Willingly we turn once more from the dull, dry page of history--that
uninteresting record which no one reads in these days, and probably
never will again, unless by some unforeseen accident the world should
grow wiser and better--to the more entertaining and instructive
accidents and adventures of the individual characters, which, with
somewhat less skill than that of a Philidore, we have been moving
about upon the little chess-board before us. It is always the most
skilful game, we are told, to begin with the pawns, of which we are
well aware, though we somewhat deviated from that rule in the
commencement; but now that we have got our pieces scattered about in
different directions, and have just been obliged to make the king
abandon his attack upon the castle, we must even have recourse to
pieces which we have found very useful in many a previous game, and
play this chapter out with the knights.
The evening was cold and still; for the ordinary winds of March had
not yet begun to blow, although that month was well advanced; and the
dull heavy clouds that hung over the world might descend in rain, or
might still assert the rule of winter, and come down in a fall of
snow. The sky, therefore, looked chill and comfortless to the eyes of
a considerable body of the army of the League, as it moved along the
heavy and channelled roads in the neighbourhood of Evreux; and to say
sooth, the aspect of the earth itself was but little more cheering
than that of the heaven which canopied it. Days of trouble had
impoverished the land, and the cold season which had just passed had
left the earth brown and rugged; while the woods, that swept over
every favourable slope, presented nothing but a tangled mass of dull
grey branches, diversified alone by a few patches of crisp yellow
leaves, that adhered, with all the tenacity of old attachment, to the
stems which were soon to cast them off for the greener and gayer
children of the spring. Thinly peopled, too, was then the land; and
though here and there a village church raised its tower against the
evening sky, or a cottage appeared upon the upland, in many instances
the bell had long ceased to sound from amidst the scenes that war had
visited; very often the light of the cottage was found extinguished,
and the fire of the once warm hearth gone out for ever. The hamlets
were few, and generally gathered round some castle, which afforded the
inhabitants refuge or protection in time of need; and solitary but
inhabited cottages, if met with at all, were but mere huts, in which
dwelt the lowest and most miserable of the population, upon whom war
itself could inflict nothing worse than existence.
In short, the whole scene was cold and desolate; and its effect upon
the mind of one of the leaders, who conducted the detachment we have
mentioned, was such as it was naturally calculated to produce. He had
ridden on, at about the distance of half a mile from the head of the
mingled masses of cavalry and infantry which were under his command;
and, accompanied by one companion, and several attendants, advanced
silently upon the rude road, which, winding along the side of an easy
hill, displayed a wide extent of dull grey slopes, slightly tinted
here and there with a faint and melancholy hue of green, till a dark
and gloomy wood, at several leagues' distance, cut sharp upon the
leaden sky, and closed the cheerless prospect. Although the eye of
Philip d'Aubin, for such was the horseman we have spoken of, roved far
and wide over the uninviting face of the country, it was clear that he
looked not upon it as a general reconnoitring the land through which
he passed, with the keen glance of strategic inquiry; but rather that
he seemed to regard it with the look of one whose heart--not wholly
dead to nobler feelings than those which armed him in civil strife
upon a bad and unjustifiable cause--grieved for the state of ruin in
which his native land was plunged, although his own evil passions
aided to produce the desolation that he lamented.
The other who rode beside him, Albert of Wolfstrom, drew his cloak
round him, and, as he gazed upon the bleak and desolate landscape,
thought of nothing but himself. Mercenary by nature and by habit, he
scarcely knew what it is to have a country; and--like many others who
believe themselves to be citizens of the world--in truth and in
reality, his own individual selfishness was his world, his country,
and his home. D'Aubin knew the nature of the man too well to suffer
the slightest hint of what was passing in his own bosom to escape his
lips; well aware that his companion could not understand his feelings,
and that, setting aside even the mercenary leader's own particular
philosophy, there was cant of many kinds to be brought forward against
the sensations which forced themselves upon him; for where was yet the
unholy cause which did not inscribe upon its banners the names of
virtue, religion, patriotism, and honour?
"It is a chilly night," he said, as he remarked the action of his
companion; "it is a chilly night, Wolfstrom!"
"Ay, and a dreary prospect," answered his companion. "Which, think
you, my noble Count, shall we have to warm our blood tonight with;
raising the wine cup, shaking the dice, or hard blows upon bright
steel?"
"With wine, if anything," replied D'Aubin; "Mayenne is not one fond of
night encounters and sudden surprises; and if he have not fought the
king's force to-day, which is not likely, he will let another sun rise
ere he strike a blow. As for dice, you know, I have abjured them."
