It was in a cottage by the sea-side--a mere hut, belonging in former
times to a fisherman--that Eugenie de Menancourt sat one autumn day
beside Beatrice of Ferrara watching the clouds of mist roll over the
waters, as the exhalations which night had left behind struggled with
a light wind and a still powerful sun for place upon the bosom of the
ocean. It was a mere hut, as we have said, but there was something
picturesque in its position, seated halfway up, halfway down a
sand-cliff to the east of Dieppe, with a projecting shoulder of the
rock sheltering it from the winds of the Atlantic, and a few trees and
shrubs--stunted in size and not very luxuriant in foliage, it is true,
but still green and fresh--keeping it company in the warm nook where
it was placed. It is not impossible that the very picturesque beauty
of its situation might be the reason why it had been selected by one
who had more poetry in her heart and soul than half the poets of the
land in which she lived. But, at the same time, there was another
motive which she would have assigned if she had been asked, and which
was, that the shore beneath formed a little bay in which the waves
seldom broke boisterously, but even in very stormy weather seemed to
play there in innocent sport, while their parent sea was all in
trouble and contention without, as we may have seen the children of a
warrior playing in peace by their cottage-door while their father was
urging the bloody strife upon the battle plain. In this sheltered bay
lay a small vessel, and on the beach were two or three boats, while up
above upon the cliff were several more cottages, from which to that we
have described a winding and somewhat difficult path led down the face
of the crag. Although the cottage had not contained more than ten days
its two fair tenants, who had now resumed their appropriate dress, yet
they had contrived to ornament it with a very different sort of taste
from that which was displayed by any of the neighbouring dwellers on
the shore: for Beatrice had her full share of that knowledge and love
of what is beautiful in art or nature which was then general in her
native land; and although she had daily talked of returning soon to
Paris to play her appointed part upon that busy scene, yet she had
lingered with a fond clinging to the peaceful moments she spent there,
musing away her time upon the ever-varying sea-shore, or decorating
the cottage she had hired for Eugenie with somewhat whimsical care. As
if her journey to Paris had been a duty, for the neglect of which she
owed an apology to her own heart, she often spoke of the difficulties
and dangers of reaching the capital when two hostile armies were
interposed: but difficulties or dangers had rarely stopped Beatrice of
Ferrara when she willed to go in any direction upon earth; and,
perhaps, the real reason of her delay might be, that Philip d'Aubin
was not in the metropolis, and that she knew it.
As we have said, however, beside her Eugenie de Menancourt; upon an
autumn day, little more than a fortnight after we last left them.
Their eyes were bent upon the sea-fogs rolling along over the bosom of
the waters below, and contending in vain against a rising wind, which
every now and then swept them away, and showed to old Ocean the blue
eyes of Heaven looking upon his slumbering waves, when the curtain of
the mist was withdrawn by the soft hand of the morning air.
"See, Eugenie! see!" cried Beatrice of Ferrara, as, with their arms
twined in each other, they gazed forth upon the changing scene; "see
how the soft and downy masses of fog roll dark above the sea, and how,
every now and then, a scanty gleam of light breaks in, and gilds the
moving vapour and the waves below! Do you know, dear Eugenie, that the
bosom of that sea seems to me like my own fate, wrapped up, as it has
been for many years, in clouds and gloom, with every now and then a
gleam of brightness breaking through, for a brief moment, and obscured
again almost as soon as given. Do you know, dear girl, I could stand
and gaze upon that sea, and, with all the superstition of the ancient
days, I could play the augur to my own heart, and read my after-lot in
the changes that come over the bosom of the water."
"Well, let me read it!" cried Eugenie: "see, see, Beatrice, what a
long bright gleam is coming now!"
"Ay! but the clouds roll up behind," replied her friend.
"Yes, but beyond them again all is clear and bright," rejoined
Eugenie, as the sun and the wind gained the mastery, and the last
wreaths of mist were swept away, leaving nothing but a thin filmy veil
upon the expanse of sea. "See, Beatrice, how bright it looks!"
"And, on the other hand, gaze on the dark cloud of the past," replied
Beatrice, with a smile which was not without its share of hopefulness;
"and as you, dear Eugenie, have read me my coming lot, and would fain
make me believe that it is to be so bright, I will tell you shortly,
very shortly, the history of the past; that you may judge how much
cause I have to augur well of the approaching hours from my experience
of those gone. I cannot dwell long upon such painful things, but I
will speak them briefly."
Sitting down together, and still gazing out upon the golden sea,
Beatrice began her tale; and as she told it in as few words as it
could well be told, so shall it be repeated here.
