It was with a feeling of some gladness that, after a long and, to my
fair Louise, somewhat fatiguing march, I at length saw the camp of the
Reformed army occupying a position not very different from that in
which it had been placed when I left it. The convenience of the troops
had of course been consulted, and the greater part of the army had
been put into quarters, either in the town of Loudun, or in the
villages round about. Three or four of these villages to the southeast
of Loudun had indeed been converted into a sort of detached camp,
being united by long lines of tents, which served the soldiery for
many of the occupations of the day; and here I saw the colours of the
Prince de Condé hurrying about, so that it was to the centre of this
part of the army that I directed my progress, knowing that there my
own tents and baggage would be found.
The frost was somewhat less intense, and the sun shining clear and
bright, when my little cavalcade approached a battery of three small
pieces of artillery which defended the principal entrance of the
village that formed the centre. It was a gay and cheerful scene;
strife for a time had ceased, and the soldiers were amusing
themselves, as best they might, in various manners, though just on the
outside of the camp the amusements that were going on were certainly
all of an athletic kind, for it needed the most robust exercise to
make the blood circulate freely in the terrible cold of that year. A
considerable number of officers and gentlemen were gathered together
near the battery I have spoken of, looking out over the wintry scene
before them; and as my coming formed a little incident in the somewhat
monotonous life they had led for the last two days, five or six of
those who knew me came forth to shake hands, and to congratulate me on
my safe return.
"Well, fortunate De Cerons," cried one, looking somewhat earnestly at
Louise, who had drawn the veil down over her whole head and face as we
approached, "You have made a fair booty, as usual."
He spoke with a smile, but I replied, "I sent all the booty that I did
get back to the camp the day before yesterday; but all that was found
was in the enemy's tents, I believe. I have been lucky enough,
however, to rescue my fair cousin, Mademoiselle de Blancford, from the
hands of the Catholics, who had taken her prisoner; so I must see
where I can find some sort of comfortable quarters. You have no idea,
Monsieur de Luze, where my people are with the baggage?"
"Oh, the Prince de Condé has taken especial good care of you," said
the other, laughing; "he has given you the house of a fat farmer there
up at the end of the village, and a cottage close by it for your
people. Montgomery wanted it, and half a dozen others; but he said you
had done him as much service that night by your army of baggage-wagons
on the hill as if you had brought him up ten thousand men; and
therefore, having sent you to follow the enemy, he would be your
quartermaster himself."
I thanked him for his information, and was riding on, but another
officer stopped me, putting his hand upon the bridle, and asking, "Do
you always go to war, brave De Cerons, with a _femme-de-chambre_ in
your suite!"
My cheek began to glow, for I thought he had applied that term to
Louise: but he added immediately, "I do not know whether you are aware
of it, but three or four _femmes-de-chambre_, with five or six
blue-nosed serving-men, and a good old clergyman, who preached us an
excellent sermon yesterday, have taken possession of your quarters,
right or wrong, though the prince refused them to me and to
Montgomery."
"That is your father's servants, and La Tour, and your own woman,
Louise," I said. "We must ride on and find them out. They will all be
right glad to see you safe."
But I was destined to be stopped once more; for one of the officers I
had just passed called after me as the troop rode in, "Hi, De Cerons!
Hi! Where did you get this that the man is carrying? Why, it is
Martigue's own cornet!"
"It is his no longer," I answered: "but the fact is, I beat up their
quarters in their camp last night. They came out after me, and we
drove them back again, taking their cornet."
"You are certainly the luckiest man in the camp," cried another. But,
without waiting for any more observations, I rode on as quickly as
possible towards the house which had been indicated as my quarters. It
proved, however, that eager eyes had been looking for my return; and,
before I had reached the farmhouse, good La Tour was out and through
the little gate of the courtyard to meet me. The old man's face
sparkled with joy when he saw me, but ten times more when he saw
Louise along with me; and he exclaimed, embracing me as closely as my
iron covering would permit, "I should never do for a soldier, my dear
Henry, I should never do for a soldier. I have been more anxious than
you can conceive; every half hour, every moment, I thought that it was
either you returned, or some one to say that you had been killed or
wounded."
"Oh, you would soon forget such things, my good friend," said I. "But,
dear La Tour, here is a poor girl who wants not a little comfort and
consolation; so I will leave her with you for one hour, to tell her
own story and mine too, and go and repeat my proceedings to the Prince
de Condé."
"Ay, you must do so quickly," replied the old man: "for I hear he sets
out for Niort either this night or early to-morrow morning. But I will
take care of this dear child till you come back, and--see, here comes
Marguelette to welcome her mistress."
