We must now once more change the scene, and lead the reader back into the heart of Paris, where, on the very morning which witnessed, at St. Cloud, the events we have just been describing, the Duke of Mayenne held a conference with some of his principal officers, and some of the leaders of the faction called theSeize. It was at an early hour, and he had already given directions for re-establishing in some degree the rule of law and justice within the city of Paris; which directions, though spoken with a tone that left no reply, were listened to by those whose power and fortunes were founded upon tumult and disorganization, with gloomy and discontented countenances.
"And now, gentlemen," continued Mayenne, turning to his own officers, "having taken measures to restore order to the city, it becomes me to adopt some means for preserving order in the camp. I have often reprobated in your presence the system of continual skirmishes and defiances which are going on in thePré aux Clercs; and yet I hear that no later than yesterday evening a cartel was exchanged between Maroles and one of the adversary, called Malivaut, I think. The defiance given, I do not choose to interfere; but this once over, I will permit these things no longer: we thus lose some of our best officers and bravest soldiers, without the slightest advantage to our cause."
"They have gained us a great advantage this morning, my lord," replied the Chevalier d'Aumale, who had entered just as the Duke began to speak. "That samecoup de lancebetween Maroles and Delisle Malivaut has obtained intelligence for which your highness would have given a spy ten thousand crowns had he brought it you."
"How so? how so?" demanded the Duke of Mayenne. "Crowns are not so rife in our treasury, Aumale."
"Nevertheless you would have given the sum I mention," rejoined the chevalier; "but I will tell you, my lord, how it happened. Maroles and Malivaut met as appointed, and we stood back at a hundred yards on one side, while the enemy remained under the old oak where Malivaut had armed himself. As soon as the two were mounted, and the trumpet sounded, they spurred on, and both charged their lances well: the shock was smart, and Maroles was beat flat back upon his horse's crupper. I thought he was unhorsed; but somehow it had happened that Malivaut's visor had been ill-rivetted, Maroles' lance struck it just at the second bar, drove it in, and entering between the eye and the nose, broke sharp off; leaving the iron in the wound. For a moment we did not see that he was hurt, for he sat his horse stiffly; but the next instant, as he turned to get back to the oak, his strength gave way, and he fell. Maroles instantly sprang to the ground and made him prisoner, and both parties crying truce, ran up. A glance at his face, however, showed us that death would soon take him out of our hands, and, in fact, he spoke but two sentences after. The first was, 'Give me a confessor!' The next, 'I care not to live longer, since my king has been murdered!'"
"What! what!" exclaimed Mayenne, starting and gazing steadfastly on Aumale.
"Ay, my lord, even so!" replied the chevalier. "Murderedwas the word; and we heard from the others who stood round, that Henry of Valois died last night of a wound given him by a Jacobin the day before."
Mayenne clasped his hands; and, looking up, exclaimed, "Guise! my brother! at length thou art avenged!" And taking off the black scarf which he had worn ever since the death of his brother, the Duke of Guise, he cast it from him, adding, "So Henry of Valois is dead, the base, effeminate, soulless tyrant! But you have not told me how it happened, D'Aumale. Let me hear the particulars! Who ended the days of the last of those weak brothers? Was it one of his own creatures, unable to support any longer the daily sight of his crimes? or was it some zealot of our party, who ventured the doubtful act for a great object?"
The satisfaction which he derived from the event was so unconcealed, and his surprise at hearing the intelligence so unaffected and natural, that although those were days of suspicion, no one ventured to suspect, for a moment, that Mayenne had any previous knowledge of the intrigues which ended in the death of Henry III.
"Good faith! my lord," replied Aumale, "I can tell you no more than I have already told. The friends of Malivaut let out the secret, that the king had been stabbed by a Jacobin friar, and died of his wounds; but we could not expect them to enter into any minute particulars. I have still more good news, however, my lord. Ere I quitted the ground, a servant of the gay Count d'Aubin came up, and besought me to obtain for his master a pass for the morning, adding, that by noon, D'Aubin, with seven hundred men, horse and foot together, would be at the outposts on the side of St. Denis, with the purpose of joining the Union."
These tidings did not appear to surprise Mayenne so much as the former; but he seemed well pleased, nevertheless. "D'Aubin is better than his word," he said, "both in regard to time and numbers. He fixed three days, but I suppose the death of Henry has hurried his movements. How comes he to enter by St. Denis, though? It is leading his troops a tremendous round! There surely can be no foul play, D'Aumale! Are you sure the servant was his?"
