I was now eighteen; slim, tall, and vigorous, inheriting some portion
both of my father's and of my mother's personal beauty, and
superadding all those graces which are peculiarly the property of
youth; the flowers which partial nature bestows upon the spring of
life, and which are rarely compensated by the fruits of manhood's
summer. I know not why I should refrain from saying I was handsome.
Long before any one reads these lines, that which was so, will be dust
and ashes--a thing that creatures composed of the same sordid
materials, cemented by the same fragile medium of life, will turn from
with insect disgust. With this consciousness before me, I will
venture, then, to say, that I _was_ handsome:--if ever I was
personally vain, such a folly is amongst those that have left me.
However, with some good looks, and some knowledge that I did possess
them, it is not very wonderful that I should try to set them off to
the best advantage, on my return home after a long absence. There
might be a little native puppyism in the business; there might be,
also, some thought of looking well in the eyes of Helen Arnault, for
even at that early age I had begun to think about her a great deal
more than was necessary; and to pamper my imagination with a thousand
fine romances which need the lustrous air, the glowing skies, the
magnificent scenes, of the romance-breathing Pyrenees, to make them at
all comprehensible. Certain it is, that I did think of Helen Arnault
very often; but never was her idea more strongly in my mind than on
that morning when I was awakened for the purpose of bidding adieu to
my college studies, and of returning once more to my home, and my
parents, and the scenes of my infancy. I am afraid, that amongst all
the expectations which crowded upon my imagination, the thought of
Helen Arnault was most prominent.
At five o'clock precisely, old Houssaye, who had been trumpeter to my
grandfather's regiment of royalists in the wars of the League, and was
now promoted to the high and dignified station of my valet-de-chambre
and gouverneur, stood at my bed-side, and told me that our horses were
saddled, our baggage packed up, and that I had nothing to do but to
dress myself, mount, and set out. He was somewhat astonished, I
believe, at seeing me lie, for some ten minutes after he had drawn the
curtains, in the midst of meditations which to him seemed very simple
meditations indeed, but which were, in fact, so complicated of
thoughts, and feelings, and hopes, and wishes, and remembrances, that
I defy any mortal being to have disentangled the Gordian knot into
which I had twisted them. After trying some time in vain, I took the
method of that great Macedonian baby, who found the world too small a
plaything, and by jumping up, I cut the knot with all its involutions
asunder. But my farther proceedings greatly increased good master
Houssaye's astonishment; for instead of contenting myself with my
student's dress of simple black, with a low collar devoid of lace,
which he judged would suit a dusty road better than any other suit I
had, I insisted on his again opening the valise, and taking out my
very best slashed pourpoint, my lace collar, my white buskins, and my
gilt spurs. Then, having dressed myself _en cavalier parfait_, drawn
the long curls of my dark hair over my forehead, and tossed on my
feathered hat, instead of the prim looking conceit with which I had
covered my head at college, I rushed down the interminable staircase
into the courtyard, with a sudden burst of youthful extravagance; and,
springing on my horse, left poor Houssaye to follow as he best might.
Away I went out of Pau, like a young colt when first freed from the
restraint of the stable, and turned out to grass in the joy-inspiring
fields. Over hill and dale, and rough and smooth, I spurred on, with
very little regard to my horse's wind, till I came to the rising
ground which presents itself just before crossing the river to reach
Estelle. The first object on the height is the Château of Coarasse, in
which Henry IV. passed the earlier years of his youth, and wherein he
received that education which gave to the world one of the most noble
and generous-hearted of its kings. I had seen it often before; and I
know not what chain of association established itself between my own
feelings at the time, and the memories that hovered round its old gray
walls, but I drew in my horse's bridle on the verge, and gazed upon
the building before me, as if interrogating it of greatness, and of
fame, and of the world's applause. There was, however, a chill and a
sternness about all that it replied, which fell coldly upon the warm
wishes of youth. It spoke of glory, indeed, and of honour, and the
immortality of a mighty name; but it spoke also of the dead--of those
who could not hear, who could not enjoy the cheerless recompence of
posthumous renown. It told, too, of Fortune's fickleness--of a world's
ingratitude--of the vanity of greatness--and the emptiness of hope.
With a tightened bridle, and slow pace, I pursued my way to Estelle,
and dismounting in the yard of the post-house, I desired the saddle to
be taken off my horse, which was wearied with my inconsiderate
galloping up and down hill, and to be then placed on the best beast
which was disengaged in the stable.
