I bowed low on hearing this, and all momentary emotion of pique gave way to the warmth of heart and cameraderie with which Scotsmen always meet in a foreign land. The uniform of the marquis was white, as worn by the Scottish guard 'in token of their unspotted fidelity and unstained honour.' The diamond badge on his left breast was the star and cross of St. Andrew.
'A friend of my mother's house will always be welcome to me,' said he, pressing my hand; 'for Henrietta Stewart made some mixture in the blood of Lennox and Huntly, allying them thus for ever. I have just heard your story from the Countess, and sympathize with you; it is the old tale of local oppression and misgovernment, which will ever exist while the affairs of Scotland are committed to the care of needy lawyers and desperate placemen. But our king will find it perilous work to push his projects on the Scottish Church—of that anon. And so you wish to serve king Louis?'
'Yes, my Lord, in any military capacity that may become a gentleman. I have come to France to feed myself with the sword that fed my father before me; for he, too, served in the Scottish Guard.'
'True—at the siege of Rochelle, at Caumont, and the capture of the Château de Sully; I have seen his name in our records, which bear honourable testimony to his bravery and worth.'
My heart swelled as the Marquis spoke. This handsome young noble was then in his thirtieth year. George, Lord Gordon, was styled marquis in France, being eldest son and heir-apparent of that Marquis of Huntly, who was Lieutenant of the North and commander of the insurgent Scottish Catholics who defeated the king's troops at the battle of Benrinnes.
'You have come at a fortunate time, sir. A war with Lorraine and the vaunting empire is now in every man's mouth; and I shall be glad to rally round king Louis every Scottish gentleman who may be useful to his cause. His ministers have already drawn up the plan of the campaign at the Louvre.'
'Indeed, ma foi! they have lost no time,' said the Countess, fanning herself vehemently.
'The frontiers of Lorraine and Alsace are all as well known to us as the Boulevardes.'
The attendant of the Countess, who listened intently to all that passed, trembled very perceptibly at these words, and I could perceive that when the Countess glanced at her, she blushed to the temples.
'When we unfurl the oriflamme beyond the Rhine,' resumed the Marquis, clanking his steel spurs; 'ma foi! madame, but we shall make the kettle-drums boil, ere we run short of provant.'
A cloud crossed the beautiful face of Clara d'Amboise, but a smile chased it away.
'You forget, Marquis,' said she, 'that my mother was a lady of Lorraine; and to speak thus in my boudoir is merely to imitate Rodomont in the old romance. He was ever noisy and furious.'
The Marquis laughed, showing teeth as white as her own under a moustache as dark as her eyebrows; and he replied,—
'Pardon me, madame; but while in your presence in future, I shall be dumb on this subject, and every other you dislike—ay! dumb as—'
'The old bell of Burgundy,' added Clara, laughing.
'Dumb as—what, madame?'
'The old bell which Clotaire II. carried away from the church of Notre Dame de Soissons, that stood in a pleasant valley by the banks of the Aisne. The successors of Clovis had made Soissons the seat of the empire, and as this old bell had been rung there on a thousand joyful occasions, it resented to such a degree its removal to Paris that it became dumb, and all the bell-ringers in the city could not elicit a sound from it. "Diable!" said king Clotaire, "this bell shows very bad taste, indeed, not to like our city of Paris." So he sent it back to its old belfry; and the moment it found itself swinging securely in the ancient church of Notre Dame de Soissons it rung for seven hours, though untouched by mortal hand, and rung so loudly, too, as to be heard for seven miles down the valley of the Aisne.'
'A marvellous story—but scarcely suited to the days of Louis XIII.'
'Scarcely,' added the Countess; and as the last chesnut braid of her magnificent hair was finished, she smiled gaily, and said to her attendant, 'You, my dear Nicola, may leave us now.'
The young girl made a low reverence, and with one of her disdainful smiles lurking in her charming eyes and mouth withdrew.
'Who is that girl?' asked the Marquis, with considerable interest.
'My attendant,' replied the Countess briefly.
'So I perceive, madame; is she a Parisian?
'No—a provincial.'
'A provincial!'
'Why this surprise, M. le Marquis?'
'Her air is queenly. I never saw hands more divinely formed. Her birth must be above her station.'
'Poor Nicola! she would be quite overwhelmed if she heard you; it would turn the poor girl's head. But, Marquis, what of all this?'
'Merely that she is even worthy to be your attendant,' replied the politic captain of cuirassiers, as he kissed the hand of Clara.
'You are very inquisitive, Marquis,' said she, giving him a pat on the mouth with her feather fan; 'I can assure you that she is only a poor girl consigned to my care—the daughter of a brave soldier who fought at the battle of Prague.'
'When our present enemy, the Duke of Lorraine, commanded the Imperialists.'
'Lorraine?' murmured the Countess, with some confusion. 'Yes—he did command there.'
'And the cowardly Elector Guelph was defeated,' added the Marquis, with a smile.
Madame d'Amboise gave him a furtive and uneasy glance, and then turned away. He gazed at her broadly in turn, with a smile which said plainly.
'Here is asecret—a mystery, which I cannot fathom.'
To change the subject, she said, in her playful way,
'Were you ever really in love, Marquis?'
'Your invariable query—yes, often,' said Gordon, with a smile.
'Indeed!'
'But never with more than one woman at a time, madame; be assured that no one can love either a place, a woman, or aught else very long—a gay woman least of all, perhaps.'
'Mon Dieu, Marquis, you become more and more French every day.'
Gordon seemed to be still reflecting; but he turned suddenly to me, and said,
'Mr. Blane, you are about six feet high I think.'
'I am only five feet ten inches, my Lord.'
'Bravo, you are just the height for a cuirassier of the guard, and shall be one. We require but two more to complete our hundred men-at-arms; and I expect the Viscount Dundrennan and Sir Quentin Home daily from Scotland. You lodge—'
'With Maître Pierre Omelette, at the Golden Fleur-de-lis.'
'Ah—in the Rue d'Ecosse—the name attracted you to that street I presume.'
'Yes, Marquis.'
He smiled and patted me kindly on the shoulder.
'On riding back to the Louvre, I shall mention your name to Patrick Gordon our Marechal de Logis; he will make all the necessary arrangements, after which, you will be a chevalier of the Scottish guard—farewell; Madame la Comtesse adieu; I hope to see you in Paris soon—we have not had much of the sun there lately.'
'Antoine, show out M. le Marquis,' said she, giving Gordon her beautiful hand to kiss.
'Harkee Blane,' he whispered, hurriedly as he passed us; 'you are in a fair way to fortune; but as a brother Scot and friend of my kinsman, I may warn you that you stand upon a precipice. Already she deems you one of her lovers, and as such will consider nothing too good for you for a time; but BE WARY! This chamber has occasionally led to the Bastille or to the more dreadful oubliettes of the Louvre. Farewell,' he added, raising his voice; 'the price of a horse is about six hundred crowns—but our Marechal de Logis will arrange everything for you. His apartments are at the Louvre, where he occupies the very shrine of love and beauty.'
