While such was the conduct of the Count d'Aubin, St. Real, whom he had
left hurt, agitated, and gloomy, continued to pace his little chamber,
giving way to many a melancholy thought. The more he yielded to
reflection, the more he examined the state of his own heart, the more
deeply and bitterly he felt that the deceit he had practised upon
himself did not date from a late period, but had been of long
existence. He remembered the pleasure he had felt in the society of
Eugenie de Menancourt from his earliest days, in the sweet
reciprocation of simple and innocent feelings, in the mutual
communication of thoughts and sensations peculiar to the retired state
of life in which they then passed their days. He remembered how much
pain he had felt when her father, taking part in the troubles of the
time, had removed for a short period from his neighbourhood; and he
remembered how gladly he had heard that the hand of Eugenie de
Menancourt had been promised to his cousin the young Count d'Aubin,
inasmuch as that engagement was destined to bring her back to the
vicinity of his father's chateau. He had calculated, simply enough,
upon always regarding her as a beloved sister; and as he never for a
moment having dreamed of any other feeling towards her during his
early days, the idea certainly never presented itself after he was
informed of an arrangement which he was taught to look upon as a
positive engagement towards his cousin. When she did return to Maine,
he greeted her with what he fancied brotherly affection; and though
when he beheld his cousin apparently neglecting her, to pay devoted
attention to the gay and sparkling beauties of the royal court, he
felt a degree of anger and indignation on Eugenie's account, which
made him devote himself entirely to her, he would have considered
those feelings--had he thought of the matter in such a light at
all--as the surest proofs that his inmost sensations towards Eugenie
de Menancourt were merely those of a relation, inasmuch as, instead of
feeling jealous of the attentions his cousin paid her, he was angry
that those attentions were not more. Now, however, he knew the
whole--he saw that the love he had felt had been early conceived, and
secretly nourished; and the insight that he gained into his own
feelings showed him that those feelings could never change, but would
last in all their intensity to cause his misery through life.
While these thoughts passed in his mind, the time flew quickly by; and
the meal which his principal attendants took care should be placed
before him, was served and taken away almost untouched. Shortly
afterwards, Monsieur de Sancy visited him; and St. Real, whose mind
was not one to yield where it could resist, endeavoured to enter
vigorously into everything that could distract his attention from
himself, spoke again and again of all the probable consequences of the
events that were occurring, and endeavoured to gain a clear and
distinct knowledge of the characters, purposes, and power of the
various nobles forming the royalist party.
For the time the attempt succeeded, and his mind found some relief
from the memory of personal sorrows; but the moment that Monsieur de
Sancy left him, his thoughts returned to himself as bitterly as ever.
As evening fell, he fancied that music might soothe his mind or
distract his attention; and sending for his page, Leonard de Monte, he
asked, "Did you not once tell me, Leonard, that you could sing, and
play upon the lute? I am somewhat sad just now, my boy, and would fain
hear a little music to while away unpleasant ideas."
The boy smiled with a peculiar expression, and replied. "Music!--I
will sing, if you like--that is to say, if I can find a lute; but
music which will soothe care, and refresh the mind fatigued of
business, calm the turbulent thoughts of ambition, or soften the
feverish pangs of sickness, is no antidote against sorrow, and is,
they say 'the food of love.'"
"Well, well," replied St. Real, "let me hear your instrument and your
voice; I must have amusement of some kind, for this night wears
heavily."
"I have not my own lute here," replied the boy, "but the dwarf will
soon find one, I warrant;" and, going out, he returned in a few
moments followed by Bartholo, carrying one of those guitars with
eleven strings which were the principal musical instruments then in
vogue. The boy struck his hand across the chords, and then pushed it
from him to the dwarf, exclaiming angrily, "Take it from me, and tune
it. Why give me a thing all discord, like that?"
"May it please you," replied the dwarf, with a look of humble
deference, which did not escape St. Real's eyes, and which he had
never seen assumed towards himself, "I did not know that it had been
out of tune, or I should not have failed----"
"Well, well, take it away," replied the boy; and, remaining seated on
the spot where he had placed himself to sing, he leaned with his elbow
on the arm of the chair, and his head upon his hand, and the dark
shining locks of his black hair falling in linked curls over his clear
beautiful brow and small graceful fingers. He seemed to be thinking
over the song he was about to sing. At least, so St. Real read his
attitude. But the tone in which the youth had spoken to the dwarf, and
that in which the dwarf replied, had struck and surprised their common
master, and he was about to disturb the page's reverie, by making some
inquiries in regard to his previous history, when Bartholo again
returned with the lute. The boy took it, and running his fingers
through the strings, scarcely seeming to know what note he struck,
produced, nevertheless, a wild plaintive wandering melody, which
nothing but the most exquisite skill and knowledge of the instrument
could have brought forth.
"There are few songs," he said, looking up in St. Real's face, "that
are good to soothe sorrow; but I will sing you one of the battle-songs
of my own unhappy land, in which liberty begat anarchy, and anarchy
strife, and strife weakness, till foreign tyrants made a prey of
nations who knew not that military and political power are the
children of internal union and civil order--a land which, from sea to
sea, has been one vast battle-field for ages past."
