The observation may seem trite, that to every period of life is assigned
by the Almighty and Munificent Being, who at our creation adapted to
each part of our material form the functions that it was to execute and
the labours it was to sustain, either peculiar powers of endurance or
counterbalancing feelings, which render the inevitable cares and sorrows
apportioned to every epoch of our being lighter and more easy to be
borne. The woes of childhood are, in themselves, speedily forgotten. The
pains are soon succeeded by pleasures, and care, gnawing care, the rack
of after-life, is then unknown. Boyhood, eager, enthusiastic, hopeful
boyhood, the age of acquisition and expectation, though it may know from
time to time a bitter pang, scarcely less in its degree than those that
afflict mature life, has so many compensating enjoyments, its own
sunshine is so bright, the light that shines upon it from the future is
so dazzling, that the griefs serve but as a preparation and a warning,
too little remembered when once they are past. Old age, with its decay,
with the extinction of earthly hopes, with the prospect of the tomb, has
also dulled sensibilities that allow us not to feel many of the more
painful things of early years. The blunted edge of appetite may not give
so keen a zest to pleasure; but the apathy which accompanies it extends
to griefs as well as joys, and, if wisely used, is one of the best
preparations for a resignation of that state of being which we have
tried in the balance of experience and have found wanting; wanting in
all that can satisfy a high and ethereal spirit; wanting in all things
but its grand purpose of trial for a life to come. But, besides all
this, unto that period of old age, thus prepared and admonished for
another state, God himself has also given comfort and consolation, a
promise and a hope: a promise brighter than all the promises of youth, a
hope brighter than all those that have withered away upon our path of
life.
There is still another age, however; an age the most perilous, often the
most full of pains; an age when the eager aspirations of youth reach out
the hand towards fruition; when the great truths of disappointment break
upon us; when we first learn the bitter lesson that hope has told us
idle tales, that fortune is of fickle favour, that friendships are too
often false, that our own hearts do ourselves wrong, that enjoyment
itself is often a vanity and often a vision, that we must suffer, and
grieve, and repent in the midst of a world which, shortly before, we
fancied was composed of nothing but brightness, and beauty, and
happiness. I speak of the time of life when we first put on manhood, and
meet all its sorrows at the moment when we expect nothing but its joys.
For that period, too, there is a bright compensation given, there is a
sustaining principle implanted in our breast, common to the highest and
the lowest, the savage and the civilized; a principle that furnishes a
balm for many wounds, that surrounds us with an atmosphere of
consolation, hope, and joy, and enables us to live on in one splendid
dream, even in the midst of hard and dark realities.
That principle is love; and that principle was warm and strong in the
bosom of Bernard de Rohan, as, on the day after that in which the
conversations we have mentioned in our last chapter took place, he
stood, a few minutes before the setting of the sun, under a group of
tall fir-trees that had pitched themselves upon a pinnacle of the rock,
about ten yards distant from the farther angle of the garden attached to
the chateau of Masseran. The trees grew very close together; and, what
between scanty soil and the mountain winds, their large trunks had
contorted themselves into manifold strange shapes. From this group two
or three rows of the same kind of firs ran down the side of the hill
into the valley. One would have supposed that they were the remains of
some old avenue had the lines been but a little more regular.
The shadow of those trees completely concealed any one who stood beneath
them, and the eyes must have been very near that could have perceived
Bernard de Rohan as he leaned against one of them, gazing upon a
particular part of the garden wall immediately under one of the small
watch-turrets. He thus waited some time, with an eagerness of
expectation, it is true, which in no other situation or circumstance had
he ever known before; but, at the same time, with sweet thoughts, and
hopes, and happy memories, which cheered the moments, and made even the
impatience that he felt appear like some of those drinks which man has
invented to satisfy his thirst, and which are at once pungent and
grateful to the taste. He had waited some time, we have said, when at
length, as a distant snowy peak began to change its hue and turn rosy
with the rays of the setting sun, the small postern door on which his
eyes were fixed was seen to move upon its hinges, and then stood ajar.
Bernard de Rohan sprang forward, passed the small open space in a
moment, and, pushing back the door more fully, stood within the garden
of the castle of Masseran.
