that Charles of Montsoreau, with two companions, his faithful Gondrin
and the little page, presented himself at the gate of Paris which
opened upon the Soissons road. A surly arquebusier with a steel cap on
his head, his gun upon his shoulder, and the rest thereof in his hand,
was the first person that he encountered at the bridge over the fosse.
Some other soldiers were sitting before the guardhouse; and the
wicket-gate of the city itself was open, with an armed head protruded
through, talking to a country girl with a basket on her arm, who had
just passed out of the gate, none the better probably for her visit to
the city.
The arquebusier planted himself immediately in the way of the young
cavalier and his followers, and seemed prepared to stop them, though
on the young Count applying to him for admission, he replied in a
surly tone, "I have nothing to do with it. Ask the lieutenant at the
gate."
To him, in the next place, then, Charles of Montsoreau applied; but
though his tone was somewhat more civil than that of the soldier, he
made a great many difficulties, examining the young nobleman all over,
and looking as if he thought him a very suspicious personage. The
Count after a certain time grew impatient, and asked, "You do not
mean, I suppose, to refuse the passport of the King?"
"No," replied the other grinning. "We won't refuse the passport of the
King, or the King's passport; but in order that the passport may be
verified, it were as well, young gentleman, that you come to the gates
by day. You can sleep in the faubourg for one night I take it."
"Certainly not without great inconvenience to myself," replied the
Count, "and more inconvenience to the affairs of the Duke of Guise."
"The Duke of Guise!" said the man starting. "Your tongue has not the
twang of Lorraine."
"But nevertheless," replied the Count, "the business I come upon is
that of the Duke of Guise, which you would have seen if you had read
the passport and safe-conduct. Does it not direct therein, to give
room and free passage, safeguard, and protection to one gentleman of
noble birth and two attendants, coming and going hither and thither in
all parts of the realm of France, on the especial business of our true
and well-beloved cousin, Henry, Duke of Guise? and is there not
written in the Duke's own hand underneath, 'Given to our faithful
friend and counsellor, Charles of Montsoreau, Count of Logeres, for
the purposes above written, by me, Henry of Guise?'"
The man held the paper for a moment to a lantern that hung up against
the heavy stonework of the arch, and then exclaimed in a loud voice,
"Throw open the gates there, bring the keys. Monseigneur, I beg you a
thousand pardons for detaining you a minute. If I had but seen the
writing of the Duke of Guise the doors would have been opened
instantly."
As rapidly as possible the heavy gates, which had remained immoveable
at the order of the King, swang back at the name of the Guise, and one
of the attendants and the captain of the night running by the side of
the Count's horse to prevent all obstruction, caused the second gate
to be opened as rapidly, and the Count entered the capital city of his
native country for the first time in his life.
The streets were dark and gloomy, narrow and high; and as one rode
along them looking up from time to time towards the sky, the small
golden stars were seen twinkling above the deep walls of the houses,
as if beheld from the bottom of a well. Charles of Montsoreau had not
chosen to ask his way at the gate, and though utterly unacquainted
with the great city in which he now plunged, he rode on, trusting to
find some shop still open where he might inquire his way without the
chance of being deceived. Every booth and shop was then shut, however;
and for a very long way up the street which he had first entered, he
met with not a single living creature to whom he could apply for
direction. At length, however, that street ended abruptly in another
turning to the left, and a sudden glare of light burst upon his eyes,
proceeding from a building about a hundred yards farther on, which
seemed to be on fire.
There was no bustle, however, or indication of any thing unusual in
the street; and Charles of Montsoreau riding on, found that the blaze
proceeded from a dozen or more of flambeaus planted in a sort of
wooden barricade[2] before a large mansion, which fell back some yards
from the general facade of the street, while a fat porter clothed in
manifold colours, with a broad shoulder-belt and a sword by his side,
walked to and fro in the light, trimming the torches with stately
dignity. The young Count then remembered having heard of the custom of
thus illuminating the barriers, which were before all the principal
mansions in Paris during the first part of every night; and riding up
towards the porter, he demanded whose hotel it was, and begged to be
directed to one of the best inns in the neighbourhood.