He paused, and seemed to give a moment of sad thought to the sorrows
of his native country; then suddenly dashing his hand over the chords,
he made them ring with a loud and peculiar air, so marked and measured
that one could almost fancy one heard the regular footfalls of
marching men, mingled with the sounding of the trumpet, and the
beating of the drum. Then joining his clear melodious voice, he sung
of the dreams of glory and of patriotism wherewith the soldier on his
way warms his heart to battle, and conceals from his own eyes the dark
and bloody nature of the deed itself. Then again the chords of the
instrument, with a quicker movement, and more discordant sounds,
imitated the clang and clash of charging hosts; and the deep and
frequent tones of the bass might be supposed to express the roar of
the artillery, while still between came the notes of the clarion, and
sounds that resembled the distant beating of the drum. At the same
time the voice of the youth, in few but striking words, and, as it
were, with brief snatches of song, called up the images more forcibly,
and aided imagination in supplying all that the scope of the lute
could not afford. Gradually, however, as he sung, the louder sounds
were omitted; the imitation of the trumpet changed from the notes of
the charge to those of the retreat; the strings seemed to rustle under
his touch, as if from the hasty rush of flying multitudes; and then,
with a sudden change of time, the music altered to a sweet and
plaintive strain of wailing, while his voice took up the song of
mourning for the dead.
Till that moment St. Real had no idea of all that music can produce.
He had heard sweet songs, and what were then considered fine
compositions; but this was something totally different; this was a
painting addressed not to the eye, but to the ear; and that not with
words which with laborious minuteness, describe insignificant parts,
without conveying effectually grand impressions; but with sounds
which, rousing fancy's greatest powers at once, called up all the
splendid pageantry of imagination to complete for the mind's eye the
grand pictures that those tones suggested. The boy, too, as he sung,
looked like one inspired; his eyes flashed and glittered; his voice
rose and fell with every touch of feeling which his song expressed;
and his hand seemed now playing amidst the strings, as if in childish
sport; now sweeping them with all the fire and power of some mighty
master of song; but ever with such perfect ease and grace, that it
seemed a gift rather than an accomplishment. When his voice had
ceased, St. Real sat rapt for one moment by all the feelings which the
music had inspired; and then, gazing upon the youth, he said, "You are
an extraordinary boy, and I must one day have your history, Leonard."
The youth shook his head; but then after a short pause added,
abruptly, "Perhaps you may, perhaps you may--but now while the lute is
in tune, I will sing you another song--a song about love;" and without
waiting for reply, he struck the chords, and began, with a measure and
a tone so different, as for a time to seem almost tame and
insignificant, when compared with the wild and thrilling energy of the
former music. But as he went on, there was a touching and melancholy
pathos in the words and in the air which went direct to St. Real's
heart, rousing feelings which he would fain have lulled to sleep, and
overwhelming him with deeper melancholy than ever. So sad, so
sorrowful did it make him,--so completely did it master him and take
possession of his imagination, that he could have given way even to
tears, if there had been no eye to see him so unmanned.
The boy was still going on; but St. Real waved his hand, exclaiming,
"Hush, hush! no more! It is too much for me!"
The boy looked up with a smile, saying,
"He that will not find
Ease when he may,
Leaves all joy behind
For ever and a day.
"Yet let him wither
His own hopes at will,
So that no other
Blossoms he kill."
St. Real started, somewhat surprised. "You seem to know," he said,
"more of me and mine than I fancied. I must hear what you do know,
Leonard, and how you know it, before you quit me."
"Nay, nay, my good lord," replied the boy, still smiling, "look not so
suspicious. Does it need a very shrewd guess to discover, or to fancy,
when a gallant cavalier, like yourself, falls into sadness suddenly,
as if he had caught some infectious disease, and then looks more dark
and gloomy still, when one sings a simple song to him about love, and
beautiful eyes--does it need a very shrewd guess to fancy that after
all, that same passion of love is at the bottom of the mystery?"
"But you spoke but now," replied St. Real, "as if you knew more than
that, and made allusions that you could not have made unless you had
known more."
"Faith then, my lord," replied the boy, "the man who compounded the
old proverb I repeated, must have had a mighty skill in divination, to
see what was likely to go on in your lordship's heart some hundred
years after he himself had lived, and that it would serve a page at
his need instead of a better answer--but yet the proverb is a good
one," he continued, rambling on. "Good faith! I hold that no man has a
right to make a woman love him, and then leave her for any whimsy
whatsoever. I do not know much about these things, it is true, but I
think that it is dishonourable."
"But suppose," replied St. Real, "that honour has some other claim
upon him which calls him in a different way--what should he do then?"
