The night was dull and rainy; a thick shroud of clouds was drawn over the sky, so that the summer moon could not look down with any of her sweet smiles upon her wandering companion through the blue fields of space; and the air was loaded with a foggy dampness, through which fell a few drops, increased every now and then to a momentary shower, heavy, but brief. The valley of the Seine was dark and gloomy, and the night was so obscure, that nothing met the eye of the coachman who drove the carriage containing Beatrice of Ferrara and her fair friend, except the glistening of the river as it wound along not far from the road, and the dull and somewhat indistinct line of the highway itself, which, bad and sandy at all times, was now, as we have already said, channelled and cut up by the passage of heavy carts and still heavier artillery.
The second day after their flight from Paris was now drawing to its close. Beatrice, from hearing that some of the troops of the League had been hovering about in the neighbourhood of the Pont de l'Arche, had kept quiet during the latter part of the day, in a farm-house, where they had sought refreshment at noon, for themselves and horses, and was now proceeding as rapidly as possible on the high road, believing that the parties of the Union would not expose themselves to the sudden and brilliant strokes of so active a commander as Henri Quatre, by following his march too closely during the night. Eugenie, on her part, though habit and distance from her immediate persecutors had removed part of the load from her mind, was still agitated by many a fear; and her terrors were not a little increased by proceeding in the darkness over a road, the roughness of which, and the jolts thereby occasioned, precluded all possibility of conversation. Beatrice could but speak a word of comfort every now and then, which Eugenie could scarcely hear, as the carriage ground its way through the sand, or rattled over the large uneven stones. Thus had the two fair girls proceeded for nearly two hours, in the darkness, when a cry of, "Who goes there? Stand! Give the word!" brought the carriage to a sudden stop, and roused all Eugenie's fears again to the highest pitch. The lackey, who sat beside the coachman, jumped down, and went on to speak with the soldier who had challenged him; and old Joachim, who sat in the leathern projection at the side not unaptly called the boot, got out, and went on also.
"Oh! Beatrice, what is this?" cried Eugenie, drawing nearer to her friend in her increasing terror.
"Call me Leonard," replied Beatrice, in a gay tone; "call me Leonard! till I have got off my boy's clothes at least. What is this, do you ask, little timid fawn. Why nothing but the outpost of King Henry. They will let us pass in a minute."
At that moment Joachim returned, and approached the side of the carriage next to Beatrice, saying, "This is his Majesty's outpost, sir, commanded by the Marquis of St. Real; and they demand to examine who are in the carriage before they let it pass."
"Oh, he will know me directly!" whispered Eugenie to her fair companion; "I would not have him see me in this garb, Beatrice, for the world!"
"He will not examine the carriage himself, sweet girl," replied her companion in the same low tone; "he will know nothing about it. Some of his ancients or lieutenants have their orders for the night, of course."
"But we cannot go much farther to-night," rejoined Eugenie; "and we shall be to-morrow in the midst of his troops. Oh, Beatrice, do not! If I should be found there, the people would say I had followed him."
"What can we do?" asked her companion with a smile, which the darkness concealed from the eyes of Eugenie. "Joachim, show the sentry the king's pass; but ask if there be not a road somewhere hereabout which leads to the little town of Heudbouville. If there be, direct the coachman thither; for we love not to sleep within the outposts of an army, lest the enemy should treat us to analerte. Gain us the good sentinel's bitter contempt, Joachim, by telling him that we are two cowardly boys, who hold the fire-eating soldiers of the League in great terror."
"We have passed the road to Heudbouville some hundred yards or so," replied the attendant: "but we can easily turn the carriage here, for there is more room than ordinary;" and having satisfied the outpost that no evil was intended by the denizens of the carriage, Joachim, the coachman, and the lackey, performed the difficult feat of making the ill-constructed vehicle revolve upon its axis, and brought the horses' heads back again on the way to Paris. The road to the little village which Beatrice had mentioned was soon found, and for about an hour the carriage rolled on, without any further obstruction than was given by stones and ruts, which threatened to scatter the wheels of the lucklesschaise-roulanteto the four winds of heaven, in some of the manifold jolts to which it was subjected; but at length the coachman came to a halt, and seemed consulting with the lackey beside him, who in turn put back his head to speak to Joachim in the boot.
"What is the matter, Joachim?" demanded Beatrice, perceiving that some impediment had occurred, and trusting more to her own skill and presence of mind than to the readiness of her attendants, although they were selected expressly for their shrewdness and promptitude. "What is the matter? Why does the coachman stop?"
Ere Joachim could reply, however, there was the sound of galloping horse, and the next moment the carriage was surrounded by a number of cavaliers, whose polished arms, as they rode up with a loud "Qui vive?" caught and reflected the little light that still existed in the air.
"Vive le diable!" replied Joachim, who was a great deal too wise to answer seriously till he had ascertained to what party the interrogators belonged; "Vive le diable!why do you stop two young gentlemen, going to the schools, on the highway? We are neither soldiers nor robbers, nor anything else that you have aught to do with."
"Well answered, Joachim!" muttered Beatrice, as she leaned forward to examine the persons of the horsemen nearest her; but the darkness was too complete to suffer the faces of any of them to be distinguishable, or to allow the colours which they wore t« be seen. Beatrice, however, caught a glance of the peculiar cross of the house of Lorraine upon one of the cuirasses, as the fiery horse of the rider pranced by the side of the carriage; and she instantly interposed, exclaiming, "Speak to me a moment, Monseigneur! I am the young Baron de Bigny, son of the Marquis de Bigny at Amiens, and am going with my brother here, the Abbé de Bigny, to La Fleche. I do not know whether you are of the party of the king or of the Holy League and Union; but I am sure you will not stop two youths like us, but let us pass quietly."
"But this is not the right way from Amiens to La Fleche, my good youth," replied the officer. "How came you thus thirty miles out of your road?"
"We came here to get out of the way of the Huguenots," replied Beatrice; who had now gained a better sight of the cross of Lorraine, which was to be found alone on the side of the League. "We had nearly fallen into their hands an hour ago; and--but perhaps you are one of that party too, Monseigneur; if so, I beg your pardon with all--"
"No, no, I am nomaheutre," replied the officer; "but, do you know, my good youth, it would not surprise me if you were. Methinks I should know the voice of Auguste de Bigny, seeing I am his first cousin; and so, without more ado, I shall march you up to the village, to see who you really are, for I am very sure you are not the person for whom you give yourself out. Come, coachman, drive on, and we will give you an escort which you did not expect, I rather fancy."