Scarce a step from the gate, with her hand pressed upon her heart, as if
to stop the palpitation of fear and agitation, stood a lady, perhaps of
twenty years of age. She was certainly not more; and her beauty, like
the morning sun, seemed to have the promise of a long, bright race
before it. She was very graceful and very beautiful. The whole form
seemed to breathe of a bright and high spirit; but even had it not been
that her person so perfectly harmonized with her mind, and was, in
fact--as nature probably intended should be the case--an earthly type of
the soul within, yet Bernard de Rohan would still have loved her as
deeply, as tenderly as he did, for he knew that spirit to be bright and
beautiful; he knew the heart to be tender, and devoted, and
affectionate; he knew the mind to be pure and high, and fixed in all its
purposes of right.
He had been brought up with her from youth; her father had been his
guardian, and a parent to him when his own parents were no more. She had
fancied herself a sister to him till the hearts of both told them it was
happy she was not so. No disappointments had ever befallen them in the
course of their affection; no obstacles had been thrown in their way
till that time; and yet, though neither opposed, nor troubled, nor
disappointed, they loved each other with true and constant hearts, and
feared not the result of any hour of trial.
She was very beautiful, certainly. It was not alone that all the
features of her face were fine, but it was also that the form of the
face itself was beautiful, and the way that the head was placed upon the
neck, and the neck rose from the shoulders, all gave a peculiarity of
expression, a grace, which is only to be compared to that of some
ancient statue from a master's hand. The eyes, too, were very, very
lovely, deep blue, and full of liquid light; with dark black eyelashes
that curtained them like a dark cloud fringing the edge of the western
sky, but leaving a space for the bright light of evening to gush through
upon the world. Her complexion was a clear, warm brown; but now, as she
stood, there was something, either in the agitation of the moment or in
the cold light of the hour, which made her look as pale as marble.
She was pressing her hand upon her heart, and leaning slightly forward,
with an eager look towards the door, as if prepared to fly should any
one appear whom she did not expect. The instant she saw Bernard de
Rohan, however, her whole face was lighted up with a glad smile, and she
sprang forward to meet him with the unchecked joy of pure and high
affection. They were in a moment in each other's arms.
"My Isabel! my beloved!" he said. "I thought that this man had
determined to shut me out from beholding you again."
"And so he would," replied the lady. "So he would if he had the power.
But oh! Bernard, I fear him--I fear him in every way: I fear him on my
own account, I fear him on yours."
"Oh! fear not, fear not, Isabel," replied Bernard de Rohan. "He can but
bring evil upon his own head if he attempts to wrong either you or me.
Already has he placed himself in danger. But tell me, my beloved, tell
me, is he really absent from the castle, or was it but a pretence to
avoid seeing me when I came yesterday?"
"No, he is absent," replied Isabel de Brienne. "In that, at least, there
is no deception, for I saw him ride out with but a few horses yesterday
towards midday. He took the small covered way by the back of the castle
and by the other side of the gardens. I saw him from the window of my
chamber in the keep, and I do not believe that he has since returned."
"It must have been to avoid me," said Bernard de Rohan, thoughtfully;
"and yet, how could he know that I was here? Did he ever hint at such
knowledge, my Isabel?"
"Not to me," she answered; "but I have scarcely seen him since that
terrible night. I have been in my mother's sick chamber, to which his
cruelty and brutality have brought her. Nor would he ever, even if I had
seen him, nor would he ever mention your name to me. He would fain have
me forget it, Bernard; but on that score I have much to tell you too."
"I know that I judge your heart right, dear Isabel," replied Bernard de
Rohan, "when I say he would find it hard to make you forget that name;
and yet I have had warnings within the last two days of many a dark and
evil scheme, it would seem, against your peace and mine. A vague hint
has been given me that one whom I know to be brave, and whom the world
holds to be honest; one who was once my particular friend, and my
comrade in many a day of difficulty, and strife, and peril; one who, I
know, must be well aware, from many things that I have casually said in
thoughtless freedom of heart, that you and I are linked together by
promises that can never be broken, has been labouring hard to supplant
me in your affection. Yet I will not believe them, Isabel; I will not
believe, in the first place, that you would hear one word on such a
score from any man. Neither will I believe--though he has certainly
lingered strangely away from the army; though he has changed, I may say,
marvellously, and from a gay, rash, thoughtless youth, become a
cautious, calculating, somewhat impenetrable man--I will not believe
that Adrian de Meyrand would do me wrong. No, no, I will trust him
still."