"Why, methinks he should become an apothecary!" replied the boy; and
then added, seeing St. Real's brow slightly contract, "what I mean is,
my lord, that he should take the very nicest scales that conscience
can supply to weigh out medicines for hurt honour, if he have got
himself into such a scrape that honour must be injured either way. Or
he may do the matter differently, and weigh in those nice scales which
is the heaviest sin,--to break a lady's heart; to leave her unhappy
and cheerless through the long days of life; to doom her to wed one
that she does not love, or perhaps hates; to have her reproaches and
her sorrow to answer for at his dying day; or, on the other hand, to
violate what he may think a claim upon his honour, which very likely
priests and prelates, and saints and martyrs, and his own heart too,
in the calm after-day of life, may tell him was no claim at all."
"And do you tell me that you speak thus from mere guess?" demanded St.
Real. "No, no, my boy! You have some other knowledge; and you must
give me an answer how it was obtained."
"Indeed, my lord," answered the youth, starting up and laughing "I am
tired, sleepy, and thirsty, with looking for you all the morning, and
singing you two songs at night. So, by your leave, I will e'en go to
bed and sleep; and I dare say before to-morrow morning I shall be able
to make an answer, for I have not one ready made; and even if my wit
should run low, I will away by cock-crow to the nearest _fripier_, and
buy me an answer second-hand. One often finds one as good as new that
has served twenty people before;" and seeing St. Real about to speak
again with a serious brow, he ended with a gay laugh, and darted out
of the room.
A momentary feeling of anger passed through St. Real's breast, and he
half rose in his chair, determined to call the boy back and make him
explain distinctly what was the meaning of the allusions he had made,
how he had obtained his information, and to what length it extended.
Brief reflection, however, caused him to pause and change his purpose;
thinking that it would be better to take time to regulate his own
thoughts, and command his own feelings, ere he questioned his page
upon subjects so likely to awaken and expose deep emotions in himself.
Casting himself back into his seat again, he revolved all that had
just passed; and his mind, reverting to everything that was painful
and distressing in his situation, fell into one of those sad and
melancholy dreams which must have visited almost every one at some
time of life, when the bright and brilliant prospects of youth are
suddenly obscured by the dark and lowering clouds which precede the
first storms of life.
However painful may be this mode of mind,--however desirous we may be
of escaping from it,--however sensibly we may feel that the only
relief we can hope is to be found in activity, occupation, and
resistance; yet there is a benumbing influence in that peculiar state
of grief and disappointment, which, like the fabled fascination of the
serpent in regard to the birds it seeks to devour, prevents us from
employing the only means of delivering ourselves. St. Real knew as
well as any one, that the occupation of his thoughts upon other
subjects was the only relief he could hope for; but still he lingered
on from hour to hour, no sooner attempting to turn his mind to other
things, than falling back again into the same desponding memories of
all that he cast away when he resigned the hope of ever seeing Eugenie
de Menancourt again. Ere he was aware of it--for deep grief, like
intense happiness, "takes no note of time"--the grey daylight of the
early summer dawn began to pour through the open window. All had been
long quiet in the town, the inns and cabarets had long been closed,
and not a sound had for some time stirred in the _auberge_ where he
had taken up his quarters. But at length his reverie was broken by the
distant sound of horses' feet; and, rising from his seat, he almost
mechanically proceeded to the window, and gazed out up and down the
road. At first no one was visible, except a small group of guards at
the gates of the Maison de Gondi, in which King Henry III. had fixed
hie abode, and though they were apparently speaking together, the
tones they used were so low that not even the murmur of their voices
reached St. Real's ear through the still, calm silence of the early
morning. The next moment, however, the sound of coming horse became
suddenly more distinct, as, turning the corner of the road from
Meudon, a party of five cavaliers galloped into the village. St. Real
fixed his eyes upon them as they advanced, and instantly recognised in
their leader Henry of Navarre.
The guards at the gate of the Maison de Gondi seemed, from the bustle
created amongst them, not only to see the party, but to recognise the
cousin of their monarch. The tidings of his arrival appeared to be
passed on into the court; and the moment after, the soldiers and
officers of the Scottish guard came pouring forth without any symptoms
of their usual discipline and orderly demeanour. The King of Navarre
perceived their approach; and nearly opposite to the window at which
St. Real stood drew up his horse, which hitherto had proceeded at full
gallop. Several of the officers of the guard instantly rushed forward,
and cast themselves upon one knee at the stirrup of the monarch,
exclaiming, "Oh, sire! you are our king and our master!" and, at the
same moment, one or two voices from the crowd pronounced, for the
first time, the often repeated words, "Vive Henry Quatre!"
The king sprang to the ground, affected even to tears, exclaiming in a
tone of unfeigned regret, "Alas, alas! is he then really dead?"
Walking rapidly forward, he proceeded towards the royal headquarters,
and entered the Maison de Gondi; and the news of Henry III.'s death
proceeded rapidly through the town. Every house began soon to pour
forth its inhabitants; and ere the sun was well risen, all was bustle,
and agitation, and confusion.
