A month and some days succeeded--full of events important to France, it is true, but containing nothing calculated to affect materially the course of this history; and I shall, therefore, pass over in my narrative that lapse of time without comment, changing the scene also without excuse.
There is in France a forest, in the heart of which I have spent many a happy hour--which, approaching the banks of the small river Iton, spreads itself out over a large tract of varied and beautiful ground between Evreux and Dreux, sweeping round that habitation of melancholy memories called Navarre, filled with the recollections of Turennes and Beauharnois. Over a much greater extent of ground, however, than the forest, properly so called, now occupies, large masses of thicket and wood, with, occasionally, much more splendid remnants of the primeval covering of earth, show how wide the forest of Evreux must have spread in former years; and, in fact, the records of the times of which I write compute the extreme length thereof at thirty-five French leagues; while the breadth seems to have varied at different points from five to ten miles.
In the space thus occupied, was comprised almost every description of scenery which a forest can display; hill and dell, rock and river, with sometimes even a meadow or a corn-field presenting itself in different parts of the wood, which was also traversed by two high roads--the one leading from Touraine, and the other from Alençon, Caen, and the northern parts of Normandy. These high roads, however, were, from the very circumstances of time, but little frequented; for the eloquent words of Alexis Monteil, in describing the state of France in the days of the League, afford no exaggerated picture:--"France, covered with fortified towns, with houses, with castles, with monasteries enclosed with walls within which no one entered, and from which no one issued forth, resembled a great body mailed, armed, and stretched lifeless on the earth."
Nevertheless, interest and necessity either lead or compel men to all things; and along the line of the two high roads already mentioned were scattered one or two villages and hamlets--the inhabitants of which had little to lose--and a number of detached houses, the proprietors of which were willing to risk a little in the hopes of gaining much. The fronts of these houses, by the various signs and inscriptions which they bore, gave notice to the wayfaring traveller, sometimes that man and horse could be accommodated equally well within those walls; sometimes that the human race could there find rest and food, if unaccompanied by the four-footed companion whose greater corporeal powers we have made subservient to our greater cunning. According to the strict letter of the existing laws, we find that theaubergefor foot passengers was forbidden to lodge the equestrian, and that theaubergefor cavaliers had no right to receive the traveller on foot. But these laws, like all other foolish ones, were neglected or evaded in many instances; and he who could pay well for his entertainment was, of course, very willingly admitted to the mercenary hospitality of either the one or other class of inns, whether he made use of the two identical feet with which nature had provided him, or borrowed four more for either speed or convenience.
Notwithstanding the turbulent elements which rendered every state of life perilous in those days, the landlord of theauberge, however isolated was his dwelling, did not, in fact, run so much risk as may be supposed; for by a sort of common consent, proceeding from a general conviction of the great utility of his existence, and the comfort which all parties had at various times derived from his ever-ready welcome, the innkeeper's dwelling was almost universally exempt from pillage, except, indeed, in those cases where the party spirit of the day had got the better of that interested moderation in politics which is such a distinguishing feature of the class, and had led him to espouse one of the fierce factions of the times with somewhat imprudent vehemence. Nevertheless, it need hardly be said, that between the several villages, and the several detached houses which chequered the forest of Evreux, large spaces were left without anything like a human habitation; and the traveller on either of the two highways, or on any of the multifarious cross-roads which wandered through the woods, might walk on for many a long and weary mile, without seeing anything in the likeness of mankind. Perhaps, indeed, he might think himself lucky if he did find it so; for--as there then existed three or four belligerent parties in France, besides various bodies who took advantage of the discrepancy of other people's opinions upon most subjects, to assert their own ideas of property at the point of the sword--there was every chance that, in any accidental rencontre, the traveller would find the first person he met a great deal more attached to the sword than to the olive branch.
A little more than a month, then, after the funeral of the old Marquis of St. Real, in a part of the forest where a few years before the axe had been busy amongst the taller trees, there appeared a group of several persons, two of whom have already been introduced to the notice of the reader. The spot in which they were seated was a small dry grassy strip of meadow by the side of a clear little stream, which at a hundred yards distance crossed the high road from Touraine. From the bank of the stream the ground rose very gradually for some way, leaving a space of perhaps fifty yards in breadth free of underwood or bush. It then took a bolder sweep, and became varied with manifold trees and shrubs; and then, breaking into rock as it swelled upwards, it towered into a high and craggy hill, diversified with clumps of the fine tall beeches which the axe had spared, and clothed thickly, wherever the soil admitted it, with rich underwood, springing up from the roots of larger trees long felled. On the other side again, the ground sloped away so considerably, that had the stream flowed straight on, it would have formed a cataract; and as the eye rested on the clear water, winding in a thousand turns within a very short distance of the edge of the descent, and seeming to seek a way over without being able to find it, one felt as we do in gazing upon a child in a meadow looking for something it has lost, which we ourselves see full well, yet cannot resolve to point out, lest the little seeker should desist from all the graceful vagaries of his search. Various bends and knolls, however, confined the rivulet to the course it had taken; but still the whole ground on that side was low, and at one point sunk much beneath the spot where the travellers before mentioned were seated, affording--over the green tree-tops--a beautiful view of a long expanse of varied ground, lying sweet in the misty light of summer, with many a wide and undulating sweep, fainter and more faint, till some grey spires marked the position of a distant town, and cut the line of the horizon.
The party here assembled consisted of five persons: the first of whom was the page already described under the name of Leonard de Monte, and who, now stretched upon the ground, seemed making a light repast, while the dwarf Bartholo, standing beside him, filled a small horn cup with wine from a gourd he carried, and presented it to the young Italian with a low inclination of the head. The other three personages who made up the group were evidently servants. The colours of their dress, however, were very different from those of the Marquis of St. Real, and they were also armed up to the teeth, though their garb bespoke them the followers of some private individual, and not soldiers belonging to any of the parties which then divided the land. Besides the human denizens of the scene, five horses were browsing the forest grass at a little distance. Three of these were equipped with saddles; while two still bore about them the rough harness, if harness it could be called, by means of which they had been attached to a small vehicle, somewhat between a carriage and a car, which, with its leathern curtains and its wicker frame, might be seen peeping out from amongst the bushes hard by.