"I went a step too far," whispered Beatrice to Eugenie; "but do not fear, dear Eugenie, I will manage matters yet.--Many thanks, many thanks, Sir Cavalier," she continued aloud. "Drive on as he bids you, Jean Baptiste. I shall soon amuse all the companions of Monsieur Francois de Bigny by the history of his adventures in the well at Houdlaincourt. How he went to make love to the miller's daughter; and the miller and his men caught him, and put him in a sack, and let him three times down into the well, maugre his high rank and gallant bearing, and brought him up, all white and dripping, like a dumpling out of the pot. Ha, ha! Monsieur Francois de Bigny, how will you like that story told to thegens d'armesover their wine?--I never take the name of any one I do not know," she said in a low voice to Eugenie, while the officer paused irresolute, and spoke a few words to Joachim and the coachman. "There is many a good tale to be told against that noble cavalier, which I had from Adela de Bigny, his cousin, and which he will not much relish; and I doubt not he will send us on to escape laughter; for though he may have found out that I am not his young cousin Auguste, he must see that I know all his history."
What would have been the result of Beatrice's expedient cannot be told; for at the very moment that Monsieur de Bigny was speaking to the coachman, and inquiring apparently whether the person who knew so much of his adventure was or was not really his young cousin, there appeared, upon what seemed--as far as the darkness suffered it to be discovered,--a sloping field upon the right of the road, a multitude of small lights in a line of about two hundred yards long.
"Down, down, in the bottom of the carriage!" cried Beatrice, who appeared to comprehend at once what those small sparks of fire meant; and she instantly crouched down below the seats, dragging Eugenie after her: "the king's troops are upon them."
As she spoke, a bright flash ran along in the same direction as the lights, and then the loud rattle of musketry, while three or four balls passed through the upper part of the carriage. Eugenie felt as if she were about to faint; but the moment after there was the sound of charging horse, and the whole space round the carriage became full of strife and confusion. Little could be seen, except when every now and then the flash of a pistol showed, for an instant apart of that strange and exciting scene, a night skirmish; and it was only by the sounds of blows and shots growing fainter and more faint around, that Beatrice perceived the Leaguers had been beaten and driven up the road by the royal forces. "Is any one of our people hurt?" she cried at length, raising herself, and looking out. "Eugenie, you have not suffered? Take courage, dear friend. Joachim, Joachim, where are you--where are the men?"
"Here, madam!" replied Joachim, creeping out from below the carriage. "We ensconced ourselves here as soon as we saw the matches blown on the hill--but what we shall do now, I do not know, for one of the horses is killed."
"That is unfortunate, indeed!" replied Beatrice; "but see, they are fighting in the village;" and she pointed on to a spot where repeated flashes of musketry might be seen gleaming between the dark masses of the houses and other buildings in what seemed a small town. "Henry Quatre is there himself," she said. "This is one of his daring enterprises--to dislodge the League from his flank as he advances upon Rouen, I dare say; but at all events we must wait till the matter is settled one way or another. If he be forced to retreat, we must retreat with him, Eugenie. If he drive out the Leaguers, the road will be clear before us. Take heart! take heart, Eugenie!--why I thought I was a terrible coward till I saw you."
For about ten minutes possession of the village seemed to be severely contested; but at the end of that time the firing ceased; the trumpets might then be heard blowing a recall; and at the end of half an hour the sound of a body of horse coming at an easy pace down the road was distinguished at the spot where Beatrice and her trembling friend had remained.
"Ask the commander of the party to stop and speak with me, Joachim," cried Beatrice; "run on and meet them. Tell them how we were stopped by the League, and save me explanations."
The man did as he was directed, and the moment after, a cavalier rode up to the side of the carriage, saying, "your servant says you wish to speak with me, young gentleman. I command this party. What want you with me? One of your horses is shot, I see; but, good faith, I can give you no other; for Ventre Saint Gris! I want more than I have got of my own."
"On my word, your Majesty must find me one, nevertheless!" answered Beatrice, boldly. "If you have not forgot Beaumont en Maine, you will understand that though an ass served my turn then, I must have a horse now!"
"Pardie, my friend the page!" cried Henry. "Then you have accomplished your bold undertaking."
"True, sire, I have," replied Beatrice, "as far as getting away from Paris; but I had nearly lost all, by my own fault, this very moment, and fallen into the hands of the League. I attempted what I thought acoup de maître, and was well nigh taken in my own trap."
"The same misfortune has just befallen the League," replied Henry; "they thought to get upon my flank, and take possession of Louviers, but we have taught them that we do not slumber on such occasions. However, my brave page, you run great risks in going forward on the road where you now are. We have driven them out of the village, but they will rally not far behind, for it was too dark to pursue them far."
"Then we will turn round," replied Beatrice; "and, escorted by kings and princes, make the best of our way through your Majesty's host, till we can sleep in peace a couple of leagues beyond your outposts."
"The best plan you can follow," replied the king; "we will not ask you even to pause and refresh yourselves, lest the morals of two such simple boys should get corrupted by the license of our camp. Though here is the Marquis of St. Real, within a hundred yards of us, would doubtless be willing to receive one or both of you into his quarters."
Eugenie instinctively shrunk back farther into the corner of the carriage, and the king proceeded; "But we must get you a horse, at all events. Colonel James, send up some of your arquebusiers to that farm-house upon the hill, and see whether in the stables thereof you can find a horse. As your fire has killed one of the beasts which were dragging these two young gentlemen, it is but fit you should take the trouble of providing them with another."
The king waited to know if his embassy were successful; and after having seen the soldiers return with a strong cart horse, which was instantly harnessed to the carriage, in the place of the dead one, he gave orders for a party of troopers to escort the young wanderers as far as the Pont de l'Arche; and then, taking his leave, rode on towards his camp.
