Day had scarcely dawned, when Monsieur de Retz and myself mounted our
horses in the courtyard of the citadel, and set out on our return to
Paris. We were accompanied by but one servant each; for the decided
part which the minister had taken, left no doubt that all the avenues
to Sedan would be watched with unslumbering vigilance.
After a short discussion, it was determined that we should not attempt
the direct road; and, therefore, instead of crossing the bridge of
Sedan, we followed the course of the Meuse for some way. At a village,
however, about two miles from the city, we learned that the passages
of the rivers were guarded, and De Retz proposed to return to Sedan
and cross by the bridge. My opinion, however, was different. Where we
then stood the river was narrow and not very rapid, our horses fresh
and strong, so that it appeared to me much more advisable to attempt
the passage there, than by riding up and down the bank to call
attention to our proceedings. The only objection arose with little
Achilles, who had a mortal aversion to being drowned, and declared
that he could not, and that he would not, swim his horse over. I
decided the matter for him, however; for at a moment when he had
approached close to the bank, to contemplate more nearly the horrible
feat that was proposed to him, I seized his horse by the bridle, and
spurring in, was soon half-way across, leading him after me. His
terror and distress, when he began to feel the buoyant motion of a
horse in swimming, were beyond description; but as there was no
resource, he behaved more wisely than terrified people generally do,
and sitting quite still, let his fate take its course.
Cutting across the country, sometimes over fields, sometimes through
small bridle-paths and by-roads, we at length entered the highway, at
a point where suspicion, had she been inclined to exercise her
ingenuity upon us, might have imagined that we had come from a
thousand other places, with fully as great likelihood as Sedan; for
the road, a little higher up, branched into five others, each of which
conducted in a different direction.
Our journey now passed tranquilly, and on the evening of the third day
we arrived at Paris. It was too late to present myself to the Countess
de Soissons that night; and Monsieur de Retz offering me an apartment
in his hotel, I accepted it for the time, not ill pleased to see as
much as possible of the extraordinary man into whose society I had
been thrown, and commenting upon his character fully as much as he did
in all probability upon mine.
On our journey we had laughed over the circumstances of our former
meeting; but I found that he still entertained great doubts of my
discretion, by the frequent warnings he gave me not to communicate
anything I had seen at Sedan to the Countess de Soissons.
"It is a good general rule," said he, "never to tell a woman the
truth, in any circumstances. Praise her faults, abuse her enemies,
humour her weakness, gratify her vanity, but never, never tell her the
truth. One's deportment with a woman ought to be like a deep lake,
reflecting everything, but letting no one see the bottom."
Monsieur de Retz's policy was not always exactly to my taste; but as
the Count de Soissons had not bid me to communicate any of his affairs
to his mother, I resolved of course to keep them as secret from her as
from any other person.
As soon as I imagined that such a visit would be acceptable on the
subsequent morning, I proceeded on horseback to the Hôtel de Soissons,
wearing, for the first time, my fine Spanish dress of white silk, De
Retz having warned me, that in all points of ceremony, the Countess de
Soissons showed no lenity to offenders. To make the suit at all
harmonize with a ride on horseback, I was obliged to add a pair of
white leather buskins to the rest; but, as this was quite the mode of
the day, Monsieur de Retz declared my apparel exquisite; and, being
himself not a little of a _petit-maître_, notwithstanding both his
philosophy and his cloth, he looked with a deep sigh at his black
_soutane_, which he had resumed since our arrival at Paris, and
declared that he had no small mind to cast away the gown, and draw the
sword himself.
With a smile at human inconsistency, I left him, and rode away; and
passing by my old auberge, in the Rue des Prouvaires, soon reached the
Hôtel de Soissons. Here I delivered the Count's note of introduction
to a servant, bidding him present it to the Princess, and inform her
that the gentleman to whom it referred waited her pleasure.
I was not kept long in attendance. In a few minutes the servant
returned, and bade me follow him to the apartments of the Countess. We
mounted the grand staircase, and proceeding through a suite of
splendid rooms, the windows of which were almost all composed of
stained glass, bearing the ciphers C. S. and C. N. interlaced, for
Charles de Soissons and Catherine de Navarre, we at length reached the
chamber in which the Princess was seated with her women.
She was working at an embroidery frame, while a pretty girl of about
sixteen stood beside her, holding the various silks of which she was
making use. On my being announced, she raised her head, showing a face
in which the wreck of many beauties might still be traced, and fixed
her eyes somewhat sternly upon me; first letting them rest upon my
face, and then glancing over my whole person with a grave and
dissatisfied air.
