A long summer's day was over, and nothing remained of its splendour
but a fading tint of purple in the deep blue sky; while Venus and the
moon came hand in hand together above the trees, as if to divide
between their bright but gentle rule the tranquil kingdom of the
night. The royal camp no longer sounded with the clang of arms or the
tramp of marching men; the man[oe]uvres for the day were over; and the
soldiery, quartered in the village of St. Cloud itself, had left the
streets vacant, while they sought consolation after all the labours
and exertions of the morning, in the gay evening meal and often
replenished flask. The body of the dead king lay--almost forgotten, by
those who had fed upon his bounty and encouraged his vices,--in the
house where the hand of the assassin had struck him; and lights were
just beginning to twinkle in the windows of the old chateau where the
new monarch had fixed his abode the night after his accession to the
tottering throne of France.
Such was the state of St. Cloud, when, on the third evening after the
death of Henry III. a party of horsemen paused at the gates of this
park, and, dismounting there, advanced towards the old palace on foot.
The guards at the gates saluted as the cavaliers passed; and Henry IV.
who walked a step before the rest, mused as he proceeded, leading the
way with a slow step, and sometimes gazing up thoughtfully at the blue
twilight sky, sometimes fixing his eyes upon the gravel of the path,
absorbed in deep and silent reverie. At length, turning to those who
accompanied him, he said, "Our arrangements, I think, are all now
complete, and we may begin our march to-morrow. I have to thank you,
Rosny, for Meulan; and you, St. Real, for as fine a body of men as
ever a loyal heart brought to the aid of a poor king. D'Aumont has, I
suppose, already marched to see what friends he can raise for us in
the east; but I much fear that our messenger has never reached our
worthy cousin, the Count de Soissons! However, it matters not, as, by
the reports from Normandy, we shall most likely change our plans.
Still I could wish, De Rosny, that you would write a few lines to the
Count, bidding him advance as fast as possible upon Mans, and then
regulate his movements by what he hears of ours; remembering, however,
that the great object is to bring me men and money as speedily as
possible. Let the letter be copied six times, and I will come and sign
each ere half-an-hour be over. Sent by six separate messengers, one of
these letters can scarcely fail to reach him. You, St. Real, look well
to your quarters; for these Leaguers must know by this time how much
our forces are diminished, and may strive for some advantage. Fare you
well! Good night! Quick! up to the chateau, Rosny, and take all these
others with you. I would fain have half-an-hour's quiet thought,
amidst these moonlight walks, where so many of my ancestors have
wandered, ere I quit them, perhaps for ever, after having been their
sovereign but for a day!"
"Were it not better, your Majesty," replied De Rosny, in a low voice,
"to keep a few of your attendants around you? Remember that the dagger
of the assassin found your predecessor in the midst of his army and
his court, and that treason has been so evident amongst those by whom
we are surrounded, that we cannot tell whose hand may next be armed
against his monarch's life."
"I fear not, De Rosny," replied Henry, "I fear not! If it be the will
of God that I fall, the weapon will find me in the midst of guards and
precautions, as easily as alone in the open field. Nor do fear the
treason you seem to apprehend. Our camp has lately been like a butt of
new made wine, in one general ferment, where all was troubled and
unpalatable; but that very ferment, I trust, has worked it clear, and
I would not be the man to fancy myself continually surrounded by
secret enemies--no, not if I could thereby spin out this mortal thread
for centuries beyond the length of ordinary lives! No, no! De Rosny, I
fear not, and I would be alone."
The last words were spoken in a tone that left no reply; and De Rosny,
beckoning to those who followed, walked on directly towards the
chateau, while Henry turned into one of the lateral alleys, down which
the moonlight was streaming in full effulgence. One or two of the
attendants lingered for a moment, as if still unwilling to leave the
king; but Henry waved his hand for them to depart, and then walked on.
There are periods in the life of every man, when so many events are
crowding into the short space of a few days, when such manifold calls
upon attention, and such deep and important interests for
consideration load the wings of every minute as it flies, that time is
wanting for the recollection, for the thought, for even the feeling,
of how the mighty changes which are going on around us affect our own
individual nature, and work upon our being and our fate. At those
periods, to every thinking and intellectual mind, comes a thirst and a
longing for even a brief space of calm reflection; and we gladly seize
the very first opportunity of withdrawing our thoughts from the
wearying necessity of directing our actions on the instant, and give
them up for a time to that consideration of remote prospects and
general feelings, which, after the energetic activity lately required
of us, is comparatively a state of tranquillity and repose.