"Quite sure, my lord," replied Aumale, "for the fellow was once my ownecuyer de main; and, besides, he gave a reason for taking that round. 'The Huguenot army,' he said, 'was advanced as far as Meudon, occupying both banks of the river, and the ground as far as Beauregard; D'Aubin was afraid of being stopped, and having to cut his way through, if he did not make adetour.'"
"Nevertheless, Aumale," replied the Duke, "let us be upon our guard. Strengthen the posts towards St. Denis, and bid Nemours take his regiment to meet and do honour to the new comers. D'Aubin I can trust, for he plays for a great stake; but he has not seven hundred men with him; and though he may very likely have brought over some other leader to our cause, yet it is as well to be prepared, and to be able to repel force by force, in case Henry of Navarre should present himself instead of Philip d'Aubin."
Measures of precautions were accordingly taken; but at the hour appointed, the Count d'Aubin and one or two inferior leaders, who had joined their forces to his, presented themselves at the outposts of the army of the League; and once having placed their troops within the limits of the garrison of Paris, so as to be out of danger, D'Aubin and his companions rode into the city, followed by merely a small train of common attendants. His reception from the Duke of Mayenne was as gracious as the circumstances had led him to expect; and the news which he bore of the doubts and differences in the royal camp not only removed from the leaders of the League every fear of attack, but suggested the hope of obtaining some striking success by assuming the offensive. Mayenne, however, though a skilful general, and a bold, decided, and courageous man, was wanting in that great quality, activity. Much time was spent in preparation; and it was not till the third day after the king's death, that it was determined to march a body, consisting of ten thousand of the best troops of the League, by a circuitous route to Meulan, and to take up a position in the rear of the king's army, thus cutting off his retreat upon either Normandy or the south, and exposing him, if he held his present camp, to be attacked at once in front and flank. The command of the force destined for this important expedition was divided between the Chevalier d'Aumale and the Count d'Aubin, whose skill, courage, and activity, were undoubted, and whose zeal in favour of the League, and against the Royalists, was likely to be the more energetic from the fact of his having just joined the one and abandoned the others. The march was ordered to commence the next morning early; but late in the evening, when Mayenne, seated alone in his cabinet, was busily preparing his last written order for the two officers in command, the Count d'Aubin was suddenly announced, at least an hour before the Duke expected him. He was instantly admitted, however, and advanced to the table at which Mayenne was sitting, with one of those smiles upon his lips, which showed that his errand had its share of bitterness. "Well, my lord," he said, "I come to save you unnecessary trouble. You may lay down the pen; for--as I thought we should be--we are too late."
"How so?" demanded the Duke of Mayenne. "We cannot be too late, if they have not bribed Saint Mark. The place could hold out a year."
"They have not bribed him," replied D'Aubin, "but they have done just as good; they have outwitted him. Yesterday, towards five o'clock, Rosny, and some others, engaged the thick-headed fool in a parley, and while they amused him with fair words, who should present himself at the bridge but the Marechal d'Aumont, as if merely to pass the water, according to convention; for St. Mark's forces have never been sufficient to defend the bridge. Well, when the troops were in the midst, they thought they might as well walk into the first open gate they saw, which happened to be that of the castle. So now Meulan is in the hands of the Huguenots; and we may save ourselves the trouble of a march which can produce no results."
"Saint Mark is a fool," said Mayenne, as calmly as if nothing vexatious had happened: "when we retake Meulan, we must put some person of better understanding in it; and at present we must change our plans. What think you, D'Aubin? will the Bearnois retreat upon Normandy and the sea coast, or will he fall back upon Maine and Touraine?"
D'Aubin paused thoughtfully--so long, indeed, that the Duke added, "Speak! speak, D'Aubin! I know no one whose foresight is more shrewd than yours. Why do you hesitate?"
"To tell the truth, my lord," replied D'Aubin, "I paused, considering how I should answer; for your interests lead me one way, and my own keenest wishes would make me go another. Did I choose in this instance to consider myself, before either country, or party, or truth, or honesty, as nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand of your faithful followers would do, I should answer at once, that the Navarrese will march upon Maine; but we are all playing too great stakes at this moment for trifling, and my sincere opinion is, that Henry will fall back on Lower Normandy."
It was now Mayenne's turn to muse. "I see not how it affects you, D'Aubin, whether I am led to believe the Bearnois will turn his steps the one way or the other," he replied. "Tell me what interests have you therein more than other friends of the Catholic faith.--But first let me hear your reasons for judging that Normandy will be the direction of his march."
"For three strong reasons, my good lord," replied D'Aubin; "because the Normans are well affected towards him; because he expects succour from England; and because he is a good soldier. The first he will soon find out, if he do not know it already; the English troops must land on the Norman coast; and his knowledge of war will not suffer him to leave such advantages behind."