While the page concluded his repast, two of the servants--the other seemed the driver of the carriage--stood behind him with their arms folded on their bosoms, but still in an attitude so common in those times of trouble as to have found its way into most of the pictures which have come down from that epoch to the present. The same movement which crossed the right and left arms over the chest had easily brought the hilt of the sword, and the part of the broad belt in which it hung, up from the haunch to the breast, where the weapon was supported by the pressure of the left arm and the right hand, and was ever ready for service at a moment's notice. The youth, however, who was the principal person of the party, and the dwarf, who seemed to ape his demeanour, wore their swords differently, following the extravagant court fashion of the day, and throwing the weapon which, in those times, might be needed at every instant, so far behind them, that the hilt was concealed by the short cloak then worn, and would have been out of the reach of any but a very dexterous hand.
When the page had concluded his repast, he wiped his dagger on the grass, and returned it to the sheath; and then, making the dwarf mingle some water from the stream with the wine he offered, he asked, ere he drank, "Are you sure, Bartholo, right sure, that we have passed them?"
"Certain! quite certain!" answered the dwarf; "unless, noble----"
"Hush!" cried the youth, holding up his hand impetuously; "have I not told thee to forget, even when we are alone, that I am any other than Leonard the page. Some day thou wilt betray me; and, by my troth, thou shalt repent it if thou dost. Go on! go on! What wert thou saying?"
"Nothing, then, Signor Leonard," answered the dwarf, with his usual sardonic grin; "but that I am certain we have passed them, quite certain: for I saw each day's march laid down before they set out; and though we were two days behind them, and had to take a round of ten leagues to avoid their route, yet we have done five leagues more than they each day that we have travelled."
"Well, then, well!" said the youth; "dine, and make these varlets dine. If I am in Paris three days before them, it is enough. Yet lose no time; for I would fain be on far enough to-night to be beyond their utmostfourriersere I stay to rest. I go up yon hill to look over this woody world. When all is ready, whistle, and I will come." Thus saying, he turned away with a slow step, and, climbing the banks, was quickly lost amongst the trees and underwood.
As soon as he was gone, the dwarf beckoned to the servants; and, making them sit down beside him on the grass, did the honours of the feast, but still taking care to maintain that air of superiority with which a master might be supposed to portion out their meal to his domestics, on some of those accidental expeditions which level, for the time, many of the distinctions of rank. The servants, too, submitted to this sort of assumption as a matter of course; and though the eye of each might be caught running over the diminutive limbs of the dwarf with a glance in which the contempt of big things for little was scarcely kept down by habitual deference, yet, in their general demeanour, they preserved every sort of respect for their small companion, keeping a profound silence in his presence, and treating him with every mark of reverence.
Scarcely had they concluded their meal, however, and were in the act of yawning at the horses they were about to harness, when the rustling of the bushes on the hillside, and the fall of a few stones, gave notice of the approach of some living being. The moment after, the light and graceful form of their young master appeared, bounding down the slope like a scared deer, with his cheek flushed, and all the flashing eagerness of haste and surprise sparkling in his dark eye. "Quick!" he cried, as he came up, "quick as lightning! Draw the carriage into that brake, and lead the horses in amongst the bushes. Scatter as far as possible, and come not hither again till you hear my horn."
"But the carriage!" cried the dwarf, looking towards the spot to which the page pointed--"the brake is deep and uneven."
"We must get it out afterwards as best we may," replied the youth; "do as you are bid, and make haste! They are not half a mile from us, when I thought they were leagues. I saw them coming up, on the other side of the hill, and they will be here in five minutes. Quick! quick as lightning, Bartholo!"
The dwarf and his companions obeyed at once, and in a few moments the carriage was drawn into a woody brake that completely concealed it from view; the horses were led into the forest; Bartholo betook himself one way, and the attendants another; and their young lord, climbing the hill, sought himself out a place amongst the shrubs and larger trees, where he could see all that passed upon the high road, without running any risk of being seen himself. A quick and impatient spirit, however, gauging all things by its own activity, had, as is often the case, deceived him as to the movements of others; and instead of five minutes, which was the utmost space that his imagination had allowed for the arrival of the persons he had beheld, full half an hour had elapsed ere any one appeared.
At length, however, the trampling of horses sounded along the road; and the moment after, winding round from the other side of the hill, was seen a party of six horsemen, each bearing in his hand a short matchlock, with a lighted match, while three other weapons of the same kind hung round at the different corners of the steel saddle with which every horse was furnished. After a short interval, another small party appeared; and, succeeding them again, might be seen, first moving along above the interposing shoulder of the hill, and then upon the open road, the dancing plumes of a large body of officers and gentlemen, in the midst of whom rode the young Marquis of St. Real, and his cousin, the Count d'Aubin. The eyes of Leonard de Monte fixed eagerly upon that party, and followed its movements for many a minute, till a new bend of the road concealed it from his sight; and he turned to gaze upon the strong body of troops that then appeared. Two companies of infantry, each consisting of two hundred men, came next; and a gay and pleasant sight it was to see them pass along with their shining steel morions, and tall plumes, and rich apparel, in firm array and regular order, but all gay and cheerful, and singing as they went. Amongst them, but in separate bands, appeared the various sorts of foot soldiers then common in France; the musketeer with his long gun upon his shoulder, and the steel-pointed fork, or rest, used to assist his aim in discharging his piece, while, together with the broad leathern belt which supported his long and heavy sword, hung the innumerable small rolls of leather, in which the charges for his musket were deposited. The ancient pikeman, too, was there, with his long pike rising over the weapons of the other soldiers, and one or two bodies of arquebusiers, armed with a lighter and less cumbersome, but even more antique kind of musket, here and there chequered the ranks. A troop of cavalry, still stronger in point of numbers, succeeded, consisting of two companies of men-at-arms, which old privileges permitted the two houses of St. Real and D'Aubin to raise for the service of the crown, and of about four hundred of more lightly armed horse of that description which, from having been first introduced from Germany and Flanders, had acquired the name of reitters, even when the regiment was composed entirely of Frenchmen. The first body contained none but men of noble birth, and consisted principally of young gentlemen attached to the two great houses who raised it. Each carried his lance, to which weapon the men-at-arms of that day clung with peculiar tenacity, as a vestige of that ancient chivalry which people felt was rapidly passing away before improved science, but from which they did not like to part. Each also was splendidly armed; and gold and polished steel made their horses shine in the sunbeams.