'How, Marquis?' asked madame.
'He has the apartments of the beautiful Diana de Poictiers—the Duchess de Valentinois—whose spirit is said to haunt them.'
He retired, and left me standing midway between the arras and the chair of the Countess, irresolute, dreading what was to follow, yet unwilling to retire, and confounded by the mysterious tenor of his emphatic whisper, which at that moment I could scarcely analyse.
And for a minute I continued to loiter between the doorway over which the gorgeous hangings of blue and silver had fallen, and the chair in which sat the beautiful friend of king Louis, playing coquettishly with her fan of feathers.
Happily for me, I lived in a time, and had before me a career, wherein every brave and handsome fellow could attain fortune and distinction, if he made the essay with a tolerably plausible tongue and a sharp rapier—the tongue for the ladies; the rapier for the foes of the standard he fought under. Yet, while conscious of this, I stood irresolutely, playing with the somewhat worn feather that drooped from my beaver hat—I was now entirely alone with this brilliant, self-possessed and confident favourite of the king.
'M. Arthur, come hither,' said she.
I bowed.
'Are you afraid that I shall eat you?'
I bowed again, and approached her chair.
'Have you nothing to say to me?' she asked, turning her eyes full upon me.
'Ah, madame, what shall I say—how express myself!'
'You know how much I have to forgive you.'
'Do not speak of it, madame. Your brother's narrow escape from a death at my hand, makes me tremble, when I think of it!'
'We will talk of that another time. Mademoiselle Nicola has told me how much he and his debauched companion were to blame in molesting her.'
'True, Countess.'
'But they knew not who she was.'
'How, madame?
'That she was my attendant and not a grisette,' said the Countess hastily. 'You have heard all that M. le Marquis has so kindly promised.'
'Oh yes, yes; more than I deserve, be assured.'
'What, are you so very wicked?'
'I trust not; yet I dare not express all I feel.'
'Am I then so terrible, or have you lost your tongue or your wits?' she asked with a waggish smile in her beautiful and half-closed eyes, as she leant back in the soft fautueil.
'If Madame la Comtesse would——'
'Would what? speak out, boy; what are you thinking of?'
'Would pardon me, and excuse this confusion; for my soul is full of nothing but perplexity and admiration.'
Thus did the magic of this woman's beauty sway me against my reason, while I despised her position in my heart—a heart, moreover, that was not ungrateful.
She burst into a fit of merry laughter.
'Ma foi! my dear young friend, my Scottish provincial, you will make your fortune if you only continue as you have begun. A year in the Scottish guard will make you a more accomplished chevalier than the Marquis de Gordon himself! Really, without knowing it, you already act like a finished courtier.'
'I will study to improve this acting, and if madame will only permit to kiss her hand——'
'Tush, you silly boy, we are quite alone; your heart is full of gratitude, and you would only kiss my hand. What a timid little child it is!'
I kissed her on the cheek, and felt her soft perfumed hair sweep across my forehead, as, tremulous with delight and emotion, I drew back, abashed by my own temerity, for I was but a boy; and the warning of the kind Marquis tingled in my ears and in my heart.
'Poor child; it looks quite frightened,' said the Countess, smiling with the most provoking coolness.
'Madame, I have a king for my rival.'
'Take courage.'
'I have never lacked it.'
'He who loses heart, loses all, in a game of this kind at least. From this time we are allies, sworn friends; when you visit me again, do not enter by the porte cochère, but by the secret door at the back of the château,remember.'
At that moment I perceived the fair form of the Countess's golden-haired attendant, standing close by the arras which she had raised unbidden. She must have seen some portion of the last episode; for her fine eyes were fixed, I thought, somewhat pityingly on me, and disdainfully on her mistress. This little provincial in her plain coif was delicately beautiful in face, hands, and form; but eclipsed and overshadowed as she was by the brilliance and vivacity of the demonstrative Countess, I took but little notice of her then.
The moment she perceived Nicola, Madame d'Amboise coloured, and said to me rather sharply,
'Farewell, M. Arthur; you must now keep your appointment in Paris with M. le Marquis and the Marechal de Logis of the Scottish Guard; and remember that when all is arranged, I shall always be delighted to see you at the Château d'Amboise.' She rang a handbell, and Antoine appeared.
'Tell the master of the stables to give this gentleman my bay horse Dagobert, which he will please to keep as a gift from me. Now go, M. Arthur; and by the haste with which you return, I shall judge of your regard and your gratitude. Adieu.' In ten minutes more I was on the road to Paris.
I may briefly mention, that before leaving the château, I was permitted, after innumerable difficulties, to visit my antagonist of the preceding night. I found him in bed, a handsome and soldier-like fellow, but pale with loss of blood, and, though out of danger, weak and severely wounded. I begged his forgiveness, which he readily accorded, and declined to accept back his ring; but requested my word of honour, that I would not mention his name to any one in Paris, as he was an officer of the Duke of Lorraine—the chevalier Raoul d'Ische, to have whom quietly disposed of, in one of the oubliettes of the Louvre or the stone cages of Louis XI., Cardinal Richelieu would readily pay a thousand crowns of the sun, for Raoul was the right arm of Lorraine.
'How, then, does the king's physician visit you?'
'Because his place depends upon the smile or frown of my sister Clara. The reason of the Cardinal's enmity to me and to my master the Duke, on whose service I am secretly in Paris, another month will explain; but the Cardinal dreads us more than that cancer of which his mistress Anne of Austria is dying,' said he, as he pressed my hand, and I left him.
The horse I rode, my new bay horse Dagobert, was a beautiful animal, and his housings were worthy of the generous donor, whose strange freedom of manner and voluptuous image, filled all my thoughts as I rode on; and heedless of the way to Paris, caracoled along the green lanes and hedgerows, until I lost the main road, and found myself at a village beside a broad river. It proved to be Charenton-on-the-Marne, and about four miles from Paris. I was about to ride on, when my informant, who was an innkeeper, asked me to tarry and refresh.
'There is an inn here?' said I.
'An inn? I should think so! and there is no better in France; 'tis my own, M. le Chevalier; an inn where Henri Quatre himself has dined and got drunk, and where you may still see his favourite oath,Ventre Saint Gris, written with his diamond ring on a window.'
It was a quaint old tumble-down house, at the end of the stone bridge, with pigeon-holes for windows, and covered up to the chimney tops in luxuriant ivy and wild roses. Without dismounting, I drank a pot of wine under the sign-board, which bore on one side three fleurs-de-lis, and on the other a likeness of Henry the Great, with his famous white feather in his helmet, waggishly on one side, just as he wore it at the battle of Ivry. This sign-board had been painted, for a pot of wine and a loaf of bread, by a poor discharged soldier, who was travelling to Paris; and this dusty wayfarer was now known to honourable fame as Nicolas Poussin, of whom Louis XIII. was proud to be the patron.
'And how came it to pass,' said I, 'that within four miles of the Louvre, Henry the Great halted at an auberge so humble as this?'
