St. Real entered not again the lighted halls in which the leaders and
partisans of the League were assembled; but he paused for a moment in
the open air, after the carriage which bore Eugenie de Menancourt
towards her solitary home had driven out of the courtyard and passed
away down the echoing streets. A momentary burst of artillery and
small arms came, borne upon the wind, from a distance, as the
indefatigable Henry of Navarre roused the Parisian garrisons with an
_alerte_ from the side of Meudon: but the mind of St. Real was too
deeply busied with other thoughts for the thunder of the cannon to
awake in his heart the martial and chivalrous spirit that lay within.
The discovery which he had made of his own feelings was, in every
respect, painful; and the insight which he had gained into those of
Eugenie de Menancourt herself--although there is ever a sweet and
soothing balm in the consciousness of being loved--was hardly less
bitter. The idea of entering into rivalry with his cousin--of
attempting to deprive one who confided in him of the hand of his
promised bride--the idea of seeking, or even receiving happiness
himself at the expense of that of Philip d'Aubin, found not harbour in
the bosom of St. Real for one single moment. Deeply and severely did
he blame himself for having suffered such feelings to grow up in his
heart as the occurrences of that night had discovered to his own
sight; and still more bitterly did he reproach himself for having
allowed his feelings to carry him away as they had lately done. Even
the degree of regard with which he saw that Eugenie de Menancourt
looked on him was an additional reproach; for he well knew that that
regard could not have been obtained without conduct on his own part
which, although involuntary, he looked upon as a betrayal of his
cousin's confidence.
St. Real was not a man, however, to waste upon fruitless regrets those
powers of mind which should be employed in forming and executing noble
resolutions. He grieved bitterly for what was past, but he grieved
only with the purpose of shaping his conduct differently for the
future; and, as he turned again to enter the Hotel de Guise, it was
with the full determination of never seeing Eugenie de Menancourt
again, till the fate of Philip d'Aubin, as far as it was connected
with hers, was fixed beyond all recall.
This resolution was joined with another, which rendered the first not
difficult to execute. With all her art, with all her skill, with all
her knowledge of human character, and with all her insight into that
of St. Real, Madame de Montpensier had overreached herself. She had
been able to comprehend and appreciate the simplicity and purity with
which he was attached to Eugenie de Menancourt, without perceiving the
nature of his own feelings; but the quality of her own mind prevented
her from comprehending the deep firmness of principle which existed in
his heart, and from foreseeing the means that principle would take to
combat love as soon as ever the progress of the insidious enemy was
discovered. The proposal that she had made to him had produced upon
the mind of St. Real an effect the most directly opposite to that
which she had intended. The character of the Duke of Mayenne St. Real
could not but esteem: there was a dignity, a generosity, a frankness
about it, which, together with his splendid talents, commanded no
small admiration; and had St. Real been convinced that his opposition
to his king, that his bold rebellion, that even his connexion with a
party, factious, turbulent, and depraved, originated in motives of
patriotism and virtue, his views of the League might have been
modified by his opinion of the leader, and his ultimate conduct
determined by the judgment he might form in regard to whether that
leader's efforts would, or would not, be ultimately beneficial to his
country. In the course of that night, however, he had heard and seen
enough to convince him that the passion of Mayenne was ambition, and
that his object was his own aggrandizement; and the only hold,
therefore, that the League could have had upon St. Real would have
been virtue, honour, and patriotism, in the whole, considered as a
party.
The question, therefore, with the young Marquis had now become,
whether the League did, or did not, possess such qualities. At the
Jacobins, on the preceding night, however, he had witnessed the means
employed by those who were considered the holiest men amongst them to
obtain ends which he could not doubt were treacherous and bloody: that
very night it had been calmly proposed to him, as a bribe to attach
him to the party of the League, to betray his cousin's confidence, and
to gratify his own passions at the expense of his honour and
integrity. In his examination of the city during the day, he had seen
the high and the noble demeaning themselves to court popularity by
fawning on persons they despised--an irrefragable proof that their own
designs were base; he had seen the good and the just in the filthy and
unsparing hands of villains and plunderers; and he had seen those who
professed to be the ministers of a God of peace armed to promote a
civil war and to shed the blood of their fellow-creatures!
What then could be the result, he asked himself, when a leader, whose
principle was ambition, took upon him to guide a fierce and lawless
multitude, composed of nobles whose motive was selfishness, of priests
whose spirit was fanaticism, and of a rabble whose objects were
licentiousness, bloodshed, and plunder? The answer was not difficult;
and, as he turned and mounted the staircase, amidst the crowd of
lacqueys and attendants who stared at his thoughtful and abstracted
demeanour without his noticing their presence, he determined to
proceed to the royal camp as early as might be on the following
morning, doubting not that, whatever might be the vices and the
follies it presented to his sight, he should there find the path which
led to his country's welfare, and, he trusted, also to his own peace
of mind.
