must be grateful that our treatment has been kind indeed in some
respects."
"Oh, and most grateful," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "for these bright
moments of happiness. Do you not think, Charles, do you not think,
that perhaps the Queen may kindly grant us such interviews again?"
Who is there that does not know how lovers while away the time? Who is
there that has not known how short is a lover's hour? But with Charles
of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut that hour seemed shorter than it
otherwise would have done; for it was not alone the endearing caress,
the words, the acknowledgments, the hopes of love, but they had a
thousand things in the past to tell each other; they had cares and
fears, and plans and purposes for the future, to communicate.
Even had not all shyness, all timidity been done away before, that was
not a moment in which Marie de Clairvaut could have affected aught
towards her lover; so that what between tidings of the past and
thoughts of the future, and the dear dalliance of that spendthrift of
invaluable moments, love, an envious clock in some church-tower hard
by, had marked the arrival of the last quarter of an hour they were to
remain together, ere one tenth part of what they had to think of or to
say was either thought or said. The sound startled them, and it became
a choice whether they should give up the brief remaining space to
serious thoughts of the future, or whether they should yield it all to
love. Who is it with such a choice before him that ever hesitated
long?
The space allotted for their interview had drawn near its close, and
the very scantiness of the period that remained was causing them to
spend it in regrets that it was not longer, when suddenly the general
sounds which came from the streets became louder and more loud, as if
some door or gate had been opened which admitted the noise more
distinctly. Both Marie de Clairvaut and her lover listened, and almost
at the same instant loud cries were heard of "The Duke of Guise! The
Duke of Guise! Long live the Duke of Guise! Long live the great pillar
of the Catholic church! Long live the House of Lorraine!" And this was
followed by the noise and trampling of horses, as if entering into a
court below.
Marie and her lover gazed in each other's faces, but she it was that
first spoke the joyful hopes that were in the heart of both.
"He has come to deliver us!" she cried. "Oh Charles, he has come to
deliver us! Hear how gladly the people shout his well-loved name!
Surely they will not deceive him, and tell him we are not here."
"Oh no, dear Marie," replied her lover; "he has certain information,
depend upon it, and will not be easily deceived. He has already
discovered my abode, dear Marie; and this letter was thrown through
the window this morning, though I myself know not where we are--that
is to say, I am well aware that we are now in Paris, but I know not in
what part of the city."
"Oh, that I discovered from one of the nuns," replied Marie. "We are
at the house of the Black Penitents, in the Rue St. Denis. I remember
the outside of it well; a large dark building with only two windows to
the street. Do you not remember it? You must have seen it in passing."
"I am not so well acquainted with the city as you are, dear Marie,"
replied Charles of Montsoreau; "but, depend upon it, where they have
confined me is not in the house of the Black Penitents. It would be a
violation of the rules of the order which could not be."
"It communicates with their dwelling," replied Marie de Clairvaut; "of
that at least I am certain; for the Queen, when she brought me hither,
took me not into the open air. She led me indeed through numerous
passages, one of which, some ten or twelve yards in length, was nearly
dark, for it had no windows, and was only lighted by the door left
open behind us. I was then placed in a little room while the Queen
went on, and a short time after I heard a voice, that made my heart
beat strangely, begin to sing a song that you once sung at Montsoreau;
and when I was thinking of you Charles, and all that you had done for
me--how you had first saved me from the reiters, and then rescued me
from the deep stream, and had then come to seek me and deliver me in
the midst of death and pestilence--I was thinking of all these things,
when Catherine came back, and without telling me what was her
intention, led me hither."
"Hark!" cried Charles of Montsoreau. "They shout again. I wonder that
we have heard no farther tidings."
