I passed the most anxious and most restless night that I ever yet had
known in life. New feelings had got possession of my heart, strong,
violent, irresistible and thoughtful, watchful, unreposing, my mind
remained active with many bitter and painful images, and with many
wild and anxious thoughts. My determination, however, was taken ere I
rose the following morning, nor was it taken without full
consideration of the circumstances under which I was to act. Had my
cousin's conduct towards me, I asked myself, been such as to lay me
under any bond of gratitude or tie of honour to sacrifice calmly all
my own hopes of happiness in life, while at the same time I saw
sacrificed the peace, the comfort, the temporal, perhaps the eternal
repose of the being I most loved on all the earth? The answer was
plain and straightforward; there was no such tie: and then, again, I
thought of the baroness--not the second wife, but the first--of her
who had been a mother to me--more than a mother; and I asked myself
how all that I owed to her ought to affect my conduct towards her
child. That, too, was soon determined. I felt a consciousness that I
could make Louise happy, that I could secure her peace and comfort,
and that, if fortune were but added, there could be no danger or
difficulty, no pain or anxiety within the common range of
probabilities, that I could not guard her from and protect her
against.
Was there anything, therefore, in the deep feelings of gratitude and
love which I experienced towards the dead, which should forbid my
making the attempt so to protect and shield the child of her who had
conferred so many benefits upon me? Was it not rather what I owed her,
to endeavour, as far as Heaven gave me power, to prevent my poor
Louise from being driven into a union with one who could make her only
wretched; the pure tied to the impure, the innocent to the corrupt?
Again the answer was--yes!
No one can say, when he argues with his own heart on a question where
all its deepest feelings are interested--no one can say that simple,
straightforward reason alone dictates the reply; nor can I say that it
was so in the present instance. But still I had done my best to make
it do so. I believed that I was right; I believed that there could
scarcely be any farther question of what my conduct ought to be; and I
determined, therefore, to tell Louise of how I loved her; to inform
her of my hopes and wishes for the future; not, indeed, to bind her by
any promises, but to open her eyes, to satisfy myself as to the
feelings of her heart, and then to leave her native strength of mind,
her resolution and her love, to do the rest.
With this resolution I rose at daybreak on the following morning. It
was a clear, bright, cheerful day, and on my going my early rounds, I
found the soldier charged to bear the flag of truce, with letters from
the Prince de Condé to the Duke of Anjou, waiting for my farther
orders. I instantly sat down and wrote the letter which I had promised
to the Baron de Blancford, explaining in few and brief words what had
happened in regard to Louise, expressing my grief that she had been
subjected to some inconvenience and fatigue, but making no excuse or
apology whatever for an event which I did not think required any.
Having done this and despatched the messenger, I made some farther
inquiries concerning the state of the army, perceiving that a large
body of troops were moving to the left from the spot which had been
assigned to us for our quarters, leaving only five or six hundred men
in the hamlet. I now found that the troops I saw marching were
destined to take up their quarters nearer Loudun, in order to
strengthen the centre of the position, as a violent fever had broken
out among the soldiers from Provence, which had occasioned a mortality
of nearly two thousand men within a few days.
Our little hamlet was now comparatively deserted; a number of the
officers had gone to Niort with the Prince de Condé; and though
Montgomery remained in the command, he was the only man of any
consequence left.
After occupying myself with various military avocations, I returned,
and found the rest of my little household up and waiting for me. Good
old La Tour looked at me with grave and thoughtful eyes; but Louise
had risen refreshed and beautiful as the morning; and had there been
any doubt or irresolution remaining in my mind, I do not believe that
it would have resisted those bright looks. There was no irresolution,
however, and immediately after our morning meal was over, I said,
"Come, Louise, the day is most beautiful; good Marguelette here will
doubtless find you some better head-gear than that with which you
travelled through that terrible cold night, and I will take you round
the camp, to let you see more of the military world than perhaps you
have ever seen yet."
Marguelette assured me that almost all the young lady's wardrobe was
within immediate reach, for that the baron had gone off so hastily, he
had taken little enough for the journey with him. Louise, therefore,
was soon equipped for her walk, and, leaning fondly on my arm, she
went forth, walking with me from post to post for about half an hour.