Passing the doors of the saloons, he proceeded to that part of the
house in which was situated the apartments that had been assigned to
him; and, sending for his master of the horse--a common officer at
that time, in the houses of the principal French nobility--he directed
him to have everything prepared to quit Paris by daybreak on the
following morning. The earliness of the hour which he thus appointed
was not dictated by any apprehension that Mayenne would endeavour to
impede his departure; but, his resolution being taken, and his opinion
fixed by the most favourable view that could be afforded him of the
party of the League itself, he wished to avoid, as far as possible,
anything like solicitation; and he likewise desired neither to explain
his feelings, nor reason upon his motives, in the conduct he was about
to pursue regarding Eugenie de Menancourt.
His sensations, indeed, upon the subject were so painful in
themselves, that St. Real did not wish either to speak of or to dwell
upon them. Arguing, with the usual simplicity of his nature, that,
where our wishes and our duties are at variance, it is better to
employ our thoughts in performing the duties, than to give them up to
the hard task of combating the wishes--in which combat they are but
too often defeated--he prepared to occupy all the energies of his mind
in the attempt to serve his country, and to benefit to the utmost of
his power the party he had determined to espouse, leaving his cousin
to pursue his suit towards Eugenie de Menancourt as best he might, but
endeavouring to serve him therein by pointing his efforts to nobler
objects than had hitherto employed them, and by taking care that all
he did should be placed in a fairer light than that in which the
levity and somewhat vain indifference of d'Aubin had hitherto
permitted his own actions to appear.
Poor St. Real, however, did not know how hard is the task--how
painful, how continual is the struggle, to turn the thoughts of a
feeling and affectionate heart from the objects of its first
attachment, and to occupy, even in the busiest scenes and most
stirring actions wherein other men find employment for their whole
soul, a mind to which love has given its direction elsewhere. His
first experience of what he was but too long to undergo, was made when
he lay down to rest, on the night of which we have just spoken. He
thought to sleep, to taste the same refreshing, undisturbed slumbers
which were so rarely absent from his pillow; but, alas! alas! how
changed were all his sensations. The burning thirst for thoughts
to which he would not give way--the consciousness that he was
resigning for ever that which would have made his happiness through
life--anxieties, which he dared not probe, regarding the happiness of
her he loved--self-reproaches, slight, indeed, but bitter, because
they were the first he had ever had occasion to address to his own
heart--and doubts respecting the conduct and vows of his cousin, which
he now saw with eyes sharpened by love--all planted his pillow thick
with thorns; and he tossed in feverish restlessness upon his uneasy
couch, while slumber and all its wholesome balms were far away.
The sounds of music and of laughing, which to his saddened heart
rang like the revelry of fiends, came in bursts up to his windows;
and the roll of carriages, the trampling of horses, the shouts of
torch-bearers, and the murmuring hum of a thousand less vociferous
tongues, poured irritatingly upon his ear, and set sleep at defiance.
Gradually, however, those sounds died away, and that space of time
which the citizens of the masterless metropolis called a day, and set
apart for the transaction of a certain portion of intrigue and
faction, levity, sensuality, and bloodshed, came to an end. The bell
of the neighbouring church, unheard during many an hour of turbulence
and noise, struck two, and the whole world around sank into silence,
if not into repose. Still, however, sleep came not to the eyes of St.
Real; and he lay and counted the moments till a new class of sounds
were heard, announcing that the sons of toil were up and busy in the
task of preparing luxuries for the sons of idleness and dissipation.
At length, a faint rosy light was seen to glimmer through the open
window, the indistinct forms of the massive furniture began to stand
out from the gray darkness, and St. Real started up more weary and
fatigued with that one night of restless anxiety than he would have
felt after weeks of watching in the tented field.
The first task, after dressing himself, was to sit down, and, with the
writing materials that stood at hand, to indite a brief note to the
Duke of Mayenne, apologizing for not waiting to make a more formal
leave-taking. He did not, it is true, announce in distinct terms his
determination of joining his arms to the other supporters of the royal
cause, because he felt it was within the bounds of possibility that
circumstances might yet change his purpose; though, as he left the
matter still open, he thought that bad must be the scene presented by
the camp of the Henrys indeed, if it could make him prefer the craft,
the treachery, and the baseness he had beheld in Paris. In this
respect, while expressing his high opinion of the Duke himself, he did
not scruple to use language and to display sentiments which had
already brought many a venerable and respected head low, amongst the
factions and anarchy of the day; and, having said enough to show which
way his feelings at that moment led him, he descended to the court,
and, mounting his horse, which, with his train, stood prepared for
departure, he bade adieu to the Hotel de Guise.
The streets of Paris now presented a very different scene from that
which they afforded in either the full life of the risen day, or in
the dregs of the evening. Few were the persons to be seen walking
slowly along in the fresh, clear, unpolluted light of the early
morning; and the long irregular perspective of the antique streets
might be seen unencumbered by the many gaudy vehicles which obstructed
the sight at a later hour. As St. Real rode on towards the suburbs,
one or two patrols of horse, returning from their night watch beyond
the walls, passed him with tired faces and soiled arms; but, although
the numbers that composed his train were sufficient to have justified
some inquiry, yet such was the confused organization of the garrison
of Paris, and of the army of the League in general, that no one asked
his errand, and he passed on uninterrupted to the gates.
