The night was dull and rainy; a thick shroud of clouds was drawn over
the sky, so that the summer moon could not look down with any of her
sweet smiles upon her wandering companion through the blue fields of
space; and the air was loaded with a foggy dampness, through which
fell a few drops, increased every now and then to a momentary shower,
heavy, but brief. The valley of the Seine was dark and gloomy, and the
night was so obscure, that nothing met the eye of the coachman who
drove the carriage containing Beatrice of Ferrara and her fair friend,
except the glistening of the river as it wound along not far from the
road, and the dull and somewhat indistinct line of the highway itself,
which, bad and sandy at all times, was now, as we have already said,
channelled and cut up by the passage of heavy carts and still heavier
artillery.
The second day after their flight from Paris was now drawing to its
close. Beatrice, from hearing that some of the troops of the League
had been hovering about in the neighbourhood of the Pont de l'Arche,
had kept quiet during the latter part of the day, in a farm-house,
where they had sought refreshment at noon, for themselves and horses,
and was now proceeding as rapidly as possible on the high road,
believing that the parties of the Union would not expose themselves to
the sudden and brilliant strokes of so active a commander as Henri
Quatre, by following his march too closely during the night. Eugenie,
on her part, though habit and distance from her immediate persecutors
had removed part of the load from her mind, was still agitated by many
a fear; and her terrors were not a little increased by proceeding in
the darkness over a road, the roughness of which, and the jolts
thereby occasioned, precluded all possibility of conversation.
Beatrice could but speak a word of comfort every now and then, which
Eugenie could scarcely hear, as the carriage ground its way through
the sand, or rattled over the large uneven stones. Thus had the two
fair girls proceeded for nearly two hours, in the darkness, when a cry
of, "Who goes there? Stand! Give the word!" brought the carriage to a
sudden stop, and roused all Eugenie's fears again to the highest
pitch. The lackey, who sat beside the coachman, jumped down, and went
on to speak with the soldier who had challenged him; and old Joachim,
who sat in the leathern projection at the side not unaptly called the
boot, got out, and went on also.
"Oh! Beatrice, what is this?" cried Eugenie, drawing nearer to her
friend in her increasing terror.
"Call me Leonard," replied Beatrice, in a gay tone; "call me Leonard!
till I have got off my boy's clothes at least. What is this, do you
ask, little timid fawn. Why nothing but the outpost of King Henry.
They will let us pass in a minute."
At that moment Joachim returned, and approached the side of the
carriage next to Beatrice, saying, "This is his Majesty's outpost,
sir, commanded by the Marquis of St. Real; and they demand to examine
who are in the carriage before they let it pass."
"Oh, he will know me directly!" whispered Eugenie to her fair
companion; "I would not have him see me in this garb, Beatrice, for
the world!"
"He will not examine the carriage himself, sweet girl," replied her
companion in the same low tone; "he will know nothing about it. Some
of his ancients or lieutenants have their orders for the night, of
course."
"But we cannot go much farther to-night," rejoined Eugenie; "and we
shall be to-morrow in the midst of his troops. Oh, Beatrice, do not!
If I should be found there, the people would say I had followed him."
"What can we do?" asked her companion with a smile, which the darkness
concealed from the eyes of Eugenie. "Joachim, show the sentry the
king's pass; but ask if there be not a road somewhere hereabout which
leads to the little town of Heudbouville. If there be, direct the
coachman thither; for we love not to sleep within the outposts of an
army, lest the enemy should treat us to an _alerte_. Gain us the good
sentinel's bitter contempt, Joachim, by telling him that we are two
cowardly boys, who hold the fire-eating soldiers of the League in
great terror."
"We have passed the road to Heudbouville some hundred yards or so,"
replied the attendant: "but we can easily turn the carriage here, for
there is more room than ordinary;" and having satisfied the outpost
that no evil was intended by the denizens of the carriage, Joachim,
the coachman, and the lackey, performed the difficult feat of making
the ill-constructed vehicle revolve upon its axis, and brought the
horses' heads back again on the way to Paris. The road to the little
village which Beatrice had mentioned was soon found, and for about an
hour the carriage rolled on, without any further obstruction than was
given by stones and ruts, which threatened to scatter the wheels of
the luckless _chaise-roulante_ to the four winds of heaven, in some of
the manifold jolts to which it was subjected; but at length the
coachman came to a halt, and seemed consulting with the lackey beside
him, who in turn put back his head to speak to Joachim in the boot.