'It was all an accident, M. le Chevalier,' replied the host, receiving my empty tankard with a profound bow. 'You must know, that one day Henry IV. was hunting in yonder wood, on the left bank of the Marne, and having outridden all his company, and left even the twenty-four chosen gentlemen of the Scottish guard far behind, he arrived here at nightfall weary and travel-stained, with a lame horse and a sharpened appetite. Of the hostess he inquired if he could have anything to eat.
'"Monsieur has come too late," said she, taking him for a private gentleman, in his long black leather boots, and plain jackwambeson.
'"Ventre Saint Gris!" muttered the King, in his strong Bearnais accent; "and for whom is all this dainty roast, which turns so savourily on your spit, madame?"
'"For eight gentlemen, who are upstairs."
'"Eight, who—madame?"
'"Gentlemen, whom I believe to be solicitors of Paris."
'"Then say to them, madame, if you please, that a gentleman, a traveller who is weary, begs the honour of being permitted to sit at the same board with messieurs the solicitors, and that he will gladly pay for his share of the repast with a good flask of wine to boot."
'The hostess duly delivered the message, but the solicitors being low fellows, loudly and rudely declined.
'"No!" exclaimed they; "no, sang-dieu! not if your traveller were Henry IV. himself!"
'"Ventre Saint Gris!" swore the King again, and, drawing his sword, laid hold of the roasted meat.
'At that moment a chevalier of the Scottish Guard appeared, having discovered the inn quite by accident, and the profound salute he accorded to her visitor surprised and terrified the landlady.
'"Sieur Blane," said the King—'
'Blane!' I reiterated; 'oh, heavens! this Scottish guardsman wasmy father!' But, heedless of me, the garrulous Frenchman, full of his story, continued:
'"Sieur Blane," said the Bearnais, "I am likely to be starved in this devil of an inn, for there are up stairs eight solicitors of our city of Paris, who have seized all the provisions, and will not permit me to eat with them!"
'The Sieur Blane drew his sword, and, curling up his long mustachios, swore he would put every man of them to death; but at that moment in came the Sieur de Vitry, with ten more gentlemen of the Scottish Guard: so to teach messieurs the solicitors politeness for the future, they were all seized and sent to Grosbois, where they were well whipped with a bridle-rein, their threats, entreaties, and remonstrances only exciting laughter in the Sieur Blane and his comrades. Hence, monsieur, my inn bears the head of the brave Bearnais—king Henry IV.'
I thanked the landlord, slipped a coin into his hand, and after gazing with more than ordinary attention at this quaint old auberge, where, more than thirty years ago, my brave father had this remarkable adventure with 'the arbiter of Christendom,' I left Charenton, and turned the head of Dagobert towards Paris; but I was so much delighted with the paces, speed, and beauty of the fine animal, that I caracoled round the boulevardes, and noon was long passed before I entered by the ancient gate of St. Marcel.
My heart was full of exultation and gratitude.
'Fortune, what have I done, that thou shouldest favour me thus?' I exclaimed, while prancing along, thinking of the beauty of Clara d'Amboise, the too evident favour with which she viewed me, and the brilliant prospect she had opened before me, by an honourable career in the Scottish Guard—the oldest and most noble body of men-at-arms the world ever saw; but on the cornice of the gate of St. Marcel I perceived a skull, bare, white, and bleached. This gave my thoughts an unpleasant turn, and the warnings of the Marquis recurred to my memory.
On inquiry, I was informed that this poor remnant of humanity was the head of Guy de Beaumanoir, Baron de Fontenelle, who had been accused many years ago of a design to deliver up the fortress of Dournenes to the Spaniards, for which he was dragged to the Place de la Grève, and barbarously broken alive on the wheel.
I rode through the heart of the city, crossed the Place Maubert and the Pont de Notre Dame, and proceeded along the crowded quays, where every variety of signboard, indicative of trade and traffic, with barbers' glittering basins, were swinging in the wind, and where many a veiled figure of Mary Queen of Scots—la Heine Blanche—the invariable sign of a French milliner, was displayed; and thence along the quaint Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, at the end of which I perceived the pointed turrets, the narrow windows, and guarded drawbridge of the palace of Francis I.—the Louvre—which I, who had never seen a statelier building than the barred and moated towers of our Scottish barons, conceived to be the grandest edifice in the world.
A soldier of the Grey Musketeers, who was on duty at one of the gates, politely directed me to the quarters of Patrick Gordon, the Marechal de Logis of the Garde du Corps Ecossais.
He proved to be a hale and handsome old man, a cadet of the house of Lochinvar; his beard and mustachios were almost white, and his complexion was very dark; a sword-cut, the badge of some battle-field—a badge which he valued more than his crosses of St. Lazare and Mont Carmel—traversed his right cheek by a long and ghastly line. His costume was somewhat of the Spanish fashion, being brown velvet laced with silver; he had a high ruff, and long buff boots, with gold spurs. A white-satin scarf sustained his steel-hilted rapier, into the bowl of which he usually stuffed his laced handkerchief. I announced myself, and all further explanations were cut short, by his saying—
'Welcome, M. Blane, to France, and to the Louvre! I expected you, for the Marquis, who has just left me, mentioned that you were to join us. You shall be at once enrolled in the cuirassiers of the Guard, with those two gentlemen, who have just arrived in Paris, this morning, from Scotland.'
Two gentlemen richly dressed, each with a pair of pistols in his girdle, who were in the recess of a window, where they had been observing a regiment of light horse passing along the Rue St. Germain l'Auxerrois, now came forward, and the Marechal de Logis at once introduced us all.
One who was tall and fair, with a long mustache, his hair cut short, and a stern expression of eye, and who wore a white satin pourpoint, with gloves and boots of pink perfumed leather, proved to be Richard Maxwell, Viscount of Dundrennan. His grandfather, the cunning old commendator, having had influence enough to get the abbey-lands of Dundrennan erected into a temporal lordship, as the reward of certain doubtful services performed under the Regent Mar, who was poisoned by the Regent Morton.
The other, who was a dark man, with aquiline features, a square forehead, a black, expressive eye, and a perpetual smile, was Sir Quentin Home of Ravendean, one of the new baronets of Nova Scotia, usually known at home as the Laird of Redden. Both were young, handsome, and brave gallants, being free, jovial, and soldierly in manner.
'How came you to Paris, Blanerne?' asked the Viscount, who was the only Maxwell that was not against me in the feud with Nithsdale.
'By the way of Havre, my Lord.'
'Sir Quentin and I came by the way of London, for we had both to cross the borders with greater speed than was quite to our taste.'
'How so, sirs?' asked the Marechal de Logis, looking up from the muster-roll.
Lord Dundrennan coloured, but did not reply.