While Marguelette was literally shrieking with joy and surprise, I
gave orders to Moric Endem to lodge the men, and to entertain the
horse arquebusiers who had been our companions, at my expense, and
then, with a boy to guide me, and one of my troop, carrying the cornet
we had taken, behind me, I hurried on with all speed to an old sort of
chateau, called the _manoir_, where the prince had taken up his
quarters. There were people hurrying about the place, preparing, it
seemed, for departure; but, on my being admitted, I found him sitting
calmly with De Luze, who had joined him, and given the news of my
return before my appearance, together with the famous Montgomery,
better known for accidentally killing Henry II., king of France, than
for all the bold, gallant, and chivalrous actions he performed, and
one or two other gentlemen, all of whom looked as merry as might be.
"You left us laughing as heartily as we could, Monsieur de
Cerons," said the prince, "over the affair of the valets and the
baggage-wagons, and your most excellent and successful stratagem. One
of Monsieur de Coligny's band took an officer attached to the Duke of
Anjou, and from him we have learned that the sight of that third camp,
and a skirmish which took place in front of it towards morning, was
the absolute cause of the enemy decamping in such haste. But how have
you fared since you went! We have taken care of you, you see, in your
absence."
"Why, I have fared extremely well, sir," I replied; "and have brought
you a cornet which we took, and which some one says is Martigue's."
"Oh, it cannot be Martigue's," cried the Prince de Condé. "He would
have charged to regain it if it had cost him his life."
"But it was not taken in the pursuit," I said: "it was taken last
night. I determined to give them an _alerte_ on their right wing, and
was in their camp for some minutes."
"Are you mad, De Cerons?" exclaimed the Prince de Condé. "Why,
gentlemen, I thought I was the maddest man in the army, and this good
youth is determined to outdo me, it seems. Give them an _alerte_, too,
with less than a hundred and fifty men! Pray how many did you bring
back?"
"Every one I took, your highness," I replied, "and but with one slight
wound among them. It seems lucky that I have brought back Martigue's
cornet, or I should not get credit for my tale, however simple it
might be."
"Oh, you have full credit," replied the Prince de Condé; "and I was
proposing now, as the only reward that could be given you for your
service three nights ago, to arm you a knight at once; but Montgomery
asked me to stop a day or two."
"May I ask why?" I demanded, turning towards Montgomery with some
surprise.
"With no ill meaning, I can assure you, Monsieur de Cerons," replied
Montgomery. "I thought, if you were knighted for that exploit, the
wags of the court would call you the knight of the valets.
"They must give him another name now, however," replied the Prince de
Condé; "there lie the spurs, and he shall have them on his heels this
night. They may then call him the Chevalier _Alerte_, if they like."
I thanked the prince, as may easily be supposed: for I imagine the
time never was, and am certain it never will be, when any man of
honour and of courage could feel the touch of the knightly sword upon
his shoulder without sensations of joy and redoubled energy. I thought
fit, in the first place, however, to let his highness know upon what
occasion I had so boldly entered the enemy's camp, lest the personal
object that conducted me there might be considered as a diminution of
any honour attached to the act. I accordingly gave a full account of
the whole transaction, which seemed, indeed, rather to augment than
decrease the approbation of the prince. He paused and mused for some
time, however, over the refusal of the Baron de Blancford to seize the
opportunity of escape.
"It has long been reported," he said at length, "that the baron is
wavering in his faith both to God and to his fellows in arms. On my
honour! it were but right to detain this fair lady as a hostage for
her father's conduct. What say you, De Cerons?" he added, with a
smile: "Will you be her guardian?"
"I beseech your highness," I replied, "not to think of such a thing.
Indeed, I intended to ask that your highness would send a flag to the
Catholic camp to inquire whether the Baron de Blancford is detained
there as a prisoner or not, and to demand that, if he be not there as
a captive, a safe conduct may immediately be granted to his daughter
and his domestics now in this camp, in order that they may join him
without farther delay. I will, at the same time, write to him,
explaining the cause of his daughter's temporary absence; and I trust
that your highness will not refuse me this request."
"Certainly not, De Cerons," replied the prince. "But, if I do write,
you must not expect me to spare your good cousin, for his conduct has
been most base in the whole of this affair, and he must hear that we
consider it such."
"Oh, in that matter be it as your highness pleases," I replied; "I
have neither wish, nor reason to wish, that he should be spared;
though perhaps, my lord, there may be causes for his conduct that we
do not know."
"So shall it be, then, De Cerons. I will give the order this night.
