In one of the old houses between the Louvre and the Place Royals, is
still preserved in its original state a fine antique saloon of the
times of Henry II. No gorgeous hall, no spacious vestibule,
impresses you at once with the grandeur of the mansion; but, winding
up a narrow and incommodious stair, you find yourself upon a small
landing-place, whence two steps--each the segment of a circle, and
both turning considerably, as if they had once formed part of a spiral
staircase--conduct you, through a deep but narrow passage in the wall,
to a door of black oak. On opening this, you find yourself at the
threshold of a room some two-and-thirty feet square, panelled with
dark and richly carved wood, and possessing a ceiling of the same. At
the farther end of the saloon, opposite to the door, is a deep recess,
or, rather, a sort of bay, at the entrance of which the floor rises
with a high step, forming a sort of little platform capable of
receiving a table and two or three chairs. From the distance of about
three feet and a half above the ground up to the ceiling, the greater
part of this recess or bay is of glass, with only just so much Gothic
stone and wood work as serves to support the large casements, which
afford the sole light of the room. The form which this projection
takes on the outside of the house presents three sides of a regular
octagon, and, in ornament and lightness, is not unlike one of the
windows of the new part of St. John's, Cambridge, though certainly not
near so beautiful as any part of that exquisite specimen of Gothic
architecture.
Though, as I have said, from this window is derived the sole light
which the room possesses; nevertheless, that light is enough,
especially as the sunshine seems to regard that casement with
particular favour, and never fails to linger about it when the bright
beams visit earth.
At the time to which we must now go back, the floors were not so
dingy, the oak was not so black, as they are at present; but the full
summer sunshine was pouring through the large oriel, chequering the
wood work of the raised flooring with the golden light of the rays and
the dark shadows of the leaden frames in which the glass was set. A
stand for embroidery appeared on the little platform; and before it
sat a lady plying the busy needle and the shining silks; while a maid,
seated near, read to her from a book--the Gothic characters of which
were fast merging into the round letters of the present day--and
another female attendant, a little farther off, followed the
industrious example of her mistress, and busied herself at her frame.
The principal person of the group was habited in deep mourning, which,
in the fashion of that day, was, perhaps, the most unbecoming dress
that the vanity of man ever permitted. The sombre hue of the garment
was relieved by nothing that could give lightness or grace; and the
heavy black veil, hanging from the head, seemed designed purposely to
cast a gloomy, unsoftened shadow over the face. But that lady was one
of those whom we see sometimes, and dream of often, so lovely by the
gift of nature, that art can do nothing either to add to the beauty or
diminish it; and she looked as transcendently lovely in the dark
wimple and the sable stole, as if she had been clad in jewels and in
lace. She was as fair as the morning star, with eyes of the deep, deep
blue of the evening sky, full and soft, and overhung with a long
fringe of jetty eyelashes, which sometimes made the eyes themselves
seem black. Her cheek bore the rosy hue of health, though the colour
was by no means deep, and was so softly diffused over her face, that
it was scarce possible to say where the warm tint of the cheek ended,
and the brilliant fairness of the forehead and temples began. The
features, too, were as lovely as if the brightest fancy and the most
skilful hand had combined to personify beauty; but they had nothing of
the cold, still harshness of the statue, and one looked long in
admiration ere one could pause to trace the graceful lines that went
to form so fair a whole. The form was in no way unworthy of the face;
and even the stiff, heavy folds of the mourning robe were forced into
graceful falls by the symmetry of the limbs they covered. All,
however, was calm and easy, and every part of the figure was
concealed, as far as possible, except the tip of one small foot, and
the soft rounded delicate hands, which, with a thousand graceful
movements, urged the needle through the embroidery.