'You must know, sir,' said the Laird of Redden, 'that our friend the Viscount, to the great scandal of the kirk session and whole community of Dundrennan, conceived a vehement regard for the buxom wife of the abbey miller; and, with a dozen of Maxwells, all armed to the teeth, in back, breast, and pot, with partizan and pistol, he laid siege to the mill one night, when the moon was yet below the waves of the Solway. The dame, nothing loth, sprang into his arms from a back-window; but her devil of a husband, who resented this exceedingly, after permitting himself to bawl in a most unseemly manner, had recourse to an arquebuse, and from an eyelet-hole shot one of the Viscount's men through the jaws. A general riot ensued, and somehow, in the confusion, the mill was burned, and the poor miller was found drowned in his dam. My lord of Kirkcudbright, the steward of the stewartry, raised his vassals to punish these proceedings; and to avoid the Commissioners of Justiciary, my friend mounted a horse one night, crossed the borders, and went to London. There he met me in the Scots' Walk one day, looking out for a passage hither, for I too had become involved in an unpleasant scrape.'
'And had to leave Scotland hastily?'
'Yes, Marechal de Logis—it happened thus. One night, when riding near Berwick Bounds, with a few of my friends and kinsmen, all well horsed and armed with jack and spear, we found a herd of fine fat cattle grazing on the Debatable Land; and mistaking them for our own, we very naturally drove them homeward at a smart trot, ever and anon striking them with the flat of our swords, or administering a goad with the lance. Instead of being ours, however, they proved to be, unfortunately, the property of the English Governor of Berwick, who sent after us a party of horse, commanded by one of the King's captains. Now everybody knows that English troops dare not enter Scotland without violating the rights of the nation; thus a conflict ensued—the captain was a very troublesome fellow, so I ran him through the body; but we were defeated, and the cattle retaken. The English Governor complained to Sir Archibald Acheson, of Glencairn, the Secretary of State for Scotland, and warrants were issued against me; so one evening I marched off without beat of drum; but being without a passport, was taken at Carlisle, and sent back to Scotland. Our Secretary was disposed to be vindictive, and placed me in the castle of Lochmaben, charged with riot and felony; but my keeper, the Javellour, fell and broke his arm one day, while speaking to me; so I took care not to miss the opportunity, and wrenching away his keys, locked him up in my place. I then left the castle, and taking with me the best horse I could find, rode to Dumfries, where I sold my nag and a valuable ring, got shipping for England, and reached London with a few crowns in my pouch, bent on seeking foreign service. At the King's Head, in Southwark, I lived with the Viscount Dundrennan, who was on the same errand. The Rye carrier furnished us with saddle-horses, at twelve shillings a man. We reached Rye, one of the Cinque Ports, about sixty miles from the English capital, and put up at the Mermaid, outside the ramparts. The bully host was saucy to us, because we were Scots—so I stuffed his wig down his throat, while the Viscount flung all the furniture out of the windows. The churlish townsmen betook them to staves and bills; but we fought our way to a French lugger—one of those craft that are generally engaged in the conveyance of chalk from the cliffs near the East Bourne—and got clear off, with a few bruises. Landing at Dieppe, we lodged at the house of an Englishman, near the church of St. James. On the very day we arrived, I became, embroiled in an affair of honour. On the ramparts, which are the public promenade, a gentleman jostled me somewhat rudely, and passed on; but I twitched the end of his mantle, saying,
'"Monsieur will, of course, apologise?"
'"That, I think should rather be your task," said he.
'"A task it would be—but it shall be my pleasure to teach you politeness; follow me."
'We reached a retired place near the old castle of Dieppe—threw our hats and cloaks on the ground, and drew our rapiers.
'"You have challenged me," said my antagonist; "I therefore have the right of weapons."
'"Agreed," said I.
'"Your name, Monsieur?" said he; "I always like to know the names of those I kill."
'"Sir Quentin Home, a Baronet of Scotland—yours?"
'"M. le Comte de Forgatz——"'
'Good Heavens!' exclaimed the Marechal de Logis; 'he is the greatest duellist and most deadly shot in France. It is a miracle that you are alive!'
Sir Quentin smiled with careless disdain.
'We tossed up for the first fire and it fell to the Count. He fired, and the ball grazed my right ear—.'
'The devil! that was a close shave.'
'"Now, M. le Comte," said I, "'tis my turn—up with your right hand."
'He delayed.
'"Up with it, or by the soul of St. Andrew, I will shoot you through the heart!"
'He held it up, and in an instant my bullet whistled right through the palm of it.
'"A thousand curses!" he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with rage and pain, as he dashed his pistol at my head; but I forced him to apologise for daring to jostle me, and so the affair ended.'
'Bravo!' said the old Marechal de Logis; 'Fier comme un Ecossais!as the French have it.'
'After this camisado, we hired horses, and at Rouen swam them through the river Seine in sheer bravado, because the bridge of boats had been swept away. At Santeville, the Viscount fought a duel in defence of a grisette, and disarmed his antagonist, a gigantic officer of Swiss, at the third pass; and so, without further adventure, we reached Paris this morning. These are our adventures; and now Mr. Blane for yours.'
I soon related mine at least, all with which I deemed it prudent to acquaint two such hare-brained youths as my new comrades.
'Now, my Lord Dundrennan and gentlemen, you are fairly enrolled as members of king Louis' Ancient Scottish Guard,' said the Marshal de Logis; 'be pleased to sign your names here, after the usual oaths of allegiance and fidelity to his most Christian Majesty, which are all in accordance with those acts of the Scottish Parliament, by which the subjects of France and Scotland are naturalised each in the country of the other. Then we shall adjourn to the Fleur-de-lis, where you must all dine with me. I will bring two or three other gentlemen of the corps, and we will have all your news about poor old Scotland, the king and kirk, over a few bottles of prime burgundy.'
'Thanks, Marechal de Logis,' said the Viscount.
'With pleasure,' said I; and after Patrick Gordon had bundled away his documents, we took our swords and cloaks, and sallied forth.
Gordon showed us the new buildings which were in course of erection in the Place Dauphine, and the Bridge Marchand, which had been built a few years before in place of the picturesque Pont aux Meuniers, by Charles le Marchand, captain of the arquebussiers and archers of Paris in 1608, who undertook, with permission of Henry IV., to erect the said bridge, on condition that it should bear his name. Close by were the ruins of the ancient Pont aux Meuniers which had a mill under every arch, and which broke down on the night of the 22nd December, 1596, destroying five hundred persons, every one of whom, as the Marechal de Logis informed us, had enriched themselves by the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Here, too, stood the pigeon market, whence the bridge was named at times the Pont aux Colombes.
'Oho, chevalier,' said Gordon, to a gay gentleman clad in cloth of gold, with a red feather in his hat, who was bidding adieu to a pretty woman, who seemed to be the wife of a bourgeois; 'I see they still sell pigeons on the Pont aux Colombes?'
'Occasionally, Patrick, and game of other kinds, too,' said he, saluting us with a merry smile.
'We are all going to dine at the Fleur-de-lis. Will you join us?'
'With pleasure.'
''Tis one of ourselves, gentlemen,' continued the frank old Marechal de Logis; 'allow me to introduce the Chevalier Livingstone, one of the bravest gallants in the Scottish Guard; Viscount Dundrennan, Sir Quentin Home, and the Laird of Blanerne, have all come, chevalier, from our dear auld mither Scotland, to fight for king Louis of France.'
We all bowed and shook hands.