Not knowing what was in my heart, she might, doubtless, wonder at the
fits of silent thoughtfulness into which I fell, and, beginning to
think that all went not well with me, she asked, with the sweetest and
tenderest tones of her sweet and tender voice, what made me so sad,
and why I did not tell my own Louise. I replied that I would tell her
presently, and, walking forth out of the hamlet, I led her past the
old manoir, where the Prince de Condé had made his abode for a time,
up the slope of the hill to a little wood of tall fir-trees, whose
ever-green tops spread out till they met each other, although the
bolls below were far apart, suffering the clear rays of the low winter
sun to stream in over the red and yellow leaves which had fallen from
the branches above, and thickly strewed the ground beneath. The day,
indeed, was as bright as summer, and it was cheerful and refreshing
too; but there was something which told that it was not summer;
something in the aspect of the whole scene which gave a shade of
thoughtfulness, if I may so call it, even to the brightness of the
morning. The blades of grass upon the sides of the hill were all
shining as if they had been decorated with gems; but one saw and felt
that, like the blaze of light upon many another gem, the sunshine fell
upon nothing but frostwork, and that everything was cold and frozen
underneath. There was now no fog upon the ground, and through the
clear, calm air the church of Loudun and various other buildings in
that small town were seen rising up in the distance, and we paused,
and gazed over the scene around, without one sound breaking the wintry
silence of nature.
"How far is it to that town?" demanded Louise, after gazing for some
time.
"Nearly five miles, dear one," I replied.
"How near it looks!" she said: "I should not have thought it were
two."
"It looks so near, dear Louise," I replied, "from the clearness of the
wintry air; and so it is, Louise," I said, "With future as with
distant things. To the calm, cold, icy eye of experience and reason,
the future and distant times, the five or six years hence, look near
as if we could touch them; the space between dwindles down to nothing,
and the rest of life seems but as a moment: while, on the contrary, in
the warm and sunny days of youth, the airy mist of passion, of fancy,
and of expectation, throws every future thing far, far away, and the
five or six years that lie between us and happiness seem a long age of
wearisome expectation."
She looked up in my face and smiled, saying, "I suppose it is so,
Henry. I know that since you went away from Blancford, in thinking
when I might probably see you again, the space has seemed
interminable."
"And, now that we have met again, Louise," I said, "We are to part in
a few short hours--to part, when to meet again?"
She gazed down upon the ground, and sighed deeply; and I said, "You
know, Louise, the messenger has gone to the Duke of Anjou's camp, to
demand a safe conduct for you and the rest to join your father?"
"So Marguelette told me," she replied; "oh, I hope he will not return
immediately."
"It will seem as but a moment to us, dear Louise," I replied; "but as
a short moment, and then you will leave me, and it may be years before
we meet again; and perhaps by that time, Louise"--my voice trembled, I
believe, very much as I spoke--"and perhaps by that time you may be
the bride of another."
Louise started and let go her hold of my arm, gazing up in my face
with eager and intense looks, as if she had been startled from a dream
by the horrible images that came across it.
"Oh, no!" she cried, somewhat reproachfully, "no, Henry--no--no." Her
voice dropped as she slowly pronounced the words, and she fell into a
fit of musing.
"Louise," I said, after having given her some time for thought, "do
you know how I love you?"
"Oh yes, Henry," she replied, looking up still very pale, "I know you
love me."
"But do you know how well I love you, Louise?" I demanded. "Do you
know that I love you doubly, that I have loved you twice?"
"Twice!" she said, musing. "That is strange, Henry. I think I know
what you mean, too; and yet it is strange."
"Scarcely strange, dearest," I answered, "scarcely strange. You know I
loved you well before I quitted Blancford; dearly, most dearly,
Louise. But I love you differently now; better, more dearly, more
warmly, more tenderly."
I heard her breath come very thick as I spoke, and she leaned her hand
upon my arm, still looking down, and saying, as if for the first time
she was scanning her own feeling, "Differently? oh yes--and I love you
differently too."
I threw my arm around her and drew her to my bosom, saying, "Thank
you, thank you, dearest Louise, for that word. Yet tell me, oh! tell
me, what it is you feel towards me?"
"I cannot," she said, pressing her glowing forehead against my breast,
"I cannot tell you, Henry. I scarcely know myself. I feel strangely,
very strangely, but it seems as if to part with you again were the
most terrible thing that could befall me."
Again I pressed her gently to my heart.