"What is the matter, Joachim?" demanded Beatrice, perceiving that some
impediment had occurred, and trusting more to her own skill and
presence of mind than to the readiness of her attendants, although
they were selected expressly for their shrewdness and promptitude.
"What is the matter? Why does the coachman stop?"
Ere Joachim could reply, however, there was the sound of galloping
horse, and the next moment the carriage was surrounded by a number of
cavaliers, whose polished arms, as they rode up with a loud "_Qui
vive?_" caught and reflected the little light that still existed in
the air.
"_Vive le diable!_" replied Joachim, who was a great deal too wise to
answer seriously till he had ascertained to what party the
interrogators belonged; "_Vive le diable!_ why do you stop two young
gentlemen, going to the schools, on the highway? We are neither
soldiers nor robbers, nor anything else that you have aught to do
with."
"Well answered, Joachim!" muttered Beatrice, as she leaned forward to
examine the persons of the horsemen nearest her; but the darkness was
too complete to suffer the faces of any of them to be distinguishable,
or to allow the colours which they wore t« be seen. Beatrice, however,
caught a glance of the peculiar cross of the house of Lorraine upon
one of the cuirasses, as the fiery horse of the rider pranced by the
side of the carriage; and she instantly interposed, exclaiming, "Speak
to me a moment, Monseigneur! I am the young Baron de Bigny, son of the
Marquis de Bigny at Amiens, and am going with my brother here, the
Abbé de Bigny, to La Fleche. I do not know whether you are of the
party of the king or of the Holy League and Union; but I am sure you
will not stop two youths like us, but let us pass quietly."
"But this is not the right way from Amiens to La Fleche, my good
youth," replied the officer. "How came you thus thirty miles out of
your road?"
"We came here to get out of the way of the Huguenots," replied
Beatrice; who had now gained a better sight of the cross of Lorraine,
which was to be found alone on the side of the League. "We had nearly
fallen into their hands an hour ago; and--but perhaps you are one of
that party too, Monseigneur; if so, I beg your pardon with all--"
"No, no, I am no _maheutre_," replied the officer; "but, do you know,
my good youth, it would not surprise me if you were. Methinks I should
know the voice of Auguste de Bigny, seeing I am his first cousin; and
so, without more ado, I shall march you up to the village, to see who
you really are, for I am very sure you are not the person for whom you
give yourself out. Come, coachman, drive on, and we will give you an
escort which you did not expect, I rather fancy."
"I went a step too far," whispered Beatrice to Eugenie; "but do not
fear, dear Eugenie, I will manage matters yet.--Many thanks, many
thanks, Sir Cavalier," she continued aloud. "Drive on as he bids you,
Jean Baptiste. I shall soon amuse all the companions of Monsieur
Francois de Bigny by the history of his adventures in the well at
Houdlaincourt. How he went to make love to the miller's daughter; and
the miller and his men caught him, and put him in a sack, and let him
three times down into the well, maugre his high rank and gallant
bearing, and brought him up, all white and dripping, like a dumpling
out of the pot. Ha, ha! Monsieur Francois de Bigny, how will you like
that story told to the _gens d'armes_ over their wine?--I never take
the name of any one I do not know," she said in a low voice to
Eugenie, while the officer paused irresolute, and spoke a few words to
Joachim and the coachman. "There is many a good tale to be told
against that noble cavalier, which I had from Adela de Bigny, his
cousin, and which he will not much relish; and I doubt not he will
send us on to escape laughter; for though he may have found out that I
am not his young cousin Auguste, he must see that I know all his
history."
What would have been the result of Beatrice's expedient cannot be
told; for at the very moment that Monsieur de Bigny was speaking to
the coachman, and inquiring apparently whether the person who knew so
much of his adventure was or was not really his young cousin, there
appeared, upon what seemed--as far as the darkness suffered it to be
discovered,--a sloping field upon the right of the road, a multitude
of small lights in a line of about two hundred yards long.