Such was Eugenie de Menancourt, whom her father's death in Paris had
left one of the richest heiresses of France, and had cast into the
hands of the faction called the League, which then ruled in the
capital, while the King waged war against it in the field. The
possession of Eugenie de Menancourt, indeed, was no slight advantage
to that party, for those who have much to bestow will always be
followed; and the reward of her hand, and all the wealth that
accompanied it, was one well calculated to lure many an aspiring noble
to the faction who had the power of awarding it. This the Duke of
Mayenne felt fully, and made, indeed, no slight use of his advantage:
not that he held out the hope of obtaining her to any one directly,
except to the Count d'Aubin, to whom she had been promised by her
father, and whom Mayenne was most anxious to gain over from the royal
cause; but, nevertheless, he took good care that, when any of his
agents busied themselves to bring over an opposite, or confirm a
wavering, partisan, the list of the good things which the League could
bestow should not be left unmentioned, and amongst the first was the
hand of Eugenie de Menancourt, the heiress of near one half of Maine.
There was many another poor girl in the same condition; but as, in
those days, inclination was the last thing consulted by parents in the
marriage of their daughters, there was but little difference between
their fate in the hands of the League, and in the hands of their more
legitimate guardians. Nevertheless, the circumstances by which she was
surrounded, her isolated situation in the house wherein her father had
died, and which had been assigned to her by the League as her abode
during the time of her honourable captivity in Paris, and the prospect
of being forced to wed a man she did not love, all contributed to
heighten the gloom which her parent's recent death had cast over her,
and to make melancholy the temporary expression of a countenance which
seemed by nature born for smiles.
One only consideration tended to make her situation feel more light:
the Count d'Aubin was deeply engaged on the side of the King; and on
his late journey to Maine, had even been entrusted with the high task
of keeping in check that province, and some of the neighbouring
districts. So long as he adhered to the King, Eugenie well knew that
Mayenne would never consent to his marriage with herself; and though
she sometimes doubted the steadiness of D'Aubin's loyalty, she trusted
the artful game which she knew that the Duke was playing, in order to
detach him from the royal cause, would insure her not being pressed to
give her hand to any one else. She hoped, therefore, for a degree of
peace till such time, at least, as some change in the political
affairs of France delivered her from the chance of force being
employed to compel her obedience to a choice made by others.
On such facts and such speculations her mind was often forced to
dwell; but Eugenie de Menancourt was too wise to yield full way to
painful remembrances or anticipations that could produce no change;
and she studiously strove to occupy her thoughts with other things:
either reading herself during all the many hours she spent alone, or
making one of her maids read to her, when she was employed with any of
those occupations which engage the hand without absorbing the
attention.
Thus, then, was she employed plying her needle in the sunshine, and
listening to some of the poetry of Du Bartas, while, though she
attended, and she heard, some melancholy feeling or some gloomy
thought, springing from the depths of her own heart, would mingle
insensibly with the other matter which engaged her mind, and make all
she heard associate itself with the painful circumstances of her
situation. In the midst of the reading, however, the door of the
saloon opened, and a person entered, of whom we must pause to give
almost as full a description as we have been beguiled into writing in
regard to Eugenie de Menancourt herself.
The figure that appeared was that of a lady as beautiful as it is
possible to conceive, but in a style of loveliness as different from
that of her she came to visit as the ruby is different from the
sapphire. She might be three or four and twenty years of age, but
certainly was not more; and the full rounded contour of womanhood was
exquisitely united in her figure to the light and easy graces of
youth. Her hair was as jetty as a raven's wing, and her full bright
eyes also were as dark. Her skin was fair, however, and her teeth, of
dazzling whiteness, were just seen through the half-open lips of her
small beautiful mouth. The soft arched eyebrow, the chiselled nose,
the rounded chin, the gentle oval of the face, the small white ear,
and the broad clear forehead, made up a countenance such as is seldom
seen and never forgotten; and to that face and form she might well
have trusted to command admiration, had such been her object, without
calling in "the foreign aid of ornament." Dress, however, and
splendour had not been neglected, though her rich garments sat so
easily upon her, that they seemed but the natural accompaniment of so
much beauty, worn rather to harmonise with than to heighten the
splendid loveliness of her face and person. Her whole apparel, except
the mantle and the sleeves, was of the lightest kind of gold tissue,
consisting of a small stripe of pink, and a still smaller one of gold.