But, by my faith! you must see to the execution of it yourself, for I
set out to-morrow morning, two hours before daylight, for Niort, Where
I have business enough to do, in all conscience, during the five or
six days that I shall be absent, to wring money from hard-handed
usurers, and assistance from that great but stony-hearted woman,
Elizabeth of England, who sees right willingly the internal feuds of
France, but will give no aid to those whose part she pretends to
espouse till they are driven to the last extremity."
"I had hoped, sir," I replied, "from what I heard from good Martin
Vern, the merchant, that your highness was likely to obtain some
supplies more easily."
"He has done somewhat, he has done somewhat," replied the prince; "and
he deals liberally himself; but he is obliged to negotiate on my part
with Jews and Lombards innumerable, and he has now gone to Paris with
but small hope of getting their bills discounted except at exorbitant
interest."
The news of Martin Vern having quitted the camp without giving me any
acknowledgment whatever for the money he had received from me, was, as
may be imagined, not very satisfactory to me; and I remained musing
for a moment or two, while the prince wrote the order that I had
demanded, and made some memorandums in regard to what was to be done
in carrying it into execution.
"Come, De Cerons," he said, in a light tone, after he had done,
"you seem sad, my good friend. Kneel down here. We will make a
knight of you before we part, as young knights, they say, are always
gay-hearted. Condé shall strike the stroke, Montgomery shall buckle on
the spurs, and, lo! where comes D'Andelot, who was dubbed by the hand
of the great Francis himself on his first field of battle, to buckle
on the sword."
Certainly it could scarcely be by hands more distinguished that the
ceremonies of knighthood were performed, and I might well go back to
my quarters with a heart rejoicing in having taken a step far higher
than any I had previously reached in the career which I had chosen for
myself. Out of the small stock that remained to me, I gave a hundred
crowns among the men as a largesse on my knighthood, and then
immediately sought the room in the farmhouse where Louise had remained
in conversation with good old La Tour and Dame Marguelette. Their
rejoicing for her arrival had by this time poured itself forth, and
they now all gathered round me with the strange mixture of feelings
which I knew existed in their bosoms, causing an odd confusion of
manner, which can only be understood when we recollect that those who
now surrounded me remembered me chiefly as a boy--even as a child,
whom they had been accustomed to direct, exhort, and to control, and
that now the very same people found that child commanding, providing
for, and protecting them with a tone of independence and authority,
and proofs of power and right strangely opposed to all their former
ideas.
The old pastor, though he certainly did not look upon me still as a
boy, could scarcely understand how the men that he saw around me came
to pay such instant deference to my orders; how one waited for my
casque, another took off my cuirass, another came to me for one
direction, and another on something else; and Dame Marguelette, for
her part, would, I believe, willingly have patted my head when the
helmet was taken off, and she saw again the brown curls that she used
to twine round her fingers in my infancy. Louise alone seemed fully to
look upon me as a man and a commander; but we must remember that on my
arm had she leaned from her own childhood; that I had not only been
her companion, but her counsellor and her protector; and that, side by
side with my greater strength and powers, she had grown up like a
violet under some taller shrub, shaded but sheltered.
I found good old La Tour thoughtful, very thoughtful; and at the meal
which ensued, I remarked that he frequently laid down his knife and
spoon, and fell into a deep revery. Louise, on the contrary, was
bright and happy, full of joy and satisfaction at being once more amid
those whom she loved best; and though, ever since the preceding night,
a slight shade of timidity--timidity shall I call it? no, it was not
timidity, nor exactly tenderness perhaps, but a depth, a profundity, a
feelingness of tone--mingled with all she said to me. Though the
colour in her cheek became somewhat brighter, and her eye acquired a
calm intensity of look when she spoke to me long upon any interesting
subject, yet it was evident that the change in her feelings towards me
was, if I may use the term, less complete, even though greater, than
with the two others; she beheld me with sensations which were only the
expansion of what had gone before; they saw me under a point of view
altogether altered; I saw the change in her, perhaps, in one little
trait more than in anything else.
With natural, vanity I happened, during the meal, to mention that the
Prince de Condé--at that time the great hero of the Protestant
party--had just conferred upon me the order of knighthood with his own
hand. Louise started up with her eyes and her cheeks all glowing, and
with a look of joy and delight that can never pass from my mind. The
tears of deep satisfaction were almost overflowing her eyes, and the
words of congratulation were almost overpowering to her; but she sat
down again immediately, and only held out her hand to me. The time had
been when she would have cast her arms around my neck, and kissed me
while she wished me joy.
