granted him an audience on the following morning. He asked many a
question about his cousin of Guise, about his health, about his
appearance, about his dress itself; whether his shoes were pointed or
square, and how far the haut-de-chausses came down above his knees.
Bellievre was impatient, and pressed the King with some fire; but
Henry only laughed, and tickled the ears of a monkey that sat upon the
arm of his chair with a parrot's feather. The animal mouthed and
chattered at the King, and strove to snatch the feather out of his
hands; and Henry, stroking it down the head, called it "Mon Duc de
Guise."
Bellievre bowed low, and moved towards the door. "Come back to-morrow,
Bellievre; come back to-morrow," said the King; "Villequier will be
here then. You see at present how importantly I am occupied with my
fair cousin of Guise here;" and he pulled the monkey's whiskers as he
spoke. "Villequier has told me all about it," he added. "He says the
Duke will not come, and so says my mother; and if they both say the
same thing who never agreed upon any point before, it must be true,
Bellievre, you know."
"I trust it may, Sire," replied Bellievre dryly, and quitted the room
with anger and indignation at his heart. Before he had crossed the
anteroom, he heard a loud laugh ringing like that of a fool from the
lips of the Monarch; and although it was doubtless occasioned by some
new gambol of the monkey, it did not serve to diminish the bitter
feelings which were in the diplomatist's bosom.
CHAP. X.
In a small, dark, oaken cabinet with one window high up and barred, a
lamp hanging from the ceiling, a table with books and a musical
instrument, several chairs, and a silver bell, Charles of Montsoreau
was seated several days after the period at which we last left him. A
bedroom well furnished in every respect was beyond; the least sound of
the silver bell produced immediate attendance; nothing was refused him
that he demanded; nothing was wanting to his comfort except liberty
and the sound of some other human being's voice. Yet, strange to say,
although he knew that he was in the city of Paris, he knew nothing
more of the position of the building in which he was placed. He had
been brought into the capital at night, had been conducted through a
number of narrow and tortuous streets, and had at length been led
through a deep archway and several large courts, to the place in which
he was now confined.
It may seem perhaps that such a state of imprisonment did not offer
much to complain of; and yet it had bent his spirit and bowed down his
heart. The want of all knowledge of what was passing around him, the
absence of every one that he loved, the loss of liberty, the perfect
silence, joined with anxiety for one who was dearer to him than
himself, wore him day by day, and took from him the power of enjoying
any of those things which were provided for his convenience or
amusement.
The servant who attended upon him never opened his lips, he obeyed any
orders that were given to him, he brought any thing that was demanded;
but he replied to no questions, he made no observations, he afforded
no information even by a look. Every bolt and bar that was on the
outside of the door was invariably drawn behind him, and the high
window in either room could only be so far reached even by standing on
the table or one of the chairs, as to enable the young nobleman to
open or shut it at pleasure, so to admit the free air from without.
Such had been the condition of Charles of Montsoreau, as we have said,
for many days; but he had not yet become reconciled in any degree to
his fate, though he strove, as far as possible, to while away the
moments in any way that was permitted, either by books or music. But
it was with impatience and disgust that he did so, and the lute was
taken up and laid down, the book read and cast away, without remaining
in his hands for the space of five minutes.
The sun shone bright through the high window, and traced a moving spot
of golden light upon the dark oak of the opposite wainscot; the air of
spring came sweet and pleasantly through, and gave him back the
thoughts and dreams of liberty; a wild plant rooted in the stonework
of the building without, cast its light feathery shadow on the wall
where the sun shone, and the hum and roar of distant multitudes,
pursuing their busy course in the thronged thoroughfares of the city,
brought him his only tidings from the hurried and struggling scene of
human life.
He took a pleasure in watching the leaves of the little plant as,
waved about by the wind, they played against the bars of the window,
and he was thus occupied on the day we have mentioned, when suddenly
something crossed the light for a moment, as if some small bird had
flown by; but at the same instant a roll of paper fell at his feet,
and taking it up, he recognised the well-known writing of the Duke of
Guise.
"You have suffered for my sake," the paper said, "and I hastened to
deliver you. The day of the Epernons is over; your place of
imprisonment is known. Be not dispirited, therefore, for relief is at
hand."
