Painters show cupid blind--Hath Hymen eyes?
Or is his sight warp'd by those spectacles
which parents, guardians, and advisers, lent him,
That he may look through them on lands and mansions,
On jewels, gold, and all such rich dotations,
And see their value ten times magnified?--
Methinks 't will brook a question.
THE MISERIES OF ENFORCED MARRIAGE
Louis XI of France, though the sovereign in Europe who was fondest
and most jealous of power, desired only its substantial enjoyment;
and though he knew well enough, and at times exacted strictly, the
observances due to his rank, he was in general singularly careless of
show.
In a prince of sounder moral qualities, the familiarity with which he
invited subjects to his board--nay, occasionally sat at theirs--must
have been highly popular; and even such as he was, the King's homeliness
of manners atoned for many of his vices with that class of his subjects
who were not particularly exposed to the consequences of his suspicion
and jealousy. The tiers etat, or commons of France, who rose to more
opulence and consequence under the reign of this sagacious Prince,
respected his person, though they loved him not; and it was resting on
their support that he was enabled to make his party good against the
hatred of the nobles, who conceived that he diminished the honour of the
French crown, and obscured their own splendid privileges by that very
neglect of form which gratified the citizens and commons.
With patience which most other princes would have considered as
degrading, and not without a sense of amusement, the Monarch of France
waited till his Life Guardsman had satisfied the keenness of a youthful
appetite. It may be supposed, however, that Quentin had too much sense
and prudence to put the royal patience to a long or tedious proof; and
indeed he was repeatedly desirous to break off his repast ere Louis
would permit him.
“I see it in thine eye,” he said good naturedly, “that thy courage is
not half abated. Go on--God and Saint Denis!--charge again. I tell thee
that meat and mass” (crossing himself) “never hindered the work of a
good Christian man. Take a cup of wine; but mind thou be cautious of the
wine pot--it is the vice of thy countrymen as well as of the English,
who, lacking that folly, are the choicest soldiers ever wore armour. And
now wash speedily--forget not thy benedicite, and follow me.”
Quentin obeyed, and, conducted by a different but as maze-like an
approach as he had formerly passed, he followed Louis into the Hall of
Roland.
“Take notice,” said the King, imperatively, “thou hast never left this
post--let that be thine answer to thy kinsman and comrades--and, hark
thee, to bind the recollection on thy memory, I give thee this gold
chain” (flinging on his arm one of considerable value). “If I go not
brave myself, those whom I trust have ever the means to ruffle it with
the best. But when such chains as these bind not the tongue from wagging
too freely, my gossip, L'Hermite, hath an amulet for the throat, which
never fails to work a certain cure. And now attend.--No man, save Oliver
or I myself, enters here this evening; but ladies will come hither,
perhaps from the one extremity of the hall, perhaps from the other,
perhaps one from each. You may answer if they address you, but, being
on duty, your answer must be brief; and you must neither address them
in your turn, nor engage in any prolonged discourse. But hearken to what
they say. Thine ears as well as thy hands are mine--I have bought thee,
body and soul. Therefore, if thou hearest aught of their conversation,
thou must retain it in memory until it is communicated to me, and then
forget it. And, now I think better on it, it will be best that thou pass
for a Scottish recruit, who hath come straight down from his mountains,
and hath not yet acquired our most Christian language.--Right.--So,
if they speak to thee, thou wilt not answer--this will free you
from embarrassment, and lead them to converse without regard to your
presence. You understand me.--Farewell. Be wary, and thou hast a
friend.”
The King had scarce spoken these words ere he disappeared behind the
arras, leaving Quentin to meditate on what he had seen and heard. The
youth was in one of those situations from which it is pleasanter to look
forward than to look back; for the reflection that he had been planted
like a marksman in a thicket who watches for a stag, to take the life of
the noble Count of Crevecoeur, had in it nothing ennobling. It was very
true that the King's measures seemed on this occasion merely cautionary
and defensive; but how did the youth know but he might be soon
commanded on some offensive operation of the same kind? This would be an
unpleasant crisis, since it was plain, from the character of his master,
that there would be destruction in refusing, while his honour told him
that there would be disgrace in complying. He turned his thoughts from
this subject of reflection with the sage consolation so often adopted by
youth when prospective dangers intrude themselves on their mind, that it
was time enough to think what was to be done when the emergence actually
arrived, and that sufficient for the day was the evil thereof.