When the carriage was once more in motion, Eugenie breathed again; but still, at every place where it stopped her terrors were renewed, and she gazed out, with alarm and anxiety, upon the dark figures of the soldiery, who watched with unsleeping vigilance in the camp of the warrior monarch, till, at the Pont de l'Arche, which was the advanced post of the king's army, the horse they had obtained was exchanged for another, and they rolled on more smoothly towards the little hamlet of St. Ouen. The fears of Eugenie de Menancourt were during those moments of a very varied kind; for with her terrors so strongly roused as they had been, she found it impossible to submit them entirely to the influence of reason; and yet, strange to say, the thing she dreaded most, after immediate personal danger was over, was to meet and be known by the man whom she now felt, she loved more than any other being upon earth. She shrunk from the thought of seeing St. Real in the garb that she had assumed to escape from the persecution of his cousin,--she shrunk even from the thought of seeing him, now that a ceremony, however vain, illegal, and compulsory, had taken place between her and any other; and though she felt, even to pain, how much she detested the Count d'Aubin, and how much she loved St. Real, yet it seemed to her as if she had wronged her love for him in not dying sooner than suffering even the shadow of an engagement to pass between herself and another. Thus, it was not till they had passed the extreme outpost of the royal camp, and were rolling along in the quiet darkness of the night, that she breathed at ease, free from the constant expectation of seeing the Marquis of St. Real gallop up to the side of the carriage, and recognise her under her disguise.
At the little village of St. Ouen all the world was sound asleep; and manifold were the strokes of sword hilts upon the door of theauberge, many the shouts up to the unlistening windows, before the inmates could be roused to comprehend that there were strangers on the road demanding admission. At length, the hostess, half dressed, and scarcely half awake, came scolding down the stairs, extremely angry that anyone should travel at such unseemly hours; and on her steps soon followed her husband, a big burly Norman, but shrewd withal, and sufficiently sensible of his own interests to smother all expression of annoyance, and give his guests the best welcome that he could.
Early the next morning, the carriage was again in motion, but not before some of the light troops of the matutinal monarch of France were upon the road, and Eugenie was more than once alarmed by their gazing boldly into the vehicle when the curtains were undrawn, and by talking to the driver and the servants when the carriage was closed. These parties, however, as they marched but slowly, and the carriage went fast, were soon passed, and the rest of the journey proceeded as peaceably as any journey could do in those disturbed and unhappy days. Beatrice of Ferrara, after the experiment at Heudbouville, did not suffer herself again to be drawn from the route which she had laid out at first for her fair friend, but advanced as rapidly as possible towards the sea-side, seeing security only in the hope of Henry's army still interposing between them and the League, and thus preventing all search for Eugenie de Menancourt in the direction which she had really followed.
"At all events, dear Eugenie," she said, as they approached Dieppe, "here, upon the sea-coast, you will always have an opportunity of escape to England, should need be; and I will take care that our friend King Henry shall furnish you with such letters to the queen of those bold islanders, as to ensure you protection and assistance. For my part, you know, Eugenie, after a week or fortnight's rest, I must leave you, if you can do without me. My destiny, dear girl, has to be fulfilled, and I must back to Paris by a different road, both to hide my having aught to do with your successful flight, and to watch the progress of all on which my ultimate fate depends."
"Would to Heaven," said Eugenie de Menancourt, "that I could have such a happy and saving influence on your fate, Beatrice, as you have had on mine! But I am destined only to be a burden to you, and to rely upon you for everything, without knowing or comprehending the past or the present, as far as it regards you, without understanding your means, your wishes, or your purposes."
"I will tell you all, dear Eugenie, I will tell you all," replied Beatrice of Ferrara; "and then, as my daring rashness was necessary to give vigour to your timid nature, your gentle counsel may now perhaps tend to moderate and restrain my bold, wild schemes. But wait till we come to a resting-place, and then in some sweet quiet cottage in green Normandy, with the soft autumn sun shining upon our door, I will rest beside you for a short time, and drawing you a picture of my wayward fate, will see whether we cannot find means to give it a brighter colouring and a happier hue."
So spake Beatrice of Ferrara; but ere we go on to look into the picture to which she alluded, we must beg the reader to pause for a few minutes, upon some of those dull details, which in books calling themselves historical romances serve the mind as bad post-houses on a much-travelled road--places where, after scampering on for many a league in pursuit of pleasure, the little traveller is obliged to stop, kicking his heels in impatient irritation till the horses are brought out, the harness prepared, the postilion has got into his boots, the lash is put on his whip, and, in short, all is made ready for carrying on that same little eager traveller, the human mind, once more upon his way.
Giving up, then, heroes and heroines, knights and ladies, we must even follow the progress of that lumbering and uninteresting machine called an army, and pause for a while to consider its clumsy and crocodile-like movements. We have already seen that on the day preceding Eugenie de Menancourt's escape from Paris, the camp of the besieging Royalists had broken up; and that the gay and chivalrous Henry Quatre led his meagre and somewhat ill-furnished host down the bright and laughing banks of the Seine, in such a direction that, should need be, he could either march across Normandy, and fall back upon Touraine, or advance at once to the sea-coast, and cover the disembarkation of his English allies.
We have followed him some way on his march; but it would appear, that inasmuch as the Royalists had been rather improvident of their supplies, and had been found, during the life of Henry III. somewhat unwilling to pay for the good things of this life, with which, at first, the peasantry had been very willing to furnish them, a want of provisions, both eatable and potable, had made its appearance in the camps of St. Cloud and Meudon. The jaws of the Royalists had got unaccustomed to maceration, and their lips to the taste of sweet things; so that as they took their way through the pleasant little towns and villages of Poissy, Triel, Meulan, Mantes, and sweet Fontenay, they lived very nearly at free quarters amongst the inhabitants, taking care to make the fat of the land through which they now passed, compensate for the meagreness of the diet they had so long endured. Nevertheless, as the king and his followers paid where they could, promised where they could not pay, and never took toll of rosy lips, except where there was a smile upon them, the people of the country in general gave them a better character when they were gone than might have been expected; and declared, that, after all, the Huguenots were not so bad as they were called.
In the meantime, as we have already shown, to diversify these employments, a little interlude of fighting did now and then take place; a town was now and then besieged and taken; and Henry IV. made arrangements for giving the inhabitants of the loyal city of Rouen an entertainment, which brings down the walls of a city more by the double-bass of the cannon than by the shrill sound of the trumpet. Pausing a sufficient time before the walls of that town to give and receive various proofs of amity, which left his own host diminished by several hundred men, and the garrison of the town less by perhaps double that number, the king received news, which made him judge that the situation of his army might be improved by a very rapid change of air; and consequently without longer hesitation or delay, he struck his tents, left success to follow, and at once led his troops to the sea-side.
Divining, however, that his enemies would anticipate with great satisfaction the moment for driving his scanty forces into the sea, he seemed resolved to disappoint them, if admirable dispositions could effect that purpose; and choosing for his troops the strongest position which he could discover, with their backs to the element and their faces inland, he ranged them along the side of a fair and beautiful hill, on the ridge of which still stands all which Time has left of the old and interesting castle of Arques.