Such had been, and such was the situation of Henry IV. Since the
assassination of the late king, scarcely an instant had passed without
some imperious demand for immediate exertion. Mighty and deep were the
interests involved; imminent and terrible were the perils that
surrounded him; and the consequences of every step that his foot trod,
in the rough and precipitous path before him, were not only destined
to affect himself as an individual, but to carry weal or woe to
thousands and tens of thousands; to change the fate of states and
kingdoms, and decide the destiny of generations yet unborn. His crown
and station for life, the security and fortune of his friends, the
power of recompensing those who served him, the right of chastising
the rebel, and of punishing the traitor; the means of restoring peace
to his rent and devastated country, the weal and welfare of his whole
people, hung trembling in the balance of every instant, and required
the exertion of all the energies with which God had blessed his great
and powerful mind for the direction of his feeling and generous heart.
The exertions of those energies had not been spared by Henry IV. He
had lost not a moment; he had neglected not an opportunity; he had
done more than mortal frame could well endure; and had taken from the
cares of empire not even the time for necessary refreshment and
repose. But now that the hurricane had in some measure passed by, that
the evil of the hour was accomplished, and that every means which
human sagacity could devise had been taken to remedy past misfortunes,
and to guard against future perils, he gave way to that longing thirst
for communion with his own heart, which the heat of the great storm of
difficulties and dangers he had undergone, and the fatigue of mighty
exertions, had left behind. Well, well might he think of that vast,
dim, misty prospect, the future! Well, well might he look around to
see, if beyond the rocks, and shoals, and tempests, which surrounded
him, he could perceive no calmer scene, no haven of repose, no gleam
of sunshine to light him on over the dark and troubled waters around
him! Well, well might he ask his own heart, if he could have courage,
and energy, and perseverance sufficient, to dare all the dangers, to
bear all the reverses, and again and again breast the waves which had
so often dashed him back against the rocks.
Such were his thoughts, such the matter of his contemplation, as, with
his eyes now bent on the ground, now raised towards the sky, he walked
slowly along one of the alleys of the old park of St. Cloud. But his
mind wandered far, and paused for a moment upon many of those
collateral associations to which his circumstances and situation gave
rise. He thought of the sorrows and cares of kingly lot, of the
ingratitude and baseness of mankind, of the hollowness and
heartlessness of courts, and of the selfishness and insincerity of
many of those who dwelt in them. He remembered the fate of his
immediate predecessor; betrayed by those whom he had favoured, driven
from his capital, and almost hurled from his throne by the friend and
companion of his youth,[3] opposed in arms by those whom his bounty
had fed and pampered, and murdered by the representative of an order
which he had loaded with benefits and degraded himself to serve. He
thought of what might be his own fate; and, judging from all the signs
that he saw around him, he argued, that the well of bitterness was but
freshly opened for him, and that his hand held a cup of sorrow whereof
he was destined to drink to the very last drop.
Then again, as he raised his eyes towards the beautiful planet which
was diffusing the flood of her tranquil light over field, and plain,
and wood, over armed camp and beleaguered city, as calmly and
tranquilly as if nothing but peace, and virtue, and happiness dwelt
beneath her beams, his mind reverted to his early days, when he had
seen the same effulgent rays pour through the mighty masses of his
native mountains, and stream down the lovely valleys in which he had
first learned to shoot his boyish arrows at the mark, to cast the
light line for the silver trout, or to pursue the swift-footed izzard
over the beetling crags: and as he thought of those sweet times and
happy hours, how he did long, with the deep yearnings of the
disappointed heart, to be able to cast away crown and sceptre, sword
and shield, the miseries of high station, the bitter wisdom of
manhood, and to sport again, a boy, with the happy carelessness of
other years, by the bright waters of the Gave, and amidst the lustrous
valleys of Ossau, Argelez, and Pau!
By this time he had nearly reached the end of the alley, where it
opened out upon a small lawn, over which, in the neglect of all things
that existed during the civil wars, the grass had grown up long and
rank; and he was preparing to return and bend his steps towards the
chateau, when a light rustling sound amongst the trees caught his
ear, and made him draw round his sword belt, till the hilt of his
well-tried weapon was within easy reach of his hand.
