I will converse with unrespective boys
And iron witted fools. None are for me
that look into me with suspicious eyes.
KING RICHARD
All the experience which the Cardinal had been able to collect of his
master's disposition, did not, upon the present occasion, prevent his
falling into a great error of policy. His vanity induced him to think
that he had been more successful in prevailing upon the Count of
Crevecoeur to remain at Tours, than any other moderator whom the King
might have employed, would, in all probability, have been. And as he was
well aware of the importance which Louis attached to the postponement
of a war with the Duke of Burgundy, he could not help showing that
he conceived himself to have rendered the King great and acceptable
service. He pressed nearer to the King's person than he was wont to
do, and endeavoured to engage him in conversation on the events of the
morning.
This was injudicious in more respects than one, for princes love not to
see their subjects approach them with an air conscious of deserving, and
thereby seeming desirous to extort, acknowledgment and recompense for
their services; and Louis, the most jealous monarch that ever lived,
was peculiarly averse and inaccessible to any one who seemed either to
presume upon service rendered or to pry into his secrets.
Yet, hurried away, as the most cautious sometimes are, by the self
satisfied humour of the moment, the Cardinal continued to ride on the
King's right hand, turning the discourse, whenever it was possible, upon
Crevecoeur and his embassy which, although it might be the matter at
that moment most in the King's thoughts, was nevertheless precisely
that which he was least willing to converse on. At length Louis, who had
listened to him with attention, yet without having returned any answer
which could tend to prolong the conversation, signed to Dunois, who rode
at no great distance, to come up on the other side of his horse.
“We came hither for sport and exercise,” said he, “but the reverend
Father here would have us hold a council of state.”
“I hope your Highness will excuse my assistance,” said Dunois; “I am
born to fight the battles of France, and have heart and hand for that,
but I have no head for her councils.”
“My Lord Cardinal hath a head turned for nothing else, Dunois,” answered
Louis; “he hath confessed Crevecoeur at the Castle gate, and he hath
communicated to us his whole shrift.--Said you not the whole?” he
continued, with an emphasis on the word, and a glance at the Cardinal,
which shot from betwixt his long dark eyelashes as a dagger gleams when
it leaves the scabbard.
The Cardinal trembled, as, endeavouring to reply to the King's jest, he
said that though his order were obliged to conceal the secrets of
their penitents in general, there was no sigillum confessionis [seal of
confession] which could not be melted at his Majesty's breath.
“And as his Eminence,” said the King, “is ready to communicate the
secrets of others to us, he naturally expects that we should be equally
communicative to him; and, in order to get upon this reciprocal footing,
he is very reasonably desirous to know if these two ladies of Croye
be actually in our territories. We are sorry we cannot indulge his
curiosity, not ourselves knowing in what precise place errant damsels,
disguised princesses, distressed countesses, may lie leaguer within our
dominions, which are, we thank God and our Lady of Embrun, rather
too extensive for us to answer easily his Eminence's most reasonable
inquiries. But supposing they were with us, what say you, Dunois, to our
cousin's peremptory demand?”
“I will answer you, my Liege, if you will tell me in sincerity, whether
you want war or peace,” replied Dunois, with a frankness which, while it
arose out of his own native openness and intrepidity of character, made
him from time to time a considerable favourite with Louis, who, like all
astucious persons, was as desirous of looking into the hearts of others
as of concealing his own.
“By my halidome,” said he, “I should be as well contented as thyself,
Dunois, to tell thee my purpose, did I myself but know it exactly. But
say I declared for war, what should I do with this beautiful and wealthy
young heiress, supposing her to be in my dominions?”
“Bestow her in marriage on one of your own gallant followers, who has a
heart to love, and an arm to protect her,” said Dunois.
“Upon thyself, ha!” said the King. “Pasques dieu! thou art more politic
than I took thee for, with all thy bluntness.”
“Nay,” answered Dunois, “I am aught except politic. By our Lady of
Orleans, I come to the point at once, as I ride my horse at the ring.
Your Majesty owes the house of Orleans at least one happy marriage.”
“And I will pay it, Count. Pasques dieu, I will pay it!--See you not
yonder fair couple?”