Leaving the king and his men, however, thus posted for that battle which covered with immortal renown the monarch and his little host, we must turn for a moment to Paris, in order to investigate what proceedings had taken place in the capital, and what were the tidings which caused the monarch so suddenly to strike the tents he had pitched before Rouen.
The morning after Eugenie's departure, no small surprise was expressed in the Hotel de Guise at the non-appearance of the priest, who had not only performed the marriage ceremony for the Count d'Aubin, but also rendered the much more important service of communicating to Mayenne the approach of aid from the Duke of Parma. While Mayenne, in his usual slow and deliberate manner, discussed the fact with his sister, and, shrugging his shoulders, declared that if the good father did not choose to come for his reward, he could not help it, the thought crossed his mind that he had not yet seen his own confessor, who had been carried off by the myrmidons of Bussy le Clerc; and although he doubted not that the Chevalier d'Aumale had before this time set the good priest at liberty, he determined to inquire farther: a vague suspicion for the first time crossing his mind that all was not right in regard to the transactions of the preceding evening.
By this time the hand of the dial pointed to the hour of nine; and Eugenie's maid Caroline, who, in order to give as much time to her mistress as possible, had ventured to prolong the period at the end of which she had been directed to present herself at the Hotel de Guise, was even now at the door inquiring for the Duchess of Montpensier. Her message was brought to that lady as she sat by her brother; and although she comprehended not one word thereof, she saw that it in some manner bore upon the point they were discussing, and ordered the girl to be brought into the room.
"He says that Mademoiselle de Menancourt's tire-woman has brought some apparel for her mistress," she repeated, turning to her brother after the attendant who made the announcement had left the room; "what can this mean, Charles?"
"I know not, Kate," he replied with a doubtful smile; "but when the girl comes, make her repeat her message," appearing perfectly unconcerned.
Before he could add more, the tire-woman was in the saloon; and playing her part with a natural talent which none but a Frenchsoubretteever possessed, she approached towards Madame de Montpensier, and with a low and reverent courtesy, and a look of the most perfect simplicity, said, "I have brought all the things, your Highness, that my mistress thought she would require; but in regard to the filigree girdle, as I told her last night, I have not seen it for these two months. It was given into charge to Laure, who was sent away when my old lord died." And she went on into a long story, solely the invention of her own brain for the occasion; but which was so circumstantial and minute, and delivered with so much apparent earnestness and sincerity, that Mayenne looked at Madame de Montpensier, and Madame de Montpensier looked at Mayenne, with eyes in which bewilderment and surprise were then plainly visible.
"And pray what made you think that your mistress was here at all?" demanded the Duchess, at length cutting across the thread of the girl's story, which bade fair otherwise to be interminable.
It was now the maid's turn to be surprised, and most skilfully did she represent the passion of astonishment; standing before Madame de Montpensier in silence, and looking at her without one trace of comprehension in her eyes. "Pray what did your Highness say?" she asked at length; "I did not understand you."
"She demanded what made you think your mistress was here at all?" repeated Mayenne, in a harsh voice.
"Lord bless me, sir! Your Highness! Dear me! What made me think my mistress was here?" cried the girl, with an affectation of wonder and doubt and affright that was perfectly admirable. "Did not her Highness send her own carriage for her last night, with a young abbé and a page, and a billet sealed with green wax?"
The story, as it had been prepared by Beatrice of Ferrara, now came out at full, and the whole Hotel de Guise was soon in agitation and confusion:--Madame de Montpensier alternately laughing and frowning, Mayenne striding up and down the room, and vowing that if it were the Count d'Aubin who had served him such a trick, he would find means to make him rue it; and the maid Caroline weeping as bitterly as if she had lost a lover or a gold necklace, and wringing her hands for her poor mistress with all the phrase and circumstance of sorrow.
In the midst of this scene the Chevalier d'Aumale appeared, informing Mayenne that Bussy le Clerc denied all knowledge of his chaplain, and that the guards at the Bastile were in the same story. Ere Mayenne, however, could include Bussy le Clerc in his denunciations of vengeance against the Count d'Aubin, the confusion of the whole was rendered more confused by the apparition of the confessor himself, who exculpated the demagogue by declaring that he had never been in the Bastille, but, on the contrary, had been carried away by persons he knew not, who, at a certain point, had put him into a carriage, and blindfolded him. They had then lodged him for the night in a small room with nothing but a bed, a crucifix, and a missal. Here, in mortal terror, he had watched and prayed, till the grey of the dawn, when, being again blindfolded, he was led out through a great many streets and turnings, of whose name and nature of which he had not the slightest conception, and at length finding himself free from the hands of those who had held him, he uncovered his eyes, and perceived that he was standing in the midst of the Pont Neuf, by the side of a blind man who was singing detestable melodies to the discordant accompaniment of that most ancient instrument the hurdy-gurdy. Tired, frightened, and bewildered, he had made the best of his way home, without attempting to seek for his ravishers; and after sleeping till he had incurred a penance for forgetting his matins, he had come to add his mite of confusion to that which already existed in the hall of his patron.
His tribute, however, small as it was, aided to perplex the ideas of Mayenne far more than ever. Ere he made his appearance, it had been the natural conclusion of the lieutenant-general and of his sister, that the carrying off of Eugenie de Menancourt had been the work of the Count d'Aubin; and the absence of the confessor had been considered entirely as a thing apart. No sooner, however, were his adventures related, than they instantly connected themselves in the minds of all with the non-appearance of the priest, who had performed the ceremony, and with the absence of Eugenie; and the shrewd intellects of Mayenne and Madame de Montpensier, thus put upon the right track, seemed likely soon to discover no small portion of the truth. Eugenie's tire-woman was again strictly examined, and though she acquitted herself to a wonder, suspicion was roused. "Think you, Kate," demanded Mayenne, "that shrewd plotter, Beatrice of Ferrara, has a hand in this? There was some talk of love--ay! and even of marriage--between her and D'Aubin in the old Queen's time."
"No, no!" replied the Duchess, "that has all gone by, and she now despises him, as every woman of common sense must do. Besides, I saw her at old Madame de Gondi's fete last night at one o'clock! You had better question the other attendants of De Menancourt. You may gain more tidings there."