The next moment the cause of that sound stood before him, at the
distance of about ten paces; and the moon afforded quite sufficient
light to show the monarch that no fresh peril was near. The form was
that of a page, and the next moment Leonard de Monte advanced, and
cast himself upon his knee at Henry's feet. "Ha! my friend the page!"
cried the king; "I saw you yesterday, as I passed through the village,
and recognised you instantly; but had no time to speak. What would you
now, good youth?" and as he spoke he extended his hand towards him.
Leonard de Monte raised it to his lips, but still continued kneeling,
while he replied, "I crave a boon, sire. You may remember that I once,
not many moons since, led you in safety through more than one path of
danger; and you promised me then, that if ever I asked you a boon
consistent with your honour, you would grant it."
"And so I will, if it be possible," answered Henry; "though I have
granted you one boon already without your asking it; I mean that I
have kept your secret!" Leonard de Monte started up and drew a step
back; but the king continued, "Did you fancy I did not recollect you?
Ay! within five minutes after our first meeting: but never mind, and
do not fear; speak your boon boldly, and, if it be in my power, I will
not say nay; though, to tell the truth, within these three days I have
granted so much that I doubt if there be anything left in all France
to grant!"
"Mine will not be difficult, sire," replied the page; "it is but this,
that you will give me, under your royal hand, an order addressed to
all your lieutenants, officers, and seneschals, and to all persons, in
short, who hold you dear, to aid and help me with the whole of their
power whenever I shall call upon them; to protect me and all who are
with me in case of danger, and to give me every kind of information
and assistance which I may require for my personal safety."
"You ask a very high and unlimited power of command for a boy of your
age!" said the king, laughing; "but I think I may trust you; and yet,"
he added, in a graver tone, "such authority might be abused."
The boy again advanced and once more bent his knee, "Never by me,
sire!" he said; "and to think so for one moment, would be to do me
foul injustice. Born in a foreign land, and my own sovereign at least,
I cannot offer you allegiance; but I swear with truer intentions than
many of those who have vowed faith and service to you within these
three days, that I will never use the power I ask from you but for the
purposes of safety. I promise it upon my word--a word that was broken;
upon my honour--an honour that has never known a stain."
"You are an extraordinary being," said the king, "and I will do what
you ask without a doubt; but tell me," he added with a smile, "what
name shall I put in this general order? Shall it be Leonard de Monte,
or a nobler name?"
"Show me that you do really know me," answered the other, in a gayer
tone than he had hitherto used, "by writing the name you would fix
upon me in the letter."
"Do you think I have forgotten the conferences of Niort?" demanded
Henry; "no, no! I remember them well; and I recollect, too, that when
I pressed Madame de Saulnes somewhat hard to tell me what I was really
to expect from the court of that day, she told me to ask you, not her;
for that your habits were different; you never told a falsehood, and
she never told the truth!"
"But I told you nothing!" exclaimed the boy, eagerly.
"No, but you said plainly you would not!" answered the king, "and
therefore I trusted you with my life when last I met you; and will
trust you to the very utmost now. Come, let us go back to the castle."
As he spoke, he took the hand of the youth, who had again risen; but
Leonard de Monte instantly withdrew it, saying, "Perhaps I had better
send for the paper when your Majesty has had leisure to finish it."
"Good faith, you must take it now or never!" answered Henry: "but who
have we here?"
"'Tis but a page I sent to seek you at the chateau, sire," replied his
companion, "while I waited amongst the alleys for his return. I heard
your voice, however, as you dismissed your attendants, and followed
you hither."
"Ha, St. Real's dwarf, who met us in the wood!" cried the monarch, as
the page Bartholo approached, "Pardie! your schemes seem to have been
well and deeply laid; and yet there is a mystery which I cannot
altogether fathom; though I have been accustomed to deal with those
whose trade is deceit, till my eyes, I believe could well nigh
penetrate the nether millstone. You must some day let me into the
secret of all this."
"Perhaps I may, your Majesty," replied the youth; "that is, I may some
time give you the secret of my own conduct. The secret of my present
request, sire, is very soon told. I seek but to aid the oppressed, and
if your Majesty will listen to the tale, it shall be told as we go
along."