The reitters, however, were more simply clothed, and were composed of such persons from the wealthier part of theclasse bourgeoiseas the love of arms, the distinctions generally affixed to military life, or feudal attachment to any particular house, brought from the very insecure tranquillity then afforded by their paternal dwellings, to the open struggle of the field. This corps, however, was not distinguished by the lance: a long and heavy sword, which did terrible execution in the succeeding wars, together with a number of pistols, each furnished with a rude flint lock, composed the offensive arms of the reitter. His armour, too, and his horse were both somewhat lighter than those of the man-at-arms; but his movements were, in consequence, more easy, and his march less encumbered.
The whole body wound slowly on with very little disarray Of confusion, till, one by one, the several bands turned the angle of the wood, and disappeared in the distant forest. A few scattered parties followed; then a few stragglers, and then all was left to solitude, while nothing but a cloudy line of dust, rising up above the green covering of the trees, and two or three notes of the trumpet, told that such a force was near, or marked the road it took. Leonard de Monte gazed from the place of his concealment upon each party as it passed, and then waited for several minutes, listening with attentive ear till the trumpet sounded so faintly that it was evident his own small hunting-horn might be winded unheard by the retiring squadrons. He descended, however, in the first instance, to the bank of the stream where he had been previously sitting, and then gave breath to a few low notes, as of a huntsman recalling his dogs. The sounds were heard by his attendants, and instantly obeyed. The horses were led forth from the wood; and, while the two servants bestirred themselves to draw out the carriage from the brake in which it had been concealed, the youth beckoned the dwarf towards him, demanding--"Now, Bartholo! now! what think you of this?"
"Why, I think it a very silly trick, sir," replied the dwarf: "I could forgive a raw youth like the Marquis for leading his men through such a wood as this; but how an experienced soldier, like my good lord the Count, could let him do it, I cannot fancy. Why, the League might have taken them all like quails in a falling net!"
"You are wrong," said the youth; "you are wrong, Bartholo. He knows full well that the League, close cooped in Paris, have not men to spare, and that Longueville and La Noue keep Aumale in check near Compeigne. St. Real is no bad soldier. At least, so I have heard. But it was not of that I spoke. What are we to do now? You told me that they were a day behind, and now they are right on the road before us. They must have changed their route. What must we do?"
"Why, we must turn back," answered the dwarf, calmly; "and then at Dreux seek out themaître des postes, leave these slow brutes behind us, and on to Paris with all the speed we can."
"But should there be no horses?" said the youth, "as was the case at La Fleche; what must we do then?"
"Oh, beyond all doubt, we shall find horses there," the dwarf replied; "and if the post be broken up, we can but apply to the master of relais, whose horses will take us on for fifteen leagues, while these tired brutes will scarce carry us to Dreux: better go with beasts that have dragged a cart, than halt half way on the road."[2]
The youth paused and pondered; and though his intention was at first directed to the exertions of the servants with the carriage, yet the moment after, his glance began to stray abstractedly over the forest; and it is more than probable that his thoughts wandered much farther than the mere trifling embarrassment in which he found himself; for his brow became clouded and melancholy, his lip quivered, and his eye, which was now again straining vacantly upon the grass, seemed as if it would willingly have harboured a tear. The dwarf gazed at him earnestly with his quick black eyes, while the habitual sneer upon his lip seemed mingled with other feelings, which somewhat changed its character, but rendered it not less dark and keen. Whatever were his own thoughts, however, he seemed perfectly to comprehend that his young lord's mind had run beyond the situation of the moment. "You are sorry you undertook it at all!" he said, keeping his eyes still fixed upon the face of the other.
"Out, knave!" cried Leonard de Monte, turning sharply upon him. "Out! Did you ever know me hesitate in a pursuit that I had once determined, or regret a deed when once it was done? Firm in myself, I am firm to myself, and, whether good or ill happens, I never regret. No, no; think you that I am such a fool or such a child as to start from the first trifling obstacle? To whimper, because I am forced to lie on a hard bed, or fly off indignant because some saucy serving-man breaks his jest uponthe page?No, no! I was thinking of my father's house, and of a picture there which some skilful hand had painted of just such a scene as this. There was the little sparkling stream, and there a sweet and tranquil grassy bank like that, with the bright sunshine--even as it does now--streaming through the bushes, and touching the rounded turf with gold. Often, very often, have I stood and gazed upon that landscape, and my fancy has rendered the dull canvass instinct with life. I have dreamed that I could see through those groves, or climb the hill, and wander amongst the rocks; and in infancy--that time of happy hearts--imagination, as I stood and looked, has shaped me out a little paradise in such a scene as that. The palace and its cold splendour has faded away around me, and I have fancied myself wandering in the midst of Nature's beauties, with beings as bright and as ideal as my dream: and now, Bartholo--and now--what are all those visions now?"
The dwarf cast his eyes to the ground, and for a moment, a single moment, the cynical smile passed away from his lip. "You," he said--"you have made your fate! You have sought the bitter well from which you are forced to drink. You have chosen sorrow, and the way to sorrow; for the love of any human thing is but the high road thither, and you must tread it to the end."
"How now, sir!" cried the youth, proudly tossing back his head; "school'st thou me?"
"Nay, I school you not," answered the dwarf; "and less than all sought to offend you. I would have given you consolation. I would have said that you, for a great prize, had played a stake as weighty:--I mean that knowingly, willingly, you had risked happiness for love; and, seemingly having lost, are sorrowful; but still you have the satisfaction of knowing that your fate has been your own deliberate act."
"Would not that make it all the more painful, thou bitter medicine?" asked the youth.
"Not so!" answered the dwarf, "not so! Think, what must be his feelings who isbornto disappointment and to scorn; whose heart may be as fine as that which beats in the bosom of the lordliest warrior in the land, and yet whose birthright is contempt, and degradation, and slight; whose mind may be as bright as that of prelate, or of lawgiver, and yet whose doom is to be despised and neglected? Think what must be his feelings, who has no refuge from disappointment, but in the hardness of despair; who has no warfare to wage against insult, but by hurling back contempt and defiance!"
"I am sorry for thee, from my heart," answered the youth. "Indeed, I am sorry for thee."
"Yourpity I can bear," replied the dwarf, "because I believe it is of a nobler kind; but the pity of this base degraded world is poison to every wound in my heart. No more of myself, however," he added, resuming at once his usual look; "I have spoken too long about myself already. I cannot change my state, were I to reason on it till the sun grew old and weary of shining; but you can do much to change yours; and, in honesty, it were better to try a new plan, for this is a bad one."