Mayenne accordingly determined to proceed instantly to Eugenie's dwelling, in order to interrogate the rest of her servants; and he commanded, in a stern and threatening tone, that the girl Caroline should be detained till he returned. As the door was thrown open, however, to give him exit to the court, a gentleman was introduced as the captain of the lansquenets, sent to his aid by the Duke of Parma; and all Mayenne's conclusions were once more deranged, by finding that the intelligence brought him by the priest was genuine.
How Beatrice of Ferrara had obtained that intelligence Mayenne never discovered; but true the news certainly was, and most important were the results to the cause of the League; for what between the auxiliary force which thus joined him, and reinforcements brought in by Bassompierre, Nemours, and Balagny, the army in Paris was soon so strong as not only to justify but to bespeak bold and energetic measures. Mayenne instantly prepared to take the field against the royal army; and ere Henry IV. had been three days before Rouen, the forces of the League were in full march to give him battle. Before he left Paris, however, the Duke used every means not only to discover the retreat of Eugenie, but to ascertain the cause and the manner of her flight. In regard to the first, he was baffled at every point; and so skilful had been the arrangements of Beatrice, that in respect to the second he returned to the conclusion, after long and repeated investigations, that to the Count d'Aubin was to be attributed an act which, under such circumstances, he looked upon as a base breach of faith, approaching to a personal insult. The tidings, therefore, that Eugenie had disappeared from the capital, and was nowhere to be heard of, were conveyed to D'Aubin by a reproachful letter from the Duke of Mayenne; and mad with anger and disappointment, the Count, on his part, gave his mind up to the belief that Mayenne was deceiving him, threw himself on his horse, and travelled with frantic rapidity, till he reached Paris. There finding that the army of the League was already on its march, he followed with all speed, overtook Mayenne at Gournay, and a somewhat vehement altercation was the consequence.
Mayenne, however, could not afford to quarrel with a person of so much importance to his cause; and acting with wisdom and moderation, an explanation soon ensued, which cleared either party in the opinion of the other. As D'Aubin, however, giving way to the natural impetuosity of his disposition, had not waited to put the troops in motion which he had collected in Maine, he returned thither after one day's rest, while Mayenne marched forwards towards Dieppe.
Accompanied by some of the first officers in France, and supported by an overwhelming force, it seemed that the great leader of the League was about to drive the handful of men which opposed him, and their heroic monarch, into that sea which was already bearing to their aid the expected succour from England. Strongly posted, however, and powerful both in courage and in right, Henry IV. calmly awaited the attack of his adversary; and, after several preliminary movements, the day of Arques dawned heavy and dull, without a breath of air to stir the trees or to dispel the autumn fog that obscured the scene of that memorable fight.
It were tedious here to tell all the minute particulars of the glorious day, when, attacked at all points, and assailed in all manners, not only by the arms of the enemy, but by the treason or folly of part of his own troops, Henry IV. defended the hill of Arques against forces more than six times the number of his own.
Every one has heard how, when monarch and soldiers were alike wearied out with sustaining through a long day the unceasing attacks of infinitely superior numbers, when scarcely a horse could bear his rider to the charge, and scarcely a hand could wield a sword, the little band of Royalists beheld the powerful and yet untouched cavalry of the League wheeling round upon their flank, while a light wind springing up tended to clear the air, and showed to both armies the insignificance of the one and the tremendous advantages of the other. But in stricken fields, as in the daily strife of life, the event which seems destined to seal our misfortunes is often but the harbinger of unexpected success. The wind, it is true, rose higher, and rolling the sea-fog, in heavy clouds, away down the valley of Arques, left the few gallant defenders of that long-contested hill exposed, in all their need, to the eyes of the mighty host that swept round them in dreadful array; but, at the same time, the full sunshine poured upon the advancing squadrons of the League as they came on to the charge, and those upon the hill, for the first time during the day, could distinguish clearly the separate masses of friends and foes. The cannon of the castle of Arques opened at once, with tremendous effect, upon the cavalry of Mayenne; the first ranks were swept down as they advanced; the second rolled over their dying comrades; the horses, mad with pain and terror, broke through the ranks behind; and the charge of a few hundred men, at that critical moment, put all the gallant array into irremediable flight. Mayenne saw that the day was not for him; and withdrawing his masses in slow and soldierly order, he retreated for several miles, and left the field of Arques to the glory of Henry IV.
It was in a cottage by the sea-side--a mere hut, belonging in former times to a fisherman--that Eugenie de Menancourt sat one autumn day beside Beatrice of Ferrara watching the clouds of mist roll over the waters, as the exhalations which night had left behind struggled with a light wind and a still powerful sun for place upon the bosom of the ocean. It was a mere hut, as we have said, but there was something picturesque in its position, seated halfway up, halfway down a sand-cliff to the east of Dieppe, with a projecting shoulder of the rock sheltering it from the winds of the Atlantic, and a few trees and shrubs--stunted in size and not very luxuriant in foliage, it is true, but still green and fresh--keeping it company in the warm nook where it was placed. It is not impossible that the very picturesque beauty of its situation might be the reason why it had been selected by one who had more poetry in her heart and soul than half the poets of the land in which she lived. But, at the same time, there was another motive which she would have assigned if she had been asked, and which was, that the shore beneath formed a little bay in which the waves seldom broke boisterously, but even in very stormy weather seemed to play there in innocent sport, while their parent sea was all in trouble and contention without, as we may have seen the children of a warrior playing in peace by their cottage-door while their father was urging the bloody strife upon the battle plain. In this sheltered bay lay a small vessel, and on the beach were two or three boats, while up above upon the cliff were several more cottages, from which to that we have described a winding and somewhat difficult path led down the face of the crag. Although the cottage had not contained more than ten days its two fair tenants, who had now resumed their appropriate dress, yet they had contrived to ornament it with a very different sort of taste from that which was displayed by any of the neighbouring dwellers on the shore: for Beatrice had her full share of that knowledge and love of what is beautiful in art or nature which was then general in her native land; and although she had daily talked of returning soon to Paris to play her appointed part upon that busy scene, yet she had lingered with a fond clinging to the peaceful moments she spent there, musing away her time upon the ever-varying sea-shore, or decorating the cottage she had hired for Eugenie with somewhat whimsical care. As if her journey to Paris had been a duty, for the neglect of which she owed an apology to her own heart, she often spoke of the difficulties and dangers of reaching the capital when two hostile armies were interposed: but difficulties or dangers had rarely stopped Beatrice of Ferrara when she willed to go in any direction upon earth; and, perhaps, the real reason of her delay might be, that Philip d'Aubin was not in the metropolis, and that she knew it.