Here, however, he was detained for some minutes, while the drowsy
commander of the guard examined his pass and safe-conduct: and some
suspicious glances were given to the apparel of his followers, who
wore neither the black cross, nor the scarf of the followers of the
League. At the end of about a quarter of an hour, however, he was
suffered to proceed; and, as the position of the royal armies was not
distinctly known to him, he directed his course towards Meudon, at
which place it was certain that a part, at least, of the Huguenot
force had shown itself the day before. Greater watchfulness was now
apparent on the part of the League; and St. Real was challenged and
stopped five or six times within half a mile of the gates of Paris. At
length, a wide green meadow by the banks of the Seine presented
itself; and at the angle of this meadow and the road stood a solitary
sentinel, covered with his cuirass, his _salade_ or iron cap, and
steel plates to defend the thighs. In one hand he carried his long
musket, while with the other he held his coil of match, smouldering
slowly, between the finger and thumb, and only requiring to be blown
to prepare it for immediate action. In the ground, just one pace
before him, was planted the iron-shod stake, which, supporting a sort
of two-pronged fork, afforded a rest for his long and unwieldy weapon
in case of his being called upon to make use of it against any
advancing enemy. Painted in front of his iron cuirass appeared the
black cross of the League; and there could be no doubt that this was
the extreme outpost of the garrison of Paris. It would seem, however,
that he had no order to oppose the passage of persons coming from the
side of the city; for, although he gazed attentively at the young
Marquis and his party as they passed, he asked no questions; and St.
Real advanced along the road skirting the meadow, towards an extensive
building that he saw at the distance of a quarter of a mile before
him, and which bore every sign of being, what it really was, a
religious house belonging to some order of friars.
Scarcely had he passed half the distance between the sentinel of the
League and the gate of the monastery, when a considerable body of
horsemen drew out from behind some trees at the farther extremity of
the field, and galloped towards the travellers with their lances down
in somewhat menacing array. St. Real immediately halted his men, and
waited calmly for the approach of the strangers, who advanced at full
speed almost till the parties met, without choosing to notice the
peaceable demeanour of the young lord and his attendants. The moment
after, however, they came to a halt; and two or three, riding forward
before the rest, demanded "_Qui vive?_" apparently not half satisfied
with the appearance of St. Real and his attendants. The white scarfs
borne by the leaders of this impetuous party sufficiently indicated to
what army they belonged; and, replying "_Vive le Roi!_" St. Real
produced the pass he had received from Henry III.
"No game for us, this!" exclaimed he who seemed to be their chief, as
he read the authentic letters of safe-conduct placed before his eyes.
"Good faith, Sir Marquis of St. Real, we thought that Monsieur de
Mayenne had roused himself from his bed full four hours before his
ordinary time, and was sending out parties to take us by surprise,
thinking that we were as laggard and sleepy-headed as himself.
However, we will, if you please, form your escort to the next post,
and beyond that you will find your way easily to the king."
St. Real signified his assent, and, thus guarded, proceeded onward
towards Meudon, conversing, as he went, with the leaders of the
Huguenot party--for the strangers were followers of the King of
Navarre--and gaining from them some knowledge of the real state and
position of the royal armies. On the side of the two kings he found a
much greater degree of activity and military caution; and,
notwithstanding the presence of the party he had first encountered, he
was not suffered to pass the second outpost without a strict
examination of his letters of safe-conduct, and was afterwards
escorted from post to post by a small body of men-at-arms, until he
had proceeded beyond the quarters of the King of Navarre, and had
fully entered those of Henry III. of France, who had taken up his
abode, by this time, at St. Cloud. Here, again, the discipline seemed
more relaxed; and St. Real was suffered to advance without any further
question, till, at the entrance of the neat little village of St.
Cloud, he perceived a group of persons gathered together round the
door of a house, from which, the moment after, issued forth his cousin
the Count d'Aubin, booted and armed, as if prepared to mount a horse
that was held ready by a groom before the house.
"The lost one found!" exclaimed D'Aubin, embracing his cousin as soon
as they met; "the lost one found! Why, St. Real, I had even now my
foot in the stirrup to set out once more for Paris, in search of your
fair person. But how has all this happened? Let me hear all; for you
have had to do with the shrewdest heads in France; and his Highness of
Mayenne, with his fair sisters of Montpensier and Guise, are well
worth studying, if it be but to lay out a map of human cunning, in
order to find our way through its tortuous roads in future."
As St. Real returned the warm embrace of his cousin, there were
sensations in his bosom that he had never felt before. It was not that
any feeling of rivalry had diminished his affection for Philip
d'Aubin, even by a feather's weight; but it was that, notwithstanding
every wish to serve his cousin and promote his suit, he had
unintentionally cast in his way a greater obstacle than ever; and,
although conscious of his own virtue and integrity, he felt as if he
had wronged him. With St. Real the predominant feelings were not, as
with the rest of mankind, concealed or distorted with laborious care,
but on the contrary were always the first to find utterance. "Oh! I
will give you all that history hereafter; but I have something of more
importance to communicate." Thus saying, he entered the house with his
cousin, who led the way to some apartments apparently appropriated to
himself, and demanded, laughing, "What now, Huon? what now? You rustic
nobles see things in the capital with magnifying glasses, and think
many matters of deep consequence, which to us, who see them every day,
are, of course, every day affairs."
