We must now turn once more to the young Marquis of St. Real; and,
although the events which had befallen him since the death of his
father may have been gathered by the reader from what has passed in
the chapters immediately preceding, it may not be unnecessary to
recapitulate here, as briefly as possible, the occurrences which had
placed him a prisoner in the midst of Paris.
According to the promise which Henry of Navarre had obtained from the
old Marquis of St. Real on his death-bed, that nobleman's son, as soon
as possible after the last rites had been paid to his father's memory,
had prepared to take the field in behalf of one of the great
contending parties which then struggled for mastery in France. He had
applied for and obtained, both from King Henry III. on the one part,
and from the Duke of Mayenne on behalf of the League, a safe-conduct
to visit the camp and the capital, accompanied by twenty retainers.
The rest of his forces, it was expressly stipulated, were to remain at
the distance of fifteen leagues from the royalist army; and the
position of the two kings, as they advanced to lay siege to Paris, had
compelled him, in compliance with this stipulation, to deviate from
his direct road to Paris, and accompany, for a short way, his cousin,
who was advancing to reinforce the troops of Longueville and La Noue.
Although strongly pressed by messengers from those two generals to
decide at once in favour of the royal cause, and join the partisan
force which they commanded, St. Real steadily refused to do so, till,
according to the determination he had expressed, and in consideration
of which he had obtained a safe-conduct from Mayenne, he should have
visited the head-quarters of the king and of the League.
As soon as he had obtained such a position for his forces as enabled
him to leave them in perfect security, he set out with his small
train, purposing to proceed first to the camp of the two Henrys, as
the nearest at the moment, and then to visit Paris. He had scarcely
advanced, however, half a day's march on his way, when he was suddenly
surrounded by an immensely superior body of reitters and lansquenets,
who had been sent forth from Paris for the express purpose of
obtaining possession of his person. How Madame do Montpensier had
gained such accurate intelligence of all his movements, was a matter
of surprise even to her own immediate confidants; but it was very well
understood that the orders, in consequence of which this bold stroke
was executed, emanated from her; and the leaders of the mercenaries,
who captured St. Real, were not only furnished with the exact details
of his line of march, but also with a ready answer to the indignant
appeal which he instantly made, on his arrest, to the safe-conduct he
possessed under the Duke of Mayenne's own hand. That safe-conduct,
they replied, had been given him in order to facilitate a peaceful
visit to Paris; while he, on the contrary, had not only led his troops
into such a position as to enable him to give strong support to the
Duke of Longueville, but had even detached a body to aid that nobleman
in the battle of Senlis.
It was in vain St. Real explained to his captors, that the troops
which had left him were the immediate retainers of his cousin, the
Count d'Aubin, over whom he had no authority, and that he himself had
positively refused to take part with the Duke of Longueville. His
remonstrance was without effect; and, although he well knew his own
innocence, he could not but admit that the reasoning against him was
specious. In reply to all his explanations, the captain of the
lansquenets simply urged that he had no power to release him, and that
his justification must be made to the Duke of Mayenne himself. To
submit, therefore, was a matter of necessity; and, as he was in every
respect well treated, the young Marquis did submit without any very
angry feelings, concluding that he might as well reverse the order of
his proceedings, and first visit Paris instead of the royal camp.
On his arrival in the capital, he demanded to be carried instantly to
the presence of the Duke of Mayenne; but this application was evaded,
it being boldly asserted by those who held him in their hands that the
Duke was absent from the city. Hitherto his attendants had been
permitted to bear him company; and as he had ridden through the
crowded streets of the city, he had felt less as a prisoner than as a
voluntary visiter of the great metropolis; but when, after having been
detained for some time at the house of Albert of Wolfstrom, he was
told that he must accompany his captor to the convent of the
Dominicans, whither only one servant could be permitted to attend him,
he began to suspect that the bonds of his imprisonment were being
straitened; and he remonstrated with calm but firm language,
reiterating his demand to be brought before the Duke of Mayenne, and
expressing his determination to hold the name of that nobleman up to
the reprobation of all honourable men, if he suffered any of his
adherents to violate the safe-conduct from his hand with impunity.
