The ride was long and hot, for it was just the middle of the month of
June; and though the scenery is perhaps without its parallel in the
whole world, combining more beauties and more varieties of beauty than
ever I saw anywhere else, though every now and then the road was shaded
with trees attaining a height and breadth which would shame the
forest-giants, yet toward evening Edward was forced to acknowledge to
himself that he was very much exhausted. The horse which bore him was
excellent, strong, willing, but not easy in its gait; and it also, ere
they reached St. Andeal, showed the effects of the heat, though it had
not had the preceding journey from Ners to Alais. At St. Audral he had
but little difficulty in extracting from the towns-people an account of
the position of the Duc de Rohan's camp, and Edward rode on under the
shade of the mountains somewhat more slowly, calculating that he would
have time both to take some rest and return to Alais before noon on the
following day.
It was dark when he arrived; and all that he could discover of the
position of the camp was that it was very strong, while a number of
mountain-gorges radiating from a centre offered the means of retreat in
almost any direction. After some difficulties and delays at the
outposts, he gave up his horse to one of the soldiers, who regarded him
with a somewhat gloomy look, and was led to a little, rudely-constructed
hut, where a sentry kept guard before the door. He found the Duc de
Rohan perfectly alone; and, advancing to meet him, he was received in a
much more courteous and friendly manner than at their last interview.
"Monsieur Langdale," said the duke, holding out his hand, "I am glad to
see you. Pray, be seated. I can only offer you a stool in this place,
for we are obliged to fare hardly here. What brings you now I know not;
but I am glad of an opportunity of apologizing for some rudeness and
heat which I displayed at our last meeting. By your bearing the
cardinal's safe-conduct, I presume you come from him. What have you to
say?"
"First let me hand you this," said Edward, giving him the letter of
credence, over which the duke ran his eye hastily. "And next," said
Edward, "that, in answer to your message, his Eminence says, 'One
hundred thousand crowns, to be paid in four days, in money.'"
"Is that all he said?" said De Rohan. "Are you to act as negotiator in
this business, sir?"
"Not in the least," replied Edward. "I merely bear you a message, and am
perfectly ignorant of the whole circumstances, even of the contents of
this package,--though I have been told that it contains the conditions,
which, if you assent to them, you will sign, and enable me to return
them to the cardinal by noon to-morrow."
The duke took the packet, broke open the seal, and looked at the
writing, which was very brief, consisting only of three paragraphs.
There was a second paper, however, apparently briefer still. As he read,
de Rohan knit his brows and bit his lip.
"Am I to understand that you know nothing of these papers?" he asked.
"Nothing whatever," replied Edward; and the duke, rising from his stool,
walked up and down the hut for some minutes in deep thought.
"It must be done," he said, at length. "There is no use taking counsel
in the matter, for it is what they all wish. And thus ends the
Protestant cause in France! Monsieur Langdale, the only part of these
papers which is personal to myself is that." And he laid the second
enclosure before the young Englishman. "Why the cardinal has made this a
condition all along I cannot conceive, unless it be a point of pride
with him."
Edward read the paper, and perceived these words:--"I do hereby solemnly
consent to and affirm the marriage of my cousin Lucette Marie de
Mirepoix du Valais with Edward Langdale, of Buckley, in the county of
Huntingdon, England, as solemnized at Nantes, on the 3d of July, in the
year of grace 1627."
"I do assure you, my lord," said Edward, "this is none of my doing; and,
sooner than be any impediment to a peace so necessary to the poor
Protestants of France, I say, tear it. I will win Lucette by other
means."
"No," said the duke: "I will sign it; I will sign all. And when a Rohan
pledges his word the cardinal may be assured that it will be kept."
He took a little ink-horn from a neighboring table and signed the two
papers; then, shaking Edward by the hand again, he said, "Give you joy,
cousin! But you look ill and tired."
"I have ridden some sixty miles," said Edward, "with hardly any food,
and no rest."
The duke heard his reply with a rueful smile, but called a man from
without, telling him to bring the best he had for a young gentleman's
supper. The best was merely a bone of ham and some brown bread; but
there was added a flagon of very good wine.
"I require a little rest more than any thing," said Edward; "and I would
fain, my lord, lie down to sleep for a few minutes, if your people will
take care of my horse and wake me at four o'clock when they change the
sentries."
"That shall be done," said Rohan. "No chance of sleep for me to-night
after signing these papers. Here; you can sleep on my bed. It is as good
as any in the camp, I suppose." And, opening a door in the boarded
partition, he pointed to a great pile of rosemary and wild
mountain-herbs, saying, "It is a little better than the ground; but
fatigue gives balm to sleep."
Edward's eyes were closed in a moment, and he knew nothing more till the
duke himself called him at four. "Your horse is at the door," he said.
