'T is brave for Beauty when the best blade wins her.
THE COUNT PALATINE
When Quentin Durward reached Peronne, a council was sitting, in
the issue of which he was interested more deeply than he could have
apprehended, and which, though held by persons of a rank with whom
one of his could scarce be supposed to have community of interest, had
nevertheless the most extraordinary influence on his fortunes.
King Louis, who, after the interlude of De la Marck's envoy, had
omitted no opportunity to cultivate the returning interest which that
circumstance had given him in the Duke's opinion, had been engaged in
consulting him, or, it might be almost said, receiving his opinion, upon
the number and quality of the troops, by whom, as auxiliary to the Duke
of Burgundy, he was to be attended in their joint expedition against
Liege. He plainly saw the wish of Charles was to call into his camp
such Frenchmen as, from their small number and high quality, might be
considered rather as hostages than as auxiliaries; but, observant
of Crevecoeur's advice, he assented as readily to whatever the Duke
proposed, as if it had arisen from the free impulse of his own mind.
The King failed not, however, to indemnify himself for his complaisance
by the indulgence of his vindictive temper against Balue, whose counsels
had led him to repose such exuberant trust in the Duke of Burgundy.
Tristan, who bore the summons for moving up his auxiliary forces, had
the farther commission to carry the Cardinal to the Castle of Loches,
and there shut him up in one of those iron cages which he himself is
said to have invented.
“Let him make proof of his own devices,” said the King; “he is a man
of holy church--we may not shed his blood; but, Pasques dieu! his
bishopric, for ten years to come, shall have an impregnable frontier
to make up for its small extent!--And see the troops are brought up
instantly.”
Perhaps, by this prompt acquiescence, Louis hoped to evade the
more unpleasing condition with which the Duke had clogged their
reconciliation. But if he so hoped, he greatly mistook the temper of his
cousin, for never man lived more tenacious of his purpose than Charles
of Burgundy, and least of all was he willing to relax any stipulation
which he made in resentment, or revenge, of a supposed injury.
No sooner were the necessary expresses dispatched to summon up the
forces who were selected to act as auxiliaries, than Louis was called
upon by his host to give public consent to the espousals of the Duke of
Orleans and Isabelle of Croye. The King complied with a heavy sigh, and
presently after urged a slight expostulation, founded upon the necessity
of observing the wishes of the Duke himself.
“These have not been neglected,” said the Duke of Burgundy, “Crevecoeur
hath communicated with Monsieur d'Orleans, and finds him (strange to
say) so dead to the honour of wedding a royal bride, that he acceded to
the proposal of marrying the Countess of Croye as the kindest proposal
which father could have made to him.”
“He is the more ungracious and thankless,” said Louis, “but the whole
shall be as you, my cousin, will, if you can bring it about with consent
of the parties themselves.”
“Fear not that,” said the Duke, and accordingly, not many minutes after,
the affair had been proposed, the Duke of Orleans and the Countess
of Croye, the latter attended, as on the preceding occasion, by the
Countess of Crevecoeur and the Abbess of the Ursulines, were summoned
to the presence of the Princes, and heard from the mouth of Charles of
Burgundy, unobjected to by that of Louis, who sat in silent and moody
consciousness of diminished consequence, that the union of their hands
was designed by the wisdom of both Princes, to confirm the perpetual
alliance which in future should take place betwixt France and Burgundy.
The Duke of Orleans had much difficulty in suppressing the joy which
he felt upon the proposal, and which delicacy rendered improper in the
presence of Louis; and it required his habitual awe of that monarch to
enable him to rein in his delight, so much as merely to reply that his
duty compelled him to place his choice at the disposal of his Sovereign.
“Fair cousin of Orleans,” said Louis with sullen gravity, “since I must
speak on so unpleasant an occasion, it is needless for me to remind you
that my sense of your merits had led me to propose for you a match into
my own family. But since my cousin of Burgundy thinks that the disposing
of your hand otherwise is the surest pledge of amity between his
dominions and mine, I love both too well not to sacrifice to them my own
hopes and wishes.”
The Duke of Orleans threw himself on his knees, and kissed--and, for
once, with sincerity of attachment--the hand which the King, with
averted countenance, extended to him. In fact he, as well as most
present, saw, in the unwilling acquiescence of this accomplished
dissembler, who, even with that very purpose, had suffered his
reluctance to be visible, a King relinquishing his favourite project,
and subjugating his paternal feelings to the necessities of state, and
interest of his country. Even Burgundy was moved, and Orleans's heart
smote him for the joy which he involuntarily felt on being freed from
his engagement with the Princess Joan. If he had known how deeply the
King was cursing him in his soul, and what thoughts of future revenge he
was agitating, it is probable his own delicacy on the occasion would not
have been so much hurt.