It cannot be told how great was the relief which this note itself
brought to the mind of the young Count, not alone by the promise that
it held out, but by the very feeling that it gave him of not being
utterly forgotten, of being not entirely alone and desolate. He read
it over two or three times, and then hearing one of the bolts of the
door undrawn, he concealed it hastily lest the attendant should see
it.
Another bolt was immediately afterwards pulled back, and then the door
was unlocked, though far more slowly than usual. It seemed to the
young Count that an unaccustomed hand was busy with the fastenings,
and a faint hope of speedy deliverance shot across his mind.
The next instant, however, the door was opened, and though it
certainly was not the usual attendant who appeared, no face presented
itself that was known to Charles of Montsoreau. The figure was that of
a woman, tall, stately, and dressed in garments of deep black, fitting
tightly round the shoulders and the waist, and flowing away in ample
folds below. Her hair was entirely covered by black silk and lace, but
her face was seen, and that face was one which instantly drew all
attention to itself.
It was not indeed the beauty which attracted, though there were great
remains of beauty too, but it was the face not only of an old woman,
but of one who had been somewhat a spendthrift of youth's charms.
There was, however, a keen fire in the eyes, a strong determination on
the brow, an expansion of the nostril, which gave the idea of quick
and eager feelings, and a degree of sternness about the whole line of
the features, which would have made the whole countenance commanding,
but harsh and severe, had it not been for a light and playful smile
that gleamed across the whole, like some of the bright and sudden rays
of light that from to time we see run across the bosom of deep still
shady waters.
There was a degree of mockery in that smile, too; and yet it spoke
affections and feelings which as strangely blended with the general
character of that woman's life, as the smile itself did with the
general expression of her countenance. The hands were beautiful and
delicately small, and the figure good, with but few signs of age about
it.
The young Count gazed upon her with some surprise as she entered, but
instantly rose from the seat in which he had been sitting while
reading the Duke of Guise's note; and the lady, with a graceful
inclination of the head, closed the door, advanced and seated herself,
examining the young Count from head to foot with a look of calm
consideration, which he very well understood implied the habitual
exercise of authority and power.
After thus gazing at him for a moment or two, she said, "Monsieur le
Comte de Logeres, do you know me?"
"If you mean, madam," he replied, "to ask me if I recognise your
person, I believe I do; but if you would ask absolutely whether I know
you, I must say, no."
One of those light smiles passed quick across her countenance, and she
said in a low voice, as if speaking to herself, "Who ever did know
me?" She then added, "Who then do you suppose I am?"
"I conclude, madam," replied the young Count, "that I stand in the
presence of her Majesty the Queen-mother."
"Such is the case," replied the Queen, "and I have come to visit you,
Monsieur de Logeres, with views and purposes which, were I to tell
them to any person at my son's court, would hardly be believed."
The Queen paused, as if waiting for an answer; and the young Count
replied, "I trust, madam, that if I am detained here by the
directions, and in the power of your Majesty, that you have come to
give me liberty, which would, I suppose," he added with somewhat of a
smile, "be rather marvellous to the courtiers of the King."
Catharine de Medici smiled also, but at the same time shook her head.
"I fear I must not give you liberty," she said, "for I have promised
not: but I have come with no bad intent towards you. I knew your
mother, Monsieur de Logeres, and a virtuous and beautiful woman she
was. God help us! it shows that I am growing old, my praising any
woman for her virtue. However, she was what I have said, and as unlike
myself as possible. Perhaps that was the reason that I liked her, for
we like not things that are too near ourselves. However, I have come
hither to see her son, and to do him a pleasure. You play upon the
lute?" she continued. "Come, 'tis a long time since I have heard the
lute well played. Take up the instrument, and add your voice to it."
"Alas, madam," replied the young Count, "I am but in an ill mood for
music. If I sang you a melancholy lay it would find such stirring
harmonies in my own heart, that I fear I should drown the song in
tears; and if I sang you a gay one, it would be all discord. I would
much rather open that door which you have left unlocked behind you,
and go out."