The King pointed to the unhappy Duke of Orleans and the Princess, who,
neither daring to remain at a greater distance from the King, nor in
his sight appear separate from each other, were riding side by side,
yet with an interval of two or three yards betwixt them, a space which
timidity on the one side, and aversion on the other, prevented them from
diminishing, while neither dared to increase it.
Dunois looked in the direction of the King's signal, and as the
situation of his unfortunate relative and the destined bride reminded
him of nothing so much as of two dogs, which, forcibly linked together,
remain nevertheless as widely separated as the length of their collars
will permit, he could not help shaking his head, though he ventured not
on any other reply to the hypocritical tyrant. Louis seemed to guess his
thoughts.
“It will be a peaceful and quiet household they will keep--not much
disturbed with children, I should augur. But these are not always a
blessing.”
[Here the King touches on the very purpose for which he pressed on the
match with such tyrannic severity, which was that as the Princess's
personal deformity admitted little chance of its being fruitful, the
branch of Orleans, which was next in succession to the crown, might be,
by the want of heirs, weakened or extinguished]
It was, perhaps, the recollection of his own filial ingratitude that
made the King pause as he uttered the last reflection, and which
converted the sneer that trembled on his lip into something resembling
an expression of contrition. But he instantly proceeded in another tone.
“Frankly, my Dunois, much as I revere the holy sacrament of matrimony”
(here he crossed himself), “I would rather the house of Orleans raised
for me such gallant soldiers as thy father and thyself, who share the
blood royal of France without claiming its rights, than that the country
should be torn to pieces, like to England, by wars arising from the
rivalry of legitimate candidates for the crown. The lion should never
have more than one cub.”
Dunois sighed and was silent, conscious that contradicting his arbitrary
Sovereign might well hurt his kinsman's interests but could do him no
service; yet he could not forbear adding, in the next moment,
“Since your Majesty has alluded to the birth of my father, I must needs
own that, setting the frailty of his parents on one side, he might be
termed happier, and more fortunate, as the son of lawless love than of
conjugal hatred.”
“Thou art a scandalous fellow, Dunois, to speak thus of holy wedlock,”
answered Louis jestingly. “But to the devil with the discourse, for the
boar is unharboured.--Lay on the dogs, in the name of the holy Saint
Hubert!--Ha! ha! tra-la-la-lira-la”--And the King's horn rang merrily
through the woods as he pushed forward on the chase, followed by two or
three of his guards, amongst whom was our friend Quentin Durward.
And here it was remarkable that, even in the keen prosecution of his
favourite sport, the King in indulgence of his caustic disposition,
found leisure to amuse himself by tormenting Cardinal Balue.
It was one of that able statesman's weaknesses, as we have elsewhere
hinted, to suppose himself, though of low rank and limited education,
qualified to play the courtier and the man of gallantry. He did not,
indeed, actually enter the lists of chivalrous combat, like Becket,
or levy soldiers, like Wolsey. But gallantry, in which they also were
proficients, was his professed pursuit; and he likewise affected great
fondness for the martial amusement of the chase. Yet, however well he
might succeed with certain ladies, to whom his power, his wealth, and
his influence as a statesman might atone for deficiencies in appearance
and manners, the gallant horses, which he purchased at almost any price,
were totally insensible to the dignity of carrying a Cardinal, and paid
no more respect to him than they would have done to his father, the
carter, miller, or tailor, whom he rivalled in horsemanship. The King
knew this, and, by alternately exciting and checking his own horse, he
brought that of the Cardinal, whom he kept close by his side, into such
a state of mutiny against his rider, that it became apparent they must
soon part company; and then, in the midst of its starting, bolting,
rearing, and lashing out, alternately, the royal tormentor rendered the
rider miserable, by questioning him upon many affairs of importance,
and hinting his purpose to take that opportunity of communicating to him
some of those secrets of state which the Cardinal had but a little while
before seemed so anxious to learn.
[In imputing to the Cardinal a want of skill in horsemanship, I
recollected his adventure in Paris when attacked by assassins, on which
occasion his mule, being scared by the crowd, ran away with the rider,
and taking its course to a monastery, to the abbot of which he formerly
belonged; was the means of saving his master's life.... S.]