"I trust you may think as lightly of it as you seem to expect,"
replied St. Real: "but the matter is this--last night I saw
Mademoiselle de Menancourt."
"Ha!" exclaimed D'Aubin, instantly roused to attention; "what of
her--where did you see her?"
"I saw her at the Hotel de Guise," replied St. Real; "supped with her
there, and was near her afterwards, at the great entertainment given,
as I suppose, to the partisans of the League."
"Indeed!" exclaimed D'Aubin somewhat moodily; "and what saw you then?
Who fluttered round her? Who was favoured in their suit of the great
heiress? To which of his partisans does Mayenne propose to give her
hand? Tell me all you saw!"
"I saw much," replied St. Real. "I had an opportunity of speaking with
her alone, and was near her the whole evening; so that----"
"Ay! doubtless, doubtless!" replied his cousin; "and were the favoured
knight, beyond a doubt; and, probably, sweet Madame de Montpensier
encouraged your suit, and Mayenne offered you her hand, if you would
join the League----"
He paused; and St. Real was silent for a few moments, somewhat
astonished at the accuracy with which his cousin--partly in the random
venturing of passion and ill-humour, partly from a shrewd knowledge of
the actors in the great drama going on at Paris--hit upon the facts as
they had occurred. At length, the Marquis seeing impatience flashing
up in his cousin's eye, replied, "You are right, Philip; such an offer
was made me!"
"By the Lord! I thought so!" exclaimed D'Aubin. "On my honour, this is
right merry and good! and fair Eugenie de Menancourt, as timid as a
young fawn, and as gentle as a turtle dove, may do more good service
to the armies of the League than a whole regiment of reitters, or
half-a-dozen hot nobles of Provence! Why, the devil incarnate seize
upon the man! he offered her to me in the morning, if I would join the
League, and to you in the evening on the same conditions; and now,
doubtless, Huon, if you choose to turn your horses' heads back to
Paris, and call in your troops from Senlis, put on a black scarf, and
sign the blessed Union, you may to-morrow have the hand of the sweet
heiress of Maine, and become a distinguished leader of the
hypocritical League. Ha! what say you to violating your cousin's
confidence, and gallantly carrying away his promised bride? On my
honour and soul, it were a worthy commencement, and would rank you
high amongst us libertines of the court and the capital."
"You are angry, Philip," replied St. Real, calmly, though somewhat
sorrowfully; "you are angry, Philip, and without cause. Such is not
the commencement that I intend to make, nor has it ever entered into
my thoughts to do so."
"But what said Eugenie?" interrupted D'Aubin, fixing his keen eyes
upon him; "what said Eugenie to all this fine arrangement? Doubtless
it pleased her well!"
"She said nothing to it," replied St. Real, "because she never heard
it; and, in regard to what you would insinuate of myself, my being
here in order to serve the King in arms, is a sufficient reply, I
should think."
"And are you here for that purpose?" demanded D'Aubin, softening his
tone. "Have you positively decided on joining the royal forces?"
"Positively," replied St. Real, "if I find nothing here which would
render the King's service perfectly insupportable."
"Then get ye gone to the court as fast as possible, Huon," exclaimed
D'Aubin, relapsing into the usual levity of tone which was fashionable
at that time, even in speaking of the most serious subjects; "get thee
gone to the court, and see all the vices and horrors it contains; for,
till you have done so, I shall not know what you consider supportable
or not. Yet, stay, Huon," he added, more generous feelings for a
moment resuming their sway, "I doubt you not, my cousin--I know your
nature, St. Real, too well to doubt you; so let not your determination
be influenced by me. I would trust you as fully with Eugenie in Paris,
as if thousands of miles, or hostile armies, or wide-flowing seas,
separated you from her."
"You might!" replied St. Real; "but, in the present case, my purpose
is fixed. With the private vices of Henry III. or the vices of his
court either, I have nothing to do, at least, as far as regards my
public actions; and, if I see no reason to believe that my joining the
League is absolutely necessary for the salvation of my country, my
allegiance to my King is my first public duty, after the service of my
native land. Yet, hear me a word more, in regard to Eugenie----"
"Hark, what a noise!" exclaimed D'Aubin, turning towards a window that
looked into the street. "Those dogs of Huguenots are always
quarrelling with us cats of Catholics, and the distance between Meudon
and St. Cloud cannot keep us asunder. Look, Huon, look! they will come
to blows presently! See that fellow in the white scarf, how he is
laying down the law and the Gospel with the bony finger of his right
on the broad hard palm of his left. If he were the renegade,
voluptuous, fiery Luther himself, or the keen, fierce, bloodthirsty
Calvin, he could not argue the matter more eagerly. Now there, I
warrant ye, goes the demonstration of the superiority of the _prêche_
over the _messe_--the refutation of transubstantiation, and an utter
condemnation of poor purgatory!"