"You come here, young sir," said she at length, "dressed like a
bridegroom; but you will go away like a mourner. Your mother is dead."
God of heaven! till that moment, I had not an idea that, on the earth,
there was a being so unfeeling as thus to communicate to a son, that
the tie between him and the Author of his being was riven by the hand
of Death!
And yet the Countess de Soissons acted not from unfeeling motives; she
fancied me guilty of follies that, in her eyes, were crimes, and she
thought, by the terrible blow that she struck, at once to reprove and
reclaim me.
At first I did not comprehend--I could not, I would not believe that
she spoke truly: when seeing my doubts in the vacancy of my
expression, she calmly repeated what she had said.
What change took place then in my countenance I know not; but,
however, it was sufficient to alarm her for the consequences of what
she had done, and starting up, she called loudly to her women to bring
water--wine--anything to relieve me. To imagine what I felt, will not
be easy for any other, even when it is remembered how I loved the
parent I had lost,--how I had left her--how deeply she had loved me,
and how suddenly, how unexpectedly I heard that the whole was at an
end, and that the cold grave lay between us for ever. My agitation was
so extreme, that totally forgetting the presence of the Princess, I
cast myself into a chair, and covering my face with my hands, remained
speechless and motionless for nearly a quarter of an hour.
During this time, the Countess de Soissons, passing from one extreme
to the other, did everything she could to soothe and calm me; and, had
I been her own son, she could not for the time have shown me more
kindness. She was frightened, I believe, at the state into which she
had thrown me, and was still endeavouring to make me speak, when a
tall, venerable old man entered the chamber, but paused, I believe, on
seeing the confusion that reigned within. She instantly called him to
her assistance, telling him what she had done, and pointing out the
consequences it had had upon me. He approached, and after feeling my
pulse, drew forth a lancet, and, calling for a basin, bled me
profusely.
"You have done wrong, my daughter," said he, turning to the Countess
with an air of authority, which she bore more meekly than might have
been expected. "Mildness wins hearts, while unkindness can but break
them. Leave me with this young gentleman, and I doubt not soon to
restore him to himself."
The Countess did as he bade her, without reply; and desiring her women
to bring her embroidery frame, she left the apartment. The bleeding
had instantly relieved me. Every drop that flowed had seemed so much
taken from an oppressive load that overburdened my heart; and when the
old man sat down by me, and asked if I was better, I could answer him
in the affirmative, and thank him for his assistance.
"I will not attempt to console you, my son," he proceeded, "for you
have met with a deep and irreparable loss. From all I hear, your
mother was one of the best and most amiable of women; and through a
long life, we meet with so very few on whom our hearts can fix, that
every time death numbers one of them for his own, he leaves a deep and
irremediable wound with us, that none but Time can assuage, and Time
himself ought never wholly to heal. I know, too, at the moment when we
find that fate has put its immoveable barrier between us and those we
loved--when the cold small portal of the grave is shut against our
communion with our friends--I know that it is then that every pain we
have given them is visited with double anguish upon our own hearts,
and a crowd of bitter, unavailing regrets fills every way of memory
with dark and horrible forms."
I wept bitterly, for he had touched a chord to which my feelings
vibrated but too sensitively. "In the gaieties of life," he proceeded,
"in the pleasures of society, in the passions, the interests, the
desires of human existence and of our earthly nature, we often forget
those finer feelings--those better, brighter, nobler sentiments, which
belong to the soul alone. Nor is it till _irretrievable_ is stamped
upon our actions, that we truly feel where we have been wanting in
duty, in gratitude, in affection; but when we do feel it, we ought to
have a care not to let those regrets pass away in vain tears and
ineffectual sorrow, thus wasting the most blessed remedy that Heaven
has given to the diseases of the soul. On the contrary, we should
apply them to our future conduct, and by gathering instruction from
the past, and improvement from remorse, should find in the
chastisement of Heaven the blessing it was intended to be."
As I recovered from the first shock of the tidings I had just heard, I
had time to consider more particularly the person who spoke to me. As
I have said, he was an old man; and, from the perfect silver of his
hair and beard, I should have supposed him above seventy; but the
erectness of his carriage, the whiteness of his teeth, and the pure
undimmed fire of his eye, took much from his look of age. His dress,
though it consisted of a long black robe, was certainly not clerical;
and from the skill with which he had bled me, I was rather inclined to
suppose that his profession tended more towards the cure of bodies
than of souls.