---------------------
[Footnote 2: One or two of these houses with barriers were still
existing in Paris not many years ago.]
---------------------
The man gazed at him for a moment with the evident purpose of looking
upon him as a bumpkin; but the porters of that day were required to be
extremely discriminating, and the air and appearance of the young
Count were not to be mistaken, and bowing low he replied, "I see you
are a stranger, sir. This is the house of Monsieur d'Aumont. As to the
best inn, inns are always but poor places; but I have heard a good
account of the White House in the next street, at the sign of the
Crown of France. If you go on quite to the end of this street and then
turn to your right, you will come into another street as large and
longer, at the very end of which, just looking down to the Pont Neuf,
you will see a large white house with a gateway and the crown hanging
over it. I have heard that every thing is good there, and the host
civil; but he will make you pay for what you have."
"That is but just," replied the young Count; and giving the porter
thanks for his information, he rode on and took up his abode at the
sign of the Crown of France.
The aspect of the inn was very different from that of an auberge in
the country; for, though the court-yard into which Charles of
Montsoreau rode was littered with straw, and a large and splendid
stable appeared behind, it was not now grooms and stable-boys that
appeared on the first notice of a traveller's approach, but cooks and
scullions and turnspits; while the master himself with a snow-white
cap upon his head, a jacket of white cloth, and a white apron turned
up sufficiently to show his black breeches and stockings with red
clocks, appeared more like what he really was, the head of the
kitchen, than the master of the house.
He looked a little suspiciously, at first, at the young stranger
arriving with only two attendants, and with no other baggage than a
small valise upon each horse, and an additional upon that of Ignati,
to render the boy's weight equal to that of his fellow travellers. But
the host was accustomed to deal with many kinds of men; and like the
porter, after examining the Count for a moment, seeing some gold
embroidery, but not much, upon his riding-dress, gilded spurs over his
large boots of untanned leather, and a sword, the hilt and sheath of
which were of no slight value, he also made a lowly reverence, and
conducted him to one of the best apartments in his house. It consisted
of three rooms, each entering into the other with a small cabinet
beyond the chief bed-room; and the arrangements which the Count made
at once--placing Gondrin's bed in the antechamber, and having the
page's truckle-bed removed from his own bed-side to occupy the cabinet
beyond--gave the host of the Crown of France a still greater idea of
his importance.
Charles of Montsoreau did not fail to examine the face of the
aubergiste, and to remark his proceedings with as much accuracy. The
man's countenance was intelligent, his eyes quick and piercing, but
withal there was an air of straightforward frankness, tempered by
civility and habitual politeness, which was prepossessing; and as the
young Count knew that he might have occasion to make use of him in
various ways during his stay in Paris, he resolved to try him with
those things which were the most immediately necessary, and which at
the same time were of the least importance.
"Stop a minute, my good host," he said, as the man was about to
withdraw to order fires to be lighted and suppers to be cooked. "There
are some things which press for attention, and in which I must have
your assistance."
"This youngster speaks with a tone of authority," thought the
aubergiste; but he bowed low and said nothing, whilst the young Count
went on, "What is your name, my good friend?" demanded Charles of
Montsoreau.
"I am called Gamin la Chaise," replied the aubergiste with a smile.
"Well then, Master la Chaise, as you see," he continued, "I have come
hither to Paris on some business which required a certain degree of
despatch, and have ventured with few attendants and little baggage. As
however the business on which I did come will call me into scenes
where some greater degree of splendour is necessary than perhaps
either suits my taste or my general convenience, I must before I go
forth to-morrow morning, have my train increased by at least six
attendants, who are always to be found in Paris ready fashioned I
know; and therefore I must beseech you to find them for me in proper
time, having them equipped in my proper colours and livery, according
as the same shall be described to you by my good friend Gondrin here.
This is the first service you must do me, my good host."
