The marriage-ceremony of Edward Langdale and Lucette de Mirepoix du
Valais was over. Act was taken, as it was then sometimes called, of the
fact, signed by the bride and bridegroom and by all present; and
Richelieu's own name stood first in the list of witnesses.
Every one well knows that in those days clandestine marriages took place
frequently between persons very young, and also that the omnipotent
power of the Romish Church was not uncommonly called in to dissolve a
rite which the Church itself pronounced a sacrament. But the presence of
Richelieu as prelate, cardinal, and prime minister was enough to secure
the union of Edward and Lucette against any machinations of unconsenting
friends in the courts, either civil or ecclesiastical. But the great
minister left nothing undone to prevent the possibility of such a
result: not a word was omitted which could render the ceremony binding;
and Spada, the pope's nuncio, himself, was easily induced to give his
formal sanction to an act which recognised to a certain degree the
authority of the Romish Church and struck a heavy blow at one of the
greatest Protestant leaders.
But a few words were spoken by the cardinal to the young bridegroom
after the marriage; but they seemed to be important; for, though they
were for the most part uttered in a whisper, all those who were still
around heard the question, "Do you promise me, upon your honor as a
gentleman?" and Edward's reply, "I do, most solemnly."
"Now, De Tronson," said the cardinal, "give our young friends an hour or
two to compose their minds after so much agitation, and then forward
them, as I directed, to wherever they may find the Prince de Soubise or
his brother."
In five minutes after Lucette was left alone with her young husband, his
arms were thrown around her, and her blushing face and tearful eyes were
hidden on his bosom.
"Have we done right, Edward?" she said, after some pause.
"It was the only thing left for us to do, my love," he answered, kissing
her tenderly. "And yet, Lucette, I fear it may not be so much for our
happiness as it would seem. I foresee that your great relations will
make every effort to annul our marriage or to keep us forever separate."
"That they shall never do, my love,--my husband," said Lucette, warmly:
"they may separate us now; doubtless they will: but the time must come
when I shall be my own mistress; and whenever that time does come, and
you desire it, I will go to join you anywhere,--as, indeed, I am in duty
bound to do."
"Then, my own dear girl," said the youth, "this marriage is not a forced
union on your part, but as full of love and willingness as on mine? Oh,
speak, Lucette!"
"Can you doubt it, Edward?" she answered. "I only feared for a moment
that our own feelings might have led us to seize upon the cardinal's
proposal too eagerly for our duty and respect toward others; but, on
reflection, I think we could not avoid it. It was our only chance of
safety."
"I think so too," answered her young husband. "But yet it is almost
cruel of the cardinal not to have carried his kindness one step further,
and suffered me to take you with me, as my wife, wherever fate may lead
me. But yet, dear girl, perhaps he was wise. We are both too young."
"But, if we are too young, is this marriage binding? Can they not break
it?" asked Lucette, with a look of apprehension which was of very sweet
assurance to Edward Langdale.
"Oh, no," he replied: "the cardinal made sure of that. I could see he
took especial pains at every point of the ceremony, that there might not
be a flaw now nor a quibble hereafter. Did you not remark how he
corrected two words in the act with his own hand? They cannot break it,
Lucette,--except, perhaps, with your consent."
"That they shall never have," replied Lucette. "Oh, Edward, let us both
swear to each other never to consent that this contract shall be broken
between us. Let us do it solemnly; let us go down upon our knees before
the God who sees all hearts, and be married again by our own holy
promises."
As she spoke, she knelt, holding the youth's hand in hers, and, carried
away by her simple love, he knelt beside her; and, with the confidence
of early youth, they repeated the vows of everlasting faith to each
other, and solemnly promised never to consent to a dissolution of their
union, but each to seek the other at the first call.
Had Lucette known more of the world and worldly things, had her heart or
her thoughts been less pure and spotless, Edward might have had a
difficult task that day; for the cardinal had bound him by a promise
similar to the injunction which the King of the Genii imposed upon
Prince Zeyn Alasnum in the book which has enchanted all young and
imaginative brains. But her innocence saved him from all suspicion of
coldness; and the very undisguised love with which she rested on his
bosom or received his kisses--warmer though not more affectionate than
her own--spared all explanation, and gave to hope all the coloring of
joy.
But they had much else to discuss,--how to communicate with each other
when they were separated, how they were to act toward the Prince de
Soubise when they found him, what they were to tell and what they were
to conceal. Just let the reader sit down and fancy all that could and
might be said by two people who had passed through so much during the
last few hours, who had so much to pass through still, who were so
strangely situated, who knew so little of each other and yet who loved
each other so well, and his imagination will supply much more of their
conversation than I am skilled to tell. That conversation lasted long.