The Chevalier Livingstone was the younger son of Henry Count of Angoulême, who was the son of Henry II., by a daughter of the Scottish house of Linlithgow, and in right of his grandmother's blood was admitted into the Scottish Guard.
As we rambled towards the Rue d'Ecosse, we passed the magnificent house of the famous courtesan Marion de l'Orme, which by chance had a company of the Cardinal's musketeers drawn up before it. This occasioned a hundred irreverend jokes from the chevalier and the lively old Marechal de Logis; and here another handsome cavalier of the Scottish Guard, Raynold Cheyne, of Dundargle in Fifeshire, joined us. His doublet was of black velvet, so thickly ornamented with jet that it glittered like a corslet in the sun. His mantle was dark crimson; his long boots were of black leather; his sword and dagger hilts of silver, and altogether he was a sombre, picturesque, and impressive-looking fellow.
I saw the statue of Henry the Great as we passed along the Rue St. Honoré, and in that quaint old street the Feronnerie, Cheyne showed me the exact spot where, twenty-three years before, Henry had perished under the dagger of Ravaillac, beneath the windows of a notary named Pontrain, at a place where the street was crowded and rendered more narrow by the little shops which are built against the walls of the churchyard of St. Innocent.
'Hah!' said the old Marechal de Logis, with a grin, 'had our Scottish Guard been with Henry in lieu of his wretched French lacqueys, Ravaillac had never achieved the dreadful deed of that day!'
'And where were they?' asked the Viscount.
'They were marching towards the frontier, as a war was expected with Spain,' replied our veteran comrade, as we found ourselves in the Rue d'Ecosse, and at the sign of the Golden Fleur-de-lis, kept by Maître Pierre Omelette.
This hotel was a picturesque old mansion having three sharp wooden gables that cut the blue sky overhead, and projected over the street on beams of grotesquely-carved wood, which rested on stone pillars, like some of the old timber-fronted houses of king James IV.'s time which I had seen at home. A large sign-board bearing a blue shield powdered with golden fleurs-de-lis swung on a rusty iron rod above the thoroughfare.
The arrival of six cavaliers all so showily attired—five of them at least being so—with plume and mantle, sword and dagger, and having, moreover, in their hats the white silver cross of St. Andrew, which in Paris was the distinguishing badge of that patrician band the Guard du Corps Ecossais, made the host bow at least eighteen successive times to the red rosettes of his garters as he ushered us into a plainly-furnished room, decorated by a few coarse Flemish engravings of the wars in Flanders—the siege of the Brielle and the fighting at the Isle Rhé. There were also two tawdry prints of the beautiful Ninon de l'Enclos, which the Chevalier Livingstone and Raynold Cheyne pronounced to be execrable likenesses, and proposed to tear down.
My friends being all gay fellows entered as noisily as a herd of scholars broken loose from school—all jokes and laughter—for in Paris all seemed to live as if their lives and joys were to last for ever, like those of the gods in Homer.
'By the devil's mercy, M. Fleur-de-lis, my brave bully host,' said the Marechal de Logis, 'but thy wife looks well and rosy!'
'As if she were a widow,' added the Chevalier Livingstone, pinching her chin.
'Dinner for six, Madame Omelette—and plenty of Burgundy—'
'Nay Marechal, devil strangle me, no Burgundy for me—but Champagne—the pure wine of Champagne,' said Cheyne of Dundargle, who had lost his left ear under Lord Teviot at the capture of Nanci in 1633.
'Champagne and Burgundy be it—M. le Duc de Burgundy's best, by Jupiter!' said the Viscount.
'To the devil with Jupiter and all false gods,' cried Sir Quentin, adding his voice to the din; 'let us all shout Vive le Roi!'
''Tis all the French thou hast learned yet.'
''Tis enough for me, Viscount.'
'And will serve thee under fire,' said the Marechal de Logis; 'but make love to a grisette, and she will soon teach you French.'
'Thanks for the advice, sir. I have already engaged a preceptress.'
'What! you who have not been twenty-four hours in Paris?'
'Yes, I. The language of the eyes will aid the language of the tongue.'
'Of course, Viscount,' said the Chevalier Livingstone. 'Noel! Noel! say I, like Messieurs le Bourgeois, whenever they are pleased, and choose to quote the canticle.'
'Aha, chevalier! where do they cry this?'
'At the Petit Theatre, where the old scriptural moralities are acted by women quite nude. Yes, sirs. Zounds! Viscount Dundrennan, what would your sobersided kirk session say to that?'
'And to buying pigeons in daylight at the Pont aux Colombes?' added Dundrennan, laughing.
'Seats, gentlemen,' said Pierre Omelette, the host, 'for dinner waits.'
'Thank Heaven!' exclaimed the Chevalier, 'for I am alike tired and hungry. This forenoon I have fenced with the King's master; drank with Chavagnac; chatted with Richelieu; flirted with Marion in his absence; lost fifty crowns at primero with the Duchesse de Bouillon; I have heardle Fête d'Amoursung at the Opera in the Tennis Court de Bellair; I tried a new horse for Mademoiselle Chevreuse quite round the Boulevardes, and I am here!'
The dinner ordered by our old Marechal de Logis was sumptuous; but I cannot say that I enjoyed it much; everything was cooked in the French fashion; thus, fish, flesh, and fowl were so disguised that I never knew of which I was partaking. The wines were excellent, and amid merriment and anecdotes, the evening slipped joyously away.
The brusque air, the soldierly gaiety and jollity of these brave spirits proved very infectious and captivating. My heart expanded with pleasure at the conviction that I was one of them; and I longed—a poor ambition, perhaps—to emulate them in their career of hare-brained frolics, duels, flirtations, and intrigues. As yet I felt myself but a boy; while they were men, who treated me as an equal, and though not many years my senior, Cheyne and the Chevalier were veritable patriarchs in experience and knowledge of the world—the wicked world of Paris.
The quarrels of our King and Kirk and all the Scottish news—the cloud that overhung our government and the threatened war with England—were soon discussed, for we were sure that these disputes would come to the musket at last. Then we spoke of everything on the tapis; the cruel burning of Madame la Marechale d'Ancre for witchcraft; the alleged beauty of Marie Louise of Lorraine, who was said to be secretly and politically intriguing in Paris; of the projected war against her father the Duke; of duels and of girls; of Cardinal Richelieu's state craft and profound cunning; of the last new poem by Corneille, and the latest work of Poussin, who, from being a poor disbanded soldier in the regiment of Tavannes in which he served during the wars of Charles IX. and Henry IV., had become the equal of Raphael; of the beauty of the Countess d'Amboise (my heart leaped at her name), the last mistress of the king, and she was declared to be superior in loveliness even to the younger and lovely Marion de l'Orme.
Every liaison in and about the Court was freely discussed. The names of countesses and courtezans, grisettes and grandees were all jangled together pell mell by these reckless fellows. The intrigues of the Coadjutor; of Mademoiselle de Chevreuse; of the beautiful Duchesse de Montbazon and the Duc de Beaufort, were all canvassed as freely as if they had been the love-affairs of students or musketeers, with grisettes and flower-girls. All this seemed wonderfully easy, free, and, to me, not a little brilliant and captivating; for I was barely twenty years of age.