A more awkward situation could hardly be imagined than that of a privy
councillor forced to listen to and reply to his sovereign, while each
fresh gambade of his unmanageable horse placed him in a new and more
precarious attitude--his violet robe flying loose in every direction,
and nothing securing him from an instant and perilous fall save the
depth of the saddle, and its height before and behind. Dunois laughed
without restraint; while the King, who had a private mode of enjoying
his jest inwardly, without laughing aloud, mildly rebuked his minister
on his eager passion for the chase, which would not permit him to
dedicate a few moments to business.
“I will no longer be your hindrance to a course,” continued he,
addressing the terrified Cardinal, and giving his own horse the rein at
the same time.
Before Balue could utter a word by way of answer or apology, his horse,
seizing the bit with his teeth, went forth at an uncontrollable
gallop, soon leaving behind the King and Dunois, who followed at a more
regulated pace, enjoying the statesman's distressed predicament. If
any of our readers has chanced to be run away with in his time (as we
ourselves have in ours), he will have a full sense at once of the
pain, peril, and absurdity of the situation. Those four limbs of the
quadruped, which, noway under the rider's control, nor sometimes under
that of the creature they more properly belong to, fly at such a rate as
if the hindermost meant to overtake the foremost; those clinging legs of
the biped which we so often wish safely planted on the greensward, but
which now only augment our distress by pressing the animal's sides--the
hands which have forsaken the bridle for the mane--the body, which,
instead of sitting upright on the centre of gravity, as old Angelo [a
celebrated riding and fencing master at the beginning of the nineteenth
century] used to recommend, or stooping forward like a jockey's at
Newmarket [the scene of the annual horse races has been at Newmarket
Heath since the time of James I], lies, rather than hangs, crouched upon
the back of the animal, with no better chance of saving itself than a
sack of corn--combine to make a picture more than sufficiently ludicrous
to spectators, however uncomfortable to the exhibiter. But add to this
some singularity of dress or appearance on the part of the unhappy
cavalier--a robe of office, a splendid uniform, or any other peculiarity
of costume--and let the scene of action be a race course, a review, a
procession, or any other place of concourse and public display, and
if the poor wight would escape being the object of a shout of
inextinguishable laughter, he must contrive to break a limb or two,
or, which will be more effectual, to be killed on the spot; for on no
slighter condition will his fall excite anything like serious sympathy.
On the present occasion, the short violet coloured gown of the Cardinal,
which he used as riding dress (having changed his long robes before he
left the Castle), his scarlet stockings, and scarlet hat, with the
long strings hanging down, together with his utter helplessness, gave
infinite zest to his exhibition of horsemanship.
The horse, having taken matters entirely into his own hand, flew rather
than galloped up a long green avenue; overtook the pack in hard pursuit
of the boar, and then, having overturned one or two yeomen prickers, who
little expected to be charged in the rear--having ridden down several
dogs, and greatly confused the chase--animated by the clamorous
expostulations and threats of the huntsman, carried the terrified
Cardinal past the formidable animal itself, which was rushing on at a
speedy trot, furious and embossed with the foam which he churned around
his tusks. Balue, on beholding himself so near the boar, set up a
dreadful cry for help, which, or perhaps the sight of the boar, produced
such an effect on his horse, that the animal interrupted its headlong
career by suddenly springing to one side; so that the Cardinal, who had
long kept his seat only because the motion was straight forward, now
fell heavily to the ground. The conclusion of Balue's chase took place
so near the boar that, had not the animal been at that moment too much
engaged about his own affairs, the vicinity might have proved as fatal
to the Cardinal, as it is said to have done to Favila, King of the
Visigoths of Spain [he was killed by a bear while hunting]. The powerful
churchman got off, however, for the fright, and, crawling as hastily
as he could out of the way of hounds and huntsmen, saw the whole chase
sweep by him without affording him assistance, for hunters in those days
were as little moved by sympathy for such misfortunes as they are in our
own. The King, as he passed, said to Dunois, “Yonder lies his Eminence
low enough--he is no great huntsman, though for a fisher (when a secret
is to be caught) he may match Saint Peter himself. He has, however, for
once, I think, met with his match.”