"Sir," replied the landlord, "the six lackeys shall be found and
equipped in less time than would roast a woodcock. They are as plenty
as sparrows or house-rats, and are caught in a moment."
"Yes, but my good host," answered the Count, "there is one great
difficulty which you will understand in a moment. Amongst the six, I
want you to find me one honest man if it be possible."
The landlord raised his shoulders above his ears, stuck out his two
hands horizontally from his sides, and assumed an appearance of
despair at the unheard of proposition of the Count, which had nearly
brought a smile into the young nobleman's countenance. "That indeed,
sir," he said, "is another affair; and I believe you might just as
well ask me to catch you a wild roe in the garden of the Louvre, as to
find you the thing that you demand. Nevertheless, labour and
perseverance conquer all difficulties: and now I think of it, there is
a youth who may answer your purpose; he knows Paris well too; but,
strange to say, by some unaccountable fit of obstinacy, he would not
tell a lie the other day to the Duke of Epernon in order to pass an
item of the intendant's accounts, which would have come in for a good
round sum every month if he would but have sworn that he used five
quarts of milk every week to whiten the leather of his master's boots.
He would not swear to this, and therefore the intendant discharged
him, as he was a hired servant."
"Let me have him; let me have him," cried the Count. "I will only ask
him to tell the truth, and hope he may not find that so difficult."
The Count then proceeded to speak about horses, and the host readily
undertook, finding that money was abundant, to procure all the
horse-dealers in Paris with their best steeds, before nine o'clock on
the following day. The demeanour of the young nobleman, it must be
confessed, puzzled the good aubergiste a good deal; and on going down
to his own abode, he acknowledged to his wife, what he seldom
acknowledged to any one, that he could not make his guest out at all.
"I should think," he said, "from the plenty of money, and the
expensive way in which he seems inclined to deal, that he was some
wild stripling from the provinces, the son of a rich president or
advocate lately dead, who came hither to call himself Count, and spend
his patrimony in haste. But then, again, in some things he is as
shrewd as an old hawk, and can jest withal about rogues and honest
men, while he keeps his own secrets close, and lets no one ask him a
question."
On the following morning, at an early hour, the six attendants whom he
had required were brought before him in array, exhibiting, with one
exception, as sweet a congregation of roguish faces as the great
capital of roguery ever yet produced. The countenance of the lad who
had been discharged from the service of the Duke of Epernon pleased
the young Count much, and without waiting till he was farther
equipped, he put Gondrin under his charge for the purpose of notifying
at the palace of the Louvre that he had arrived in the capital,
bearing a letter from the Duke of Guise to the King, and of begging to
have an hour named for its delivery. He found, however, with some
mortification--for his eager spirit and his anxiety brooked no
delay--that the King was at Vincennes; and his only consolation was
that the communication which he had sent to the palace, bearing the
fearful name of the Duke of Guise, was certain to be communicated to
the monarch as soon as possible. Some short time was expended in the
purchase of horses, and in making various additions to his own
apparel, well knowing the ostentatious splendour of the court he was
about to visit.
We have indeed remarked that there was perhaps a touch of foppery in
his own nature, though it was but slight. Nevertheless, splendour of
appearance certainly pleased him, even while a natural good taste led
him to admire, and to seek in his own dress, all that was graceful and
harmonising, rather than that which was rich or brilliant.
He was thus engaged, with several tradesmen around him, ordering the
materials for various suits of apparel, which a tailor standing by
engaged to produce in a miraculously short time, when the door of his
apartment was opened, and a somewhat fat pursy man in black was
admitted, entering with an air of importance, and receiving the lowly
salutations of the good citizens who were present. Charles of
Montsoreau gazed at him as a stranger; but the good man, with an air
of importance, and an affectation of courtly breeding, besought him to
finish what he was about, adding, that he had a word for his private
ear which he would communicate afterwards. The young Count, without
further ceremony, continued to give his orders, examining his new
visiter from time to time, and with no very great feelings of
satisfaction.
