There be many hearts that, in the full fruition and delight of what
they have obtained by evil means, know not remorse, and taste such
happiness as gratified passion can bestow. There be also those firm
and constant hearts which in the midst of trouble and adversity shake
off one half of calamity's heavy load by the strength of conscious
virtue and integrity; and there be some so dull and so obtuse, as,
under any circumstances, not to see and appreciate the worst portion
of their fate. But the curse of curses, the deepest earthly
retribution that can be poured upon the head of the wicked, is to find
their schemes frustrated, and their desires disappointed, by the very
evil means which they have taken to accomplish them. Such was the case
of Philip d'Aubin at the moment he left Beatrice of Ferrara; but
passion, and mortified vanity, and angry pride, combined to support
him for the time, and to shut his eyes to the stinging certainty that
his own vices had produced his own misfortune.
For an instant he gazed after the fair girl he had lost for ever, as
she turned from him in beautiful disdain; and he felt tempted to
follow her, and casting himself once more at her feet, to acknowledge
his errors, and throw away his faults in repentance. But with her
anger there had mingled a look of scorn, against which the worst
weakness of his nature rose in arms. Her indignation, her reproaches,
her wrath, he could have borne, but the contempt that curled her lip
roused vanity against repentance; and setting his teeth firm, he
muttered "Never! never!" and took another path to the chateau. Passing
hastily to the apartments which he had occupied, he bade the servant
that he found in waiting, summon the _maître d'hôtel_ to his presence,
and questioned him on his arrival in regard to what part of the
baggage with which he had joined the army of the League at Ivry had
been brought thither from the field, and where were the soldiers and
attendants who accompanied him.
"Neither baggage nor attendants of your own followed you here, sir,"
replied the man. "You were carried off from the field insensible by
four or five of my lady's horsemen, and came hither still in your
buff-coat and part of your broken armour. The purse which was on your
person, sir, and its contents, are in that closet, if you have not
taken it. Your horse is well, and in the stable; but your troops and
your attendants were all dispersed; nor have we heard aught of any of
them, except that some found their way to the Chateau d'Aubin; for
which, and for your lands in Maine, we learn his majesty the king, at
the request of Monsieur de St. Real, has granted an immunity, lest
they should be plundered in the war."
There was a dryness in the man's tone that displeased the Count
d'Aubin; and eyeing him with a somewhat frowning brow, he said, "Well,
then, I will go forth from your lady's dwelling as I entered it,
alone. Order my horse to be saddled: doubtless a countryman can easily
be hired to guide me on my way to my own lands. How far is it hence to
Vibraye or La Ferte?"
"Some thirty leagues, sir, by the road," replied the _maître d'hôtel_;
"but if you cross through the woods and by the hills--where the way is
not bad--the distance is hardly more than half as much."
"Well, then," said D'Aubin, "I will take the shortest; seek me a
guide;" and while the man was gone upon that errand, he walked up and
down the room with his hands clasped, and his eyes bent upon the
floor. Even then his better spirit whispered that it was not yet too
late; but the fiend rose against such counsel, and setting his teeth
hard, he took his purse from the spot where it had been placed, and
descended to the court-yard. His horse was already prepared; and one
or two of the innumerable retainers that thronged a great mansion in
those days were loitering about below. The _maître d'hôtel_ returned
in a few moments with a guide, riding on one of the small horses of
the country, and D'Aubin, putting his foot in the stirrup, slowly
mounted his charger. As he did so, he ran his eye over the many small
windows of the building; but nothing like a female face was to be seen
at any of them; and, turning to the attendants who stood around,
somewhat marvelling to see him thus depart alone and unnoticed, after
all that had lately passed, he bestowed upon them half the contents of
his purse, and then, with a slow pace and frowning brow, rode through
the gates into the country beyond.
