If every minute event which took place in the beginning of August,
1589, was matter of importance to the inhabitants of Paris, a thousand
times more deep, intense, and thrilling than that experienced by any
other person, was the interest taken by Eugenie de Menancourt in all
that passed at that period. Her happiness, her misery for life, hung
upon the die which other hands were destined to throw; and without the
possibility of aiding herself in the slightest degree of changing the
fate that awaited her, or arresting its progress for a moment, she was
obliged to abide the unknown result in the power of people, whose
purposes she neither knew nor could control. Every rumour, every
sound, created some new sensation in her bosom. Every change, where
change was constant, either raised a momentary hope, or cast her back
into the depth of apprehension. The distant roar of the artillery, the
march of the troops through the streets, the galloping of messengers
and couriers, the military parade, even the processions of the clergy,
as they proceeded from shrine to shrine, petitioning for the aid of
God to support them in rebellion, and encourage them in assassination,
all agitated and alarmed her, till at length, her mind fell into that
state in which terror has so much the predominance, that every fresh
tidings are anticipated as tidings of sorrow. The news of the death of
the king, and the particulars of the manner in which that foul act was
perpetrated, struck her with horror and despair, as showing to what
length the men in whose hands she was placed dared to go in pursuit of
the objects of their party. Scarcely, however, had she time to think
over this event, when another, more deeply and personally painful to
herself, banished all other feelings but anxiety for her future
destiny.
One morning suddenly, the Count d'Aubin was announced, and, hardly
waiting to see whether his visit were or were not acceptable, he
followed the servant into her presence. The result of their meeting we
have already seen in his conference with Mayenne; but either vanity or
policy had induced him to distort the truth, when he had asserted that
Eugenie de Menancourt had shown the slightest symptom of vacillating
in her determination against him.
From his words and his manner, she had soon learned that he had joined
the party of the League, and that he considered all the authority and
influence of Mayenne at his command, in support of his suit towards
her; and perhaps the fear of irritating him, and driving him on to use
the power he possessed to the utmost, might make her more gentle in
her language, and less disposed to express the reprobation and dislike
she entertained towards him, than would have been the case had he
persisted in his pursuit under other circumstances. But Eugenie was
too noble, too candid, too sincere, to suffer him to believe, for one
moment, that her feelings would ever change towards him. She was
gentle, but she was firm; and D'Aubin, when he left her, was, perhaps,
the more mortified to find, from her calmness, as well as
determination, that she was influenced against him by no temporary
pique, by no fit of passion or indignation, as he had represented the
matter to others, and tried to regard it himself; but that positively
and certainly, he who had thought that her heart was at his command
whenever he chose to demand it, had never caused it to beat one pulse
more rapidly; that he had never been loved, and was now contemned and
disliked.
Although during his stay he had employed persuasion and entreaty, and
all the arts that none knew better how to use than himself, there had
still been in his tone that consciousness of power and authority which
alarmed Eugenie for the result; and with a trembling hand she wrote a
few words to the fair Beatrice of Ferrara, beseeching her to come to
her aid, determined as she was to risk any thing in order to escape
from her present situation. Fate, however, ever overrules our best
efforts; and, as if disdaining to cast away the greater exertions of
its almighty power to thwart our petty schemes, contents itself with
throwing some trifling stumbling-block in our way--some idle,
insignificant trifle, over which our pigmy plans fall prostrate in
their course. The servant whom Eugenie had charged with the delivery
of her note returned, and brought her word that Beatrice had gone out
on horseback to witness the movements of the Royalist army in their
retreat, an amusement worthy of her bold and fearless spirit. The
lady's attendants, however, had informed him, the servant said, that
she would be back long before nightfall; and Eugenie waited and
counted the anxious moments till the daylight waned, and the shadows
of evening fell over the earth.