The countenance was fat, reddish, and, upon the whole, stupid, with an
air of indecision about it which was very strongly marked, though
there was every now and then a certain drawing in of the fringeless
eyelids round the small black eyes, which gave the expression of
intense cunning to features otherwise dull and flat.
When he had completely done with his mercers, and tailors, and
cloth-makers--who had occupied him some time, for he did not hurry
himself--Charles of Montsoreau dismissed them; and turning to his
visiter said, "Now, sir, may I have the happiness of knowing your
business with me?"
"Sir," replied the other, rising and speaking in a low and
confidential tone, "my name is Nicolas Poulain. I am Lieutenant of the
Prevot de l'Isle."
He stopped short at this announcement; and the Count, after waiting a
moment for something more, replied somewhat angrily, "Well, sir, I am
very happy to hear it. I hope the office suits Nicolas Poulain, and
Nicolas Poulain suits the office."
A slight redness came into the man's face, rendering it a shade deeper
than it ordinarily was; but finding it necessary to reply, as the
Count, without sitting down, remained looking him stedfastly in the
face, he answered, "I thought, sir,--indeed I took it for granted,
sir, that you might have some communication for me from the Duke of
Guise."
"None whatever, sir," replied the young Count drily. "Have you any
thing to tell me, Monsieur Nicolas Poulain, on the part of his
Highness?"
"No, sir, no," replied the other, attempting to assume an air of
spirit which did not become him. "If you have not seen him more lately
than I have, I am misinformed."
"And pray, my good sir," demanded the Count, "who was it that took the
trouble of informing you of any thing regarding me?"
"That question is soon answered, sir," replied Nicolas Poulain,
"though you seem to make so much difficulty in regard to answering
mine. The person who informed me of your arrival was good Master
Chapelle Marteau, who saw you last night at the gates when you
entered."
The name immediately struck the young Count as the same with one of
those written on the letters which the Duke of Guise had given him to
be used in case of need; but feeling how necessary it was to deal
carefully with any of the faction of the Sixteen, to which both
Chapelle Marteau and Nicolas Poulain belonged, he determined to say
not one word upon the subject of his mission to any one. Much less,
indeed, was he inclined to do so in the case of Nicolas Poulain, in
whose face nature had stamped deceit and roguery in such legible
characters, that the young Count, had he been forced to trust him with
any secret, would have felt sure that the whole would be betrayed
within an hour. All, then, that he replied to Master Nicolas Poulain
was, that though he knew well the personage he mentioned by name, he
had not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance.
The answers were so short, the tone and manner so dry, that the worthy
citizen found it expedient to make his retreat; and taking a short and
unceremonious leave of one who had given him so cool a reception, he
left the Count's apartments, and descended the stairs. The moment he
was gone, some suspicion, which crossed the young cavalier's mind
suddenly, made him call the page, and bid him follow his late visiter
till he marked the house which Master Nicolas entered, taking care to
remember the way back.
The boy set off without a word, and returned in less than half an
hour, informing the young Count that he had tracked Master Nicolas
Poulain into a large house, which, on inquiry, he found to be the
private dwelling of the Lord of Villequier.
"The Duke is betrayed by some of these leaguers,--that is clear
enough!" thought the young Count. "I have heard that many of his best
enterprises have been frustrated by some unknown means. Who is there
on earth that one can trust?" And leaning his head upon his hand he
fell into deep thought, for to him the question of whom he could trust
was at that moment one, not only entirely new, but one of deep and
vital importance also. In his journey to Paris he had two great and
all-important objects before him. To find out his brother, and, if
possible, to persuade him to change a course of conduct which he felt
to be dishonourable to himself and to his house, was one of these
objects; and he doubted not that--if he could fully explain, and make
the Marquis comprehend, his own conduct and his purposes--if he could
show him that his only chance of obtaining the hand of Marie de
Clairvaut was by attaching himself to the House of Guise, and that he
had not a brother's rivalry to fear--Gaspar de Montsoreau might be
induced to return to the party he had quitted, and not finally to
commit himself to conduct so little to his own interest as that which
he was pursuing.
