The carriage which contained Beatrice of Ferrara rolled on with slow and measured pace through the narrow and tortuous streets of old Paris, till at length, as it was performing the difficult man[oe]uvre of turning a sharp angle, it was encountered by a small party of horsemen, in the simple garments of peace, which, at that warlike period, was a less common occurrence than to see every one who could bear them clad in grim arms. The right of staring into carriages, when the velvet curtains were withdrawn, was already established in Paris; and it needed but a brief glance to make the principal cavalier of the group draw in his bridle rein, beckon the coachman to stop, and, springing to the ground, approach theportiereof the vehicle wherein Beatrice was placed. As usual in those days, she was not alone; but, while a number of lackeys graced the outside of her carriage, two or three female attendants were seated in the interior of the machine, leaving still a space within its ample bulk for many another, had it been necessary. More than one pair of eyes were thus upon her; and yet Beatrice, though brought up in a court--where feelings themselves were nearly reckoned contraband, and all expression of them prohibited altogether--could not repress the very evident signs of agitation which the approach of that cavalier occasioned. Her cheek reddened, her breathing became short, and she sank back upon the embroidered cushions of the carriage, as if she would fain have avoided the meeting. The agitation lasted but a moment, however; and as soon as he spoke, she was herself again: perhaps gaining courage from seeing that his own cheek was flushed, and that his own voice trembled as he addressed her.
"A thousand, thousand pardons, lady!" he said, standing bareheaded by the door, "for stopping your carriage in the streets; but these unfortunate wars have rendered it so long since we have met, that most anxious am I----!"
"My lord Count d'Aubin," replied Beatrice, raising her head proudly, "the time of your absence from Paris has not seemed to me so long as to make me rejoice that it is at an end!"
"I have no right to expect another answer," replied D'Aubin, in a low voice; "and yet, Beatrice, perhaps I could say something in my own defence."
"Which I should be most unwilling to hear," replied the lady, coldly. "I doubt not, sir Count, that you can say much in your own defence: I never yet knew man that could not, but a plain idiot, or one born dumb. But what is your defence to me? I am neither your judge nor your accuser. If your own heart charges you with ambition, or avarice, or falsehood, plead your cause with it, and, doubtless, you will meet with a most lenient judge. Will you bid the coachman drive on, sir? this is a foolish interruption, and a narrow street."
"Oh, Beatrice!" exclaimed the Count d'Aubin, piqued by her coldness, "at least delay one moment, till you tell me you are well and happy: I have just heard that you have been ill--very ill."
"I have, sir," she replied; "I caught the fever that was prevalent here; but I am well again, as you see, and should be perfectly happy, if I did not hear King Henry's artillery above once a week, and if people would not stop my carriage in the streets."
"And is that all you will say to me, Beatrice?" asked the Count, in the same low tone which he had hitherto used--"is that all you will say, after all that has passed?"
"I know nothing, sir, that has passed between us," replied Beatrice aloud, "except that once or twice, in a fit of wine or folly, you vowed that you loved Beatrice of Ferrara better than life, or wealth, or rank, or station; and that she received those vows as she has done a thousand others, from a thousand brighter persons than Philip Count d'Aubin, namely, as idle words, which foolish men will speak to foolish women, for want of better wit and more pleasant conversation; as words which you had probably spoken to a hundred others, before you spoke them to me, and which you will yet, in all probability, speak to a hundred more, who will believe them just as much as I did, and forget them quite as soon. Once more, sir, then, will you order the coachman to drive on, or let me do so, and retire from the wheel, lest it strike you, and the Catholic League lose a valiant convert by an ignoble death?"
"Nay, there at least you do me wrong!" replied the Count d'Aubin: "the Catholic League has no convert in me; I am here, under a safe conduct, on matters of no slight importance to my good cousin St. Real: but to his Majesty will I adhere, so long as he and I both live!"
"Indeed!" cried Beatrice, with a light laugh. "Is there anything in which the fickle Count d'Aubin will not be fickle? Nay, nay, make no rash vows; remember, you have not yet heard all the golden arguments which his Highness, the lieutenant-general of the kingdom and the League can hold out. Suppose he offer you the hand of some rich heiress; could you resist, sir Count? could you resist?"