"Beatrice must soon be here now," she thought; but moment after
moment, and hour after hour, went by, without the appearance of her
she waited for. At length, giving up hope for that night, and wearied
with wearing expectation, Eugenie retired to rest; but it was rest
broken by fears and anxieties; and early on the succeeding morning she
was up, and watching eagerly for the coming of her friend, whose bold
counsels and skilful aid might, she trusted, give her courage to
undertake, and power to execute, some plan for her own deliverance.
Watching from the large projecting window we have mentioned, she was
not long before she beheld one of the carved and gilded equipages of
the day turn into the court-yard of her own dwelling, and in a few
minutes after the door of the saloon was opened to give admission to a
visitor. But the countenance that presented itself was that of Madame
de Montpensier, not of Beatrice of Ferrara; and the heart of Eugenie
de Menancourt sunk at an occurence, which though not unusual, she felt
in the present instance could bode her no good.
The conversation which now took place may easily be divined, from the
conference between Mayenne and the Count d'Aubin. We shall therefore
not repeat it here, it being sufficient to say, that when about an
hour afterwards, D'Aubin himself entered the saloon, he found Madame
de Montpensier rising to depart, and Eugenie de Menancourt, with her
face buried in her hands, weeping in hopeless bitterness of heart.
Lifting her shoulders with an emphatic shrug, Madame de Montpensier
quitted the room in silence, and D'Aubin stood for a moment gazing
upon the fair unhappy girl whom his ungenerous pursuit had reduced to
such a state, with a variety of passions warring in his breast, in a
manner which it would be difficult to describe. After a brief pause,
Eugenie withdrew her hands from her face and turned her tearful eyes
upon him. As she looked, a sort of involuntary shudder passed over her
frame, and she again pressed her hands upon her eyes for one moment;
then, rising from her chair, she advanced direct to where he stood,
and cast herself upon her knees at his feet.
"Philip d'Aubin," she said, "you were once generous and kind of
heart:--nay, nay, hear me!" she continued, as he endeavoured to raise
her. "Hear me, I beseech you; for my happiness or misery--perhaps my
life or death--depend upon this moment."
"Mademoiselle de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin, "I can hear nothing, I
can attend to nothing, while you there remain in a posture unbecoming
to us both--for you to assume and for me to suffer. Rise, I entreat
you!"
"No, no!" she replied, clasping her hands earnestly. "I will not, I
cannot rise till you have heard me. Have I not used every other means?
have I not employed every other form of entreaty without avail? and I
now kneel at your feet to beseech you to spare yourself and me misery
interminable. I have told you, and with bitter regret have I been
obliged to tell you, that I cannot love you as woman should love her
husband; and I did not resolve to tell you so till I had struggled
with my own heart,--till I had combated all my own feelings,--in
order, if possible, to fulfil what had been a wish of my father. I
struggled, I combated in vain, Monsieur d'Aubin; for the more I did
so, the more I found that my peace of mind required me to take a
decided part,--that honour and justice towards you required me to tell
you that I could not, that I would not, be your wife. Why, why
persecute me thus, Monsieur d'Aubin?" she continued; "you do not love
me--you have never loved me; and, under such circumstances, how can
you expect me to love you? Why not turn to any of those who will not
only consider themselves as honoured by your suit, but who, much
better suited than I am to your views, your habits, and your feelings,
have it in their power to return your affection, and to meet you, as I
doubt not you deserve to be met, with love for love?"
"You mistake me altogether, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, raising her almost
forcibly, and leading her back to her seat; "I do love you; and I
trust that, though you doubt your own feelings at present, you will
find it not so difficult, when you are my wife, to feel towards me in
such a manner as to be happy yourself and to render me so."
"Do not deceive yourself, Monsieur d'Aubin!" exclaimed Eugenie. "I do
not doubt my own feelings! I am but too sure of them! I do not love
you, I cannot love you, any more than you love me; and if you persist
in your pursuit, you do it warned of what are my sentiments towards
you, and assured that those sentiments will but become more repugnant,
in proportion to the degree of constraint used towards me."