And they both sat and listened for some minutes, but no indication of
any farther event took place, and they gradually resumed their
conversation, beginning in a low tone, as if afraid of losing a sound
from without. Marie de Clairvaut had already told her lover how she
had remained at Epernon for a day or two under the protection of the
wife of the Duke, and had been thence brought by her to Paris and
placed in the convent at a late hour of the evening; but as the time
wore away, and their hopes of liberation did not seem about to be
realized, she recurred to the subject of her arrival, saying, "There
is one thing which makes me almost fear they will deceive him,
Charles. I forgot to tell you, that as we paused before this building
on the night that I was brought hither, while the gates were being
opened by the portress, a horseman rode up to the side of the carriage
and gazed in. There were torches on the other side held by the
servants round the gate, and though I could not see that horseman as
well as he could see me, yet I feel almost sure that it was the face
of the Abbe de Boisguerin I beheld."
"I know he was to return to Paris," said Charles of Montsoreau, "after
accompanying my brother some part of the way back to the chateau. But
fear not him, dear Marie; he has no power or influence here."
"Oh, but I fear far more wile and intrigue," cried Marie de Clairvaut,
"than I do power and influence, Charles. Power is like a lion, bold
and open; but when once satisfied, injures little; but art is like a
serpent that stings us, without cause, when we least expect it. But
hark!" she continued again. "They are once more shouting loudly."
Charles of Montsoreau listened also, and the cries, repeated again and
again, of "Long live the Duke of Guise! Long live the House of
Lorraine! Long live the good Queen Catherine![5] Life to the Queen!
Life to the Queen!" were heard mingled with thundering huzzas and
acclamations. The heart of the young Count sank, for he judged that
the Duke had gone forth again amongst the people, and had either
forgotten his fate altogether in more important affairs, or had been
deceived by false information regarding himself and Mademoiselle de
Clairvaut.
---------------------
[Footnote 5: The progress of the Duke of Guise and the Queen-mother,
from the convent of the Penitents to the Louvre, was in triumph. "Il y
en avoit," says Auvigny, "qui se mettoient a genoux devant lui,
d'autres lui baisoient les mains; quelques uns se trouverent trop
heureux de pouvoir en passant toucher son habit," A farther account of
this famous event is given a few pages farther on.]
---------------------
The cries, which were at first loud and distinct, gradually sunk,
till first the words could no longer be distinguished; then the
acclamations became more and more faint, till the whole died away into
a distant murmur, rising and falling like the sound of the sea beating
upon a stormy shore. The young Count gazed in the countenance of Marie
de Clairvaut, and saw therein written even more despairing feelings
than were in his own heart.
"Fear not, dear Marie," he said pressing her to his bosom. "Fear not;
the Duke must know that I am here by this letter: nor is he one to be
easily deceived. Depend upon it he will find means to deliver us ere
long."
Marie de Clairvaut shook her head with a deep sigh and with her eyes
filled with tears. But she had not time to reply, for steps were heard
in the passage, and the moment after the door of the room was opened.
It was no longer, however, the figure of Catherine de Medici that
presented itself, but the homely person and somewhat unmeaning face of
a good lady, dressed in the habit of a prioress. Behind her, again,
was a lay-sister, and beside them both the attendant who was
accustomed to wait upon the young Count. The good lady who first
appeared looked round the scene that the opening door disclosed to her
with evident marks of curiosity and surprise; and, indeed, the whole
expression of her countenance left little doubt that she had never
been in that place before.
After giving up a minute to her curiosity, however, she turned to
Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, saying, "I have been sent by the Queen,
madam, to conduct you back to your apartments."
"Let me first ask one question," replied Marie de Clairvaut. "Has not
the Duke of Guise been here?"
The nun answered not a word.
"We need no assurance of it, dear Marie," said Charles of Montsoreau,
hoping to drive the Prioress to some answer. "We know that he has, and
must have been deceived in regard to your state and mine."
The Prioress was still silent; and Marie de Clairvaut, after waiting
for a moment, added, "If he have been deceived, Charles, woe to those
who have deceived him. He is not a man to pass over lightly such
conduct as has been shown to me already."
"Madam," said the Prioress, "I have been sent by the Queen to show you
to your apartments."
It was vain to resist or to linger. Marie de Clairvaut gave her hand
to her lover, and they gazed in each other's faces for a moment with a
long and anxious glance, not knowing when they might meet again.
Charles of Montsoreau could not resist; and notwithstanding the
presence of nun, prioress, and attendant, he drew the fair creature
whose hand he held in his gently to his bosom, and pressed a parting
kiss upon her lips.