As we have said, however, beside her Eugenie de Menancourt; upon an autumn day, little more than a fortnight after we last left them. Their eyes were bent upon the sea-fogs rolling along over the bosom of the waters below, and contending in vain against a rising wind, which every now and then swept them away, and showed to old Ocean the blue eyes of Heaven looking upon his slumbering waves, when the curtain of the mist was withdrawn by the soft hand of the morning air.
"See, Eugenie! see!" cried Beatrice of Ferrara, as, with their arms twined in each other, they gazed forth upon the changing scene; "see how the soft and downy masses of fog roll dark above the sea, and how, every now and then, a scanty gleam of light breaks in, and gilds the moving vapour and the waves below! Do you know, dear Eugenie, that the bosom of that sea seems to me like my own fate, wrapped up, as it has been for many years, in clouds and gloom, with every now and then a gleam of brightness breaking through, for a brief moment, and obscured again almost as soon as given. Do you know, dear girl, I could stand and gaze upon that sea, and, with all the superstition of the ancient days, I could play the augur to my own heart, and read my after-lot in the changes that come over the bosom of the water."
"Well, let me read it!" cried Eugenie: "see, see, Beatrice, what a long bright gleam is coming now!"
"Ay! but the clouds roll up behind," replied her friend.
"Yes, but beyond them again all is clear and bright," rejoined Eugenie, as the sun and the wind gained the mastery, and the last wreaths of mist were swept away, leaving nothing but a thin filmy veil upon the expanse of sea. "See, Beatrice, how bright it looks!"
"And, on the other hand, gaze on the dark cloud of the past," replied Beatrice, with a smile which was not without its share of hopefulness; "and as you, dear Eugenie, have read me my coming lot, and would fain make me believe that it is to be so bright, I will tell you shortly, very shortly, the history of the past; that you may judge how much cause I have to augur well of the approaching hours from my experience of those gone. I cannot dwell long upon such painful things, but I will speak them briefly."
Sitting down together, and still gazing out upon the golden sea, Beatrice began her tale; and as she told it in as few words as it could well be told, so shall it be repeated here.
"I was born amongst the lovely Euganean hills," she said, "where nature has compressed into one small space all that is beautiful and all that is grand; mountain and valley, stream and lake, profuse abundance, vegetation and cultivation, an atmosphere of magic light, and an air of balm. My father was the sovereign prince of----, but that matters not; though we were of the house of Ferrara, which has given sovereigns to many another land, and has allied its princes to the highest upon earth. My father's dominions were small, but they were rich and beautiful; and he himself, born of a warlike race, kept well with the sword those territories which, doubtless, the sword had first acquired. He, when the sovereigns of Ferrara were closely allied to the house of France, visited this court; and wedded, more for her beauty than her wealth, and more for her virtues than her beauty, the heiress of a noble house, whose lands lie not far from your own in Maine. He carried her to Italy, where they ever after lived; his rights to his lady's lands in France being still respected by the sovereigns of this country, though the management of them was somewhat neglected by those in whom he trusted. Still, however, those lands were rich, and made no small addition to the revenues of an Italian prince. His favourite residence was amongst the Euganean hills; and there, where he had collected everything that was beautiful to the eye, or pleasant to the ear, where the wise and the good, the poet and the sculptor, the painter and the musician, ever found a home, I, his first-born child, saw the light, now some four-and-twenty years ago. About four years after, a brother was born, and, in his birth, my mother died; but though my father never wedded again, but buried his heart in the tomb of her he had loved, yet we were well, carefully, fondly nurtured, both by our surviving parent himself, and by an uncle, who, high in the church of Rome, looked on both my brother and myself as if we had been children of his own. Abandoning the paths of ambition for our sake, he left the ancient capital of empires for our peaceful castle in the Euganean hills; and there, while my father was often absent fulfilling the duties of a prince or a soldier, he devoted himself to the cultivation of our young minds, and to the strengthening of our young hearts against the sorrows and the temptations of the world. He was, he is, one man out of a multitude. But, Eugenie, we had another uncle, who, through life, had followed a different path, and who was destined to act a different part. He was bred a soldier, and lent his sword, and the troops he had contrived to raise, to any one who held out to him the prospect of wealth or aggrandisement. His expeditions, fortunate to others,--for he was brave and skilful,--were not fortunate to himself; for the artful and deceitful men he served generally contrived to withhold from him his promised reward. From my father he always met kindness and protection; and often did my parent support his cause, and avenge his quarrels, to the detriment of his own best interests. How that uncle acted in return, you shall hear. His heart was corrupted by dealing with the base, and he became base himself, from believing that all others were so.