"Down, down, in the bottom of the carriage!" cried Beatrice, who
appeared to comprehend at once what those small sparks of fire meant;
and she instantly crouched down below the seats, dragging Eugenie
after her: "the king's troops are upon them."
As she spoke, a bright flash ran along in the same direction as the
lights, and then the loud rattle of musketry, while three or four
balls passed through the upper part of the carriage. Eugenie felt as
if she were about to faint; but the moment after there was the sound
of charging horse, and the whole space round the carriage became full
of strife and confusion. Little could be seen, except when every now
and then the flash of a pistol showed, for an instant apart of that
strange and exciting scene, a night skirmish; and it was only by the
sounds of blows and shots growing fainter and more faint around, that
Beatrice perceived the Leaguers had been beaten and driven up the road
by the royal forces. "Is any one of our people hurt?" she cried at
length, raising herself, and looking out. "Eugenie, you have not
suffered? Take courage, dear friend. Joachim, Joachim, where are
you--where are the men?"
"Here, madam!" replied Joachim, creeping out from below the carriage.
"We ensconced ourselves here as soon as we saw the matches blown on
the hill--but what we shall do now, I do not know, for one of the
horses is killed."
"That is unfortunate, indeed!" replied Beatrice; "but see, they are
fighting in the village;" and she pointed on to a spot where repeated
flashes of musketry might be seen gleaming between the dark masses of
the houses and other buildings in what seemed a small town. "Henry
Quatre is there himself," she said. "This is one of his daring
enterprises--to dislodge the League from his flank as he advances upon
Rouen, I dare say; but at all events we must wait till the matter is
settled one way or another. If he be forced to retreat, we must
retreat with him, Eugenie. If he drive out the Leaguers, the road will
be clear before us. Take heart! take heart, Eugenie!--why I thought I
was a terrible coward till I saw you."
For about ten minutes possession of the village seemed to be severely
contested; but at the end of that time the firing ceased; the trumpets
might then be heard blowing a recall; and at the end of half an hour
the sound of a body of horse coming at an easy pace down the road was
distinguished at the spot where Beatrice and her trembling friend had
remained.
"Ask the commander of the party to stop and speak with me, Joachim,"
cried Beatrice; "run on and meet them. Tell them how we were stopped
by the League, and save me explanations."
The man did as he was directed, and the moment after, a cavalier rode
up to the side of the carriage, saying, "your servant says you wish to
speak with me, young gentleman. I command this party. What want you
with me? One of your horses is shot, I see; but, good faith, I can
give you no other; for Ventre Saint Gris! I want more than I have got
of my own."
"On my word, your Majesty must find me one, nevertheless!" answered
Beatrice, boldly. "If you have not forgot Beaumont en Maine, you will
understand that though an ass served my turn then, I must have a horse
now!"
"Pardie, my friend the page!" cried Henry. "Then you have accomplished
your bold undertaking."
"True, sire, I have," replied Beatrice, "as far as getting away from
Paris; but I had nearly lost all, by my own fault, this very moment,
and fallen into the hands of the League. I attempted what I thought a
_coup de maître_, and was well nigh taken in my own trap."
"The same misfortune has just befallen the League," replied Henry;
"they thought to get upon my flank, and take possession of Louviers,
but we have taught them that we do not slumber on such occasions.
However, my brave page, you run great risks in going forward on the
road where you now are. We have driven them out of the village, but
they will rally not far behind, for it was too dark to pursue them
far."
"Then we will turn round," replied Beatrice; "and, escorted by kings
and princes, make the best of our way through your Majesty's host,
till we can sleep in peace a couple of leagues beyond your outposts."
"The best plan you can follow," replied the king; "we will not ask you
even to pause and refresh yourselves, lest the morals of two such
simple boys should get corrupted by the license of our camp. Though
here is the Marquis of St. Real, within a hundred yards of us, would
doubtless be willing to receive one or both of you into his quarters."
Eugenie instinctively shrunk back farther into the corner of the
carriage, and the king proceeded; "But we must get you a horse, at all
events. Colonel James, send up some of your arquebusiers to that
farm-house upon the hill, and see whether in the stables thereof you
can find a horse. As your fire has killed one of the beasts which were
dragging these two young gentlemen, it is but fit you should take the
trouble of providing them with another."
