What was once a poor farm-house, in a woody and remote part of the
hills in which the Eure and Loire take their rise, had, under the
touch of taste and affluence, been transformed into a beautiful little
habitation, half rustic cottage, half Italian villa; and all this had
been done as easily as the genii built the palace of Aladdin. The
wood-work had been painted green, so that the heavy planks which, when
shut, closed the windows, looked light; the thatch had been nicely
clipped and trimmed; the inside had been hung with arras, and
decorated with paintings in the fashion of the day; and along the
front had been carried a portico, consisting of unpolished trunks of
trees for columns, and a light trellis-work of boughs to soften the
strong sunshine. The face of the house was turned towards the south;
and it might have commanded, from its elevated situation, a beautiful
view over the greater part of Maine, had the tall old trees which
screened it in front been partially cut away: but those in whose
possession it now was had carefully abstained from the axe; not alone
from reverence for the ancient trees, but because quiet concealment
was with them a great object of desire. No place, in truth, could have
been better chosen for that purpose. There was, indeed, one horse
road, which came within a few hundred yards of the house, but it went
no farther than to a small isolated village not more than a league
distant, and there ended. Another, passing a little farther off, led
away to the chateau of Guery, at the distance of three leagues on one
side, and to the small town of ---- on the other; but even this was
merely a bridle path, upon which there was scarcely any traffic in the
best of times, and much less now that civil war had stilled all
commercial spirit in the land.
It was in the little portico, then, which we have noticed, that on the
evening of a warm clear day in June, occasionally shaded by the masses
of a broken thunder-cloud, which, during the night, had poured forth a
tempest on the earth, sat the fair Eugenie de Menancourt, into whose
cheek the warm glow of health and youth had returned, during a long
interval of peace and tranquillity. Hither, after many wanderings, had
she been brought by Beatrice of Ferrara, as soon as it was known that
the Count d'Aubin was no longer in the neighbourhood; and in order to
be sufficiently near her, to give her every sort of aid and
protection, without calling further attention upon her retreat by
living with her, the fair Italian had retired to the chateau of Guery
which she possessed in the neighbourhood. The time had, as we have
seen, passed without bringing molestation to Eugenie; and she now sat
with an open letter in her hand, gazing out upon the woodland scene
before her eyes, and seeing those mixed visions of romance, and
tenderness, and melancholy which are so often present to a woman's
eyes, and are the more dear, because she is taught to hide that she
beholds them. Before her were those dark old trees; on her right a
thicket of shrubs of many a varied kind; behind her the room in which
she was wont to sit--then called her bower, and on the left, some
fields screened again from the road by other trees. It was a calm
sweet scene; and Eugenie felt not unhappy, though there might be other
things she would have fain brought in, to form her picture of perfect
felicity, and although the letter which she held in her hand from
Beatrice of Ferrara, by telling her not to be alarmed at anything that
might happen, for that friends were near, had, in some degree, created
the apprehension is was intended to relieve.
As she sat thus and gazed, she thought she heard the tramp of horse;
but the sound, if sound there were, ceased, and she believed that her
ears had deceived her. A moment or two after, a long ray of sunshine
that found its way between the bolls of the trees, and spread a pencil
of light upon the green turf at her feet, was for an instant obscured,
as if either a cloud had come over the sun, or some dark object had
passed among the trees. Eugenie's heart began to beat quick, and the
next minute a rustling sound in the thicket to her right made her
start up; but ere she could retreat into her own chamber, the boughs
were pushed back, and Philip d'Aubin was at her feet. With a face as
pale as death, Eugenie sank into the seat that she had before
occupied, and gazed with eyes expressive certainly of anything but
love, upon the Count as he knelt before her, and pressed her hand to
his lips.
"Eugenie!" said D'Aubin, "Eugenie! I have at length found you, then.
My Eugenie! my wife!"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Eugenie, struggling to overcome her terror: "oh,
no! not your wife! No, sir, I am not; I never have been; I never will
be your wife! Death were preferable--ay, the most terrible death were
preferable to that!"
"Hear me, Eugenie!" said D'Aubin. "Eugenie, you must hear me! for this
house is surrounded by my soldiers; you are utterly and perfectly in
my power; and if I have recourse to reason and persuasion with you, it
is alone from tenderness and affection towards you, and because I
would rather induce my bride to accompany me willingly and tranquilly,
than use towards her those means of compulsion which I have a right to
exercise in regard to a disobedient wife. Eugenie, will you hear me?"
