The great tamers of strong spirits, the quellers of the rebellious
heart, the conquerors of the obdurate, the determined, and the enduring,
Silence and Solitude, were upon Bernard de Rohan. To know nothing of
what is passing without; to have no marker of the steps of time; to see
no sun rise or set; to have not even the moving shadow upon the wall to
tell us that another lapse of the wearisome hours has taken place; to
have nothing, in short, to link us on to human destinies, and to show us
that we are wending on our way with our fellow-beings--nothing but the
dull beatings of the heavy heart, and the grinding succession of bitter
thoughts--this, surely, is not life; and if it be not death, it is
something worse. Where there is no change of anything to mark its
passing, time seems, in truth, to sink back into that ocean from which
it was called at first, Eternity: and, wanting all means of calculating
its flight, Bernard de Rohan did indeed feel each moment to be an age.
Actual pain would have been almost a relief to the despairing vacuity of
that which must have been the second day of his confinement. We can
scarcely doubt that the punishment of Prometheus would have been more
complete, had he been left in the solitude of the frowning heavens,
without the vulture as his companion, though his tormentor.
No one came near the young cavalier throughout the whole day. The food
which had been left for him was just sufficient for the four-and-twenty
hours: more than sufficient, as it proved, indeed, for he tasted it not;
and when, at the end of that period, it was renewed, so quick was the
passing in and out of him who brought the fresh supply, that the young
cavalier scarcely saw the man's entrance ere the door was again closed,
and he was once more alone.
It seemed to him several hours after this brief visitation had been
made--and true it is, he had gone through so many ranges of painful
thought, that they might well have furnished occupation and bitterness
for more than one long day--when he heard a sound at the door of the
dungeon, as if some one endeavoured, with an unaccustomed hand, to draw
back the heavy bolts and turn a key in the lock. At the same time, he
heard a low, deep voice murmur, "The fool should have left a lamp!" "Ay,
that is right!" and the next moment the key turned, the lock gave way,
and the door was thrown open.
The lamp which had been left with Bernard de Rohan burned but dimly, for
it had been long untrimmed, so that at first the young cavalier did not
recognise the person who entered. The next instant, however, his visiter
spoke, and the deep but melodious voice instantly brought to the
prisoner's recollection his wild companion, Corse de Leon.
"Ah! Monsieur de Rohan," said the brigand, looking around him as he
entered, "I have not forgotten you you see. Out upon that scoundrel! How
dared he put you in such a place as this? He might have given you a
befitting chamber, at all events."
Bernard de Rohan grasped his hand; and, needing no words to assure him
that the brigand came to set him free, he thanked him again and again,
but mingled, however, his thanks with some marvellings to see him within
the chateau of Masseran.
The brigand smiled. "There is nothing wonderful in it, Monsieur de
Rohan," he replied. "There is not a door in this castle that does not
open to me as readily as to its lord. All these things are easily
explained. Some of the poor people with whom I have to do think me half
a magician, and it is not worth while to undeceive them, though I seek
not for any such reputation. Truth is marvellous enough, without trying
to make it more wonderful," he continued, in a musing tone; "and all
that I do which seems strange may, nine times out of ten, be explained
by a single word. I believe that it is so, too, with the wonders of
creation. We gaze with surprised and astonished eyes upon thousands of
things that seem miracles to our earthly nature: we are, ourselves,
miracles to ourselves; but I do believe that all the wonders that we
see, the marvel of our very existence, the linking of fates together,
and the long network of events and their causes, from the beginning of
all things to eternity, might all be explained to us by some simple word
which God's good pleasure now withholds; by some short, brief
explanation, which is not fitted for this mass of moving clay to
receive."
As he spoke, he sat himself quietly down on the edge of the bed, took up
the lamp, trimmed it in a careless manner, and then added abstractedly,
"We must wait a few minutes, Monsieur de Rohan, for the horses are not
come yet, and it is as well to stay here as upon the hillside."
"But is there no danger of our being stopped?" demanded Bernard de
Rohan.
Corse de Leon smiled. "It were difficult to stop me," he said; "but
nobody will try to do it. You know the Lord of Masseran is gone to
Paris?"
"No, indeed," replied the young cavalier; "I know nothing, and I have
heard nothing, since I have been a prisoner in this dreary place. He
has, of course, taken, my Isabel with him?"
"Oh, no," replied the brigand. "He set out for Paris with great speed
for several reasons: first, because he knew suspicions are entertained
of him in regard to his dealings with the King of Spain; next, because
he feared that inquiry would be made as to what has become of you, and
he wished to justify himself; and, next, because he did not choose to
trust your goodly friend, the Count of Meyrand, in anything, but
especially--"
"But where, then, is Isabel?" demanded the young cavalier.
"Ay, who can say!" rejoined Corse de Leon.
