eloquent words all the passion of his heart towards her, he told her
how his love had grown upon him, how it had increased each hour; and
making that the main subject of his tale, he told but as adjuncts to
it the pain which his brother's conduct had inflicted upon him, and
all the signs of rivalry which he had remarked. He then spoke of his
conversation with the Abbe de Boisguerin on their way to visit the
Count de Morly; and he told how agonised were all his feelings--how
terrible was the struggle in his heart,--and what was the resolution
that he took, to ascertain whether her affections were really gained,
and by the result to shape his conduct. He next spoke of his
conversation with her immediately preceding his departure, and of the
words which had led him to believe that she was unconscious of his
love, and did not return it.
As she listened, the tears rose in her eyes, and, laying her soft fair
hand on his, she said, "Forgive me, Charles! oh, forgive me! but do
believe that there is not another woman on all the earth who would not
have done the same."
"Alas! dear Marie," he replied, "in such knowledge you have but a
child to deal with."
"Oh, be so ever, Charles!" she cried, clasping her hands and looking
up in his face. "There may be women who would love you less for being
so; but I trust and hope that you will never love any one but Marie de
Clairvaut, and she will value your love all the more for its being,
and having ever been, entirely her own. But you were speaking of the
Abbe de Boisguerin, Charles--you have told me of his conversation with
you--I saw, when I was at Montsoreau, that you loved and esteemed
him."--She paused, and hesitated. "I fear," she added, "that what I
must speak, that what I ought to tell you, may pain and grieve you:--I
doubt that man, Charles--I more than doubt him."
"And so do I, Marie," replied her lover with a melancholy shake of the
head; "and so do I doubt him much. Indeed, as you say, I more than
doubt him, for I know and feel that he is not true."
"Alas! Charles," she replied, "I fear that in that very first
conversation with you he meditated treachery towards you. I fear much,
very much, that his design and purpose even then was to separate us."
"Perhaps it might be so, Marie," replied her lover: "though he has
never shown any strong preference, I have often thought he loves
Gaspar better than he does me."
"But it was no love of your brother, Charles," she said; "it was no
love of your brother moved him then; for if your brother trusted him,
he betrayed him too. Now hear me, Charles, and let me, as quickly as
possible, tell a tale that makes my cheek burn, for it must be told.
After you were gone, I avoided your brother's presence as far as might
be. I was never with him for a moment alone if I could help it, for I
could not but see feelings that were never to be returned. Although
there was something from the first in the Abbe de Boisguerin that I
loved not, though I could not tell why--something in his eye that made
me shrink into myself with a kind of fear,--I now courted him to be
with me, in order to avoid the persecution of love for which I could
not feel even grateful. At first he seemed inclined to give your
brother opportunities; and I believe, I firmly believe, that he did so
because he knew that those opportunities would but serve to confirm
the coldness of my feelings towards him. When he saw that I sought him
to be with us, he seemed to yield, and was now with me often almost
alone, when there was none but one or two of my women in the further
end of the room. He timed his visits well; and, for a space, well did
he choose his conversation too. It was such as he knew must please my
ear. He told me of other lands, and of princely scenes beyond the
Alps, the beauties of nature, the miracles of art, the graceful but
dangerous race of the Medici, the treasures, the unrivalled treasures
of Florence and of Rome. I learned to forget the prejudices--I had
first taken towards him, and he saw that I listened well pleased, and
then he ventured to speak of you and of your brother. But oh, Charles,
he spoke not as a friend to either. He blamed not, indeed; he even
somewhat praised; but he undervalued all and every thing. There was
not a word of censure, but there was every now and then a light sneer
in the tone, a scornful turn of the lip, and curl of the nostril. It
pleased me not, and seeing it, he wisely dropped such themes. He spoke
of you no more; but he spoke of himself and of his own history. He
told me that his was the more ancient branch of your own family, but
that reverses and misfortunes had overtaken it; and that, careless of
wealth or station, and any of the bubbles which the world's grown
children follow, he had made no effort to raise his own branch from
the ground to which it had fallen. But he said, however, that if he
had had an object, a great and powerful object, he felt within himself
those capabilities of mind which might raise him over some of the
highest heads in the land: and none could hear his voice, and see the