Some of their anecdotes and adventures were very remarkable.
Raynold Cheyne, of Dundargle, when quite a youth had served as a cuirassier, under the famous Raymond, Count de Montecuculi, in after years the rival of the great Turenne. Once, when on the march through Germany, the Count had given orders that, on pain of death, no soldier or cavalier under his command, should tread down ripened corn. A soldier who rode a wild and unmanageable horse, spurred it recklessly through a field of yellow grain near Leipzig; and then Montecuculi ordered the Provost-Marshal to hang him without ceremony at the first halting-place; but the soldier advanced to Count Raymond and resolutely pleaded his innocence, laying the whole blame upon his horse.
'Silence, sir!' said the Count, haughtily; 'the Provost-Marshal shall do his duty. Away with him!'
'Count Raymond,' exclaimed the cuirassier, full of rage and vengeance, 'I was guiltless before; but shall no longer be so!' and levelling his arquebuse, before he could be disarmed, he fired a bullet through his colonel's plume.
'Thou art a brave fellow!' said the Count, with a sudden admiration of his heedless daring; 'I pardon thee—give me thy hand; and, in the charge to-morrow, let us see who will go furthest among the Swedish ranks—thou or I.'
Next day was fought the great battle of Leipzig; where the furious ardour of the Count de Montecuculi carried him so far among the ranks of the victorious Swedes, that he was taken prisoner. One soldier, who attempted to rescue him, was also taken. He was the hero of the cornfield adventure—Raynold Cheyne, of Dundargle—who thereafter left the Imperial service and joined the Scottish Guard.
'Have you seen the house that the Comte de Treville, captain of the Musketeers, has built for Ninon de l'Enclos?' asked the Marechal de Logis, after the foregoing anecdote.
'Ninon,' murmured, the chevalier; 'the beautiful Ninon—no.'
''Tis quite a Palais Royale!' said Cheyne.
'How—has he left Marion de l'Orme?'
'No—for she still visits him at night, disguised as a page. So M. de Bouillon told me.'
'Oho—just as she visits Richelieu.'
'She looked charming as she passed the cabaret where we dined yesterday, chevalier.'
'Yes, Marechal, attended by Rouville, who fought the duel about her with La Ferte Senecterre, exchanging five pretty sword-thrusts and two pistol-shots.'
'She has a divine hand!'
'And magnificent bust.'
'But she spoils it,' said Livingstone, 'by those hideous stays that are now in fashion.'
'Ah—that devilish invention of the queen of M. Henri le Grand,' said the Marechal de Logis, for, in phraseology and tastes, those Gardes Ecossais had become quite French.
'Still, she is not comparable to Madame d'Amboise,' observed Cheyne.
'If we go to war with Duke Charles,' said the Viscount, 'what will the King do with his beautiful Lorrainer?'
'Send her to keep company with La Fayette in her convent perhaps.'
'Her brother Raoul d'Ische commands a fortress in Alsace,' said Gordon; 'but is it true that the Marquis our captain has quite relinquished Marion de l'Orme?'
'Always that woman,' said the chevalier, laughing; ''pon my soul, Marechal, I begin to think you are in love with her yourself.'
'Having a fortune to spend—my poor pay as Marechal de Logis of horse.'
'No—the Marquis has only been playing a game of three points. In love with Mademoiselle de Chevreuse, with the Duchesse de Bouillon and with Marion.'
'So if he loses one point, two still remain.'
'But the blue-eyed Chevreuse is said to view with favour our brave countryman the Lord Teviot, a colonel of pikes.'
'Then she must find a successor,' said Gordon, 'for my Lord Teviot was yesterday committed to the Bastille for slaying a Chevalier of St. Lazare in a duel.'
'To the Bastille!'
'To the Bastille—for a duel!' we all exclaimed, indignantly.
'Yes—but it was fought within the precincts of the Palais Royale.'
'Zounds!' said Raynold Cheyne, twisting his fierce moustache, 'in the days of Henry the Great, we might have fought in his bed-chamber, and I am sure the brave Bearnais would have enjoyed the sport.'
'And what was the duel about?' I asked.
'Oh! the old story—a girl—a fleuriste on the Pont de Notre Dame.'
'And the chevalier was killed?'
'Run right through the body,' replied Gordon; 'and the Cardinal, at the instance of Marion, whose lover M. le Chevalier had formerly been, sent his Lordship to the Bastille.'
'Too bad this!' exclaimed the Viscount; 'my Lord Teviot could not help this sprig of a chevalier not being immortal. But why has a Cardinal all this power?'
'Because he is a minister, and since the days of Henry IV. France has always been governed by ministers or—their mistresses.'
Sir Quentin Home whose circumstances had been somewhat desperate since he killed the English captain at Berwick, now proposed cards.
'Let us play, gentlemen,' said he; 'Blane, we will draw lots for partners.'
'Nay, Sir Quentin,' said I; 'I beg to be excused, having only ten louis.'
'The devil thou hast? I have only two in the world.'
'Then, why play?'
'For that very reason,' said he.
'But you may lose.'
'But I may win.'
'Thank you—but I would rather be excused.'
Sir Quentin frowned and pushed aside his glass.
'Never mind, Ravendean,' said the jolly Marechal de Logis; 'all the world are going to fight the Emperor and the Duke of Lorraine; and we shall have rare pickings and plenty of prize-money, when we march through Alsace and bend our cannon on the Rhine. Long ere that day comes to pass, Sir Quentin, thy two louis may have become twenty thousand. Now, gentlemen, a glass of right Rhenish all round, and then M-e shall adjourn to the Comedie Française, and see all those beauties we have been talking about—yes, see them in all the bloom of beauty, rouge and patches, brocade and cloth of gold.'
From the Fleur-de-lis we went after dusk to the Hotel de Bourgogne, where plays had been acted since 1548, and where we saw a tragedy by Scuderi, about heaven knows what, but every one was killed in the last scene, to the entire satisfaction of the audience. After a petty brawl with the watch, and singing a chorus under the windows of Marion de l'Orme, we all repaired to our quarters in the Louvre.
And thus, at midnight, closed the first day I spent with my wild and fiery comrades of the Garde du Corps Ecossais.
I was now fairly one of the hundred cuirassiers of that Scottish Guard, whose name is inseparably connected with the ancient royalty and military history of France, and who formed the right hand of her kings in many a day of battle.
My horse, Dagobert, the gift of the Countess d'Amboise, was a fine Spanish barb, worth at least seven hundred crowns of the sun. My arms and armour, supplied from the royal arsenal, were similar to those worn by my comrades, and consisted of a pale buff coat so thickly laced with silver as to be almost sword-proof; a triple-barred helmet, with back and breast-plates, gorget and gloves of the finest and purest steel, inlaid with gold; an arquebuse, two feet and a half long, attached to a belt by a swivel. The pair of pistols, the dagger, and long bowl-hilted Toledo rapier were my own.