"Care not thou for that," replied the other; "its wisdom or its folly rests upon me. Thou canst not say that there is either sin or crime therein; and till then, be silent."
"You spoke of your father's house," still persevered the dwarf. "Why not return thither, where now, since your uncle's death, peace, and repose, and a princely fortune await you?"
"Return thither!" replied the youth, with a sigh. "Return thither! and for what? to find the voices I used to love silent; the forms that used to cheer it gone; to see in every chamber a memorial of the dead, and in each well-known object a new source for tears. Oh, no! I loved that place once with love far beyond that which we give in general to inanimate things; but it was because the living, and the good, and the kind, were mingled up with every scene and every object; but now they are gone: the fairy spell is broken; the rich gold turned dross; and no place of all the earth is so painful in my sight as that--my father's house."
"Nevertheless," urged the dwarf somewhat anxiously; but the other went on: "But that is not all, Bartholo," he said, "that is not all; though that were fully enough. No, when I last saw my father's halls my bosom was as light as air, and all the thoughts that filled it were as the summer dreams of some sunny, happy child. Since then how many a bitter lesson have I learned; how changed is the aspect of life, and fate, and the world!--No, no! The sunshine that shone in my father's halls is gone for ever--the sunshine of a happy heart; and I will carry back with me a new star to light them, or never see them more."
"Nevertheless," repeated the dwarf, "nevertheless--"
"No more in that tone!" interrupted the youth, "let me hear no more! My resolutions are fixed beyond change. My fate is upon the die in my hand, and I will cast it boldly, let the chance be what it will. Say no more! for no more will I hear! Quick! hasten those laggards with the horses, and let us begone: each word of opposition but makes me the more eager to run my course to the end."
The dwarfs lip curled into a more bitter smile than ever, but he made no reply; and proceeded to obey the orders he had received to hasten the preparations for departure. Those preparations were soon concluded; for while the conversation detailed above had been proceeding, the servants, with the aid of the horses, had dragged the carriage out of the brake. With some difficulty, and some danger of overturning it, it was at length brought to the high road. Leonard de Monte entered; and, wrapping himself in a large cloak, cast himself back with an air of gloomy thought. The rest mounted their horses, and, as fast as the nature of the rude vehicle, and the state of the roads would permit, the little cavalcade wound away towards Dreux, leaving the forest once more to silence and solitude.
In one of the old houses between the Louvre and the Place Royals, is still preserved in its original state a fine antique saloon of the times of Henry II. No gorgeous hall, no spacious vestibule, impresses you at once with the grandeur of the mansion; but, winding up a narrow and incommodious stair, you find yourself upon a small landing-place, whence two steps--each the segment of a circle, and both turning considerably, as if they had once formed part of a spiral staircase--conduct you, through a deep but narrow passage in the wall, to a door of black oak. On opening this, you find yourself at the threshold of a room some two-and-thirty feet square, panelled with dark and richly carved wood, and possessing a ceiling of the same. At the farther end of the saloon, opposite to the door, is a deep recess, or, rather, a sort of bay, at the entrance of which the floor rises with a high step, forming a sort of little platform capable of receiving a table and two or three chairs. From the distance of about three feet and a half above the ground up to the ceiling, the greater part of this recess or bay is of glass, with only just so much Gothic stone and wood work as serves to support the large casements, which afford the sole light of the room. The form which this projection takes on the outside of the house presents three sides of a regular octagon, and, in ornament and lightness, is not unlike one of the windows of the new part of St. John's, Cambridge, though certainly not near so beautiful as any part of that exquisite specimen of Gothic architecture.
Though, as I have said, from this window is derived the sole light which the room possesses; nevertheless, that light is enough, especially as the sunshine seems to regard that casement with particular favour, and never fails to linger about it when the bright beams visit earth.
At the time to which we must now go back, the floors were not so dingy, the oak was not so black, as they are at present; but the full summer sunshine was pouring through the large oriel, chequering the wood work of the raised flooring with the golden light of the rays and the dark shadows of the leaden frames in which the glass was set. A stand for embroidery appeared on the little platform; and before it sat a lady plying the busy needle and the shining silks; while a maid, seated near, read to her from a book--the Gothic characters of which were fast merging into the round letters of the present day--and another female attendant, a little farther off, followed the industrious example of her mistress, and busied herself at her frame. The principal person of the group was habited in deep mourning, which, in the fashion of that day, was, perhaps, the most unbecoming dress that the vanity of man ever permitted. The sombre hue of the garment was relieved by nothing that could give lightness or grace; and the heavy black veil, hanging from the head, seemed designed purposely to cast a gloomy, unsoftened shadow over the face. But that lady was one of those whom we see sometimes, and dream of often, so lovely by the gift of nature, that art can do nothing either to add to the beauty or diminish it; and she looked as transcendently lovely in the dark wimple and the sable stole, as if she had been clad in jewels and in lace. She was as fair as the morning star, with eyes of the deep, deep blue of the evening sky, full and soft, and overhung with a long fringe of jetty eyelashes, which sometimes made the eyes themselves seem black. Her cheek bore the rosy hue of health, though the colour was by no means deep, and was so softly diffused over her face, that it was scarce possible to say where the warm tint of the cheek ended, and the brilliant fairness of the forehead and temples began. The features, too, were as lovely as if the brightest fancy and the most skilful hand had combined to personify beauty; but they had nothing of the cold, still harshness of the statue, and one looked long in admiration ere one could pause to trace the graceful lines that went to form so fair a whole. The form was in no way unworthy of the face; and even the stiff, heavy folds of the mourning robe were forced into graceful falls by the symmetry of the limbs they covered. All, however, was calm and easy, and every part of the figure was concealed, as far as possible, except the tip of one small foot, and the soft rounded delicate hands, which, with a thousand graceful movements, urged the needle through the embroidery.