Charles next turned to the young Countess, and bluntly announced the
proposed match to her, as a matter which neither admitted delay nor
hesitation, adding, at the same time, that it was but a too favourable
consequence of her intractability on a former occasion.
“My Lord Duke and Sovereign,” said Isabelle, summoning up all her
courage, “I observe your Grace's commands, and submit to them.”
“Enough, enough,” said the Duke, interrupting her, “we will arrange the
rest.--Your Majesty,” he continued, addressing King Louis, “hath had
a boar's hunt in the morning; what say you to rousing a wolf in the
afternoon?”
The young Countess saw the necessity of decision.
“Your Grace mistakes my meaning,” she said, speaking, though timidly,
yet loudly and decidedly enough to compel the Duke's attention, which,
from some consciousness, he would otherwise have willingly denied to
her.
“My submission,” she said, “only respected those lands and estates which
your Grace's ancestors gave to mine, and which I resign to the House of
Burgundy, if my Sovereign thinks my disobedience in this matter renders
me unworthy to hold them.”
“Ha! Saint George!” said the Duke, stamping furiously on the ground,
“does the fool know in what presence she is?--And to whom she speaks?”
“My lord,” she replied, still undismayed, “I am before my Suzerain, and,
I trust, a just one. If you deprive me of my lands, you take away all
that your ancestors' generosity gave, and you break the only bonds which
attach us together. You gave not this poor and persecuted form, still
less the spirit which animates me.--And these it is my purpose to
dedicate to Heaven in the convent of the Ursulines, under the guidance
of this Holy Mother Abbess.”
The rage and astonishment of the Duke can hardly be conceived, unless
we could estimate the surprise of a falcon against whom a dove should
ruffle its pinions in defiance.
“Will the Holy Mother receive you without an appanage?” he said in a
voice of scorn.
“If she doth her convent, in the first instance, so much wrong,” said
the Lady Isabelle, “I trust there is charity enough among the noble
friends of my house to make up some support for the orphan of Croye.”
“It is false!” said the Duke, “it is a base pretext to cover some secret
and unworthy passion.--My Lord of Orleans, she shall be yours, if I drag
her to the altar with my own hands!”
The Countess of Crevecoeur, a high spirited woman and confident in her
husband's merits and his favour with the Duke, could keep silent no
longer.
“My lord,” she said, “your passions transport you into language utterly
unworthy.--The hand of no gentlewoman can be disposed of by force.”
“And it is no part of the duty of a Christian Prince,” added the Abbess,
“to thwart the wishes of a pious soul, who, broken with the cares and
persecutions of the world, is desirous to become the bride of Heaven.”
“Neither can my cousin of Orleans,” said Dunois, “with honour accept a
proposal to which the lady has thus publicly stated her objections.”
“If I were permitted,” said Orleans, on whose facile mind Isabelle's
beauty had made a deep impression, “some time to endeavour to place my
pretensions before the Countess in a more favourable light--”
“My lord,” said Isabelle, whose firmness was now fully supported by
the encouragement which she received from all around, “it were to no
purpose--my mind is made up to decline this alliance, though far above
my deserts.”
“Nor have I time,” said the Duke, “to wait till these whimsies are
changed with the next change of the moon.--Monseigneur d'Orleans,
she shall learn within this hour that obedience becomes matter of
necessity.”
“Not in my behalf, Sire,” answered the Prince, who felt that he could
not, with any show of honour, avail himself of the Duke's obstinate
disposition; “to have been once openly and positively refused is enough
for a son of France. He cannot prosecute his addresses farther.”
The Duke darted one furious glance at Orleans, another at Louis, and
reading in the countenance of the latter, in spite of his utmost
efforts to suppress his feelings, a look of secret triumph, he became
outrageous.
“Write,” he said, to the secretary, “our doom of forfeiture and
imprisonment against this disobedient and insolent minion. She shall to
the Zuchthaus, to the penitentiary, to herd with those whose lives have
rendered them her rivals in effrontery.”
There was a general murmur.
“My Lord Duke,” said the Count of Crevecoeur, taking the word for the
rest, “this must be better thought on. We, your faithful vassals, cannot
suffer such a dishonour to the nobility and chivalry of Burgundy. If the
Countess hath done amiss, let her be punished--but in the manner that
becomes her rank, and ours, who stand connected with her house by blood
and alliance.”