One hour went away after another: they were left totally alone; (and for
that, too, Richelieu had his reasons;) and two o'clock had passed ere
any one disturbed them. Then a servant came to announce to them that
their mid-day meal was served in an adjoining chamber, and they
proceeded thither, with feelings very strange:--happy, and yet not
fully; composed, in comparison with their feelings not many hours
before, yet agitated; with warm hope for the future, but many a
bewildering doubt and some apprehension.
But the first sight that presented itself on entering the little hall
where their dinner was served gave matter for fresh thought to Edward.
As to Lucette, her thoughts had employment enough: she was married; she
was a wife, and one act of the life-drama of a woman was over: the
curtain was down for the time.
But there, on two sides of the table, each behind a chair, appeared
Pierrot la Grange and Jacques Beaupré; and Edward's dinner was rendered
tedious by his anxiety to learn from the latter the particulars of his
escape near Mauzé and all that followed. While the court laquais was in
the room, of course nothing could be said; but the man soon delivered
the party from his presence, retiring as soon as the dinner--which was
somewhat meagre--was over and the dessert placed upon the table. Pierrot
had, indeed, before the man left the room, boldly apologized to his
young master for not returning to him that morning, saying plainly that
he had been stopped by the servants of the chateau. "I hear, however,"
he added, with a smile and a reverence, "that all has ended happily; and
I beg humbly to offer my congratulations to monsieur and madame."
Jacques, in his grave way, and the laquais, with courtly fluency, added
their compliments upon the occasion; and Edward felt his scanty purse
under tax.
"And now, Jacques," he said, as soon as they were free from the presence
of the stranger, "tell me, as quickly and succinctly as possible, what
has occurred since we last met."
"Why, sir, what happened to me can be little to you," answered the man:
"suffice it I got through a small hole in the lines when my young lady
stuck in a large one. I reached the Chateau of Mauzé easily, bags and
all, and, as you had ordered, went straight to the Prince de Soubise. I
found the whole party there ready to break up, for the Papists were
getting too many for them in the neighborhood,--the prince and duke
having but three hundred men with them, while the enemy had three
thousand round about. Monsieur de Soubise roared like a cow that has
lost her calf when he heard that you and Pierrot were in all likelihood
captured, and still worse when he learned that mademoiselle was
certainly in the hands of the enemy; but the bags seemed a great
consolation to him, and he plunged into them for refreshment as a tired
man does into a cool river. He took out all the letters and papers, and
fingered the gold and counted it; and then he read a letter which had
his own name on it, and looked at all the rest one by one. Some he put
aside, and the others he returned to the bag again with the money, and
he and Monsieur de Rohan, with two or three others, went into the window
and talked together for full half an hour. At the end of that time they
came back and opened the other bag; but they seemed to have no great
love for a frippery; for, finding there was nothing in it but purfled
shirts and laced collars and some suits of clothes, they soon shut it up
again, and then told me I must come with them, for Mauzé was likely to
be turned into a rat-trap. As I had found by this time there was very
little cheese in the trap, I was as glad as any one to get out, and we
travelled for two days, having a brush now and then with the king's
soldiers. Sometimes we had a little the better and sometimes a little
the worse; but we contrived to get through all in the end, and we also
made three prisoners. From them Monsieur le Prince learned that you had
been sent to Nantes and that mademoiselle had been sent after you; and
thereupon he proposed to me to follow you, taking with me your money and
such letters as he said could do no harm. I was to inquire for you
diligently but quietly; and his Highness told me of several places in
the town where I certainly should find friends, and perhaps information.
Well, sir, I made my conditions, as all wise men do. I stipulated for a
good horse, and for leave to go round by Meile and St. Maixens, (for we
were by this time at a good farm hard by St. Jean,) and for money enough
to carry me there and bring me back, and a little to spare. All this was
granted, and I set out. But in one of the places where I was certain to
find friends in Nantes, the good folks were so very friendly that they
thought I should be better lodged and fed in the chateau, and therefore
let his blessed Majesty or some of his people know that I was in the
city inquiring for one Sir Peter Apsley, who was soon to arrive.
Thereupon I was brought up here with my bag by two archers and an
exempt; and here have I been entertained at the royal expense ever
since."
"But you have not been a prisoner?" asked Edward. "Pierrot told me you
were at liberty."