"Ay do I, to my sorrow," answered Wolfstrom; "for we have not had one
merry night since we began our march; but, by my life, it is a dreary
prospect. I trust that all the centre of this good land is not so bare
and wasted. I have been so long in Picardy, where things wear a better
aspect, that I expected not this sad scene in Normandy."
D'Aubin turned upon him an inquiring eye, not understanding, for a
moment, what curious combination could have excited in the bosom of
the adventurer anything like feelings of regret for the devastation of
any land on earth. "You are compassionate, Wolfstrom!" he said:
"France indeed has suffered terrible evils; and Normandy, lately, more
than all; for here has been the hottest fire of war during the last
four months."
"And pray has not Maine suffered as much?" demanded Wolfstrom in a
quiet tone.
D'Aubin laughed aloud: "By the Lord!" he exclaimed, "I thought thy
heart had grown mighty tender over the woes of France, most worthy and
considerate Wolfstrom; forgetting, that in the _hypothèque_[4] which I
gave thee over my lands in Maine, on account of that accursed throw of
the dice, thou hast acquired a certain tender and generous interest in
my unhappy country, through the only channel by which thy heart can be
reached,--but rest satisfied! The war would be sweeping and desolating
indeed, which would leave the lands of Aubin unable to pay the pitiful
interest of thy pitiful debt; and besides, I shall soon be able to
discharge the whole, and load thee with that sort of moveable ore,
which is better suited to thy purposes and thy nature than any claim
upon the soil."
"You mean when your marriage can be completed with Mademoiselle de
Menancourt," replied Wolfstrom, not unwilling to retort some of the
bitterness of Aubin's speech upon himself. "By my faith, Sir Count, if
it wait till then, it will wait long enough apparently; for your fond
and affectionate bride seems to conceal herself from your longing arms
with wonderful skill and perseverance."
D'Aubin bit his lip, and paused for several minutes ere he replied;
but wrath he felt was vain in regard to circumstances far too well
known to admit the possibility of concealment, however much it might
sting him to find them a subject of common conversation to every
mercenary follower of the camp. It cost him an effort, indeed, to
smother all the angry feelings at his heart; but that effort over, he
replied in a tone of calmness that disappointed Wolfstrom's malice:
"She does, indeed, conceal herself skilfully," he said; "and in truth,
I little thought that so slight an offence as I gave her would so
deeply wound woman's jealous love, or I should have taken greater care
to please; but as soon as this battle is over, and these provinces
cleared, I will bend my whole thoughts and efforts to the search; and
when once I have found her, a few words of apology, and a few vows of
eternal love and fidelity, will set the whole to rights again."
"I heard that you tried all that before," replied Wolfstrom, dryly;
"and the good, free-spoken Parisians seems to think, that it was love
for one cousin made her run away from the other so eagerly; at least,
so Madame de Montpensier, and the Duchess of Guise, and young La
Tremblaye, and several others, fancied."
"It is false as hell!" cried D'Aubin; "and those who say it, and those
who repeat it, lie."
"I trust it is false," answered Wolfstrom, calmly; "and will not take
up the hard word you have used just now, Monsieur d'Aubin, till the
battle is over, and our personal affairs are in a little better order.
After that, however, I shall have to inquire how far the word lie was
applied to my share in the story. At present, let me say, that my
repeating unpalatable rumours to you was but an act of kindness,
intended to direct your mind towards a particular point. Even
supposing that nothing like love exists between your cousin and this
fair fugitive, every one knows that he used to regard her as a brother
might a sister; and it is a common supposition that she has fled to
his protection, and is concealed by his assistance."
"Nonsense, nonsense, Wolfstrom!" replied D'Aubin, musing a little
while he spoke. "It is all nonsense, depend upon it; and as to the
word lie, I applied it alone, of course, to those who spread such
reports maliciously--not to you. Eugenie, wherever she has fled, has
too deep a sense of female modesty to put herself under the protection
of any idle boy, like my cousin of St. Real."
"Pardie! call him not an idle boy!" cried Wolfstrom. "Call him rather
a stout soldier, and skilful commander; for such has he proved himself
in all these last affairs; and the very best in either camp may now
and then take a lesson from him."
"Pshaw!" said D'Aubin. "You are credulous, Wolfstrom! The followers of
the Bearnois take care to vaunt their great officers and skilful
soldiers, in order to make up, by the fears of their adversaries, for
their own want of strength. Do not let us be such gulls as to believe
them; and only let us so far reckon on their power, as to take every
means of employing our own to the best advantage. Do not you spare
your men, Wolfstrom; for one of these great battles lost might place
the whole of France in the power of the Bearnois."