Wolfstrom, however, who on more than one occasion had shown himself
but little tender of his own fair fame, could not be expected to feel
much solicitude for that of another; and, although he held the potent
Duke in some degree of awe, he had become hardened by the impunity
which every sort of falsehood enjoyed in the good easy times of civil
war, and doubted not that, in the end, he should find means of
extricating himself from the consequences of the present intrigue, as
he had done in regard to many which had preceded, namely, by the
unlimited command of impudence, shrewdness, and three thousand
mercenaries.
He turned a deaf ear, therefore, to the complaints of St Real; and the
young Marquis was conducted to the convent of the Jacobins, in the
midst of precautions which he did not fail to mark, and from which he
augured little good in regard to the intentions of his gaolers.
The distance from the dwelling of the mercenary leader to the convent
was but short; and the people of Paris were well accustomed to see
parties of soldiers pass through their streets: but the indescribable
pleasure of staring, in this instance, as in all others, collected a
little crowd round the centre of bustle; and the gates of the
Jacobins, as they opened to receive St. Real, were surrounded by
between twenty and thirty persons of different conditions. To those
who have eaten sufficiently of the tree of good and evil in a great
capital to know _that they are naked_, the presence of a gaping mob to
witness the fact of their being dragged along like culprits by a party
of rude soldiers, would be a subject of annoyance. St. Real felt
injured, but not ashamed or afraid; and fixing his eye upon the most
respectable personage of the crowd, he suddenly stopped where he
stood, and, ere any one could prevent him, exclaimed, in a loud and
distinct voice, "My friend, if the Duke of Mayenne be in Paris, you
will serve both him and me by telling him that the Marquis of St. Real
is here detained, contrary to the Duke's safe-conduct and his honour."
"You will tell him no such thing, as you value your ears!" shouted
Albert of Wolfstrom, fixing his eyes upon the Parisian with a marking
glance, which seemed to intimate that he would not be easily forgotten
by the wrath of the German leader in case of disobedience. The
Parisian drew back, determined from the very first to practise that
sort of wisdom which those long resident in great cities, and much
habituated to scenes of contention and intrigue, do not fail to
acquire; namely, to meddle with nothing that does not personally
concern them. There was another person present, however, whose
diminutive stature, and the simplicity of garb which he had assumed,
combined to conceal him from the notice of either St. Real or the
mercenary leader; no other, indeed, than the young Marquis's dwarf
page, Bartholo; who, peeping through the open spaces between the other
personages that formed the little crowd, saw and heard all that passed
without attracting notice himself. Slipping out at once from amongst
the rest, he made his way down the street, holding one of his usual
muttered consultations with himself.
"Now, shall I tell Mayenne," he said, "that the great baby is caught,
and shut up here in the Jacobins, like a young imprudent rat, in a
politic rat-trap; or shall I let him lie there for his pains, till
that spoilt boy, D'Aubin, has married the other fair-haired baby, and
that matter is irrevocable?"
He paused for a moment at the end of the street, revolving the
question he had put to himself in silence. "No, no," he added, at
length; "no, no, there I might outwit myself; these Leaguers are too
cunning for that. If they can't get St. Real on any other terms, they
may marry him to this Eugenie de Menancourt, and spoil all my schemes
at once. If Mayenne hears publicly where he is, he must set him free,
for his honour's sake. Then will he go off, in the heat of his anger,
to the people at St. Cloud; D'Aubin will come over to the League,
marry the girl, and all will be safe. Yes, yes, to Mayenne! I will to
Mayenne!"
In consequence of this determination, he proceeded as quickly, but as
quietly as possible, to the Hotel de Guise, and demanded to speak with
the Duke of Mayenne,--a privilege which every one in Paris claimed in
regard to that leader, whose power was principally based upon his
popularity. The Duke, however, had by this time set out to watch the
progress of the skirmishes which were taking place almost hourly in
the Pré aux Clercs, and the dwarf, not choosing that the tidings he
had to communicate should be given in any other than a public manner,
refused to intrust them to Mayenne's retainers, and retired, resolving
to repeat his visit early the next morning.