"And now, D'Aubin," said the Duke, after listening attentively to his reasons, "let me hear why, if you considered your own interests more than mine, you should desire me to believe that Harry of Navarre will march upon Maine and Touraine?"
"Simply, because I could then show you the best of all reasons for at once fulfilling your promise in regard to the hand of Mademoiselle de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin.
"My promiseshallbe fulfilled, Count," replied Mayenne, with some emphasis. "Fear not that Charles of Mayenne will shrink from the performance of his engagements; but you are somewhat too pressing. You cannot expect me to employ force in such a matter; and you have as yet given yourself no time to obtain, by gentleness and persuasion, that consent which the poor girl seems somewhat reluctant to grant."
D'Aubin coloured a good deal, piqued by the terms of commiseration in which Mayenne spoke of her who had so deeply wounded his vanity; but he was a great deal too wise to let his displeasure have vent on the present occasion. "My lord duke," he replied, "I should have thought your highness knew woman better. This is all caprice. During her father's life, Eugenie showed no such reluctance; and it was but some slight and unintentional offence on my part which first made her declare she would not fulfil the engagement between us. Once having said it, she makes it a matter of consistency to adhere to her purpose; though I could very well see, in our interview of yesterday, that her feelings in these respects were much altered. As long as she is suffered to make a point of vanity of her refusal, she will persist, even contrary to her own wishes; but once let her be my wife, and I will make her contented and happy, I will be answerable for it."
Mayenne shook his head, observing dryly, "Her reluctance did not seem to me much shaken when I spoke with her yesterday, Monsieur d'Aubin; but still I do not see how this question is affected by Henry's march upon Maine."
"Were he likely to execute such a march, I would soon show you how, my lord," replied D'Aubin. "As it is, it matters little. However, the simple fact is this: the lands of Menancourt lie contiguous to my own; and did Henry of Navarre march thither, it would be absolutely necessary to your best interest that I should instantly become the husband of Eugenie, and set out for Maine, armed with power to bring all the retainers of her father in aid of the union. Full seven hundred men, trained to arms, and caring little which party they join, are lying idle in the villages and hamlets there; and if Henry reaches Le Mans before the husband of Eugenie de Menancourt, those men will be arrayed against the union instead of in favour of it. My worthy cousin of St. Real, who is much loved amongst the peasantry, is not a man to stand upon any ceremonies in serving a cause which he thinks just; and it would but little surprise me, to find the vassals of De Menancourt marching under the banners of St. Real. But as I hold it certain that the Huguenots will retire upon Normandy, the matter is not so pressing that we cannot wait a few days longer, to allow your highness's notions of delicacy full time to tire themselves out, by doubling like a pack of beagles after a woman's caprices."
There was something in the reasoning of D'Aubin which seemed to affect Mayenne much more than even the Count himself had expected. Rising from his seat, the Duke strode up and down the room for a moment or two, as if not a little embarrassed how to act; then, turning suddenly to his companion, he said--"You hold it certain, then, D'Aubin, that the Bearnois will fall back on Normandy and the sea? Hold it certain no longer!" he added, taking from a portfolio, which lay on the table at which he had been writing, an unsealed letter, and placing it in D'Aubin's hands. "Read that, D'Aubin, read that! and you will soon see that you are mistaken. There you see De Rosny himself, under the king's dictation, writes to the Count de Soissons to tell him, that if he will advance to Chateau Gontier, or even as far as Le Mans, Henry will meet him there within fifteen days. Mark, also, he lays out the line of march which they intend to pursue,--by Meulan, Mantes, Dreux, Verneuil, and Mortagne."
"May not this have been thrown out to deceive us?" demanded D'Aubin.
"No," replied Mayenne. "No; it was taken upon the person of Monsieur de Gailon last night, and they would not have risked a man of such importance with a letter which was not of the utmost consequence."
"Well, then, my lord Duke," replied D'Aubin, returning him the letter, with a calm and well satisfied smile, "I trust that all our purposes will be answered. Henry has committed a fault, of which you, of course, will take advantage."
"No immediate advantage can ensue," replied the Duke. "It was the knowledge of these facts which made me so eager to push a strong force upon Meulan; but as that fool St. Mark has suffered himself to be deceived, Henry's line of march is secure. What you say of Maine, however, is of importance, and must be thought of farther."
"By your good leave, my lord," replied D'Aubin, somewhat sharply, "methinks it needs no farther thought at all. Either you must let the retainers of Menancourt be raised and marched for the use and benefit of Henry of Navarre, calling himself King of France, or I must be the husband of the fair heiress of Maine; and before this time to-morrow night must be on my horse's back with a hundred stout cavaliers behind me, riding like the wind towards Chateau du Loir. The road by Chartres is open, and all that side of the country in our favour. In three days I shall be in Maine; and if I cannot gather together forces sufficient to make head against the Bearnois, I will at least do something to impede his march, and will join you with all the troops I can raise, wherever you give me a rendezvous."