"I was born amongst the lovely Euganean hills," she said, "where
nature has compressed into one small space all that is beautiful and
all that is grand; mountain and valley, stream and lake, profuse
abundance, vegetation and cultivation, an atmosphere of magic light,
and an air of balm. My father was the sovereign prince of----, but
that matters not; though we were of the house of Ferrara, which has
given sovereigns to many another land, and has allied its princes to
the highest upon earth. My father's dominions were small, but they
were rich and beautiful; and he himself, born of a warlike race, kept
well with the sword those territories which, doubtless, the sword had
first acquired. He, when the sovereigns of Ferrara were closely allied
to the house of France, visited this court; and wedded, more for her
beauty than her wealth, and more for her virtues than her beauty, the
heiress of a noble house, whose lands lie not far from your own in
Maine. He carried her to Italy, where they ever after lived; his
rights to his lady's lands in France being still respected by the
sovereigns of this country, though the management of them was somewhat
neglected by those in whom he trusted. Still, however, those lands
were rich, and made no small addition to the revenues of an Italian
prince. His favourite residence was amongst the Euganean hills; and
there, where he had collected everything that was beautiful to the
eye, or pleasant to the ear, where the wise and the good, the poet and
the sculptor, the painter and the musician, ever found a home, I, his
first-born child, saw the light, now some four-and-twenty years ago.
About four years after, a brother was born, and, in his birth, my
mother died; but though my father never wedded again, but buried his
heart in the tomb of her he had loved, yet we were well, carefully,
fondly nurtured, both by our surviving parent himself, and by an
uncle, who, high in the church of Rome, looked on both my brother and
myself as if we had been children of his own. Abandoning the paths of
ambition for our sake, he left the ancient capital of empires for our
peaceful castle in the Euganean hills; and there, while my father was
often absent fulfilling the duties of a prince or a soldier, he
devoted himself to the cultivation of our young minds, and to the
strengthening of our young hearts against the sorrows and the
temptations of the world. He was, he is, one man out of a multitude.
But, Eugenie, we had another uncle, who, through life, had followed a
different path, and who was destined to act a different part. He was
bred a soldier, and lent his sword, and the troops he had contrived to
raise, to any one who held out to him the prospect of wealth or
aggrandisement. His expeditions, fortunate to others,--for he was
brave and skilful,--were not fortunate to himself; for the artful and
deceitful men he served generally contrived to withhold from him his
promised reward. From my father he always met kindness and protection;
and often did my parent support his cause, and avenge his quarrels, to
the detriment of his own best interests. How that uncle acted in
return, you shall hear. His heart was corrupted by dealing with the
base, and he became base himself, from believing that all others were
so.
"My uncle Albert, the Cardinal, saw more deeply into his heart than my
father; and I remember well that it was when speaking of his brother,
my other uncle, that he took pains to impress upon my mind a truth
that struck me as a child, and which I have never forgotten. 'True
virtue,' he said, 'comes out the brighter for shining amidst vice. It
is only those who feel themselves weak that fear the contagion of
corruption. We may hate evil, and not willingly mingle with those who
practise it; but, if forced to do so, my child, we shall only hate it
the more if we be really virtuous at heart. Meaner stones derive a
lustre from that which lies beneath them: we set the diamond upon
black, and it shines by its own light.' My father died, Eugenie; and
the manner of his death was not altogether without suspicion; but as,
in his territories, it was a doubtful question, whether the coronet,
where there were male and female children, descended to the eldest of
either sex, or was the portion of the first-born son, my uncle
Ferdinand came hastily to settle the succession; and, to prevent all
dispute, he took the inheritance unto himself. For fear of greater
evils to us, and greater crimes to his brother, my other uncle,
Albert, sent my young brother and myself, with speed and secrecy, to
the court of France. I was then but thirteen years of age, and my
brother nine, and with us were some attached dependants, who had
either followed my mother to Italy, or had dwelt long in my father's
house. My brother instantly received my mother's inheritance in
France, burdened only with a small portion for myself; but, to better
my fallen fortunes, the late Queen-mother, Catherine of Medicis,
received me as one of her women, and, to do her but right, showed me,
through life, unvarying tenderness. I will not offend your ears,
Eugenie, by telling all that I saw in that corrupt court; but I had
three great safeguards, dear friend--a heart naturally not easily
moved; firm principles of truth and virtue, implanted in my earliest
years; and one faithful woman, who had nursed my mother and myself,
and who to vestal purity of heart added a daring courage, which
strengthened her to do what she judged right in defiance of all
dangers, and would speak truth to the highest of God's creatures upon
earth. Yet I must not take credit to myself for any great powers of
resistance. I do not say that there were not many who sought me, some