"I shall neither spare my men nor my person, as I am bound in honour,"
answered Wolfstrom; "but it matters little to me whether France falls
under the power of the Bearnois or not. The term for which I took arms
will soon be expired; and I can always find employment for my sword,
thanks to the Protestants and Catholics here and in other lands."
"True," replied D'Aubin; "but you may find my lands confiscated to the
crown for treason and rebellion some fine day, if the Bearnois wins
the day of us ultimately; and then what becomes of your _hypothèque?_"
"That consideration shall make me give a good stroke or two more, my
dear friend," replied the German coolly; "but I seldom find means
wanting to repay myself; and, methinks, if the Bearnois does beat us
completely, and declares himself your heir, I shall still contrive to
skin his inheritance before I go."
D'Aubin made no reply, and for some time the two commanders rode on in
silence; the German leader probably calculating upon the best means of
skinning, as he termed it, other men's inheritance, and the Count
d'Aubin, on his part, revolving bitterly all that had just passed in a
conversation which presented so very few agreeable points for the mind
to rest on. What his companion had said in regard to Eugenie and St.
Real, he had repelled only the more angrily because it was confirmed
by suspicions existing previously in his own mind; for such is the
nature of the human heart, to combat on the lips of others the
self-same feelings that we experience with terror within us. To that
point of their conversation, therefore, did he most earnestly turn his
thoughts; and bitter and angry were the sensations which he now felt
towards a being whom he had once loved, but who had since committed
the unforgiveable offence of holding firm to virtue and to honour
where D'Aubin's own grasp had given way. Gradually as he nourished and
pampered the doubts and suspicions within him, the emotions of his
mind communicated themselves to his features and to his frame; and
suddenly remembering himself, as he was spurring on his horse under
the impulse of his irritated feelings, he affected to see some object
in the distant plain, and asked his companion whether he did not
perceive a light in the eastern part of the landscape.
Wolfstrom answered in the negative; and the conversation between them
was renewed, but took a different turn, touching chiefly upon the
chances of a battle on the following day, the respective forces of the
Royalists and Leaguers, and the probability of success on either part.
"We should soon know how the strife will end, if we were in my
country," said Wolfstrom; "at least, we might easily find persons to
tell us."
"How so?" demanded D'Aubin. "I hear that our holy Father the Pope,
although friendly to our cause, predicts that the day will go against
us."
"Ay, but in Germany," replied Wolfstrom, "we should find those who
pretend to know as much as his holiness, and do know a great deal
more. Have you never heard, that in the Odenwald, when a war is about
to begin, the Wild Huntsman goes out with all his dogs, and that, on
the tops of our mountains, on many a stormy night, the spirits of the
rivers and the floods hold their meetings, and reveal dark secrets of
coming events to those who have the courage to go and consult them?"
"No, indeed, Wolfstrom," answered D'Aubin, "I never did hear all that;
and I can but say, that I think those spirits must be very foolish
spirits to haunt Germany at all, when there is many a warmer and a
fairer land would be very willing to receive them; and still more
foolish to go up to the tops of mountains on a stormy night! No, no,
Wolfstrom; I am no believer in spirits, or ghosts, or phantasms, or
necromancers, or any sort of portents, except the wonders to be
effected by strong wits and strong arms."
"Say many a warmer land, if you will," replied Wolfstrom, angry at
D'Aubin's sneer at his native country. "Say many a warmer land, if you
will, but not many a fairer; for the whole earth does not contain a
fairer than Germany. Why, everything that stream, and mountain, and
forest, rich plain, and sweeping upland, can do to make a land lovely
is to be found in Germany: but as you have not seen it, you cannot
judge; and as to your disbelief in portents, you, as every other
incredulous doubter, will some day be convinced."
"Never!" answered D'Aubin, with a laugh: "but now, good Sir Albert, as
night is falling, and we shall not reach St. Andre before midnight, I
think we had better fall back to our men, and throw out some scouts.
Not that I fear surprise; for as Mayenne is between us and the enemy,
it would be strange to meet with a foe before we rejoin our friends.
'Tis as well, however, always to hold one's self prepared."
The views of the leader of the reitters perfectly coincided in this
cautious doctrine; and D'Aubin and his companion, slackening their
pace, suffered the head of their corps to come up with them.
Arrangements were then made for a night march; and the sun went down
ere they had proceeded far, bursting forth for a moment as he touched
the edge of the horizon, and dyeing the heavy clouds that rolled
around him with a dull and misty red. The clock struck nine as the
Count and his forces entered the little village of Gross[oe]uvre; and
the leaders, riding forward to the old chateau, were welcomed with
kindness and hospitality by the ancestors of my poor friend, the
gallant and chivalrous De Vitermont, one of the noble and generous
hearts of France, who, after having shed his blood, and lost health
and comfort in defence of his country, could still hold out the hand
of friendship and affection to those who had smitten him so severely,
but who were enemies no more.