In the mean time St. Real was hurried into the convent, the gates were
shut, and, preceded by two or three of the Dominicans, he was led
along the dark and gloomy passages of the building, towards the
apartment in which the Prior and Madame de Montpensier were still in
conference. Here, however, he was stopped at the door; and Albert of
Wolfstrom, entering alone, held a brief but rapid conversation with
the Prior. It ended in St. Real being led back again across the great
court to a distant part of the monastery, where, after climbing two
flights of steps, he was ushered into a corridor extremely narrow, but
of considerable length. In the whole extent of wall, however, which
this corridor presented, there only appeared three doors, besides the
low arch by which he entered. Two of these opened on the left, and
were close together; the other was at the further end of the passage.
Albert of Wolfstrom and his soldiers paused at the entrance; but the
monks led St. Real on, and, in a moment after, the Prior himself
followed. He seemed to regard the young stranger with some degree of
interest, and addressed him with mildness and urbanity. "I am told, my
son," he said, "that it is necessary, for reasons into which I have no
authority to inquire, to hold you as a prisoner till the decision of
the lieutenant-general of the kingdom is known in regard to your
destination; but at the same time the members of the holy Catholic
Union, whose object is solely to maintain the faith and liberties of
the people, and to oppose the progress of tyranny and heresy, desire
that you should not be treated as a common prisoner of war, but rather
should have every comfort and convenience till your fate is otherwise
decided. For this purpose, they have consigned you to our care rather
than to the rude durance of the Bastille; and, instead of assigning
you one of the common cells of the brotherhood, I have directed that
you should be placed here, where you can have more space and
convenience. Yonder door, at the farther end of the corridor, belongs
to a cell fitted for your attendant; this first door on the left leads
to an apartment which we shall assign to one of our brethren of St.
Dominick, through whom you can communicate with the convent and the
world without. This is your own apartment--"
As he spoke, he opened the second of the two doors, which stood
close together on the left, and led St. Real into a spacious and
well-furnished chamber. It was airy, but somewhat dim, as it derived
its only light from a window, which appeared, by its great height and
Gothic shape, to have once formed part of some church or chapel. At
the present moment, such arrangements had been made--amongst the
various alterations which the old building must have undergone--that
this single window, which reached from the ceiling to the floor,
served to give light both to the room in which St. Real stood, and to
the other immediately by its side, which together must have once
formed but one large chamber. The thin partition of woodwork which
separated the one room from the other, was supported, from the floor
to the roof, by the strong stone pillar that divided the Gothic window
into two parts; and thus, though the two chambers were completely
distinct, they both had an equal share of light.
"This chamber is somewhat obscure," continued the Prior; "but in the
alterations which were made in this building, some twenty years ago,
we could not arrange things better. What are now sleeping rooms were
then part of the old chapel, and this high window looked out to the
Prior's dwelling." So saying, he advanced and opened the casement, a
great part of which, swinging back on its creaking and clattering
hinges, gave admittance to the free air of summer from without, and
showed to St. Real the heavy walls of another body of the building
rising up before the window, at the distance of scarcely five feet.
Running along upon the same level as the chamber in which he stood,
might be seen one of those Gothic passages of fretted stone-work,
which, in churches, are called monks' galleries; while, at the
distance of about twenty feet below, appeared between the two
buildings the narrow paved alley which united the inner to the outer
court of the Dominican convent.
The Prior proceeded with some more excuses for the dimness of the
chamber; but as soon as he had concluded, St. Real, who had listened
calmly, replied, "I complain not of the apartment, father, I have
slept in worse; but I complain of imprisonment, when my safety and
freedom were guaranteed to me by the Duke of Mayenne himself. However,
let me warn you, that I am aware, from some circumstances which
occurred at the gate of the convent, that his Highness of Mayenne is
purposely held in ignorance of my imprisonment. I acquit him therefore
of all dishonourable conduct: but how you, and others, will answer to
him for bringing his honour and good faith in question, you must
yourself consider."
"For my actions," replied the Prior, somewhat sternly, "I am prepared,
my son, not only to answer to him, but to God. Those of others I have
nought to do with. It suffices for me, that I have authority from
those who have a right to give it, to detain you here till I am
assured that the lieutenant-general thinks it fit that you should be
set at liberty. You are ungrateful, my son, for kindness felt and
shown: you might have undergone harsher treatment, had you been
consigned to the Bastille."
