When Eugenie de Menancourt, slowly and painfully, returned to
consciousness of life and sorrow, she found herself in the saloon in
which she usually sat, and in the arms of her own women. Gazing
fearfully around, she sought to discover where the forms of those who
so lately surrounded her were now concealed; and as she satisfied
herself that there was no one present but her own attendants, her
bewildered imagination almost led her to hope, that the terrible
scenes she had gone through were nothing but the phantasms of some
horrible dream. Gradually, however, memory recalled every circumstance
with too painful a degree of accuracy to admit of her indulging any
longer in such a happy delusion; and now, unrestrained by the presence
of any but those whom she knew and loved, she gave way to all the
bitter sorrow that swelled her heart, and burst into a long and silent
flood of tears. The tears seemed to relieve her; but the words which
one of her young attendants whispered in her ear tended more than all
to afford consolation, and to revive almost extinguished hope.
"Do not weep so bitterly, lady, do not weep so bitterly," said the
girl. "He is gone, and may not return for months!"
"Who is gone?" exclaimed Eugenie, starting up, and hurriedly wiping
the tears from her eyes, that she might gaze the more intently upon
the speaker. "Who is gone? Who may not return for months?"
"The Count d'Aubin, lady," replied the girl. "Madame de Montpensier
bade me tell you so, and gave me this note to be delivered to you,
when you were well enough to read it."
"Give it to me--give it to me now," cried Eugenie; and tearing it
open, she held it to the light, gazing with eager eyes upon the
contents. It was very brief, but almost every word spoke comfort, for
they went to inform her that the Count d'Aubin, on business of
importance, had been obliged to set off for Maine; that the period of
his return was not decided, but that it certainly could not take place
before the end of the month, while it might be delayed longer; and
though the conclusion of the letter went to say, that both the Duke of
Mayenne and Madame de Montpensier trusted that, ere the Count's
return, Mademoiselle de Menancourt would have made up her mind to
receive him as her husband, and to sign the formal contract of
marriage, yet the intelligence of his absence was a reprieve; and
imagination fondly clinging to the uncertainty of the future, at once
renewed hope in her bosom.
With hope came back the spirit of exertion which had been crushed
beneath despair. Dropping the note upon the table, as the lightning
progress of thought ran on in an instant from one object to another,
she clasped her hands, exclaiming, "Where, where! can Beatrice of
Ferrara be? She must be ill, or she would have come to me, I am sure."
"Shall we send, and see, lady?" demanded one of the women.
"Yes, yes! do so," replied Eugenie, "and leave me alone for half an
hour; I would fain think--I would fain consider what is best to be
done! I am better, indeed I am better now," she added, seeing the
women look at her with some hesitation. "Stay in the ante-room, and I
will call, if I want you."
The women obeyed; and Eugenie, leaning on the table, covered her eyes
with her hands, and remained endeavouring to reduce, to some definite
and feasible plan, the vague hopes of relief which she had again
conceived. But the effects of the agitation she had suffered still
remained, and she found it impossible to fix her thoughts upon the
future, so perseveringly did they wander back to the past.
In this state, she had continued about five or ten minutes, when the
sound of creaking hinges made her raise her eyes. The door which led
into the ante-room was shut, as well as that which gave egress, at
once, upon the staircase; but on the other side of the room there was
another door, which communicated with an unoccupied part of the house,
looking into a back street which led away towards the Faubourg St.
Antoine; and when Eugenie turned her eyes in that direction, she
started up with surprise, and some degree of alarm, on perceiving it
gently and slowly drawn back. Remembering, however, that her
attendants were in the ante-room, she paused, to see what would be the
result, suppressing the exclamation which had nearly burst from her
lips.
The sight that the open door presented, when farther drawn back, was
certainly one which in no degree diminished her surprise, but at the
same time added nothing to her alarm; for the person who opened it was
alone; nor was he one whose appearance was calculated to inspire
terror. It was the figure of a youth, apparently not more than fifteen
years of age, that now presented itself, carrying a lamp in one hand,
and unclosing the door with the other. His dress was of the gay and
splendid costume of the court of Henry III. and from under his
high-crowned beaver, and its manifold ostrich feathers, the bright and
glossy curls of his coal-black hair fell round as handsome a face as
ever was beheld. A large cloak was wrapped about his arm, and
riding-boots pushed down to the ankles, as was then customary, seemed
to indicate that he either came from or was bound upon a journey; and
as Eugenie gazed upon him, she concluded at once that he was some page
attached to the Count d'Aubin, who, sent with some message or letter
ere his lord's departure, had either by accident or design passed by
that part of the dwelling which was for the time out of use. As soon
as this conviction struck her, she rose to call in her women, but the
youth held up his hand with a gesture which was easily interpreted
into an entreaty to be silent; and Eugenie again paused, saying in a
low tone, "What do you seek here, sir? Do not advance, or I must call
my servants!"