"My uncle Albert, the Cardinal, saw more deeply into his heart than my father; and I remember well that it was when speaking of his brother, my other uncle, that he took pains to impress upon my mind a truth that struck me as a child, and which I have never forgotten. 'True virtue,' he said, 'comes out the brighter for shining amidst vice. It is only those who feel themselves weak that fear the contagion of corruption. We may hate evil, and not willingly mingle with those who practise it; but, if forced to do so, my child, we shall only hate it the more if we be really virtuous at heart. Meaner stones derive a lustre from that which lies beneath them: we set the diamond upon black, and it shines by its own light.' My father died, Eugenie; and the manner of his death was not altogether without suspicion; but as, in his territories, it was a doubtful question, whether the coronet, where there were male and female children, descended to the eldest of either sex, or was the portion of the first-born son, my uncle Ferdinand came hastily to settle the succession; and, to prevent all dispute, he took the inheritance unto himself. For fear of greater evils to us, and greater crimes to his brother, my other uncle, Albert, sent my young brother and myself, with speed and secrecy, to the court of France. I was then but thirteen years of age, and my brother nine, and with us were some attached dependants, who had either followed my mother to Italy, or had dwelt long in my father's house. My brother instantly received my mother's inheritance in France, burdened only with a small portion for myself; but, to better my fallen fortunes, the late Queen-mother, Catherine of Medicis, received me as one of her women, and, to do her but right, showed me, through life, unvarying tenderness. I will not offend your ears, Eugenie, by telling all that I saw in that corrupt court; but I had three great safeguards, dear friend--a heart naturally not easily moved; firm principles of truth and virtue, implanted in my earliest years; and one faithful woman, who had nursed my mother and myself, and who to vestal purity of heart added a daring courage, which strengthened her to do what she judged right in defiance of all dangers, and would speak truth to the highest of God's creatures upon earth. Yet I must not take credit to myself for any great powers of resistance. I do not say that there were not many who sought me, some in marriage, and some with lighter vows; but so deep and thorough was the contempt I felt for the vain and idle butterflies of that vicious court, that my scorn extended to the whole sex, and I fancied I should never give one thought to any man in the whole world. You know, Eugenie, and I know too well, how much I was mistaken. At length came one who sought my love as others had not sought it. Four years, or more, have since passed, my friend, and those years have changed him not for the better. There was a freshness of young feeling about him then, that is now gone, and it was that which first won a way to my heart. I now found that, if my heart had been difficult to move, when once it was moved, like a rock broken by some earthquake from the Alps, it was likely to bear all away before it. Oh, how I loved him, Eugenie! and when, after having, I own, made him sigh for many a month, to prove his love for me, I at length let him know that I did not feel towards him as towards the rest of men, and that he might, at some distant time, hope for the hand of Beatrice of Ferrara, the relief, alas! was greater to my heart than his. Then came the change over him, Eugenie. I believe he had injured his fortune with those hateful dice; the hope of obtaining your hand was held out to him; ambition and interest called him loudly to pursue that prospect; for I was poor, comparatively, and had no hope of better fortunes; and I heard that he was offering his vows to Eugenie de Menancourt. I resolved to see with my own eyes if this was true; and as the queen was then about to undertake one of her gay and politic progresses through Maine, I joined her, with my young brother; for my faithful nurse was by that time dead, and I did not choose to dwell in that court alone. You remember well, Eugenie, those days, and how my truant lover seemed chained, like a slave, to my bridle-rein. My pride was satisfied, if my heart was not, and I returned to Paris. He remained some months behind, and when he came, I found that he was changed indeed. He fled my society, and yet he seemed struggling with himself; full of passion and tenderness when we met, his words were wild and strange: he plunged deep into the vices of the court; and, though I saw and knew he loved me still, yet I resolved, by appearing to despise his conduct, and to forget himself, to recall him, if possible to better deeds. I went down to the dwelling of my brother in Maine, and there, roaming wildly over the country, I soon heard enough to show me that, notwithstanding all his large possessions, the Count d'Aubin was struggling vainly with the consequences of his own follies. There was then a contagious disease raging here in France, and my brother caught it, and died. His possessions fell to me. I had it now in my power to raise up again him I loved, and to sweep his embarrassments away; and it became my favourite dream to reclaim him from all evil, to lead him back to virtue and to right, to restore him to honour and to station, and to make him owe to me at once peace of mind and ease of fortune. For the last two years I have laboured for this object, Eugenie, by many a different means. I have been thwarted by accident, and by his own perversity; but I cling the more tenaciously to those hopes, the weaker becomes the foundation on which they rest. Sad and sorry I am to say he has weakened it more and more every hour; but yet, Eugenie, I hope. I have had him watched, Eugenie, not that I might know his weaknesses, for to those I have ever shut my ears, but in order to seize the moment, if ever the moment should come, for snatching him from his follies or from his evil fate. To himself I have pretended to hate and despise him, the better to conceal my views, and also to make him feel my kindness the more when my time comes. Sometimes I think, however, that he suspects me; and a dwarf page, who has been attached to me from my childhood, and whom, in other days, I gave to him to be his cupbearer, he sent away, a year or more ago, to his cousin St. Real. I had directed that page to give me notice of all that passed in Philip d'Aubin's household; but the tidings he gave were scanty, even while he was there, and as soon as he was gone, I formed a bold resolution, which I executed boldly. Shortly after you had come to Paris with your father, and I had contrived to gain your love and confidence, you may remember that Philip d'Aubin went down to Maine; and I did hope, that, in companionship with so noble a heart as his cousin St. Real, and under the eye of the good old Marquis, who was then living, his better feelings might expand, like flowers in the sunshine; and I resolved, at any risk, to go down thither and watch him myself; for I knew that men, to whom he owed large sums, were pressing him hard, and that, had it not been for these sad wars, his estates would long ago have suffered from their claims. I thought that the moment might come when the full and tender generosity, which is so often to be found in woman's heart, might have room to act, that I might save him from the consequences of his own faults, and thus, perhaps, save him from those faults themselves. I contrived, by means of the dwarf, to force several of my own servants into the household of St. Real; and I was following down rapidly myself, to try whether I could not, for a time, obtain admission there also, when messengers from my uncle Albert, telling me of the death of Ferdinand, the usurper of my little state, conveying to me considerable treasure, and beseeching me to return, and take possession of territories which were now universally acknowledged as my own, reached me at Orleans, and brought me back to Paris.
"As soon as I had dispatched them back with other letters, begging my uncle to rule in my stead till my return, I pursued my plan; but D'Aubin had, in the meantime, returned to Paris, and had thence again been summoned to the sick bed of his uncle of St. Real. Of this I knew nothing, however; and, after manifold risks and difficulties, owing, perhaps, to the negligence, perhaps to the malice, of the dwarf Bartholo, I accomplished my object, and found myself established as a page in the house of the lords of St. Real. I had determined, in any great difficulty, to apply at once to the old Marquis, and tell him all my history and all my views; but I found him dying, and soon saw that I must withdraw from the household into which I had thus intruded, or risk detection, and, perhaps, ill repute. To guard my name at home, however, I caused my women to give out that I was ill of the fever; and they played their part with skill. Day by day, however, my disguise produced more and more pain to myself; for I had but hourly proofs of how completely D'Aubin had given himself up to the vices and follies of his comrades of the court; and I determined, soon after St. Real and his cousin reached Paris, to cast that disguise off at once. The wealth which I had now at command in that venal city, and in these venal times, procured me every sort of facility in coming and going between Paris and St. Cloud; and I believe that, for one half the sum which I possessed unknown within the town, I could have procured regular passes for the two kings and all their troops to march quietly in and take possession of the capital. Thus, as soon as I had notice of the last sad and daring means which Philip d'Aubin was about to employ against you, my Eugenie,--the most base and profligate step of any he had yet taken,--I cast myself at the king's feet, who owed me some gratitude for a former service; told him your situation, my own plan for saving you, and besought him to give me his assistance. He did so in a generous manner, and even furnished me with intelligence to give Mayenne from the Prince of Parma, which is certain to mislead and puzzle the Duke regarding all our plans. Learning from an attendant, whom I still have in D'Aubin's service, that the Count had bound himself to set out on the very evening of his marriage for Maine, I conceived the Duke of Mayenne's plans at once; all his views; all his policy. I set every engine to work to gain information. I had his chaplain seized and carried away; I induced a wild drunken Huguenot soldier, not without talents, but without religion or principle, to enact the priest, and brought him to the Hotel de Guise at the moment that a priest was wanted. I took care that your refusal should be witnessed by so many, that, even had the person who performed the ceremony been what he seemed, the whole would have been illegal; but I also ensured that proof of the man's condition, and of all the other facts, should be lodged in the hands of the king, so as to render you free as air. And now, dear Eugenie, here we are, safe and at liberty, with a bark to bear you to England, if the king should lose the approaching battle; and, doubtless, you wonder that, with all I have seen, and with all I know, I can for one moment think again of Philip d'Aubin. Such is the voice of reason, Eugenie, and the voice of sense; but there is another voice in my heart, which drowns them all, and fills my mind with excuses for his conduct--vain and light, indeed, as the changing clouds upon the sky, I know; but still those clouds cast shadows, which alter the aspect of everything whereon they fall; and so, to my weak eyes, the excuses found by love cast an obscuring shade upon his actions, which will not suffer me to see them as I should if the full sun of unbiassed judgment shone upon them. I will make one more effort, dear Eugenie--I will essay one more trial; I will find the means of serving him deeply and truly; and if he be then ungrateful, I can cast him off--and die."