in marriage, and some with lighter vows; but so deep and thorough was
the contempt I felt for the vain and idle butterflies of that vicious
court, that my scorn extended to the whole sex, and I fancied I should
never give one thought to any man in the whole world. You know,
Eugenie, and I know too well, how much I was mistaken. At length came
one who sought my love as others had not sought it. Four years, or
more, have since passed, my friend, and those years have changed him
not for the better. There was a freshness of young feeling about him
then, that is now gone, and it was that which first won a way to my
heart. I now found that, if my heart had been difficult to move, when
once it was moved, like a rock broken by some earthquake from the
Alps, it was likely to bear all away before it. Oh, how I loved him,
Eugenie! and when, after having, I own, made him sigh for many a
month, to prove his love for me, I at length let him know that I did
not feel towards him as towards the rest of men, and that he might, at
some distant time, hope for the hand of Beatrice of Ferrara, the
relief, alas! was greater to my heart than his. Then came the change
over him, Eugenie. I believe he had injured his fortune with those
hateful dice; the hope of obtaining your hand was held out to him;
ambition and interest called him loudly to pursue that prospect; for I
was poor, comparatively, and had no hope of better fortunes; and I
heard that he was offering his vows to Eugenie de Menancourt. I
resolved to see with my own eyes if this was true; and as the queen
was then about to undertake one of her gay and politic progresses
through Maine, I joined her, with my young brother; for my faithful
nurse was by that time dead, and I did not choose to dwell in that
court alone. You remember well, Eugenie, those days, and how my truant
lover seemed chained, like a slave, to my bridle-rein. My pride was
satisfied, if my heart was not, and I returned to Paris. He remained
some months behind, and when he came, I found that he was changed
indeed. He fled my society, and yet he seemed struggling with himself;
full of passion and tenderness when we met, his words were wild and
strange: he plunged deep into the vices of the court; and, though I
saw and knew he loved me still, yet I resolved, by appearing to
despise his conduct, and to forget himself, to recall him, if possible
to better deeds. I went down to the dwelling of my brother in Maine,
and there, roaming wildly over the country, I soon heard enough to
show me that, notwithstanding all his large possessions, the Count
d'Aubin was struggling vainly with the consequences of his own
follies. There was then a contagious disease raging here in France,
and my brother caught it, and died. His possessions fell to me. I had
it now in my power to raise up again him I loved, and to sweep his
embarrassments away; and it became my favourite dream to reclaim him
from all evil, to lead him back to virtue and to right, to restore him
to honour and to station, and to make him owe to me at once peace of
mind and ease of fortune. For the last two years I have laboured for
this object, Eugenie, by many a different means. I have been thwarted
by accident, and by his own perversity; but I cling the more
tenaciously to those hopes, the weaker becomes the foundation on which
they rest. Sad and sorry I am to say he has weakened it more and more
every hour; but yet, Eugenie, I hope. I have had him watched, Eugenie,
not that I might know his weaknesses, for to those I have ever shut my
ears, but in order to seize the moment, if ever the moment should
come, for snatching him from his follies or from his evil fate. To
himself I have pretended to hate and despise him, the better to
conceal my views, and also to make him feel my kindness the more when
my time comes. Sometimes I think, however, that he suspects me; and a
dwarf page, who has been attached to me from my childhood, and whom,
in other days, I gave to him to be his cupbearer, he sent away, a year
or more ago, to his cousin St. Real. I had directed that page to give
me notice of all that passed in Philip d'Aubin's household; but the
tidings he gave were scanty, even while he was there, and as soon as
he was gone, I formed a bold resolution, which I executed boldly.
Shortly after you had come to Paris with your father, and I had
contrived to gain your love and confidence, you may remember that
Philip d'Aubin went down to Maine; and I did hope, that, in
companionship with so noble a heart as his cousin St. Real, and under
the eye of the good old Marquis, who was then living, his better
feelings might expand, like flowers in the sunshine; and I resolved,
at any risk, to go down thither and watch him myself; for I knew that
men, to whom he owed large sums, were pressing him hard, and that, had
it not been for these sad wars, his estates would long ago have
suffered from their claims. I thought that the moment might come when
the full and tender generosity, which is so often to be found in
woman's heart, might have room to act, that I might save him from the
consequences of his own faults, and thus, perhaps, save him from those
faults themselves. I contrived, by means of the dwarf, to force
several of my own servants into the household of St. Real; and I was
following down rapidly myself, to try whether I could not, for a time,
obtain admission there also, when messengers from my uncle Albert,
telling me of the death of Ferdinand, the usurper of my little state,
conveying to me considerable treasure, and beseeching me to return,
and take possession of territories which were now universally
acknowledged as my own, reached me at Orleans, and brought me back to
Paris.