Such was Eugenie de Menancourt, whom her father's death in Paris had left one of the richest heiresses of France, and had cast into the hands of the faction called the League, which then ruled in the capital, while the King waged war against it in the field. The possession of Eugenie de Menancourt, indeed, was no slight advantage to that party, for those who have much to bestow will always be followed; and the reward of her hand, and all the wealth that accompanied it, was one well calculated to lure many an aspiring noble to the faction who had the power of awarding it. This the Duke of Mayenne felt fully, and made, indeed, no slight use of his advantage: not that he held out the hope of obtaining her to any one directly, except to the Count d'Aubin, to whom she had been promised by her father, and whom Mayenne was most anxious to gain over from the royal cause; but, nevertheless, he took good care that, when any of his agents busied themselves to bring over an opposite, or confirm a wavering, partisan, the list of the good things which the League could bestow should not be left unmentioned, and amongst the first was the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt, the heiress of near one half of Maine. There was many another poor girl in the same condition; but as, in those days, inclination was the last thing consulted by parents in the marriage of their daughters, there was but little difference between their fate in the hands of the League, and in the hands of their more legitimate guardians. Nevertheless, the circumstances by which she was surrounded, her isolated situation in the house wherein her father had died, and which had been assigned to her by the League as her abode during the time of her honourable captivity in Paris, and the prospect of being forced to wed a man she did not love, all contributed to heighten the gloom which her parent's recent death had cast over her, and to make melancholy the temporary expression of a countenance which seemed by nature born for smiles.
One only consideration tended to make her situation feel more light: the Count d'Aubin was deeply engaged on the side of the King; and on his late journey to Maine, had even been entrusted with the high task of keeping in check that province, and some of the neighbouring districts. So long as he adhered to the King, Eugenie well knew that Mayenne would never consent to his marriage with herself; and though she sometimes doubted the steadiness of D'Aubin's loyalty, she trusted the artful game which she knew that the Duke was playing, in order to detach him from the royal cause, would insure her not being pressed to give her hand to any one else. She hoped, therefore, for a degree of peace till such time, at least, as some change in the political affairs of France delivered her from the chance of force being employed to compel her obedience to a choice made by others.
On such facts and such speculations her mind was often forced to dwell; but Eugenie de Menancourt was too wise to yield full way to painful remembrances or anticipations that could produce no change; and she studiously strove to occupy her thoughts with other things: either reading herself during all the many hours she spent alone, or making one of her maids read to her, when she was employed with any of those occupations which engage the hand without absorbing the attention.
Thus, then, was she employed plying her needle in the sunshine, and listening to some of the poetry of Du Bartas, while, though she attended, and she heard, some melancholy feeling or some gloomy thought, springing from the depths of her own heart, would mingle insensibly with the other matter which engaged her mind, and make all she heard associate itself with the painful circumstances of her situation. In the midst of the reading, however, the door of the saloon opened, and a person entered, of whom we must pause to give almost as full a description as we have been beguiled into writing in regard to Eugenie de Menancourt herself.
The figure that appeared was that of a lady as beautiful as it is possible to conceive, but in a style of loveliness as different from that of her she came to visit as the ruby is different from the sapphire. She might be three or four and twenty years of age, but certainly was not more; and the full rounded contour of womanhood was exquisitely united in her figure to the light and easy graces of youth. Her hair was as jetty as a raven's wing, and her full bright eyes also were as dark. Her skin was fair, however, and her teeth, of dazzling whiteness, were just seen through the half-open lips of her small beautiful mouth. The soft arched eyebrow, the chiselled nose, the rounded chin, the gentle oval of the face, the small white ear, and the broad clear forehead, made up a countenance such as is seldom seen and never forgotten; and to that face and form she might well have trusted to command admiration, had such been her object, without calling in "the foreign aid of ornament." Dress, however, and splendour had not been neglected, though her rich garments sat so easily upon her, that they seemed but the natural accompaniment of so much beauty, worn rather to harmonise with than to heighten the splendid loveliness of her face and person. Her whole apparel, except the mantle and the sleeves, was of the lightest kind of gold tissue, consisting of a small stripe of pink, and a still smaller one of gold. The bodice, or stays, was laced with gold; and the body, orcorps de robe, shaped not at all unlike those in use at present, came much higher over the bosom than was customary at a libertine court, and in a libertine age. The sleeves, which were large on the shoulders, and suddenly contracted till they fitted close to the round and beautiful arms, were of white satin, as was also the mantle, which round the edge was richly embroidered with pink and gold. Her girdle was of gold filigree worked upon white velvet; and through it was passed a chaplet of large pearls, with every now and then a sapphire or an emerald, to mark some particular prayer. Jewels were in her ears too, and on the bosom of her dress, though it was but mid-day; and in her hand she held one of the small black velvet masks, which the fair dames of those days very generally wore when in the streets, even in their carriages, under the pretence of guarding their complexions from the sun and wind, but, in fact, more for the sake of fashion than from over-tenderness, and often with views and purposes which might well shun the day.
The lady, however, who now entered, bore no appearance of one likely to yield to the luxurious softness, or the weak vices of the day. There was a light and a soul in her dark eyes, a play and a spirit about her ever-varying lip, a firmness and determination on her fine clear brow, that might, perhaps, speak of passion intense and strong, but could hardly admit the idea of weakness. As soon as Eugenie de Menancourt beheld her, she started up with a look of joy; and, advancing to meet her, pressed her kindly in her arms, exclaiming, "Dear, dear Beatrice! are you better at length? Why would you not let me see you?"
"Well! quite well now, Eugenie," replied the other, returning her embrace as warmly as it was given "but my illness, they said, was contagious; and why should I have suffered you to risk your valued and most precious life for such a one as I am?"
"Oh! and your life is precious too, Beatrice," replied her friend; "most precious to those who know you as well as I do."
"But how few do that, dearest friend!" replied Beatrice of Ferrara; for, strange as it may seem, it was she whose name has once before been mentioned in this work, who now stood beside Eugenie de Menancourt, on terms of the dearest intimacy and affection. "How few do that! Do you know, Eugenie, that I regard as one of the greatest and sweetest triumphs of my life, the having conquered all your prejudices against me; having won your love and your esteem, and taught you to know me as I am."
"But indeed, indeed, as I have often told you," replied Eugenie, "I had no prejudices against you."
"Nay, nay," replied the other, with a smile; "you beheld me surrounded by the profligate and the base; you beheld me mingling with the idle and the vain: you beheld the seducers and the seduced of a corrupt court worshipping this pretty painted idol that you see before you; and, doubtless, thought in your own secret heart that it was with pleasure that I bore it all."
"No, no, indeed," replied Eugenie; "quite the reverse! Wherever I went I heard you mentioned as the exception. The malicious and the scandalous were silent at your name; and not even the braggart idlers, whose vanity is fed by their own lies against our sex, ventured to say you smiled upon them."