The youth, however, did still advance, but with an air of deprecation
and gentleness, that took away all fear; and when, within a step, he
placed the lamp on the table, and bent one knee to the ground, Eugenie
gazed upon him with doubt and astonishment; but a confused and
uncertain hope began to take possession of her mind, as the boy raised
her hand to his lips, and then, as he glided his arms round her waist,
and, with the jetty curls of his hair mingling with her light-brown
locks, kissed her tenderly on either cheek, the fair girl's face
dropped upon her new companion's shoulder, and with a flood of tears
she exclaimed, "Oh! Beatrice, Beatrice! why did you not come sooner?"
"I did come sooner," replied Beatrice of Ferrara--or Leonard de Monte,
as the reader will,--"I did come sooner, my dear Eugenie. I did come
sooner! and have been in these apartments all the evening, directing
everything that has passed in all this sad scene, though those who
were actors therein knew nothing of the prompter. I could not come to
console you, my Eugenie, nor to give you one word of comfort and
assurance, lest I should be discovered by all the spies and messengers
who were going to and fro about this house during the whole of
yesterday; but I arranged the only means of saving you, and, making my
way into the house by the back street, watched till I saw my plan
executed, and then came to bear you away to a place of greater
security."
"But, alas, alas! your plan has failed," replied Eugenie. "The fatal
ring has been upon my finger."
"Fear not! fear not!" replied Beatrice, with a smile. "That ring binds
you to nothing, Eugenie. Such a marriage is lawful in no land under
the sun; and I took care that there should be plenty of witnesses to
prove, hereafter, that your consent was refused to the last."
"I know," replied Eugenie, "I know that such a marriage cannot be
legal; and I would sooner die than ever render it so. But still,
Beatrice, still a ceremony has taken place; and though I will not be
his wife, yet I can never, never feel myself free again!"
"Yes, yes, you can," replied Beatrice, with one of her gay smiles;
"yes, you can be free as ever to give this fair hand to any one in the
wide world you choose."
Eugenie shook her head; but Beatrice drew her arms closer around her,
saying, "Well, well, you little infidel, if you will not believe me
without farther proof, hear the secret of it all--but I dare not speak
it aloud, lest the very spirits of the air should catch it, ere the
poor man get back to the Huguenot camp; for they would burn him alive
in the Place de Greve, if they caught him; and the two thousand
pistoles which bribed him to the adventure would be but cold comfort
in the midst of the flames;" and putting her lips close to Eugenie's
ear, she whispered one or two words in a tone so low, that
Mademoiselle de Menancourt herself might rather be said to divine
their meaning than to hear them distinctly. That she understood them
fully, however, was evident; for the light of joy instantly broke over
her countenance; and clasping her hands together, while she raised her
eyes towards heaven, she exclaimed, "Then I am saved indeed!"
At that moment, the door from the ante-room suddenly opened, and
Beatrice started up from the position in which she had remained ever
since her first entrance into the room, while Eugenie turned a
terrified glance towards the door. It was only one of her women,
however, who entered; and, contrary to her mistress's expectations,
she evinced no surprise at the sight of Beatrice of Ferrara, disguised
in the manner we have described.
"She knows it all, Eugenie," said Beatrice, "for it was by her means I
obtained admission."
"I suppose, madam," said the waiting-woman, with a smile, "that I need
scarcely tell you that Jean Baptiste has returned, with the news that
Mademoiselle de Ferrara is still absent from home, and is not expected
for many days."
"But why did you not tell me, Caroline," demanded Eugenie, "that she
was here? It would have saved me many a miserable moment. If I had
known that she was in this house, I should never have lost hope that
all would go right."
"But it was impossible to tell you, lady," replied the waiting-woman;
"for the Duchess de Montpensier sent us all away; and after she was
gone, I could not say what I knew, because your other women were with
you."