Although a feeling of reverence for that fearful thing, death, and the
awe which an event of such magnitude might well inspire, repressed
much of the noise which otherwise would have been heard: and though
the eager consultations and busy rumours were carried on in no louder
tone than a whisper, still it was evident, from every symptom
displayed by the multitudes which now thronged the streets of St.
Cloud, that the ties which linked society together were broken, that
the foundations were shaken, and that not only the fabric of the royal
army, but even of the French monarchy itself, was wavering as if to
fall.
After gazing out for a few minutes upon the scene below, with the
feelings of a mere spectator, St. Real remembered that he himself had
a part to act; and as the _auberge_, in common with all the other
houses of the town, was by this time roused, he called for his
attendants, and despatched a messenger to his cousin, intimating his
wish to speak with him immediately. Then casting on his cloak, he went
forth into the street; and entering into conversation with some of the
inferior officers of the troops, he tried to gain some insight into
the various feelings and motives by which the lower ranks of the royal
army were actuated; and, wherever he found it possible, endeavoured to
give a bias to the wavering and undetermined in favour of that conduct
which could alone save the monarchy and the country.
To every one whom he addressed St. Real was a stranger; and though his
dress was such as became his station, yet his rank and character being
unknown, it was not at all improbable that he would have met with
insolence, if not violence, had there not been in his whole demeanour
that mingling of frankness and dignity, of sincerity and of grace,
which went far, not only to win and to persuade, but to command
attention and respect. While he was thus engaged, the attendant whom
he had despatched to his cousin returned, and informed him that the
Count d'Aubin had gone up to the royal quarters; and, almost at the
same moment, a hand was laid upon his arm, and turning round, he
beheld Monsieur de Sancy.
"A moment's conversation with you, Monsieur de St. Real," he said,
leading the way towards the _auberge_. St. Real instantly followed,
and on entering, conducted the old officer to his own apartments.
"Is your mind the same as when last I saw you?" demanded De Sancy, as
soon as the door was shut.
"Undoubtedly," replied St. Real; "you cannot suppose I would change."
"One can never tell," replied De Sancy, smiling; "you will find this
morning that more than fifty have changed since the same hour last
night; and, to speak plainly, Monsieur de St. Real, your own cousin
amongst the number. However, let us ourselves lose no time. The
leaders are flocking up to the quarters of the late king, and many, I
fear, will be the differences we shall find. Nevertheless, I hope that
we shall still be able to make up a good party on our side, and
perhaps we may shame a great many more to join us by taking a bold
position ourselves, and letting the others see that they are not only
contemptible, but weak. Will you come, for every moment is of
consequence?"
"Instantly!" replied St. Real. "D'Aubin is there already."
"Then there will be mischief going on," said De Sancy; "for I have
very sure information that your cousin has decidedly chosen his part.
I do not fear to say to you, Monsieur de St. Real, that he is wrong,
and that he knows it; and when such is the case, it is natural that a
man should endeavour to persuade as many others to act in the same way
as possible, in order that, at all events, he may shelter his own
conduct from the odium of singularity."
"Very often, too," replied St. Real, as they walked on, "when a man is
determined upon a thing, and does not clearly know whether he is right
or wrong, he strives to satisfy himself that he is right, by bringing
over as many more to his own side as possible. This I believe to be
D'Aubin's case; for his opinions on any points are never very fixed,
and many is the time that I have heard him defend both sides of a
question with equal skill."
"Vanity, vanity, all that!" replied De Sancy, "and a most unhappy
vanity too; for it has cheated many a man out of his honour and
integrity, out of his own self-respect, out of the world's esteem--ay,
and even out of his hopes of heaven. But at all events, as apostates,
whether religious or political, are the most vehement against the
creeds they abandon, so we may feel sure that Monsieur d'Aubin, and
all those who have cast off their loyalty, will have many a furious
argument in store against the cause which they are quitting. Let us be
prepared then to assert in words, as well as deeds, the ancient
loyalty of the French nobility."
"Of course, to the best of our abilities," said St. Real; "but my
voice can have small weight. Who is that going in?" he added, just as
they reached the gates of the Hotel de Gondi, the court of which was
filled with guards and attendants--"I mean that stout, hard-featured
man, who walks forward with as consequential a step as if the throne
were his."
"By my honour, if it be not his to take," replied De Sancy, "it may be
his to give; for if he act heartily with the king, there is little
fear of the result. If he go over to the League, the clouds, which are
dark enough already, will grow deeper still over our heads. It is
Armand de Gontaut, Marechal de Biron. He is stopping to speak with the
officer on guard. I will see if I can learn his determination; for he
is so much in the hearts of the soldiers, that one half the army will
fall off if he fail us."
Thus saying, De Sancy advanced; and, with an air of some deference,
saluted Biron, who in return shook him warmly by the hand. He failed,
however, in his object of gaining any insight into the purposes of the
old soldier, though his questions were dexterously put. Whether at
that moment the Marshal had not yet determined upon any precise line
of conduct, or whether he hoped to gain greater advantages by
concealing his own views, he evaded De Sancy's enquiries; and then
said abruptly, "A great number of our friends are assembled already in
the lower hall to talk over all these affairs. If you are going to
them, I will walk in with you."
