MAÎTRE BAUDOIN.
Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy;
This wide and universal theatre
Presents more woeful pageants than the scene
Wherein we play in.--AS YOU LIKE IT.
Sir Patrick Gray so entirely lost his self-possession, that he was
rapidly swept away, jostled, tossed and pushed here and there, by a
rush of the crowd, who were making off to another part of the city
where the procession would again be seen as it passed; so, after
futilely struggling, and even fighting in some instances, he found
himself in a dark street near one of the many bridges of the Scheldt,
which flows through Antwerp by no less than eight channels, and there
he paused, alone and breathless, with one hand pressed on his brow and
the other on his sword.
Was it a dream, or a phantom raised by his nerves or organs of vision
being disturbed by the terrible wounds he had received, and by the long
and feverish hours of illness and agony he had endured in the castle of
Edinburgh?
Again and again he asked this question of himself, without being able
to resolve the matter satisfactorily.
He heard the bells of the cathedral still tolling; he saw the
variegated lamps that glittered on its glorious spire; he heard even
the hum of the distant multitude; but he dared not return and trust
himself to look again, lest he might become mad, for already his brain
felt weak and giddy, and he cast a haggard glance at the dark, still
water that flowed with mud and slime under the quaint old bridge of the
Scheldt, as strange wild thoughts occurred to him, but he thrust them
aside with shame.
He looked back to the cathedral, and again he seemed to see that fair
young face with its diamond tiara, and the almost ethereal form, with
the finest and snowiest of Mechlin lace floating like a cloud of
frostwork, cold and pure, about it. In a foreign city, amid more than
two hundred thousand inhabitants, his chances of discovering _who_ this
lady was, and how she bore a resemblance so marvellous, became very
slender, if she were known alone to the bishop, who made it part of his
sacred drama or mystery to preserve her incognito from all--even from
his clergy.
Had he been less a lover--had he waited, he might have seen _other_
faces nearly as familiar as that of Murielle, though less startling and
bewildering; but, swept away as he had been by the crowd, and having
neither power nor presence of mind to regain his place, he saw no more
of the procession; and, after long wandering, he thought of returning
home.
The night was now considerably advanced; the cathedral bells had ceased
to toll; the lights had disappeared amid the delicate traceries of its
spire; there were neither moon nor stars, and there came not a breath
of wind to disperse the frowsy vapour that overhung the city, and which
rose from the many branches of the Scheldt. Sir Patrick had lost his
way; his ignorance of the language and of the vast old city forced him
to wander to and fro, vainly searching for his hostelry, "the Grille
of St. Laurence;" but day dawned before he discovered it and presented
himself, to the joy of Maître Baudoin, who feared that he had become
embroiled with some of the bishop's men-at-arms, or the Marquises
Brabanciones, in the citadel--a surmise which naturally led the maître
to ponder upon the value of Sir Patrick's horse and its housings, and
also of his cloakbag, which might thereby fall into _his_ possession.
"How came you to leave me, messire, in such a hurry and at such a
time?" asked the little Frenchman.
Gray frankly told him that he thought--indeed that he was almost
certain--he had recognized a dear friend in the damsel who appeared as
our Lady of Antwerp.
"_Ah, Mère de Dieu!_ do you say so?" exclaimed Maître Baudoin, with
sudden interest, "then _who_ is she?"
"That is exactly what I wish to know; and shall know, too, ere noon be
past."
"_Ay, ay, pardieu!_ but no one can tell you."
"None!"
"Save Monseigneur l'Evêque himself."
"The bishop of Mechlin?"
"Yes, messire."
"I will fly to him!"
"But he left the city after the show was over. I saw him myself, as
with all his knights and men-at-arms, and with several ladies----"
"Ladies, say you?"
"Yes, in horse-litters; he passed out by the gate of St. James."
"For where?" asked Gray, starting up.
"I know not."
"Do none in Antwerp know?" asked Gray, impatiently.
"Some say for Mechlin--others for Breda."
"Get me a fleet horse, Maître Baudoin--I can pay you well--I must see
this bishop--"
"Horses?--do you mean to ride to _both_ places at once?"
"No--to the nearest first."
"Vain, vain, messire," said the hosteller, shrugging his shoulders, "be
assured that he will not tell you."
"Not if I implore him to do so?"
"Not if you dashed out your brains--_morbleu_!"
"Where did the lady go after the procession dispersed?"
"Back to the cathedral--it is the custom."
"Oh! she may be there yet."