"Trust him not, Bernard! trust him not!" replied Isabel. "Trust him not,
Bernard! I, at least, know what he is. You say that your Isabel," she
continued, gazing on him tenderly, "would not hear one word of love
spoken by any other lips than your own. You do her right, dear Bernard.
She would not, if she could help it; and even when against her will,
against remonstrance and anger, she has been forced to hear such words,
she has scarce forgiven herself for what she could not avoid, and has
reproached herself for that which was forced upon her. Do you, too,
reproach her, Bernard?"
"Oh no," he replied, holding her to his heart, and gazing into the pure
bright eyes, which seemed, as they were, deep wells of innocence and
truth. "Oh no, dear Isabel; what was done unwillingly needs no reproach:
but how was this? Tell me all! De Meyrand, then, has wronged me?"
"If he knew of your love for me, he has," replied Isabel de Brienne;
"but promise me, Bernard, that no rash or hasty act will make me regret
having spoken to you openly, and I will tell you all."
"None shall, my Isabel," replied her lover. "It is only dangerous
rivals, or insolent ones, that require the sword of a brave man. De
Meyrand is not the one, and probably may never be the other. Speak, dear
one! I must hear all."
"Well, then," she answered, "before we quitted the court, I remarked
that this Count of Meyrand paid me assiduous court; and though certainly
he was very attentive also to my mother and her new husband, still I
avoided him, for there was something in his look and his manner that did
not please me. I remarked, however, that many of the nobles of the
court--nay, even the king himself--seemed so to smooth the way and
remove all obstacles, that he was frequently near me. One day he
followed me through the crowded halls of the Louvre by my mother's side,
and, when I could not avoid him, poured into my ears a tale of love
which I speedily cut short. I told him at once that my heart was given
and my hand plighted to another; and I besought my mother to confirm
what I said, and stop all farther importunity. He had fascinated her,
Bernard; and though she did what I requested, it was but coldly. He left
me for the time; but the very next day, while I was alone in my mother's
chamber, he came in and pursued the same theme. Then, Bernard, I fear I
acted ill. He aroused my anger. I was indignant that he should thus
persecute me after what I had said. I treated him with some scorn. I
told him cuttingly, in answer to a question which he should not have
asked, that, even were I not plighted in faith and bound by affection to
another, I should never have felt for him aught but cold indifference.
He lost his temper at length, though it was long ere he would leave me;
and as he did at length quit the room, I could hear something muttered
between his teeth which sounded very much like a menace. Since then I
have only seen him three times. Once more at the court; but by that time
my brother had returned from Italy. He was with me, and the count did
not come near. I have twice seen him here, when I have been forced out
by the Lord of Masseran upon the pretence of a hunting-party. He comes
not near the castle, however; and, when we did meet, he was distant and
stately in his manner, but still there was something in his eyes that
made me shudder."
"For the last two days he has been in the same small inn with myself,"
replied Bernard de Rohan. "I will speak to him to-night, my Isabel,
calmly and gently, I promise you; but he must learn to yield this suit
if he still entertains it. Nay, look not grieved, dear one. I will keep
my promise faithfully, and forgive the past so he offend not in the
future."
"I grieve and apprehend, dear Bernard," she replied, "but think not that
I would strive to stay you from any course that you yourself judge
right. I know you are moderate and just, and that you will not think, as
some might do, that you prove your love for me by fiery haste to expose
a life on which hangs all my hopes of happiness. Your honour is to me
far more than life; but oh, Bernard, judge but the more calmly, I
beseech you, of what that honour requires, by thinking that not your
life and happiness alone are the stake, but mine also. Having told you
all truly, as I ever will through life, I must scarce venture a word
more to persuade or dissuade; and yet I cannot think honour can call
upon you even to speak angry or reproachful words, when this man himself
was not told, by me at least, that it was his friend he was trying to
supplant."