Mayenne again walked up and down the room, knitting his brow and biting his lips with a degree of emotion which showed an evident distaste to the proposal of his companion. D'Aubin gazed upon him with not the most placable look, understanding the nature of his feelings, and not a little displeased to see a disposition to delay the fulfilment of the promise made to him; but at the same time feeling a secret triumph in his heart at the concatenation of circumstances which would compel the Duke of Mayenne, from political motives, to grant that which he, D'Aubin, thought ought to have been willingly accorded to his own merits and services.
"My lord," he cried, with a somewhat bitter laugh, after gazing upon the Duke for two or three minutes, "I am sorry to see you hesitate upon a matter in which both policy and justice should make you decide at once. Your unconditional promise has been given, that Eugenie de Menancourt shall be my bride; and circumstances have arisen, which render it as necessary to you as agreeable to me that she should become so immediately. In regard to these circumstances, I have dealt with you honestly, and have done what you know there is scarcely another follower that you have would do,--given you advice contrary to my own interest and wishes. Now, my lord----"
"Well, well!" interrupted Mayenne, "it must even be as you say, D'Aubin. There is no other resource; but remember, in wishing to find one, I am not influenced by any desire to evade a promise made to you, but solely and simply by the hope of inducing Mademoiselle de Menancourt, by persuasion, entreaty, and remonstrance, to fulfil her father's engagement, and thus spare me the pain of doing what I feel to be harsh, uncourteous, and unknightly."
"Your lordship is mighty delicate in all this," replied D'Aubin; "but I am not so much so. A little wholesome compulsion will do this proud beauty no harm. Proud I may well call her; for, proud of her wealth, her loveliness, and her rank, she thinks, it seems, that she is to be treated in a different manner from every other woman in France; and I am not sorry that, in the very fact of our marriage, that proud spirit should be a little humbled, which would certainly render her not the most yielding or obedient of wives."
Mayenne bit his lip. "I have never seen anything in her, Monsieur d'Aubin," he said, "but gentleness and sweetness. Determined she certainly is upon one point--her personal objection to yourself. What cause you have given her for such objection I know not, and shall not inquire, as my promise to yourself, and great state necessity, compel me to act in a manner which no other circumstances could excuse. Now mark me, Monsieur d'Aubin; what I intend to do is this, to yield you my whole authority to bring about your marriage with Eugenie de Menancourt to-morrow evening. There is a chapel in the house where she lives, and at a certain hour my own confessor shall be there, ready to perform the ceremony. But still remember, that I can hardly hold such a marriage to be legal, if she persists to the last in opposing it; and I must take measures to guard against doing aught that may either affect my own honour and reputation, draw upon me the censures of the church, or infringe the laws I am called upon for the time to defend and uphold. Under these circumstances, I will write down the exact terms and conditions on which I consent to what you propose. If political motives alone move you to press the marriage so hastily, what I require will be easily conceded. If otherwise, I say No! and will try no means of compulsion till all other efforts have failed."
Thus saying, Mayenne wrote down a few words on a slip of paper, and handed it to the Count d'Aubin, who gazed on it, while the shadows of many a quick passion flitted over his countenance. Thrice with a frown, he lifted his eyes to the face of Mayenne; but all that he beheld there was calm, stern determination; and, after again reading the paper, he replied, "Well, I consent, because I doubt not, my lord, that when she finds the matter inevitable, she will yield, even if not with a good grace; but if we were to set out for Chartres on the following day, it would surely be time enough for--"
"No, Monsieur d'Aubin, no;" replied Mayenne: "the plan which I have drawn out must be followed exactly. I will myself be present at the ceremony; and I require that you sign that paper to guard against misunderstanding on either side, otherwise I stir no farther in the affair. Are you contented with this arrangement?"
"Perfectly, my lord," replied D'Aubin, signing the paper with a smile. "I merely thought that, by delaying the marriage till the following morning, I and you, and your noble sister of Montpensier, might, perhaps, have more time to reason her out of her prejudices; but, as you say, it will after all be better tomorrow night, for the only danger of interruption on my journey lies in the neighbourhood of Paris, and it will be better to take our departure under cover of the darkness. As for the rest, let us but show this fair lady that it is inevitable, and I will engage that she shall soon make up her mind to it. For this purpose, my lord, let me beseech you to furnish me with a billet to her, under your own hand, telling her what we have determined, couched in what courteous terms you will, but sufficiently explicit to let her know that there is no chance of evasion."
