night Gondrin reappeared from Soissons, bringing with him a brief note
from the Duke of Guise:--
"Your interview," it said, "was such as might be expected; your
conduct all that it should have been; your view of the result right.
They are endeavouring to trifle both with you and me; but we must show
them that this cannot be done. I send off a courier at once to
Villequier, requiring that the King's authorisation shall be
immediately given to you. If it reach you not before to-morrow night,
I pray you set off at once with the passports you possess for
Chateauneuf; for I have information scarcely to be doubted, that our
poor Marie has been conveyed thither. Show her the letter which I gave
you, requiring her to follow your directions in every thing. Endeavour
to bring her at once, with what people you can collect upon her lands,
across the country towards Rheims, avoiding Paris. If any one stops
you, or attempts either to delay your progress or dispute your
passage, show them my letter of authority, as well as the passports
that you already possess; and if they farther molest or delay you,
they shall not be forgotten, be they great or small, when they come to
reckon with your friend, Henry of Guise."
In a postscript was written at the bottom--"In going, avoid Dreux and
Montfort, for the plague is raging there. If there be any force
stationed at Chateauneuf to prevent the removal of Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut, only ascertain distinctly the fact of her presence in the
chateau, and come back to rejoin me with all speed."
The tidings brought by Gondrin showed Charles of Montsoreau that great
events of some kind were in preparation. Various bodies of troops
attached to the House of Lorraine were moving here and there in
Champaign and the Ardennes; daily conferences were held between the
Duke of Guise, the Cardinal of Bourbon, the Cardinal of Guise, and a
number of other influential noblemen; the propriety of deposing the
King was said to be openly discussed at Soissons, and ridicule and
hatred were unsparingly busy with the names of Epernon, Villequier,
and others. Couriers, totally independent of those which were sent
upon the business that brought the young Count to Paris, were almost
hourly passing between the capital and Soissons; and it was daily
whispered in the latter city, that experienced officers and small
bodies of troops were daily gliding into the capital from the army
which the Duke had led to victory on so many previous occasions.
Early on the following morning, Charles of Montsoreau again proceeded
to the Hotel de Villequier, in order that nothing might be wanting on
his part. But the reply once more was, that the minister was absent;
and the day passed over without any tidings from either the King or
his favourite. As he passed through various parts of the city,
however, the young Count remarked many things that somewhat surprised
him. He had hitherto ridden amongst the people quite unnoticed, but
now many persons whom he met bowed low to him, and those seemingly of
the most respectable classes of citizens. On two or three occasions
the burgher guard saluted him as he passed; and in one place, where
several people were collected together, there was a cry of "Long live
the Duke of Guise!"
All these indications of some approaching event of importance at any
other moment might have given him an inclination to remain in Paris:
but he had other interests more deeply at heart; and having waited
till the last moment to make sure that the King's authorisation was
still delayed, he prepared to set out that very night, taking with him
only the number of persons specified in the passports which he had
brought from Soissons.
In a brief and hurried note which he wrote to Chapelle Marteau, he
informed him that he was about to absent himself from Paris for a
short time on business of importance; and begged him, as it was his
intention to pass out of the city by the Faubourg St. Germain that
very night, to facilitate his so doing as quietly as possible. That
his absence might remain for some time concealed from those who might
obstruct his proceedings, he retained his apartments at the inn, and
the servants he had hired, paying the whole for some time in advance,
and directing that if any inquiries were made, the reply should be,
that he was only absent for a few days.
When all was prepared he set out, and at the gates found his friend of
the Seize, with another personage, who seemed to consider himself of
great importance. No words, however, were spoken, no passports were
demanded, the two Leaguers bowed lowly to the Count, the gates opened
as if of themselves, and, issuing forth, the young Count rode on upon
the way, anxious to place as great a distance between Paris and
himself ere the next morning as possible.