Our plumes were white and blue, (the Scottish colours), our scarfs and hocquetons, worn when attending the king at mass or near his throne, were also white, trimmed with blue and silver, in token of the pure fidelity which for centuries had characterised the gentlemen of the Garde du Corps Ecossais.
My apartments in the Louvre were neatly but plainly furnished by the valet de chambre de tapissier, or king's upholsterer, Jean Baptiste Poquelin, in whose shop was his son, a sharp little lad of fourteen years, who carried parcels and messages. Who could then have foreseen thatthis little lad, who bore one's love letters and bouquets for a denier, or called a fiacre from the stand at the street corner, would become in after years the great Molière, the author of 'L'Etourdi' and 'Le Dépit Amoureux'?
And now will the reader pardon the honest vanity—the esprit du corps—of a soldier, when writing of his colours—of his regiment, if I devote a few lines to the previous history of the Scottish Guard?
The French annals inform us, that in virtue of the ancient league between Achaius, King of Scotland and Charlemagne, the latter first had a Scottish guard, and in return for the compliment, Achaius first fenced the Scottish Lion with the Fleur-de-lis, which we may still perceive in the royal standard.
Be the story or origin of this league what it may, there can be no doubt that Charles of France, in the year 882, had an armed guard of twenty-four Scotsmen, whom he preferred to his own people, and whose ponderous battle-axes did him good service in the wars he made to fence the See of Rome against the Grecian Emperors; and old historians say, that he first conceived the idea of having this guard by the advice of his old preceptor, a wandering Kuldee, whom some name Alcuin the Scot, and others Joannes Mailosius—or John of Melrose.
At Damietta, in the holy war, the life of St. Louis IX was twice saved by a Scottish band, led by the knights Stewart, Cumming, and Gordon; and in 1254, on his return from Palestine, the king increased the number of this guard to a hundred gentlemen-at-arms, and Charles V. afterwards placed them on the regular establishment.*
* SeeL'Escosse Française, par A. Houston, &c.
In 1415, when brave Harry of England won the field of Agincourt, and was acknowledged heir of France by the ignoble Charles VI., the Scottish Guard, led by Robert Patulloch, a native of Dundee, abandoned him, and marching from Paris towards Gascony, joined the gallant Dauphin, to whose assistance came several thousand veteran Scottish infantry, led by John, Earl of Buchan, who gained the battle of Bauge, on the 22nd March, 1421, cutting the English to pieces and slaying the Duke of Clarence, whose coronet was torn from his helmet by the Laird of Dalswinton. It was a desperate battle and a bloody one, as we might well expect when Englishmen and Scot met hand to hand on a foreign shore; and on that day the Dauphin, thenceforward Charles VII., ordered the Guard to consist of a hundred Scots men-at-arms and a hundred archers, to be commanded by the Earl of Buchan, whom he made Great Constable of France.
Signalising themselves on a thousand occasions, this chosen band of Scottish gentlemen were foremost at the storming of Avranches, in Normandy, in 1422, and at the great battle of Crevari in the following year. After being joined by five thousand comrades from Scotland, they led the furious charge at Verneuille in 1424; and destroyed the English convoy under the famous Sir John Fastolfe, in 1429. The Earls of Wigton, Buchan, and Douglas all fell in battle in one day, at the head of the Guard, and were interred in the church of St. Gracian, where their tombs are still to be seen.
Charmed by their unexampled valour and fidelity, Charles VII. ordained that 'le Garde du Corps Ecossoises' should forever take precedence of all other troops in France.'
In 1495 they were with the French army in Italy, and covered themselves with honour at the conquest of Naples, when Stuart of Aubigne was created Duke of Calabria.
They served under Louis XII. against the Venetians at the battle of Rivolta in 1509; and at the battle of Pavia, when Francis I. fell into the hands of the foe, one hundred and ninety-seven of the Scottish Guard lay killed and wounded round him. The King was taken, withthreeof his Scottish cavaliers, and gave up his sword, exclaiming—
'Gentlemen, we have lost all but our honour!'
In 1570, the Guard was ordained to consist of a hundred men-at-arms, a hundred archers, and twenty-four guards of the sleeve, or keepers of the King's body; and, eight years afterwards, at the battles of Gemblours and Mechlin, as Father Strada tells us, they flung off their armour, and in their doublets routed the Spaniards.
In the year I joined the Guard, there were three corps of Scottish infantry in the French service: viz., the regiments of Hepburn, Ramsay, and Lesly. Like other French corps, they consisted of several battalions. Hepburn's had seven, each a thousand strong. More than twenty regiments of the French line were led by Scottish colonels, and there were two Scottish lieutenant-generals, James Campbell, Earl of Irvine, and Andrew, Lord Rutherford of Hunthill; while De la Ferte Imbault, a brave veteran, was colonel-general of all the Scottish troops in France.
It would be vain, in a narrative like mine, to enumerate the privileges of the Scottish Guard and people in France.
The league, in which the Garde du Corps originated, declared that between the kingdoms of Scotland and France there should be an inviolable confederacy and friendship for ever; that injuries offered by the English to either, should be punished by the troops of both; that all Scottish auxiliaries in France should be maintained by the king of that country; and that, if any subjects of one nation gave assistance to England, 'by arms, counsel, or victual,' against the other, they should be judged guilty of treason.
To these clauses, Alexander II. of Scotland, and Louis VIII. of France, added a fifth:
That neither monarch should receive within his dominions the foreign enemies or domestic rebels of the other.
King Robert II. of Scotland, and Charles V. of France, added others, to this effect:
That neither of them should make peace with England without the express consent of the other; and that the Pope alone could absolve the two monarchs and their successors from the oath and alliance, which were never violated, while the British crowns remained separate.
James IV., in 1491, Henry IV. of France and Navarre, and Marie of Guise and Lorraine, Regent of Scotland in 1558, all renewed and strengthened this league, which always proved so troublesome to our neighbours the English; and hence their old rhyming proverb, which is mentioned by Shakspeare in the first act of 'Henry V.'
'HE THAT WOULD FRANCE WIN,MUST WITH SCOTLAND FIRST BEGIN.'
And now, having got through the musty lore of the last chapter, we will return to my own adventures with renewed vigour.
A few days after my enrolment, the trumpets of the Light Horse and Musketeers blew shrilly in the court of the Louvre, announcing that his Majesty was leaving the Council to proceed to mass.
The whole of the Scottish Guard were under arms; the hundred cuirassiers on horseback in full array, with rapier, helmet, and plume; the hundred archers, now archers but in name, as they were armed with arquebuses, and clad in white hocquetons, glittering with lace; and the twenty-four chosen Scottish gentlemen, keepers of the royal body, who never left the King of France until their hands deposited his remains in the regal sepulchre of St. Denis, which was always the last duty of the Scottish Guard, before they encircled the throne of his successor.
Our commander was styledfirstcaptain of his Majesty's Guards, and began the military year by serving the first quarter of it.