The bodice, or stays, was laced with gold; and the body, or _corps de
robe_, shaped not at all unlike those in use at present, came much
higher over the bosom than was customary at a libertine court, and in
a libertine age. The sleeves, which were large on the shoulders, and
suddenly contracted till they fitted close to the round and beautiful
arms, were of white satin, as was also the mantle, which round the
edge was richly embroidered with pink and gold. Her girdle was of gold
filigree worked upon white velvet; and through it was passed a chaplet
of large pearls, with every now and then a sapphire or an emerald, to
mark some particular prayer. Jewels were in her ears too, and on the
bosom of her dress, though it was but mid-day; and in her hand she
held one of the small black velvet masks, which the fair dames of
those days very generally wore when in the streets, even in their
carriages, under the pretence of guarding their complexions from the
sun and wind, but, in fact, more for the sake of fashion than from
over-tenderness, and often with views and purposes which might well
shun the day.
The lady, however, who now entered, bore no appearance of one likely
to yield to the luxurious softness, or the weak vices of the day.
There was a light and a soul in her dark eyes, a play and a spirit
about her ever-varying lip, a firmness and determination on her fine
clear brow, that might, perhaps, speak of passion intense and strong,
but could hardly admit the idea of weakness. As soon as Eugenie de
Menancourt beheld her, she started up with a look of joy; and,
advancing to meet her, pressed her kindly in her arms, exclaiming,
"Dear, dear Beatrice! are you better at length? Why would you not let
me see you?"
"Well! quite well now, Eugenie," replied the other, returning her
embrace as warmly as it was given "but my illness, they said, was
contagious; and why should I have suffered you to risk your valued and
most precious life for such a one as I am?"
"Oh! and your life is precious too, Beatrice," replied her friend;
"most precious to those who know you as well as I do."
"But how few do that, dearest friend!" replied Beatrice of Ferrara;
for, strange as it may seem, it was she whose name has once before
been mentioned in this work, who now stood beside Eugenie de
Menancourt, on terms of the dearest intimacy and affection. "How few
do that! Do you know, Eugenie, that I regard as one of the greatest
and sweetest triumphs of my life, the having conquered all your
prejudices against me; having won your love and your esteem, and
taught you to know me as I am."
"But indeed, indeed, as I have often told you," replied Eugenie, "I
had no prejudices against you."
"Nay, nay," replied the other, with a smile; "you beheld me surrounded
by the profligate and the base; you beheld me mingling with the idle
and the vain: you beheld the seducers and the seduced of a corrupt
court worshipping this pretty painted idol that you see before you;
and, doubtless, thought in your own secret heart that it was with
pleasure that I bore it all."
"No, no, indeed," replied Eugenie; "quite the reverse! Wherever I went
I heard you mentioned as the exception. The malicious and the
scandalous were silent at your name; and not even the braggart idlers,
whose vanity is fed by their own lies against our sex, ventured to say
you smiled upon them."
"They dared not, Eugenie!" said Beatrice, her dark eye flashing as she
spoke; "they dared not! There is not a minion in all France who would
dare to cast a spot upon my name! Not because they fear to speak
falsehood, be it as gross and glaring as the sun; but because they
know I hold, that where the honour of Beatrice of Ferrara is assailed,
she has as much right as any punctilious man in all the land to avenge
herself as best she may. Nay, start not, dear friend! but send away
your women, and let us have a few calm moments together, if the idle
world will let us."
The women, who had been in attendance upon Eugenie de Menancourt,
required no farther commands; but, the one laying down her book, and
the other covering up her embroidery-frame, left the room.