"Nay, nay," replied D'Aubin, willing as far as possible to use gentle
means, and try those powers of persuasion which he believed himself,
not unjustly, to possess; "nay, nay, dear Eugenie, you do me wrong
altogether; believe me, I do love you sincerely. I know that I have
acted foolishly, wrongly towards you; I know that, prompted by vanity,
and the gay and roving disposition of youth, flattered and courted,
idle, perhaps, conceited, I appeared to neglect and undervalue the
jewel that was offered to me in the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt.
But, believe me, dear Eugenie, that it was not that I failed to esteem
that jewel at its full and highest price; it was but that foolishly I
thought it my own beyond all risk. Consider in what school I had been
brought up,--consider the lightness and fickleness of all by whom I
was surrounded; forgive me the errors and the follies that are past
away for ever, and give me an opportunity of proving to you that they
are deeply regretted, and will never be renewed. My whole life, my
whole thoughts, my whole endeavours, shall be devoted to wipe out the
evil impression which a few acts of folly have left upon your mind;
and surely the unceasing devotion and tenderness of one who will never
forget that he wronged you, and that you forgave him, will be
sufficient to atone for errors which proceeded more from idle levity
than from evil purpose."
"Monsieur d'Aubin," said Eugenie, sadly, "I accuse you of nothing, I
blame you for nothing. What might have been my feelings towards you,
had your conduct been different towards me, I cannot tell--I cannot
even guess: but you greatly deceive yourself if you think that my
sentiments towards you originate in anger, or mortified vanity, or
wounded pride. I must be candid with you to the very utmost, and tell
you that I never felt towards you anything which could enable your
conduct to others to inflict one pang upon me. I have never loved you,
Monsieur d'Aubin, and the only effect of your behaviour has been to
teach me that I never can love you."
"You have inflicted upon me that mortifying reiteration, somewhat
often," replied D'Aubin; "and perhaps I am not wrong when I ask,
whether the want of love towards your promised husband in the past and
the present, has not originated in love for another?"
Eugenie's cheek crimsoned to a hue deeper than the rose; and something
between confusion and indignation kept her silent. D'Aubin drew his
own conclusions; but, strange to say, though those conclusions were as
bitter as well might be, they only added fire to the fierceness of his
pursuit. His cheek, however, reddened also; but it was with the
struggle of anger, and interest, pride and vanity; and he went on: "I
see I am right, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, and am sorry to see it.
Nevertheless, my confidence in you is such, that I entertain not the
slightest doubt, that however unwisely you may have entertained such
feelings hitherto, you will crush them with wise precaution, and bury
them in speedy oblivion, when you become my wife. Nor am I inclined to
resign my hopes of teaching you to change all such opinions by my own
conduct, and of bringing you to love me, when your duty shall be
engaged to second all my efforts."
Eugenie saw that her fate was determined, as far as the Count d'Aubin
had power to govern it. She saw that with him entreaties would be
ineffectual, and tears of no avail. Nothing then remained but
resolution; and although she knew not what protection the law of her
native land held out to one under her circumstances, and was too well
aware that in the city where she was detained, popular violence had
broken through all the restraints of society; yet she determined that
no weakness or want of energy on her own part should favour the
oppression to which she was subjected. As soon as she perceived that
the humble supplications to which she had descended fell as vainly
upon the ear of the Count d'Aubin as the song of the charmer upon the
deaf adder, her whole manner changed; and, assuming the same look of
unconquerable determination which he had put on towards her, she
replied, "My duty, Sir Count d'Aubin, will never either second or
prompt any efforts on my part to feel differently towards you than I
do now; for I never will be, and never can be, your wife. The arm of
power may drag me to the altar, and a mockery of religious service may
be read between us; but there, as here, my voice shall steadfastly
pronounce the same refusal; the ring, with which you think to wed me,
shall be trampled under my feet; no contract shall ever be signed by
me; and as long as I have strength to lift my voice, I will appeal
against the tyranny which oppresses me. Moreover, let me warn you,
that every step that you take forward in this brutal and ungentlemanly
course will but increase those feelings which you have this day
striven in vain to remove, till indifference becomes dislike, and
dislike grows into detestation."
