OUR JOURNEY TOGETHER.
We put up at a quiet auberge in the suburbs--such a place as I
usually chose. It was kept by a reverend-looking old man, who told
me that he had been a soldier in the wars of the League, and was the
comrade of Nicholas Poussin in the regiment of the Vicomte de
Tavannes. The moment we entered this auberge, Nicola, as usual,
retired to her chamber, and on this occasion without even bestowing
on me the sweet smile and farewell bow, or waving to me a kiss with
her pretty hand, according to her usual wont when we separated for
the long hours that must intervene until the morrow; and this pained
me more than I could have believed the coldness or slight of any girl
would do--especially a girl in her position.
That night I was very sleepless and miserable.
Love should be pure, true, and humble; for true love, as the
Scripture saith of charity, seeketh not its own; and such, I hope,
was mine for this French girl. I watched the chamber where Nicola
slept, and listened to her soft breathing through the door, which was
slightly ajar. I saw the shadow of her curtained bed thrown by the
night lamp across the floor, and I would have given the world (as the
phrase is) to peep in and see her dear little face as she slept; but
if discovered, the intrusion would have been deemed an unpardonable
offence by one so proud, so pure, and modest as Nicola; so I lingered
without--listening, watching, and hoping I scarcely knew what.
I counted the miles, the days, and hours of our journey, past and
those to come; and reckoned the time at which she must leave me--when
we would separate, and, too probably, never to meet again. This
approaching fate greatly enhanced the delight I felt in the society
of Nicola, and I returned to bed, full of strange thoughts.
'Either I am of a singularly inflammable nature,' said I, while
turning restlessly on my pillow, 'or by what magic or miracle, other
than her beauty, does this girl so fascinate me?'
I had asked myself this question a hundred times before.
Then there was that proud reserve and occasional constraint of
manner, which in a soubrette--and especially the soubrette of so gay
a beauty as the Countess d'Amboise--were so difficult of analysis;
and for which, even the peculiarity of our positions--a young man and
a beautiful young woman, unwedded and unrelated, travelling thus
together, and apart from all the world, could not entirely account.
Why did I not fall in love with this girl in Paris, when I had a
thousand favourable opportunities for entangling her in one of those
countless intrigues which make the sum of human life there? Simply,
because I had never thought of it when there--and our positions were
then altogether different.
Besides propinquity, which causes half or perhaps nearly all the love
affairs in the world, daily companionship, and the country, are all
peculiarly adapted to develope and foster the tender passion.
Isolate any two young persons of opposite sexes together in the
country for a short season, and if they are passably handsome, and
their hearts previously unoccupied, some mysterious principle of
animal magnetism will infallibly draw them nearer to each other, and
a very decided flirtation, if not an actual passion, will be the
result. Thus, in the country, when wandering with a young and pretty
companion, she will become all the more interesting, because we see
her face and hear her voice alone, without being contrasted with the
faces, voices, or manners of others; and surrounded by the blue sky,
the bright sunshine, the green fields, or the shady woods, a thousand
new charms and graces that were unheeded before will develope
themselves. Away from the bustle of towns, camps, and
garrisons--away from the glitter, gloss, and buzz of life, our
thoughts will run, as it were, all to one focus; imagination gets
fuller and freer play, all the impulses of the heart are more joyous
and pure; and thus a girl on whom we might scarcely have bestowed a
thought had we met her in the bustle of the world, may become a very
divinity, enshrined by a halo of such beauty as the eye or fancy of a
lover alone can see.
But Nicola was charming enough to have attracted attention even amid
the court beauties of Louis XIII.; thus it was very natural to expect
that I, in whose protection she confided, and on whose friendship and
honour she relied, should feel a dangerous interest in her, during
our solitary journey through Champagne and Lorraine to the frontiers
of France. Alas! I could neither know nor foresee all the
bitterness this growing passion, which I so heedlessly fostered,
would yet cost my heart.
At breakfast, next morning, my attention was attracted by a silver
medal which the maitre d'hôtel wore suspended from his neck by a
little steel chain. It proved to be one of those struck at Rome by
order of Pope Gregory XIII., to eternise the infamous massacre of St.
Bartholomew; and as the existence of such a memorial is but little
known in my native country, I may as well describe it.
It bore the destroying angel, his right hand armed with a sword; his
left arm bearing a cross; below him were several figures with their
throats cut, and around was this motto:
'_Hugonetorwn strages_, 1572.'
'Were you engaged in that scene of blood?' I asked, with a lowering
brow.
'Yes, monsieur, in some manner, I was.'
'But that was sixty-three years ago.'
'Well, M. l'Abbé, I am just sixty-three years old.'
'And you were engaged in a massacre when a year old--what a blood
thirsty young imp you must have been!'
'Monsieur, I was born on the very day of the massacre. Listen to me.
There was a fleuriste in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec: does Monsieur happen
to know the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, at Paris?'
'Perfectly.'
'Ah--there are always pretty girls there.'
'Well--about your fleuriste?'
'In that street, there was one named Jeanette Lavardin, very pretty
and very much admired by all the gallants of Paris, who frequented
her little shop and bought kisses and flowers; for in those days
every cavalier carried a nosegay; but unfortunately poor Jeanette was
a Huguenot; and on the day of the massacre, after the King's Guards,
led by Monsieur d'O, their colonel, had so barbarously slain the
Comte de la Rochefoucault, who was grand huntsman and hereditary
master of the royal wardrobe, the Marquise de Renel, Francourt the
Chancellor of Navarre, and more than two hundred other gentlemen, who
had sought shelter in the Louvre, all smeared with blood, and panting
for fresh slaughter, they issued into the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, and
murdered Jeanette, though she sank on her knees, and implored them to
save her life, saying that she was not in a fit state to die. One
mousquetaire made her promise to be a good Catholic, which she
accordingly promised, and was instantly stabbed by swords and
poignards, to prevent her, as the destroyers said, relapsing into
heresy; and then they departed to seek new victims.
'Next day, when the Catholics were throwing all the bodies into the
Seine, they found that the murdered Jeanette in her death throes had
given birth to an infant. Many persons were deeply moved by
beholding a birth under circumstances so appalling; others were for
throwing "the Huguenot's brat" into the river with its dead mother;
and for that fell purpose the poor naked youngling was seized by one
of Colonel d'O's soldiers, but was saved by a gentleman of the
Scottish Guard of Charles IX., who threw his velvet mantle over
it--so this child lived to be a man, and has now the honour of
addressing you.'
'A strange and terrible story!' said I: 'and this gentleman of the
Scottish Guard--'
'Was the bosom friend of the King of Navarre--the Chevalier Blane.'
'My father!' I exclaimed with joy.
'Yours, Monsieur l'Abbé!' exclaimed the maitre d'hôtel, almost
embracing me: 'your father! tell me, then, is this brave chevalier
alive?'
'Alas, no! he was slain last year in cold blood; but I shall yet
avenge him, if ever I tread on Scottish ground again!'