"Father, I am not ungrateful," replied St. Real, whose simple good
sense was no unequal match for even monkish shrewdness; "but when an
act of injustice is committed, it is somewhat hard to require that the
sufferer should be well pleased that that act of injustice is not
greater than it is. To confine me here is wrong--to confine me in the
Bastille were worse; but, surely, I cannot be expected to feel
grateful to the thief who cuts my purse, simply because he does not
cut my throat also!"
"Your language is hard," replied the Prior, "and your similes are
indecent towards a minister of the religion you profess to hold; I
shall, therefore, waste no more words upon you, young sir. Your
conduct, however, makes no change in my purposes. The treatment you
receive shall be as gentle and as good as if you were grateful for
kindness, and courteous towards those whom you should respect. You
will one time know me better; and you may be sure, even now, that I
have no purposes to serve by your detention; as you will find by our
intercourse, be it long, be it short, that I shall strive for nothing
but, if possible, to lead you in that course in which your honour,
your happiness, and your best interests, here and hereafter, are alone
to be found."
St. Real made no reply; and the Dominican, bowing his head with an air
of conscious dignity, withdrew from the apartment, and, proceeding
through the doorway by which he had entered, left the young Marquis
and his attendant alone. The sound of turning keys and drawing bolts
succeeded, and St. Real for the first time found himself a prisoner
indeed. Now "The soul, secure in its existence, may smile at the drawn
dagger, and defy its point;" yet there are many things which may
happen to the body, that defy the soul to preserve her equanimity,
although they be much less evils, in comparison, than that
irretrievable separation of matter and spirit, which we are accustomed
to look upon with more indifference. For a moment or two, St. Real
lost his calmness, and, striding up and down the room with his arms
folded on his breast, gave way to that bitterness of spirit, which
every noble heart must feel on the loss of the great, the
incomparable, the inestimable blessing of liberty. His more
philosophical attendant, who had been selected in haste from among the
rest of his followers, without any great attention to his mental
qualities, consoled himself, under the privation which so painfully
affected his master, by examining every hole and corner in the
apartments to which they were consigned; and comforted himself not a
little, under all their woes and disasters, by the sight of soft and
downy beds, rich arras, and velvet hangings. Before his perquisitions
were well complete, however, and just as his master was reasoning
himself into calmer endurance of an event he could not avoid, the door
once more opened, and admitted a brother of the order, on whose
appearance and demeanour we must pause for a moment.
He was younger than any of the friars that St. Real had yet
seen,--pale in countenance, heavy in expression, with a certain degree
of sadness, if not wildness, in his eye, and that close shutting of
the teeth and compression of the lips, which, in general, argues a
determined disposition. A little above the middle height, he was
powerful in limb and muscle; but the appearance of strength and
activity, which his form would otherwise have displayed, was
contradicted by a certain slouching stoop, which deprived his
demeanour of all grace; while the habit of gazing, as it were,
furtively from under the bent brows which almost concealed his eyes,
gave his dull countenance a sinister expression, not at all
prepossessing.
"Benedicite!" said the friar, as he advanced towards St. Real;
"benedicite!"
St. Real made some ordinary answer in Latin; but the dull unreplying
countenance of the monk showed that his stock of Latinity did not
extend even to the common phrases in use amongst persons of his
profession; and the young Marquis proceeded in French: "You are, I
presume, the brother appointed to keep watch over us in our
confinement?"
"The Prior has given me, for a penance," replied the monk, "the task
of lying in a down bed, and waiting your will in communicating with
the parlour and the refectory, till to-morrow morning. I am commanded
to ask you if you will have supper: it grows late."
"I am here, father," replied St. Real, with a smile, "as a bird in a
cage, and you must feed me at what hours you please: it matters but
little to me."
The monk gazed on him, for a moment, in sullen silence, as if he
hardly attended to his reply, or hardly understood its meaning; and
then, as his slow comprehension did its work, he turned away with a
few muttered, half-intelligible words, and left the apartment, going
apparently to command the meal of which he had spoken. It was soon
after brought in; and, during its course, the Dominican sat by,
turning over the leaves of his breviary in silence, from time to time
reading a few sentences, and filling up the intervals in gazing
vacantly upon the pages, seemingly occupied in dull and gloomy dreams.