Marie turned away with her eyes full of tears, and leaving her hand in
his till the last moment, she slowly approached the door. She turned
for one other look ere she departed, and then, dashing the tears from
her eyes, passed rapidly out. The door closed behind her, and Charles
of Montsoreau alone, and almost without hope, buried his face in his
hands, and gave himself up to think over the sweet moments of the
past.
CHAP. XII.
It was on the morning of Monday, the 9th of May, 1588, at about half
past eleven o'clock, that a party, consisting of sixteen horsemen, of
whom eight were gentlemen and the rest grooms, appeared at the gates
of Paris. But though each of those eight persons who led the cavalcade
were strong and powerful men, in the prime of life, highly educated,
and generally distinguished in appearance, yet there was one on whom
all eyes rested wherever he passed, and rested with that degree of
wonder and admiration which might be well called forth by the union of
the most perfect graces of person, with the appearance of the greatest
vigour and activity, and with a dignity and beauty of expression which
breathed not only from the countenance, but from the whole person, and
shone out in every movement, as well as in every look.
The gates of the city were at this time open, and though a certain
number of guards were hanging about the buildings on either hand, yet
no questions were asked of any one who came in or went out of the
city. The moment, however, that the party we have mentioned appeared,
and he who was at its head paused for a moment on the inside of the
gate and gazed round, as if looking for some one that he expected to
see there, one of the bystanders whispered eagerly to the other, "It
is the Duke! It is the Duke of Guise!"
All hats were off in a moment; all voices cried, "The Duke! The Duke!"
A loud acclamation ran round the gate, and the people from the small
houses in the neighbourhood poured forth at the sound, rending the air
with their acclamations, and pressing forward round his horse with
such eagerness that it was scarcely possible for him to pass along his
way. Some kissed his hand, some threw themselves upon their knees
before him, some satisfied themselves by merely touching his cloak, as
if it had saintly virtue in it, and still the cry ran on of "The Duke
of Guise! The Duke of Guise! Long live the Duke of Guise!" while every
door-way and alley and court-yard poured forth its multitudes, till
the people seemed literally to crush each other in the streets, and
all Paris echoed with the thundering acclamations.
After that momentary pause at the gates, the Duke of Guise rode on,
uncovering his splendid head, and bowing lowly to the people as he
went. His face had been flushed by exercise when he arrived, but now
the deep excitement of such a reception had taken the colour from his
cheek; he was somewhat pale, and his lip quivered with intense
feeling. But there was a fire in his eye which seemed to speak that
his heart was conscious of great purposes, and ready to fulfil its
high emprise; and there was a degree of stern determination on that
lordly brow, which spoke also the knowledge but the contempt of
danger, and the resolution of meeting peril and overcoming resistance.
Thus passing on amidst the people, and bowing as he went to their
repeated cheers, the Duke of Guise reached the convent of the Black
Penitents, where for the time the Queen-mother had taken up her abode.
The gates of the outer court into which men were suffered to enter
were thrown open to admit him; and signifying to such of the crowd as
were nearest to the gate that they had better not follow him into the
court, the Duke of Guise rode in with his attendants, and the gates
were again closed. The servants and the gentlemen who accompanied him
remained beside their horses in the court, while he alone entered the
parlour of the convent to speak with the Queen-mother.
She did not detain him an instant, but came in with a countenance on
which much alarm was painted, either by nature or by art. The Duke at
once advanced to meet her, and bending low his towering head, he
kissed the hand which she held out to him.
"Alas! my Lord of Guise," she said, "I must not so far falsify the
truth as to say that I am glad to see you. Glad, most glad should I
have been to see you, any where but here. But, alas! I fear you have
come at great peril to yourself, good cousin! You know not how angry
the minds of men are; you know not how much hostility reigns against
you in the breasts of many of the highest of the land; you have not
bethought you, that on every step to the throne there stands an
enemy----"
"Who shall fall before me, madam," replied the Duke of Guise.
"Till you have reached the throne itself, fair cousin?" said the
Queen-mother.