Bernard de Rohan's brow was somewhat cloudy, though he smiled. "I fear,
my Isabel," he said, "that he knew the fact too well. I can call many a
time to my mind when I have dropped words concerning you which he could
not mistake. However, I have said I will pass over all that is gone, and
now let us think of other brighter things."
"I know not," she replied, "I know not why, Bernard, but a dark shadow
seems to overhang me, which prevents my thinking of brighter things.
Within the last year, so much has happened to cause apprehension and
anxiety, so much to give birth to pain and grief, that my spirit has
sunk; and, whereas everything used to seem full of brightness and hope,
all is now full of despondency."
"Cheer thee, cheer thee, Isabel," replied Bernard, adding those caresses
that cheer far more than words; "I will take thee from the midst of the
sad things that must surround thee here. I know, dear Isabel, that thy
mother was often harsh and always cold, and, since I and your brother
have left you, you have had no support or comfort under the pain which
her behaviour must have given."
"Oh, it was not her harshness nor her coldness, Bernard," replied Isabel
Brienne; "I could have borne that easily; but when I recollected my dear
father--when I remembered all his high and noble qualities--his
kindness, his tenderness to her, and saw her again stand at the altar to
give her hand to another so unlike him in everything, dark, treacherous,
avaricious, and deceitful, it was then I first felt that I really wanted
aid and consolation. It was then that I wanted help, I wanted protection
and support; and even at that time I would have written to you to come
to me with all speed if it had not been for some foolish feelings of
shame."
"They were indeed wrong, my Isabel," replied Bernard; "for surely,
Isabel, with our faith plighted by your own father's will, with a long,
dear intimacy from childhood until now, if you could not repose full,
unhesitating trust and confidence in me, where, where could you place
it, Isabel?"
"I know it was foolish," she replied, "I know it was very foolish,
Bernard; but yet, even now," and she looked down blushing upon the
ground, "but yet, even now, the same foolish hesitation makes me scruple
to tell you what I firmly believe is the best, nay, is the only plan by
which we could hope to avoid the dangers that surround us."
"Nay, Isabel, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "after saying so much, you
must say more. You must tell me all, freely, candidly. The brightest
part of love is its confidence. It is that perfect, that unhesitating
reliance, that interchange of every idea and every feeling, that perfect
community of all the heart's secrets and the mind's thoughts, which
binds two beings together more closely, more dearly than the dearest of
human ties: more than the vow of passion or the oath of the altar. It is
that confidence which, did we not deny its sway, would give to earthly
love a permanence that we find but seldom in this world. Oh, Isabel, you
must not, indeed you must not, have even a thought that is not mine."
"Nor will I, Bernard," she replied, "nor will I; though I may blush to
say what I was going to say, I will not hesitate to say it. It is this,
then, Bernard: You must take me hence without delay."
"Oh, how gladly," he cried, throwing his arms round her, and kissing the
glowing cheek that rested on his shoulder; "oh, how gladly, Isabel! I
waited but for the arrival of your brother to propose that step to you
myself. If this Lord of Masseran chooses to refuse me admission, I
cannot force my way in, and you may be subject to every kind of grief
and pain before I receive such authority from the king or from Brissac
as will force him to give you up."
"That is not all, Bernard, that is not all," replied the lady. "This man
is deceitful to all. Suppose but for a moment that, finding the King of
France obliged to withdraw his troops from Italy, as I hear has been the
case, he resolves to betray the trust that has been reposed in him, to
submit himself again to the Duke of Savoy, to receive the troops of the
emperor. Suppose, Bernard, he removes me and my mother beyond the limits
of Savoy, beyond the power of the king of our own country, beyond your
reach, Bernard, what would be the consequences then? I should be but a
mere slave in his hands. But listen to me still, dear Bernard; there is
more, more to be said; I have good reason to believe and know that all
these dangers are not merely imaginary, but that he is actually dealing
with the empire. I have seen couriers come and go, and heard them
converse long with him in the German tongue. I have seen officers who
spoke neither French nor Italian surveying the castle, and consulting
with him over plans of other fortresses. Twice, also, when I have
hesitated to ride forth with him, fearing dangers--I did not well know
what--my mother, who is already his complete slave, has held out vague
threats to me of removing me to far-distant lands, where my obedience
would be more prompt and unhesitating. Now, even now, Bernard," she
continued, "I believe that he is gone on some errand of this kind, and
it would in no degree surprise me, ere three days are over, to see this
place filled with German soldiers."