"They dared not, Eugenie!" said Beatrice, her dark eye flashing as she spoke; "they dared not! There is not a minion in all France who would dare to cast a spot upon my name! Not because they fear to speak falsehood, be it as gross and glaring as the sun; but because they know I hold, that where the honour of Beatrice of Ferrara is assailed, she has as much right as any punctilious man in all the land to avenge herself as best she may. Nay, start not, dear friend! but send away your women, and let us have a few calm moments together, if the idle world will let us."
The women, who had been in attendance upon Eugenie de Menancourt, required no farther commands; but, the one laying down her book, and the other covering up her embroidery-frame, left the room.
"You started but now, Eugenie," continued Beatrice, advancing towards the little platform in the bay window, and seating herself beside her friend; "you started but now, when I said that women have as much right to avenge themselves, when their honour is assailed, as men; but I say so still--ay, and even more right. I have long thought so, and shall ever think so, Eugenie; though Heaven only knows how I should act, were such a case to happen. I might be as weak as women generally are, and let the traitor escape out of pure fear: but I think not, Eugenie--I think not. I believe that I would rather die the next minute after having avenged myself, than live on in the same world with one who had slandered that fair fame which, in spite of circumstances, and my own wild thoughtlessness, I have maintained unstained in the midst of this foul court."
"Nay, but consider, Beatrice," cried Eugenie, earnestly, "this world is not all."
"I know it well, sweet friend," replied Beatrice; "but I think, if there be pardon in heaven for any offence, it would be for that Men claim the right, and die without a fear; and why should not we have the same privilege? They, when their honour is assailed, could clear themselves without revenge; they could call their comrades to judge of their conduct; but, with us, the very whisper is destruction; and no proof of innocence ever gives us back that pure, untarnished name which is our only honour; we can have no exculpation, we can have no redress, and vengeance is all that is left us."
Eugenie was silent, and Beatrice gazed upon her, for a moment or two, with a smile, adding, at last, "But no--no, Eugenie, such thoughts and such feelings are not for you. Your nation, your education, your country, will not let you feel as I feel, or think as I think; and yet, Eugenie, we love each other," she added, twining her graceful arm through that of her fair friend, "and yet we love each other--is it not so?"
"Indeed, it is!" replied Eugenie de Menancourt, turning towards her with a warm smile. "Your company, your affection, your sympathy, dear Beatrice, have been my only consolations since I came within the walls of this hateful city; and all I wish is that I could on some points make you think as I do. I wish it selfishly, and yet for your sake, Beatrice; for, if I could succeed, I should not tremble every moment for your happiness and for your peace, as I do now."
"Thank you, thank you for the wish, dear friend!" replied Beatrice, with more melancholy than mirth in her smile; "thank you, most sincerely, for the wish! but still it is in vain. You can never, with all your kind eloquence, make a wild, ardent, passionate Italian girl, a calm, gentle, yielding being like yourself, all charity and half Huguenot. It is in vain, it is in vain. But you speak of happiness, Eugenie, as if I knew what happiness is. Now listen to me, and you shall hear more of Beatrice of Ferrara than ever you have yet done. There is a subject, I know, on which we have both thought often, and on which we have wished often to speak--I know it, Eugenie! I know it! I have heard it in half-spoken words; I have read it in your manner, and in your tone; I have seen it in your eyes--that, often, often, when we have talked of other scenes and other days, you have longed to ask what is Beatrice of Ferrara to Philip d'Aubin, and what is he to her? Nay, I dream not that you love him, Eugenie; I know better--I know that you love him not; and I feel that Philip d'Aubin, with all his splendid qualities, with all his energies of mind, and graces of person, is the last man on earth that Eugenie de Menancourt could love."
She paused a moment, gazed thoughtfully in her friend's face, and then, leaning her head upon Eugenie's shoulder, while she took her hand in hers, she added, in a low tone and with a deep sigh--"But it is not so with Beatrice of Ferrara!"
A bright blush rushed over her cheek, as she spoke the words which gave to her friend the full assurance of a fact that she had long suspected, perhaps we might say had long known; and she closed her dark bright eyes, as if to avoid seeing whatever expression that confession might call into the countenance of Eugenie. The moment after, however, she started up, exclaiming eagerly, "But mistake me not! mistake me not! I have not loved unsought; I have not called upon my head the well-deserved shame of being despised for courting him who loved me not. No, Eugenie, no! although the blood that flows in these veins may be all fire, yet in my heart there is a well of icy pride--at least, so he has often called it--which would cool the warm current of my love--ay, till it froze in death!--ere the name I bear should be stained even by such a pitiful weakness as that. No! he sought me, he courted me, he lived at my feet, till the proud heart was won. Yes, Eugenie, he lived at my feet, he seemed to feed upon my smiles, till, at length, ambition and interest opened wider views, and vanity was piqued to think that Eugenie de Menancourt could be dull to such high merits as his own----"
"If ambition and interest swayed him," said Eugenie;--but her friend interrupted her ere she could finish. "Hear me out!" she cried, "hear me out, Eugenie! Ambition and interest had much to do therewith. When I and my young brother first sought this court to find protection against the injustice of my father's brother, I possessed little but a small inheritance in France, the dowry of my mother. This he well knew; and though, if there be any truth on earth, he loved me, yet, with men, Eugenie, there are passions that make even love subservient--ambition, interest, vanity, Eugenie, are men's gods!"
"But is it possible, Beatrice," cried Mademoiselle de Menancourt, "that, thinking thus of all men, and of him in particular, you can either esteem or love him, or any of his race?"
"Oh, yes, Eugenie! oh, yes!" she replied. "Love is a tyrant--not a slave: we cannot bind him to the chariot wheels of reason; we cannot make him bow his neck beneath the yoke of judgment. On the contrary, we can but yield and obey. There is but one power on earth that can restrain him, Eugenie--Virtue! but everything else is vain. And, oh! how many ways have we of deceiving ourselves! The sun will cease to rise, Eugenie--summer and winter, night and day, forget their course, ere love, in the heart of woman, wants a wile to cheat her belief to what she wishes. Even now, Eugenie, even now, I believe and hope; and I fancy often that, though misled by things whose emptiness he will soon discover, the time will come when Love will re-assert his empire in a heart that is naturally noble. It may be all in vain!" she added, with a deep sigh; "it may be all in vain! yet, who would willingly put out the last faint, lingering flame that flickers on Hope's altar?"