D'Aubin coloured, perhaps because Beatrice had gone deeper into the secrets of his inmost thoughts than he felt agreeable. He answered, however, boldly, "I could resist anything against my honour."
"Honour!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a scoff: "honour! Marguerite, tell the coachman to drive on. Honour!"
D'Aubin drew back, with an air at once of pain and anger, made a silent sign to the coachman to proceed, and, springing on his horse, galloped down the street, followed by his attendants, at a pace which risked their own necks upon the unequal causeway of the town, and which certainly showed but little consideration for the safety of the passengers. The emotions of Philip d'Aubin, however, were such as did not permit of consideration for himself or others. He felt himself condemned, and he believed himself despised, by the only woman that, perhaps, he had ever truly loved. The better feelings of his heart, too, rose against him: he knew that his conduct was ungenerous; and he felt that, had the time been one when faith and honour towards woman were aught but mere names, his behaviour would have been dishonourable in the eyes of mankind, as well as in the stern code of abstract right and wrong: and unhappy is the man who has no other means of justifying himself to his own heart but by pleading the follies and vices of his age. D'Aubin did plead those follies and vices, however, and he pleaded them successfully, so far as in soon banishing reflection went; but there was a sting left behind, which was the more bitter, perhaps, as mortified vanity had no small share in the pain that he suffered. He had believed that he could not so soon be treated with scorn and indifference; he had fancied that his hold on the heart of Beatrice of Ferrara was too strong to be shaken off so easily; and though he had no definite object in retaining that hold, though other passions had for the time triumphed over affection, and placed a barrier between himself and her which he was not willing to overleap, yet still the lingering love that would not be banished was wounded by her bitter tone; and, joined to humbled pride and offended vanity, made his feelings aught but pleasing.
In the meantime, the carriage of Beatrice of Ferrara bore her on with a heart in which sensations as bitter were thronging; though, as we have seen in her conversation with Eugenie de Menancourt, her feelings towards her lover were less keen and scornful than her words might lead him to believe. On the state of her bosom, however, there is no necessity to dwell here, as many an occasion will present itself for explaining it in her own words; and it may be better, also, to let her thus speak for herself, because in endeavouring to depict abstractedly, by means of cold descriptions, that varying and chameleon-like thing, the human heart, one is often led into seeming contradictions, from the infinite variety of hues which it takes, according to the things which surround it.
The carriage rolled on and entered the court-yard of the splendid mansion in which she dwelt. Here Beatrice alighted; but she did not go into the house, for a hand-litter or chair,--one of the most ancient of French conveyances,--waited under the archway, as if prepared by her previous order, with its two bearers, and a single armed attendant; and this new conveyance received her as soon as she set foot out of the other. The door was immediately closed, and the blinds, filled with their small squares of painted glass, were drawn up, Beatrice merely saying to the attendant who stood beside her as she shut out the gaze of the passers-by, "To Armandi's!"
The bearers instantly lifted their burden, and began their course at the same peculiar trot which has probably been the pace of chair-men in all ages; nor from this did they cease or pause till they reached one of the most showy, if not one of the richest, shops in the city. Standing forth from the building, under a little projecting penthouse, to secure the wares against both sun and rain, was along range of glass cases, containing every sort of cosmetic then in vogue, from the plain essence of violets, wherewith the simple burgher's wife perfumed her robe of ceremony, to the rich ointment compounded from a thousand rare ingredients, wherewith the King himself masked his own effeminate countenance against the night air whilst he slept. Behind these cases was the shop itself, hanging in which might be seen a crowd of various objects for the gratification of vanity and luxury,--the black velvet mask, or loupe, the embroidered and many-coloured gloves, the splendid hair-pins and enamelled clasps, the girdles of gold and silver filigree and precious stones, together with many another part of dress or ornament, some full of grace and taste, some fantastic and absurd, and some scarcely within the bounds of common decency. Beyond the shop, again, but separated from it by a partition of glass, covered in the inside with curtains of crimson silk, was the inner shop, or most private receptacle for all those peculiarly rich or fragile wares which Armandi, the famous perfumer of that day, did not choose to expose, to tempt cupidity, or lose their freshness, in the more exposed parts of his dwelling. Here, too, report whispered, were concealed those drugs and secret preparations, his skill in compounding which, it was said, had been much more the cause of his great favour with Catherine de Medicis than his art as a perfumer, which was the ostensible motive of her calling him from Italy to take up his abode in her husband's capital. However this might be, certain it is that, after the sudden death of the Queen of Navarre, the suspicions of the Huguenots turned strangely against Armandi, to whose diabolical skill they very generally attributed the loss of their beloved princess: and it is more than probable that he would have fallen a victim to their indignation, whether just or unjust, had not the horrors of St. Bartholomew shortly after delivered him from the presence of his adversaries in Paris.