The meal did not occupy much time; and after it was concluded, St.
Real, anxious to hear something more precise concerning the state of
the capital, and to obtain some information in regard to his own
situation, endeavoured to enter into conversation with the monk; but
the course of all their thoughts lay in such different lines, that he
soon perceived the attempt would be in vain. The Dominican sat and
listened, and replied either by monosyllables, or by long fanatical
tirades, in general totally irrelevant to the topic which called them
forth; and, as twilight began to grow upon the world, the young
Marquis abandoned the endeavour, and intimated, by his silence, a
desire to be left alone. It was long before the other gratified his
inclination in this respect, however, but sat mute and absent, still
turning over the leaves of his breviary, and gazing, from time to
time, upon the face of his companion. Nor was it till St. Real
expressed his desire to have a lamp, and to be left to his own
thoughts, that the monk deemed it advisable to retire.
Fatigued in body and mind by the events of the day, St. Real soon cast
himself down to rest; and sleep was not long in visiting his eyelids.
His slumber was profound also; and he awoke not till various sounds in
the immediate vicinity of his chamber disturbed his repose somewhat
rudely.
The nature of the first noises that roused him he could not very well
distinguish, for slumber, though in flight, still held, in some
degree, possession of his senses. They seemed, however, as far as he
could remember afterwards, to have proceeded from some smart blows of
a hammer upon a wooden scaffolding; but, before he was well awake,
those sounds had ceased, and a buzzing hum, like that of a turner's
wheel, or a quickly moved saw, had succeeded. St. Real listened
attentively; and, having convinced himself that the noises, by
whatever they were occasioned, were not produced by anything in his
own chamber, but rather seemed to proceed from some part of the
building opposite his window, he addressed himself to sleep again, and
not without success.
But his repose was not so full and tranquil as before. His former
slumbers had been profound, forming one of those dreamless,
feelingless, lapses of existence, which seem given us to show how the
soul, even while dwelling in the body, can pause with all her powers
suspended, unconscious of her own being, till called again into
activity by some extraneous cause. The sleep which succeeded, however,
was very different: dreams came thick and fast; some of them were
confused and wild, and indistinct, but some were of that class of
visions in which all the objects are as clear and definite as during
our waking moments,--in which our thoughts are as active, our mind is
as much at work, our passions are as vehemently excited, as in the
strife and turmoil of living aspiration and endeavour--dreams which
seem given to show us how intensely the soul can act, and feel, and
live, while the corporeal faculties, which are her earthly servants,
are as dead and useless as if the grave's corruption had resolved them
into nothing.
At one moment it seemed that he was in the battle-field, amidst the
shout and the cry, and the clang of arms, and the rush of charging
squadrons; and then he was in the flight of the defeated army, and he
knew all the bitter indignation of reverse, and all the burning thirst
to retrieve the day, and he felt all the vain effort to rally the
flying, and the hopeless and daring effort to repel the victor; and
then again, when all was lost, and not the faint shadow of a
despairing hope remained, he was hurrying his rapid course across some
dark and midnight moor; and, while he spurred on his own weary horse,
he held in his hand the bridle rein of another, who bore one for whom
he felt a thousand fears which he knew not for himself; and ever and
anon, as he turned to look, the soft sweet eyes of Eugenie de
Menancourt would gaze upon him with imploring earnestness. Then,
suddenly, the figure changed, the rein dropped from his hand, and,
armed all in steel, with lance couched and visor up, as if galloping
to attack him, appeared his cousin, Philip d'Aubin; and, with a
feeling of horror and a sudden start, St. Real woke.
The sounds that he now heard--for as yet the night had by no means
assumed her attribute of quietness--were certainly not calculated to
produce the painful sensations that he had just undergone. There was
music on the air--soft and delicate music,--not gay, and yet not sad,
but with a certain wild solemnity of tone, that well accorded with the
hour, and seemed calculated to raise the thoughts to high and
unearthly aspirations. At first, the music was solely instrumental;
but, in a moment or two afterwards, two sweet voices were heard,
singing, with a peculiarly thrilling softness of tone, that seemed to
have something supernatural in its clear melody. St. Real listened;
and, though the sounds must have proceeded from some distance, yet the
words were pronounced so distinctly, that he lost not a syllable of
the song they poured upon the night.