"Sit down here, Louise," I said, "on these dry fragments of the
fir-trees, and let us speak more calmly. Look here, dear girl; this
sword that you see is the sole inheritance of him who loves you better
than life. Already, however, that sword has raised him to some renown,
and won him some wealth: on it he trusts for more: he trusts to win
with it higher rank and station, fortune sufficient for a moderate
ambition, and a right to demand the hand of her he loves. That, that,
Louise, is the end and object of all my endeavours; that is the hope
that animates me, and will carry me on to greatness if I am permitted
to indulge it. It is that hope which has made me what I now am; it is
that hope which will make my efforts far greater: it is for your love,
Louise, that I strive; it is that you may be mine entirely, heart of
my heart, and soul of my soul, that my arms may be your resting-place
for life, and that no one may ever, ever tear you from my bosom.
"Oh, tell me, dear Louise--give me that one bright consolation, that
one surpassing motive for every kind of exertion--tell me, tell me,
does the change which you admit has taken place in your feelings
towards me, does it tend to the same as my own wishes; does it make
you feel that you could be happy as mine--not as a sister, but as a
bride--not as a mere companion, but as the one united to me for life,
and through life, by every link of love in one, being the sister, the
companion, the friend, the wife? Oh, tell me, Louise, tell me. Is it
so? Does the change in your feelings towards me speak to your own
heart, and say that you can love me with such love, ardent, deep,
intense, passionate as my own?"
Louise did not answer--she could not answer--for some time; for the
tears were rolling over her cheeks, the tears of strong emotion; but
her hand was clasped in mine, her head leaned upon my shoulder. The
cheek burned, the eyes were bent down, and the lip quivered; but there
was not a sign of all the many which her demeanour gave that could
teach me anything but hope; and yet I was impatient to hear more. I
repeated my question in a different form; I kissed her cheek again and
again; I urged her to speak. It was long ere she did so, however; till
at length, looking up at me, she said, almost reproachfully, "Oh,
Henry, Henry, you know, you feel, you are aware, well, well aware,
that I love you as deeply, truly, fully, as any woman can love man;
that, had I my will, I would never part with you, I would never leave
you. What can I say more?"
"Nothing, dearest, nothing," I replied; "you have said enough; you
have made me happy, most happy; happier than I almost ever fancied I
should be. And yet much remains, dear Louise, before we can be fully
happy together. I have to use every energy and every exertion to place
myself in such a situation that I may rightly and wisely ask your
hand. You, Louise, may have fully as much to do on your part. Ere you
can be mine, they will press you to give your hand to others; they
will command you, they will urge you--"
"Never, never!" cried Louise, eagerly; "I will never hear them, I will
never listen to them for a moment; from this instant, Henry, I am
yours; and I promise--"
"Nay, nay, dear Louise," I said, "let me not bind you by any promise;
that I have, as yet, no right to do."
"You bind me by no promise, Henry," she said, "but I bind myself. I
will never listen to such a thing even for a moment, so let not that
trouble your repose at any time. Believe nothing that you hear of the
kind; doubt not, fear not, dear Henry. I am yours, and none but yours;
when first you began to speak just now, and said you might perhaps
find me the bride of another, though I had not thought of all this as
I now have, yet I felt that it could never be so, and that never,
never would you find me the wife of any one."
We spoke longer upon the same theme, we dwelt upon our thoughts and
feelings; agitation, and emotion, and timidity in some degree passed
from Louise's mind, and gradually she let me see more and more deeply
into the recesses of her heart, and made me at each instant happier by
showing that I was beloved as fully and deeply as I could wish. We
lingered for a considerable time under those fir-trees; and then again
we walked down the hill to the hamlet, but turned before we reached
the camp, and walked some way farther round, and lingered still and
turned again, and more than once hesitated, and paused, and spoke a
few fond words more before we went back to that world between which
and ourselves there was now drawn a thin and filmy screen, perceptible
to none but ourselves, but yet sufficient to be a perfect separation.
It seemed as if love was now at home in our mutual bosoms, and the
casements of the heart were closed.
Good La Tour was for the time our only confidant, if I may so call it;
for in the evening he questioned me closely as soon as he found an
opportunity, and I told him at once that I had spoken with Louise upon
the subject of my love, and that with joy unutterable I had found it
was returned. I farther added, that I had bound her by no promise;
that she was free from all but such engagements as her own heart
imposed upon her; but that now to obtain her was the end and object of
my existence, and that to him I trusted at least to throw some
impediment in the way of her union with one where misery was the only
fortune that she could expect.