"Perhaps you are right," said Mayenne, "perhaps you are right; but nevertheless, D'Aubin, try all gentle means. You are not one, as far as ever I have heard, to fail in persuasion, when you choose to use your eloquence against a woman's heart."
D'Aubin smiled, but replied, "Nevertheless, my lord, it goes somewhat against the grain to flatter, and to soothe, and to beseech, when one is treated with scorn, and has, at the same time, the right to command; but still, fear not; I will do my best; and, if ever woman was won with fair words and soft entreaties, Eugenie de Menancourt shall come willingly to the altar; but, to give those entreaties greater force, it will be necessary to show her, by your handwriting, that it is not from want of power that I use the gentler before the harsher means."
Mayenne took up the pen, but mused for many minutes ere he put it to the paper, and even then wrote no less than three billets before he could satisfy himself in a species of composition to which he was not accustomed. At length, abandoning all formal excuses, he contented himself with simply announcing to the unhappy Eugenie de Menancourt, that motives of importance to the state compelled him to require her without farther hesitation to fulfil her father's engagement to the Count d'Aubin; and that he had appointed the hour of nine on the succeeding evening for the celebration of her marriage.
"There!" he said, as he handed the note to D'Aubin--"There, sir Count! Seldom has my hand so unwillingly traced a few lines as to-night. But I will send my sister Catherine early in the morning to soften the matter to the poor girl; and now, farewell! for I have matters of much import to attend to."
D'Aubin took the note, and before he noticed the hint to withdraw, read it over attentively, to satisfy himself that it was such as he could wish, and then folding it up again with a triumphant smile, he uttered a few words of thanks and took his leave. Ere long, however, those feelings of triumph died away; and other sensations took their place. His pride had been wounded, his vanity insulted, and many of his worldly prospects endangered by the steadfast rejection of Eugenie de Menancourt; but his heart was not so hardened as he himself believed it to be, nor as it appeared to others, in the fierce pursuit of his object; and when he turned away from the cabinet of Mayenne, and took his path homeward, he asked himself whether after all, he should make use of the cruel power he possessed; he asked himself whether, for the sake of humbling a fair and innocent girl, and of gratifying his vanity by triumphing over her opposition, he could resist the tears, and entreaties, and reproaches of a being whom he had been accustomed to regard with tenderness, if not with love; whether he should cause the unhappiness of her whole after days, and at the same time unite himself, against her will, to a woman whose dislike would only be increased by the force that was put upon her inclinations. Even while he revolved these ideas, the memory of one that he had long--ay, that he still loved, was wakened by the other thoughts which struggled in his bosom; and although he had contemplated the deed he was about to commit a thousand times before, and fully made up his mind to it, he now shrunk with cold and chilly repugnance at the idea of placing between himself and her who possessed the only stronghold of his affections, the impassable barrier of his union with another. All these feelings leagued together, and for a time made head against his less generous purposes; but there were difficulties in retreating, which could hardly be overcome; and as he reached the house in which he had fixed his dwelling at Paris, he thought, "I will sleep over these new doubts, and decide to-morrow."
When he entered, however, he found Albert of Wolfstrom and several gay companions, waiting to sup with him, and to bid him farewell, ere he set out upon the expedition against Meulan, for which they still thought he was destined on the morrow. D'Aubin despised them all, but nevertheless he sat down with them, and drank deep. Dice succeeded to wine; and when the Count rose from table, he had no resource, but to wed Eugenie de Menancourt, or to descend more than one step in the scale of society.
If every minute event which took place in the beginning of August, 1589, was matter of importance to the inhabitants of Paris, a thousand times more deep, intense, and thrilling than that experienced by any other person, was the interest taken by Eugenie de Menancourt in all that passed at that period. Her happiness, her misery for life, hung upon the die which other hands were destined to throw; and without the possibility of aiding herself in the slightest degree of changing the fate that awaited her, or arresting its progress for a moment, she was obliged to abide the unknown result in the power of people, whose purposes she neither knew nor could control. Every rumour, every sound, created some new sensation in her bosom. Every change, where change was constant, either raised a momentary hope, or cast her back into the depth of apprehension. The distant roar of the artillery, the march of the troops through the streets, the galloping of messengers and couriers, the military parade, even the processions of the clergy, as they proceeded from shrine to shrine, petitioning for the aid of God to support them in rebellion, and encourage them in assassination, all agitated and alarmed her, till at length, her mind fell into that state in which terror has so much the predominance, that every fresh tidings are anticipated as tidings of sorrow. The news of the death of the king, and the particulars of the manner in which that foul act was perpetrated, struck her with horror and despair, as showing to what length the men in whose hands she was placed dared to go in pursuit of the objects of their party. Scarcely, however, had she time to think over this event, when another, more deeply and personally painful to herself, banished all other feelings but anxiety for her future destiny.