"You started but now, Eugenie," continued Beatrice, advancing towards
the little platform in the bay window, and seating herself beside her
friend; "you started but now, when I said that women have as much
right to avenge themselves, when their honour is assailed, as men; but
I say so still--ay, and even more right. I have long thought so, and
shall ever think so, Eugenie; though Heaven only knows how I should
act, were such a case to happen. I might be as weak as women generally
are, and let the traitor escape out of pure fear: but I think not,
Eugenie--I think not. I believe that I would rather die the next
minute after having avenged myself, than live on in the same world
with one who had slandered that fair fame which, in spite of
circumstances, and my own wild thoughtlessness, I have maintained
unstained in the midst of this foul court."
"Nay, but consider, Beatrice," cried Eugenie, earnestly, "this world
is not all."
"I know it well, sweet friend," replied Beatrice; "but I think, if
there be pardon in heaven for any offence, it would be for that Men
claim the right, and die without a fear; and why should not we have
the same privilege? They, when their honour is assailed, could clear
themselves without revenge; they could call their comrades to judge of
their conduct; but, with us, the very whisper is destruction; and no
proof of innocence ever gives us back that pure, untarnished name
which is our only honour; we can have no exculpation, we can have no
redress, and vengeance is all that is left us."
Eugenie was silent, and Beatrice gazed upon her, for a moment or two,
with a smile, adding, at last, "But no--no, Eugenie, such thoughts and
such feelings are not for you. Your nation, your education, your
country, will not let you feel as I feel, or think as I think; and
yet, Eugenie, we love each other," she added, twining her graceful arm
through that of her fair friend, "and yet we love each other--is it
not so?"
"Indeed, it is!" replied Eugenie de Menancourt, turning towards her
with a warm smile. "Your company, your affection, your sympathy, dear
Beatrice, have been my only consolations since I came within the walls
of this hateful city; and all I wish is that I could on some points
make you think as I do. I wish it selfishly, and yet for your sake,
Beatrice; for, if I could succeed, I should not tremble every moment
for your happiness and for your peace, as I do now."
"Thank you, thank you for the wish, dear friend!" replied Beatrice,
with more melancholy than mirth in her smile; "thank you, most
sincerely, for the wish! but still it is in vain. You can never, with
all your kind eloquence, make a wild, ardent, passionate Italian girl,
a calm, gentle, yielding being like yourself, all charity and half
Huguenot. It is in vain, it is in vain. But you speak of happiness,
Eugenie, as if I knew what happiness is. Now listen to me, and you
shall hear more of Beatrice of Ferrara than ever you have yet done.
There is a subject, I know, on which we have both thought often, and
on which we have wished often to speak--I know it, Eugenie! I know it!
I have heard it in half-spoken words; I have read it in your manner,
and in your tone; I have seen it in your eyes--that, often, often,
when we have talked of other scenes and other days, you have longed to
ask what is Beatrice of Ferrara to Philip d'Aubin, and what is he to
her? Nay, I dream not that you love him, Eugenie; I know better--I
know that you love him not; and I feel that Philip d'Aubin, with all
his splendid qualities, with all his energies of mind, and graces of
person, is the last man on earth that Eugenie de Menancourt could
love."
She paused a moment, gazed thoughtfully in her friend's face, and
then, leaning her head upon Eugenie's shoulder, while she took her
hand in hers, she added, in a low tone and with a deep sigh--"But it
is not so with Beatrice of Ferrara!"