De Sancy replied that they were about to join the rest; and Biron,
after running his eyes with a glance of some attention and pleasure
over the fine and soldier-like person of St. Real, asked his companion
in a low voice who he was. De Sancy replied in the same tone; and the
Marshal rejoined in a louder voice, "Indeed, indeed!--I knew his
father too--I knew him well, in the time of my uncle, you know.
Monsieur de St. Real, I am glad to see you here, and I hope----" But
here their conversation was interrupted by an officer requiring them
to give up their swords, a ceremony which the two commanders seemed
prepared for, and with which St. Real, of course, complied without
opposition. De Biron then again turned towards St. Real, as if to
conclude his sentence; but ere he could speak, a young man, whom St.
Real had remarked with the King of Navarre as he rode into town that
morning, came up, and after shaking hands with Monsieur de Sancy, drew
Biron aside, whispered a word in his ear, and then passed on. The
Marshal smiled, and from this slight indication De Sancy drew a
favourable augury, saying to St. Real, ere the other rejoined them, "I
think from that smile all will go well. That young gentleman is Rosny,
an especial friend and adherent of his present Majesty."
By this time they had nearly reached the chamber in which the nobles
of France, with the body of their late monarch lying in a room not
very distant, and their lawful sovereign seated in the apartment
directly above them, were deliberating what use they should make of
the power which a foul and unjustifiable act of their common enemy had
thrown into their hands. The table at which they were placed was
nearly full, and Marshal Biron, with De Sancy and St. Real, placed
themselves in a group at the end next to the door; while the Duke of
Longueville, who was speaking when they entered, went on. He was a
young man of a handsome and prepossessing appearance; but his manner
was timid, and his elocution hesitating and difficult. He did not seem
so much to want ideas as words, and appeared even to want words more
from not having any confidence in himself, than from any other cause.
He expressed shortly and confusedly the determination of himself, and
of the little knot of princes and gentlemen by whom he was surrounded,
to acknowledge the title of Henry IV. to throne of France, and to
serve him with their whole souls, if he would renounce the Protestant
heresy, and reconcile himself to the church of Rome. If he refused to
do so, the Duke continued, it would be for the gentlemen, in whose
name he spoke, to consider whether they would not beg leave to retire
from his service.
Apparently not knowing how to wind up his speech, he was deviating
into one of those long and unmeaning tirades with which unskilful
orators often attempt to let themselves drop by degrees, when he was
suddenly interrupted by the Duke of Epernon, who said, somewhat
sharply, "In your offers of service, my lord Duke, I beg you to omit
my name. I have much to do on my own lands, and have borne arms long
enough."
"I will beg you to except me also," said the Count d'Aubin, who was
sitting near the Duke of Longueville, and rose to speak as soon as he
saw that Epernon had concluded. "I will not serve Henry King of
Navarre, and I trust that my reasons are good ones. As a Catholic, I
should think it treachery to my faith were I to attempt to establish a
heretic monarch upon the throne of this realm. Therefore, if the king
remains attached to the Huguenots, notwithstanding the eloquence of
Monsieur de Longueville, I cannot remain in his army; and if he be
suddenly converted by the arguments of my lord Duke, my faith in the
miracle will be too small to assure me that it will last. For myself,
gentlemen, I see no choice. If the king remain unchanged, he is a
heretic; were he to change suddenly, he would be a hypocrite; and in
neither case can I draw my sword in his behalf."
There was something sneering and bitter in the tone of the Count
d'Aubin, which, though it made the Duke of Longueville, and others of
the undecided party, hate him, and inclined them more than before to
the service of Henry IV. yet rendered others, even better disposed
towards the monarch, afraid to answer; and, for a moment there was a
pause. Seeing that no one spoke, however, St. Real took a step forward
to the table, and, without the slightest degree of hesitation,
addressed the assembly, while his name passed from mouth to mouth, and
many an enquiring ear was turned to hear what one of the simple St.
Reals would say, after the speech of the sarcastic Count d'Aubin.
"Gentlemen of France," he said, "my opinion, in many respects,
coincides with that of my cousin who has just spoken." D'Aubin, De
Sancy, and Biron, looked at him and each other in astonishment. "My
opinion," he repeated, "in many respects coincides with his; but, as
is very often the case with us, my conduct will be the direct reverse.
I think as he does, that to ask his Majesty to change his religion on
a sudden change of fortune, were to ask him to become a hypocrite; and
I should as soon think of requiring him to do so, in order to gain my
services, as he would think of requiring me to abandon my faith to
merit his favour. Let us be too just to do the one, and we may feel
sure that he is too just to do the other. The claims of his majesty,
King Henry IV. are known to us all. As the lineal descendant of St.