After supper I went round the quarters which had been assigned to me,
and concluded all my arrangements; and Louise, fatigued as she had
been during the preceding night and day, retired to rest soon after my
return. Dame Marguelette, and one of the maids who had been with her,
slept in the same chamber, and retired at the same time; and good old
La Tour and I were left alone. I was certainly altogether unprepared
for the conversation that was to ensue.
"Henry," he said, as soon as we were quite alone and the door shut,
"Henry, I am anxious for you and for Louise, most anxious for Louise."
And, as he spoke, there was a sad and foreboding look about his eyes
which showed that the anxiety that he spoke of was deeper than the
lips.
"Indeed!" I replied, with a thousand vague and unreal fears excited
in a moment: "and what makes you so anxious, my dear friend? Why
are you troubled, La Tour? I have seen, indeed, that it was so all
supper-time, though I knew not why."
"Oh Henry," cried the old man, "does not your own heart tell you why?
Do not your own feelings at this moment?"
"No, indeed, my dear sir," I replied, "I have no such feelings at all,
no such sensations; I know not what you allude to. It might, perhaps,
be wrong to bring Louise away, and I would not have done it if there
had been any choice. But she must have explained to you that it was
done without my knowing it, and, once done, impossible to take her
back."
"It is not that at all, it is not that at all, Henry," replied La
Tour; "it is--it is," he continued, hesitating, "it is that you love
Louise, Henry, and that," he paused for a moment or two, and then
added, "it is useless to conceal it; you know it already; you guess
it, you see it, even if she have not acknowledged it to you with her
own lips; it is that you love Louise, Henry, and that she loves you."
I might have replied that it was quite natural that it should be so; I
might have replied that we had always loved each other, and that he
knew it; but I would not have equivocated with that straightforward,
honest, kind-hearted old man for the world, and I therefore answered
him. "Is that the cause, my good friend, why you are so grieved? In
truth, I see not why it should so grieve you; nothing can be more
natural than that it should be as it is. I affect not to deny that I
love Louise to the full extent of your meaning. Whether she loves me
or not--though I do believe and hope she does--I can in no degree
tell, for we never have spoken to each other on such a theme; but,
even taking it for granted that she does, where is the terrible evil
which should make our best and oldest friend look sad, and evidently
feel pained, to behold two people, to whom he has been a father
indeed, love each other mutually, dearly, and well?"
"It is because I love you both," replied La Tour. "You have been
frank and honest with me, Henry, and your confidence shall never be
ill-rewarded, shall never be betrayed. But, oh, my son! how little do
you yet know of the world's ways! You may have some small experience
in arms; you may divine what other men learn of the military art; but
of the world, Henry, of the world, you as yet know little, or you
would at once see what it is that grieves me in your mutual love; what
it is that will render it nothing but misery to you both. Say, Henry,
what is it that you can expect, but that you should see the hand of
Louise bestowed upon some other man when her heart is yours? What is
then to be the result?"
"But, my dear friend," I replied, "let me ask you, in return, one
question. Why may I not obtain that hand myself?"
"You, Henry! you!" exclaimed the good pastor; "that, indeed, is a vain
imagination! Can you entertain it for a moment? Do you think her
father, wealthy, powerful, proud, will wed her to one who has nothing
but his sword to depend upon, however good that sword may be? Ask
yourself, is such a thing probable? is it possible?"
"At present, certainly not," I replied; "but Louise is still young,
quite in her youth. I have already been successful in an extraordinary
degree; why may I not, step by step, advance in the same course, till
a high point, both of fame and of wealth, is obtained? Why may not I,
though without the birth of a Condé indeed, raise myself as high as he
has done, who set out in life poorer even for a prince than I am for a
gentleman! Why may not I build up a new house, like my great ancestor,
the Count de Cerons, who founded the noble house to which I belong
with nothing but his sword?"
"True, he did so," replied La Tour, "and you may do the same; but
recollect, Henry, that your grandfather alienated the estates and
barony of Blancford to a younger brother, to support the cause for
which he fought; that your father did the same, and that the trade of
war, like every other trade, is now great gain, and now heavy loss,
but with this difference, that accident in war mingles in a tenfold
proportion, and that it is a game in which there is always an
important and heavy chance against the player. But, granting that
fortune favours you to the utmost and to the end; that you acquire
wealth, honour, and distinction; granting, too--which may well be
granted--that Louise would willingly wait till all this was
accomplished, think you that her father will wait? think you that he
will patiently reserve his daughter for one towards whom he cannot
help feeling respect and esteem, but for whom he has shown no great
affection throughout the whole course of his life? Can you say, Henry,
to put it in one word, can you say that he will not to-morrow promise
the hand of Louise to another? can you be sure that he has not already
promised it?"