A bright blush rushed over her cheek, as she spoke the words which
gave to her friend the full assurance of a fact that she had long
suspected, perhaps we might say had long known; and she closed her
dark bright eyes, as if to avoid seeing whatever expression that
confession might call into the countenance of Eugenie. The moment
after, however, she started up, exclaiming eagerly, "But mistake me
not! mistake me not! I have not loved unsought; I have not called upon
my head the well-deserved shame of being despised for courting him
who loved me not. No, Eugenie, no! although the blood that flows in
these veins may be all fire, yet in my heart there is a well of icy
pride--at least, so he has often called it--which would cool the warm
current of my love--ay, till it froze in death!--ere the name I bear
should be stained even by such a pitiful weakness as that. No! he
sought me, he courted me, he lived at my feet, till the proud heart
was won. Yes, Eugenie, he lived at my feet, he seemed to feed upon my
smiles, till, at length, ambition and interest opened wider views, and
vanity was piqued to think that Eugenie de Menancourt could be dull to
such high merits as his own----"
"If ambition and interest swayed him," said Eugenie;--but her friend
interrupted her ere she could finish. "Hear me out!" she cried, "hear
me out, Eugenie! Ambition and interest had much to do therewith. When
I and my young brother first sought this court to find protection
against the injustice of my father's brother, I possessed little but a
small inheritance in France, the dowry of my mother. This he well
knew; and though, if there be any truth on earth, he loved me,
yet, with men, Eugenie, there are passions that make even love
subservient--ambition, interest, vanity, Eugenie, are men's gods!"
"But is it possible, Beatrice," cried Mademoiselle de Menancourt,
"that, thinking thus of all men, and of him in particular, you can
either esteem or love him, or any of his race?"
"Oh, yes, Eugenie! oh, yes!" she replied. "Love is a tyrant--not a
slave: we cannot bind him to the chariot wheels of reason; we cannot
make him bow his neck beneath the yoke of judgment. On the contrary,
we can but yield and obey. There is but one power on earth that can
restrain him, Eugenie--Virtue! but everything else is vain. And, oh!
how many ways have we of deceiving ourselves! The sun will cease to
rise, Eugenie--summer and winter, night and day, forget their course,
ere love, in the heart of woman, wants a wile to cheat her belief to
what she wishes. Even now, Eugenie, even now, I believe and hope; and
I fancy often that, though misled by things whose emptiness he will
soon discover, the time will come when Love will re-assert his empire
in a heart that is naturally noble. It may be all in vain!" she added,
with a deep sigh; "it may be all in vain! yet, who would willingly put
out the last faint, lingering flame that flickers on Hope's altar?"
"Not I!" said Eugenie, echoing her friend's sigh; "not I,
indeed!--Would that he were worthy of you, Beatrice! Would that he
were worthy of you!" she added, after a momentary pause; during which,
perhaps, her mind was struggling back to the real subject of their
conversation from some path of association, into which it had been led
by her companion's last words. "Would that he were worthy of you! but
if his fickle and wayward nature could never be endured by me, who can
bear much, how much less would it suit you, Beatrice, who, I am
afraid, are calculated to bear but little!"
"You know not how much I have already borne, Eugenie," replied
Beatrice; "you know not how much love can bear: though, yes, perhaps
you do," she added, in a lighter tone; "at least, there are those who
know well how much--how very much--they could bear for love of Eugenie
de Menancourt."
The warm blood spread red and glowing over Eugenie's fair face. "I
know not whom you mean, Beatrice," she said, gravely: "I know none
that love me; and few that are capable of loving at all--if you speak
of men."
"Nay, ask me not his name!" said Beatrice, the gaiety of her tone
increasing, as she marked, or thought she marked, a greater degree of
confusion in her friend's countenance than the subject would have
produced in other persons brought up regularly in the sweet and
pleasant pastime of deceit. "Nay, ask me not his name! I am no maker
of fair matches, nor half so politic, as this world goes, to endeavour
to marry my friend to the first person that presents himself, solely
to rid myself of the presence of her beauty."
"Nay, but dear Beatrice," replied Mademoiselle de Menancourt, "I know
no one who has even seen that beauty, if so it must be called, for
many a month: so indeed you are mistaken."
"Nay, nay, not so," answered Beatrice, smiling; "a few hours, a few
minutes, a single instant, are enough, you know, Eugenie: and for the
rest, indeed I am not mistaken. I would stake my life, from what I
have seen--from signs infallible--that you are loved deeply, truly,
with all the ardour of a first passion in a young--a very young
heart."
