The Count de Meyrand and his horsemen wound slowly away from the door of
the little cabaret, leaving Isabel de Brienne and her maid the only
tenants of the place. Both were extremely tired; and the lady herself
would have desired to lie down to rest at once rather than wait for the
preparation of any kind of food, but that she was also anxious to
converse over her situation with her attendant, and to see if, between
them, they could not devise some plan of future conduct which might
obviate the difficulties which surrounded her. She, therefore, did not
even propose to take rest, and began the conversation at once; but,
taciturn as the woman always was, she was at present more so than ever.
There was not only a sort of sullenness in her manner, which somewhat
displeased Isabel, but she spoke rather in the tone of one who had been
injured than in compassion for the greater sufferings of her mistress.
In answer to all inquiries regarding what had been done in the chapel
after her lady had lost the power of observing what was passing, she
replied merely that she had been as frightened as anybody, and thought
of nobody but herself.
"You seem to be grieved, Marguerite," said Isabel de Brienne, after this
sort of conduct had proceeded some time, "you seem to be grieved,
Marguerite, that you have aided me in this business, and so brought some
inconveniences upon yourself."
"No, mademoiselle," she said, shortly, "but I am very tired."
"Then I think you had better go to bed," replied Isabel; "I shall not
want you for some hours."
"I will, presently, mademoiselle," replied the maid; "but I am very
hungry."
Isabel had not the heart to smile, as she might have done on another
occasion; for selfishness is, perhaps, less offensive when it stands out
in its plain simplicity than when it is discovered through a
hypocritical disguise. In fact, like ugliness, it is more ugly when
painted. Almost as the soubrette spoke, however, the good woman of the
house, who was a widow, brought in with her own hands and the hands of a
maid-servant--which were exactly like another pair of her own, for they
enacted nothing without her orders--several dishes for the morning meal,
which were placed with all due reverence before Isabel de Brienne. The
young lady tried to eat; but, as she did so, the thought of many painful
things, of the probable situation of him she loved best, and of the dark
fate that might be hanging over him, came across her mind; and, to use
the homely but expressive words of old John Hall, when describing the
conduct of the first famous Duke of Buckingham between his arrest and
his execution, "The meat would not down."
The soubrette, however, made up for her mistress's want of appetite, and
ate plentifully of all that was set before her. When she had done,
Isabel bade her retire to rest, and, at the same time, ordered the food
to be taken away. The soubrette at once obeyed, and left the room; and
the kind-hearted hostess remarking that the young lady had taken
nothing, was pressing her at least to drink some wine, for the
excellence of which she vouched, when Isabel de Brienne, whose face was
towards the window, gave a slight start, and replied almost immediately,
"No, my good dame; the first thing that will do me good is a little
quiet reflection. I think," she added, "that I saw just now a good monk,
seemingly a pilgrim by the scallop on his shoulder pass close to the
window, as if to sit down on the bench at the door. Give him that dish
of meat, and tell him a lady sent it who begs a prayer of him, as she
has been in some trouble since last night."
The worthy dame of the cabaret gladly took up the dish with her own
hands and carried it forth to the wanderer. She then returned to remove
some other things, and Isabel asked, somewhat eagerly, "What did he
say?"
"Oh! madam, he sent you thanks," replied the hostess, "and took out a
rosary, which he said had hung up at Loretto for many years, and began
immediately to repeat as many paters and aves as would cost a score of
crowns from our parish priest."
"Did he say nothing else?" asked Isabel, with a somewhat disappointed
look.
The hostess replied in the negative, and shortly after left the young
lady alone to repose. A deeper shade of melancholy then came over her.
She sat and leaned her head upon her hand, and again and again the
thoughts of her own situation, and that of him she loved, came across
her mind with the painful, fruitless reiteration which is the most
wearying, perhaps, of all the forms of care. To know and feel that
activity and exertion are absolutely necessary; to have hope only just
sufficient to deprive one of the courage of despair; to believe that
there is a possibility of changing our situation, yet not to know how
that change can be by any means effected, how exertion should be
directed, or where hope would guide; such is the state into which, from
time to time, we fall in our passage through life, and stand like men in
one of those thick, impervious mists which are not absolutely darkness,
but which are worse than darkness itself, from not being, like it,
dissolvable by light.