keen astuteness of his eye, without believing that what he said was
true. And then again he spoke of the objects, the few, the only
objects, which could induce a man of great and expansive intellect to
mingle in the strife and turmoil of the world; and the chief of those
objects, Charles, was woman's love. He was a churchman, Charles, and
had taken vows which should have frozen such words upon his lips. I
was silent, and I think turned pale, and he instantly changed the
conversation to other things, speaking eloquently and nobly upon great
and fine feelings, as I have seen one of the modellers in wax cast on
the rough harsh form that he intended to give, and then soften it down
with fine and delicate touches, so as to leave it smooth and pleasant
to the eye. At length we set out to join my uncle; and your brother
now had opportunities of paining me greatly by the open and the
rash display of feelings that grieved and hurt me. He took means
too to find moments to speak with me alone, which I must not dwell
upon--means which were unworthy of one of your race, Charles. He tried
to deceive me into such interviews by every sort of petty art; and if
the Abbe de Boisguerin came to my relief, alas! it was but now to
inflict upon me worse persecution. He dared to speak to me, Charles,
words that none had ever dared to speak before--words that I must not
repeat, that I must not even think of here, so near the holy calmness
of the dead. These words were not, indeed, addressed to me directly;
but they were used to figure forth what were the passions which an
ardent and fiery heart might feel. They were intended evidently to let
me know of what he himself was capable: though they breathed of love,
there was somewhat of menace in them likewise. The very sound of his
voice, the very glare of his eyes, now became terrible to me: but he
seemed to consider that I was more in his power now than I had been at
Montsoreau; and I need not tell you that to me the journey was a
terrible one. To end it all, Charles--as I take it for granted that
you know some part of what has taken place, even by seeing you here
this night--I feel sure that it was by his machinations that I was
betrayed into the hands of the King, whom I have all my life been
taught to abhor, and by him given up to the power of a relation, from
whom I have been sheltered by all my better friends as from the most
venomous of serpents."
Charles of Montsoreau had heard all in deep silence, without
interrupting her once. He gazed indeed, from time to time, upon her
fair face, watching with love and admiration the bright but transient
expressions that came across it: but he listened with full attention
and deep thought; and when she had done, he replied, "What you have
told me, dear Marie, indignant as it well may make me, was most
necessary for me to hear, and is most satisfactory, for it explains
all that I did not before comprehend or understand. His machinations,
however, dear Marie, I now trust are at an end. What may be between
Villequier and him I do not know; but I trust, dear Marie, I trust in
that God who never does fail them that trust in him, that I come to
bring you deliverance and to lead you to happiness. It would be long
and tedious to tell you, beloved, all that has happened to me since I
left you at Montsoreau. Suffice it that I have seen the Duke of Guise;
that I have spent the greater part of the time with him; that I have
been able, Marie, to serve him--he says, to save his life; and that to
me he has entrusted the charge of seeking you and bringing you to join
him at Soissons, in despite of any one that may oppose us."
"Oh, joy, joy!" cried Marie de Clairvaut. "When can we set out?" And
she rose from her seat as if she hoped their departure might take
place that minute. Charles of Montsoreau drew her gently to his heart,
and, gazing into her deep tender eyes, he asked, "Will your joy be
less, dear Marie, if you know that you go to be at once the bride of
Charles of Montsoreau, with the full consent of your princely
guardian, given by one who is well worthy to give, to one who is
scarcely worthy to receive, such a jewel as yourself?"
Marie de Clairvaut hid her face upon his bosom, murmuring, in a
scarcely audible tone, "Can you ask me, Charles?--But oh, let us speed
away quickly; for though I, who have been here now several days, and
have seen nothing but death and desolation round me ever since I came,
have become accustomed to the scene, and doubtless to the air also,
yet I fear for every moment that you remain here."
"I still fear not, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau.
"Nevertheless, most glad am I to bear you away to happier scenes; and
as soon as the horses have taken some rest, we will set out. And now,
dear girl," he added, "I will send you from me. You need some repose,
Marie; you need some tranquillity. Leave me then, dear girl, and try
to sleep till the hour of our departure, while I will watch here for
you, and call you before break of day."