The Queen did not stir in the slightest degree, but gazed upon him
attentively with a look of compassion, answering, "Alas! poor bird,
you would find that your cage has a double door. But come, do as I bid
you; sit down there, take up the lute and sing. Let your song be
neither gay nor sad! Let it be a song of love. I doubt not that such a
youth as you are, will easily find a love ditty in your heart, though
the present inspiration be no better than an old woman. Come, Monsieur
de Logeres, come: sit down and sing. I am a judge of music, I can tell
you."
With a faint smile the Count did as she bade him; and taking up the
lute, he ran his fingers over the chords, thought for a moment or two,
and recollecting nothing better suited to the moment, he sang an
Italian song of love, in which sometime before he had ventured to
shadow forth to Marie de Clairvaut, when she was at Montsoreau, the
first feelings of affection that were growing up in his heart. The
Queen sat by in the mean time, listening attentively, with her head a
little bent forward, and her hand marking the cadences on her knee.
"Beautifully sung, Monsieur de Logeres," she said at length when he
ended. "Beautifully sung, and as well accompanied. You do not know how
much pleasure you have given.--Now, let us talk of other things. Are
you sincere, man?"
"I trust so, madam," replied the Count. "I believe I have never borne
any other character."
"Who taught you to play so well on the lute?" demanded the Queen
abruptly.
"I have had no great instruction, madam," answered the Count somewhat
surprised. "I taught myself a little in my boyhood. But afterwards my
preceptor, the Abbe de Boisguerin, was my chief instructor. He had
learned well in Italy."
"Did he teach you sincerity too?" demanded the Queen with a keen look;
"and did he learn that in Italy?"
The Count was not a little surprised to find Catherine's questions
touch so immediately upon the late discoveries he had made of the
character of the Abbe de Boisguerin, and he replied with some
bitterness, "He could but teach me, madam, that which he possessed
himself. I trust that to my nature and my blood I owe whatever
sincerity may be in me. I learned it from none but from God and my own
heart."
"Then you know him," said the Queen, reaching the point at once; "that
is sufficient at present on that subject. I know him too. He came to
the court of France several years ago, with letters from my fair
cousin the Cardinal; but he brought with him nothing that I wanted at
that time. He had a wily head, a handsome person, manifold
accomplishments, great learning, and services for the highest bidder.
We had too many such things at the court already, so I thought that
the sooner he was out of it the better, and looked cold upon him till
he went. He understood the matter well, and did not return till he
brought something in his hand to barter for favour. However, Monsieur
de Logeres, to turn to other matters; I do believe you may be sincere
after all. I shall discover in a minute, however. Will you answer me a
question or two concerning the Duke of Guise?"
"It depends entirely upon what they are, madam," replied the Count at
once.
"Then you will not answer me every question, even if it were to gain
your liberty."
"Certainly not, madam," replied the Count.
"Then the Duke has been speaking ill of me," said Catherine at once,
"otherwise you would not be so fearful."
"Not so, indeed," replied the Count, eagerly. "The Duke never, in my
presence, uttered a word against your Majesty."
"Then will you tell me, as a man of honour," demanded the Queen,
"exactly, word for word what you have ever heard the Duke say of me?"
Charles of Montsoreau paused and thought for a moment, and then
answered, "I may promise you to do so in safety, madam, for I never
heard the Duke speak of you but twice, and then it was in high
praise."
"Indeed!" she replied. "But still I believe you, for Villequier has
been assuring me of the contrary, and, of course, what he says must be
false. He cannot help himself, poor man. Now, tell me what the Duke
said, Monsieur de Logeres. Perhaps I may be able to repay you some
time."
"I seek for no bribe, your Majesty," replied the Count smiling; "and,
indeed, the honour and the pleasure of this visit----"
"Nay, nay! You a courtier, young gentleman!" exclaimed the Queen,
shaking her finger at him. "Another such word as that, and you will
make me doubt the whole tale."
"The speech would not have been so courtier-like, madam, if it had
been ended," replied the Count. "I was going to have said, that the
honour and pleasure of this visit, after not having heard for many
days, many weeks I believe, the sound of a human voice, or seen any
other face but that of one attendant, is full repayment for the little
that I have to tell. However, madam, to gratify you with regard to
the Duke, the first time that I ever heard him mention you was in the
city of Rheims, where a number of persons were collected together, and
many violent opinions were expressed, with which I will not offend
your ears; your past life was spoken of by some of the gentlemen
present----"
"Pass over that, pass over that! I understand!" replied the Queen with
a sarcastic smile; "I understand. But those things are not worth
speaking of. What of the present, Monsieur de Logeres? What of the
present?"