She thought not, indeed, so much of herself as of another. She thought
of Bernard de Rohan with deep, with strong, with tender affection; and,
after some minutes of vague and wild inquiries as to what she could do
next, she was obliged to turn to chance and fortune to find a footing
for hope to rest upon--no, not to chance and fortune, but to the
beneficence and mercy of God. There, then, her hope fixed, ay, and
seemed to refresh itself. "Could she not," she asked herself, "could she
not be, by some means, instrumental in aiding him she loved, let his
situation be what it might?"
She had gathered from the struggle that had taken place in the chapel,
from the want of all sounds of clashing steel or other indications of
actual combat, and also from the manner in which she had been herself
dealt with, that her lover had been overpowered and made a prisoner
before he could resist. She did not believe that the Lord of Masseran
would dare to attempt his life. The risk, she thought, would be far too
great for the object to be attained; for, in truth, she knew not what
that object was, and believed it to be less than it really was, and far
different. If, then, he were a captive in the chateau of Masseran, could
she not, she asked herself, find means to procure his deliverance? She
had heard of such things being done--ay, in the very age and times in
which she lived. She had heard of woman's weak hand and persevering
affection executing what man's strength and wisdom had failed to
perform, and hers was a heart which, though gentle, kind, and yielding
in the moment of happiness and security, was conscious of fortitude, and
strength, and courage, when danger and evil assailed those that she
loved.
"My father's spirit," she said, "the spirit of him who endured the whole
wrath and indignation of a despotic king sooner than abandon the friend
of his youth, will bear me up through any trials, while I have the
object of delivering him I love."
But how, how? was the question; what means could she take, what
stratagems could she employ, while she was watched by the eyes of Adrian
de Meyrand? Should she confide her purposes to him? Should she appeal to
his courtesy--to his friendship for her lover--to his generosity? Should
she confide in him? Dared she to do so?
As she asked herself these questions, something darkened the light, as
if passing across the window. She looked up. It was all clear again. The
day was bright and sunshiny, and the rays pouring in from the southwest.
The window was a narrow cottage lattice, in a stone frame, divided into
three partitions. It might have been a branch of the honeysuckle that
climbed around it, which had been blown across by the wind, and caused
the shadow. It might have been but a cloud passing over the sun; and she
bent her head again, and fell once more into thought. The instant after,
the shadow came again, and a voice said, "Are you quite alone?"
Isabel looked up. The pilgrim, whom she had before seen, was standing
near the window, leaning on his staff, not exactly turned towards her,
but standing with his shoulder towards the open lattice, and his eyes
apparently bent onward towards Savoy. There was something in his air
familiar to her, though she could not tell in what it consisted. It had
struck her before as he passed: even more, perhaps, in that momentary
glance than it did now, when she saw him fully; and she could scarcely
think that it was the pilgrim who spoke, or, if so, that it was to her
that he addressed himself. After a moment, however, he turned his face
again for an instant towards the window, repeating,
"Are you quite alone?"
"Quite!" replied Isabel.
"Then come near the window," said the same voice: "sit in the
window-seat as if you were looking out. I will rest on this
stepping-stone hard by. Let our words be short, and few, and low in
tone; each word well pondered before it is spoken, and your eyes upon
the door of the room from time to time."
The view which Isabel had of his face had shown her the features of an
old man, somewhat sharp and keen, though they were much hidden under his
hood, which was formed like that of a Capuchin. His beard, which was
very white, was not so long as that of the generality of monks, and she
concluded that it had been only suffered to grow during the period of
his pilgrimage. He was a venerable-looking man, however; and, as it was
evident that he knew something of her situation, she imagined that he
bore her some message, and hastened to follow his directions. The moment
she had taken her place at the window, he sat down on one of the
stepping-stones placed to aid travellers in mounting their horses, and
there, with his face still turned away from her, commenced the
conversation by asking, "Do you not know me?"
