A LAST INTERVIEW.
Vaudemont's page was conducting me to my rooms, when one of the
Duke's gentlemen in waiting, M. René, who wore the cross of Malta on
his dark velvet cloak, met me in the corridor, with a message to the
effect that Mademoiselle de Lorraine, having heard that I was soon to
leave Nanci, desired that I would favour her with an interview of a
few minutes in the Duke's apartments. Fortunately the corridor was
dimly lighted; otherwise he of the cloak and Maltese cross would have
remarked how I changed colour at this announcement. For a moment, a
fierce suspicion flashed upon me, that this request in the name of
Marie Louise was but a deadly lure of Pappenheim and De Bitche; I had
heard of such snares often, in that time, and in those lands of
public and private assassination. I was without pistols, but to
hesitate was impossible, and with a bow of assent, I said--
'You mentioned the apartments of Monseigneur?'
'Yes, monsieur.'
'Is the Duke there?'
'No; he has accompanied M. de Vaudemont to parade a body of soldiers
outside the palace.'
'I am ready, monsieur--lead on,' said I, in a voice broken by the
mingled nature of my emotions and all that had passed; and while
feeling my heart sink at the prospect of an interview with Marie
Louise alone, it appeared to me that the voice and manner of my
conductor were characterised by a strange sadness and sorrow.
I stood before her, in one of the loftily-ceiled and magnificent
apartments of that princely dwelling, her father's ducal palace; and
the flush of the summer noon-day's sun streamed through a painted
casement full upon the outline of her faultless head and form, edging
with a dazzling brightness the golden tresses of her hair, the curve
of her delicate neck and shoulders, and the folds of her white
brocade, that fell so gracefully around her. All conscious that we
breathed the same atmosphere again, and that I was near her, I
approached with averted eye, until I might have touched her, and then
our glances met--but oh how timidly and sorrowfully! Yet I gazed
full upon her, for her soft blue eyes were the bright stars in which,
with all the fond astrology of love, I strove to read my future
destiny.
But though their gentleness remained, her bearing was changed. It
was no longer the timid diffidence, which was characteristic of the
winning Nicola, that I read in them now; but the clear and full yet
chaste expression of a woman of undoubted rank, and of one who had
been long accustomed to her high position; and pausing, I bowed low,
with a humility that was half mockery, while with a sigh of
bitterness and sorrow, I remembered that I stood before my lost love,
the daughter of Duke Charles IV.--Mademoiselle Marie Louise, of
Lorraine and Bar-le-Duc, she whom I believed to have made my honest
passion the plaything of an hour.
'M. Blane,' said she, in a voice that seemed piercing, for it stirred
my very soul, though it seemed to be rendered tremulous by her
emotions; 'why do you not come nearer, and give me your hand?'
'My hand--mademoiselle?'
'Your hand--as of old.'
'Because we are no longer what we--were.'
'My dear M. Arthur,' said she, trembling excessively as she clasped
my hand within her own; 'what is the meaning of all this? does not
the time seem long--very long--since we have spoken?'
'Yet we parted last night, mademoiselle,' said I, with affected
carelessness. She looked at me earnestly and said--
'Do not speak so unkindly to me, Arthur; but confess that the time
_has_ seemed long to you.'
'An eternity!' I exclaimed, as her heart throbbed beneath my hand,
which she pressed against her side; 'but alas, mademoiselle--'
'Call me Nicola.'
'Nay--nay--never again.'
'We were so happy during those long rides through sunny Champagne,
when you knew me only as poor Nicola--were we not?'
'And as poor Nicola I loved you--loved you with a passion the
strength and purity of which are known only to God and to myself!
Happy? Oh yes! we were very, very happy, mademoiselle--happier than
I shall ever be again.'
'Do not say so, I implore you?' she exclaimed in a low voice; while
her fine blue eyes filled with tears, and expressed so much love and
melancholy that my soul was moved, for her.
'Pity me, M. Blane,' said she; 'I was then, and am still, but the
victim of circumstances. The time which I foresaw--the time when we
would become estranged--has come to pass and now you can understand
my sorrowful reluctance to hear you speak of love--to receive your
offers of--marriage.'