St. Real had followed unwillingly to the window, wondering not a
little--although his own ear had been caught by the turbulent sounds
in the streets--at the light volatility of his cousin, who could so
easily break off a conversation in which he had already shown such
heat, and which St. Real himself felt but too deeply to be one of
painful interest, in order to gaze upon a squabble between some rude
soldiers. The scene which presented itself, however, soon obtained a
stronger hold of his attention: it was evidently, as D'Aubin had
divined, a quarrel between a small party of the Huguenot soldiers,
who, serving under Henry of Navarre, had been quartered in the
neighbouring town of Meudon, and a body of the Catholics, forming part
of the army of Henry III. who seemed not at all disposed to show much
hospitality in the streets of St. Cloud to their allies with the white
scarfs. According to the usual course of such occurrences, two persons
were more distinguished than the rest by vehemence of manner, loudness
of tone, and fierceness of look; but behind the principal speaker on
the part of the Protestants stood another of the same party, gifted
with that dark and ominous look of silent determination which
betokens, in general, a man more disposed to deeds than words. As the
argument was evidently getting higher and higher, and the dispute was
apparently reaching that point where strong blows are brought in
corroboration of vigorous assertions, St. Real proposed to his cousin
to interpose with that authority which their rank conferred, and which
the number of their retainers, who were standing by enjoying the
scene, enabled them to render effectual. D'Aubin agreed to the
propriety of this proceeding; but he still continued to gaze out, more
amused than affected by what he saw, till at length the more quiet
personage, whom we have described as belonging to the Huguenot party,
stretched forth a long arm from behind his more voluble comrade, and
cut short a very vehement and vigorous tirade on the part of the
Catholic soldier, by dealing him a blow on the side of the head that
instantly stretched him on the bosom of his mother earth.
Swords and daggers were drawn on all sides in a moment; and St. Real,
waiting for no further question, sprang down the stairs, followed by
his cousin; and, calling upon the attendants to aid him, he interposed
between the contending parties, thrusting his powerful form between
the two principal combatants, and casting them asunder like two
pugnacious curs unwilling to be separated. In the struggle, however,
and ere D'Aubin and the attendants could come to his assistance and
enforce order, St. Real had received a slight cut upon the face, which
speedily stained his collar in blood; and his clothes suffered equally
from dust and dirt, and the profaning fingers of more than one unclean
hand. At length the tumult was appeased; and D'Aubin, after treating
the contending parties to a witty harangue in praise of peace, turned
away with St. Real, saying, "Well, well, Huon, now that you have had
enough of fighting for your morning's meal, get you gone to the King,
or he will be out for the day. He is not at the chateau, but in that
house with the large garden--you can hardly see it as we stand; but,
by the number of people I see gathering in that direction, I should
suppose he was now about to set out. So hasten on, and you will find
me here at your return."
"My visit to the King may well wait a few hours," replied St Real;
"and I would fain, Philip, conclude with you a conversation which can
never be renewed between us without pain. I have got much to tell you.
But stay!" he exclaimed suddenly, as his eye fell upon the figure of a
Dominican monk, who was slowly proceeding up the road, and had just
passed the spot where he himself stood in conversation with his
cousin; "but stay! I think I know that friar, and, if so, I must to
the King with all speed!"
Thus speaking, and without waiting for any reply, he made a sign to
his attendants to follow, and hurried on, after the Jacobin, on foot.
The monk was proceeding at a calm quiet pace, with his eyes fixed upon
the ground; and St. Real was by his side in a moment. One glance
showed him the dull heavy features of Brother Clement, who had
tenanted the chamber to his own in the convent of the Jacobins; and
the voices and the jugglery he had seen played off upon the wretched
fanatic, as well as the effect which the whole had produced upon the
object of those artifices, instantly came up before St. Real's mind,
and made him hesitate whether he should not question him in regard to
his errand at St. Cloud. The next moment, however, a gentleman, in
whom St. Real could easily recognise a high officer of the law--as, in
those days, every class and profession had its appropriate garb--came
up, followed by some other people carrying papers, and, stopping the
friar, as a person whom he knew, held a brief conversation with him,
and then walked slowly on by his side towards the dwelling of the
King. St. Real, after a moment's consideration, paused, and beckoning
to the dwarf Bartholo, from whose knowledge of Paris and its
inhabitants he had already derived much information, inquired the name
of the personage now walking forward with the monk.
"His name is La Guesle," replied the dwarf, drily: "he is the king's
_Procureur Général_."
Such information was sufficient to remove from the mind of St. Real
some part at least of the apprehensions which he had entertained; but,
nevertheless, there was a lingering suspicion that the Jacobin's
intentions were not all righteous, which made him resolve to inform
the king at once of what he had seen in Paris, and put him upon his
guard against the machinations of his most insidious enemies. With
this view, as he saw that the _Procureur Général_ and his companion
were proceeding exactly in the same direction as himself, he hurried
his pace, and passed them. Making his way onward through the various
groups of soldiers, courtiers, and officers, that were scattered
thickly through the streets of their temporary residence, enjoying the
fine sunshine of the early summer morning, he hastened forward towards
the spot to which his cousin had directed him as the abode of the
king, inquiring as he went which was the exact house amongst the many
splendid buildings that St. Cloud then contained.