"Well, well," said Beatrice, "we have matters of more importance to
think of now, Eugenie: we will keep all explanations for an aftertime,
when you and I, in some little cottage, far away from these scenes of
strife, want conversation to pass away the hours till the storm has
worked itself out, and the sky is once more clear. And now, sweet sister
of my heart, call up all your courage, summon all your resolution, for
we must lose no time, but make the best of our way out of this hateful
city. Ere to-morrow morning be two hours' old, Mayenne will have
discovered that he has been cheated; and though Philip d'Aubin be by
that time beyond recall, his Highness the lieutenant-general, and the
Holy League, even if they find not out all the windings of our plot,
will take such measures for your security, that all after efforts will
be vain."
"Oh! I will do anything! I will fly anywhere!" replied Eugenie. "I
have courage, I have resolution for any effort. The worst that can
befall me is death; and I would rather die a thousand times than be
the bride of Philip d'Aubin."
Beatrice smiled, half sorrowfully, half playfully. "He is not reputed,
my fair Eugenie," she said, "to be so very hateful, as you seem to
think."
Eugenie blushed deeply, pained to believe that her undisguised
abhorrence of the Count d'Aubin might have wounded the feelings of one
whom she loved so much as Beatrice of Ferrara--one who, she well knew,
was not indifferent to the man whom she herself so deeply detested. "I
mean not to say that he is so hateful in himself, Beatrice," she
replied; "but has not he given me good reason to hate him? Perhaps I
might have loved him, too, if--"
"If you had not loved another," interrupted Beatrice, with a smile.
"But we have not time for all that either," she added; "and will talk
of it, too, another day. At this moment we have other things on hand.
You, my good Caroline, bring your mistress some refreshments quickly;
but take care that no one else enters while you are gone."
"Indeed, Beatrice, I need no refreshment," said Eugenie, rising. "Joy
at my deliverance, and hope for the future, will give me strength and
support to go any length of way; and I am ready, quite ready, to set
out directly."
Beatrice smiled. "I will command to-day," she said; "Caroline, do as I
bid you! Alas, my poor Eugenie, you have much to do, ere you can set
out, for the danger lies at our threshold; and when once I have led
you twenty yards in safety from the door of this house, I shall think
the battle half won at least."
"What, then, is it that you fear?" demanded Eugenie, eagerly.
"Delay, above all things!" answered Beatrice; "for though, I trust,
our plot has been too well laid to be discovered immediately, yet
there is always danger where there is anything concealed. First, then,
Eugenie, you must change your dress, and take such a one as will most
completely disguise you, should you be sought for more speedily than
we suppose."
"I know not where to find any dress but my own," replied Eugenie.
"What dress would you have me to take, Beatrice?--Though, now I think
of it," she added suddenly; "one of my maids has her own country
costume with her,--a white petticoat, and a red open gown above it,
with----"
"Impossible! impossible!" exclaimed Beatrice. "It would betray you at
once. Remember, my dear Eugenie, that I go with you; and though in the
streets of Paris they might but think that the gay page was deceiving
the country girl with a tale of love, that would not do beyond the
gates. I once thought of a nun's dress for you, which would do very
well in the city also; but one must care for other things than those
of the mere present; and recollect that if I, dressed as a bold youth,
and you, dressed as a pretty nun, were seen getting into either coach
or litter together, we should have the ecclesiastical officers at our
heels. No, no, Eugenie! we must have some dress for you which will
neither attract attention in the city, nor beyond the walls; which
will tell its own tale, and, by sparing all inquiries, conceal our sex
and character without an effort."
"Oh, not a man's dress!" exclaimed Eugenie, imploringly.
"None other, indeed!" answered Beatrice, smiling; "but knowing the
timid shyness of that heart which pretends to be so bold, I have
chosen one for you, Eugenie, which will hide your person as
effectually as the fullest robe that ever woman wore, which will
accord with a smooth cheek and a demure look, and which will yet admit
of your travelling in company with a bold page. Come and see! for I
have brought it here along with me."
Thus saying, Beatrice of Ferrara took her hand, and led her through
the same passage by which she herself had entered, to a room wherein
she had lain concealed during the time that the other apartments were
occupied by the party assembled for that sad bridal. There, on one of
the old oaken chairs, lay the robes of a young abbé in complete
costume; not such as that costume appeared in after years, when the
gradual blending of the dress of different orders permitted the
aspirants to ecclesiastical stations to assume habiliments only
distinguished from those of the laity by colour; but full, ample, and
flowing, and offering to Eugenie that modest concealment for her fair
form, to which even she, under existing circumstances, could not
object. Deeply sensible of the kind and delicate appreciation of all
her feelings, which Beatrice--whose wilder and more daring nature
scoffed at such scruples in her own instance--had displayed in this
choice of her disguise, Eugenie was eagerly thanking her for all her
consideration; but her friend cut her short, to hasten her new and
unusual toilet, taking care, however, as indeed she had hitherto done,
to avoid, even by any eager hurry, alarming her more timid companion
in the outset of their perilous undertaking.