"Speak, speak!" replied the king; "we treat as crown to crown, you
know; and I must e'en take as much or as little of your confidence as
your diplomacy is pleased to offer. Speak! and if I can aid you, count
upon my help."
Leonard de Monte made a sign to Bartholo to draw back; and then
walking by the side of the king, with the ease of one accustomed to
courts and the society of princes, proceeded to tell the tale he had
mentioned, in a low voice, the tones of which scarcely reached the
dwarf's ear. It was evident, however, that the king soon became
interested; sometimes suddenly interrupting the soft melodious tones
in which the voice spoke, to ask some rapid question, sometimes
abruptly pausing to listen with greater attention, and then resuming
his walk towards the chateau. When they had nearly reached the gates,
the monarch again turned, exclaiming, "Marry her to St. Real!--Pardie!
that was not the consummation I expected."
"And why not, sire?" demanded the boy. "Wherefore should she not be
married to St. Real?"
"Why, certainly, I did not suppose you wished to marry her yourself!"
replied Henry, laughing. "You are very generous, however."
"Sire, your majesty mistakes me," replied Leonard de Monte in a grave
tone,--"mistakes me, my views, wishes, and purposes entirely."
"I perceive I do," replied the king, "and acknowledge you are more a
mystery to me than ever. However, this is all irrelevant to the matter
of deep interest which you have just told me, and to the shrewd but
daring plans which you have formed. On my honour," he added, "you have
a bold and generous heart, and, could we but get you to grow a little
taller, would make as good a knight as ever couched a lance. But let
us speak to the point. You must have my counsel and advice, for I have
been somewhat famous for _coups de main_ in my day;--be so good, Sir
Dwarf, as to put at least a hundred times your own length between your
steps and ours; we shall give you notice when we want your presence at
our conference." Thus saying, the king again entered the lateral
alley, in which he had first met Leonard de Monte, and dropping his
voice so as to confine the sense of his words to the ears for which
they were intended, he continued the conversation with rapid and eager
interest. Leonard de Monte frequently joined in; and, by the time they
reached the end of the walk, it seemed that their plans were fully
arranged; for, wheeling suddenly round, they returned with much
quicker steps towards the chateau, keeping silence also as they went,
till at length, when within a hundred yards of the terrace, Henry
burst into a loud laugh, exclaiming--"Ventre Saint Gris, 'twill be
worth half a province so to circumvent his slow Highness of Mayenne!"
He then led the way into the palace; and, bidding the dwarf wait in
the vestibule, proceeded to a small cabinet in which De Rosny,
together with a secretary, was busily engaged in writing the letters
before mentioned to the Count de Soissons. The grave and somewhat
formal Huguenot raised his eyes with some surprise to the handsome and
glittering youth who entered with the king, and to whose face and
person he was totally a stranger. Henry, however, without noticing his
astonishment, and seemingly entirely occupied by the thoughts to which
his late conversation had given rise, led the way on into a chamber
beyond, bidding the secretary bring him instantly materials for
writing. Then casting himself into a chair, he wrote with a rapid
hand, in the first place, the general letter, which the youth had
originally demanded, and then another longer epistle, which he folded
and sealed with his private signet.
"This," he said, handing the letter to Leonard de Monte, "this is to
be your last resource if other means fail; and I do not think, however
he may deny our authority, that our worthy cousin will neglect the
warning there given him. Nevertheless, try all other means first, and
forget not to give me instant information of the result; for even
should the beginning be successful, it may require some pains and some
power to render the end equally fortunate."
The boy, who had remained standing, took the papers; and kissing the
king's hand, with many thanks, retired from his presence. Passing
through the vestibule, he beckoned to the page to follow him, and,
with a rapid step, proceeded to the outward gates. Then taking his way
to the _auberge_, in which St. Real lodged, he entered the room in
which the young marquis was seated.
St. Real beckoned him to approach, saying, "I have sent for you twice,
Leonard."
"No one told me of it, sir," replied the boy, "and in fact no one
could, for I was absent till within this moment. But what are your
commands?"
"Come hither," said St. Real, with a smile, "and I will tell you." The
page approached; and the young lord marking some sort of impatience in
his countenance, for a few minutes played with his expectation as one
might do with the eagerness of a child.