At length the abode of one Hieronimo de Gondi was pointed out to him;
and, entering the court, the walls of which had concealed from his
sight a crowd of guards and attendants at that time constantly waiting
upon the sovereign, he proceeded to the great entrance, and mounted
the steps which led to the first hall. Here his name and business were
instantly demanded, and his reply transmitted through various mouths
to the chambers above. While detained below for the king's answer to
his demand of an audience, he was ushered into a side room, where some
of the superior officers of the court were whiling away their daily
hours of attendance. Some were playing with dice, and some at chess;
but in all there was a fearful effeminacy in dress and demeanour,
which made St. Real shrink from the soft and womanly things with which
he was for the moment brought in contact. He was not destined,
however, to remain long amongst them; for the next moment a page--fair
and soft, and smooth-spoken, with jewels in his ears, and as much
satin and lace upon his slashed doublet of sky-blue silk as would
furnish forth a lady on a court birthday--glided into the room, and
besought the Marquis of St. Real to follow him to the presence of the
king.
Ascending the broad flight of steps which led to the principal
apartments above, St. Real first passed through the chamber of the
Gascon guards, the same unscrupulous body which had served the monarch
so remorselessly in the assassination of the ambitious but heroic Duke
of Guise. Their harsh and war-worn features, shaggy beards, and
affectedly rough demeanour, offered a strange contrast to the soft and
silken aspect of the rest of the court: but St. Real was soon
introduced to a new, but not less sickening scene of luxurious
effeminacy. Passing through an ante-chamber, in which lounged a number
of creatures such as he had seen below, he was led into the
audience-room prepared for the king. Faint rose-coloured velvet formed
the hangings of the walls, a number of green silk couches were placed
round the room, and the whole air was so burdened with manifold
perfumes, that St. Real, disgusted with all he beheld, felt actually
sick at the compound odour that assailed him as soon as he entered. A
number of personages stood round, dressed in all the gaudy colours of
the rainbow, and each without the slightest spot or stain to be seen
upon his glossy vestments. In the midst of them all sat a man habited,
like themselves, with all the scrupulous care that folly can waste
upon personal appearance. His hands and his face were as white and as
delicate as the satin lining of his cloak, except where on his cheeks
appeared a faint delicate colour, like the hectic blush of a
consumptive girl, but which, in him, was probably rather the effect of
paint than of disease. He was speaking when St. Real entered: but it
was none of his lords, or minions, as they were then called, who was
so honoured at that moment by the effeminate Henry III. On his lap he
held a beautiful worked basket, lined with faint blue satin, and
containing no less than four small dogs, neither of which exceeded in
size a well-fed miller's rat; and to one of these--his favourite pets
and constant companions--he was addressing some tender reproaches for
the crime of having scrambled over the back of one of the others, in
its unceremonious attempts to escape from the delicate dwelling, which
it would willingly have exchanged for a wooden box, and some clean
hay.
St. Real's bold step in the room, the sound of his heavy boot and
jingling spurs, instantly caught the king's attention; and, looking up
from his basket of dogs, he gazed over the person of the young noble,
with a glance first of surprise, and then, apparently, of horror and
disgust. The silken watchers of the king's countenance instantly
caught its expression, and divined the cause.
"Good God, sir!" exclaimed one, interposing between St. Real and the
king, as if he feared that the young noble were about to assassinate
the monarch; "good God, sir! is it possible that any one should
present himself before his Majesty in such a plight? Retire, for
Heaven's sake! you had better retire!"
St. Real laid his hand upon the attendant's breast to push him back
out of his way; but the minion shrank back from the touch of the same
stout doe-skin glove with which the young Marquis had parted the
contending soldiers in the street, as if a dagger had been at his
bosom.
"I would not have intruded upon your Majesty," said St. Real, "in a
garb stained with blood as this is, had I not had something to
communicate which I thought of immediate importance----"
"Whatever you have to communicate, sir," interrupted the king,
frowning, "must be told when you have changed your dress: I will hear
nothing at the risk of being suffocated. The blood has nothing to do
with the matter! I have seen more blood, and shed more blood, than you
ever have, or ever will, perhaps; but you bring in with you a
whirlwind of dust, enough to choke up the lungs of any Christian king
upon the face of the earth. Make no reply, sir," he continued, waving
his hand; "make no reply, but leave the room; and when you have
changed your dress, and appear in habiliments more befitting this
place, I will hear what you have to communicate, but not before."
"As your Majesty pleases," replied St. Real; "but still, let me warn
you of one thing at least----"
"Of nothing!" exclaimed the king. "Why, the very percussion of your
breath shakes the dust from your cloak, till the whole air is dim.
Away with him! away with him! Nevers, Joyeuse, Epernon, rid me of the
sight of him! But gently, gently! Do not shake the dust off him: 'tis
bad enough to be obliged to ride along the high roads, once every day,
without having the high roads brought into our own audience-chamber."