Quentin made use of this sedative reflection the more easily that the
last commands of the King had given him something more agreeable to
think of than his own condition. The Lady of the Lute was certainly one
of those to whom his attention was to be dedicated; and well in his mind
did he promise to obey one part of the King's mandate, and listen with
diligence to every word that might drop from her lips that he might know
if the magic of her conversation equalled that of her music. But with
as much sincerity did he swear to himself, that no part of her discourse
should be reported by him to the King which might affect the fair
speaker otherwise than favourably.
Meantime, there was no fear of his again slumbering on his post. Each
passing breath of wind, which, finding its way through the open lattice,
waved the old arras, sounded like the approach of the fair object of
his expectation. He felt, in short, all that mysterious anxiety and
eagerness of expectation which is always the companion of love, and
sometimes hath a considerable share in creating it.
At length, a door actually creaked and jingled (for the doors even
of palaces did not in the fifteenth century turn on their hinges so
noiseless as ours); but, alas! it was not at that end of the hall from
which the lute had been heard. It opened, however, and a female figure
entered, followed by two others, whom she directed by a sign to remain
without, while she herself came forward into the hall. By her imperfect
and unequal gait, which showed to peculiar disadvantage as she traversed
this long gallery, Quentin at once recognised the Princess Joan, and
with the respect which became his situation, drew himself up in an
attitude of silent vigilance, and lowered his weapon to her as she
passed. She acknowledged the courtesy by a gracious inclination of
her head, and he had an opportunity of seeing her countenance more
distinctly than he had in the morning.
There was little in the features of this ill fated Princess to atone for
the misfortune of her shape and gait. Her face was, indeed, by no means
disagreeable in itself, though destitute of beauty; and there was a
meek impression of suffering patience in her large blue eyes, which
were commonly fixed upon the ground. But besides that she was extremely
pallid in complexion, her skin had the yellowish discoloured tinge which
accompanies habitual bad health; and though her teeth were white and
regular, her lips were thin and pale. The Princess had a profusion of
flaxen hair, but it was so light coloured as to be almost of a bluish
tinge; and her tire woman, who doubtless considered the luxuriance of
her mistress's tresses as a beauty, had not greatly improved matters by
arranging them in curls around her pale countenance, to which they added
an expression almost corpse-like and unearthly. To make matters still
worse, she had chosen a vest or cymar of a pale green silk, which gave
her, on the whole, a ghastly and even spectral appearance.
While Quentin followed this singular apparition with eyes in which
curiosity was blended with compassion, for every look and motion of the
Princess seemed to call for the latter feeling, two ladies entered from
the upper end of the apartment.
One of these was the young person who upon Louis's summons had served
him with fruit, while Quentin made his memorable breakfast at the Fleur
de Lys. Invested now with all the mysterious dignity belonging to the
nymph of the veil and lute, and proved, besides (at least in Quentin's
estimation), to be the high born heiress of a rich earldom, her beauty
made ten times the impression upon him which it had done when he
beheld in her one whom he deemed the daughter of a paltry innkeeper, in
attendance upon a rich and humorous old burgher. He now wondered what
fascination could ever have concealed from him her real character. Yet
her dress was nearly as simple as before, being a suit of deep mourning,
without any ornaments. Her headdress was but a veil of crape, which was
entirely thrown back, so as to leave her face uncovered; and it was only
Quentin's knowledge of her actual rank, which gave in his estimation new
elegance to her beautiful shape, a dignity to her step which had before
remained unnoticed, and to her regular features, brilliant complexion,
and dazzling eyes, an air of conscious nobleness that enhanced their
beauty.