So good was the wine, so hospitable the hearth at which he sat, that
Albert of Wolfstrom, with the true love of a soldier of fortune for
comfortable quarters, would fain have delayed the farther march till
morning, alleging that the horses and men were both fatigued, and
could just as well proceed an hour or two before daylight as at that
late hour of the night. D'Aubin, however, would not hear of delay;
well knowing of how much importance it is to bring troops fresh into
the field, rather than wearied with a long march. Determined,
therefore, that whatever rest the soldiers obtained should be as near
the expected field of battle as possible, at eleven o'clock he caused
the trumpets to sound; and shortly after the troops were once more on
their march towards the small town of Ivry, at which place the Duke of
Mayenne was now ascertained to be. A circuitous route, however, was
necessarily followed through the great plain which lies between Pacy
and St. Andre, as the latter place was understood to be occupied by
the forces of the king. Sure guides had been obtained, indeed, at
Gross[oe]uvre, and much were they needed, for the night was as dark as
the mouth of Acheron; and not a ray found its way through the black
covering of clouds to mark the road from the fields amongst which it
wound. The air was calm and still; and no sound was to be heard except
the occasional howling of the wolves, which were then frequent, and
are not now uncommon, in the many woods which diversify that part of
the country. Instead of bringing additional chilliness to the
atmosphere, however, the night had become warm, and was growing more
and more sultry as it advanced; and every now and then the wind, as if
struggling to rise against some oppressive burden in the sky, came
with a momentary gust of hot breath, which instantly fell again, and
all was still.
"It will turn to rain!" said D'Aubin, speaking to Wolfstrom, who rode
beside him; "it has grown too hot for snow."
"No, no, noble Sir!" replied the old man who walked beside D'Aubin's
bridle-rein, to show him the way; "that which you feel is the hot
breath of the battle coming up! They will fight to-morrow, that is
certain! When I served with the Great Duke, we never felt a night like
this, without being sure that there would be bloody work the next
morning, whether we expected it before or not."
"Indeed!" said D'Aubin; but as he spoke, a slight momentary flash
played along the verge of the far sky, showing, for the brief instant
that it lasted, the plain and the woods around, and then leaving all
blank and dark once more.
"Ay, that's always the way," said the old man; "the spirits of the two
armies are trying to-night which will have the victory to-morrow. We
shall hear more of it soon."
Several minutes, however, elapsed without his prophecy being verified;
and D'Aubin began to fancy, that what he had at first supposed to be a
flash of lightning had proceeded from the discharge of some distant
gun, the report of which had escaped his ear; when again a broad blaze
illumined the sky, and a clap of thunder, resembling the discharge of
a whole park of artillery, echoed and re-echoed through the air. Then
came another pause; but the moment after appeared a spectacle
which--if it had not been seen by the unimaginative Sully, and the
keen and inquiring eyes of D'Avila the historian, as well as those of
every other person then awake in either host,--might well have passed
for a superstitious fable. The sky became suddenly in a blaze with
flickering lightning, which scarcely left it for a moment in darkness;
while in the midst appeared forms of fire, like those of mounted
horsemen and charging squadrons. Shifting, advancing, wheeling, now
meeting in impetuous shock, now mingled in the confusion of the
_mêlée_, now broken and scattered, now fleeing, now rallied, the
aerial combatants acted in the clouds the fierce drama of a
hard-contested field of battle before the eyes of the astonished
soldiers. For some minutes an uncommanded halt took place; the
soldiers gazed upon the blazing sky with eyes of wonder and terror;
several of the horses started from the ranks, and were only brought
back by skill and strength; and then stood with foaming hides and
distended nostrils, straining their eyes, with their riders, on the
bright but fearful phenomenon above them. Still that strange warfare
in the sky seemed to go on, while the thunder rolled around in one
incessant peal; and gradually shaking off the first effects of terror,
the soldiery began to take an interest in the scene, worked up their
imaginations to the belief that the combat was real. So complete at
length was the illusion, that when the phantom army appeared defeated
by their adversaries, and the forms that composed it were driven over
the sky in confusion, the trumpeter of the horsemen of Aubin
instinctively put his clarion to his lips, and blew a rally. The Count
took advantage of the incident to give the word to march; and turning
to Albert of Wolfstrom, as he spurred on his horse, exclaimed, "In
truth, in truth, this is very strange!"
The troops followed their commander in some disarray; but ere they
reached the edge of the upland the pageant had passed away, and all
was darkness, except when an occasional flash of lightning broke for
an instant across the sky.[5]