There was a determination in the look and demeanour of the young
Marquis of St. Real which augured something in his nature not pleasant
to lay hands upon; and, consequently, the courtiers of the
contemptible monarch took care not to enforce his commands with any
rudeness. Nor was it necessary; for St. Real, finding that any farther
attempt, at that moment, to communicate to the king the apprehensions
he entertained from what he had seen in Paris, would be vain,
retreated from the royal presence without farther question, resolving
immediately to inform his cousin D'Aubin, and beg him to convey the
bare intelligence of danger to the monarch, while he himself changed
his dress, and prepared to give more full and minute information.
Rejoining his attendants in the court, and looking eagerly round, as
he quitted the royal residence, in order to ascertain whether the monk
were still in sight, St. Real turned his steps back towards the house
where he had found D'Aubin on his arrival at St. Cloud. It was not,
indeed, that he could feel particularly interested in the fate of the
monarch whom he had just seen, or that he thought the death of such a
degraded being would be, at any other period, much to be regretted in
France; but the young lord, acting upon general principles which
accidental circumstances never greatly modified, felt it his bounden
duty to prevent, if possible, a meditated crime; and, even had it not
been so, would have been extremely desirous of preserving the life of
the reigning sovereign, at a moment when political and religious
factions, personal enmities, and contending interests, convulsed the
realm, and required no new brand of discord to bring down sorrows,
desolation, and ruin, upon the people, the country, and the state.
Whichever way St. Real turned his eyes, however, various groups of
persons loitering about, without any apparent object, interrupted his
view ere it could penetrate many yards. Amongst them the figure of the
Jacobin was not to be seen; and, mounting his horse, which had been
led after him, he proceeded as fast as possible to the dwelling in
which his cousin had taken up his quarters.
He found D'Aubin surrounded by a large party of the gay nobility of
Paris; and levity and merriment had so completely taken possession of
every one present, that St. Real could obtain no attention for the
serious matter he had to communicate. Even his cousin himself, whom he
knew to be full of strong and fiery passions, and whom he had seen
that very morning moved by no light emotions, appeared now to have
given himself up entirely to the idlest spirit of gaiety; so that the
only effect produced by the tale which the young nobleman had to tell
was loud laughter at the repulse he had met with from the monarch's
presence, and advice to suffer Henry to deal with his friend the friar
as best he might.
Somewhat offended, and still more grieved, at his cousin's conduct,
St. Real quitted him, promising to rejoin him in the course of the
day; and, betaking himself to the small rooms, which were the only
ones he could find unoccupied in either of the two _auberges_ that
St. Cloud at that time boasted, he hastily put off his riding-suit,
removed the traces of travel and contention from his person, and then,
dressed more in accordance with the courtly foppery of a great capital
than the simplicity which he had expected to find in a camp, he
returned to the temporary dwelling of the king, bent upon executing
his own right purposes, whoever might laugh or sneer. Henry had by
this time, it would seem, considered the impolicy of alienating so
powerful a subject, at a moment when the throne so much needed
support; and St. Real found a page waiting for him in the vestibule,
charged, on his return, to deliver a sort of half apology for the
treatment he had met with, and to conduct him immediately to the royal
presence.
Led through the same rooms, St. Real entered the audience-chamber,
which was still tenanted by the same personages, with the exception of
the king himself, whose voice was heard in a cabinet beyond. The page,
however, instantly proceeded to the door, and throwing it open,
announced St. Real's return.
"We will speak with him presently," replied Henry, aloud: but the
sight which met St. Real's eyes through the open door made him once
more cast away all ceremony, notwithstanding his rebuke he had
received in the morning. On the right of the monarch stood La Guesle,
the _Procureur Général_, while at the king's feet knelt the very
Jacobin friar whom St. Real had seen in conversation with that officer
about half an hour before. The monk seemed in the act of presenting a
letter; but though that action, and his whole demeanour, appeared
perfectly pacific, yet St. Real was convinced, from his previous
knowledge, that the ultimate designs of the Jacobin must be evil; and
striding across the audience-hall with the purpose of interposing, he
had nearly reached the door of the cabinet, when one of the nobles in
attendance stopped him for an instant, attempting to explain to him
that the King would summon him when he thought fit.
"Of course, of course!" replied St. Real, "but the King is in danger.
See, see!" And at the same moment the Dominican, as he knelt, lifted
his arm and struck the monarch, what appeared to be merely a blow of
his clenched hand.
The King staggered back, however, exclaiming, "He has killed me!" And
drawing from his side the long sharp knife which the Jacobin had left
in the wound, he struck the assassin on the head as he was
endeavouring to rise. Almost at the same time, La Guesle, drawing; his
sword, passed it through the monk's body; and the nobleman, who had so
ill-timedly stopped the advance of St. Real, sprang forward, crying,
"The Monk has killed his Majesty;" and while the murderer was already
falling under the blows of the King and La Guesle, drove his dagger
into his throat and put a period to his existence. The other officers
in attendance rushed into the cabinet in tumult and fury, and with an
indecent excess of rage, cast the dead body of the Jacobin out of the
window into the court.