While this was in execution, I walked into the kitchen with some
degree of sulkiness of mood, at not being able to press out some
brighter encouragement from a place so full of great memories as the
château of Henri Quatre, and laying my hat on the table, I amused
myself, for some time, with twisting the straws upon the floor into
various shapes with the point of my sword; and then returned to the
court to see if I had been obeyed. The saddle, it is true, had been
placed upon the fresh horse; but just as this was finished, a
gentleman rode into the yard with four or five servants--smooth-faced,
pink-and-white lackeys--with that look of swaggering tiptoe insolence
which bespeaks, in general, either a weak or an uncourteous lord.
Seeing my saddle on a horse that suited his whim, the stranger,
without ceremony, ordered the hostler to take it off instantly, and
prepare the beast for his use.
He was a tall, elegant man, of about forty, with an air of most
insufferable pride; which--though ever but tinsel quality at the
best--shone like gold in the master, when compared with the genuine
brass of his servants, who, while their lord dismounted, treated the
hostler with the sweet and delectable epithets of villain, hog, slave,
and ass, for simply setting forth that the horse was pre-engaged.
There have been many moments in my life, when either laziness, or
good-humour, or carelessness, would have prevented me from opposing
this sort of infraction of my prior right; but, on the present
occasion, I was not in a humour to yield one step to anybody. Without
seeking my hat, therefore, I walked up to the cavalier, who still
stood in the court, and informed him that the saddle must not be
removed, for that I had engaged the horse. Without turning round, he
looked at me for a moment over his shoulder, and seeing a face fringed
by no martial beard, yet insolent enough to contradict his will, he
bestowed a buffet upon it with the back of his hand, which deluged my
fine lace collar in blood from my nose.
The soul of Laure de Bigorre, my ancestress, who contended for her
birthright with a king, rose in my bosom at the affront, and drawing
my sword, without a moment's hesitation, I lunged straight at his
heart. The dazzling of my eyes from the blow he had given me just gave
him time to draw and parry my thrust, or that instant he had lain a
dead man at my feet. The scorn with which he treated me at first now
turned to rage at the boldness of my attack; and the moment he had
parried, he pressed me hard in return, thinking, doubtless, soon to
master the sword of an inexperienced boy. A severe wound in his
sword-arm was the first thing that showed him his mistake, and in an
instant after, in making a furious lunge, his foot slipped, and he
fell; his weapon at the same time flying out of his hand in another
direction, while his thunder-struck lackeys stood gaping with open
mouths and bloodless cheeks, turned into statues by a magical mixture
of fright and astonishment.
I am ashamed to say, that anger overpowered my better feelings, and I
was about to wash out the indignity he had offered me in his blood,
when I heard some one opposite exclaim, "Ha!" in an accent both of
surprise and reproach. I looked up, and immediately my eyes
encountered those of Chevalier de Montenero, standing in the yard,
with his arms crossed upon his bosom, regarding us intently.
I understood the meaning of his exclamation at once, and dropping the
point of my weapon, I turned to my adversary, saying, "Rise, sir, and
take up your sword."
He rose slowly and sullenly; and while his servants pressed round to
aid him, returned his blade into its scabbard, bending his brows upon
me with a very sinister frown:--"We shall meet again, young sir," said
he, with a meaning nod; "we shall meet again, where I may have better
space to chastise your insolence."
"I dare say we shall meet again," answered I; "what may come then, God
knows;" and I turned upon my heel towards the Chevalier, who embraced
me affectionately, whispering at the same time, "Wash the blood from
your face, and mount as quickly as you can; your adversary is not a
man who may be offended with impunity."
I did as he bade me, and we rode out of the court together, taking our
way onward towards Lourdes. As we went, the Chevalier threw back his
hat from his face, and with one of those beaming smiles that sometimes
lighted up his whole countenance, bestowed the highest praises on my
conduct.
"Believe me, my dear Louis," said he, "such is the way to pass
tranquilly through life: for with courage, and skill, and moderation,
such as you have shown to-day, bad men will be afraid to be your
enemies, and good men will be proud to be your friends." He then
informed me that my opponent was the famous Marquis de Saint Brie, who
had been strongly suspected in two instances of having used somewhat
foul means to rid himself of a successful rival. "He prevailed on the
Chevalier de Valençais to sup with him," proceeded the Chevalier. "The
supper was good, the wine excellent, the marquis fascinating; and poor
De Valençais returned home, believing that he had lost an enemy and
gained a friend. Ere he had been half an hour in bed, he called his
valet in great agony, and before morning he had lost all his enemies
together, and gone to join his friends in heaven. The physician shook
his head; but after having had an hour's conversation with the
marquis, he became quite convinced that the poor youth had died of an
inflammation.