"_Ouf_, messire! would you have a pretty girl to sleep all night among
these cold marble knights and dead bishops? She has left it, of course;
but amid the thousands who have left or are leaving the city, and the
great trains of the prince of Ravenstein, the counts of Nassau, Bommel,
and others, now departing by all our gates and bridges, the task of
tracing and discovering her would be no sinecure."
Sir Patrick stamped his right foot with vexation.
"If I had your devil of a bishop on Scottish ground, I would soon
wrench the secret out of him."
"Perhaps so, messire; but he has at Mechlin an ugly wheel whereon folks
are sometimes broken alive; and that is not pleasant. Is messire _sure_
that he recognized the lady?"
"Sure, Maître Baudoin, as that I now speak to you. Oh! I would know
that sweet face among ten thousand."
"Sweet--hum;" the little Frenchman began to get quite interested; "is
she a countrywoman of messire?"
"Yes."
"A sister?" persisted the hosteller, who burned with curiosity.
"No--no."
"Perhaps she is the mother of messire?"
"Prater, how thou talkest! she is my best beloved--my betrothed wife!"
said Gray, with enthusiasm.
"_Diable! Bon Dieu!_" exclaimed Baudoin, making a pirouette. "Messire
must not despair."
"I do not despair, Maître Baudoin; but I am sorely bewildered," said
poor Gray, passing a hand across his scarred forehead.
"Messire, with your permission, I shall tell you a little story."
"Say on, my friend."
"Have you perceived near the church of Jesus--just about thirty paces
from it--a well, covered with curious ironwork?"
"Yes; what about it?"
"The branches from which the pulley hangs are rich with foliaged
work of iron, and are deemed a miracle of skill. They were the _chef
d'oeuvre_ of a famous young smith of Antwerp who dearly loved the
daughter of a great painter, and desired greatly to win his esteem; so
he lavished all the energies of his soul, and all the cunning of his
hands, all his skill and experience, upon that piece of ironwork; but
when it was finished, monsieur the painter viewed it coldly, and said,
crustily,
"'I cannot agree to have you for a son-in-law.'"
"'I am rich, young, and skilful,' urged the unfortunate lover. 'I am a
smith.'
"'For _that_ very reason you shall not have my daughter; for she shall
wed a painter, and a painter only!'
"Our smith did not lose heart, but he threw his beloved hammer into the
well, where it lies to this day; he assumed the pencil and palette, and
after working assiduously, he rapidly became a master in the art; he
excelled even the surly old painter who had disdained him; he won for
himself a high position in our city, and with it his beautiful young
mistress; and all this you may see graven on the brass plate of their
tomb, near the gate of the cathedral. But does messire hear me?"
"Yes; but, prythee, Maître Baudoin, what the devil has all this story
about painters and smiths, palettes and draw-wells, to do with me?"
"Everything."
"How? I am not in a humour for jesting."
"It is a homily," said the Frenchman, with a low bow.
"Leave homilies to monks and friars; but for what is yours meant?"
"To teach you to hope much and to persevere long; even as that poor
lover persevered and hoped."
Three days longer Gray lingered in Antwerp, searching and inquiring
everywhere in vain, till at last, in despair of unravelling the
mystery, on the subsidence of the waters of the Maese, he ordered his
horse, bade adieu to the gossiping Maître Baudoin, and set out for the
court of the duke of Gueldres; having at last all but convinced himself
that the face which he had recognized in our Lady of Antwerp was the
creation of his own imagination, or at most some very remarkable
resemblance.
Yet it was _no_ vision he had seen during the night of that
festival--but Murielle Douglas herself--the veritable object of all his
hope and love.
We have already stated that the earl of Douglas had left Scotland
ostensibly to visit Pope Eugene IV., taking with him the countess,
Murielle, and a brilliant train.
The latter, says Tytler (in his "History of Scotland"), consisted
of six knights, with their own suites and attendants, and fourteen
gentlemen of the best families in the realm, with a retinue of eighty
men-at-arms on horseback. Among these were Sir John Forrester, of
Corstorphine; Sir Alan Lauder, of the Bass; William Campbell, thane
of Cawdor and constable of the castle of Nairne--"all knights," adds
Lindesay, of Pitscottie, "whose convoy maid the earle so proud and
insolent, that he represented a kingis magnificence wherever he went.
Out of Flanderis he passed to France, and out of France to Italie, and
so forwardis to Rome, where the Romanes having knowledge of his cuming,
mett him with an honourable companie, and veri princelie receaved him
within the toun."
In this quotation, however, we are somewhat anticipating the course of
events, for Gray and Murielle were yet to meet before the earl and his
retinue left Flanders to visit the court of Charles VII. of France.