The Cardinal did not hear the words, but the scornful look with which
they were spoken led him to suspect their general import. The devil is
said to seize such opportunities of temptation as were now afforded by
the passions of Balue, bitterly moved as they had been by the scorn
of the King. The momentary fright was over so soon as he had assured
himself that his fall was harmless; but mortified vanity, and resentment
against his Sovereign, had a much longer influence on his feelings.
After all the chase had passed him, a single cavalier, who seemed rather
to be a spectator than a partaker of the sport, rode up with one or two
attendants, and expressed no small surprise to find the Cardinal upon
the ground, without a horse or attendants, and in such a plight as
plainly showed the nature of the accident which had placed him there. To
dismount, and offer his assistance in this predicament--to cause one of
his attendants to resign a staid and quiet palfrey for the Cardinal's
use--to express his surprise at the customs of the French Court, which
thus permitted them to abandon to the dangers of the chase, and
forsake in his need, their wisest statesman, were the natural modes
of assistance and consolation which so strange a rencontre supplied
to Crevecoeur, for it was the Burgundian ambassador who came to the
assistance of the fallen Cardinal.
He found the minister in a lucky time and humour for essaying some of
those practices on his fidelity, to which it is well known that Balue
had the criminal weakness to listen. Already in the morning, as the
jealous temper of Louis had suggested, more had passed betwixt them
than the Cardinal durst have reported to his master. But although he had
listened with gratified ears to the high value, which, he was assured by
Crevecoeur, the Duke of Burgundy placed upon his person and talents,
and not without a feeling of temptation, when the Count hinted at the
munificence of his master's disposition, and the rich benefices of
Flanders, it was not until the accident, as we have related, had highly
irritated him that, stung with wounded vanity, he resolved, in a fatal
hour, to show Louis XI that no enemy can be so dangerous as an offended
friend and confidant. On the present occasions he hastily requested
Crevecoeur to separate from him lest they should be observed, but
appointed him a meeting for the evening in the Abbey of Saint Martin's
at Tours, after vesper service; and that in a tone which assured the
Burgundian that his master had obtained an advantage hardly to have been
hoped for except in such a moment of exasperation. In the meanwhile,
Louis, who, though the most politic Prince of his time, upon this, as
on other occasions, had suffered his passions to interfere with his
prudence, followed contentedly the chase of the wild boar, which was now
come to an interesting point. It had so happened that a sounder (i.e.,
in the language of the period, a boar of only two years old), had
crossed the track of the proper object of the chase, and withdrawn in
pursuit of him all the dogs (except two or three couples of old stanch
hounds) and the greater part of the huntsmen. The King saw, with
internal glee, Dunois, as well as others, follow upon this false scent,
and enjoyed in secret the thought of triumphing over that accomplished
knight in the art of venerie, which was then thought almost as glorious
as war. Louis was well mounted, and followed, close on the hounds; so
that, when the original boar turned to bay in a marshy piece of ground,
there was no one near him but the King himself. Louis showed all the
bravery and expertness of an experienced huntsman; for, unheeding the
danger, he rode up to the tremendous animal, which was defending itself
with fury against the dogs, and struck him with his boar spear; yet, as
the horse shied from the boar, the blow was not so effectual as either
to kill or disable him. No effort could prevail on the horse to charge a
second time; so that the King, dismounting, advanced on foot against
the furious animal, holding naked in his hand one of those short, sharp,
straight, and pointed swords, which huntsmen used for such encounters.
The boar instantly quitted the dogs to rush on his human enemy, while
the King, taking his station, and posting himself firmly, presented the
sword, with the purpose of aiming it at the boar's throat, or rather
chest, within the collarbone; in which case, the weight of the beast,
and the impetuosity of its career, would have served to accelerate its
own destruction. But, owing to the wetness of the ground, the King's
foot slipped, just as this delicate and perilous manoeuvre ought to
have been accomplished, so that the point of the sword encountering the
cuirass of bristles on the outside of the creature's shoulder, glanced
off without making any impression, and Louis fell flat on the ground.