"Then, dear Isabel," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "we must lose no time.
I wrote to your brother to meet me at Grenoble, and I have sent off
messengers to him there and at Paris. But we must not wait for his
coming. Your father's written consent will justify us, and the king is
already aware that this man's faith and adherence to France is insecure.
It would have been better, indeed, if your brother had been here, for
then he might, in the first place, have openly demanded you at the hands
of this man."
"Oh no, no, Bernard," she replied; "I rejoice greatly that Henry is not
here. I feel a sort of terror at the idea of his falling into the hands
of this Lord of Masseran. You know that Henry's death would place great
wealth at the disposal of my mother; and, though it is dreadful to say,
yet I do fear there is no act at which this Italian would hesitate to
obtain wealth or power, or any of the objects for which men strive on
earth. I would not for the world that Henry should put himself into the
hands of one so treacherous. If Henry be at Grenoble, we can fly to him
at once, and be united there."
"Better, far better, dear Isabel," replied her lover, "that we should be
united before we go. There is a priest here who seems to have some
regard for me, and who lingers still at the inn, I know not why. He will
be easily persuaded to unite our hands, as our hearts are already
united, and then my right to protect and defend you will bear no denial.
Let it be soon, too, my Isabel. Why not to-morrow night?"
She replied not for a moment or two. Not that she hesitated, not that
there was a doubt in her own mind of what her answer must be; but yet
she paused, with her hand clasped in that of Bernard de Rohan, and her
eyes hid upon his shoulder, while he went on to persuade her, though
there needed no persuasion.
"Consider, dear Isabel," he said, "the secret of this postern door is
one that may be discovered at any time. He might return within a day. If
we were to meet often, our meeting might be discovered. What it is
necessary to do, it is necessary to do at once."
It need not be said that Bernard de Rohan's entreaties were successful.
Isabel promised to be there at the same hour on the following night,
prepared for flight; and Bernard de Rohan undertook to have the contract
of their marriage drawn up by some neighbouring notary, and a priest
ready and willing to unite them.
"In four or five hours," he said, "we shall be within the pale of
France, and, as you saw the other night, we shall have plenty of willing
guards thither, dear Isabel. Besides that wilder retinue, too, my own
train is down at the hamlet; but, of course, I must bring few people
with me, for fear of attracting attention. Have you anybody in the
castle, dear Isabel, besides good Henriot, who can give you aid and
assistance?"
"Oh yes," replied the lady; "there is the maid who conveyed to you the
note to-day. I can trust her."
"She seemed sullen or stupid," replied Bernard de Rohan: "I could not
induce her to utter more than one or two words, and those I did not
distinctly hear."
"She is very silent," replied Isabel, "but is not so dull as she looks.
Give her but one thing to think of, and one object to attend to, and she
will execute what she is directed to do well enough; and perhaps it is
all the better that she observes nothing which passes round her, and is
so sparing of her words."
"Hush!" said Bernard de Rohan. "There is a light upon the terrace, near
the castle, and some one seems coming hither. Adieu! dear Isabel, adieu!
Though the evening is too dim for them to see us, it is better that I
should leave you till to-morrow. But forget not, dear one; and oh! be
rather before than after the hour."
Thus saying, he pressed her to his bosom for a moment, and then passed
through the postern door. He closed it not entirely, however, for some
vague apprehension concerning the sweet girl he had just left behind
caused him to pause and listen, till he had assured himself that the
person whom he had seen approaching was no unfriendly one. In a few
minutes he heard another female voice saying distinctly to Isabel, "Your
lady mother, mademoiselle, desires that you would come and play to her
on the lute."
"I come, I come, good Maddelene," replied the voice of Isabel de
Brienne; and in the clear evening air Bernard de Rohan could hear the
sound of receding footsteps.