There was something in the old man's manner which seemed to imply more
than his words expressed; and, determined to come to the point at
once, I rose and took his hand in mine. "What is it you mean, La
Tour?" I said. "There is something you would warn me of; there is
something upon your mind. Speak out--speak plainly. We have always
been honest and true towards each other; let us be so, I beseech you,
still."
"There is no reason why I should not be so toward you," replied La
Tour; "No pledge has been extorted from me, no promise of secrecy has
ever been asked. The baron, then, does destine Louise's hand to
another. He has even, I believe, promised it."
His words fell like drops of molten fire upon my heart; they were
agony to me; they were beyond all agony I had ever felt before. "To
whom?" I said, "To whom?"
"To the Seigneur de Blaye," replied the good clergyman; "a Catholic, a
persecutor, an enemy to the faith that we ourselves profess, but
wealthy, powerful, handsome, brave, nobly connected--"
I stamped my foot angrily upon the ground, exclaiming, "A libertine, a
debauchee, a sot, and a fool!"
"Indeed!" exclaimed the clergyman. "But how do you know all this,
Henry de Cerons? Let not jealousy, my son, ever tempt you to take away
the reputation of another; there is a great commandment against it.
How can you know all this? I demand, Henry."
"Because," I replied, "he was my prisoner and my guest for several
days, and during that time he lived a life of folly, intemperance, and
vice, which would have shamed the lowest debauchee in the most corrupt
capital of Europe."
"Alas! alas!" said the old clergyman, "you now do make me tenfold
unhappy, indeed, Henry. I know you would not pervert the truth on any
account, and yet I would fain believe that this terrible tale might be
untrue."
"It is as true as I live!" I replied, vehemently. "Does Louise herself
know of this proposed marriage? Has she ever seen the man they seek to
make her wed?"
"Never," replied La Tour; "Nor does she know aught of it. He is
distantly related to the baroness. She, doubtless, has managed the
whole; and all I know is, that, on the application of this young lord,
the baron replied that his daughter was still too young to wed, or
even to think of marriage. What more he added I know not, but I
understood that expectations, if not promises, were given."
"They are promises that shall never be fulfilled!" I replied, seating
myself more calmly at the table. "He shall never marry Louise de
Blancford, were he as wealthy as an Indian king!"
"How so?" demanded the good pastor. "Think what you say, my son, think
what you say. What should stay him, Henry de Cerons?"
"This right hand," I replied, pressing it firmly on the table; "and
now, my good father, in this business I must act without control.
Willingly will I ask your advice, willingly will I listen to your
counsels, but I must determine upon the results myself; and remember,
in anything that passes between us on this subject, or anything
connected therewith, as a friend, as a preceptor, as a monitor, I
expect, and shall receive your assistance whenever it agrees with your
own views of right and wrong to give it; and as a Christian pastor and
an honest man, I expect the most profound secrecy in all things. I
know that with you I shall have no double dealing or prevarication, no
pious frauds, as I might expect among the priests of our enemies and
persecutors."
"But what do you propose to do, Henry?" demanded the pastor. "What am
I to suppose are your intentions?"
"I know not as yet, good friend," I replied, "and I even now hesitate
whether to tell Louise at once what are my changed feelings towards
her, and to ascertain what are her feelings towards me, or to leave
matters to take their course."
"Nor know I well what to advise, my son," replied La Tour. "It is
woful and terrible to think that one so beautiful, so pure, so
innocent, should be forced to wed one of a different creed, who, in
the very first instance, will doubtless pervert, or try to pervert,
her religious principles, and then, perhaps, the purity of her mind;
who will ultimately neglect, abandon, perhaps ill-treat her, and who
will never, can never make her happy. It is a sad fate, De Cerons, a
sad and terrible fate, especially for one who loves another."
"Can I feel certain that she loves me?" I said, more musing than
questioning the good man.
"Enough to make her unhappy with another, am I very sure," replied La
Tour; "and that is one reason, Henry, why I am almost inclined to
counsel you to speak with her on the subject of your mutual affection.
She may feel deeply that she loves you, but may not discover how much
till she has become the bride of another. I, of course, can never
counsel her to disobey her father, unless I were to see, beyond all
doubt and casuistry, that her soul's salvation was endangered by it;
but I think there might be a safeguard in knowing her own feelings
towards you and yours towards her, which might guide her rightly even
where I dare not counsel and you scarcely dare act--I know not,
Henry--yet I know not."
"I will think of it, my good friend," I replied, "I will think of it
often during the night; and I will endeavour, as far as possible, to
cast away every selfish consideration; so fare you well for this
evening, for I have duties that now call upon me."