The Duke paused a moment, and looked full at his councillor with the
stare of a bull, which, when compelled by the neat herd from the road
which he wishes to go, deliberates with himself whether to obey, or to
rush on his driver, and toss him into the air.
Prudence, however, prevailed over fury--he saw the sentiment was general
in his council--was afraid of the advantages which Louis might derive
from seeing dissension among his vassals; and probably--for he was
rather of a coarse and violent, than of a malignant temper--felt ashamed
of his own dishonourable proposal.
“You are right,” he said, “Crevecoeur, and I spoke hastily. Her fate
shall be determined according to the rules of chivalry. Her flight
to Liege hath given the signal for the Bishop's murder. He that best
avenges that deed, and brings us the head of the Wild Boar of Ardennes,
shall claim her hand of us; and if she denies his right, we can at least
grant him her fiefs, leaving it to his generosity to allow her what
means he will to retire into a convent.”
“Nay!” said the Countess, “think I am the daughter of Count Reinold--of
your father's old, valiant, and faithful servant. Would you hold me out
as a prize to the best sword player?”
“Your ancestress,” said the Duke, “was won at a tourney--you shall be
fought for in real melee. Only thus far, for Count Reinold's sake,
the successful prizer shall be a gentleman, of unimpeached birth, and
unstained bearings; but, be he such, and the poorest who ever drew the
strap of a sword belt through the tongue of a buckle, he shall have at
least the proffer of your hand. I swear it, by St. George, by my ducal
crown, and by the Order that I wear!--Ha! Messires,” he added, turning
to the nobles present, “this at least is, I think, in conformity with
the rules of chivalry?”
Isabelle's remonstrances were drowned in a general and jubilant assent,
above which was heard the voice of old Lord Crawford, regretting the
weight of years that prevented his striking for so fair a prize. The
Duke was gratified by the general applause, and his temper began to flow
more smoothly, like that of a swollen river when it hath subsided within
its natural boundaries.
“Are we to whom fate has given dames already,” said Crevecoeur, “to be
bystanders at this fair game? It does not consist with my honour to be
so, for I have myself a vow to be paid at the expense of that tusked and
bristled brute, De la Marck.”
“Strike boldly in, Crevecoeur,” said the Duke, “to win her, and since
thou canst not wear her thyself, bestow her where thou wilt--on Count
Stephen, your nephew, if you list.”
“Gramercy, my lord!” said Crevecoeur, “I will do my best in the battle;
and, should I be fortunate enough to be foremost, Stephen shall try his
eloquence against that of the Lady Abbess.”
“I trust,” said Dunois, “that the chivalry of France are not excluded
from this fair contest?”
“Heaven forbid! brave Dunois,” answered the Duke, “were it but for the
sake of seeing you do your uttermost. But,” he added, “though there be
no fault in the Lady Isabelle wedding a Frenchman, it will be necessary
that the Count of Croye must become a subject of Burgundy.”
“Enough,” said Dunois, “my bar sinister may never be surmounted by the
coronet of Croye--I will live and die French. But, yet, though I should
lose the lands, I will strike a blow for the lady.”
Le Balafre dared not speak aloud in such a presence, but he muttered to
himself,
“Now, Saunders Souplejaw, hold thine own!--thou always saidst the
fortune of our house was to be won by marriage, and never had you such a
chance to keep your word with us.”
“No one thinks of me,” said Le Glorieux, “who am sure to carry off the
prize from all of you.”
“Right, my sapient friend,” said Louis, laughing, “when a woman is in
the case, the greatest fool is ever the first in favour.”
While the princes and their nobles thus jested over her fate, the Abbess
and the Countess of Crevecoeur endeavoured in vain to console Isabelle,
who had withdrawn with them from the council-presence. The former
assured her that the Holy Virgin would frown on every attempt to
withdraw a true votaress from the shrine of Saint Ursula; while the
Countess of Crevecoeur whispered more temporal consolation, that no
true knight, who might succeed in the enterprise proposed, would avail
himself, against her inclinations, of the Duke's award; and that perhaps
the successful competitor might prove one who should find such favour in
her eyes as to reconcile her to obedience. Love, like despair, catches
at straws; and, faint and vague as was the hope which this insinuation
conveyed, the tears of the Countess Isabelle flowed more placidly while
she dwelt upon it.
[Saint Ursula: the patron saint of young girls. Tradition says she was
martyred by the Huns, together with her eleven thousand companions. Her
history has been painted by Carpacelo and by Hans Memling.]