"No, madam, no," answered the Duke of Guise eagerly. "I thought your
Majesty had known me better. I have always believed that you were one
of those who felt and understood that I never dreamt of wronging my
master and my king, or of snatching, as you now hinted, the crown from
its lawful possessor."
"I _have_ felt it, and I _have_ understood it, cousin of Guise,"
replied Catharine de Medici. "But, alas! my Lord, I know how ambition
grows upon the heart. It begins with an acorn, Guise, but it ends with
an oak. Those that watch it, the very soil that bears it, perceive not
its increase; and yet it soon overshadows all things, and root it out
who can!"
"Madam," answered the Duke of Guise, boldly, "to follow the figure
that you have used, the axe soon reduces the oak; and may the axe be
used on me, and ease me of earth's ambition for ever, if any such
designs as have been attributed to me exist within my bosom! You see,
madam, I meet you boldly, look to ultimate consequences of ambitious
designs, and fear not the result. It is such accusations that I come
to repel, and it is those who have propagated them, and instilled them
both into the mind of his Majesty, and, as it would appear, your own,
that I come to punish. Trusting that, humble though I be, your Majesty
was the best friend I had at the court of France, I have ridden
straight hither, without even stopping at my own abode, to beseech you
to accompany me to the presence of the King."
"I do believe, cousin of Guise, that I am your best friend at the
court of France," replied the Princess. "In fact, I may say, I know
that none there loves you but myself. Nor must you think that I accuse
you of actual ambition, or believe the rumours that have been
circulated against you. I merely wish to warn you of the growth of
such things in your own bosom."
"Dear madam," replied the Duke, "had I been ambitious, what might I
not have become? Here am I simply the Duke of Guise; a poor officer,
commanding part of the King's troops, and contributing no small part
of my own to swell his forces; with scarcely a place, a post, a
government, an emolument, or a revenue, except what I derive from my
own estates. Am I the most ambitious man in France? Am I so ambitious
as he who adds, to the government of Metz, the government of Normandy,
and piles upon that Touraine, Anjou, Saintonge, the Angoumois, seizes
upon the office of High-admiral, creates himself Colonel-general of
the Infantry? This, lady, is the ambitious man; but of him you seem to
entertain no fear."
"There are two ambitions, my Lord Duke," replied the Queen: "the
ambition which grasps at power, and the ambition which snatches at
wealth: the moment that ambition mingles itself with avarice, the
grovelling passion, chained in its own sordid bonds, is no longer to
be feared. It is where the object is power; where there is a mind to
conceive the means, and a heart to dare all the risks, that there is
indeed occasion for apprehension and for precaution. Still, my Lord, I
believe you; still I believe that the hand of Guise will never be
raised to pull down the bonnet of Valois. You may strip the minion
Epernon of the golden plumes with which he has decked his mid-air
wings, for aught I care or think of; you may cast down the dark and
plotting Villequier, and sweep the court of apes and parrots, fools
and villains, and the whole tribe of natural and human beasts, without
my saying one word to oppose you, or without my dreaming for a moment
that you aim at higher things; you may even soar higher still, and
like your great father become at once the guide and the defender of
the state, and still I will not fear you. But Guise," she added in a
softer tone, "I must and will still fear _for_ you; and though I will
go with you to the King if you continue to demand it, yet I tell you,
and I warn you, that every step you take is perilous, and that I
cannot be your safeguard nor your surety for a moment!"
"Madam, I must fulfil my fate," replied the Duke of Guise looking up.
"I came here to justify myself; I came here to deliver and to support
my friends; I came here to secure honour and safety to the Catholic
Church; and did I know that the daggers of a hundred assassins would
be in my bosom at the first step I took beyond those gates, I would go
forth as resolutely as I came hither."
"Then I must send to announce your coming to the King," said the
Queen. "Of course I cannot take you to the Louvre unannounced."
Thus saying she quitted the room for a moment, and the Duke remained
behind with his arms crossed upon his bosom in deep thought. She
returned in a moment, however, saying that she had sent one of her
gentlemen upon the errand, and the next minute as the gates were
opened for some one to go out, long and reiterated shouts of "A Guise!