Had death been the penalty, Durward must needs have rendered to this
beauty and her companion the same homage which he had just paid to the
royalty of the Princess. They received it as those who were accustomed
to the deference of inferiors, and returned it with courtesy; but he
thought--perhaps it was but a youthful vision--that the young lady
coloured slightly, kept her eyes on the ground, and seemed embarrassed
though in a trifling degree, as she returned his military salutation.
This must have been owing to her recollection of the audacious
stranger in the neighbouring turret at the Fleur de Lys; but did that
discomposure express displeasure? This question he had no means to
determine.
The companion of the youthful Countess, dressed like herself simply
and in deep mourning, was at the age when women are apt to cling
most closely to that reputation for beauty which has for years been
diminishing. She had still remains enough to show what the power of
her charms must once have been, and, remembering past triumphs, it was
evident from her manner that she had not relinquished the pretensions to
future conquests. She was tall and graceful, though somewhat haughty
in her deportment, and returned the salute of Quentin with a smile of
gracious condescension, whispering the next instant something into her
companion's ear, who turned towards the soldier as if to comply with
some hint from the elder lady, but answered, nevertheless, without
raising her eyes. Quentin could not help suspecting that the observation
called on the young lady to notice his own good mien; and he was (I do
not know why) pleased with the idea that the party referred to did not
choose to look at him, in order to verify with her own eyes the truth
of the observation. Probably he thought there was already a sort
of mysterious connexion beginning to exist between them, which gave
importance to the slightest trifle.
This reflection was momentary, for he was instantly wrapped up in
attention to the meeting of the Princess Joan with these stranger
ladies. She had stood still upon their entrance, in order to receive
them, conscious, perhaps, that motion did not become her well; and
as she was somewhat embarrassed in receiving and repaying their
compliments, the elder stranger, ignorant of the rank of the party whom
she addressed, was led to pay her salutation in a manner rather as if
she conferred than received an honour through the interview.
“I rejoice,” she said, with a smile which was meant to express
condescension at once and encouragement, “that we are at length
permitted the society of such a respectable person of our own sex as
you appear to be. I must say that my niece and I have had but little for
which to thank the hospitality of King Louis.--Nay, niece, never pluck
my sleeve--I am sure I read in the looks of this young lady sympathy
for out situation.--Since we came hither, fair madam, we have been used
little better than mere prisoners; and after a thousand invitations to
throw our cause and our persons under the protection of France, the
Most Christian King has afforded us at first but a base inn for our
residence, and now a corner of this moth eaten palace, out of which we
are only permitted to creep towards sunset, as if we were bats or owls,
whose appearance in the sunshine is to be held matter of ill omen.”
“I am sorry,” said the Princess, faltering with the awkward
embarrassment of the interview, “that we have been unable, hitherto, to
receive you according to your deserts.--Your niece, I trust, is better
satisfied?”
“Much--much better than I can express,” answered the youthful Countess.
“I sought but safety and I have found solitude and secrecy besides. The
seclusion of our former residence, and the still greater solitude of
that now assigned to us, augment, in my eye, the favour which the King
vouchsafed to us unfortunate fugitives.”
“Silence, my silly cousin,” said the elder lady, “and let us speak
according to our conscience, since at last we are alone with one of our
own sex--I say alone, for that handsome young soldier is a mere statue,
since he seems not to have the use of his limbs, and I am given
to understand he wants that of his tongue, at least in civilized
language--I say, since no one but this lady can understand us, I must
own there is nothing I have regretted equal to taking this French
journey. I looked for a splendid reception, tournaments, carousals,
pageants, and festivals; instead of which, all has been seclusion and
obscurity! and the best society whom the King introduced to us, was a
Bohemian vagabond, by whose agency he directed us to correspond with
our friends in Flanders.--Perhaps,” said the lady, “it is his politic
intention to mew us up here until our lives' end, that he may seize on
our estates, after the extinction of the ancient house of Croye. The
Duke of Burgundy was not so cruel; he offered my niece a husband, though
he was a bad one.”
“I should have thought the veil preferable to an evil husband,” said the
Princess, with difficulty finding opportunity to interpose a word.