"You have seen a mouse just after a cat has caught it, sir?" said the
man. "I was just in that state. I underwent a good mumbling in the shape
of an examination when first I came, and then I was told I was set free
because Sir Peter Apsley was under the cardinal's particular protection;
but, whenever I tried to go a hundred yards, pat came a paw upon me; and
I fully made up my mind that, like poor madame mouse, I was only to be
played with till I was eaten up. But at length I heard you were here;
and last night I was chewed up in another examination; but I always took
refuge in utter ignorance. I only knew that you had arrived at Rochelle
in a merchant-ship,--not in Lord Denbigh's fleet, for that they asked me
particularly; that, you and I being both anxious to get out of that
God-forgotten place, I had taken service with you, as you wanted another
man, having but one attendant and a page; that you were neither very
tall nor very short, neither very brown nor very fair; that you spoke
some French, but more English, looked for a beard with good hope, and
were altogether a personable young gentleman about nineteen."
"You did me more than justice, Jacques," replied Edward. "However, you
have acted well and discreetly; and I trust all present danger has
passed away."
"Ah, sir," replied the man, "danger is always present. Neither you nor I
can tell that twelve hours ago you were in greater peril than you are at
this moment."
"Good Heaven! what does he mean, Edward?" exclaimed Lucette, turning
pale. "What new peril does he speak of?"
"None, madame, in particular," replied Jacques Beaupré. "My father was
killed by the fall of a beam on the celebration of his wedding-day. My
uncle served under King Henry the Fourth, and fought in ten battles, but
died from running a nail into his foot. My eldest brother was a sailor,
and saw many a storm, but was drowned while bathing in the Sevre
Niortaise; and by the time that I was twenty I had learned that in this
world there is no such thing as danger, no such thing as security, and
that the only way to be happy is to be ready at all times and fearful at
none."
"A good philosophy, upon my word," said Edward. "But now our thought
must be, where we can find Monsieur de Soubise."
"You might as well try to ride in a carriage after a hawk," answered
Jacques: "he is here and there and everywhere in a day. But Monsieur de
Rohan you will find more easily. He is probably at St. Martin des
Rivières, the little castle which, just in the fork of the two rivers,
can be defended by a handful against an army."
"There, then, we must go," said Edward. "But it is strange, dear
Lucette, that we have seen no one for the last three hours. I thought
Monsieur de Tronson said he would rejoin us."
Edward little knew the multitude of events which were passing within the
sombre walls of that chateau,--some great, some small, but all tending
more or less to the promotion of those mighty results which were now
marching on in France, all full of deep personal concern to the various
personages around him, and amongst which the fate of himself and his
Lucette was but as a petty interlude, which could excite nothing but a
transient feeling of interest or amusement.
Half an hour more went by; and then was heard the sound of many feet
passing along through some chamber near. At the end of above five
minutes the door opened, and Monsieur de Tronson led in an elderly lady
habited as if for a journey.
"Madame de Langdale," said the secretary of the cabinet, addressing
Lucette, "Madame de Lagny, with whom you passed last night, will have
the pleasure of accompanying you and Monsieur de Langdale on your
journey. The carriage has been ready for an hour; but, the council
having sat later than usual, I could not leave my post. Monsieur will do
me the honor of accompanying me to his chamber below, where I will put
him in possession of his money and his safe-conduct, together with his
baggage, while you prepare for travelling, which, as it is, must, I
fear, be protracted into the night."
Edward followed him down several flights of steps, conversing with him,
as he went, upon the arrangements for their journey, telling him that he
feared from his servant's information they would be obliged to proceed
beyond Niort to St. Martin des Rivières, and that, consequently, at
least two days more than he had calculated upon must pass ere he could
fulfil the promise he had given to return.
But De Tronson seemed thoughtful and absent; for, in truth, he had just
come from a painful scene;[3] and, although he heard, and answered all
his young companion said, it was by an effort, and evidently without
interest.
All the arrangements were soon made, however. Edward's property was
restored to him; the tradesmen he and Lucette had employed were paid;
and then the secretary led him to the little court, where stood one of
the large clumsy carriages of the day with four tall horses. A stout man
on horseback was also there, holding by the rein the horse which Jacques
Beaupré had ridden to Nantes, and, as no beast had been provided for
Pierrot, he mounted beside the coachman. Lucette and her companion were
already in the vehicle, and, with a kind adieu from M. de Tronson,
Edward took his place beside them, and the vehicle rolled on.
[Footnote 3: The second examination of the unhappy Chalais,
perhaps,--perhaps the lamentable scene of Anne of Austria's appearance
before the council. It does not seem that De Tronson was particularly
intimate with the Count de Chalais during his prosperity; but he
certainly spoke in his favor to the king after his arrest, and painted
in strong colors the danger of marrying Gaston to the rich heiress of
Montpensier, whose revenues would in time make the heir-presumptive more
wealthy than the monarch. Indeed, to many it has seemed that in this
marriage Richelieu made the most dangerous error of his life. De Tronson
seems to have been an amiable man and a man of talent, who somewhat
feared Richelieu and courted him as much as honor and honesty would
permit. But he soon disappears from the political stage; and his
ultimate fate I do not know.]