"I have no resource, Sir," replied the unhappy girl; "but still I
repeat that I am not your wife. In the first place, I have at the
altar refused to pledge a vow towards you; and by this time you must
well know that the man who read the vain and empty ceremony which you
are pleased to call a marriage was not one invested with that sacred
function which is requisite to render a marriage legal, even with the
willing consent of both parties."
"All I know is, that the marriage ceremony was performed between us,"
replied D'Aubin, "and that it is registered in the archives of Paris.
That you are my wife, therefore, there is no doubt; and that I have
the right, as well as the power and the will, to take you home and
regard you as my wife, is equally indubitable. Still if you require
it, the ceremony shall be performed again; but hope not any longer to
avoid taking upon you the duties of the position you hold in regard to
me, for, as I told you, I have a hundred men within call ready to obey
my lightest word! Shall I make them appear?"
"Oh, no, no, no!" exclaimed Eugenie, wringing her hands. "What, what
shall I do?"
"Merely listen to me, Eugenie, my beloved!" cried D'Aubin. "With the
power to compel, a thousand times rather would I succeed by entreaty;
and instead of seeking to command you, let me at your feet seek to
persuade you. Hear me plead my cause, Eugenie, in language that you
have never heard me use before, because I was ignorant of the motives
which actuated you, and attributed your conduct towards me to mere
caprice, whereas I now know it to have been just, excellent, and wise,
and like yourself. The same ignorance has made me harsh to you, and
unjust towards my cousin St. Real; and I will not rise from my knee
till you have heard my exculpation, and fully know how much we have
all been deceived."
"Indeed!" said Eugenie, "indeed! yet I am at a loss to guess what you
can mean."
"Well may you be so, Eugenie!" replied D'Aubin; "well may you be so!
For it was only yesterday that I learned the elucidation of the
mystery myself. You have been cheated, Eugenie; you have been
deceived; you have been taught to believe a man who loved you, and you
alone, a heartless profligate. But first hear me, Eugenie, when I
declare that I have never loved any one but you; that from the first
moment your hand was promised me by your father, the idea of your
young charms has ever been present to my mind, and the hope of soon
possessing them been the consolation of my whole existence."
Eugenie coloured deeply: "I am grieved, sir," she replied; but D'Aubin
interrupted, saying,--
"Hear me, Eugenie, to the end: I have but given you a picture of my
own feelings towards you. Now let me display all the base and crooked
means that have been taken to alienate your affection from me, and
then tell me if it be right and just to let those means still have
effect, when you are convinced of their falsehood and iniquity. Only
yesterday did I discover that at Paris you had become acquainted with
one of the late Queen Catherine's train of ladies--a train which, I
need not tell you, was and will remain marked with infamy to the eyes
of all posterity!"
"Perhaps so!" cried Eugenie eagerly; "but the name of Beatrice of
Ferrara will always be excepted. The daughter of a sovereign prince,
she was always as distinguished by her virtues as by her rank; and my
father on his death-bed told me that I might always confide in her,
for that, in the midst of the terrible trial of universal bad example,
no one had ever been able to cast a reproach upon her fame."
"It may be so!" replied D'Aubin; "it may be so! but doubt not,
Eugenie, that she has passions and weaknesses too; and the confidence
you gave her was misplaced. All has been revealed to me. I know
everything that has passed, and therefore I am justified in saying
that she has made us both her tools. Did she not tell you that I loved
her--that I had vowed vows and made protestations at her feet? I know
she did. I know that both by open words, and slight insinuations, she
poisoned your mind against me; that she taught you to believe me
profligate and base--"
"Never! never!" cried Eugenie, "never, upon my word."
"No matter," cried D'Aubin, "she made you credit that I loved her, not
you; that by vows and promises I was bound to her. She it was that
always crossed me in your esteem; she frustrated the arrangements for
our marriage; she laid the scheme, and executed the whole of your
flight from Paris. Is not this true? and do you think she had not a
motive? Eugenie, I tell you she had. It may make me appear vain in
your eyes; but, to exculpate myself, I must reveal that motive.
Eugenie, she has loved me from our first meeting; she has loved me
with all the ardour and all the fire of which an Italian is capable;
but so to love unsought, is never to win love. She has teased me; she
has persecuted me with her affection. But do not mistake me, Eugenie;
I have never loved but you--you alone have I sought, you alone have I
sighed for. To her I have turned a deaf ear and a cold heart. I care
not for her, I love her not, I have never loved--ay! and though I
scruple not to say that, no later than yesterday, I might have made
her mine on any terms I chose--"
There was a slight rustle in the room behind--a quick step; and
Beatrice of Ferrara stood by the side of Eugenie de Menancourt.