"The other is not so distinct a tale," continued the Chevalier, "or I
have not heard it so completely; but from this man's general
character, I have no doubt of his criminality. He some years ago
proposed to marry the beautiful Henriette de Vergne, and offered
himself to her father. The old man examined his rents, and finding
that he had three hundred thousand livres per annum, he felt instantly
convinced the Marquis de St. Brie was the most noble-minded,
honourable, sweet-tempered, and amiable man in the world; and
possessed all these qualities in exactly the proportion of three to
one more than the Count de Bagnols, to whom he had before promised his
daughter, and who had but one hundred thousand livres per annum. His
calculation was soon made; and sending for the young Count, he
informed him that he was not near so good a man as the Marquis de St.
Brie, and gave him his reasons for thinking so, at the same time
breaking formally his former engagement. De Bagnols instantly sent his
cartel to the Marquis de St. Brie, who accepted it, but named a
distant day. Before that day arrived, the young Count was accused of
aiding the Huguenots at Rochelle, and was arrested; but he contrived
to escape and transfer great part of his property to Spain. Now comes
the more obscure part of the tale. The marriage of the Marquis with
Mademoiselle de Vergne approached, and great preparations were made at
her father's château; but a man was seen lurking about the park, whom
many of the servants recognised as the Count de Bagnols. They were
wise, however, and said nothing, though it was generally rumoured
amongst them that the Count had been privately married to their young
lady some weeks before his arrest. The night, however, on which
Monsieur de St. Brie arrived, and which was to precede his marriage by
one week, an uneasy conscience having rendered him restless, he by
chance beheld a man descend from the window of Mademoiselle de
Vergne's apartment. He gave the alarm, and with much fury declared he
had been cheated, deceived, betrayed; and it then appeared, they say,
that the fair Henriette had really married her lover. He was now,
however, an exile, and a wanderer; and her father declared he would
have the marriage annulled if the Marquis de St. Brie would but do him
the honour to stay and wed his daughter. The Marquis, however, sternly
refused, and that very night departed, and took up his lodging at the
village hard by. The Count de Bagnols was never heard of more. Two
mornings afterwards, there was found in the park of M. de Vergne a
broken sword, near the spot where it was supposed the lover used to
leap the wall. The ground round about was dented with the struggling
of many feet, died and dabbled with gore. Part of a torn cloak, too,
was found, and a long train of bloody drops from that place to the
bank of the river; a peasant also deposed to having seen two men fling
a heavy burden into the stream at that spot--he would not swear that
it was a dead body, but he thought it was."
"And what became of Mademoiselle de la Vergne?" demanded I.
"The Countess de Bagnols," said the Chevalier,--"for no doubt remained
of her marriage, removed, or was removed, I know not precisely which,
to a convent, where she died about five or six months afterwards."
The Chevalier ceased, and we both fell into a deep silence. The fate
of the two lovers, whose story he had just told, was one well
calculated to excite many of those feelings in my young heart, which,
when really strong, do not evaporate in words. I could have wept for
the fate of the two lovers, and my heart burned like fire to think
that such base wrongs should exist--and exist unpunished. All the
sympathy I felt for them easily changed into indignation towards him
whom I looked upon as the cause of the death of both; and I regretted
that I had not passed my sword through the heart of their murderer
when he lay prostrate on the ground before me.
"Had I known," cried I, at length--"had I known but half an hour ago,
who was the man, and what were his actions, yon black-hearted assassin
should have gone to another world to answer for the crimes he has
committed in this.
"You did wisely to refrain," replied the chevalier, with a tone of
calmness that, to my unrepressed heat, smacked of apathetic frigidity.
"Viewed by an honourable mind, my dear Louis, his very fall covered
him with a shield more impenetrable than the sevenfold buckler of
Telamon. Never regret an act of generosity, however worthless the
object. If you act nobly to one that deserves nobly, you confer a
benefit on him and a benefit on yourself: if he be undeserving, still
the very action does good to your own heart. In the present instance,
had you slain that bad man, you would probably have entailed ruin on
yourself for ever. Allied as he is to all the most powerful of the
land, the direst vengeance would infallibly follow his fall, from
whatever hand it came, and instant flight or certain death must have
been your choice. Even as it is, you have called upon yourself the
hatred of a man who was never known to forgive. When the first heat of
his rage is past, he may seem to forget the affront he has received,
but still it will be remembered and treasured up till occasion serves
for wiping it out in the most remorseless manner. At present, I would
certainly advise your father to take advantage of the temporary peace
that exists with Spain, and send you into that land, till the man you
have offended has quitted this part of the country, and it is possible
you may never meet with him again. If you do, however, beware of his
anger. Believe me, it is as imperishable as the fabled wrath of Juno.
I am going to Saragossa myself upon business of importance, and will
willingly take all charge of you, if you will join me there. Tell the
Count what has happened--tell him what I say, and bid him lose no
time--I would urge it upon him personally, but the affairs that call
me into Spain admit of no delay."