"If you watch, Charles," replied Marie, "I will watch with you, for I
need not repose. This morning, after closing the eyes of poor Madame
de Saulny, and weeping long and bitterly over her and the poor girl
who was the only one that chose to remain with me, exhausted with
watching, anxiety, and grief, I fell asleep, and slept long. Before
that, I had felt so weary and so heated, that I almost fancied--though
without fearing it--that the plague might be coming upon me; but I
woke refreshed and comforted just as the sun was going down, and I
felt, as it were, a hope and expectation that some change would soon
come over my fate. But you need at least refreshment, Charles. In the
next room remains my last untasted meal--the last that the poor
frightened beings who abandoned me, set before their mistress
yesterday. I fear not to take you there, Charles, for no one has died
in this part of the house."
Charles of Montsoreau followed her, and persuaded her also to take
some light refreshment; and there they sat through the live-long
night, speaking kind words from time to time, and watching each
other's countenances with hope strong at the hearts of both, though
somewhat chequered by fears, each for the other.
CHAP. VIII.
By the time that the first grey streak chequered the dark expanse of
the eastern sky, the horses of Charles of Montsoreau, with three
others, were standing on the terrace at the foot of the marble
steps. The page and Gondrin were there, and also the old groom, a
white-headed man of some sixty years of age, who had booted and
spurred himself, and buckled on a sword, declaring that he would
accompany his young mistress, if it were but to lead the sumpter horse
which carried her baggage. A moment after, Marie herself appeared, and
Charles of Montsoreau placed her on the beast that had been prepared
for her, while the old groom kissed her hand, saying, "I am glad to
see you well, dear lady. But fear not; none of your race and none of
mine ever died of the plague either, though I have seen it pass by
this place twice before now, and I remember eleven corpses lying on
those steps at once."
"There are six within those chambers now," replied Marie, shaking her
head mournfully. "But I fear not, good Robin,--for myself at least.
But you had better lead the way towards Chalet, for the Count tells me
that Morvillette is deserted."
"Oh, I will lead you safely, Lady," replied the old man; "and though
very likely they may keep us out of many a house on account of where
we come from, there is my daughter's cottage where they will take us
in, for they do not fear the plague there."
Thus saying, he mounted his horse, and rode on before, through the
forest roads, while the lady and her lover followed side by side. As
they went on circling round the highest parts of the hills, the grey
streaks gradually turned into crimson; the dim objects became more
defined in the twilight of morning; a few far distant clouds at the
edge of the sky, tossed into fantastic shapes, began to glow like the
burning masses of a furnace; the crimson floated like the waves of a
sea up towards the zenith; the fiery red next became mingled with
bright streaks of gold; the forest world, just budding into light
green, was seen below with its multitude of hills and dales, and rocks
and streams; the air blew warm and sweet, and full of all the balm of
spring; and a thousand birds burst forth on every tree, and carolled
joyous hymns to the dawning day.
Never broke there a brighter morning upon earth; never rose the sun in
greater splendour; never was the air more balmy, or the voices of the
birds more sweet. It seemed as if all were destined to afford to those
two lovers the strongest, the strangest, the brightest contrast to the
dark dull night of anxiety and emotion which they had passed within
the palace they had just left behind them. It seemed to both as an
image of the dawn of immortality after the tomb--anxiety, sorrow,
danger, death, left behind, and brightness and splendour spread out
before.
Each instinctively drew in the rein as the sun's golden edge was
raised above the horizon; each gazed in the countenance of the other,
as if to see that no trace of the pestilence was there; and each held
out the hand to grasp that of the being most loved on earth, and then
they raised their eyes to Heaven in thankfulness and joy.
The old man led them on with scarcely a pause towards Chalet; but
about a mile from that place he turned to a little hamlet near, where,
in a good farm-house inhabited by his daughter and her husband, they
found their first resting-place. They were gladly received and
heartily welcomed, without the slightest appearance of fear, though
the circumstances of their flight were known. The farmer and the
farmer's wife set before them the best of all they had, the children
served them at the table, and the good woman of the house brought
forth a large flask of plague water, and made them drink abundantly,
assuring them that it was a sovereign antidote that was never known to
fail. They then assigned a room to each, and though it was still
daylight they gladly retired to rest. Charles of Montsoreau, though
much fatigued, slept not for near an hour, but the house was all kept
quiet and still, and, with his thoughts full of her he loved, he
fancied and trusted that she was sleeping calmly near him, and in an
earnest prayer to Heaven he called down blessings on her slumber. At
length sleep visited his own eyes, and he rose refreshed and well.