"Pray God, it be not so!" cried Eugenie; "for it were but unhappiness
to himself and to me."
"Are you so cold, then, Eugenie, that you cannot love?" asked
Beatrice, with a smile; "or is that sweet heart occupied already by
some one who fills it all?"
Eugenie smiled too, and shook her head; but there was once more a deep
blush spread over her face; and though it might be but the generous
flush of native modesty, Beatrice read in it a contradiction of her
words, as she replied, "No, no, not so, indeed! Perhaps I may be cold;
as yet I cannot tell, for no one has ever yet spoken to me of love
whose love I could return. But, even could I do so, Beatrice, would it
not be grief to both, as here I remain in the hands of others, unable
to dispose of myself but as they please?"
"Out upon it, Eugenie!" cried Beatrice; "'tis your own fault if you
are not your own mistress in an hour. Never was there a time in France
when woman--the universal slave--was half so free."
"But what would you have me do?" demanded Eugenie. "With a thousand
eyes constantly upon me, I see not how I could obtain more freedom, or
dispose of myself, were I so inclined."
"As easy as sit here and sew," cried Beatrice. "Here is the King
claims the disposal of your hand, and the League claims it too; and,
between them both, you can give it to whom you will. Fly from Paris!
Betake yourself where you will, but not to the court of Henry; for his
tyranny might be greater than even that of the League. Then, make your
choice. Give your hand to him you love; and be quite sure, that the
party that your good lord shall join will sanction your marriage with
all accustomed forms."
"But if I love no one?" said Eugenie, with a smile.
"Why then, live in single simplicity till you do," replied Beatrice,
with an incredulous shake of the head. "But, at all events, fly from
the yoke they now put upon you."
"Fly, Beatrice?" answered Eugenie; "fly, and how? How am I to fly,
with a city beleaguered on all sides; a watchful Argus in the League,
with its thousand eyes all round me: having none to guide me, and not
knowing where to go;--how am I to fly?"
"By a thousand ways," answered her friend, laughing at her
embarrassment. "Change your dress, in the first place: put on a
petticoat of crimson satin embroidered with green, together with a
black velvet body and sleeves, cut in the fashion of the Duchess of
Valentinois, of blessed memory!--a cloak of straw-coloured silk, a
_capuche_ of light blue cloth broidered with gold, a mass of grey hair
under a black cap, and a _vertugadin_ of four feet square. Dress
yourself thus, and call yourself Madame la Presidente de Noailles;
and, by my word, the guards will let you pass all the gates, and thank
God to get rid of you! Or, if that does not suit you, take the gown
and bonnet of a young advocate," she continued in the same gay tone;
"hide those pretty lips and that rounded chin under a false beard from
Armandi's; and be very sure the guards would as soon think of stopping
you as they would of stopping the prince of darkness, who, after all,
is the real governor of this great city. Nothing keeps you here but
fear, my Eugenie! Why, I will undertake to go in and out twenty times
a day, if I please."
"Ay, but you have a bolder heart than I have," answered Eugenie de
Menancourt; "and I know full well, Beatrice, that a thing which,
executed with a good courage, is done with ease, miscarries at the
first step when it is attempted by timidity and fear. The very thought
of wandering through the gates of Paris alone makes me shrink."
"But I will go with you, Eugenie," replied Beatrice, "and will answer
for success whenever you like to make the attempt."
Eugenie paused, and thought for several moments, fixing her fine eyes
upon vacancy with a faint smile and a longing look, as if she would
fain have taken advantage of her friend's proposal, yet dared not make
the attempt. "Not yet, dear Beatrice--not yet!" she answered: "I dare
not, indeed, unless some sharp necessity happens to give me temporary
courage. As long as they refrain from urging me to wed one I can never
love, and from pressing on me any other in his room, so long will I
stay where I am."