"Not I!" said Eugenie, echoing her friend's sigh; "not I, indeed!--Would that he were worthy of you, Beatrice! Would that he were worthy of you!" she added, after a momentary pause; during which, perhaps, her mind was struggling back to the real subject of their conversation from some path of association, into which it had been led by her companion's last words. "Would that he were worthy of you! but if his fickle and wayward nature could never be endured by me, who can bear much, how much less would it suit you, Beatrice, who, I am afraid, are calculated to bear but little!"
"You know not how much I have already borne, Eugenie," replied Beatrice; "you know not how much love can bear: though, yes, perhaps you do," she added, in a lighter tone; "at least, there are those who know well how much--how very much--they could bear for love of Eugenie de Menancourt."
The warm blood spread red and glowing over Eugenie's fair face. "I know not whom you mean, Beatrice," she said, gravely: "I know none that love me; and few that are capable of loving at all--if you speak of men."
"Nay, ask me not his name!" said Beatrice, the gaiety of her tone increasing, as she marked, or thought she marked, a greater degree of confusion in her friend's countenance than the subject would have produced in other persons brought up regularly in the sweet and pleasant pastime of deceit. "Nay, ask me not his name! I am no maker of fair matches, nor half so politic, as this world goes, to endeavour to marry my friend to the first person that presents himself, solely to rid myself of the presence of her beauty."
"Nay, but dear Beatrice," replied Mademoiselle de Menancourt, "I know no one who has even seen that beauty, if so it must be called, for many a month: so indeed you are mistaken."
"Nay, nay, not so," answered Beatrice, smiling; "a few hours, a few minutes, a single instant, are enough, you know, Eugenie: and for the rest, indeed I am not mistaken. I would stake my life, from what I have seen--from signs infallible--that you are loved deeply, truly, with all the ardour of a first passion in a young--a very young heart."
"Pray God, it be not so!" cried Eugenie; "for it were but unhappiness to himself and to me."
"Are you so cold, then, Eugenie, that you cannot love?" asked Beatrice, with a smile; "or is that sweet heart occupied already by some one who fills it all?"
Eugenie smiled too, and shook her head; but there was once more a deep blush spread over her face; and though it might be but the generous flush of native modesty, Beatrice read in it a contradiction of her words, as she replied, "No, no, not so, indeed! Perhaps I may be cold; as yet I cannot tell, for no one has ever yet spoken to me of love whose love I could return. But, even could I do so, Beatrice, would it not be grief to both, as here I remain in the hands of others, unable to dispose of myself but as they please?"
"Out upon it, Eugenie!" cried Beatrice; "'tis your own fault if you are not your own mistress in an hour. Never was there a time in France when woman--the universal slave--was half so free."
"But what would you have me do?" demanded Eugenie. "With a thousand eyes constantly upon me, I see not how I could obtain more freedom, or dispose of myself, were I so inclined."
"As easy as sit here and sew," cried Beatrice. "Here is the King claims the disposal of your hand, and the League claims it too; and, between them both, you can give it to whom you will. Fly from Paris! Betake yourself where you will, but not to the court of Henry; for his tyranny might be greater than even that of the League. Then, make your choice. Give your hand to him you love; and be quite sure, that the party that your good lord shall join will sanction your marriage with all accustomed forms."
"But if I love no one?" said Eugenie, with a smile.
"Why then, live in single simplicity till you do," replied Beatrice, with an incredulous shake of the head. "But, at all events, fly from the yoke they now put upon you."
"Fly, Beatrice?" answered Eugenie; "fly, and how? How am I to fly, with a city beleaguered on all sides; a watchful Argus in the League, with its thousand eyes all round me: having none to guide me, and not knowing where to go;--how am I to fly?"
"By a thousand ways," answered her friend, laughing at her embarrassment. "Change your dress, in the first place: put on a petticoat of crimson satin embroidered with green, together with a black velvet body and sleeves, cut in the fashion of the Duchess of Valentinois, of blessed memory!--a cloak of straw-coloured silk, acapucheof light blue cloth broidered with gold, a mass of grey hair under a black cap, and avertugadinof four feet square. Dress yourself thus, and call yourself Madame la Presidente de Noailles; and, by my word, the guards will let you pass all the gates, and thank God to get rid of you! Or, if that does not suit you, take the gown and bonnet of a young advocate," she continued in the same gay tone; "hide those pretty lips and that rounded chin under a false beard from Armandi's; and be very sure the guards would as soon think of stopping you as they would of stopping the prince of darkness, who, after all, is the real governor of this great city. Nothing keeps you here but fear, my Eugenie! Why, I will undertake to go in and out twenty times a day, if I please."
"Ay, but you have a bolder heart than I have," answered Eugenie de Menancourt; "and I know full well, Beatrice, that a thing which, executed with a good courage, is done with ease, miscarries at the first step when it is attempted by timidity and fear. The very thought of wandering through the gates of Paris alone makes me shrink."
"But I will go with you, Eugenie," replied Beatrice, "and will answer for success whenever you like to make the attempt."
Eugenie paused, and thought for several moments, fixing her fine eyes upon vacancy with a faint smile and a longing look, as if she would fain have taken advantage of her friend's proposal, yet dared not make the attempt. "Not yet, dear Beatrice--not yet!" she answered: "I dare not, indeed, unless some sharp necessity happens to give me temporary courage. As long as they refrain from urging me to wed one I can never love, and from pressing on me any other in his room, so long will I stay where I am."
"But see that your decision come not too late, Eugenie," answered her friend. "They may soon begin to press you on the subject; and, when once they find you reluctant, they may take measures to prevent your flight."
"I do not think they will press me," answered Eugenie. "First, in regard to Philip d'Aubin, they will never favour him, as he is of the party of the King; and, in regard to any other, they know full well that I could, if I would, urge my father's promise to him."
"But you would not do it!" exclaimed Beatrice.
"No, Beatrice, no!" answered Eugenie, laying her hand kindly upon hers; "no, I would rather die!"
"But hear me," said Beatrice, somewhat eagerly; "think of all that may happen. A thousand things may tempt D'Aubin to quit the royal party. He may come over to the League--he may urge your father's promise--he may obtain the sanction of Mayenne:--what will you do then?"
"Fly to the farthest corner of the earth," replied Eugenie, "sooner than fulfil a promise that was none of mine, and against which my whole heart revolts on every account. Listen, Beatrice; I do believe that, in the moment of need, I shall not want courage, and certainly shall not want resolution. Should I have any reason to fear compulsion, but too often used of late, I will take counsel with none but you; you shall guide me as you think fit, and I will fly anywhere, rather than give my hand to one I cannot love."