"Your voice and your air," she said, "are familiar to me, but I know
nothing more."
"I am Father Willand," said the pilgrim, "who baptized you in your
infancy, watched you for the first nine years of your life, till your
father procured me what he thought advancement in Paris, and who united
you last night to the man for whom that father had ever destined you."
"Good Heaven!" exclaimed Isabel; "I thought you had fallen into the
power of that evil Piedmontese; for I could not conceive it possible,
when we were all so completely surrounded, that you should make your way
out."
"They caught the other priest instead of me," replied Father Willand,
"and I lay hid behind the altar till they were all dispersed and gone.
Your husband, lady, however, has fallen into the power of one enemy, and
you into the power of another, or, what is worse than an enemy, a
daring, treacherous, unhesitating lover."
"Call him not so, Father Willand! call him not so!" replied Isabel.
"Love elevates, ennobles, and purifies--"
"Do not let us discuss love, lady," replied the priest; "I have nothing
to do with it, but yet understand it, perhaps, better than you do. Love
is applied to a thousand different things, and what is its right meaning
were of long argument. All I know is, that you must not remain with this
man an hour longer than you can help."
"Tell me how I can escape from him," said Isabel, in the same low tone.
"Nothing I desire more! But still let me do him justice: he has this day
behaved well and kindly towards me; perilled his life to save me, and
treated me with respect and delicacy."
"Perilled his life!" said Father Willand; "guns fired without balls,
lady! swords drawn without bloodshed! a farce that would not have
deceived a child! They knew you to be but a child, or they would not
have tried it! Did you see one man fall or fallen? Did you see one drop
of blood shed for all the powder expended?"
"But still," said Isabel, though she had certainly neither seen wounds
nor death follow the apparently smart encounter between the Count de
Meyrand and the Lord of Masseran, "but still, he has been gentle and
kind, and professes to leave me entirely to decide upon my own conduct."
"Try him, try him," said the priest: "use the liberty he professes to
give, and you will find yourself a stricter prisoner than you were when
in the castle of Masseran. Hearken," he continued, "for I must not be
here long. I have followed you from last night till now; taking shorter
paths than you have been led by, it is true; but still, lady, I am
somewhat old and somewhat fat: and, though of the quick tribe, an old
greyhound will not run as long as a young one. I must have some repose;
but to-night I shall be ready to give you aid wherever you may then be.
When it comes, take it at a moment's warning; and, in the mean time, to
make yourself sure of what you are about, exercise this liberty that you
think you have. The Count de Meyrand judges you are about to set out for
Paris to-morrow morning direct; tell him to-night that you have
considered, and determined upon going to Grenoble to meet your brother
Harry. Then see what he says. If he agree thereunto honestly, well and
good; trust him! If, on the contrary, he teach you to feel that his will
must be your law, then trust me, and come with me whithersoever I shall
guide you!"
Isabel paused thoughtfully for a moment. "Not to Grenoble," she said at
length; "I must not go to Grenoble yet! That is too far; but if any one
would convey intelligence to my brother of where I am, and bid him join
me instantly at Latour, then, indeed, I might succeed--"
"Succeed in what?" demanded the priest.
"In freeing him," replied Isabel; and, though the blood rose up in her
cheek as she said it, she added, the more resolutely from a slight smile
that came from the priest's countenance as he turned for an instant
towards her, "in freeing my husband."
"Oh, fear not, fear not, pretty one!" replied the priest. "We'll get
your bird out of the cage yet, never fear. Indeed, I did not come hither
without taking care that those should have information of where he is,
and how he is, who may best contrive the means for his escape."
"Still," replied Isabel, "I would rather not be far absent from the spot
until I see him free."