There was a well of bitterness in his heart, which kept him silent as
he rode on; and more than half an hour passed ere he even asked a
question of the guide. Nor was his a mind to be soothed or comforted,
or rendered better or wiser, by thinking over events in which his own
follies had acted so principal a share. Too much a spoilt child of
vanity willingly to examine his own conduct with steady and impartial
eyes, he felt himself injured, rather than reproved, and meditated
chiefly how he might heal the wounds which had been inflicted on his
pride. At length, however, the sight of a distant town recalled to his
mind the state of the land through which he travelled; and he
remembered that it might be absolutely necessary for his own security
to ascertain the exact political situation of the different cities in
the vicinity. The guide, to whom his questions were of course
addressed, was shrewd and intelligent enough; and from his answers
D'Aubin found that the track, through which his road lay, thinly
peopled, and possessing few places of any importance, had known, as
yet, but little of the evils of civil war. A body of troops had,
indeed, occasionally crossed it. One or two of the defensible chateaux
were held for the king or for the League; now and then, too, a troop
of plunderers attached to one of the parties would appear, carry off
what pillage they could collect, and then retire; but no regular force
was known to be in the neighbourhood, except indeed a company of horse
arquebusiers, stationed at the small town of La Loupe, on the part of
the king, in order to keep open his communication with Maine and
Touraine. The guide, himself, was a strong Royalist; and as the Count
d'Aubin soon ascertained that fact, he neither gave him any
information in regard to his own party and opinions, nor trusted too
much the man's reports of great successes attending the king's arms,
and of the return of peace and prosperity, wherever the country
heartily resumed the virtues of obedience and submission.
Having now, by the questions necessary to ascertain the state of the
country, broken the dull and sullen taciturnity which had bound him
for some time, after quitting the chateau of Beatrice of Ferrara,
D'Aubin continued the conversation, as a relief from thought; and many
was the subject on which he needed information, as during the last few
weeks he had given up all his thoughts to happier topics, and to
brighter dreams, than either war or policy could supply. Curiosity of
every kind had seemed dead within him; but now he learned much from
the answers of his guide, and guessed more from many a vague distorted
tale, which the man had heard, concerning the late movements of the
armies;--tales which, indeed, contained in general less truth than
falsehood, but which were easily rectified, by the previous knowledge
and better judgment of the narrator's auditor. Much, too, did D'Aubin
hear of Beatrice of Ferrara; of her habits of life since she had
quitted Paris; of those kindlier virtues and gentler pursuits which a
capital suffers not to show themselves; and of the ardent and
enthusiastic love which the peasantry around had learned to bear
towards her. He listened and mused, and good and evil purposes
struggled hard together in his heart; but the evil was still
predominant; and though a lingering inclination to cast himself at her
feet, and sue for pardon, would make itself felt, more often still did
he ponder upon the means of teaching her, who had so bitterly rebuked
him, to repent in agony of spirit the resolution she had formed
against him. Ever and anon, too, with a feeling of still unconquered
triumph, he thought, "She loves me still! she loves me still! and the
man who possesses a woman's love holds her in bonds that it is
difficult to break."
Thus past the hours; and towards seven o'clock the guide stopped at
the poor _auberge_ of a small open village, in order, as he said, to
give the horses rest and provender. The scene was wild and hilly; and
D'Aubin now began to recognise the country around, which was little
more than twelve French leagues from his own paternal dwelling. His
recollection was vague, however, and not sufficient to justify him in
dismissing his guide; and, anxious to proceed, he took no refreshment
himself, but urged the man to hasten on, hoping, ere night had
completely fallen, to reach some spot, whence he could go forward
alone on the following morning. But the people of the _auberge_ were
slow, and the guide, who was their acquaintance, still slower;
inasmuch as, finding himself in comfortable quarters, he had
predetermined to take up his abode there for the night. He looked out
towards the west, declared that the sun was lower than he had thought
for; looked out towards the south, and predicted a sharp storm. But
D'Aubin was neither of a disposition, nor in a mood, to be delayed at
any man's will and pleasure; and, in consequence, he urged such cogent
arguments in regard to the payment of his guide's services, that the
man did at length bestir himself, and the horses were brought to the
door.
"How far is it to the little village of Neuville?" demanded D'Aubin,
after they had ridden on about a mile.