SONG.
_First Voice_. Blessed! blessed! art thou,
Amongst the sons of men!
For angels are wreathing for thy brow
Flowers that fade not again!
_Second Voice_. A crown, a crown of glory for the brave!
_First Voice_. Blessed! blessed! are those
That sleep the sleep of the good!
Blessed is he whose bosom glows
To shed the tyrant's blood!
_Second Voice_. Glory to him whom the Church shall save!
_First Voice_. Amongst the saints in Paradise,
In glory he shall dwell!
And angels shall greet him to the skies,
When to earth he bids farewell!
_Second Voice_. Joy, joy, joy to the champion of the Lord!
_First Voice_. His arm is now endued with might,
The foes of the Faith to destroy!
To sweep the tyrant from God's sight,
To crush the worm in his joy!
_Second Voice_. Death, death, death to the tyrant abhorred!
_Both Voices_. Blessed! blessed! blessed art thou
Amongst the sons of men!
For angels are wreathing for thy brow
Flowers that fade not again!
It was no longer doubtful whence these sounds proceeded; for, in
consequence of the closeness of a hot August night, St. Real had left
his window open; and he now distinctly perceived that the music issued
from a spot in the monks' gallery, very nearly opposite. Springing out
of bed as soon as the sounds had ceased, he advanced to the window,
and looked out; but he could perceive nothing. The night was somewhat
obscure, the moon by this time was down, and it was with difficulty
that he distinguished the fretted stonework of the gallery from the
rest of the dark mass that rose before him. He paused for a moment, to
consider what all this could mean. Though a sincere Catholic, and
habituated to make a marked distinction between the doctrines of the
religion he professed and the absurdities, superstitions, and
corruptions with which knaves and fools had endeavoured to disguise
it, still the Reformation had disclosed too much, and the young noble
was of too inquiring a disposition for him to be unaware of the
multitude of tricks, intrigues, and deceptions, which some of the more
bigoted members of the Roman church thought themselves justified in
practising for the attainment of an end desired. The sounds he had
just heard, therefore, he attributed at once to their right cause,
looking upon them as part of some piece of monkish jugglery. Almost as
rapidly joining this conclusion in his mind to his own arrest without
the knowledge of Mayenne, to his detention in the Dominican convent,
to his separation from the rest of the community, and to the peculiar
position of the apartments assigned to him, he was led to
believe--though wrongly--that he himself was the object of the
somewhat absurd stratagem which he had just witnessed.
"These monks must surely deem me a very great fool indeed!" he
thought, as he stood and gazed out upon the building opposite, longing
to give the persons who had been singing an intimation of his
consciousness of their arts, and of the contempt in which he held
them. But, while considering whether it would not be more dignified to
let the matter pass over in silence, a new trick was played off. A
sudden light burst through the apertures of the stone-work, and was
poured, as it were, in a full stream upon the window at which he
stood, but not on the part contained in his own chamber, being
directed entirely upon that portion of the casement which was
beyond the partition, and which gave light to the chamber assigned
to the young monk who had been given him as an attendant. The first
ray of light that St. Real perceived was of the ordinary hue, though
of a dazzling brightness; but the next moment it assumed a bright
rose-colour, and proceeded to pour on, changing to a thousand varied
and beautiful tints, which the young noble thought certainly very
admirable, but not at all supernatural. The next moment, however, he
heard through the partition the murmuring of voices in the
neighbouring chamber; and, thinking that the jugglery had been carried
quite far enough, he determined, if possible, to put an end to it.
Throwing his cloak round him, therefore, he approached the door,
intending to enter the chamber of the young Dominican, and tell him in
plain language, that he was not to be deceived; but, when he attempted
to draw the lock, he found that the key had been turned upon him from
without; and, with a curling lip, he cast himself again upon his bed,
and soon forgot, in tranquil slumber, events which had excited in his
mind no other feeling than contempt.