It was a soft calm night in April, the sky was unclouded and filled
with stars, the dew thick upon the grass, and the air balmy; and the
young nobleman pursued his way with a mind filled with thoughts which,
though certainly in part melancholy, were still tinged with the soft
light of hope. His horses were strong and fresh, and just in the grey
of the morning, on the following day, he reached the small town of
Rambouillet.
The signs and indications of the disturbed and anxious state of
society in France were visible in the little town as the young Count
gazed from the door of the inn, after seeing that his horses were well
taken care of. There were anxious faces and eyes regarding the
stranger with the expression of doubt, and perhaps suspicion; there
were little knots gathered together and talking gloomily at the
corners of different streets; the whistle of the light-hearted peasant
was unheard; and the cart or the flock was driven forth in silence.
The Count's horses required rest; none were to be procured with which
he could pursue his journey, and he determined to take what repose he
could get ere he proceeded on his way. Casting himself down then upon
a bed, he closed his eyes and sought to sleep: but suddenly something
like a wild cry sounded from the other side of the street, and
springing up he looked out of the window. He could almost have touched
the opposite house, so narrow was the way, and he saw completely into
a room thereof through the window that faced his own.
There was a woman in it of about the middle age, kneeling by the
bedside of a youth who seemed just dead; and on looking down a little
below he saw a man, dressed in a black serge robe, standing on a
ladder, and marking the front of the building with a large white
cross. On the impulse of the moment, Charles of Montsoreau ran down
stairs, and approached the door of the house, intending to enter. But
he was stopped at the door by two of the guards of the city. "Do you
not see the mark of the plague?" they said. "You must not go in; or,
if you go in, you must not come out again."
With a sorrowful heart, Charles of Montsoreau turned back into the
inn, but he found no sleep, and the image of the woman clasping her
dead son still haunted him in waking visions.
CHAP. VII.
It was about nine o'clock at night, and the moon, rising later than
the night before, had not yet gone down, as Charles of Montsoreau
passed through the wide forest that then surrounded Chateauneuf en
Thimerais. It was a beautiful moonlight scene, affording to the eye
many various and pleasant objects. The greater part of the forest,
indeed, consisted of old trees far apart from each other, and only
surrounded by brushwood in patches here and there. Occasionally,
indeed, deeper and thicker parts of the forest presented themselves,
where the axe had not been plied so unsparingly; but the ground was
hilly and broken, and the road ascended and descended continually,
showing every change of the forest ground. There were manifold streams
too in that part of the country, and small gushing fountains, while a
chapel or two, here and there raised by the pious inhabitants of the
neighbourhood, broke the desolate appearance of the wood by showing
sweet traces of human hope or gratitude. The heart, however, of
Charles of Montsoreau enjoyed not that scene as it might at any other
time, for many dark and painful reports had reached him of the state
of the country in that district, and he looked anxiously forward to
his arrival at the little village of Morvillette seated in the midst
of the forest, to hear further tidings of Chateauneuf and its
neighbourhood. A party of soldiers he had already heard had passed
along some days before, escorting a carriage, and it was understood
their destination was Chateauneuf; but the people of Tremblay, where
he received this intelligence, shook the head doubtingly, and added,
that the traveller would hear more at Morvillette, and could there get
a guide to the chateau, which was two miles from the town.
At length, lying in a hollow of the woodland, the moonlight showed him
a group of dark cottages; but no friendly light appeared in the
windows; and as he rode on amongst the houses, there was a sort of
awful stillness about the place, which seemed to indicate that it was
not slumber that kept the tongues of the peasantry silent. There were
no dogs in the streets; there was no smoke curling up from any of the
chimneys; all was still, and many of the doors stood wide open in the
night air, exhibiting nothing but solitude within.
"There must be somebody in the place," cried Gondrin, springing from
his horse and approaching one of the cottages, the door of which was
shut.
Without knocking, the man threw open the door at once, and went in as
far as the bridle of his horse would let him; but he came out again
immediately, and his master could see that his face was pale and its
expression horrified.