In reply to his mild homily, which appeared to me, notwithstanding the
gentleness of his language, to point at greater errors than any I
could charge myself with towards the parent I had lost, I could only
answer, that it was hardly possible for a being made up of human
weakness to be so continually brought in connection with another, as a
son must be with a mother, without falling into some faults towards
her; but that even now, when memory and affection joined to magnify
all I had done amiss in regard to the dead, I could recall no instance
in which I had intentionally given her pain.
An explanation ensued; and I found that my mother, when on her
death-bed, had written to the Countess de Soissons, informing her of
my disappearance from Bigorre, and attributing it to love for the
daughter of a roturier in the vicinity, who had also quitted the
province shortly after. She gave no name and no description; but she
begged the Countess de Soissons to cause search to be made for me in
Paris, and to endeavour to rescue me from the debasing connection into
which, she said, the blood of Bigorre should have held me from ever
entering.
"It is under these circumstances," proceeded the old man, "that the
princess addressed you this morning with the abrupt news of your
mother's death, hoping by the remorse which that news would occasion,
to win you at once from the unhappy entanglement into which you have
fallen."
"That the Countess de Soissons should be mistaken," replied I, "does
not surprise me, for she did not know me; but that my mother should
suppose any passion, whether worthy or unworthy, would have led me to
inflict so much pain upon her, and on my father, as my unexplained
absence must have done, does astonish and afflict me. Indeed, though
my own death might have been the consequence of my stay, I was weak to
fly as I did; nor should I have done so, had my mind been in a state
to judge sanely of my own conduct. Will you, sir, have the goodness to
inform the Countess de Soissons that the suspicions of my mother were
entirely unfounded, and that I neither fled with any one, nor for the
purpose of meeting any one, as she must evidently see, from my having
found and attached myself to Monsieur le Comte. My absence, sir, was
occasioned by my having accidentally slain one of my fellow-creatures,
and my having no means of proving that I did so accidentally."
"It has been a most unhappy mistake," replied the old man, "for
undoubtedly it has been this idea that wounded your mother to the
heart. But I hurt you; do not let me do so. If it has been a mistake,
you are no way answerable for it. I now go to give your message to the
Countess, and will bring you a few lines addressed to you from your
mother, but which, you must remember, were written under erroneous
feelings."
Thus saying, he left me; and in a few minutes returned with the letter
he had mentioned. "The Countess," said he, "is most deeply grieved at
the mistake which has arisen, and especially at having, by her
abruptness, aggravated the grief which you cannot but most poignantly
feel. This is the letter I spake of; but you had better read it in
private. If you will follow me, I will conduct you to an apartment,
which, while you remain at the Hôtel de Soissons, the Countess begs
you would look upon as your own."
I followed him in silence to a splendid suite of rooms, wherein he
left me; and I had now time to indulge in all the painful thoughts to
which the irreparable loss I had sustained gave rise. For some time I
did not open my mother's letter, letting my thoughts wander through
the field of the past, and recalling with agonizing exactness every
bright quality of the mind, and every gentle feeling of the heart now
laid in the dust. Her love for me rose up as in judgment against me,
and I felt that I had never known how much I loved her, till death had
rendered that love in vain. Memory, so still, so silent, so faithless,
in the hurry of passion, and the pursuit of pleasure, now raised her
voice, and with painful care traced all that I had lost. A thousand
minute traits--a thousand kind and considerate actions--a thousand
touches of generosity, of feeling, of tenderness--every word, every
look of many long years of affection, passed in review before me; and
sad, sad was the vision, when I thought that it was all gone for ever.
Anything was better than that contemplation; and with an aching heart,
I opened the letter. The wavering and irregular lines, traced while
life still maintained a faint struggle against death; the mark of a
tear, given to the long painful adieu, first caught my eye and wrung
my very heart, even before I read what follows.
"We shall never meet again!" she wrote. "Life, my son, and hope, as
far as it belongs to this earth, have fled; and I have nothing to
think of in the world I am leaving, but your happiness and that of
your father. I write not to reproach you, Louis, but I write to warn
and to entreat you not to disgrace a long line of illustrious
ancestors, by a marriage, which, depend upon it, will be as unhappy in
the end as it is degrading in itself. This is my last wish, my last
command, my last entreaty. Observe it, as you would merit the blessing
which I send you. Adieu, my son, adieu!--You may meet with many to
cherish, with many to love you--but, oh! the love of a mother is far
above any other that binds being to being on this earth. Adieu! once
more adieu! it is perhaps a weakness, and yet I cannot help thinking
that, even after this hand is dust, my spirit might know, and feel
consoled, if my son came to shed a tear on the stone which will soon
cover the ashes of his mother."