Louis, he is king of this realm of France, unless some of his acts
have been so black as to render him incapable of reigning. Now what
have his acts throughout life been up to this day, but noble,
generous, chivalrous, worthy to lead a nation of brave hearts upon the
path of honour? And shall we attempt to pry into his conscience? Shall
we demand that, by a sudden abjuration of his long-cherished belief,
he should stain that honour which he has ever held so pure and
spotless? The worst that the most zealous Catholic can apprehend--and
none is more zealous than I am--is that a Protestant monarch should
interfere with our faith. Let us not set him the example by
interfering with his, and take for a guarantee of his future conduct
the whole of his conduct that has gone before. We have, at this
moment, two claims upon us--the claims of our country and our
king,--both equally powerful on the hearts of Frenchmen, and happily
both in this instance leading us in the same direction. Our first duty
is to put an end to the factions which have torn this unhappy land,
and left her scarce a shadow of her former prosperity; to compel the
rebellious to submission, and teach the ambitious to limit their
expectations to their rights,--to bring back, in short, security, and
peace, and union to France. This can only be done by bending all our
energies to uphold the shaken throne, and with those good swords,
which have never yet been drawn in an unjust quarrel, to open a way
for our gallant and our rightful monarch to the seat and the power of
his ancestors. This, at least, is my determination; and I trust that I
shall see no one who aspires to honour during life, or glory after
death, fall from his duty at a moment when the safety of his country
and the throne of his king depend upon union, energy, and fidelity."
"Well spoken, on my soul," cried Gontaut de Biron. "Well spoken, on my
soul! And if all here present act up to it, the monarchy is safe!"
"That at least will I," rejoined De Sancy; "for I hold that to propose
any terms to his Majesty at this moment when--encompassed is we have
too fatally seen, by assassins, surrounded by difficulties and
dangers, and opposed by an ambitious faction--he comes unexpectedly to
a perilous throne, were base and ungenerous indeed. Let those who
will, join the party of the assassin; my voice and my sword are ready
for Henry IV."
The speech of De Sancy was followed by one of those slight murmurs
which betoken a vacillation of opinion in a popular assembly. Each man
looked in the face of his neighbour; some smiled and nodded to the
speaker, as if in approbation of what he had said; some frowned and
bit their lips; some whispered eagerly to the persons next whom they
sat; and the cheek of the Count d'Aubin, as De Sancy denominated the
League "the party of the assassin," grew as red as fire, while the
veins in his temple might be seen swelling out through his clear dark
skin.
There was a pause for a moment; but D'Aubin recovered himself quickly,
and said, "Methinks the three noble gentlemen who, not deigning to
take a seat amongst us, remain standing at the foot of the table, have
not come here to deliberate, but to announce their determination; and
if that determination were binding upon all the princes and nobles of
France, it would become us to submit and break up the council; but as
that is not exactly the case, I would propose that we should continue
our consultations, without yielding more than due weight to the veto
of Monsieur de Biron, the pithy sentences of the noble leader of the
Swiss, or to the speech of my worthy but somewhat inexperienced
cousin--a speech evidently got by heart."
"It is got by heart, Philip d'Aubin," replied St. Real, opposing to
the sarcastic sneer of the Count d'Aubin a look of calm and dignified
reproof. "It is got by heart; for it comes from my heart, and the
actions of my hand shall justify it. As to my inexperience, what you
say is true,--I am somewhat inexperienced; and I would thank God for
it, did I believe that experience would ever debase me to take
advantage of a noble monarch's utmost need either to dictate terms
which he could not comply without dishonour, or to abandon his cause
for a selfish motive or a weak pretext."
D'Aubin rose angrily from his seat, and, for a moment, it did seem
that everything like deliberation was to be merged in anger and
contention; but De Biron and the Dukes of Longueville and Epernon
interfered; and after, in some degree, restoring order, Monsieur
d'Epernon addressed the French nobles, and put an end to a meeting
from which no good could accrue. "Angry words, gentlemen," he said,
"can do no good, and are not at all required. We are not here to
determine any settled plan which is to be binding upon us all; but
each is as free as before to follow his own purposes and
determinations. However, as the communication of our various opinions
has produced some heat, I think it better that we should conclude a
discussion which seems to be fruitless. Let each of us follow his own
path. For my part, though I do not draw my sword against the king, yet
I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to fight the battles of an
excommunicated monarch against my brethren of the faith."
Thus saying, he rose; and beckoning one or two of those on whom he
could rely, into one corner of the hall, he entered into conversation
with them; while the same conduct was followed by various other
persons in different parts of the room.
St. Real and his companions, however, did not remain long to witness
this scene; for Marshal Biron laid his hand upon the arm of the young
noble, saying, "Come, Monsieur de St. Real; come, De Sancy! Let us to
the king. It is easy to see that he will need the consolation and
support of all that are faithful to him." Thus saying, he quitted the
chamber, followed by those to whom he spoke, and two or three others;
and, speaking a few words with one of the attendants, he was led on to
a large upper hall, where Henry IV. waited the result of the
deliberations which he was well aware were taking place around him;
the nature of which he knew, and the termination of which he feared,
but which he had no power to stop or to control.
Almost alone, with only two attendants of an inferior class stationed
at the door, he was walking up and down the room in evident agitation.