"Oh, not so, Beatrice!" replied Eugenie; "make every effort; try every means; but, even if all should fail, talk not of dying, but seek happiness in some other shape."
"In vain, Eugenie! in vain!" replied Beatrice, "all the feelings of my heart are engaged in this one effort. If it fail, there will be nothing else left for me on earth. The body may live, Eugenie--it perhaps may linger on some few years; but the heart and the soul are dead. Still, let us hope better things, dear friend; you have read me a happy fate in those passing clouds and the sunshine that followed, and I will trust----"
As she spoke, an attendant hurried in. "They are flying, madam!" he said; "they are flying!"
"Who?" demanded Beatrice, eagerly, "who are flying?"
"Mayenne's horse, madam," replied the man: "do you not hear the cannon? They have been fighting at Arques for these four hours."
"Send out! send out to see!" cried Beatrice. "On this battle may depend our future fate, dear Eugenie."
In less than an hour the news of Mayenne's defeat was borne to Beatrice and Eugenie; and the servant who brought it added, that he had seen the king and Monsieur de St. Real both quite safe, and directing the operations which followed up the victory.
"Thank God for this, also!" replied Beatrice. "This battle will secure the western provinces to the king; and now, dear Eugenie, ere I wend my way back to Paris, we will journey together to Maine, where, between my lands and yours, there lies a spot secluded and calm, and surrounded by people attached both to you and to me. Mayenne must fall back on Picardy; the king will march on Paris; and Maine will offer a safer asylum than even this which we possess at present."
The political anticipations of Beatrice of Ferrara were not far wrong: scarcely had the day of Arques been won, when the English succour disembarked at Dieppe. Henry effected his junction with the Duke of Longueville and the Count of Soisson, the former of whom had been detached to levy troops; and then resuming the offensive, he marched in search of Mayenne, and attempted to provoke him to another battle. Retreating upon Picardy, however, Mayenne avoided the large force which was now opposed to him; and, by a number of skilful operations, both military and political, repaired the disadvantages incurred by the lost field of Arques. Anxious to withdraw him from a province into which, from the disaffection of many of the larger towns, the royal forces could not with safety follow him, Henry marched direct upon Paris, and, taking several unimportant places by the way, attacked and carried the suburbs of the capital itself, to the horror and dismay of the Leaguers. The scheme was perfectly successful. Mayenne, in terror lest the metropolis should be lost, spurred with all speed to Paris, leaving his army to follow as they might. The forces of the Royalists was not sufficiently numerous to invest the city entirely; and the troops of Mayenne following from Picardy soon placed such a number of men within the walls as to set farther attack at defiance.
Withdrawing from a useless enterprise, Henry retreated upon Mont l'Hery, and then turned upon Etampes; taking a number of towns under the very eyes of the League, the leaders of which seemed little disposed to risk the chances of another battle. Thus passed the winter, and a considerable part of the spring. The town of Le Mans, it is true, made some resistance to the royal arms, but at length yielded; and thence directing expeditions towards different parts of the country, the gallant monarch recovered a great part of the rich provinces towards the centre of France. Almost all Maine and a considerable part of Normandy were now subject to the king; and, amongst the rest, the lands of Eugenie de Menancourt were, for a time, occupied by the royal troops. The tenantry, however, and the vassals, had been generally called into the field, by the Count d'Aubin, who had by this time joined Mayenne in Paris; and the changing events of the war soon obliged the monarch to withdraw his troops from that part of Maine, and advance to new victories and more important conquests.
Shortly before Easter, Henry IV. had laid siege to Dreux, in Normandy; and Mayenne having taken the castle of Vincennes, Poissi, and several other places, endeavoured to reduce Meulan. The demonstrations of the royal army, however, showed a purpose of compelling him to raise the siege; and having been joined by fresh levies from various parts of France, and considerable reinforcements from the low countries, he determined to risk another battle; and for the purpose of choosing his own ground put his army in motion. Nonancourt had fallen before the arms of Henry IV. and the siege of Dreux was rapidly advancing; when news reached the royal camp of various unexpected movements on the part of the army of the League. First came tidings that five thousand infantry had passed the bridge of Mantes; then came reports of large forces of cavalry having been seen in march on both sides of the Seine; and, lastly, intelligence was brought to the king that the foragers of the Duke of Mayenne had appeared in the neighbourhood of Dammartin.
Calling his principal officers to council, Henry informed them of the tidings he had received, and then at once made his own comment; and announced his determination thus:--"From these facts, my friends, it is evident that our good cousin of Mayenne is seeking us; and therefore I propose instantly to raise the siege of Dreux."
The members of the council looked in each other's faces, with glances of surprise at such an unexpected proposal from one who was not, in general, easily turned from his enterprises. Henry for a moment suffered their astonishment to continue, and then added, with a smile; "You seem surprised, my friends; but I have no scruple in regard to abandoning a siege when it is for the purpose of fighting a battle. What say you, my gallant St. Real; will you strike for Henry IV. as bravely here as you did at Arques?"
"With all my heart, sire!" replied St. Real; and this is one of the few instances on record of a council in which there existed no difference of opinion.