"Write me but five words," replied Beatrice, "write me 'Come to me with speed,' and send it by a page when you want assistance, and doubt not but I will find means to deliver you, were you at the very altar. But, hark! I hear steps upon the staircase, and horses before the house; and I must resume all my bold and haughty bearing, and put on the mask, which I have laid aside to Eugenie de Menancourt alone."
As she spoke, she drew her chair a little further from that of her friend; and, placing it in the exact position which the ceremonious intercourse of that day pointed out, she remained with the glove drawn off from one fair hand, which, dropping gracefully over the arm of thefauteuil, continued to hold her small black mask, twirling it as listlessly round and round as ever the fair hand of fashionable dame in our own days played with a glove, to show her skin's whiteness or her brilliant rings. Eugenie de Menancourt's eyes sought the door with an expression of anxiety; but Beatrice, on the contrary, gazed vacantly through the window towards the buildings on the opposite side of the river; and the visitors had entered the room, and were already speaking to her friend, before she appeared to be conscious of their presence, or condescended to notice them. Turning her head at length, she fixed her eyes upon a square-built, powerful man, with a somewhat heavy, but not unpleasing, countenance; who, richly dressed, and followed by two or three gentlemen, in a more gay and smart, but not more magnificent, costume, was speaking to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, with all that courteous respect which chivalrous times, then just passing away, had left behind them.
"Good morrow, my lord Duke!" said Beatrice, as the visitor turned towards her: "I anticipated not the pleasure of seeing your Highness here to day. Good faith! have you so much ease in a beleaguered city, as to exercise your horses in visiting ladies before noon? On my honour, I will be a soldier, for 'tis the idlest life I know, and only fit for a woman."
"I came but to ask briefly after your fair friend's health," replied the Duke; "and knew not that I should have to risk with you, gay lady, one of our old encounters of sharp words. I trust, however, your health is better."
"Did you ever see me look more beautiful, Duke of Mayenne?" asked Beatrice, with a gay toss of her head; "and can you ask if I am ill? But as to myfriend'shealth, if you would that she should be well, and keep well, let her go out of Paris, home to her own dwelling; and keep her not here, where one is surrounded, night and day, with the sound of cannon and arquebuses. Do you intend that it should be said, in future, that carrying on the war against women and children was first introduced into modern Europe by the Duke of Mayenne and the Catholic League, that you keep a lady here a close prisoner in your beleaguered capital?"
"Not as a prisoner, fair lady," answered the Duke of Mayenne; "God forbid that either I or she should look upon her situation as one of imprisonment; but, being lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and, consequently, her lawful guardian and protector, till marriage gives her a better, I should be wanting both in duty and in courtesy, were I to leave her in a distant and distracted province, in a time of unfortunate civil war."
"Well explained and justified, my good lord Duke," cried Beatrice, who, both in right of rank and beauty, treated the ambitious leader of the League as equal to equal. "And yet, after all, my lord, has not that same marriage that you mention some small share in your tenacious kindness? Did you ever hear, my lord, of a rat-catcher giving the rats the bait out of his trap, from pure affection for the heretic vermin?"
The Duke of Mayenne first reddened, and then smiled; either more amused than angry at the gay flippancy of his fair opponent, or judging it best, at least, to appear so. "Your similes savour of a profession that I know not, fair lady," he replied; "but if you mean, Lady Beatrice, that hereafter I may dispose of your fair friend's hand in such a manner as seems to me most conducive towards her happiness--if you mean that," he repeated, in a marked tone, "I deny not that you are right. Yet I would fain know who has a better right to do so than the lieutenant-general of the kingdom?"
"Oh! no one, surely!" answered Beatrice, in the same tone of mingled pride and gaiety--"no one, surely, my lord, except the King of that kingdom, or the poor frightened girl herself."
"Come, come, fair lady," cried Mayenne, laughing; "you carry your jest so far, that I will bid you take care what you say farther, lest I should dispose of your hand for you, too, for the purpose of showing you--to use your own figure--that I have more baits than one to my rat-trap."
"Indeed, lord Duke, you count wrongly, if you reckon that I am one," replied Beatrice. "You know too well that the task would neither be a very safe nor very easy one, to try to wed me to any one against my will. You may be lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and I, for one--being not of this kingdom, and thinking much better of you than of the crowned Vice at St. Cloud--will not deny your right; but you are not lieutenant-general of Beatrice of Ferrara; and you might find it more difficult to govern her than half the realm of France; and so, good morrow! Love me, Eugenie; and do not let these men persuade you that they are half such powerful and terrible things as they would make themselves appear. Fare you well!"
Each of the gentlemen in the prince's suite stepped forward to offer his hand to the gay, proud beauty, whose tone of light defiance had something in it more attractive to the general youth of those excited times, than all the retiring graces and gentle modesty of Eugenie de Menancourt. Beatrice scarcely noticed them while her friend took leave of her, but as soon as the embrace was over, she ran her eye over the three or four cavaliers who stood round, and, singling out one, gave him her hand, saying, "My lord of Aumale, I believe you are the only one here present, except my lord Duke, who never whispered that you loved me; and therefore I doubt not that youdolove me enough to--hand me to my carriage."
The young noble, to whom she addressed herself, answered with all those professions which the formal gallantry of the day not only permitted, but required, and led her down to the rudely formed, but richly decorated, vehicle, which was the carriage of those days.
In the meanwhile, Eugenie de Menancourt remained waiting in some suspense, to hear the real object of the visit paid her by the Duke of Mayenne, the purport of which she could not conceive was merely to inquire after her health. Whether, however, the great leader of the League judged that his conversation with Beatrice of Ferrara was not the most favourable prelude to anything he had to say to the young heiress, or whether he really came but to trifle away a few minutes in a visit of ceremony, it is certain that he said nothing which could induce Eugenie to imagine that he had any immediate view of pressing her to a marriage with any one. After spending about ten minutes in ordinary conversation, upon general and uninteresting subjects, and expressing many a wish for the comfort and welfare of his fair ward, as he did not fail to style Mademoiselle de Menancourt, Mayenne rose, and left her to the enjoyment of solitude and her own reflections, which, for the time, were sweetened by the hope, that the evils to which her situation might ultimately give rise were yet remote.