Some fears, some anxieties still remained in his bosom till he again
saw the countenance of Marie de Clairvaut. When he did see it,
however, fears on her account vanished altogether, for the paleness
which had overspread her face the night before had been banished by
repose, and the soft warm glow of health was once more upon her cheek.
He saw the same anxious look of inquiry upon her countenance; and oh!
surely there is something not only sweet and endearing, but elevating
also, in the knowledge of such mutual thoughts and cares for each
other; something that draws forth even from scenes of pain and peril a
joy tender and pure and high for those who love well and truly!
"Fear not, dear Marie," he said; "fear not; for I feel well, and you
too look well, so that I trust the danger is over."
"Pray God it be!" said Marie de Clairvaut. "But now, when you will,
Charles, I am ready to go on; we may soon reach Maintenon."
"We must avoid the road by Maintenon," replied Charles of Montsoreau,
"for that would bring us on the lands of the grasping Duke of Epernon,
and we could not run a greater risk. Chartres itself is doubtful; but
we must take our way thither, and act according to circumstances.
However, dear Marie, our next journey must be long and fatiguing:
would it not be better for you to stay here to-night, and take as much
repose as you can obtain before you go on?"
"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut; "I am well and strong now, and
eager to get forward out of all danger. The bright moon will soon be
rising, the sun has not yet set, and we may have five or six hours of
calm light to pursue our way."
Her wishes were followed; and they were soon once more upon their way
towards the fair old town of Chartres. Their former journey had passed
greatly in thought, for deep emotions lay fresh upon their hearts, and
burthened them: but now they spoke long and frequently upon every part
of their mutual situation. The history of every event that had
happened to either, since they had parted at Montsoreau, was told and
dwelt upon with all its details: and while the love of Charles of
Montsoreau for his fair companion certainly did not diminish, every
word that fell from his lips, every act that she heard him relate, and
the manner of relating it also, increased in her bosom that love which
she had at first perceived with shame, but in which she now began to
take a pride as well as a joy.
Nor, indeed, did his conduct and demeanour to herself in the
circumstances which surrounded them--circumstances of some difficulty
and delicacy--change one bright feeling of her heart towards him.
There was very much of that tenderness in his nature, that soft, that
gentle kindness, which, when joined with courage and strength, is more
powerful on the affections of woman than, perhaps, any other quality;
and her feelings were changed and rendered more devoted by being
dependent upon him for every thing--protection, and consolation, and
support, and affection, and all those little cares and kindnesses
which their mutual situation enabled him to show.
Thus they journeyed on for several hours, and at length reached the
town of Chartres, having agreed to pass for brother and sister, as the
safest means of escaping observation. It was about eleven o'clock at
night when they reached the inn, but they were received with all
kindness and hospitality, such as innkeepers ever show to those who
seem capable of paying for good treatment. No questions were asked,
supper was set before them, and the night passed over again in ease
and comfort. Every hour, indeed, that went by without displaying any
sign of illness was in itself a joy; and there was a stillness and a
quietness about the old town of Chartres which seemed to quiet all
fears of annoyance or interruption.
Charles of Montsoreau was early up, and was waiting for the appearance
of Marie de Clairvaut, when the landlord of the inn appeared to inform
him that a horse-litter, which he had ordered to be ready for his
inspection, had been brought into the court-yard, and was waiting for
him to see. At that moment, however, there was a flourish of trumpets
in the street; and, looking forth from the window, the young Count saw
a considerable band of mounted soldiers, drawn up, as if about to
proceed on their march.
"My sister," he said, turning to the host, "has not yet risen, and she
must see the litter, too, as it is for her convenience. But who are
these gallant gentlemen before the house, and whither are they going?"