One morning suddenly, the Count d'Aubin was announced, and, hardly waiting to see whether his visit were or were not acceptable, he followed the servant into her presence. The result of their meeting we have already seen in his conference with Mayenne; but either vanity or policy had induced him to distort the truth, when he had asserted that Eugenie de Menancourt had shown the slightest symptom of vacillating in her determination against him.
From his words and his manner, she had soon learned that he had joined the party of the League, and that he considered all the authority and influence of Mayenne at his command, in support of his suit towards her; and perhaps the fear of irritating him, and driving him on to use the power he possessed to the utmost, might make her more gentle in her language, and less disposed to express the reprobation and dislike she entertained towards him, than would have been the case had he persisted in his pursuit under other circumstances. But Eugenie was too noble, too candid, too sincere, to suffer him to believe, for one moment, that her feelings would ever change towards him. She was gentle, but she was firm; and D'Aubin, when he left her, was, perhaps, the more mortified to find, from her calmness, as well as determination, that she was influenced against him by no temporary pique, by no fit of passion or indignation, as he had represented the matter to others, and tried to regard it himself; but that positively and certainly, he who had thought that her heart was at his command whenever he chose to demand it, had never caused it to beat one pulse more rapidly; that he had never been loved, and was now contemned and disliked.
Although during his stay he had employed persuasion and entreaty, and all the arts that none knew better how to use than himself, there had still been in his tone that consciousness of power and authority which alarmed Eugenie for the result; and with a trembling hand she wrote a few words to the fair Beatrice of Ferrara, beseeching her to come to her aid, determined as she was to risk any thing in order to escape from her present situation. Fate, however, ever overrules our best efforts; and, as if disdaining to cast away the greater exertions of its almighty power to thwart our petty schemes, contents itself with throwing some trifling stumbling-block in our way--some idle, insignificant trifle, over which our pigmy plans fall prostrate in their course. The servant whom Eugenie had charged with the delivery of her note returned, and brought her word that Beatrice had gone out on horseback to witness the movements of the Royalist army in their retreat, an amusement worthy of her bold and fearless spirit. The lady's attendants, however, had informed him, the servant said, that she would be back long before nightfall; and Eugenie waited and counted the anxious moments till the daylight waned, and the shadows of evening fell over the earth.
"Beatrice must soon be here now," she thought; but moment after moment, and hour after hour, went by, without the appearance of her she waited for. At length, giving up hope for that night, and wearied with wearing expectation, Eugenie retired to rest; but it was rest broken by fears and anxieties; and early on the succeeding morning she was up, and watching eagerly for the coming of her friend, whose bold counsels and skilful aid might, she trusted, give her courage to undertake, and power to execute, some plan for her own deliverance.
Watching from the large projecting window we have mentioned, she was not long before she beheld one of the carved and gilded equipages of the day turn into the court-yard of her own dwelling, and in a few minutes after the door of the saloon was opened to give admission to a visitor. But the countenance that presented itself was that of Madame de Montpensier, not of Beatrice of Ferrara; and the heart of Eugenie de Menancourt sunk at an occurence, which though not unusual, she felt in the present instance could bode her no good.
The conversation which now took place may easily be divined, from the conference between Mayenne and the Count d'Aubin. We shall therefore not repeat it here, it being sufficient to say, that when about an hour afterwards, D'Aubin himself entered the saloon, he found Madame de Montpensier rising to depart, and Eugenie de Menancourt, with her face buried in her hands, weeping in hopeless bitterness of heart.
Lifting her shoulders with an emphatic shrug, Madame de Montpensier quitted the room in silence, and D'Aubin stood for a moment gazing upon the fair unhappy girl whom his ungenerous pursuit had reduced to such a state, with a variety of passions warring in his breast, in a manner which it would be difficult to describe. After a brief pause, Eugenie withdrew her hands from her face and turned her tearful eyes upon him. As she looked, a sort of involuntary shudder passed over her frame, and she again pressed her hands upon her eyes for one moment; then, rising from her chair, she advanced direct to where he stood, and cast herself upon her knees at his feet.
"Philip d'Aubin," she said, "you were once generous and kind of heart:--nay, nay, hear me!" she continued, as he endeavoured to raise her. "Hear me, I beseech you; for my happiness or misery--perhaps my life or death--depend upon this moment."