"Four good leagues, Monseigneur," replied the man; "but before we
reach that, we come to the chateau of Armençon, which has ever held
out stoutly for the king, and we are sure of a hearty welcome there,
should need be;" and as he spoke he looked up to that part of the sky
which rested, as it were, upon the edge of the high hilly bank forming
the southern boundary of the steep, narrow valley, or rather dell, up
which their road led on into the forest. D'Aubin turned his eyes in
the same direction, and beheld, what is very common in the valleys of
the Seine and the Eure during summer, large leaden masses of cloud, in
the shapes of rolling columns and sharp cones, rising up from behind
the hill, clear, defined, and harsh upon the sky, like the side-scenes
of a theatre. These are the invariable precursors of a thunder-storm;
but often they roll on for many hours, changing from one fantastic
shape to another, ere the fire within them breaks forth, and the
strife begins. The Count paid them no farther attention than was
evinced by slightly hurrying his pace. The track upon which he was now
entering was broken ground, forest, and hill; but still the road lay
on through the same dell, skirting the banks of a small stream which
fell at no great distance into the higher Eure. The uplands on either
side hid the sun, and afforded a shade which would have been pleasant
in that hot season, had not the closeness of the atmosphere, and the
want of the slightest wind, rendered the whole air equally oppressive.
The day rapidly declined as the travellers rode on, and the clouds
stretched wider overhead, while every now and then a faint, shifting,
electric light played between the detached masses, and showed that the
warfare of the elements was about to commence. D'Aubin was not a
little anxious now to hurry on; but ere he had accomplished more than
two leagues of the appointed way, night had fallen, and the storm had
begun. The lightning D'Aubin heeded but little, though his horse would
every now and then start and rear, as the bright glare gleamed across
the narrow road; but he knew the violent deluge of rain, in which
those storms generally end, would not be long ere it followed; and
feeling himself far more fatigued than he expected, he loved not the
thought of prolonging his journey under the outpouring of the watery
sky. They had now reached the summit of the hill: the trees afforded
but little shelter; and a few large drops began to patter upon the
leaves. "Ride on, my lord, ride on," cried the guide, who saw
D'Aubin's lately acquired strength beginning to flag; "the chateau of
Armençon is not above a league off."
"But I do not intend to stop till I reach Neuville," replied D'Aubin,
"Think you if we pause here under the shelter of some of the thickest
trees that the storm may not pass off?"
"Not to-night, sir, not to-night," replied the man; "but why not stop
at Armençon?" he continued with more eagerness, as the rain rapidly
increased: "they will show you all hospitality there; and if you be
just recovered from a sickness, as the _maître d'hôtel_ told me, it
will kill you to ride on for two or three hours more in a night like
this."
"Two or three hours!" exclaimed D'Aubin. "What! to travel three
leagues!"
"Ay, sir," answered the man, "even so. We are not here as if we were
coursing a hare over the plains. We shall have to go up and down
twenty steep hills ere we reach Neuville; but we shall be at Armençon
in three quarters of an hour."
"But I do not choose to stop there," replied D'Aubin, hastily: and for
a moment or two the man paused without reply. The next instant,
however, he said in a respectful tone, "I guess how the matter is,
sir: you are one of Mayenne's friends, and if so, good faith! you are
right not to go near Armençon. They shot the captain's brother in cold
blood, not long since, in Paris, and, by my soul, it would go hard
with any of the Leaguers if they were found within the chateau walls."
"I had nothing to do with the death of his brother," said D'Aubin,
"but still I will not trust to an angry man. Tell me, however, my
friend, can I trust to _you?_"
"On my life you may, sir," replied the guide; "and I would not take
you now into Armençon for my right hand. But it is coming on to pour:
your cloak will soon be wet through; and hereabouts there should be a
hut where the wood-cutters live in the spring and autumn. That will
give better shelter than the trees; and most likely you may find a bed
of rushes, and some pine-wood to dry your cloak withal."