D'Aubin started up from his knee. "Liar! traitor! villain!" cried the
beautiful girl, with eyes from which mighty indignation lightened
forth like fire bursting from a volcano;--"Liar! traitor! villain!"
and as he rose, she struck him what seemed but a slight stroke upon
the bosom with the quickness of light. D'Aubin grasped his sword, then
let it go, and raised his hand to his eyes; a stream of dark gore
spouted out from his breast; he reeled, and murmuring "Jesu, Jesu!"
fell at the feet of her he had so basely injured.
Still holding the dagger tight in her grasp, Beatrice stood and gazed
upon him; and Eugenie too, with her hands clasped, and turned as it
were into stone by fear and horror, remained straining her eyes upon
the fearful sight before her.
At that moment, the furious galloping of horse was heard along the
nearest road, then came the clashing of steel and pistol shots; and
Joachim, the servant of Beatrice, glided from the room whence his
mistress had issued, and drawing her by the sleeve, exclaimed--"There
seems a large force coming up, madam! save yourself, ere this be
inquired into. The horses are still where we left them, at the end of
the lane."
But Beatrice, without reply, continued to gaze upon the corpse of him
she once so passionately loved, apparently unconscious of aught else
but the terrible act she had performed. The next moment, the voices of
several persons approaching were heard; and through the trees appeared
two gentlemen on foot, followed by half a dozen soldiers dragging
along Albert of Wolfstrom, with his hands tied.
"We are in time, fair lady, to do your behest," cried Henry IV. who
was at the head of the party, speaking in a joyous tone, as, as the
distance of the trees he caught a sight of Beatrice without seeing the
object at which she gazed. "Your letter reached me, as I marched
along, and though addressed to my _locum tenens_ at La Loupe, I made
bold to break the seal. But where is this perverse and rebellious
Count d'Aubin?"
"There!" cried Beatrice, in a voice which had lost all its music.
"There he lies! never to be perverse or rebellious again! Oh, Philip,
Philip! thou hast trod upon a heart that loved thee--cast happiness
from thee--sought destruction--and found it from a woman's hand!"
"Indeed!" cried the king, hastening forward with St. Real, who was his
companion. "In God's name, what is all this? Pardie, 'tis too true!
There he lies, indeed!" The king's eye then glanced to Beatrice, while
St. Real gently led Eugenie away from the scene of blood and horror in
which she had been made an unwilling sharer. The dagger was still in
the hand of the fair Italian, though that hand now hung by her side as
if it had never possessed power to strike the blow which had laid such
strength and courage low; but her sleeve was dyed with blood; and a
slow red drop trickled down the shining blade of the poniard, and fell
from the point to the ground.
"From your own speech, lady!" said the king, after a momentary pause,
"I learn that you have just committed an awful act, especially for a
woman's hand. Nevertheless, I cannot but believe, from all that I have
heard, that this was an act of justice! He was a rebel, too, at the
moment of his death, in arms against his king; and, therefore, this
deed is not to be too strictly investigated; otherwise--although as
the head of a sovereign house you are armoured with immunities--it
would become me to refer the inquiry to my council. As it is, Philip
Count d'Aubin having been slain in arms against his monarch, in the
commission of an illegal act, and by your hand, of course justice
withholds her sword from avenging his death, yet I think that it is
expedient for you, lady, to quit this realm with all convenient speed;
and to insure your safety, a party of my own guard shall accompany you
to the frontier. My words seem to fall upon an inattentive ear! May I
ask if you have heard me?"
"Yes, yes," replied Beatrice; "I have heard, my lord--your majesty is
lenient! My crime is great; but be it as you will, I am ready to go!
My thoughts, to speak the truth, are not so clear as they might have
been some half hour since--I thank your majesty! All I ask is a
prisoner's diet, bread and a glass of water,--for I am thirsty,
exceeding thirsty! Then I am ready to set out.--Philip, farewell!" she
added, gazing upon the corpse: "we shall meet again! Our deeds unite
us for ever! Alas! alas! where shall I go, my lord?"
"Her brain is troubled," said the king, in a low tone, turning to one
of the officers who followed; "go in with her, call her own people
about her; but treat her with all reverence. She must be sent forth
from the kingdom as speedily as possible. Madam, this officer will
conduct you. Set a sentinel at the door," he added, in a low tone, "as
if for honour; but let her people be with her, and lay no restraint
upon her, except in watching whither she goes."
"Will no one give me a glass of water?" said Beatrice, moving towards
the house.
"It shall be brought in a moment, lady," replied the officer,
following. "Where are this lady's attendants?"