This was so far fortunate for the Monarch, because the animal, owing to
the King's fall, missed his blow in his turn, and in passing only rent
with his tusk the King's short hunting cloak, instead of ripping up his
thigh. But when, after running a little ahead in the fury of his course,
the boar turned to repeat his attack on the King at the moment when he
was rising, the life of Louis was in imminent danger. At this critical
moment, Quentin Durward, who had been thrown out in the chase by the
slowness of his horse, but who, nevertheless, had luckily distinguished
and followed the blast of the King's horn, rode up, and transfixed the
animal with his spear.
The King, who had by this time recovered his feet, came in turn to
Durward's assistance, and cut the animal's throat with his sword. Before
speaking a word to Quentin, he measured the huge creature not only by
paces, but even by feet--then wiped the sweat from his brow, and the
blood from his hands--then took off his hunting cap, hung it on a bush,
and devoutly made his orisons to the little leaden images which it
contained--and at length, looking upon Durward, said to him, “Is it
thou, my young Scot?--Thou hast begun thy woodcraft well, and Maitre
Pierre owes thee as good entertainment as he gave thee at the Fleur de
Lys yonder.--Why dost thou not speak? Thou hast lost thy forwardness and
fire, methinks, at the Court, where others find both.”
Quentin, as shrewd a youth as ever Scottish breeze breathed caution
into, had imbibed more awe than confidence towards his dangerous master,
and was far too wise to embrace the perilous permission of familiarity
which he seemed thus invited to use. He answered in very few and well
chosen words, that if he ventured to address his Majesty at all, it
could be but to crave pardon for the rustic boldness with which he had
conducted himself when ignorant of his high rank.
“Tush! man,” said the King; “I forgive thy sauciness for thy spirit and
shrewdness. I admired how near thou didst hit upon my gossip Tristan's
occupation. You have nearly tasted of his handiwork since, as I am given
to understand. I bid thee beware of him; he is a merchant who deals in
rough bracelets and tight necklaces. Help me to my horse;--I like thee,
and will do thee good. Build on no man's favour but mine--not even on
thine uncle's or Lord Crawford's--and say nothing of thy timely aid in
this matter of the boar; for if a man makes boast that he has served
a King in such pinch, he must take the braggart humour for its own
recompense.”
The King then winded his horn, which brought up Dunois and several
attendants, whose compliments he received on the slaughter of such a
noble animal, without scrupling to appropriate a much greater share
of merit than actually belonged to him; for he mentioned Durward's
assistance as slightly as a sportsman of rank, who, in boasting of the
number of birds which he has bagged, does not always dilate upon the
presence and assistance of the gamekeeper. He then ordered Dunois to see
that the boar's carcass was sent to the brotherhood of Saint Martin, at
Tours, to mend their fare on holydays, and that they might remember the
King in their private devotions.
“And,” said Louis, “who hath seen his Eminence my Lord Cardinal?
Methinks it were but poor courtesy, and cold regard to Holy Church to
leave him afoot here in the forest.”
“May it please you,” said Quentin, when he saw that all were silent,
“I saw his Lordship the Cardinal accommodated with a horse, on which he
left the forest.”
“Heaven cares for its own,” replied the King. “Set forward to the
Castle, my lords; we'll hunt no more this morning.--You, Sir Squire,”
addressing Quentin, “reach me my wood knife--it has dropt from the
sheath beside the quarry there. Ride on, Dunois--I follow instantly.”
Louis, whose lightest motions were often conducted like stratagems, thus
gained an opportunity to ask Quentin privately, “My bonny Scot, thou
hast an eye, I see. Canst thou tell me who helped the Cardinal to a
palfrey?--Some stranger, I should suppose; for, as I passed without
stopping, the courtiers would likely be in no hurry to do him such a
timely good turn.”
“I saw those who aided his Eminence but an instant, Sire,” said Quentin;
“it was only a hasty glance, for I had been unluckily thrown out, and
was riding fast to be in my place; but I think it was the Ambassador of
Burgundy and his people.”
“Ha,” said Louis. “Well, be it so. France will match them yet.”
There was nothing more remarkable happened, and the King, with his
retinue, returned to the Castle.