Bernard de Rohan started up eagerly. "Let us seek for her at once,
then," he said. "If, as you say, all the doors of this castle open to
you as easily as to their lord, let us seek her through every room in
the place, and take her with us when we go. In Heaven's name leave her
not here!"
"She is not here, wherever she is," replied the brigand; "and I trust
that by this time she is free; but I will tell you more by-and-by, for I
hear the clock striking one, and we shall have just time to reach the
hillside before the horses arrive. Come, Monsieur de Rohan, come. They
have taken your arms from you, I see. Well, we must find you others."
Thus saying, he raised the lamp, and led the way towards the door. As he
went, however, the light fell upon the fetters which hung against the
wall, and he paused, gazing upon them and frowning heavily. "Ah, ah,
accursed implements of tyranny!" he muttered, "When, when will the time
come that ye shall be no longer known! God of Heaven! even then it must
be remembered that such things have been. It must be written in books.
It must be told in tradition, that men were found to chain their
fellow-creatures with heavy bars of iron, to make them linger out the
bright space given them for activity and enjoyment in dungeons and in
fetters, till the dull flame was extinguished, and dust returned to
dust. Would to Heaven that there were no such thing as history, to
perpetuate, even unto times when man shall have purified his heart from
the filthy baseness of these days, the memory of such enormous deeds as
fetters like that record! Out upon it! Was it for this that man learned
to dig the ore from the mine, and forge the hard metal in the fire? But
come, come! I am forgetting myself;" and he led the way forth along the
same path by which Bernard de Rohan had been brought from the chapel.
The ponderous doors in the solid rock were all open; but the young
cavalier remarked that Corse de Leon closed them one by one behind him,
till at length they stood in the open air at the foot of the hill.
It were difficult, nay, impossible, to describe the sensations which the
first breath of that free air produced in Bernard de Rohan. It would
require to have been a captive, and yet full of the spirit of freedom,
to have contemplated long imprisonment, and to be suddenly set free,
even to comprehend what he then felt. His sensations, however, found
vent but in one exclamation. "Thank God!" he said, and followed his
companion, who now, with rapid strides, climbed the opposite side of the
hill, till he reached the spot where he had waited for Bernard de Rohan
on the night when first they met. No horses were there, however, and
Corse de Leon seated himself on a point of the crag, and seemed about to
fall into one of his fits of revery; but his young companion was not
disposed to rest satisfied without some farther information.
"Now," he said, "now! You promised to tell me more--you promised to tell
me more concerning Isabel. With whom is she? In whose hands is she, if
not in those of the Lord of Masseran?"
"She was," replied Corse de Leon, "she was in the hands of your bright
friend, the Count de Meyrand."
Bernard de Rohan's hand grasped for the hilt of his sword, but it was
gone; and he only muttered the words "Villain, villain! I thought I
heard that treacherous voice. Who shall one depend upon in this world?"
"Upon none of those," replied Corse de Leon, "whom men are accustomed to
depend upon. Not upon the gay companion of the winecup, who aids us
pleasantly to spend our wealth or to squander our more precious time:
not upon him, not upon him, young gentleman! Not upon the smooth-spoken
and the plausible adviser, who counsels with us on things where our own
interest and his are combined, and who uses our exertions and our means
to share in our fortune and our success: not upon him, I say, not upon
him! Not upon the sweet flatterer, who either dexterously insinuates how
virtuous, and great, and good and wise we are, or who boldly overloads
us with praise, in the hope of some, at least, being received: not upon
him, I say. Not upon the pander to our vices or our follies, even though
he sell his soul to pamper us with gratification: not upon him. Not upon
the light wanton, who yields us what she should refuse, vowing that it
is love for us which conquers, when love for many another has gone
before: not upon her. Neither on the priest that preaches virtue without
practising it; neither upon the soft hypocrite, nor upon the rude
hypocrite; neither upon the one who assumes sleek sanctity, nor upon the
other who builds the reputation of honesty upon a rough outside. There
are some that will weep with you, and some that will laugh with you;
some that will discourse, and some that will sport with you; but trust
in none but him that you have tried, but him whom you know to be honest
to himself, and who has proved himself honest to you. We were speaking
of the Count de Meyrand. That he has betrayed you and deceived you most
shamefully is his fault, not yours; for, though you believed him honest,
you did not weakly trust him. It were well, when you find him, to nail
his ears to the doorpost; but still you have nothing to reproach
yourself with. I trust, however, that sweet and good lady is by this
time freed from his hands, for one who loves her very well has
undertaken that part of the task."
"But how," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "how came she in his power at
all?"