He said, in reply, that he could scarcely blame me for what I had
done; he could scarcely approve either, he added, for there were so
many contending considerations that he saw not what was the most fit
plan to be adopted. In short, it was evident to me that the good man's
sense of what was right towards Louise and towards myself were
struggling against ideas preconceived of what was right to the baron
as a father. He saw evidently to what the baron's own conduct had led;
to what consequences, fatal to his own peace and to the happiness of
his family; and he evidently doubted my cousin's power and his
inclination to conduct his child to happiness and to peace, though he
dared not deny his right to direct her.
The conversation was luckily soon terminated by the entrance of other
persons, and the two days that followed passed without any material
conversation between La Tour and myself on the subject that was
uppermost in both our thoughts. With Louise those days passed in joy,
mingled with that kind of gentle sadness which the knowledge that our
hours of happiness were destined to be few, was well calculated to
produce. Each of us felt drawn more and more closely towards the other
as the moments became few that we were to be together; the knowledge
that we must soon part but increased the desire to remain, and gave at
once delight and anxiety to our short communion.
At length, however, the messenger arrived with the safe conduct; there
was no farther delay to be gained; the period of Louise's departure
for the camp of the Duke of Anjou was fixed for the following morning
early, and but a few hours remained ere we were to be parted for an
indefinite length of time. There wanted but such a state and such a
prospect to bring forth all Louise's deep and fervid feelings. Her
affection, her love, were no longer concealed, were no longer veiled
under any show of reserve. She wept at the thought of parting from me
long and sadly; she felt it more difficult to bear than she had
anticipated; and the only thing that seemed to comfort her was a
promise that, by writing sometimes to her, and frequently to La Tour,
I would give her continual tidings of my proceedings and of my
well-being. We passed a long evening, which, as our days of pleasure
had been mingled with pain, now gave us hours of pain not unmingled
with pleasure.
At length the time came for her departure, and I mounted with a small
body of my men to escort her till we were met by the party appointed
to receive her. La Tour, Marguelette, and the rest of the old
servants, with the baggage and all the rest of the things they had
brought, followed in our train, and we rode slowly on, calmer, indeed,
than we were the night before, but still sad. We talked, however, of
the joy we had in meeting, of the happy days we had spent together,
and we spoke of hopes and pleasures for future years, even while fears
mingled with the hopes, and dark images of pain crossed the bright
visions that we were inclined to indulge.
Thus we rode on, making the way which, if our wishes could have had
effect, would have been interminable, far shorter than it might
otherwise have seemed; and at length, before I thought that we could
have gone above a quarter of the way, we saw upon the opposite slope
of a valley we were crossing a considerable body of horsemen, bearing,
like ourselves, a white flag in the midst of them. They halted as soon
as they saw us, and, halting my men likewise, I rode forward alone, to
make sure that we were right. The moment that this was perceived, two
gentlemen came forth from the other party, the one a man pretty well
advanced in years, and the other apparently a youth, whom, as he rode
down the hill, I naturally enough concluded to be Alfred de Blancford,
Louise's brother; but I soon perceived that I was mistaken. It was a
boy whom I had seen once before, but where I could not recollect.
The elder of the horsemen I had never till then beheld, but from his
dress and demeanour he was evidently a person of high distinction; and
when we met at the bottom of the valley he saluted me with much
courtesy, inquiring if I were the Seigneur de Cerons, and had escorted
thither Mademoiselle de Blancford. I replied that such was the case,
and begged to know if he was empowered to receive her from my hands,
inquiring at the same time to whom I had the honour of speaking.
"My name," he said, "is Montpensier, and in the absence of the Duke of
Anjou I am commander-in-chief of the army, with whom the Baron de
Blancford sojourns at this moment. I took upon myself the task of
meeting Mademoiselle de Blancford for various reasons, but for one
especially. This young gentleman is my son, Monsieur de Cerons. You
have, I think, seen him before."
"I remember him perfectly, monseigneur," I replied, "but where I had
the honour of seeing his face last I cannot recollect."