"If you fancy, child," replied the priest, "that I want you to go to
Grenoble, you must fancy a fox to be a more stupid beast than a sheep. I
only told you to propose it, that you may try this fair Count of
Meyrand. Trust him in nothing, child, till you see a dove drop her eggs
in a hawk's nest, or till the sweet days come back again when the lamb
lies down with the lion! The nature of the wolf does not change, and he
who would insult you one day would not protect you the next! Mark my
words, then, lady, and follow my counsel: lie down and take rest even
now, so that your mind may be quick and prompt, and your limbs free and
active this night. When this count returns, go on with him to Latour,
then tell him your intention is to turn aside to Grenoble. You will see
in a moment whether you may trust him or me. Decide between us at once
when you have so tried him; and, after that, do not lay down your head
upon your pillow till you have seen me and given me a reply."
"But how shall I see you?" demanded Isabel; "how shall I know where--"
"I will find the means," replied the priest, interrupting her. "We must
use bad things to good ends, lady; and a brown gown, which, between
Paris and Loretto, covers more sin and wickedness, year after year, than
all the pope's indulgences can well clear away, will carry me into many
a house where no other key could gain me entrance. If you should satisfy
yourself that you are in danger where you are, be prepared to follow me
at a moment's notice. I will at least set you free to go where you will,
and will help you in all good purposes if I can. But, above all, be as
secret, my child, as the grave; utter not a word of this to any one. I
have heard by tradition that a woman once kept a secret four-and-twenty
hours: all I ask of you is to keep one six; and now farewell, for we
must talk together no more."
Thus saying, he left her; and Isabel continued to gaze from the window,
pondering thoughtfully over all that had been said. It is a terrible
question, the first time that man has to put it to his own heart, Whom
can we trust? But this, alas! was not the first time that Isabel had to
ask herself that painful and bitter thing. With her, as with every one
in advancing into life, the question had been often and sadly repeated,
and the bounds of the reply had become narrow and more narrow. Oh, how
few are there throughout all existence that we can trust--fully,
entirely, confidently trust! The faith of one; the wisdom of another;
the courage of a third; the resolution of a fourth; the activity, the
energy, the zeal of others; all! all! may be doubtful; and, alas! in
looking back through life, the sad and terrible summing up will ever be,
that our confidence has been far too often misplaced than wrongly
withheld.
The question, however, which Isabel had now to address to herself was
more limited in its nature and character. It was only, Which of these
two men shall I choose to trust? that she had now to ask herself. Those
she had to choose between were limited to two. One of those two she had
already had occasion to doubt and dislike, to fear and to avoid; and she
could not but feel that, over all he had since done to remove the first
evil impression of his conduct, there was a tinge of suspicion which she
could not remove. Of the other, indeed, she knew little; but that little
seemed to prove his attachment to herself and to him whom she loved.
Acts that have made us very happy leave behind them a sort of tender but
imperishable light, which invests all who have had any share in them,
and brings them all out in brightness to the eye of memory from the
twilight gloom of the past, like those salient objects in an evening
landscape upon which we still catch the rays of a sun that has long set
to our own eyes. Not only the willing agents of our happiness, but those
that bore an uninterested part therein--objects animate or inanimate
alike--the spot, the accessories, the very scene itself, all still
retain a portion of that light, and shine to remembrance when other
things are forgotten.
The priest with whom she had just spoken, however, had not only borne a
willing, but an active part in uniting her to Bernard de Rohan. For that
reason she believed that she might trust him; but, besides this, he had
referred to former years; and though there was a long lapse of time
between, spreading a dimness like a light sea-mist between herself and
the objects of those days, yet there were vague and pleasant
recollections which attached themselves by the fine links of association
to the tones of the old man's voice, to his manner, even to the rough
and somewhat reckless jests which he mingled with his discourse. She
remembered such a person a frequent guest in her father's house; she
remembered that father's often-repeated commendations of his honesty of
purpose, of his sincerity of heart, of his zeal and disinterestedness;
and whether it was that she herself strove to find some excuse for
anything that seemed harsh or irreverent in his manner, or that her
father had really pronounced such words, she thought that she remembered
his having said that Father Willand's abhorrence of hypocrisy had driven
him into an opposite extreme. It is true that she could not have
recalled his features sufficiently to recognise him under any other
circumstances; but, when once told who he was, they seemed to grow more
and more familiar to her, and she determined to trust him, let the
result of the trial which he had suggested for the Count de Meyrand be
what it would.