“One would at least wish to have the choice, madam,” replied the voluble
dame. “It is, Heaven knows, on account of my niece that I speak; for
myself, I have long laid aside thoughts of changing my condition. I see
you smile, but by my halidome, it is true--yet that is no excuse for the
King, whose conduct, like his person, hath more resemblance to that
of old Michaud, the moneychanger of Ghent, than to the successor of
Charlemagne.”
“Hold!” said the Princess, with some asperity in her tone; “remember you
speak of my father.”
“Of your father!” replied the Burgundian lady, in surprise.
“Of my father,” repeated the Princess, with dignity, “I am Joan of
France.--But fear not, madam,” she continued, in the gentle accent which
was natural to her, “you designed no offence, and I have taken none.
Command my influence to render your exile and that of this interesting
young person more supportable. Alas! it is but little I have in my
power, but it is willingly offered.”
Deep and submissive was the reverence with which the Countess Hameline
de Croye, so was the elder lady called, received the obliging offer of
the Princess's protection. She had been long the inhabitant of courts,
was mistress of the manners which are there acquired, and held firmly
the established rule of courtiers of all ages, who, although their usual
private conversation turns upon the vices and follies of their patrons,
and on the injuries and neglect which they themselves have sustained,
never suffer such hints to drop from them in the presence of the
Sovereign or those of his family. The lady was, therefore, scandalised
to the last degree at the mistake which had induced her to speak so
indecorously in presence of the daughter of Louis. She would have
exhausted herself in expressing regret and making apologies, had she
not been put to silence and restored to equanimity by the Princess,
who requested, in the most gentle manner, yet which, from a Daughter of
France, had the weight of a command, that no more might be said in the
way either of excuse or of explanation.
The Princess Joan then took her own chair with a dignity which became
her, and compelled the two strangers to sit, one on either hand, to
which the younger consented with unfeigned and respectful diffidence,
and the elder with an affectation of deep humility and deference which
was intended for such.
They spoke together, but in such a low tone that the sentinel could not
overhear their discourse, and only remarked that the Princess seemed to
bestow much of her regard on the younger and more interesting lady; and
that the Countess Hameline, though speaking a great deal more, attracted
less of the Princess's attention by her full flow of conversation and
compliment, than did her kinswoman by her brief and modest replies to
what was addressed to her.
The conversation of the ladies had not lasted a quarter of an hour, when
the door at the lower end of the hall opened, and a man entered shrouded
in a riding cloak. Mindful of the King's injunction, and determined not
to be a second time caught slumbering, Quentin instantly moved towards
the intruder, and, interposing between him and the ladies, requested him
to retire instantly.
“By whose command?” said the stranger, in a tone of contemptuous
surprise.
“By that of the King,” said Quentin, firmly, “which I am placed here to
enforce.”
“Not against Louis of Orleans,” said the Duke, dropping his cloak.
The young man hesitated a moment; but how enforce his orders against
the first Prince of the Blood, about to be allied, as the report now
generally went, with the King's own family?
“Your Highness,” he said, “is too great that your pleasure should be
withstood by me. I trust your Highness will bear me witness that I have
done the duty of my post so far as your will permitted.”
“Go to--you shall have no blame, young soldier,” said Orleans; and
passing forward, paid his compliments to the Princess, with that air of
constraint which always marked his courtesy when addressing her.
He had been dining, he said, with Dunois, and understanding there was
society in Roland's Gallery, he had ventured on the freedom of adding
one to the number.
The colour which mounted into the pale cheek of the unfortunate Joan,
and which for the moment spread something of beauty over her features,
evinced that this addition to the company was anything but indifferent
to her. She hastened to present the Prince to the two Ladies of Croye,
who received him with the respect due to his eminent rank; and the
Princess, pointing to a chair, requested him to join their conversation
party.
The Duke declined the freedom of assuming a seat in such society; but
taking a cushion from one of the settles, he laid it at the feet of the
beautiful young Countess of Croye, and so seated himself, that, without
appearing to neglect the Princess, he was enabled to bestow the greater
share of his attention on her lovely neighbour.