"Why, you might know them, sir, by their plumes and their scarfs,"
replied the host. "They are a body of the light horse of the guard of
the Queen-mother. They are easily distinguished, I ween."
"Ay, but I am a rustic from the provinces," replied the young
nobleman: "but they seem gallant-looking soldiers."
"The Captain was making manifold inquiries about you and the young
lady who arrived last night," replied the landlord, "for he has come
with orders to seek and bring back to Paris some young lady and
gentleman that have made their escape lately with eight or nine
attendants. But when I told him that you were going to Paris, not
coming from it, and that you had only three servants with you, and the
young lady was your sister, he said it was not the same, and is now
going on. But I must go, lest he should ask for me."
"Well, well," answered the young Count with an air of indifference. "I
will be down presently to see the litter; let it wait."
He watched, however, with some anxiety the departure of the body of
light horse, for though he did not feel by any means sure that it was
himself whom they sought, he did not feel at all secure till the last
faint note of their trumpets was heard, as they issued forth from one
of the further gates of Chartres. As soon as Marie de Clairvaut
appeared, he purchased the litter without much hesitation, and
determined to proceed with all speed towards Dourdan and Corbeil.
The host of the inn would have fain had them stay some time longer,
for the young Count had paid so readily for the litter, that he judged
some gold might be further extracted from his purse. He asked him,
therefore, whether there was nothing in the good town of Chartres to
excite his curiosity, and was beginning a long list of marvels; but
Charles of Montsoreau cut him short, saying, as he looked up at the
sign covered with fleurs-de-lis, "No, no, my good host. I have much
business on my hands in which his Majesty is not a little concerned,
and therefore I must lose no time."
The host nodded his head, looked wise, and suffered the Count and his
party to depart without further opposition.
As it was not a part of their plan to follow the high road more than
they were actually obliged to do, soon after leaving Chartres they
took a path to the left, which they were informed would lead them by
Gellardon to Bonnelle, through the fields and woods. Before they had
gone a league, however, the noise of dogs and horses, and the shouts,
as it seemed, of huntsmen, were heard at no great distance; and
turning towards Gondrin the young Count asked, "What can they be
hunting at this time of year?"
"The wolf, my Lord, the wolf," replied the man. "They hunt wolves at
all times."
Scarcely had he spoken, when a loud yell of the dogs was heard; and
nodding his head sagaciously, as if he had seen the whole proceeding
with his mind's eye, Gondrin added, "They have killed him;" which was
confirmed by a number of joyous morts on the horns of the huntsmen.
"Let us proceed as fast as possible," said Charles of Montsoreau; "we
know not who those huntsmen may be:" and he was urging the driver of
the litter to hurry on his horses rapidly, when the whole road before
them was suddenly filled with a gay party of cavaliers, splendidly
dressed and accoutred, and coming direct towards them. There was
nothing now to be done but to pass on quietly if possible; and, taking
no apparent notice, but bending his head and speaking into the litter,
without even seeing of whom the other party was composed, Charles of
Montsoreau was riding on, when a loud voice was heard exclaiming "Halt
there! halt! A word with you if you please, young sir;" and, looking
up, he saw the Duke of Epernon.
Without suffering the slightest surprise to appear upon his
countenance, or the slightest apprehension, Charles of Montsoreau
turned his head, demanding calmly, "Well, my Lord, what is your
pleasure with me?"
"My pleasure is," replied the Duke, "that you instantly turn your
horse's head and go back to Epernon with me."
"I am extremely sorry, my Lord," replied the Count, "that it is quite
impossible for me to do what you propose, as I am upon urgent business
for the Duke of Guise, and bear the King's passport and safe-conduct,
which I presume your Lordship will not despise."
"You may bear the King's passport, sir," said the Duke, "but you
certainly do not bear his authorisation to carry away from his power
the young lady who I suppose is in that litter. As to the Duke of
Guise, your authority from him is very much doubted also."
"That doubt is easily removed, my Lord," replied the Count, seeing
clearly that he would be forced to yield, but fully resolved not to do
so till he had tried every means to avoid it. "That doubt is easily
removed, my Lord. Allow me to show you the authority given me by the
Duke under his own hand, which I think even the Duke of Epernon must
respect."