"Mademoiselle de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin, "I can hear nothing, I can attend to nothing, while you there remain in a posture unbecoming to us both--for you to assume and for me to suffer. Rise, I entreat you!"
"No, no!" she replied, clasping her hands earnestly. "I will not, I cannot rise till you have heard me. Have I not used every other means? have I not employed every other form of entreaty without avail? and I now kneel at your feet to beseech you to spare yourself and me misery interminable. I have told you, and with bitter regret have I been obliged to tell you, that I cannot love you as woman should love her husband; and I did not resolve to tell you so till I had struggled with my own heart,--till I had combated all my own feelings,--in order, if possible, to fulfil what had been a wish of my father. I struggled, I combated in vain, Monsieur d'Aubin; for the more I did so, the more I found that my peace of mind required me to take a decided part,--that honour and justice towards you required me to tell you that I could not, that I would not, be your wife. Why, why persecute me thus, Monsieur d'Aubin?" she continued; "you do not love me--you have never loved me; and, under such circumstances, how can you expect me to love you? Why not turn to any of those who will not only consider themselves as honoured by your suit, but who, much better suited than I am to your views, your habits, and your feelings, have it in their power to return your affection, and to meet you, as I doubt not you deserve to be met, with love for love?"
"You mistake me altogether, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, raising her almost forcibly, and leading her back to her seat; "I do love you; and I trust that, though you doubt your own feelings at present, you will find it not so difficult, when you are my wife, to feel towards me in such a manner as to be happy yourself and to render me so."
"Do not deceive yourself, Monsieur d'Aubin!" exclaimed Eugenie. "I do not doubt my own feelings! I am but too sure of them! I do not love you, I cannot love you, any more than you love me; and if you persist in your pursuit, you do it warned of what are my sentiments towards you, and assured that those sentiments will but become more repugnant, in proportion to the degree of constraint used towards me."
"Nay, nay," replied D'Aubin, willing as far as possible to use gentle means, and try those powers of persuasion which he believed himself, not unjustly, to possess; "nay, nay, dear Eugenie, you do me wrong altogether; believe me, I do love you sincerely. I know that I have acted foolishly, wrongly towards you; I know that, prompted by vanity, and the gay and roving disposition of youth, flattered and courted, idle, perhaps, conceited, I appeared to neglect and undervalue the jewel that was offered to me in the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt. But, believe me, dear Eugenie, that it was not that I failed to esteem that jewel at its full and highest price; it was but that foolishly I thought it my own beyond all risk. Consider in what school I had been brought up,--consider the lightness and fickleness of all by whom I was surrounded; forgive me the errors and the follies that are past away for ever, and give me an opportunity of proving to you that they are deeply regretted, and will never be renewed. My whole life, my whole thoughts, my whole endeavours, shall be devoted to wipe out the evil impression which a few acts of folly have left upon your mind; and surely the unceasing devotion and tenderness of one who will never forget that he wronged you, and that you forgave him, will be sufficient to atone for errors which proceeded more from idle levity than from evil purpose."
"Monsieur d'Aubin," said Eugenie, sadly, "I accuse you of nothing, I blame you for nothing. What might have been my feelings towards you, had your conduct been different towards me, I cannot tell--I cannot even guess: but you greatly deceive yourself if you think that my sentiments towards you originate in anger, or mortified vanity, or wounded pride. I must be candid with you to the very utmost, and tell you that I never felt towards you anything which could enable your conduct to others to inflict one pang upon me. I have never loved you, Monsieur d'Aubin, and the only effect of your behaviour has been to teach me that I never can love you."
"You have inflicted upon me that mortifying reiteration, somewhat often," replied D'Aubin; "and perhaps I am not wrong when I ask, whether the want of love towards your promised husband in the past and the present, has not originated in love for another?"
Eugenie's cheek crimsoned to a hue deeper than the rose; and something between confusion and indignation kept her silent. D'Aubin drew his own conclusions; but, strange to say, though those conclusions were as bitter as well might be, they only added fire to the fierceness of his pursuit. His cheek, however, reddened also; but it was with the struggle of anger, and interest, pride and vanity; and he went on: "I see I am right, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, and am sorry to see it. Nevertheless, my confidence in you is such, that I entertain not the slightest doubt, that however unwisely you may have entertained such feelings hitherto, you will crush them with wise precaution, and bury them in speedy oblivion, when you become my wife. Nor am I inclined to resign my hopes of teaching you to change all such opinions by my own conduct, and of bringing you to love me, when your duty shall be engaged to second all my efforts."