"Well, St. Real," said the king, turning to the young cavalier as he
issued forth again from the house just as Beatrice entered. "Pardie,
we are too late in one sense, after all, though not too late to
prevent the mischief these fellows meditated. Ventre Saint Gris! but
this cousin of yours was an ungenerous villain; and I am sorry for
that poor girl, who, to my thinking, has driven the dagger deeper into
her own heart than into his. Well, there he lies, and one of the
conspirators against our fair heiress of Menancourt is disposed of;
now to despatch the other. Martin, bring forward the prisoner."
"Sir Albert of Wolfstrom," continued the king, "it seems to me that
your name was once enrolled amongst the troops of my late cousin,
Henry III. and that you chose the chance of a halter and better pay on
the part of the League. Traitors against myself, God help me, I am
fain to forgive, leaving them to God and their consciences for
punishment; but traitors to the late king I forgive not, and,
therefore, I shall turn over your case to my good friend De Biron, who
is not merciful, but just. Your own heart, therefore, will tell your
fate: if it condemn you, be sure that ere to-morrow's noon you will be
lying like him you stare at with such open eyes."
"Cannot I take service with my troop?" demanded Wolfstrom, with
undaunted effrontery. "Your majesty suffered the Swiss at Ivry to come
over to you."
"They were only enemies, not traitors," replied the king; "I can have
traitors enow without paying them, sirrah!--What is that outcry
within, St. Real? No more tragedies, I trust!--What I have said, Sir,
is decided," continued Henry, again turning to Wolfstrom, while St.
Real entered the house to ascertain the cause of the sounds of
lamentation that they heard. "If your conscience tell you that you
deserted the late king, bid good-by to the world! By my faith there
must be something the matter there!" he added, as the tones of grief
came again from within; and turning hastily, he himself entered the
house, and advanced to a room from the open door of which the sound
proceeded. The sight that presented itself needed little explanation.
In a large chair, near the centre of the room, sat Beatrice of
Ferrara, with her head supported upon the breast of her faithful old
servant Joachim, while kneeling at her feet, and weeping bitterly as
she clasped her friend's knees, was the beautiful form of Eugenie de
Menancourt. Around were a number of female attendants, filling the air
with lamentations; and on one side stood St. Real, gazing eagerly in
the face of the fair Italian. But that lovely face had now lost the
loveliness of life, the bright dark eyes were closed, the colour of
the warm rose no longer blushed through the clear white skin, the lips
themselves were pale, and the dazzling teeth showed like a row of
pearls, as the mouth hung partly open. Her right hand was still
clasped upon a glass from which she had been drinking; and rolled away
upon the floor was a rich carved _bon-bonnière_, from which a small
quantity of white powder had been spilt as it fell. Throughout the
whole room there was a faint odour, as if of bitter almonds; and
Henry, who well remembered that same perfume, when some of the noblest
in France had died somewhat suddenly, exclaimed at once as he entered,
"She has poisoned herself!"
"Too true, I fear, my lord!" replied St. Real; "but a leech has been
sent for."
"In vain! in vain!" said the king. "She is dead already, St. Real!
That is no fainting fit; and even were she not dead already, no skill
on earth could save her from the tomb. I know that hateful drug too
well. Come away, St. Real! Mademoiselle de Menancourt, come away! Nay,
I command! You do no good here!"
Thus saying, Henry took the fair girl's hand and led her to another
room, where, after speaking a few words of comfort, he added, "But I
must to horse again and forward towards Le Mans. You, St. Real, I
shall leave behind with your regiment, for the protection of this one
fair lady, though those that persecuted her are no more. His body
shall be carried to his own dwelling, and lie beside his father's.
That I will see to. And now, though this is a solemn moment, and the
scene a sad one, yet Mademoiselle de Menancourt, I must put it out of
fortune's power to persecute you farther, for the treasure of this
fair hand. Nay, nay, I must have my will!--Take it, St. Real," he
added, placing it in his. "If I judge right, you value it highly; and,
as you well deserve it, I give it to you now, lest any of my many
friends should crave me for the gift hereafter. I would rather say to
those who ask it that it is given, than that I will not give it. To
your love and sorrow, lady, I leave the last rites of yon beautiful
and hapless girl. Hers was a hard fate, and a noble mind; for, cast by
fortune into the midst of corruption, with a heart all warmth and a
fancy all brightness, she came out still, pure as gold refined in the
fire, which, Heaven forgive us, is what few of us can say for himself.
Amidst all the falsehoods and follies of the late court, never did I
know the breath of scandal sully her fair name! She was, indeed, _one
in a thousand!_ Conceal the manner of her death, if possible; and let
such honours as the church permits convey her to her last long home!
Now, farewell!"