The moment he saw De Biron, however, he stopped, and gazed for a
moment anxiously in his face; but the Marshal advanced at once, and
throwing himself at the king's feet, kissed respectfully the hand that
he held out to him. Henry instantly took him in his arms, exclaiming,
"Rise, rise, Biron! Tell me what tidings you bear?" And at the same
time he extended his hand to St. Real and De Sancy, who knelt and
pressed it to their lips.
"The tidings I bear your Majesty from below," replied De Biron, "are,
I am afraid, not very satisfactory. Several, I fear, will fall off
from your Majesty, and several will be but lukewarm friends."
"That I expect," replied the king; "but if you, Biron, stand fast by
me, on your shoulder will I lean, and defy all the factions in France
to shake me."
"Thanks, sire, thanks!" replied De Biron, in his usual blunt tone. "Of
my fidelity and attachment your Majesty need have no doubt; and I
think," he added, "I think I can answer for the greater part of the
troops."
"Then we are safe!" cried the king. "Then we are safe! What with my
own forces, and those that you can bring me, Biron, the Swiss under
Monsieur de Sancy here, and the fresh troops of Maine promised me by
my young friend St. Real, I will not fear anything, even though
D'Aumont and his division go over to the enemy."
"I do not think he will, sire," replied Biron. "He is not the most
active of soldiers, but he is an honest and true-hearted man. De Rosny
told me but now that he was going to him, and I doubt not but, at the
first word, he will come to join your Majesty; but it might have been
better to have directed Rosny to speak with his officers, and bring
them over too, for D'Aumont will never think of it; and besides--"
"He has not the whole hearts of his soldiers, like Biron," added the
king. "I thought of it, my friend, I thought of it, and begged De
Rosny to see what could be done. But who have we here? Oh! our cousins
of Longueville and Nevers; and Monsieur d'O, too, whom we hope
speedily to replace in his government of Paris, which has been
ill-governed enough certainly since he left it."
As he spoke, a large body of French nobles, headed by the persons whom
he mentioned, entered the hall; and Monsieur de Biron and the others
who were with the king, forming a semicircle on either hand, the
gentlemen who had just arrived advanced, and one by one knelt and
kissed the monarch's hand. There was, however, a degree of gloom and
coldness in their countenances, which betokened no hearty wishes for
the welfare of him who had so suddenly been placed upon the throne.
When they had all saluted the king, Monsieur D'O, the titular governor
of Paris, advanced a step before the rest, and addressed the monarch
in the name of all. His tone was respectful, and his words well
chosen; but after proceeding to offer some faint congratulations to
the king on his accession to the throne, he stated that the fact of
his Majesty's adherence to the tenets of the Huguenots pained and
embarrassed many who were his faithful subjects and sincere
well-wishers; and then he proceeded boldly and unceremoniously to
propose that the monarch should reconcile himself to the Church of
Rome, and receive absolution for his past heresies, holding out but a
half-concealed threat, that if he did not comply with this sudden
proposal, the great body of the French nobles and princes of the blood
would be obliged to withdraw from the royal army.
Henry heard him patiently and calmly; though for a moment, while he
was making his somewhat extraordinary request, one of those gay and
brilliant smiles, with which his countenance was so familiar on
ordinary occasions, passed over the king's lip and chequered the
gravity of his attention. "My noble cousins and gentlemen," he said in
reply, "I confess myself not a little astonished to find that you, who
are so strongly attached to your religion, should think me so little
attached to mine. It is true my attachment is more a matter of habit
than perhaps of reason; for, living as I have lived in the tented
field, and spending the greater part of my time between the council
chamber and the battle plain, I have had no opportunity of hearing
discussed the merit of those questions which unhappily divide the one
church from the other. Nevertheless, I should think myself base,
and--what is more to the purpose on the present occasion--you also
would think me base, if for any worldly advantage I, unconvinced, were
to sacrifice the religion in which I have been brought up. That,
gentlemen, is impossible. But still I am not so foolish as to say that
I will never abandon what is called the Reformed Faith; for, on the
contrary, I will zealously and diligently investigate the merits of
the arguments on both sides; and, if my conscience will allow me, will
take those steps which I well know would be pleasing to the great
majority of my subjects. Nevertheless, this must be the work of
conviction, not of interest; and I tell you candidly, that I must
have, at least, six months to hear, and ponder, and judge, ere I can
give you any determinate answer as to what my ultimate conduct in
these respects will be. In the meanwhile, believe me, I love you all
as my children, and will serve and protect you as such to the utmost
of my power; and should there be any one amongst you who has the heart
to leave his king at the moment his king most needs his service, let
him go in peace, and not be afraid, for I will serve him still, as far
as may be, even against his will."