"As soon as I had dispatched them back with other letters, begging my
uncle to rule in my stead till my return, I pursued my plan; but
D'Aubin had, in the meantime, returned to Paris, and had thence again
been summoned to the sick bed of his uncle of St. Real. Of this I knew
nothing, however; and, after manifold risks and difficulties, owing,
perhaps, to the negligence, perhaps to the malice, of the dwarf
Bartholo, I accomplished my object, and found myself established as a
page in the house of the lords of St. Real. I had determined, in any
great difficulty, to apply at once to the old Marquis, and tell him
all my history and all my views; but I found him dying, and soon saw
that I must withdraw from the household into which I had thus
intruded, or risk detection, and, perhaps, ill repute. To guard my
name at home, however, I caused my women to give out that I was ill of
the fever; and they played their part with skill. Day by day, however,
my disguise produced more and more pain to myself; for I had but
hourly proofs of how completely D'Aubin had given himself up to the
vices and follies of his comrades of the court; and I determined, soon
after St. Real and his cousin reached Paris, to cast that disguise off
at once. The wealth which I had now at command in that venal city, and
in these venal times, procured me every sort of facility in coming and
going between Paris and St. Cloud; and I believe that, for one half
the sum which I possessed unknown within the town, I could have
procured regular passes for the two kings and all their troops to
march quietly in and take possession of the capital. Thus, as soon as
I had notice of the last sad and daring means which Philip d'Aubin was
about to employ against you, my Eugenie,--the most base and profligate
step of any he had yet taken,--I cast myself at the king's feet, who
owed me some gratitude for a former service; told him your situation,
my own plan for saving you, and besought him to give me his
assistance. He did so in a generous manner, and even furnished me with
intelligence to give Mayenne from the Prince of Parma, which is
certain to mislead and puzzle the Duke regarding all our plans.
Learning from an attendant, whom I still have in D'Aubin's service,
that the Count had bound himself to set out on the very evening of his
marriage for Maine, I conceived the Duke of Mayenne's plans at once;
all his views; all his policy. I set every engine to work to gain
information. I had his chaplain seized and carried away; I induced a
wild drunken Huguenot soldier, not without talents, but without
religion or principle, to enact the priest, and brought him to the
Hotel de Guise at the moment that a priest was wanted. I took care
that your refusal should be witnessed by so many, that, even had the
person who performed the ceremony been what he seemed, the whole would
have been illegal; but I also ensured that proof of the man's
condition, and of all the other facts, should be lodged in the hands
of the king, so as to render you free as air. And now, dear Eugenie,
here we are, safe and at liberty, with a bark to bear you to England,
if the king should lose the approaching battle; and, doubtless, you
wonder that, with all I have seen, and with all I know, I can for one
moment think again of Philip d'Aubin. Such is the voice of reason,
Eugenie, and the voice of sense; but there is another voice in my
heart, which drowns them all, and fills my mind with excuses for his
conduct--vain and light, indeed, as the changing clouds upon the sky,
I know; but still those clouds cast shadows, which alter the aspect of
everything whereon they fall; and so, to my weak eyes, the excuses
found by love cast an obscuring shade upon his actions, which will not
suffer me to see them as I should if the full sun of unbiassed
judgment shone upon them. I will make one more effort, dear Eugenie--I
will essay one more trial; I will find the means of serving him deeply
and truly; and if he be then ungrateful, I can cast him off--and die."
"Oh, not so, Beatrice!" replied Eugenie; "make every effort; try every
means; but, even if all should fail, talk not of dying, but seek
happiness in some other shape."
"In vain, Eugenie! in vain!" replied Beatrice, "all the feelings of my
heart are engaged in this one effort. If it fail, there will be
nothing else left for me on earth. The body may live, Eugenie--it
perhaps may linger on some few years; but the heart and the soul are
dead. Still, let us hope better things, dear friend; you have read me
a happy fate in those passing clouds and the sunshine that followed,
and I will trust----"
As she spoke, an attendant hurried in. "They are flying, madam!" he
said; "they are flying!"
"Who?" demanded Beatrice, eagerly, "who are flying?"
"Mayenne's horse, madam," replied the man: "do you not hear the
cannon? They have been fighting at Arques for these four hours."