Eugenie saw that her fate was determined, as far as the Count d'Aubin had power to govern it. She saw that with him entreaties would be ineffectual, and tears of no avail. Nothing then remained but resolution; and although she knew not what protection the law of her native land held out to one under her circumstances, and was too well aware that in the city where she was detained, popular violence had broken through all the restraints of society; yet she determined that no weakness or want of energy on her own part should favour the oppression to which she was subjected. As soon as she perceived that the humble supplications to which she had descended fell as vainly upon the ear of the Count d'Aubin as the song of the charmer upon the deaf adder, her whole manner changed; and, assuming the same look of unconquerable determination which he had put on towards her, she replied, "My duty, Sir Count d'Aubin, will never either second or prompt any efforts on my part to feel differently towards you than I do now; for I never will be, and never can be, your wife. The arm of power may drag me to the altar, and a mockery of religious service may be read between us; but there, as here, my voice shall steadfastly pronounce the same refusal; the ring, with which you think to wed me, shall be trampled under my feet; no contract shall ever be signed by me; and as long as I have strength to lift my voice, I will appeal against the tyranny which oppresses me. Moreover, let me warn you, that every step that you take forward in this brutal and ungentlemanly course will but increase those feelings which you have this day striven in vain to remove, till indifference becomes dislike, and dislike grows into detestation."
"You will think better of this, Eugenie," said D'Aubin, surprised and struck by energy and vehemence, such as he had never witnessed in her before. "We are destined to be united, and be assured that nothing can make a change in this arrangement. Let us not meet, then, at enmity. You will think better of this."
"Never," replied Eugenie, "never! You have roused a spirit in my bosom, Count d'Aubin, that you knew not existed there--that I knew not myself till this hour. But I feel that it will bear me through everything; and I tell you boldly, and at once, that I would infinitely rather die, were death within my choice, this moment, than be the wife of Philip d'Aubin."
D'Aubin bit his lip, and casting his eyes upon the ground, paused for a moment in deep thought, his resolutions and purposes shaken by what he had heard, and his mind once more undecided. "Tell me," he said at length, "tell me, Mademoiselle de Menancourt, if by my application to the Duke of Mayenne the ceremony of our marriage this night, which I see has been announced to you by the Duchess de Montpensier, can be put off to some later period, will you give me the hope, that after a certain time, during which my conduct towards yourself, and towards the world, shall be in every respect irreproachable, I may obtain your hand, without doing that violence to your feelings, which it seems would be the consequence of our present union?"
Eugenie turned deadly pale, under the emotion that she felt. The words of the Count d'Aubin offered her the prospect of a temporary relief--offered the means of obtaining invaluable time, during which a thousand changes of circumstances might take place to free her from the difficulties and dangers that surrounded her; but she asked herself, how was this to be bought? By deceit, by the first deceit she had ever been guilty of in life; and though many a casuist might argue, and argue perhaps justly, that she had a right to oppose the unjustifiable means employed against her, by any method in her power to use, the heart of Eugenie de Menancourt was not one that could admit such reasoning in regard to honesty and truth. She would not have bought her life by deceit; and though perhaps in the present instance she might feel that more than life itself was at stake, she would not sacrifice her own good opinion even for that.
"No, Monsieur d'Aubin," she replied, after a long and agitated pause--"No!--I will not deceive you. No time can change my opinion or determination. I never can be your wife. If you will desist from your present pursuit--if you will recollect the former generosity of your sentiments--if you will consider your own honour, and my peace of mind, and set me free from this persecution, you will merit and obtain my deepest gratitude, my thanks, and my admiration; but, Philip d'Aubin, you never can have more."
"Then you seal your own fate, Eugenie de Menancourt," replied D'Aubin, "and things must take their course, as already arranged. Yet think not that this arrangement has been planned solely to gratify me. Other and more important interests are involved therein, and you will see by this note from the Duke of Mayenne, that motives of state necessity compel both him and me to abridge that ceremonious delicacy which otherwise would have been extended towards you."
Eugenie took the paper, and tried to read it over; but agitation and apprehension caused the letters to dance before her eyes, and she only gathered the general import, and saw that as far as Mayenne and the Count d'Aubin had power, her fate was sealed indeed. Although her resolution remained in full force, and her mind was as unconquered as ever, she felt that her bodily powers were failing her; and fearful that Aubin should see how much she was overcome, as well as anxious for a few hours of uninterrupted thought, she waved her hand for him to leave her.
"Not one word more?" he said, advancing as if to take her hand. "Not one word more?"
"No," replied Eugenie, shrinking back from him with involuntary horror. "No, I have nothing more to say."
D'Aubin turned on his heel, mortified to the very heart by the personal dislike which he marked with the keen eyes of wounded vanity: and without another word, left Eugenie to solitude, and to feelings very nearly akin to despair.