The court before the Louvre presented a brilliant appearance. The Guards of horse and foot under arms; the Grey and the Blue Musketeers—all of whom were gentlemen of the best families in France—richly attired, laced and plumed; nobles, chevaliers, pages, and lacqueys, all clad in gorgeous dresses; horses, gaily trapped, pawing the pavement, impatient for their riders. Amid all this glittering crowd I looked for the carriage of the Countess d'Amboise, but nowhere could see it, yet I was told that it was usually drawn by six white horses.
With all the vanity of youth, I was particularly anxious that she should see me in my brilliant accoutrements, plumed, spurred, and belted. My gay companions laughed and made bold jests when I inquired if she had been seen, for the secret of my patronage had been whispered about, and the old Marechal de Logis told me gruffly that, 'the King always went to Madame, for Madame dared not come to the King.'
Patrick Gordon had come to parade in a bad humour that morning. A horseman had splashed him with mud, on the Pont de Notre Dame, and he was making loud complaints on the subject to the Commandant of the City Watch and the Chevalier Livingstone.
'Zounds!' said he, curling his strong grey moustache up to his eyes, 'he was only a rascally bourgeois, monsieur; had I been daubed by the horse of a musketeer, or gentleman, I should not have cared so much, but a cit—a mere cit!'
'Whom one cannot fight; it was too bad, M. le Marechal de Logis,' replied the Captain of the Watch; 'why did you not fling him into the Seine?'
'Of course,' added the Chevalier Livingstone; 'for a mere bourgeois must be taught that he is not to ride everybody down like a prince of the blood.'
'Is yonder carriage, which I see drawn by four white horses and guarded by twelve Grey Musketeers, the equipage of the Countess d'Amboise?' I asked.
'Always your Countess,' grumbled the Marechal; 'no, 'tis the Queen's.'
'And why has the Countess six?'
'My bon camarado, have you yet to learn that Anne of Austria is only the wife of the most Christian King, while Clara d'Ische is his mistress? This makes all the difference in the world.'
'Our old Marechal de Logis has paraded in a bad humour to-day,' said Raynold Cheyne, as Gordon moved his horse to the rear of our line.
''Tis his dark day,' said the Chevalier; 'but, Blane, you cannot know what we mean by that anniversary.'
'The day on which he lost his friend and mistress together, by a hasty shot.'
'Thirty years ago, that is to say, in April 1605, he stood in high favour with the beautiful Marguerite of Valois, who was then living—and still lovely—at the old embattled Hotel de Sens; but lo! as madame was not so discreet as in the days of the Huguenots, one night he discovered a rival.'
'Where?' I asked, 'in her chamber?'
'Nay, in the boot of her coach.'
'A strange place—well?'
'He fired his arquebuse through it, and killed him on the spot.'
'The deuce; that was unpleasant!'
'After this, Marguerite quitted the Hotel de Sens for ever; it became hateful to her. She then built another house in the Fauxbourg St. Germain, near the Seine, and the Pré aux Cleres.'
'And the Marechal de Logis?'
'Lost her favour for ever; but he did not break his heart, for Marguerite was well past forty. He was supposed to be her ninth lover; but hush, here he comes again.'
There was a flourishing of trumpets, a rolling of drums, a lowering of swords and standards, an uncovering of heads, with a general salute, as a little man, about forty years of age, with a thin, round profile, in a broad hat and feather, wearing a purple cloak, a prodigiously long sword, having his poor, lean legs encased in wrinkly boots of white perfumed leather, and with the crosses of the Holy Ghost and Notre Dame du Mont Carmel, flashing in diamonds, on his breast, appeared at the grand entrance of the Louvre.
He was Louis XIII.—Louis the Just, whose politics were ever at variance with his inclinations.
He had just left the Council, where the expected war with Lorraine and the Empire was the all-engrossing topic; and as he descended, according to etiquette and to daily use and wont, he gave the parole and countersign for the day to the young and splendid Marquis de Gordon, who, as premiere capitaine of the household troops, stood at his right hand in his white hocqueton and with his lofty plume; he, in turn, gave it to the officers of the Scottish Guard, and to the colonels of the Gensdarmes, Dragoons, and Musketeers; and then the King gave (what he deemed of much more importance) special orders to the keepers of the kennels about his favourite dogs, as he was a passionate lover of the chase—such as it is in France.
By the King's side stalked Richelieu, with a stately step, his keen, hawk-like eyes and prominent cheek-bones full of cunning, and his firm lip and well-defined chin bespeaking dogged perseverance. I gazed with undefined interest upon this lofty prelate, so terrible for his political intrigues, his perspicacity, his subtlety, inflexibility, and revenge.
Around them were the royal confessor, Father Leslie, Principal of the Jesuit College of Toulouse, a tall, grave, and stern-looking Scot; the Masters of the Horse and of the Household; the Grand Chamberlain, M. le Duc de Bouillon, who was entirely dressed in cloth of gold, and the four gentlemen of the chamber—viz., the Dukes de Gevrès, de la Tremouille, de la Beauvillier, and d'Aumont; with the four Captains of the Scots and French Gardes du Corps—the Marquis de Gordon being on the King's right hand. Then came the Grand Almoner and the officers of the chapel; the Admiral of France; the General of the Galleys; the Grand Master of the Artillery; the Grand Ecuyer; the Colonel-General of the French Guards, and the Premier President of the Parliament of Paris. Here I also saw the veteran John Louis, Duc d'Epernon, Colonel-General of France and Governor of Guyenne, the oldest peer, general, and knight in the kingdom; Lieutenant-General Francis de Bethune, Surveyor of France, Governor of St. Maixant, and once Campmaster of the ancient Regiment de Picardie; Philibert de Nerestan, the aged Grand Master of the Knights of St. Lazare, and the Duc de St. Simon, whom Louis XIII. had made a peer and marshal of France because he was a good judge of dogs, and could blow on a hunting-horn without spitting through it.
This fortunate peer was in close conversation with the Abbé la Rivière, the first man who ever wore a peruke; and such was the profusion of its curls, that it weighed two pounds—to make up for the lightness of his brain, as my comrade the Viscount suggested.
'Bravo, M. l'Abbé!' said Raynold Cheyne; 'a dealer in souls with a perfumed periwig!'
Surrounded by musketeers and light horse, with the twenty-four gentlemen of the Scottish Guard, who were the immediate custodiers of the royal person, and escorted by all these peers and soldiers of high rank and sounding name, glittering with jewels, embroidery, and brilliant dresses of silk, velvet, cloth of gold, and cloth of silver, and having all the knightly orders of Europe sparkling on their breasts—Louis was conducted to solemn high mass in the chapel of the Louvre, where the Grand Almoner had all his staff waiting to perform one of those grand musical efforts, which shook the building to its centre.
The moment mass was over, the King repaired to luncheon, after seeing his hounds fed, however, and then we were dismissed. I galloped to our stables, gave Dagobert, my Spanish barb, to his groom, and without taking time to change my trappings, threw myself into a fiacre, or hackney-coach, and ordered the driver to spare neither whip nor speed until he reached the chateau d'Amboise, as I had not seen my patroness for four entire days.