"A man and a woman," he said in a low voice, "both dead! the one in
the bed and the other on the floor, and both of them looking as blue
as a cloud."
The boy Ignati pressed up his horse to hear; and the Count said, "In
all probability there may be things still more horrible before us. I
shall go on, Gondrin; I must go on: but there is no need for either
yourself or the page to do so. You had better both go back. Make the
best of your way to Soissons, there tell the Duke what you have seen,
and assure him that I will do my best to fulfil his wishes if I live."
"My Lord," said the boy, "I might quit you for a kind and noble master
when danger was not about you, but I will only quit you now with
life."
"And so say I," replied Gondrin in a somewhat reassured but still
anxious tone. "But let us ride on, my Lord, and get out of this
horrible place. We shall find no one here to show us the way."
"I believe I can find it myself," replied the Count. "We turn to the
left as soon as we have passed the village. Come on!"
Thus saying, he somewhat quickened his pace and rode away, the moon
now declining towards her setting, throwing longer shadows, and giving
more uncertain light. Anxiously did the young Count gaze from the brow
of every rise, hoping to see the form of the chateau rising upon the
eminence before him. Several times he disappointed himself by fancying
that he saw it when it was not there, so that, when at length he
beheld a single faint point of light, like the spark of a firefly
amongst the distant branches, he could scarcely believe that it
afforded any true indication of that which he sought.
Riding on, however, he again and again caught sight of it, till at
length the forms of the building grew more clear and defined, and
after about half a mile more he rode up the gentle slope that
conducted towards the chateau.
It was situated in the midst of a wild game park, not unlike that of
Vincennes, only that the ground was more irregular. The building,
however, was very different: it had been erected by that Count de
Clairvaut who had been sent ambassador in the reign of Henry II. to
the Republic of Venice. He had formed his ideas of beauty in
architecture under another sky, and, but that it was somewhat larger
and heavier, it might have been supposed that the building had been
transported by some Geni from the banks of the Brenta. There was a
strong old castellated gate, however, in the walls of the park, which
had belonged to some former building. But the heavy iron gates were
wide open, and the voice of no porter responded to the call of the
young Count and his companions.
Still, however, he saw a light in the windows of the chateau, and he
eagerly rode on along the path which conducted to the principal gates
of the building. Here there was a wide flight of marble stairs, which
had been brought ready polished at an immense expense from Italy,
yellow and green with the damp, but still altogether of a different
hue and consistence from the ordinary stone of the place. From those
steps the wide forest scene beyond was fully displayed to the eye, the
chateau being built very near the highest point of the acclivity, and
the whole ground towards Dreux, Maintenon, and Chartres lying below,
with the forest itself sweeping down the edge of that chain of high
hills which separates the southern parts of Normandy from the northern
parts and Maine.
The moon at that moment was just sinking beyond the trees on the left,
and poured over the woods and plains below a flood of silver light,
caught and reflected here and there by some open stream or wide piece
of water, and, shining full upon the front of the marble building,
which, with its pillars, its capitals, and its cornices, its wide
doors and spreading porticoes, looked like the spectre of some bright
enchanted palace from another land.
The large doors that opened upon the terrace were ajar; and Charles of
Montsoreau, leaving his horse with the page, mounted the steps and
knocked hard with the haft of his dagger. A long melancholy echo was
all the sound that was returned. He knocked again, there was no
answer; and then pushing open the door, he entered the wide marble
hall. The moonlight was pouring through the tall windows, but all was
solitary; and putting his foot upon the first step of the staircase,
he was beginning to ascend. At that moment, he thought he heard a
distant sound as of an opening door; and a ray of light, streaming
down some long corridor at the top of the broad staircase, crossed the
balustrade and chequered the iron work with a different hue from the
moonlight. He now called loudly, asking if there was any one in the
building.
In a moment after, there were steps heard coming along towards the
staircase, and a voice replied, "There is death and pestilence in the
house. If you come for plunder, take it quickly; if you come by
accident, fly as fast as you may, for every breath is tainted."