"That were luck, indeed!" replied D'Aubin: "let us hasten on then, my
friend; and if you can meet with this hut, I will pay you for its
shelter better than ever _aubergiste_ was paid."
The memory of the guide was exact; and their search was not long. The
hut was, indeed, but four walls, thatched with stubble and plastered
with mud; and the door, which was made of straw, interwoven with
boughs, was lying detached upon the ground: but it was soon replaced;
and the frequent flashes of lightning enabled them to discover the bed
of moss and rushes which the guide had expected, and a small store of
dried fragments of the resinous pine, which, lighted by a flint and
steel, soon shed some better light upon the interior than was afforded
by the fitful glare without. The interior was too small to admit the
horses also; but D'Aubin satisfied himself with placing his own beast
under a tree, and mentally saying, "He will do well enough," returned
to the shelter of the hut, cast off his dripping cloak, and seated
himself upon the pile of dried herbs.
Still the storm continued, and still the incessant pattering of the
heavy rain bade the travellers be contented with the refuge they had
found. For awhile D'Aubin endeavoured to occupy his thoughts by asking
a number of questions of his guide, and listening to the long-winded
stories which the other, feeling the moments of inactivity as tedious
to his own restless and wandering nature as they were to the Count,
willingly poured forth for the sake of doing something. At length,
however, his stock exhausted itself; and an hour more passed in
silence and expectation; but the storm still went on.
The guide's patience now gave way. "My Lord," he said, "you will be
starved here, if I can find you nothing to eat. You took neither bit
nor sup at the _auberge_, though you had ridden many a league; but
amongst the houses that lie under the chateau of Armençon, I have a
cousin, and can, I doubt not, procure a piece of meat and a flask of
wine. I will say that it is for an old lady, whom I am guiding through
the wood, and who cannot come on for the storm."
D'Aubin did feel exhausted, and in need of food; but still he
hesitated to let the man depart, for in those days acts of treachery
were not uncommon; and his life might depend upon his passing the
castle of Armençon unobserved. The guide, however, insisted; and as
there was no means of staying him without showing suspicions, which
often produce the very evils they point at, the Count at length
suffered him to depart, and remained alone, determined to try whether
he could not sleep away the time while the peasant was absent.
The attempt was vain; and, stretched upon the bed of moss where the
hard limbs of honest industry had enjoyed many a night of comfortable
repose, the gay and glittering Count d'Aubin strove in vain to banish
from his bosom the torment of thought. Memory rested on the past, and
conscience knew her hour, and seized it with relentless power. His
gone existence was spread out before him like a map; and the
upbraiding voice within proclaimed each stage of folly and of vice
through which he had proceeded, and still read its sad comment upon
every act, showing his gradual downfall from honour, wealth,
splendour, reputation, happiness, and love, by his own errors and
vanities. The long procrastinated examination was forced upon his
heart at length; and oh! with what minute agony the moral torturer
wracked forth the inmost secrets of his bosom, and then broke him upon
the wheel of despair. His fortune irreparably injured; he himself
bound by large debts to an unfeeling mercenary; the party which he had
joined against his conscience ruined and falling; his baffled schemes
holding him up to the laughter of his light companions; the woman
whose wealth was to have repaired the consequences of his own
extravagance flying him with horror, and avoiding him with success;
and the only woman whom he had ever really loved now regarding him
with what had once been affection, changed, by his own infamy, into
hatred and contempt. Such were the terrible matters on which reason,
and conscience, and remorse had to comment during his hours of
solitude; and, from the first moment that those thoughts arose, he
felt that it would be a madness to deem that he could sleep. The agony
of his mind affected his body too much even to suffer him to lie
still; and starting up, he sometimes paced the narrow limits of the
hut like a tiger in its cage, sometimes cast himself down in his fury,
and cursed the hour that he was born. He reproached, he reviled
himself for everything; and, in the torture that he felt when alone,
exclaimed, "Fool that I was to let the boor leave me! even he were
better than no one, in this gloomy, accursed place, with the lightning
flashing eternally in my eyes, and the melancholy rain pattering over
head."