The other object, however, was much more important even than that, to
the heart of Charles of Montsoreau; and the feelings which were
connected with it--as so often happens with the feelings which affect
every one in human life--were sadly at variance with other purposes.
That object was to discover and guide to the court of the Duke of
Guise, her whom he himself loved best on all the earth; to free her
from the hands of the base and dangerous people into whose power she
had fallen, and to leave her in security, if not in happiness.
When he thought of seeing her again,--when he thought of passing days
with her on the journey, of being her guide, her protector, her
companion, the overpowering longing and thirst for such a joyful time
shook and agitated him, made his heart thrill and his brain reel; and,
bending down his face upon his hands, he gave himself up for a long
time to whirling dreams of happiness. But then again he asked himself
if, after such hours, he could ever quit her; if--following the firm
purpose with which he had left Montsoreau--he could resist all
temptation to seek her love further, and after plunging into the
contentions of the day could dedicate his sword and his life, as he
had intended, to warfare against the infidels in the order of St.
John? There was a great struggle in his mind when he asked himself the
question--a great and terrible struggle; but at length he answered it
in the affirmative. "Yes," he said; "yes, I can do so!" But there was
a condition attached to that decision. "I can do so," he said, "if I
find that there is a chance of her wedding him; if I find that, in
reality and truth, the first bright hopes I entertained were indeed
fallacious."
To say the truth, doubts had come over his mind as to whether he had
construed Marie de Clairvaut's conduct rightly. Those doubts had been
instilled into his imagination by the words of the Duke of Guise.
Fancy lingered round them: shall we say that Hope, too, played
with them? If she did so, it was against his will; for he was in
that sad and painful situation where hope, reproved by the highest
feelings of the heart, dare scarcely point to the objects of desire.
Terrible--terrible is that situation where Virtue, or Honour, or
Generosity bind down imagination, silence even hope, and shut against
us the gates of that paradise we see, but must not enter. These,
indeed, are the angels with the flaming swords.
Charles of Montsoreau would not suffer himself to hope any thing that
might make his brother's misery; but yet fancy would conjure up bright
dreams; and knowing and feeling that if those dreams were realised, a
complete change must come over his actions and his conduct, he saw
that it would be needful to use guarded language to his brother,--or
rather to use only the guard of perfect frankness. He resolved, then,
to tell him fully his purposes, but to tell him at the same time the
conditions under which those circumstances were to be executed.
As he pondered, however, and thought over the changed demeanour of his
brother, over the fiery impetuosity and impatience of his whole temper
and conduct, he remembered that it might be with difficulty that he
could obtain a hearing for a sufficient length of time to explain
himself fully, and he consequently determined to write clearly and
explicitly, so that there might be no error or mistake whatever, and
that his conduct might remain clear and undoubted; and sitting down at
once, he did as he proposed, that he might have the letter ready to
send or to deliver as soon as he discovered where his brother was.
The epistle was short, but it was distinct. He referred boldly and
directly to his conversation with the Abbe de Boisguerin; he explained
his conduct since; and he told his decided and unchangeable purpose of
seeking in no way the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, unless he had
reason to believe that the deep attachment which he felt and
acknowledged towards her were already returned. He ended by exhorting
his brother to do that which his pledges and professions to the Duke
of Guise had bound him to do, to guide back Mademoiselle de Clairvaut
himself to the protection of her uncle, and to avert the necessity of
his seeking her and conducting her to Soissons.
In thus letting his thoughts flow on in collateral channels from
subject to subject, he had deviated from the original object of his
contemplations, which was, the method to be pursued for instituting
private inquiries throughout the city, in regard to the arrival, both
of his brother and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. Unacquainted with any
persons in Paris, he knew not how to set on foot the inquiry; and his
mind had just reverted to the subject, which appeared more and more
embarrassing each time he thought of it, when he was informed, with an
air of great importance, by the host, that Monsieur Chapelle Marteau
demanded humbly to have the honour of paying him his respects.