At length, however, he asked more gravely----
"Do you remember, on the night of the king's death, you sang me a
song, and repeated me a proverb, which, together with your own words,
too well applied to myself to have been spoken accidentally? You
escaped me at the time; and since, I have not had an opportunity of
speaking with you on the subject. But now I must not only demand to
know how you have fathomed secrets which I thought confined to my own
bosom; but I must also require of you to tell me who and what you are,
for your language and your station are at variance, and I must have my
doubts satisfied."
"Sir," replied the boy, while first a playful smile, and then a look
almost approaching to sorrow, passed over his countenance, "with
regard to what I know of yourself, some day I may tell you how I know
it, but I cannot tell you now. In regard to what you ask concerning
myself, I can give you but one answer. Did you ever hear of beings
called fairies, who, for some particular motive of friendship or
regard, sometimes come down to do better than mortal service to a
chosen race, or a particular individual? If you have heard of such
beings--and who has not?--you must know, that the very first question
concerning their nature, or their fate, dissolves the spell that binds
them to the person they serve, and ends their term of service. Such,
sir, is the case with me. So long as you asked me no questions, I was
your willing page and humble attendant. Your curiosity has dissolved
the spell, and all I can do is, to bid you farewell, and to tell you,
that you will never see Leonard de Monte more."
Thus saying, he again darted out of the room, leaving St. Real
uncertain whether he spoke in jest or earnest. Determined, however, to
know more, the young nobleman started up, and opened the door, in
order to call the gay youth back, and question him farther. Bartholo
the dwarf was seated in the ante-room, together with another
attendant; and St. Real bade him instantly follow the page, and bring
him back. The dwarf stared for a moment, as if in astonishment at the
command; and then replied, that he knew not where to find Leonard, for
that he had seen him enter the room from which the young lord had just
come, but had not seen him return. The other attendant was in the same
story, and St. Real caused the boy to be sought for in vain.
The next morning, however, a greater defection was found amongst his
followers, which satisfactorily accounted to St. Real for the magical
disappearance of his page on the preceding night. The dwarf Bartholo,
and three of his ordinary attendants, were nowhere to be heard of;
but, by this time, the tampering of the Leaguers with every class of
persons in the royal camp was so great and notorious, that St. Real
was not at all surprised to find that five of his followers had been
induced to quit his service. The loss of Leonard de Monte, however, he
felt more than he could have anticipated from the short time the youth
had been in his service, and from the slightness of the duties
required at his hands; but, from the first moment he had seen him, the
young lord of St. Real had conceived an interest in his page which
every hour had increased. During his first deep sorrow for the loss of
his father, he had found the boy's attentions so soothing and well
judged, his sympathy apparently so deep and true, his few words of
consolation so mingling together sense and feeling, that he felt
gratitude towards him as well as regard; but there was something more
than all this. With all the boy's occasional boldness and daring,
there was blended a softness and a gentleness, which, together with
the apparent weakness of his slight frame, and a few traits of
timidity, approaching to cowardice, rendered him an object of that
tender care which always endears those in whose behalf it is
exercised. Thus, when St. Real found that the youth had really left
him, though he felt some slight degree of anger at a desertion which
he was conscious he had not deserved, he experienced no small desire
to know the former, and guide the future fate of Leonard de Monte.
Events, however, calling for frequent and vigorous exertion, were
multiplying so rapidly round his path, that he had but little time to
give to matters of more remote interest. He occasionally thought of
the youth, it is true, but more often grieved over the conduct of his
cousin, and never ceased to ponder, with bitterness of heart, on the
fate of Eugenie de Menancourt, and on his own feelings towards her.
But still every hour brought some claim upon his attention of a
different kind; and in the retreat of the royal army, which began two
days after his page had left him, he had scarcely time for any other
sensations than the anxiety and foresight attendant upon withdrawing a
small and ill-supplied body of men from the presence of a powerful
adversary.
It was in the midst of the arrangements incident to such a retreat,
that, at the first halting place on the march, Monsieur de Sancy came
into the small room in which St. Real was seated at Mantes,
exclaiming--"I have news for you, Monsieur de St. Real! Your cousin
has already secured the recompense at which he aimed in quitting us.
He was married last night to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, the rich
heiress of Maine. I have it from one who was in Paris at the time."
St. Real made no reply; but he turned so deadly pale, that De Sancy
could not but observe that something had gone amiss, and instantly
strove to turn the conversation into another channel.