As he thus thought, the sound of horses' feet splashing through the
wet ground made itself heard in the intervals of the thunder, and the
moment after, D'Aubin could distinguish that there was more than one
traveller upon the road. A suspicion of his guide instantly crossed
his mind, and was immediately confirmed by hearing his voice exclaim,
"There, in that hut! You will find him there!"
The Count loosened his dagger in the sheath; and partly drew his
sword, while, stepping back to the farther side of the hut, he watched
for the opening of the disjointed door. A moment or two elapsed,
during which D'Aubin could hear the stranger on the outside speaking
as if to his horse, while he tied him under a tree; and then the
matted screen was pushed back, and the diminutive figure of Bartholo,
the dwarf, stood before him. Without uttering a word, Bartholo
advanced towards the Count, and cast himself at his feet with a look
of imploring deprecation that D'Aubin did not understand. It was
explained in a moment, however. "My Lord," said the dwarf, earnestly,
"my Lord, I find that when last I saw you I deceived you; and, by the
counsel that I gave you, I have brought insult and disappointment upon
your head. My fault was involuntary; but I deserve to be punished; and
I have sought you myself; that you may wreak what vengeance upon me
you like."
D'Aubin too well knew that to the counsels of his own perverse and
pampered heart he had listened more than to those of the dwarf; but he
was glad, nevertheless, to find any one on whom he could heap a part
of the blame; and while he snatched eagerly at the opportunity of
accusing another, he felt a degree of gratitude for the relief which
mitigated the bitterness of self-reproach.
"Alas! alas! my poor Bartholo!" he said, "you did deceive me, indeed!
But I am willing to believe that you deceived me unwittingly; and I
seek not to punish one who wished to serve me, though he failed."
"You are noble and generous ever, sir," replied the dwarf; "and though
she does not know the value of the heart she tramples on, others do,
and I will conceal it no longer. You little know, sir, how much art,
intrigue, and exertion were made use of to estrange from you a heart
that loved you, and rob you not only of your promised bride, but of
her affection."
"How say you?" cried D'Aubin, eagerly. "Speak more clearly, good
Bartholo; I do not understand."
"I know not whether I ought to speak more clearly or not," answered
the dwarf; "for although it is her pleasure and her pride to sport
with your love, and trample on you, yet it would wring her heart to
hear that, notwithstanding all her wiles, you had been successful with
her rival; and though to you she may appear but as a cold coquette, to
me, who have known her from her childhood, she has ever been a good
lady and a kind."
"Bartholo!" cried D'Aubin, sternly, "you have in one thing
miscounselled me, and rendered me miserable. You but now professed a
wish to atone for that error; and I call upon you at once, to clear
away the obscurity which hangs over all these transactions in which I
have been engaged, and to let me see how I really stand between
Beatrice of Ferrara and Eugenie de Menancourt."
"I will, sir! I will!" cried the dwarf, "let it cost me what it may.
But I must be quick, for the tale is intricate, and your guide, who
directed me hither, as I was following you to Armençon, will soon be
back. Listen, then," he continued, while his face resumed all its
bitter cynicism. "Think you, my Lord, that a girl, all gentleness and
sweetness, like Mademoiselle de Menancourt, could in a moment be
converted into a being as stern and resolute as an old warrior,
without some very potent magic? Think you that she who once loved you
to all appearance as much as a young maiden ever ventures to show,
would all at once affect hate and detestation towards you without some
very mighty cause? Think you that a girl who knows nothing of the
world, and is as timid as a young deer, could alone find means to
cheat hard-judging Mayenne and keen Madame Montpensier, and pass a
blaspheming Huguenot soldier off for a Catholic priest, frustrate you
and all of them by a false marriage, and then effect her escape from a
beleaguered city, where a thousand eyes were upon her; and all this by
the simple exertion of her own courage, ingenuity, and daring? Pshaw!
