fallen had he not been
caught by Lorenzo, who came close behind.
For a moment or two the king seemed confused and almost stunned; but
the accident he had met with was so commonplace and apparently
insignificant that nobody took much notice of it. The ladies who
followed the queen were inclined to smile, and Charles himself treated
it more lightly than any one. He pressed his hand, it is true, once or
twice upon the top of his head, and took off his bonnet for the cool
air, but he declared it was "nothing--a mere nothing."
A paleness had spread over the young monarch's face, however, which
Lorenzo Visconti did not like; but the royal party were soon in the
dry deep fosse, and the memorable _jeu de paume_ began.
Charles prided himself upon his skill in all manly exercises, and
after looking on for a time, he took a racket, and joined in the game.
He was, or he was suffered to appear, the best player present; but
after he had played one score he gave up the racket, and withdrew from
the game, remaining for a short while as a spectator; and Lorenzo
remarked that, as the king stood looking on, he twice pressed his hand
upon his heart. At length he turned to the queen, and the rest of the
party who had accompanied him thither, and proposed to return into the
castle, adding a few words to Lorenzo on his approaching marriage. The
young nobleman walked nearly by his side, but a little behind, and all
passed the postern, and entered the narrow gallery or corridor, still
talking. When they had nearly reached a flight of steps which led to
the halls above, the king turned suddenly towards Lorenzo, saying,
"Remember," and then fell at once upon the pavement.
A scene of indescribable confusion followed. Some of the attendants
raised the monarch to carry him up the stairs, but the chief
chamberlain forbade them to move him till a physician should be
called. Some cushions were brought to support his head, and speedily a
number of fresh faces crowded the passage; but the king remained
without consciousness. Some broken words fell from his lips, but no
one could discover what they meant, and, after a short struggle with
death, Charles VIII. passed away, beloved and mourned rather than
respected.