"Why, some one expressed an opinion, madam," the Count continued,
"that in order to retain a great share of power, you did every thing
you could to keep his Majesty in the lethargic and indolent state in
which I grieve to say he appears to the great mass of his subjects."
"What said the Duke?" demanded the Queen. "What said the Duke? surely
he knows me better."
"Why, madam," replied the Count, "his eye brightened and his colour
rose, and he replied indignantly that it could not be so. 'Oh no,' he
said, 'happy had it been for France if, instead of divided power, the
Queen-mother had possessed the whole power. It is by petty minds
mingling their leven with their great designs that ruin has come upon
the land. She has had to deal with great men, great events, and great
difficulties, and she was equal to deal with, if not to bow them all
down before her, had she but been permitted to deal with them
unshackled.'"[4]
---------------------
[Footnote 4: Such was undoubtedly the expressed opinion of the Duke of
Guise.]
---------------------
"Indeed!" exclaimed the Queen; "did he say so?"
"He did, madam, upon my honour," replied the Count.
"I know not whether he was right or wrong," rejoined the Queen
thoughtfully; "for though perhaps, Monsieur de Logeres, I possessed
in some things the powers of a man--say, if you will, greater powers
than most men--yet, alas! in others, I had all the weaknesses of a
woman--perhaps I should say, to balance other qualities, more
weaknesses than most women. But he must have said more. The answer was
not pertinent to the remark, and Henry of Guise is not a man either in
speech or action ever to forget his object."
"Nor did he in this instance," replied the Count; "but he said that,
wearied out with seeing your best and greatest schemes frustrated by
the weakness of others, you now contented yourself with warding off
evils as far as possible from your son and from the state; that it was
evident that such was your policy; and that, like Miron, the King's
physician, unable from external circumstances to effect a cure, you
treated the diseases of the times with a course of palliatives; that,
as the greatest of all evils, you knew and saw the apathy of his
Majesty, and did all that you could to rouse him, but that the
poisonous counsels of Villequier, the soft indolence of his own
nature, and the enfeebling society of Epernon and others, resisted all
that you could do, and thwarted you here likewise."
"He spoke wisely, and he spoke truly," replied the Queen; "and I will
tell you, Monsieur de Logeres, though Henry of Guise and I can never
love each other much, yet I felt sure that he knew me too well to say
all those things of me that have been reported by his enemies. I am
satisfied with what I have heard, Count, and shall ask no further
questions. But you have given me pleasure, and I will do my best to
serve you. Once more, let us speak of other things. Have you all that
you desire and want here?"
"No, madam," replied the young Count. "I want many things--liberty,
the familiar voices of my friends, the sight of those I love. Every
thing that the body wants I have; and you or some of your attendants
have supplied me with books and music; but it is in such a situation
as this, your Majesty, that one learns that the heart requires food as
well as the body or the mind."
"The heart!" replied Catharine de Medici thoughtfully. "I once knew
what the heart was, and I have not quite forgotten it yet. Did you
mark my words after you had sung, Monsieur de Logeres?"
"You were pleased to praise my poor singing much more than it
deserved, madam," replied the young Count.
"Something more than that, my good youth," replied the Queen. "I told
you that it had given more pleasure than you knew of. I might have
added, that it gave pleasure to more than you knew of, for there was
another ear could hear it besides mine."
"Indeed!" exclaimed the Count gazing eagerly in the Queen's face; "and
pray who might that be?"
"One that loves you," replied Catharine de Medici. "One that loves
you very well, Monsieur de Logeres." And rising from her chair she put
her hand to her brow, as if in deep thought. "Well," she said at
length; "something must be risked, and I will risk something for
that purpose. The time is not far distant, Monsieur de Logeres--I
see it clearly--when by some means you will be set at liberty; but,
notwithstanding that, it may be long before you find such a thing even
as an hour's happiness. You are a frank and generous man, I believe;
you will not take advantage of an act of kindness to behave
ungenerously. I go away from you for a moment or two, and leave that
door open behind me, trusting to your honour."