Every word found its way to my heart; and reverting to what I had seen
on the night previous to my departure from Sedan, I fancied that my
mother's spirit had itself come to enforce her dying words; and,
yielding to the feelings of the moment, I mentally promised to obey
her to the very utmost. Nay, more! with a superstitious idea that her
eye could look upon me even then, I kneeled and declared, with as much
fervency as ever vow was offered to Heaven itself, that I would follow
her will; and as soon as the enterprise to which my honour bound me
was at an end, would visit her tomb, and pay that tribute to her
memory which she had herself desired. Then casting myself into a seat,
I leaned my head upon my hands, and gave full rein to every painful
reflection.
Let me pass over two days which I spent entirely in the chamber that
had been allotted to me. During that time, every attention was paid to
me by the servants of the Countess de Soissons; and the old man, whom
I have before mentioned, visited me more than once, every time I saw
him gaining upon my good opinion, by the kind and judicious manner in
which he endeavoured to soothe and console, without either blaming or
opposing my grief. Still, no word that fell from him gave me the least
intimation in regard to the character in which he acted in the Hôtel
de Soissons, though, from the evident influence he possessed over the
Countess, it was one of no small authority. From him, however, I
learned that my father had written briefly to the Countess de
Soissons, informing her of my mother's death. To me he had not
written; and, though I could easily conceive from his habits and
character, that he had shrunk from a task so painful in itself, yet I
could not help imagining that displeasure had some part in his
silence.
On the evening of the second day, I received a visit from De Retz,
who, notwithstanding all that had happened, used every argument to
stimulate me to action; and, in truth, I felt that in my own griefs I
was neglecting the interest of the Prince. I accordingly promised him
that the next day I would exert myself as he wished; and, after
conversing for some time on the affairs of the Count, I described to
him the old man I had met with, and asked him if he knew him.
"Slightly," he replied. "He is an Italian by birth, and his name
Vanoni, a man of infinite talent and profound learning; but his name
is not in very good odour amongst our more rigid ecclesiastics,
because he is reported to dive a little into those sciences which they
hold as sacrilegious. He is known to be an excellent astronomer, and
some people will have it, astrologer also; though, I should suppose,
he has too much of real and substantial knowledge, to esteem very
highly that which is in all probability imaginary. Have you not
remarked, that there are fully more vulgar minds in the higher
classes, than there are elevated ones in the lower? Well, the vulgar
part of our _noblesse_ call Signor Vanoni the Countess de Soisson's
necromancer, though I believe the highest degree to which he can
pretend in the occult sciences is that of astrologer; and even that he
keeps so profoundly concealed, that their best proof of it hardly
amounts to suspicion."
After De Retz had left me, being resolved at all events to waste no
more time, every instant of which was precious in such enterprises as
that of Monsieur le Comte, I desired Achilles to find me out the
archer who had so well aided him in recovering my ring, and to bring
him to me early the next morning.
This he accordingly executed; and at my breakfast, which was served in
my own apartments, my little attendant presented to me a tall, solemn
personage, who looked wise enough to have passed for a fool, had it
not been for a certain twinkling spirit, that every now and then
peeped out at the corner of his eye, and seemed to say, that the
obtuseness of his deportment was but a mask to hide the acuter mind
within. I made these observations while I amused him for a moment or
two in empty conversation, till I could find an opportunity of
dismissing two lackeys of the Countess, who had orders to wait upon me
at my meals; and by what I perceived, I judged that it would be a
difficult matter to conceal my own purposes from such a person, while
I drew from him what information I required.
I resolved, however, to attempt it, and consequently, when the
servants were gone, I turned to the subject of my ring; and saying
that I really thought he had been insufficiently paid for the talent
and activity he had shown upon the occasion, I begged his acceptance
of a gold piece.
The man looked in my face with a dead flat stupidity of aspect, which
completely covered all his thoughts; but at the same time I very well
divined that he did not in the least attribute the piece of gold to
the affair of the ring. He followed the sure policy, however, of
closing his hand upon the money, making me a low bow, with that most
uncommitting sentence, "Monsieur is very good."
"I suppose," proceeded I, "that the strange fact of _pipeurs_,
swindlers, swash bucklers, and bravoes of all descriptions,
continually evading the pursuit of dame Justice, notwithstanding her
having such acute servants as yourself, is more to be attributed to
your humanity, than to your ignorance of their secrets."