"There are the papers. I hope his Eminence will be punctual in the
payment; for I cannot turn ten thousand men loose amongst the mountains
with no money in their pockets. Let the man who has brought the horse
walk by your side and give the passwords."
Edward rode away well pleased with his success, and about half-past
eleven reached the small town of Alais. There he was informed that the
cardinal had not returned from Ners, but that Monsieur Rossignol would
see him; and, on being admitted to the well-known secretary, an order to
deliver the papers which he brought, signed by Richelieu, was given him.
Edward obeyed; and good Monsieur Rossignol, a man of great talent,
though originally a peasant, said, in a significant tone, "It will be
better for monsieur to ride out to the castle at Bourillaut, near Ners,
where he will find the cardinal."
"My good sir, I am tired to death, and my horse can hardly move a leg.
You forget what these mountain-roads are like."
"You can rest below for three or four hours," said the secretary. "Get
some refreshment,--by which time your own horse will have had rest
sufficient,--and then ride to Bourillaut in the cool of the evening. It
will be better. His Eminence desired it."
The thought that perhaps Richelieu might have obtained, through his
many-eyed communications, some news of Lucette gave Edward fresh spirit;
but still he followed the secretary's advice, for, after having ridden
so hard for many days, some more repose was absolutely needful. Toward
four o'clock, however, he set out toward Ners, having ascertained that
the chateau to which he was directed lay on the right of the road some
two or three miles before he reached the village; and all that need be
said of his journey is that the road, as every one knows, is beautiful,
and that his thoughts were like all young men's thoughts,--a little wild
and chaotic, perhaps, but with Lucette prominent above all. Some two
miles before the castle appeared in sight, however, he was met by a
large cavalcade of gentlemen, ladies, guards, and pack-mules, with
Richelieu at its head, going back apparently to Alais. The cardinal drew
up his horse, saying, "I have heard of you, my young friend. Rossignol
has sent me a messenger. Our good friend the syndic is well and gone to
Nismes, but will be back in two days. Go on to the chateau, where I have
ordered every thing to be prepared for you. There rest in peace for the
night. You will find nobody there to plague you, unless it be a few
women, who, if they are wise, will let you alone."
The cardinal moved on as he spoke; and Edward was fain to pursue his way
to Bourillaut. He found some servants on the drawbridge, loitering about
in the fine summer sunset; but as soon as his name was given the
omnipotent commands of the cardinal made them all activity and
attention. His horse was taken to the stable by one man; another ushered
him into a handsome room, communicating with a bedroom beyond; and a
third ran to bring the supper which he said his Eminence had ordered for
him. All around had a very comfortable aspect; and Edward thought, as he
threw himself into a chair, "A man with a wife whom he loved, and some
little ones to cheer him, might pass his life very happily even here."
The supper was soon brought, and was evidently the handiwork of some
courtly cook; the wine was delicate and good; and Edward, according to
the English fashion of all times, chose to take the moderate portion he
did take after his meal. Telling the man who waited on him to leave him,
he was about to pass the evening quietly, when, soon after the servant
had quitted the room, the door was opened and some one looked in. One
glance at the figure showed Edward that it was the lady with whom he had
ridden some way from Montargis; and, to say the truth, the young
Englishman would willingly have been spared her company. She still wore
the black velvet _loup_ over her face, which Edward thought was somewhat
too coquettish, considering that it was now dark and the candles
lighted; but of course he found himself bound to be polite, though he
was determined to be as cold as ice. Yet there was something timid and
hesitating in her manner that surprised him. As she came forward he
could see that she trembled, and, rising, he placed a chair for her,
saying, "To what am I indebted for this honor?"
"I have come to pass the evening with you," she said, in a low voice: "I
cannot let you be here all alone."
Edward did not well know what to reply, and he answered at random:--"Let
me beseech you, at all events, madam, to lay aside your mask now. Your
complexion runs no risk here."
"No," said the lady, shaking her head; "not till you tell me you love me
and will marry me."
"Are you not married already?" exclaimed Edward.
"Yes," she answered, "I am; but that makes no difference. Do you love
me?"
"I have told you, dear lady," said Edward, in as calm a tone as he could
assume, "that it is impossible. If you are the lady whom I saw at the
Hôtel de Bourgogne, doubtless I could have loved you if my whole heart
and soul had not been given to another; for I have seldom seen anybody
more lovely."
"But who is this you love so well?" said the lady. "Give me her
name,--her full name."
"Lucette Marie de Mirepoix du Valais," said Edward, impatiently.
The mask was off in a moment. "Am I so changed, Edward?" said Lucette,
throwing her arm round his neck. "I know I am taller,--much taller; but
I did not think you would ever forget me."