One would think to hear it, and to hear that you and Mayenne believed
it, that the warriors and the politicians of this world were changed
into old women. My Lord! my Lord! Eugenie de Menancourt loved you,
loves you, will love you still; and only now weeps the perfidy which
my noble lady--thinking, as all women do, that everything is fair in
love--taught her to fancy that you had committed against her. Had not
Mademoiselle de Menancourt learned to think, from the first moment she
set her foot in Paris, that your whole heart and soul were given to
the Lady Beatrice, and that you sought her hand only on account of her
wealth, she would at once, on her father's death, have flown to your
arms for protection. But, day by day, and hour by hour, that idea has
been strengthened and confirmed in her mind by a voice whose eloquence
no one knows better than you and I. Another time I will point out how;
but at present you will trust me--for your wits are not darkened
enough to doubt so apparent a fact--when I tell you, that the carrying
off the priest, the false marriage, and the escape from Paris, are all
owing to the fertile brain and daring courage of Beatrice of Ferrara.
She it was who robbed you of your bride; and she it is who now
conceals her within three leagues of this place, weeping that Philip
d'Aubin is false, and resolving to enter a monastery as soon as she
hears of his marriage to another."
"But St. Real!" exclaimed D'Aubin, "St. Real! I have more than
suspicions there."
"Pshaw!" cried the dwarf; "she thinks not of him. He may love her,
perhaps, but she thinks not of him, but as a brave good-humoured lad,
with wit enough to lead a score or two of iron-pated soldiers. But,
once convince her that you love her, and that those who have told her
you loved another were interested deceivers, and you will soon find
the ice will melt, and all the coldness pass away. And now, my Lord, I
have told you all. I have given you the key to the mystery; and
though, God knows, there are few men in this world that can comprehend
clearly anything beyond a schoolboy's sum, done upon a broken slate,
yet the matter here is so simple you cannot well mistake. Now I must
leave you; for if I be not back ere morning dawn, and my lady
discovers my errand, I may chance to die by an earlier death than I
have calculated on."
"But stay, stay yet a moment, good Bartholo," cried the count; "you
have not told me yet where I may find this fair lady. Think you my
marriage with her will touch your mistress so deeply then?"
"That is what I fear, my Lord," replied the dwarf, assuming a look of
sorrow, "that is what I fear. I owed you atonement, sir; and I have
made it at the risk of mortifying all the proud feelings of a lady and
mistress that I love; for I know that she calculates upon seeing you
again at her feet, and pouring forth upon you more of her scorn and
indignation, before she leaves you for ever, and returns to Italy. She
was laughing over the scene with Annette just now."
"It is a scene she shall never see!" said D'Aubin, biting his lip.
"But tell me where dwells this fair fugitive--this Mademoiselle de
Menancourt? She is, indeed, as beautiful a creature as the eye of man
ever yet beheld. One not difficult to love."
"Oh no!" cried the dwarf; "where is the heart that would not be
envious of the man who wears a jewel such as that upon his hand. Her
dwelling, I have said, is not far off. You know the little stream that
separates the lands of Aubin from those of Menancourt. Trace it up to
its source amongst these hills, and not half a league from the spot
where it bubbles from its green fountain you will find two cottages,
in one of which is the object of your search. It is not like the
ordinary dwelling of a French peasant; for the Lady Beatrice has taken
a pleasure in decking forth her friend's home after the fashion of our
own land, where taste, and the love of all that is beautiful, descends
even to the lowest tillers of the soil."
"I shall easily find it," replied the count; "and yon fair scornful
dame shall find that D'Aubin can seek him a mate as beautiful as
herself. Bartholo, I trust you--once more I trust you! but oh! if you
deceive in this also, look to your heart's blood; for I will find
means to punish you, should you hide in the farthest corner of the
globe."
"My Lord, I deceive you not," replied the dwarf, "nor in this am I
myself deceived. But, I entreat, undertake no enterprise upon my
showing, without resolving to carry it through at all hazards. If you
would have the love of that fair creature you seek, spare no vows and
persuasions to efface from her mind the evil impression that others
have given of your conduct. Nor trust to that alone. Forget that the
marriage was null. Act upon it as if she were your wife, till you have
her safe in your own chateau; and then let the ceremony be performed
again. Neither must you seek her alone, and unattended by a sufficient
force to assert your right, should it be opposed. I know that five or
six of my lady's bravest followers are always watching near that spot;
and there may be more. Stir not a step, without fifty horseman at your
back. At all events, remember, my noble lord, that if you undertake
this enterprise without sufficient strength and resolution, the
failure must not be laid to me. As I hope for life and happiness, I
believe that you may be fully successful."