The dress, chosen by an experienced eye, fitted admirably in every
respect, with the exception of the shoes, which were far too large for
Eugenie's small feet. The robe, however, was sufficiently long to
conceal this defect, in a great degree; and, when all was complete,
Beatrice gazed over the changed appearance of her fair friend with a
smile of gay satisfaction.
"Well, Eugenie," she exclaimed, "certainly you are the prettiest
little abbé that ever was seen; but, nevertheless, you will do
admirably. Only remember not to uncover your head, for your ringlets
will betray you. See how I manage mine! I can pull off my hat without
fear; cannot you do the same? Only cut off those two lower curls at
the side; they will grow again in a month."
"I will cut them off altogether, with all my heart," answered Eugenie.
But her friend assured her that such a sacrifice of her bright locks
was not necessary; and showing her how she herself contrived to
conceal in one mass her own profusion of dark hair, she soon put that
of Mademoiselle de Menancourt into the same form, but still bade her
uncover her head as little as possible, lest the want of all tonsure
should call attention, and betray her disguise.
"And now, Eugenie, take some refreshment," said Beatrice; "meat to
give you strength,--for you may have far to walk ere morning--and wine
to give you courage; for, after all, I doubt the resolution of that
little heart; and depend upon it, that the only sure means of carrying
through a great undertaking is to begin boldly, and go on without
stopping. But I hear your girl, Caroline, in the other room; she had
better bring the refreshments in here, lest we should be interrupted."
Beatrice, accordingly, called the maid in; and not small was the
girl's astonishment to behold the transformation that had taken place
in the person of her mistress during her short absence. Beatrice,
however, suffered no exclamations; and while Eugenie, whose appetite
had not been increased by all the events of the night, took what
refreshment she could, her friend proceeded to give directions to the
_suivante_ concerning the course that was to be pursued after her
mistress's departure.
"In case any one returns to the house to-night," she said, "seeking
the priest, all you have to reply is, that you know nothing about him,
and that your mistress is in her own chamber in deep grief. I do not
think, however, that any one will come; and, in that case, by eight
o'clock to-morrow--for Mayenne does not rise before--go yourself to
Madame de Montpensier, and with a grave and serious face ask to see
your mistress, adding, before she can answer you that you have brought
her such apparel as she may stand in need of for the morning. Mind,
you must not move a muscle of your face! She will instantly be all
astonishment, and ask if you are mad; then tell her that, about this
hour to-night, a gay page and a young abbé came here saying, that they
brought a letter from her Highness, and took your mistress away with
them, as if to the Hotel de Guise, to which place you were directed to
bring various things the next morning. Will not that do Eugenie?" she
continued, turning to her friend, "and am I not fit to be a general of
reitters?"
Eugenie smiled, but replied, "Suppose they do not believe her,
Beatrice, and send to examine the other servants?"
"Oh! I am prepared for all that," replied Beatrice. "As soon as ever
we are gone, send the women to bed, good Caroline, and dispatch the
greater part of the men upon different errands: you can direct two of
them to my house, bidding them wait till my return. One you can send
to the Count d'Aubin's, to inquire whether he has really set out for
Maine; and while these are gone, explain yourself to those whom you
can best trust amongst the others, telling them simply, that if any
inquiries are made, they have merely to keep to the same story about
the abbé and the page which you are going to tell."
"But suppose we are asked to describe the abbé and the page, lady,
what are we to do then?" demanded the woman.
"Why, describe them, to be sure," replied Beatrice. "Here we are, take
an exact picture of us. You cannot do better; and if you say, that
your mistress went away in our company, you will but say the truth.
Now I bethink me, you may as well add, that you think you have seen
the page somewhere before, and rather believe that he is in the
service of the Count d'Aubin--which is true too, Eugenie, when all
things are wisely considered, though we are serving him against his
will. But now, my pretty abbé--I shall call you Eugene for the
future--we must lose no more time. Run down, Caroline, and see that
the door at the foot of the back stairs is open, and give a glance
round the court-yard, to make sure that it is clear."