"You will think better of this, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, surprised and
struck by energy and vehemence, such as he had never witnessed in her
before. "We are destined to be united, and be assured that nothing can
make a change in this arrangement. Let us not meet, then, at enmity.
You will think better of this."
"Never," replied Eugenie, "never! You have roused a spirit in my
bosom, Count d'Aubin, that you knew not existed there--that I knew not
myself till this hour. But I feel that it will bear me through
everything; and I tell you boldly, and at once, that I would
infinitely rather die, were death within my choice, this moment, than
be the wife of Philip d'Aubin."
D'Aubin bit his lip, and casting his eyes upon the ground, paused for
a moment in deep thought, his resolutions and purposes shaken by what
he had heard, and his mind once more undecided. "Tell me," he said at
length, "tell me, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, if by my application to
the Duke of Mayenne the ceremony of our marriage this night, which I
see has been announced to you by the Duchess de Montpensier, can be
put off to some later period, will you give me the hope, that after a
certain time, during which my conduct towards yourself, and towards
the world, shall be in every respect irreproachable, I may obtain your
hand, without doing that violence to your feelings, which it seems
would be the consequence of our present union?"
Eugenie turned deadly pale, under the emotion that she felt. The
words of the Count d'Aubin offered her the prospect of a temporary
relief--offered the means of obtaining invaluable time, during which a
thousand changes of circumstances might take place to free her from
the difficulties and dangers that surrounded her; but she asked
herself, how was this to be bought? By deceit, by the first deceit she
had ever been guilty of in life; and though many a casuist might
argue, and argue perhaps justly, that she had a right to oppose the
unjustifiable means employed against her, by any method in her power
to use, the heart of Eugenie de Menancourt was not one that could
admit such reasoning in regard to honesty and truth. She would not
have bought her life by deceit; and though perhaps in the present
instance she might feel that more than life itself was at stake, she
would not sacrifice her own good opinion even for that.
"No, Monsieur d'Aubin," she replied, after a long and agitated
pause--"No!--I will not deceive you. No time can change my opinion or
determination. I never can be your wife. If you will desist from your
present pursuit--if you will recollect the former generosity of your
sentiments--if you will consider your own honour, and my peace of
mind, and set me free from this persecution, you will merit and obtain
my deepest gratitude, my thanks, and my admiration; but, Philip
d'Aubin, you never can have more."
"Then you seal your own fate, Eugenie de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin,
"and things must take their course, as already arranged. Yet think not
that this arrangement has been planned solely to gratify me. Other and
more important interests are involved therein, and you will see by
this note from the Duke of Mayenne, that motives of state necessity
compel both him and me to abridge that ceremonious delicacy which
otherwise would have been extended towards you."
Eugenie took the paper, and tried to read it over; but agitation and
apprehension caused the letters to dance before her eyes, and she only
gathered the general import, and saw that as far as Mayenne and the
Count d'Aubin had power, her fate was sealed indeed. Although her
resolution remained in full force, and her mind was as unconquered as
ever, she felt that her bodily powers were failing her; and fearful
that Aubin should see how much she was overcome, as well as anxious
for a few hours of uninterrupted thought, she waved her hand for him
to leave her.
"Not one word more?" he said, advancing as if to take her hand. "Not
one word more?"
"No," replied Eugenie, shrinking back from him with involuntary
horror. "No, I have nothing more to say."
D'Aubin turned on his heel, mortified to the very heart by the
personal dislike which he marked with the keen eyes of wounded vanity:
and without another word, left Eugenie to solitude, and to feelings
very nearly akin to despair.