When the king ceased, there were one or two amongst the group of
nobles who looked as if they would fain have added something to the
speech of their orator; and it was evident the noble and dignified
manner in which Henry treated their absurd proposal was not without
effect upon any. Like all other bodies of men, however, there were
those amongst them destined to lead, and those only fitted to follow;
and the latter did not venture to act without the approbation of the
former. Bowing in silence then, the whole party retired, and were
immediately succeeded by the Baron de Rosny, afterwards famous as the
Duke of Sully, who approached with the Marechal d'Aumont. The latter
at once, and with graceful zeal in words and manner, tendered his
faith and homage to the king, and assured him that the officers under
his command would present themselves within an hour to swear
allegiance to their new monarch. He again was succeeded by another, in
whom St. Real instantly recognised the Duke d'Epernon, though he had
changed his garb within the last hour, and now appeared in deep
mourning.
The keen eye of Henry IV. at once read his purpose in the countenance
of the Duke; and, preventing him from kneeling, he said, "Pause, my
cousin, and think what you are about to do. We will excuse your
bending the knee to-day, if it be not to be bent tomorrow."
Though fantastic, and even effeminate in appearance, D'Epernon was
brave even to rashness, and by no means destitute of that calm and
dignified presence of mind which approaches near to greatness. Gravely
taking half a step back, he persisted in bending his knee, and kissed
the king's hand, replying, "My lord the king! your majesty's right to
the throne of France and to the homage of your subjects is
incontestable; and deeply do I regret that any circumstances,
religious or political, should lessen that zeal which the nobles of
France are so willing to display in behalf of their kings. But, to
avoid all subjects which it would be painful for your majesty to hear
and for me to speak, I come to crave leave to retire for a time to my
own lands, which have much need of their lord's presence. I am weary
of warfare, sire, somewhat anxious for repose, and my poor peasantry
require protection and assistance."
"Well, cousin of Epernon," replied the monarch, "if you be really
disposed to imitate the great Roman and hold the plough, my service
shall not detain you; but let me trust that you are not about to
reverse the scriptural prophecy, and turn the ploughshare into a sword
in favour of new friends."
"I need no sword, sire," replied the duke, "but that which I lately
proved beside your majesty at Tours; and be assured that if it be not
drawn in your service, it shall not be unsheathed against you."
"Well, well!" said the king, with a sigh, "so be it, if it must be so.
Fare you well, fair cousin of Epernon! and may the harvest you are
going to reap have fewer thorns than that which is before me, I fear!"
The duke bowed and withdrew; and Henry, turning to those who
surrounded him, proceeded with a sigh, "Let them go, gentlemen of
France, let them go," he said; "better a few firm friends, than a
discontented multitude. On you I repose my whole hopes; but we must
lose no time. My confidence in your judgment and in your affection is
unlimited; and therefore I send you forth amongst the mingled crowd of
friends and enemies which surrounds me in the camp, with no other
direction or command than this. Do the best you can for your king and
for your country. Rejoin me here again in the evening, to let me know
what has been done; by that time we shall have learned what troops
remain with us, and shall be able to determine upon our future
conduct."
All the king's immediate attendants now took their leave and withdrew.
Biron and D'Aumont proceeded instantly to their several quarters. De
Sancy set off to insure that there was no tampering with the Swiss
under his command; and St. Real, returning to his lodging, called his
attendants about him, and ordering a certain number to mount with
speed, prepared to go in person, in order to bring up more rapidly the
troops he had left near Senlis. In the hurry and agitation of the last
few hours, his personal situation had been forgotten; but as he was
just about to mount his horse, the appearance of his page, Leonard de
Monte, recalled to his mind both the events of the preceding evening
and his own determination of questioning the boy upon that knowledge
of his inmost thoughts which Leonard seemed by some means to have
obtained. He had no time, however, at the moment to pursue such a
purpose, and after commanding him to remain at the _auberge_ till he
returned, he inquired if the boy knew where the Count d'Aubin's forces
were quartered.
"They lie under the hill at the back of the park," replied the youth.
"Shall I show you the way?"
"Quick! get a horse, then, and come," said St. Real.
"I will run by your side, and be there ere a horse could be saddled,"
said the page. St. Real assented; and proceeding in the direction
which had been pointed out, he rode on, determined to make one last
effort to recall his cousin from a path which he firmly believed would
lead to dishonour.
When they had mounted the little hill, however, underneath which, as
the page had said, the Count d'Aubin's troops had been quartered,
nothing was to be seen in the meadow where their tents had lately
stood but one or two carts of the country, in which a small party of
soldiers were busily stowing the canvass dwellings wherein they had
lately made their abode, together with the spare arms and baggage of
the larger body of troops just gone.
As St. Real halted and gazed, the sound of a clarion at a little
distance struck his ear, and made him turn his eyes to the opposite
slope. Over the brow of the hill, upon the road which led towards
Paris, appeared horse and foot filing away with their arms glittering
in the summer sun; and the distance was not sufficiently great to
prevent St. Real from recognising the retainers of the house of Aubin,
joined to another body apparently little inferior in number. The step
thus taken by his cousin was too decided to admit a hope of change;
and bidding the boy, who was gazing steadfastly in the same direction,
return to St. Cloud, he resumed his own path, and rode on with all
speed towards Senlis.