"Under your horse's feet, I rather suspect, Monsieur de Cerons,"
replied the young gentleman, with a graceful inclination of the head.
"My visor flew up as that vile brute I was riding stumbled and fell
with me."
"Oh! now I remember you well," I replied at once. "You are the young
gentleman who made so gallant a charge against us when we were
pursuing the other day. I rather imagine you would have given me some
trouble," I continued, smiling, "if your horse had not fallen with
you."
The young man coloured with pleasure, and the duke replied for him.
"You speak too flatteringly, Monsieur de Cerons; but he is a brave
youth, too, and he told me, the moment he came back, what had
occurred, and how generously you had behaved to him."
"God forbid, sir," I said, "that I should strike one blow at a gallant
young gentleman when he is down."
"But," said the duke, "You might have made him prisoner, and his
ransom would have been no slight sum. We cannot, therefore, thus rest
your debtors, Monsieur de Cerons, and I brought him here this day,
that we might both acquit ourselves to you of that which we owe you."
"You are both more than acquitted already, my lord," I replied. "The
thanks which you have been pleased to give me are sufficient
recompense; and let it be remembered always, that this young gentleman
neither surrendered nor demanded quarter; that what was done was my
doing; and perhaps the time may come, on some future day, when the
little kindness I showed may be returned by some other. Will you allow
me," I added, in order to change the subject, "To inquire whether any
of the relations of Mademoiselle de Blancford are with your company
above?"
"No," replied the duke. "The truth is, Monsieur de Cerons, that the
Baron de Blancford has been somewhat enraged by a letter from the
Prince de Condé to the Duke of Anjou respecting him, and by one which,
I understand, you wrote to him yourself. I therefore undertook the
task of meeting you here, to prevent any unpleasant collision. I
wished his two sons to have accompanied me; but he replied, that if he
did not go himself, none of his family should go. But that I have full
authority to receive the young lady, you may believe."
"I doubt it not in the least, my lord," I replied; "but I was in hopes
that the two boys were there, who have been brought up beside me from
their infancy, but whom I have not seen for a long time. However,
Mademoiselle de Blancford shall be delivered into your hands
immediately, and I pray you to do your best to induce her father to
look differently upon my letter, and to believe that, when I gave you
the little _alèrte_ the other night, my only view was to rescue him,
if, as I suspected, he was detained as a prisoner."
"What, then, it was you," said the duke, "Who roused us in such a
manner, and who carried off one of the cornets. Take care how you come
in the way of Martigues, Monsieur de Cerons, for he has not forgotten
the loss of that cornet."
"I will treat it with all honour and distinction, my lord," I replied,
smiling: "I will carry it with me into the very next field where I am
likely to meet your army, and there Monsieur de Martigues may take it
if he have the will and the power."
"I shall tell him so, I shall tell him so," replied the duke. "We
shall have the days of chivalry revived again. But we must waste no
more daylight, Monsieur de Cerons, for we shall but have light enough
to get back to the camp."
At this hint I immediately went back, and telling Louise who it was
that had come to meet her, I dismounted from my horse, and led her
forward by the bridle-rein. Good old La Tour and the rest followed at
a little distance, giving us an opportunity of passing those few last
moments alone. We said nothing, however, as we went on. Her hand
rested for a moment in mine; our eyes looked long and speakingly into
each other's; and thus we went on till we approached the Duc de
Montpensier, who, dismounting also, took a step forward to meet his
fair charge. He asked her some courteous question of no great import
as he approached, but Louise could not answer; her voice was choked,
her eyes were full of tears. The duke looked to me as if for an
explanation. I had none to give, and felt that the best way was to
withdraw as soon as possible.
"Louise," I said, approaching as close as I could, and speaking in a
low voice, "Louise, my beloved, adieu! God be with you, and protect
you, and give you courage, and give you strength."
Louise bent down over her jennet, let her arm drop over mine, and her
weeping eyes fell upon my shoulder. After a moment she made an effort
and raised her head, saying, "Adieu, Henry, adieu!"
As she did so our lips met, and, turning hastily away, I quitted a
scene that was becoming too much for me in every respect. Ere I had
taken ten steps, however, some one touched me on the arm. It was the
young Prince de la Roche,[2] the Duke of Montpensier's son, who held
out his hand to me, and grasped mine, saying, "We shall meet again,
Monsieur de Cerons, we shall meet again."