The tones of that voice were not to be mistaken, even before Charles
of Montsoreau beheld the speaker; but, ere the last words were spoken,
Marie de Clairvaut herself was at the top of the staircase, bearing a
small lamp in her hand, and Charles of Montsoreau eagerly sprang up
the steps.
The lamp flashed upon the form and features which she had not at first
seen, and with a loud cry she darted forward to meet him.
The next moment, however, nearly dropping the lamp, she rushed back,
exclaiming, "Come not near, Charles! Dear, dear Charles, come not
near! These hands, not twelve hours ago, have closed the eyes of the
dead. The plague most likely is upon me now!"
But before she could add more, the arms of Charles of Montsoreau were
round her.
"You have called me dear," he said, "and what privilege can be dearer
than sharing your fate, whatever it may be? Dear, dear, dear Marie!
oh, say those words again, and make me happy!"
"But I fear for you, Charles," she said; "I fear for you. All are
either dead or have fled and left me, and I shall see you die
too,--you, you die also by the very touch, by the very breath, of one
to whom you have restored life."
"I fear not, Marie," answered Charles; "I fear not; and that is the
safest guard. Certainly you shall not see me fly and leave you; and I
fear not, either, that you will see death overtake me. But oh, if even
it did, how sweet would death itself be, watched by that dear face,
wept by those beloved eyes!"
Marie bent down her head, and said nothing; but she strove no more
against the arm that was cast round her; her hand remained in his, and
the colour rose warmly into her cheek, which had before been deadly
pale.
"If," she said at length, after a long pause, during which he had
continued to gaze earnestly, fondly, sadly upon her,--"If it were not
that I feared for you, your presence would indeed be a comfort and a
consolation to me: not that I fear for myself," she added; "I know not
why, but I have never feared. It has seemed to me as if there were no
danger to myself--as if I should certainly escape. But oh, how
terrible it would be to see you struck by the pestilence also!"
"Say no more, dear Marie; say no more," replied Charles of Montsoreau,
feeling and knowing by every word that she was his own. "I fear not; I
have no fear; and even if I had, love would trample it under foot in a
moment. I would not leave you in such an hour, not if by descending
that short flight of steps I could save myself from death: unless
indeed you told me to go, and that you loved me not."
The tears sprang into Marie de Clairvaut's eyes. "I must not tell such
a falsehood," she cried, clasping her hands together, "in an hour like
this. I never told you so; indeed I never did, though Madame de
Saulny, poor Madame de Saulny, with her dying lips assured me that you
thought so."
"There have been many errors, dear Marie," replied Charles of
Montsoreau, "which have pained both your heart and mine, I fear. But
now, my beloved, I must call in those that are with me, for we have
travelled far and ridden hard."
"Oh, call them not in!" said Marie de Clairvaut, "for they will be
frightened when they see the state of the house, and catch the
pestilence and die! Bid them lead their horses to the stables, and
sleep there. Perhaps they may find some one still living there, for
this evening at sunset I saw my father's old groom still wandering
about as usual; but you must go yourself to tell them, Charles, for I
do not believe that there is any one in the house but you and I. The
stables lie away to the left. I will wait here for you till you come
back. Go through the great doors," she said, as he descended, "and go
not into the rooms either to the right or left, for there is death in
all of them."
Charles of Montsoreau descended with a rapid step, and in a few words
gave his directions to the servants. He then returned, and taking
Marie de Clairvaut's hand in his, he pressed his lips warmly upon it,
and gazed tenderly upon her as she led him along through a wide
corridor to the room in which she had been sitting.
It formed a strange contrast,--the aspect of that room, with the
desolate knowledge that all was death and solitude through the rest of
the house. Beautiful pictures, rich ornaments, fine tapestry, gave it
an air of life and cheerfulness, which seemed strange to the feelings
of Charles of Montsoreau. But an illuminated book of prayer that lay
upon the table told how Marie de Clairvaut's thoughts had been
employed; and Charles of Montsoreau paused, and, lifting his thoughts
to Heaven, prayed earnestly, fervently, that that bright and beautiful
and beloved being might still be protected by the hand of the Almighty
in every scene of peril and danger which might yet await her.