"Send out! send out to see!" cried Beatrice. "On this battle may
depend our future fate, dear Eugenie."
In less than an hour the news of Mayenne's defeat was borne to
Beatrice and Eugenie; and the servant who brought it added, that he
had seen the king and Monsieur de St. Real both quite safe, and
directing the operations which followed up the victory.
"Thank God for this, also!" replied Beatrice. "This battle will secure
the western provinces to the king; and now, dear Eugenie, ere I wend
my way back to Paris, we will journey together to Maine, where,
between my lands and yours, there lies a spot secluded and calm, and
surrounded by people attached both to you and to me. Mayenne must fall
back on Picardy; the king will march on Paris; and Maine will offer a
safer asylum than even this which we possess at present."
The political anticipations of Beatrice of Ferrara were not far wrong:
scarcely had the day of Arques been won, when the English succour
disembarked at Dieppe. Henry effected his junction with the Duke of
Longueville and the Count of Soisson, the former of whom had been
detached to levy troops; and then resuming the offensive, he marched
in search of Mayenne, and attempted to provoke him to another battle.
Retreating upon Picardy, however, Mayenne avoided the large force
which was now opposed to him; and, by a number of skilful operations,
both military and political, repaired the disadvantages incurred by
the lost field of Arques. Anxious to withdraw him from a province into
which, from the disaffection of many of the larger towns, the royal
forces could not with safety follow him, Henry marched direct upon
Paris, and, taking several unimportant places by the way, attacked and
carried the suburbs of the capital itself, to the horror and dismay of
the Leaguers. The scheme was perfectly successful. Mayenne, in terror
lest the metropolis should be lost, spurred with all speed to Paris,
leaving his army to follow as they might. The forces of the Royalists
was not sufficiently numerous to invest the city entirely; and the
troops of Mayenne following from Picardy soon placed such a number of
men within the walls as to set farther attack at defiance.
Withdrawing from a useless enterprise, Henry retreated upon Mont
l'Hery, and then turned upon Etampes; taking a number of towns under
the very eyes of the League, the leaders of which seemed little
disposed to risk the chances of another battle. Thus passed the
winter, and a considerable part of the spring. The town of Le Mans, it
is true, made some resistance to the royal arms, but at length
yielded; and thence directing expeditions towards different parts of
the country, the gallant monarch recovered a great part of the rich
provinces towards the centre of France. Almost all Maine and a
considerable part of Normandy were now subject to the king; and,
amongst the rest, the lands of Eugenie de Menancourt were, for a time,
occupied by the royal troops. The tenantry, however, and the vassals,
had been generally called into the field, by the Count d'Aubin, who
had by this time joined Mayenne in Paris; and the changing events of
the war soon obliged the monarch to withdraw his troops from that part
of Maine, and advance to new victories and more important conquests.
Shortly before Easter, Henry IV. had laid siege to Dreux, in Normandy;
and Mayenne having taken the castle of Vincennes, Poissi, and several
other places, endeavoured to reduce Meulan. The demonstrations of the
royal army, however, showed a purpose of compelling him to raise the
siege; and having been joined by fresh levies from various parts of
France, and considerable reinforcements from the low countries, he
determined to risk another battle; and for the purpose of choosing his
own ground put his army in motion. Nonancourt had fallen before the
arms of Henry IV. and the siege of Dreux was rapidly advancing; when
news reached the royal camp of various unexpected movements on the
part of the army of the League. First came tidings that five thousand
infantry had passed the bridge of Mantes; then came reports of large
forces of cavalry having been seen in march on both sides of the
Seine; and, lastly, intelligence was brought to the king that the
foragers of the Duke of Mayenne had appeared in the neighbourhood of
Dammartin.
Calling his principal officers to council, Henry informed them of the
tidings he had received, and then at once made his own comment; and
announced his determination thus:--"From these facts, my friends, it
is evident that our good cousin of Mayenne is seeking us; and
therefore I propose instantly to raise the siege of Dreux."
The members of the council looked in each other's faces, with glances
of surprise at such an unexpected proposal from one who was not, in
general, easily turned from his enterprises. Henry for a moment
suffered their astonishment to continue, and then added, with a smile;
"You seem surprised, my friends; but I have no scruple in regard to
abandoning a siege when it is for the purpose of fighting a battle.
What say you, my gallant St. Real; will you strike for Henry IV. as
bravely here as you did at Arques?"
"With all my heart, sire!" replied St. Real; and this is one of the
few instances on record of a council in which there existed no
difference of opinion.