The king waited to know if his embassy were successful; and after
having seen the soldiers return with a strong cart horse, which was
instantly harnessed to the carriage, in the place of the dead one, he
gave orders for a party of troopers to escort the young wanderers as
far as the Pont de l'Arche; and then, taking his leave, rode on
towards his camp.
When the carriage was once more in motion, Eugenie breathed again; but
still, at every place where it stopped her terrors were renewed, and
she gazed out, with alarm and anxiety, upon the dark figures of the
soldiery, who watched with unsleeping vigilance in the camp of the
warrior monarch, till, at the Pont de l'Arche, which was the advanced
post of the king's army, the horse they had obtained was exchanged for
another, and they rolled on more smoothly towards the little hamlet of
St. Ouen. The fears of Eugenie de Menancourt were during those moments
of a very varied kind; for with her terrors so strongly roused as they
had been, she found it impossible to submit them entirely to the
influence of reason; and yet, strange to say, the thing she dreaded
most, after immediate personal danger was over, was to meet and be
known by the man whom she now felt, she loved more than any other
being upon earth. She shrunk from the thought of seeing St. Real in
the garb that she had assumed to escape from the persecution of his
cousin,--she shrunk even from the thought of seeing him, now that a
ceremony, however vain, illegal, and compulsory, had taken place
between her and any other; and though she felt, even to pain, how much
she detested the Count d'Aubin, and how much she loved St. Real, yet
it seemed to her as if she had wronged her love for him in not dying
sooner than suffering even the shadow of an engagement to pass between
herself and another. Thus, it was not till they had passed the extreme
outpost of the royal camp, and were rolling along in the quiet
darkness of the night, that she breathed at ease, free from the
constant expectation of seeing the Marquis of St. Real gallop up to
the side of the carriage, and recognise her under her disguise.
At the little village of St. Ouen all the world was sound asleep; and
manifold were the strokes of sword hilts upon the door of the
_auberge_, many the shouts up to the unlistening windows, before the
inmates could be roused to comprehend that there were strangers on the
road demanding admission. At length, the hostess, half dressed, and
scarcely half awake, came scolding down the stairs, extremely angry
that anyone should travel at such unseemly hours; and on her steps
soon followed her husband, a big burly Norman, but shrewd withal, and
sufficiently sensible of his own interests to smother all expression
of annoyance, and give his guests the best welcome that he could.
Early the next morning, the carriage was again in motion, but not
before some of the light troops of the matutinal monarch of France
were upon the road, and Eugenie was more than once alarmed by their
gazing boldly into the vehicle when the curtains were undrawn, and by
talking to the driver and the servants when the carriage was closed.
These parties, however, as they marched but slowly, and the carriage
went fast, were soon passed, and the rest of the journey proceeded as
peaceably as any journey could do in those disturbed and unhappy days.
Beatrice of Ferrara, after the experiment at Heudbouville, did not
suffer herself again to be drawn from the route which she had laid out
at first for her fair friend, but advanced as rapidly as possible
towards the sea-side, seeing security only in the hope of Henry's army
still interposing between them and the League, and thus preventing all
search for Eugenie de Menancourt in the direction which she had really
followed.
"At all events, dear Eugenie," she said, as they approached Dieppe,
"here, upon the sea-coast, you will always have an opportunity of
escape to England, should need be; and I will take care that our
friend King Henry shall furnish you with such letters to the queen of
those bold islanders, as to ensure you protection and assistance. For
my part, you know, Eugenie, after a week or fortnight's rest, I must
leave you, if you can do without me. My destiny, dear girl, has to be
fulfilled, and I must back to Paris by a different road, both to hide
my having aught to do with your successful flight, and to watch the
progress of all on which my ultimate fate depends."
"Would to Heaven," said Eugenie de Menancourt, "that I could have such
a happy and saving influence on your fate, Beatrice, as you have had
on mine! But I am destined only to be a burden to you, and to rely
upon you for everything, without knowing or comprehending the past or
the present, as far as it regards you, without understanding your
means, your wishes, or your purposes."