There is no describing the terror, confusion, and despair, into which
the large body of courtiers, interested deeply in the life of their
master, were thrown by the event that had just occurred; but Henry
himself, at that awful moment, recalled all the courage and
self-possession for which he had been distinguished in his early
years, and showed himself far more tranquil and undisturbed than any
of the party.
"Send for a surgeon," he said, sitting down and pressing one hand upon
the wound, while with the other he waved back those who were crowding
round him. "La Guesle, you have done wrong to kill the wretch. We
might have learned who were his instigators; but let the room be
cleared. Monsieur de St. Real, I thought to have spoken with you, but
it is impossible now. You said you had something to communicate; but
if I recover, it must be told hereafter; if I die, it must be told to
my successor."
"God forbid your Majesty should die at this moment," replied St. Real,
whose intended communication was now rendered useless. "I trust that
your wound will not prove serious."
"I trust not," replied the King; "but no one can say what, or how
soon, may be the termination. Although I am inclined to think that the
wound is not dangerous, yet in this body there may be but half an hour
of life. Therefore remember, lords and gentlemen of France here
present, that, should death be the result of this morning's bad work,
Henry of Navarre is your lawful king! From the moment that my lips
cease to breathe he is your king according to every principle of right
and justice: the fundamental laws of the French monarchy make him so,
and no power on earth can absolve you of your duty towards him. I only
raise my voice to point out to my subjects what will be their duty
when I am dead. Remember that this is my last injunction: but here
come the surgeons; and now, once more, I say, let the room be
cleared."
The monarch's orders were instantly obeyed, and the cabinet, in which
he had received his wound, was accordingly abandoned by all but the
surgeons and his immediate personal attendants. The whole party,
however, lingered in the audience chamber, and in the ante-room
adjoining, breaking into separate groups, and each speaking low, but
eagerly, on the event that had occurred, and the consequences likely
to ensue. As St. Real was not personally known to any one present, he
was, of course, thrown out of all these small circles, and was
proceeding through the rooms, in order to join his attendants and make
his escape from the bustle, confusion, and tumult which were beginning
to spread rapidly through the royal household, when a stout,
plainly-dressed, middle-aged man, whom he had not particularly noticed
in the crowd, laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "I think I heard
your name mentioned as Monsieur de St. Real."
"The same," replied St. Real, bowing. "What are your commands?"
"My name is De Sancy," replied the other: "an old acquaintance of your
father's. I would speak a word with you, but not here." Thus saying,
he led St. Real on till they reached the court, where all was in the
same state of confusion which reigned above--the gates closed, and no
one suffered to go out. At the appearance of Monsieur de Sancy,
however, the guards presented arms, and the porter threw open the
_grille_ for him and his companion to pass. A word, on his part,
obtained the same facility for his own immediate followers, and for
those of St. Real; and walking on foot down the road, while their
horses followed, De Sancy spoke briefly to his young companion of what
had occurred.
"The king will die," he said. "I see it in his countenance; and France
will be thrown into a state of greater turbulence than ever. There is
but one way to save her, Monsieur de St. Real; and, if you inherit
your father's heart and principles, you will not hesitate to join me
in following it."
"May I ask you," demanded St. Real, "what is the way to which you
allude?"
"I mean," replied De Sancy, "boldness, decision, preparation, on the
part of the friends of good order. You will see, Monsieur de St. Real,
that as soon as the king is dead, the bonds which keep all these
forces together will be suddenly dissolved. The greater part of the
leaders will think all ties of honesty, loyalty, and patriotism at an
end; and almost all will set themselves up for sale to the highest
bidder, while many will join that party for which they have already a
hankering. I heard, some time ago, that you were expected here, and I
learned that you have a considerable body of troops lying near Senlis.
Now tell me, supposing that the king were dead, in what light would
you look upon Henry, King of Navarre?"
"As the legitimate successor to the crown," answered St. Real, "and as
my rightful sovereign!"
"Then would you be as well contented to fight against the League under
a Huguenot sovereign," demanded De Sancy, "as under the Catholic
monarch, who has just met with such a fitting reward for his love of
priests and friars?"
"A thousand times better," replied St. Real, "if that sovereign be
Henry of Navarre, my father's friend and my own--honest and noble, if
ever man was, and loving his country and his people better than
himself."
"If such, then, be your opinions, Monsieur de St. Real," replied De
Sancy, laying his hand familiarly on his shoulder--"if such be your
opinions, without a word more let us mount our horses, and ride over
together to Meudon, to bear to the Bearnois, as they call him, the
first tidings of all that has happened here, and to promise him our
unbought support in case of need. I bring with me nearly three
thousand sturdy Swiss; and you, I hear, near a thousand hardy
Frenchmen. What say you? shall we go?"
Great emergencies make short oratory. "With all my heart," replied St.
Real, who, however brief had been the explanation, understood De
Sancy's views and objects as well as if he had spoken a volume; "with
all my heart!" he replied, "and we will ride quick."
Their horses were beckoned up; each cavalier sprang into the saddle;
and, after a few words of direction and command to some of their
attendants on either part, they galloped off towards Meudon as fast as
they could go.