"But see that your decision come not too late, Eugenie," answered her
friend. "They may soon begin to press you on the subject; and, when
once they find you reluctant, they may take measures to prevent your
flight."
"I do not think they will press me," answered Eugenie. "First, in
regard to Philip d'Aubin, they will never favour him, as he is of the
party of the King; and, in regard to any other, they know full well
that I could, if I would, urge my father's promise to him."
"But you would not do it!" exclaimed Beatrice.
"No, Beatrice, no!" answered Eugenie, laying her hand kindly upon
hers; "no, I would rather die!"
"But hear me," said Beatrice, somewhat eagerly; "think of all that may
happen. A thousand things may tempt D'Aubin to quit the royal party.
He may come over to the League--he may urge your father's promise--he
may obtain the sanction of Mayenne:--what will you do then?"
"Fly to the farthest corner of the earth," replied Eugenie, "sooner
than fulfil a promise that was none of mine, and against which my
whole heart revolts on every account. Listen, Beatrice; I do believe
that, in the moment of need, I shall not want courage, and certainly
shall not want resolution. Should I have any reason to fear
compulsion, but too often used of late, I will take counsel with none
but you; you shall guide me as you think fit, and I will fly anywhere,
rather than give my hand to one I cannot love."
"Write me but five words," replied Beatrice, "write me 'Come to me
with speed,' and send it by a page when you want assistance, and doubt
not but I will find means to deliver you, were you at the very altar.
But, hark! I hear steps upon the staircase, and horses before the
house; and I must resume all my bold and haughty bearing, and put on
the mask, which I have laid aside to Eugenie de Menancourt alone."
As she spoke, she drew her chair a little further from that of her
friend; and, placing it in the exact position which the ceremonious
intercourse of that day pointed out, she remained with the glove drawn
off from one fair hand, which, dropping gracefully over the arm of the
_fauteuil_, continued to hold her small black mask, twirling it as
listlessly round and round as ever the fair hand of fashionable dame
in our own days played with a glove, to show her skin's whiteness or
her brilliant rings. Eugenie de Menancourt's eyes sought the door with
an expression of anxiety; but Beatrice, on the contrary, gazed
vacantly through the window towards the buildings on the opposite side
of the river; and the visitors had entered the room, and were already
speaking to her friend, before she appeared to be conscious of their
presence, or condescended to notice them. Turning her head at length,
she fixed her eyes upon a square-built, powerful man, with a somewhat
heavy, but not unpleasing, countenance; who, richly dressed, and
followed by two or three gentlemen, in a more gay and smart, but not
more magnificent, costume, was speaking to Mademoiselle de Menancourt,
with all that courteous respect which chivalrous times, then just
passing away, had left behind them.
"Good morrow, my lord Duke!" said Beatrice, as the visitor turned
towards her: "I anticipated not the pleasure of seeing your Highness
here to day. Good faith! have you so much ease in a beleaguered city,
as to exercise your horses in visiting ladies before noon? On my
honour, I will be a soldier, for 'tis the idlest life I know, and only
fit for a woman."
"I came but to ask briefly after your fair friend's health," replied
the Duke; "and knew not that I should have to risk with you, gay lady,
one of our old encounters of sharp words. I trust, however, your
health is better."
"Did you ever see me look more beautiful, Duke of Mayenne?" asked
Beatrice, with a gay toss of her head; "and can you ask if I am ill?
But as to my _friend's_ health, if you would that she should be well,
and keep well, let her go out of Paris, home to her own dwelling; and
keep her not here, where one is surrounded, night and day, with the
sound of cannon and arquebuses. Do you intend that it should be said,
in future, that carrying on the war against women and children was
first introduced into modern Europe by the Duke of Mayenne and the
Catholic League, that you keep a lady here a close prisoner in your
beleaguered capital?"