"I am not apt to want in resolution, Bartholo," replied D'Aubin.
"Hence I shall speed to my own dwelling without a moment's loss of
time; but it may take long in the present state of affairs to collect
such a troop as fifty men."
"Yet time is everything!" replied the dwarf. "'Tis more than likely
that changes may take place, of which I cannot inform you; and if the
lady be removed from her present refuge, our scheme is ruined. To be
bold and rapid is the best road to success, after all. Who can tell
what even to-morrow may bring forth?"
"True!" answered D'Aubin; "and, if possible to-morrow's sun shall not
set ere Eugenie de Menancourt be mine. Then let your mistress and her
maids laugh over the scene of my supplications if they will! But I
must be guided by circumstances. At present my purse is but lean, my
good friend. Nevertheless----"
"Speak not of it, sir! speak not of it!" replied the dwarf. "I came to
do what I have done, in order to make atonement for an involuntary
error towards one who was to me the most generous of masters; and who
never could accuse me of giving him false information before. I sought
not gold, and will not take it. But if you succeed, and if you be
happy, sometimes remember the poor dwarf when he is far away."
Thus saying, he kissed the hand of his former lord, and departed,
drawing the matted door after him. The next moment D'Aubin heard his
horse's feet; and, again left alone, he once more cast himself upon
the bed of moss, and gave himself up to thought. His feelings,
however, were now very different from what they had been an hour
before. Although, as we have before shown, the idea of wedding Eugenie
de Menancourt, repairing his wasted fortune by her wealth, and
triumphing proudly over her who had scorned and rejected him, and made
him the common jest of Paris, had never quitted his mind, even while
yielding willingly to his passionate love for Beatrice of Ferrara; yet
the repulse he had met with, from a being on whose love and compliance
he had counted with full confidence, the bitter scorn that she had
displayed towards him, and the keen disappointment that her rejection
inflicted, had, in spite of all the Titan-like struggles of pride, so
abased and overwhelmed him, that he had lost courage, and looked with
hopeless eyes upon all the daring schemes on which, at other times, he
would have entered so boldly. The words of the dwarf, however, had
revived him, not alone by showing him the easy means of accomplishing
one part of his purpose, but by pointing out a new end to be obtained,
a new object of desire, and that, too, of a nature to give the only
alleviation which his heart was capable of receiving in the pain he
suffered--the alleviation of revenge. He felt that Beatrice was
already unhappy; that his conduct was--must be--a source of misery to
her; but that feeling, far from making him pity her, roused up his
suffering vanity to strive for means of avenging upon her the insult
which her purity had offered to his baseness. The dwarf had pointed
out the way; and to dream of wringing her heart by his marriage with
Eugenie, while he silenced for ever the stinging laughter of his
former companions, was a relief--perhaps a pleasure. At the same time,
a thought crossed his mind that the tale of his having dwelt many
weeks concealed in the dwelling of Beatrice of Ferrara, joined to his
reputation for gallantry, might, perchance, leave her proud reputation
for virtue somewhat sullied; and, as he thought thus, a smile,
mingling vanity and pride and vengeance altogether, passed over his
lip, and gave his fine features the expression of a demon; and yet
this was the bright and fascinating Count d'Aubin: whom we have seen
so full of light and harmless gaiety in the beginning of this volume,
and such was the creature he had, step by step, become.
Before the visit of the dwarf he had tried to sleep in vain; but now
he felt the gnawing pain at his heart relieved by a new purpose; and,
after the return of his guide with wine and meat, he ate and drank,
though sparingly, and then, casting himself down once more, slept
undisturbed till morning dawned.