At first, it seemed as if this arrangement rather pleased than offended
his destined bride. She encouraged the Duke in his gallantries towards
the fair stranger, and seemed to regard them as complimentary to
herself. But the Duke of Orleans, though accustomed to subject his mind
to the stern yoke of his uncle when in the King's presence, had enough
of princely nature to induce him to follow his own inclinations whenever
that restraint was withdrawn; and his high rank giving him a right to
overstep the ordinary ceremonies, and advance at once to familiarity,
his praises of the Countess Isabelle's beauty became so energetic, and
flowed with such unrestrained freedom, owing perhaps to his having drunk
a little more wine than usual--for Dunois was no enemy to the worship of
Bacchus--that at length he seemed almost impassioned, and the presence
of the Princess appeared well nigh forgotten.
The tone of compliment which he indulged was grateful only to one
individual in the circle; for the Countess Hameline already anticipated
the dignity of an alliance with the first Prince of the Blood, by means
of her whose birth, beauty, and large possessions rendered such an
ambitious consummation by no means impossible, even in the eyes of a
less sanguine projector, could the views of Louis XI have been left
out of the calculation of chances. The younger Countess listened to the
Duke's gallantries with anxiety and embarrassment, and ever and anon
turned an entreating look towards the Princess, as if requesting her to
come to her relief. But the wounded feelings and the timidity of Joan of
France rendered her incapable of an effort to make the conversation more
general; and at length, excepting a few interjectional civilities of the
Lady Hameline, it was maintained almost exclusively by the Duke himself,
though at the expense of the younger Countess of Croye, whose beauty
formed the theme of his high flown eloquence.
Nor must I forget that there was a third person, the unregarded
sentinel, who saw his fair visions melt away like wax before the sun,
as the Duke persevered in the warm tenor of his passionate discourse.
At length the Countess Isabelle de Croye made a determined effort to cut
short what was becoming intolerably disagreeable to her, especially from
the pain to which the conduct of the Duke was apparently subjecting the
Princess.
Addressing the latter, she said, modestly, but with some firmness, that
the first boon she had to claim from her promised protection was, “that
her Highness would undertake to convince the Duke of Orleans that the
ladies of Burgundy, though inferior in wit and manners to those of
France, were not such absolute fools as to be pleased with no other
conversation than that of extravagant compliment.”
“I grieve, lady,” said the Duke, preventing the Princess's answer, “that
you will satirize, in the same sentence, the beauty of the dames of
Burgundy and the sincerity of the Knights of France. If we are hasty and
extravagant in the expression of our admiration, it is because we love
as we fight, Without letting cold deliberation come into our bosoms, and
surrender to the fair with the same rapidity with which we defeat the
valiant.”
“The beauty of our countrywomen,” said the young Countess, with more of
reproof than she had yet ventured to use towards the high born suitor,
“is as unfit to claim such triumphs, as the valour of the men of
Burgundy is incapable of yielding them.”
“I respect your patriotism, Countess,” said the Duke; “and the last
branch of your theme shall not be impugned by me, till a Burgundian
knight shall offer to sustain it with lance in rest. But for the
injustice which you have done to the charms which your land produces, I
appeal from yourself to yourself.--Look there,” he said, pointing to a
large mirror, the gift of the Venetian republic, and then of the highest
rarity and value, “and tell me, as you look, what is the heart that can
resist the charms there represented?”
The Princess, unable to sustain any longer the neglect of her lover,
here sunk backwards on her chair with a sigh, which at once recalled
the Duke from the land of romance, and induced the Lady Hameline to ask
whether her Highness found herself ill.
“A sudden pain shot through my forehead,” said the Princess, attempting
to smile; “but I shall be presently better.”
Her increasing paleness contradicted her words, and induced the Lady
Hameline to call for assistance, as the Princess was about to faint.
The Duke, biting his lip, and cursing the folly which could not keep
guard over his tongue, ran to summon the Princess's attendants, who
were in the next chamber, and when they came hastily, with the usual
remedies, he could not but, as a cavalier and gentleman, give his
assistance to support and to recover her. His voice, rendered almost
tender by pity and self reproach, was the most powerful means of
recalling her to herself, and just as the swoon was passing away, the
King himself entered the apartment.