Corse de Leon replied briefly, but with sufficient detail to show his
hearer at one glance all that had taken place in regard to Isabel de
Brienne since he had seen her. The deep and bitter indignation that
gathered at the young cavalier's heart as his companion went on, was not
of a nature that wasted itself in many words. "This must be looked to!"
he said; "this must be looked to! And now, my friend, to think of this
dear girl's escape. Can we trust to good Father Willand? Not his faith,
I mean, but his power. He is there, it would seem, alone, unaided,
unsupported, to cope with a man artful, rich, powerful, and numerously
followed."
"We may trust him, I am sure," replied the other. "This count's art,
like all pitiful art, will help to deceive himself; and in quiet wisdom
he cannot compete with the good priest. Besides, Father Willand is not
so unsupported as you think. It may seem strange to you to hear, but
many of your own men, nay, I believe all, are with him or round about
him."
"No," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that surprises me not. Most of them
were born within sight of the lands of Brienne--most of them have often
seen and know her well, and there is none who has seen her that would
not willingly sacrifice life to serve her."
Corse de Leon smiled with somewhat of a melancholy expression. In life,
when we have lost any of those sweet delusions which, like the radiant
colours of the morning sky, clothe, at the dawning of our youth, thin
air itself and unsubstantial vapours, nay, perhaps even the cloudy home
of the future storm, with loveliness and radiance, and the most glowing
hues of Heaven's own golden treasury--when we have lost those sweet
delusions, I say, and any one with whom they still remain speaks of the
reality of things whose emptiness we have proved, how sad, how
profoundly sad, is the contrast suddenly presented to us, of what we
were and what we are! how melancholy is the conviction of the emptiness
of our dream-like life! And yet there is something sweet which mingles
even with our sadness, to see others enjoying and believing what we can
no longer enjoy or believe; something ennobling and elevating that
shares in our melancholy, if the feeling of how unreal are life's best
joys lead us to sigh for those that are more true and lasting.
Bernard de Rohan saw not the expression upon the countenance of his
companion, although the night was clear and bright, and sufficient light
remained in the heavens to make even small objects visible; but his
eyes were at that moment fixed upon the castle of Masseran, and
more especially upon one of the outstanding towers to the northeast,
separated from the rest of the building by a space of two or
three hundred yards, and only attached to it by walls and minor
fortifications. In that tower there appeared a great light, at first
streaming through some of the upper loopholes only. After a moment or
two, however, it became brighter and brighter, and poured through all
the windows of the story below. Bernard de Rohan could almost have
imagined that, as he gazed, he saw flames come forth and lick the dark
stonework of the tower; and he was soon confirmed in the belief that it
was so, by the wreaths of pale white smoke which began to ascend into
the dark air, and in a minute or two formed a cloud above the tower,
acquiring a red and ominous hue as the fire below increased.
"Look there! look there!" he exclaimed, catching Corse de Leon's arm;
but, even as he spoke, the roof of the tower fell in, and a pyramid of
flame shot upward into the sky.
"Yes, I see," replied Corse de Leon; "but here come the horses! and we
must go quick to the spot where I trust we shall find her whom you seek
for. Then, get you across the frontier into France as soon as may be.
Your own men will be sufficient to protect you, and will be glad to see
you; for, notwithstanding that they may, as you think, love your fair
Isabel well, they would not have gone unless we had put a light deceit
upon them, and had left them to think, more than told them it was so,
that you and the lady were together. Those I have with me here dare not
set foot within that land, and the other friends I have are far distant.
That was the reason I did not make her free myself, and punish that
slight traitor as he deserves."
While he spoke, three or four horsemen appeared, leading two other
horses, and, without taking any farther notice of the conflagration,
Corse de Leon put his foot in the stirrup, and, springing into the
saddle, rode on towards the little inn which we have often before had
occasion to mention.
The young cavalier followed his example; but, before they had gone a
hundred yards, a loud explosion took place, which shook the rocks
around, and echoed afar through the valley. Their horses started at the
sound, and Bernard and his companion turned their eyes towards the
castle of Masseran. The burning tower had now lost all shape and form,
though part of the walls still remained, with the fire clinging to them
in various places.
"Do you know what that is?" demanded Corse de Leon; and, ere Bernard de
Rohan could reply, he went on. "It is an act of folly worthy of a king
or a prime minister. There are people in that castle," he said, "who,
knowing of my coming and of your escape, have done the act, the effects
of which you see flaming yonder, in order that the tower may fall in and
crush the dungeon into which they had thrust you, solely to prevent the
Lord of Masseran from discovering how you have escaped. Thus it is with
the world; every one act of weakness, of folly, or of crime, we judge
must be followed by another, to conceal or to justify it. Let men or
ministers place themselves in a dangerous situation by some capital
fault, and then they think expediency requires them to commit another to
obviate the effects of the first, forgetting that each fault is written
down in the two eternal books--the Book of Fate, God's servant, and the
Book of God himself; and that there must be a reckoning, a terrible
reckoning, for the whole amount, in this world and in the next. Let us
ride on."