"I will tell you all, dear Eugenie, I will tell you all," replied
Beatrice of Ferrara; "and then, as my daring rashness was necessary to
give vigour to your timid nature, your gentle counsel may now perhaps
tend to moderate and restrain my bold, wild schemes. But wait till we
come to a resting-place, and then in some sweet quiet cottage in green
Normandy, with the soft autumn sun shining upon our door, I will rest
beside you for a short time, and drawing you a picture of my wayward
fate, will see whether we cannot find means to give it a brighter
colouring and a happier hue."
So spake Beatrice of Ferrara; but ere we go on to look into the
picture to which she alluded, we must beg the reader to pause for a
few minutes, upon some of those dull details, which in books calling
themselves historical romances serve the mind as bad post-houses on a
much-travelled road--places where, after scampering on for many a
league in pursuit of pleasure, the little traveller is obliged to
stop, kicking his heels in impatient irritation till the horses are
brought out, the harness prepared, the postilion has got into his
boots, the lash is put on his whip, and, in short, all is made ready
for carrying on that same little eager traveller, the human mind, once
more upon his way.
Giving up, then, heroes and heroines, knights and ladies, we must
even follow the progress of that lumbering and uninteresting machine
called an army, and pause for a while to consider its clumsy and
crocodile-like movements. We have already seen that on the day
preceding Eugenie de Menancourt's escape from Paris, the camp of the
besieging Royalists had broken up; and that the gay and chivalrous
Henry Quatre led his meagre and somewhat ill-furnished host down the
bright and laughing banks of the Seine, in such a direction that,
should need be, he could either march across Normandy, and fall back
upon Touraine, or advance at once to the sea-coast, and cover the
disembarkation of his English allies.
We have followed him some way on his march; but it would appear, that
inasmuch as the Royalists had been rather improvident of their
supplies, and had been found, during the life of Henry III. somewhat
unwilling to pay for the good things of this life, with which, at
first, the peasantry had been very willing to furnish them, a want of
provisions, both eatable and potable, had made its appearance in the
camps of St. Cloud and Meudon. The jaws of the Royalists had got
unaccustomed to maceration, and their lips to the taste of sweet
things; so that as they took their way through the pleasant little
towns and villages of Poissy, Triel, Meulan, Mantes, and sweet
Fontenay, they lived very nearly at free quarters amongst the
inhabitants, taking care to make the fat of the land through which
they now passed, compensate for the meagreness of the diet they had so
long endured. Nevertheless, as the king and his followers paid where
they could, promised where they could not pay, and never took toll of
rosy lips, except where there was a smile upon them, the people of the
country in general gave them a better character when they were gone
than might have been expected; and declared, that, after all, the
Huguenots were not so bad as they were called.
In the meantime, as we have already shown, to diversify these
employments, a little interlude of fighting did now and then take
place; a town was now and then besieged and taken; and Henry IV. made
arrangements for giving the inhabitants of the loyal city of Rouen an
entertainment, which brings down the walls of a city more by the
double-bass of the cannon than by the shrill sound of the trumpet.
Pausing a sufficient time before the walls of that town to give and
receive various proofs of amity, which left his own host diminished by
several hundred men, and the garrison of the town less by perhaps
double that number, the king received news, which made him judge that
the situation of his army might be improved by a very rapid change of
air; and consequently without longer hesitation or delay, he struck
his tents, left success to follow, and at once led his troops to the
sea-side.
Divining, however, that his enemies would anticipate with great
satisfaction the moment for driving his scanty forces into the sea, he
seemed resolved to disappoint them, if admirable dispositions could
effect that purpose; and choosing for his troops the strongest
position which he could discover, with their backs to the element and
their faces inland, he ranged them along the side of a fair and
beautiful hill, on the ridge of which still stands all which Time has
left of the old and interesting castle of Arques.
Leaving the king and his men, however, thus posted for that battle
which covered with immortal renown the monarch and his little host, we
must turn for a moment to Paris, in order to investigate what
proceedings had taken place in the capital, and what were the tidings
which caused the monarch so suddenly to strike the tents he had
pitched before Rouen.