She waited for no reply, but quitted the room; and Charles of
Montsoreau stood gazing upon the door, doubtful of what was her
meaning, and how he was to act. Some of her words might be interpreted
as a hint to escape; but others had directly a contrary tendency, and
a moment after he heard her unlock and pass another door, and close
but not lock it behind her.
CHAP. XI.
"What is her meaning?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau, as he gazed
earnestly upon the door; and as he thus thought his heart beat
vehemently, for there was a hope in it which he would not suffer his
reason to rest upon for a moment, so improbable did it seem, and so
fearful would be disappointment. "What is her meaning?" And he still
asked himself the question, as one minute flew by after another, and
to his impatience it seemed long ere she returned.
But a few minutes elapsed, however, in reality, ere there were steps
heard coming back, and in another minute Catharine de Medici again
appeared, saying, "For one hour, remember! For one hour only!"
There was somebody behind her, and the brightest hope that Charles of
Montsoreau had dared to entertain was fully realised.
The Queen had drawn Marie de Clairvaut forward; and passing out again,
she closed the door, leaving her alone with her lover. If his heart
had wanted any confirmation of the deep, earnest, overpowering
affection which she entertained towards him, it might have been found
in the manner in which--apparently without the power even to move
forward, trembling, gasping for breath--she stood before him on so
suddenly seeing him again, without having been forewarned, after long
and painful and anxious absence. As he had himself acknowledged, he
was ignorant in the heart of woman; but love had been a mighty
instructor, and he now needed no explanation of the agitation that he
beheld.
Starting instantly forward, he threw his arms around her; and it was
then, held to his bosom, pressed to his heart, that all Marie de
Clairvaut's love and tenderness burst forth. Gentle, timid, modest in
her own nature as she was, love and joy triumphed over all. The agony
of mind she had been made to suffer, was greater than even he could
fancy, and the relief of that moment swept away all other thoughts:
the tears, the happy but agitated tears, flowed rapidly from her eyes;
but her lips sought his cheek from time to time, her arms clasped
tenderly round him, and as soon as she could speak, she said, "Oh
Charles, Charles, do I see you again? Am I, am I held in your arms
once more; the only one that I have ever loved in life, my saviour, my
protector, my defender. For days, for weeks, I have not known whether
you were living or dead. They had the cruelty, they had the barbarity
not even to let me know whether you had or had not escaped the plague.
They have kept me in utter ignorance of where you were, of all and of
every thing concerning you." And again she kissed his cheek, though
even while she did so, under the overpowering emotions of her heart,
the blush of shame came up into her own: and then she hid her eyes
upon his bosom, and wept once more in agitation but in happiness.
"As they have acted to you, dearest Marie," he replied, "as they have
acted to you, so they have acted to me. The day they separated me from
you at Epernon, was the last day that I have spoken with any living
creature up to this morning. No answers have been returned to my
questions; not a word of intelligence could I obtain concerning your
fate; and oh, dear, dear Marie, you would feel, you would know how
terrible has been that state to me, if you could tell how ardently,
how deeply, how passionately I love you." And his lips met hers, and
sealed the assurance there.
"I know it, I know it all, Charles," replied Marie. "I know it by what
I have felt; I know it by what I feel myself, for I believe, I do
believe, from my very heart, that if it be possible for two people to
feel exactly alike, we so feel."
"But tell me, dear Marie, tell me," exclaimed her lover, "tell me
where you have been. Have they treated you kindly? Does the Duke of
Guise know where you are?"
"Alas, no, Charles!" replied Marie de Clairvaut; "he does not, I
grieve to say. Well treated indeed I may say that I have been, for all
that could contribute to my mere comfort has been done for me. Nothing
that I could desire or wish for, Charles, has been ungiven, and I have
ever had the society of the good sisters in the neighbouring convent.
But the society that I love has of course been denied me; and no news,
no tidings of any kind have reached me. I have lived in short with
numbers of people surrounding me, as if I were not in the world at
all, and the moment that I asked a question, a deep silence fell upon
every one, and I could obtain no reply."