"Not as a prisoner, fair lady," answered the Duke of Mayenne; "God
forbid that either I or she should look upon her situation as one of
imprisonment; but, being lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and,
consequently, her lawful guardian and protector, till marriage gives
her a better, I should be wanting both in duty and in courtesy, were I
to leave her in a distant and distracted province, in a time of
unfortunate civil war."
"Well explained and justified, my good lord Duke," cried Beatrice,
who, both in right of rank and beauty, treated the ambitious leader of
the League as equal to equal. "And yet, after all, my lord, has not
that same marriage that you mention some small share in your tenacious
kindness? Did you ever hear, my lord, of a rat-catcher giving the rats
the bait out of his trap, from pure affection for the heretic vermin?"
The Duke of Mayenne first reddened, and then smiled; either more
amused than angry at the gay flippancy of his fair opponent, or
judging it best, at least, to appear so. "Your similes savour of a
profession that I know not, fair lady," he replied; "but if you mean,
Lady Beatrice, that hereafter I may dispose of your fair friend's
hand in such a manner as seems to me most conducive towards her
happiness--if you mean that," he repeated, in a marked tone, "I deny
not that you are right. Yet I would fain know who has a better right
to do so than the lieutenant-general of the kingdom?"
"Oh! no one, surely!" answered Beatrice, in the same tone of mingled
pride and gaiety--"no one, surely, my lord, except the King of that
kingdom, or the poor frightened girl herself."
"Come, come, fair lady," cried Mayenne, laughing; "you carry your jest
so far, that I will bid you take care what you say farther, lest I
should dispose of your hand for you, too, for the purpose of showing
you--to use your own figure--that I have more baits than one to my
rat-trap."
"Indeed, lord Duke, you count wrongly, if you reckon that I am one,"
replied Beatrice. "You know too well that the task would neither be a
very safe nor very easy one, to try to wed me to any one against my
will. You may be lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and I, for
one--being not of this kingdom, and thinking much better of you than
of the crowned Vice at St. Cloud--will not deny your right; but you
are not lieutenant-general of Beatrice of Ferrara; and you might find
it more difficult to govern her than half the realm of France; and so,
good morrow! Love me, Eugenie; and do not let these men persuade you
that they are half such powerful and terrible things as they would
make themselves appear. Fare you well!"
Each of the gentlemen in the prince's suite stepped forward to offer
his hand to the gay, proud beauty, whose tone of light defiance had
something in it more attractive to the general youth of those excited
times, than all the retiring graces and gentle modesty of Eugenie de
Menancourt. Beatrice scarcely noticed them while her friend took leave
of her, but as soon as the embrace was over, she ran her eye over the
three or four cavaliers who stood round, and, singling out one, gave
him her hand, saying, "My lord of Aumale, I believe you are the only
one here present, except my lord Duke, who never whispered that you
loved me; and therefore I doubt not that you _do_ love me enough
to--hand me to my carriage."
The young noble, to whom she addressed herself, answered with all
those professions which the formal gallantry of the day not only
permitted, but required, and led her down to the rudely formed, but
richly decorated, vehicle, which was the carriage of those days.
In the meanwhile, Eugenie de Menancourt remained waiting in some
suspense, to hear the real object of the visit paid her by the Duke of
Mayenne, the purport of which she could not conceive was merely to
inquire after her health. Whether, however, the great leader of the
League judged that his conversation with Beatrice of Ferrara was not
the most favourable prelude to anything he had to say to the young
heiress, or whether he really came but to trifle away a few minutes in
a visit of ceremony, it is certain that he said nothing which could
induce Eugenie to imagine that he had any immediate view of pressing
her to a marriage with any one. After spending about ten minutes in
ordinary conversation, upon general and uninteresting subjects, and
expressing many a wish for the comfort and welfare of his fair ward,
as he did not fail to style Mademoiselle de Menancourt, Mayenne rose,
and left her to the enjoyment of solitude and her own reflections,
which, for the time, were sweetened by the hope, that the evils to
which her situation might ultimately give rise were yet remote.