'But why did you conceal from me your exalted rank? why did you not
trust me with your name, your title, your secret mission? I had then
guarded my heart by prudence and honour too; I would have steeled my
breast against you--.'
'Had such been possible,' said she, smiling through her tears, and
still clasping my hand.
'Oh, why did you trifle with a love so true as mine, by a deception
so unworthy of us both?'
'The Countess d'Amboise, that creature of Louis, who has the key to
his heart and secrets, to whom I intrusted myself at Paris, (a
faithful adherent of ours, if she has no other virtue) advised me to
maintain the character in which I first appeared to you on that night
in the Place de la Grève; and dearly has that duplicity cost me.'
She wept, and still we stood hand in hand.
'But whence the name of Nicola?' said I.
'My name is Nicola Marie Louise; and I chose the first, because it
was the name of my dear mother, who lies in the church of St. Epurus;
and, moreover, because our patron is St. Nicolas of Lorraine.'
'But this strange sojourn in Paris, mademoiselle?'
'I was there when Richelieu suddenly took measures to grasp the
dukedom of Lorraine; and one of his first intentions was to place me
in the Bastille. Of this Madame d'Amboise gave me timely notice; I
sought shelter with her, but remained in Paris watching the tide of
events. Lorraine is my country; it is the patrimony of my fathers;
it is the land of Joan of Arc, and why should not I, in some wise,
seek to serve the soil she sprang from?'
'And to this end, you will wed Count Pappenheim, and duly bestow your
bridal garments on the shrine of St. Lucy--'tis all wise, proper, and
befitting, mademoiselle.'
'How cruel in you to speak thus to me!' said she, upbraidingly; 'to
marry Pappenheim, while--while--loving you--would be to bear about in
my heart a load of misery too terrible for contemplation.'
I bent my hot face upon her hand in joy, and kissed it.
'I was decoyed from our solitary little auberge at the Three Willows,
by a specious falsehood of the Count de Bitche, who, in my costume as
a sister of Vincent de Paule, did not at first recognise me.'
'And he told you--'
'That you were slain, or desperately wounded. Oh, Heaven, how was it
that I did not die on hearing his terrible words, for they ring yet
in my ears! Bitter was the suffering they cost me! I rushed from
the auberge, and desired him to lead me to you; but, with one of his
malevolent smiles, he told me, that he had decoyed me for
himself--that it was all a pretty little snare, that he loved me, and
so forth. I then threw off my hood, declared my name and rank,
commanding him on his manhood and allegiance to lead me to my
brother. Our worthy petardier knew me then! Oh, had you seen how
quickly the brutal tyrant changed to the cringing slave! He obeyed
me; but never can I tell you all I endured until De Vaudemont gave me
tidings of your safety; nor can I describe the emotions that stirred
my heart, Arthur, when I saw you--you whom I loved so tenderly--'
'Ah, mademoiselle--'
'When I saw you standing in that crowded street, looking so wildly
and bewildered, crest-fallen, bareheaded, and a prisoner--pale,
weary, and on foot--dearest Arthur!'
'You _did_ see me then?'
'But girt round, hemmed in by iron etiquette, the centre of a
thousand eyes, I dared not even accord a kind glance towards you. In
courts we learn sorely to school our hearts, Arthur.'
'And to trample on the hearts of others, too.'
'You wrong me--do not say so.'
The assurance that she still loved me made me once more calm; and
such is the caprice of the human heart, that, at times, strange
emotions of artificial coldness flitted through my breast.
'Arthur,' said she; 'how changed and how diffident these twenty-four
hours have made you?'
'Mademoiselle,' I replied, seeing the madness of again yielding to my
emotions; 'I am diffident; because I am not like that brave
Pappenheim, and because my love is sincere, though it merits no
return--from you, at least.'
'What cruel enigma is this?'
'Mademoiselle de Lorraine, you are no longer Nicola, the poor,
fugitive soubrette; and in a mere worldly point of view, you are far,
far above me; though I am a gentleman, whose fathers for six hundred
years have borne their crest in battle on their helmets; yet what
have I, an exile, a soldier of fortune, to offer worthy even a smile
from the daughter of Charles IV., the victor of Prague, and the hero
of Poligni?'