She sat down on the chair in which she had been reading with a look of
melancholy thoughtfulness, and Charles of Montsoreau sat down beside
her, and there was a long silent pause, for the hearts of both were
too full of agitating feelings for words to be plentiful at first. The
moment and the circumstances, indeed, took from love all shame and
hesitation. Death and deprivation and desolation gave affection a
brighter, a holier light,--it was like some eternal flame burning upon
the altar of a ruined temple.
Marie de Clairvaut felt that at that moment she could speak things
that at any other time she would have sunk into the earth to say; she
felt that--with the exception of their trust in God--his love for her
and hers for him formed the grand consolation of the moment, the
healing balm, the great support of that hour of peril and of terror.
She looked at him and he at her, and they mutually thought that a few
hours perhaps might see them there, dying or dead by each other's
side, with love for the only comfort of their passing hour--with the
voice of death pronouncing their eternal union, and the grave their
bridal bed.
They thus thought, and it may seem strange to say, but--prepared as
their minds were for leaving the life of this earth behind them--such
a death to them appeared sweet; and neither feared it, but looked
forward upon the grim enemy of human life, not with the stern defying
frown of the martyr, not with the fierce and angry daring of the
warrior, but with the calm sweet smile of resignation to the will of
Heaven, and hopes beyond the tomb.
Thus they remained silent, or with but few words, for some time; and
Charles of Montsoreau felt that he was beloved. Indeed, there was not
a word, there was not a look, that did not tell him so: and yet he
longed to hear more; he longed that those words should be spoken which
would confirm, by the living voice of her he loved, the assurance of
his happiness. Gradually he won her from conversing of the present to
speak of the past; and she gently reproached him for leaving her at
Montsoreau so suddenly as he had done.
"Marie," he said, with that frankness which had always characterised
him, "let me tell you all; and then see if I did right or wrong. If I
did wrong, you shall blame me still, and I will grieve and make any
atonement in my power; but if I only mistook, and did not act wrong
intentionally, you shall forgive me, and tell me that you love me."
Marie de Clairvaut gazed in his face, and asked, "And do you doubt it
now, Charles?"
"Oh, no!" he cried, "oh, no! I ought not to doubt it, for Marie de
Clairvaut could not speak such words as she has spoken without
loving." And gently bending down his head over her, he pressed a kiss
upon that dear fair brow. "Marie," he said, "it is our fate to meet in
strange scenes. The last time that I kissed that brow, the last time
that I held you to my heart, was when I thought you dead, and lost to
me for ever."
"And when I woke up," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "and was not only
grateful to God and to you for having saved me, but happy in its being
you that did save me, and happy," she added, slightly dropping her
eyes, "in the signs of deep affection which I saw."
"And yet," he exclaimed, "and yet, when my stay or my departure hung
upon a single word from your lips, you gave me to understand that you
had not received those signs of affection as signs of affection; that
you looked upon them but as the natural effect of my witnessing your
restoration to life, when I thought you dead."
"Oh, Charles!" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut, with a slight smile,
"could you not pardon and understand such small hypocrisy as that? Did
you not know that woman's heart is shy, and seeks many a hiding-place,
even from the pursuit of one it loves?"
"I never loved but you, Marie," replied the Count, "and I am sadly
ignorant, I fear, of woman's heart. Nevertheless, upon those few words
and that moment depended my fate."
"I knew not that," cried Marie de Clairvaut, eagerly; "I knew not
that, or, upon my honour, I would have been more sincere: but what was
it, Charles, made you take so sudden a resolution? what was it made
you leave me, without a reply, in the hands of those who have striven
constantly ever since to make me believe that you cared not for me?"