"Forget you! Oh, no, no, Lucette!" cried Edward, circling her in his
arms and covering her with kisses. "Have I ever forgotten you? have I
ever ceased to think of you? But I saw you but for a moment across the
dull and misty air of a theatre; and you are changed,--more charming,
more beautiful than ever. But even Lucette unknown could not rob Lucette
long known of the love that has been hers always. When for a moment I
saw your face I did not hear your voice, and when I heard your voice I
did not see your face. But now I see all these loved features
distinctly, and wonder how I could be deceived."
"We shall both change still more, Edward," she said, almost sadly. "And
will you love me still?"
"Better,--still better," said Edward, clasping her to his heart. "If,
Lucette, I loved you still after long absence, when you yourself tried
to make me love another, do you suppose that affection will wane when
the change comes over us together and you yourself engage me to love you
still? Oh, yes, Lucette; I will not deny it; you are more beautiful than
you used to be; but it was my young Lucette I loved; and how could I
love any other?"
"Well, I own that it was wrong," said Lucette, "to play with you and
tease you as I did; but it was not to try you, for I was sure I knew
your heart right well. It was the cardinal's command, however, and I
feared to disobey him. He brought us all from Paris,--some for one
reason, some for another: one that she might not intrigue against him at
the court of the queen-mother; another, to remove her from poor Anne of
Austria; others, for the amusement of the king and court, and perhaps to
assist him in his own views. Why he brought me I know not,--perhaps to
tease you on the road. No, no: I do him injustice. I sincerely believe
it was to unite us in the end. But do you forgive me, Edward? Do you
forgive me for acting a part that is not in my nature? A hundred times
the mask was nearly taken from my face. My joy to find that you loved
me still, and that you were faithful to your poor Lucette, passed all
bounds, and made me almost faint with happiness. It is nearly eighteen
months since I saw you at Aix; and since then how much I have suffered!
And I have heard that you have suffered too,--that you have been
apprehended and kept in prison, wounded again----"
"Oh, that is nothing!" answered Edward. "All has been followed by joy
and success. I never valued wealth, Lucette, till I met with you; but
now I have beyond doubt recovered one-half of my patrimonial
property,--all that belongs to me; but enough, and more than enough, to
secure my Lucette against all those grinding cares and petty annoyances
which, though less sharp than the fierce blows of misfortune, are more
wearing to the spirit and the heart. But tell me, my Lucette: how came
you here? I had feared, from what they said at Venice, that you had
fallen into the hands of Madame de Chevreuse."
"Oh, no," she answered: "that was a mistake. The council notified Madame
de la Cour that I was demanded by those who had a right to demand me in
France; but, with their usual secrecy, gave no further information. At
first I resolved to fly; but whither could I go? To Madame de Rohan I
could not apply; for her life in Venice has been one of great scandal
and disgrace. Madame de la Cour could not or would not help me. But in
the end I found that it was the ambassador from France who claimed me;
and, when assured that I was to be under the guardianship of the
cardinal himself, I went joyfully. He forbade me to write to you, saying
you promised soon to rejoin him; and on the night I saw you at the
theatre he told me to look at his _loge_, but to take no notice whatever
I might see. The only thing I now fear is the opposition of my high
relations. The Duc de Rohan is the head of the house; and, though he was
kind to me--very kind--while I was with him, I know him to be the
proudest man on earth, and as obdurate in his determinations as a rock."
"You are my wife," said Edward, pressing her to his heart,--"my wife by
every tie, human and divine. Soubise may oppose, Madame de Chevreuse may
oppose; but their opposition is nothing. Look here what authority the
cardinal gave me when I was setting out for Venice." Lucette looked at
the paper which he gave her.
"It was unkind of him to let you go," she said, "when he knew that I was
within two days' journey of Suza; but that was to punish you for leaving
that little Morini on the road."
"Do you know why I left him?" said Edward, kissing her rosy lips. "It
was because a very beautiful lady said she would make me love her before
our journey was ended; and I was resolved to love nobody but Lucette.
No, my Lucette: our journey together has never ended, and through life
never must end. You are mine, as I have said, by every tie. The Duc de
Rohan, the only one who had any real authority, I saw last night. His
opposition was entirely withdrawn, and his formal approval of our
marriage at Nantes was given in writing."
Lucette was silent for a moment or two, and turned a little pale; and
Edward asked, in a low tone, "What ladies are there here in the castle?"
"None," said Lucette. "Except my maid, we are all alone. Now I
understand: I think I see why the cardinal took every one else away and
insisted on my staying."
"Assuredly," replied Edward, "because you are my wife, Lucette, and he
did not wish that we should be separated any more."
Her face was now as rosy as the dawn, and her breath came thick with
agitation.
"You are mine, Lucette! are you not mine?" said Edward,--"my own, my
wife, my beloved?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" sobbed Lucette, casting herself upon his bosom,--"my
husband, my own dear husband!" And they parted no more.