'My poor Arthur! you have that which is better than all the crowns of
Europe--a faithful and true heart; I find that I must speak for you
as well as for myself. Marie Louise cannot lose that heart, which
she won as Nicola. Love has a language that cannot be expressed by
words alone; thus your tenderness and diffidence, even with the poor
soubrette, were the surest indication of the depth of yours.'
'Oh, yes!' said I, clasping my hands; 'my love is equalled only by
your beauty and your merit.'
'Now,' she exclaimed, almost playfully, 'you must not be imitating
Ronsard.'
'I am in agony, and you speak to me in jest.'
'And so you would not give one golden hair of Nicola's head for
Louise of Lorraine, with all her rank and beauty? Oh, poor M. Blane,
what say you now?'
'Jesting yet! I say that I think so still, and yet--my heart, God
help me, feels broken.'
'Come--come--allons!' said she, waving her pretty white hand; 'be a
man, Arthur; what say you to join my father, and fight under the
standard of the Emperor?'
'By the side of Pappenheim and De Bitche?'
'No.'
'What then?
'By the side of Vaudemont and Duke Charles. In France, your Scottish
Hamiltons are Dukes of Chatelherault in Poitou; your Forbeses are
Lords of La Faye; your Douglases are Dukes of Touraine and Lords of
Longoville; your Stuarts are Lords of Aubigne, Governors of Avignon,
and Dukes of Calabria. Why may not you become a count or prince in
our duchy of Lorraine?'
'Impossible!'
'Why impossible?'
'Because the days of Lorraine as a duchy are doomed, and because I am
a soldier of France. Tempt me not, for my honour--'
'Will be dear to me as my own; so I pray you to excuse me,' said she,
while her tears fell fast,
'To-night, Louise, I go, never to return; but my soul I give to
God--my sword to France--my heart to you.'
'You are going--' she faltered.
'Yes.'
'Whither?'
'To the French camp, before Elsace-Zaberne.'
'Alas!'
'Your rank forbids me even to hope,' said I.
'Then love will soon die.'
'Nay, nay! give me leave to seek a field where I may fall, if I
cannot forget you. I leave this to-night, and take the road by
Sarrebourg and Phalsbourg towards Alsace. Oh, Marie Louise! in
memory of the love I have vowed and you have accepted, think of me
sometimes; and in memory of the pleasant days we have passed--of all
I hoped, and all that never can be--give me one kind kiss before I
leave you for ever!'
We opened our arms, and were about to meet, when simultaneously we
caught sight of a tall man, wearing a mantle and star, a long feather
and sword, who stood between the parted arras of the doorway,
observing us with sinister eyes, while quietly smoothing his large
collar of fine Flemish lace, and lounging against the door-post.
'Count Pappenheim!' I exclaimed, instinctively placing my hand into
my sword-hilt.
'At your service, Monsieur l'Abbé, or Monsieur Scaramouche, by the
devil's death! which you please.'
How long had he been there? How much or how little he had heard of
our interview, of her abhorrence for him and her love for me, of my
route and purpose, I knew not. Quick as lightning, I asked these
questions of myself, and sternly made a step towards him. He gave us
a malicious smile, and with a bow of profound irony, said--
'Mademoiselle de Lorraine and M. Blane, allow me kindly to end an
interview, which, under all the circumstances, seems to have been
sufficiently painful and prolonged. The Duke, your father,
mademoiselle, sent me, as his most fitting messenger, to say that he
would speak a few words with you, on a matter of the first importance
to us both; thus I doubt not that our very good friend of the Garde
du Corps Ecossais will excuse us.'
This style of deportment, in which hatred, jealousy, and rage were
skilfully veiled under a bland but ironical exterior, left me nothing
more to urge at that time; and we bowed mutually, as with a heart
swollen by fury, sorrow, and envy, I saw him take the cold white hand
of the girl I loved--of Marie Louise--and lead her away. I was left
alone, with nothing of her but the memory of her parting glance,
which was so full of agony and expression, that I seem to see it
still before me, even now, after the long lapse of many, many years.