The girl, with a ready promptitude in man[oe]uvring, for which French
_soubrettes_ are not unjustly famed, required no farther explanations,
having that internal consciousness of great resources of intrigue,
which rendered her quite confident of being able to make up a new
story, or to mend the old one for the occasion, in case anything in
Beatrice's plan went wrong. Tripping away then through the unused
apartments, to the back staircase that led out into the court, she
descended to the bottom, and gently unclosing the door, to the extent
of about a hand's breadth, closed it again as quietly, and returned to
the two ladies with the unpleasant tidings, that all the male
attendants belonging to the house were standing under the arch of the
_porte-cochère_, apparently talking over the events of the evening.
"Get ye down then, Caroline, to the _maître de hôtel_," cried
Beatrice; "bid him express your mistress's thanks to the honest
fellows for their attachment; and tell him, in her name, to call them
into some room, where their voices will not be heard by the spies of
the League, and to give them each a bottle of the best Burgundy, to
drink to their lady's health and deliverance, and confusion to her
enemies and persecutors."
With a smile at the lady's readiness and resources, the _soubrette_
ran off to obey; and in a few minutes returned with the better news,
that all the men were safely housed, with bottles before them which
would occupy them for some time. Beatrice then drew Eugenie's arm
through her own, and led the way towards the staircase, followed by
the _suivante_, for the purpose of closing the doors behind them.
Eugenie felt that her happiness for life was at stake; that she was
taking the only means to save herself from oppression, persecution,
and, in all probability, ultimate misery. She felt that the object was
worth any exertion; that if ever she displayed energy, resolution, and
courage, this was the moment in which they were all most needed: and
yet it were vain to say, that her heart did not palpitate; that her
knees did not shake; and that her trembling hand did not feel like a
piece of ice, even in the midst of a hot and sultry night of August.
Beatrice perceived her agitation; and, though her own firm heart did
not share in her friend's terrors, she felt for her deeply, and
endeavoured to support her by every means in her power. "Fear not,
dear Eugenie!" she said, "fear not! Be assured that ere I came hither,
I took every means to ensure success; and that we shall not pass along
two hundred yards of the way without finding some one stationed by me
to aid and protect us in case of need. I have spared neither gold nor
thought, Eugenie; and, in this world, gold, and thought, and courage,
will do everything; so there wants nothing but the courage, my fair
friend, and that you must try to have."
"I will! I will!" whispered Eugenie in return. "But, indeed, Beatrice,
I cannot but find it terrible to go out thus alone into the streets of
a strange, turbulent, vicious city, in the dress of a different sex,
and with no one but another girl to guide and protect me!"
"Not terrible at all," replied Beatrice. "It is but what many a gay
light heart would do for a jest, and many a base heart for a worse
purpose. It is only on account of the great stake we are playing for,
that you feel terrified, Eugenie; but that, on the contrary, should
give you courage."
By this time they had reached the top of the back staircase, the
narrowness of which obliged them to descend one by one. Beatrice,
holding the lamp, led the way, and Eugenie followed. At the bottom of
the stairs, the fair Italian, telling the maid who accompanied them
that she must find her way back in the dark, blew out the light, and
gently unclosed the door. The moment she did so, the summer air rushed
in; and though it was as soft and warm as the breath of southern
spring, it felt chill to Eugenie's cheek, while the rolling sound of
carriage-wheels, in some distant street, made her shrink back upon the
maid as if she were already detected. Beatrice glanced her eye quickly
around the court, and seeing that it was vacant, took Eugenie's hand
to lead her on. The maid, at the same time, feeling sure that her
mistress would gain more courage as soon as all means of retreat were
cut off, kissed her affectionately on either cheek, by way of
leave-taking, and gently supported her forward till she was actually in
the court, then suddenly closed the door; and Eugenie heard the lock
turn within. For a moment her heart sunk; but making a great effort,
and recalling the image of the Count d'Aubin, she hurried forward with
Beatrice across the court to a small door which opened into the back
street.
When one is in haste there is always some impediment. The door was
locked, and though the key was in it, it fell out of Beatrice's hand
as she attempted to turn it, and rattled on the pavement. Some moments
passed ere it could be found again, during which time Eugenie's
courage waned fast. At length, however, the key was recovered, and
placed in the lock, but ere the door was opened, some one rang the
bell at the front gate. Eugenie felt as if her fate was sealed, and
clung to the doorway for support. Luckily, however, no servant loves
to obey the summons of a bell; and Eugenie's attendants, happy in
their Burgundy, resolved that the visitor should ring again. Ere that
occurred, Beatrice, with a steady hand, had turned the lock, the door
opened; and springing through after her friend, Eugenie de Menancourt
stood in the streets of Paris.