A Guise! Long live the Guise!" were heard echoing round the building.
Catharine de Medici smiled and looked at the Duke. "How often have I
heard," she said, "those same light Parisian tongues exclaim the name
of different princes! I remember well, Guise, when first I came from
my fair native land, how the glad multitude shouted on my way; how all
the streets were strewed with flowers; and how, if I had believed the
words I heard, I should have fancied that not a man in all the land
but would have died to serve me; and yet, not long after, I have heard
execrations murmured in the throats of the dull multitude while I
passed by, and the name of Diana of Poitiers echoed through the
streets. Then have I not heard the names of a Francis and a Henry
shouted far and wide? and after Jarnac and Moncontour, the heavens
were scarcely high enough to hold the sounds of his name who now sits
upon the throne of France. To-day it is Guise they call upon!--Who
shall it be to-morrow? And then another and another still shall come,
the object of an hour's love changed into hatred in a moment."
"It is too true, madam," replied the Duke. "Popularity is the most
fleeting, the most vacillating--if you will, the most contemptible--of
all those means and opportunities which Heaven gives us to be made use
of for great ends. But nevertheless, madam, we must so make use of
them all; and as this same popularity is one of the briefest of the
whole, so must we be the more ready, the more prompt, the more decided
in taking advantage of the short hour of brightness. I may be wrong in
thinking," he continued after the pause of a moment or two, "I may be
wrong in thinking that my well-being and that of the state and church
of this realm are intimately bound up together. It may be, and
probably is, a delusion of human vanity. Nevertheless, such being my
opinion, none can say that I am wrong in taking advantage of the
moment of my popularity to do the best that I can both for the church
and for the state. Such, I assure you, madam, is my object; and if I
benefit myself at all in these transactions, it can be, and shall be,
but collaterally; while in the mean time I incur perils which I know
and yet fear not."
Thus went on the conversation between the Queen and the Duke of Guise
for nearly half an hour, at the end of which time the gentleman who
had been dispatched to the King returned, bearing his Majesty's reply,
which was, that since his mother desired it, she might bring the Duke
of Guise to his presence, and Catherine prepared immediately to set
out. Her chair was brought round; and after speaking a few words with
the superior of the convent, she placed herself in the vehicle, the
Duke of Guise walking by her side. The gentlemen who had come with him
gave their horses to the grooms, and followed on foot; and several
servants and attendants ran on before to clear the way through the
people.
The moment the gates were opened, a spectacle struck the eyes of the
Queen and the Duke, such as no city in the world perhaps, except
Paris, could produce. In the short period which had elapsed since the
Duke's arrival, the news had spread from one end of the capital to the
other, and the whole of its multitudes were poured out into the
streets or lining the windows, or crowning the house-tops. With a
rapidity scarcely to be conceived, scaffoldings had been raised in
that short space of time in different parts of the streets, to enable
the multitude to see the Duke better as he passed[6]; in many places,
velvets and rich tapestries were hung out upon the fronts of the
houses, as if some solemn procession of the church were taking place;
the ladies of the higher classes at the windows, or on their
scaffolds, were generally without the masks which they usually wore in
the streets; and again, when the gates of the convent opened, and the
Queen and the Duke issued forth, the air seemed actually rent with the
acclamations of the people, and a long line of waving hats and
handkerchiefs was seen all the way up the Rue St. Denis.
---------------------
[Footnote 6: This fact is recorded in every account of the proceedings
of that day.]
---------------------
The same gratulations as before met the Duke on every side as he
passed along; the populace seemed absolutely inclined to worship him,
and many threw themselves upon their knees as he passed. He looked
round upon the dense mass of people, upon the crowded houses, upon the
waving hands; he heard from every tongue a welcome, at every step a
gratulation, and it was impossible for the heart of man not to feel at
that moment a pride and a confidence fit to bear him strongly on his
perilous way.
All the way down the Rue St. Denis, and through every other street
that he passed, the same scene presented itself, the same acclamations
followed him, so that the shouts thundered in the ear of the King as
he sat in the Louvre.