This was put half as a question, half as a position, but in such a way
as evidently to show that it led to something else. An intelligent
gleam sparkled in the corner of the archer's eye, and I fancied that
some information concerning the worthy fraternity I inquired after was
about to follow: but he suddenly gave a glance towards Achilles; and,
resuming his look of stolidity, replied, "Monsieur is very good."
"Go to Monsieur de Retz, Achilles," said I, "and tell him, that if it
suits his convenience, I will be with him in an hour." Achilles was
not slow in taking the hint; and when he was gone, I proceeded,
spreading out upon the table some ten pieces of gold. "About these
swash bucklers," said I, "I am informed they are a large fraternity."
"Vast!" replied the archer, in a more communicative tone.
"And pray where do they principally dwell?" demanded I.
"In every part of Paris," said the archer, looking up in my face,
"from the Place Royale, to the darkest nook of the Fauxbourg St.
Antoine. But it is dangerous for a gentleman to venture amongst them."
I saw he began to wax communicative, and I pushed a piece of gold
across the table to confirm his good disposition. The gold
disappeared, and the archer went on. "I would not advise you to
venture among them, Monseigneur: but if you would tell me what sort of
men you want, doubtless I could find them for you, and I can keep
counsel."
"Why, my good friend," replied I, "I did not exactly say that I wanted
any men; but if you will call me over the names and qualities of two
or three of your most respectable acquaintances, I will see whether
they be such as may suit my service."
The archer paused for a moment, screwing up his eye into a curious air
of sharp contemplation; and then suddenly replied, "If I knew what
your lordship wanted them for, I could better proportion their
abilities."
"For general service, man! for general service!" replied I. "The men I
require must obey my word, defend my life, drub my enemies, brawl for
my friends, and in no case think of the consequences."
"I understand!" replied the archer--"I understand! There are Jean le
Mestre, and François le Nain; but I doubt they are too coarse-handed
for your purpose. They are fit for nothing but robbing a travelling
jeweller, or frightening an old woman into fits."
"They won't exactly do," replied I--"at least if we can find any
others."
"Oh, plenty of others! plenty of others!" said the archer. "Then there
are Pierre l'Agneau, and Martin de Chauline. They were once two as
sweet youths as ever graced the Place de Grève; but they have been
spoiled by bad company. They took service with the Marquis de St.
Brie, and such service ruins a man for life."
"I should certainly suppose it did," replied I; "but proceed to some
others. We have only heard of four yet."
"Don't be afraid!" said the archer, "I have a long list. Your lordship
would not like a Jesuit--they are devilish cunning--sharp hands! men
of action too! I know an excellent Jesuit, who would suit you to a
hair in many respects. He is occasionally employed, too, by Monsieur
de Noyers, one of our ministers, and would cheat the devil himself."
"But as I do not pretend to half the cunning of his infernal majesty,"
replied I, "this worthy Jesuit might cheat me too."
"That is very possible," answered the archer. "But stay!" he proceeded
thoughtfully. "I have got the very men that will do.--You need a
brace, monseigneur--of course, you need a brace. There is Combalet de
Carignan, one of our most gallant gentlemen, and Jacques Mocqueur, as
he is called, because he laughs at everything. They were both in the
secret service of his eminence the Cardinal; but they one day did a
little business on their own account, which came to his ears; and he
vowed that he would give them a touch of the round bedstead. They knew
him to be a man of his word, so they made their escape, till the
matter blew by, and now they are living here in Paris on their means."
"And pray what is the round bedstead?" demanded I; "something
unpleasant, doubtless, from its giving such celerity to the motions of
your friends?"
"Nothing but a certain wheel in the inside of the Bastille," replied
the archer, "on which a gentleman is suffered to repose himself
quietly after all his bones are put out of joint. But as I was saying,
these two gallants are just the men for your lordship's service: bold,
dexterous, cunning; and they have withal a spice of honour and
chivalry about them, which makes them marvellously esteemed amongst
their fellows. Will they suit you, monseigneur?"
"I think they will," replied I; "but I must see them first."
"Nothing so easy," answered the archer. "I will bring them here at any
hour your lordship pleases to name."
"Not here," replied I; "I must not take too many liberties with the
Hôtel de Soissons. But I have a lodging in the Rue des Prêtres St.
Paul, on the left hand going down, the fifth door from the corner,
nearly opposite a grocer's shop. Bring them there at dusk to-night,
and accept that for your trouble." So saying, I pushed him over two
more of the gold pieces; and having once more satisfied himself that
he perfectly remembered the direction I had given him, the archer took
his leave, and I proceeded to my rendezvous with De Retz.