Nevertheless, although suspicion might be strong, and the man's character as infamous as such suspicions could render it, yet the shop of Armandi was not less the resort of the beautiful and the fair, and even of the gentle and good: for it is most extraordinary how far female charity will extend towards those who contribute to the gratification of vanity and satisfy the thirst for novelty. The newest fashions, the most beautiful objects of art and luxury, the freshest and most costly rarities were nowhere to be found but at his shop; and no one chose to believe that Armandi dealt in poisons--but those who wanted them.
Thither, then, the chair, orlitiere encaissee, as it was called, of Beatrice of Ferrara, was borne at an hour when the greater part of the gay Parisians were busy with that employment which few people love better, namely, that of eating the good things which their own gastronomic art produces. The bearers halted not at the steps which led into the shop, but proceeded till the chair was brought parallel to a door in the partition, between the outer and the inner chamber, so that she could pass at once from the one into the other. Her countenance, however, bore but little the expression of one going to buy trinkets, or to amuse oneself by turning over the light frivolities of such a place as that in which she stood. The usual fire of her eye was somewhat quelled, and a degree of melancholy, perhaps of anxiety, unusual with her at any time, had, since her meeting with the Count d'Aubin, pervaded her whole countenance. The doors of the partition and that of the chair had been both thrown open as soon as the gilded lions' feet of the latter touched the floor, and there stood the Signor Armandi, dressed in silks and velvets of rose colour and sky blue, with his mustachio turning up almost to his eyes, and a small jewelled dagger occupying the place of the sword, which his calling did not permit him to wear in Paris. His face was dressed in sweet complacent smiles; and, as he bowed three times to the very ground before his lovely visiter, his head was certainly "dropping odours;" for no one held his own perfumes in higher veneration than he did himself.
"Enchanted and honoured are my eyes to see you once again, lady most fair and chaste!" said he, in high-flown Italian. "I heard that you had been upon that sad couch, where the head is propped by the thorns of sickness, rather than by the roses of love."
"Hush, hush, Armandi!" cried Beatrice, with an impatient wave of the hand; "you should know me better than to speak such trash to me. I neither use your cosmetics, nor will hear your nonsense. I have come upon more weighty matters."
"For whatever you have come, most beautiful of the beautiful," replied the other, affecting to subdue his exalted tone; "you have come to command, and I am here to obey. Speak! your words are law to Armandi."
"When followed by the necessary seal of gold, I know they are," answered Beatrice, gravely. "Now hear me, then. I wish--I wish--" she paused and hesitated, and the perfumer, accustomed to receive communications of too delicate a nature to bear the coarse vehicle of language, hastened to aid her.
"You wish, perhaps," he said, in a soft voice, "to see some friend, and require the magical influence of Armandi to bring him to your presence----"
"Out, villain!" cried Beatrice, her eyes flashing fire. "For whom do you take me, pitiful slave? Do you fancy yourself speaking to Clara de Villefranche, or Marguerite de Tours en Brie, or, higher still in rank and infamy, Marguerite de Valois? Out, I say! Talk not to me of such things;--I wish--I wish--"
"Perhaps you wish to see some friend no more," said the soft voice of the perfumer, apparently not in the least offended by the hard terms she had given him, and equally disposed to do her good and uncompromising service of any kind. "Perhaps you wish the magical influence of Armandi to remove from your sight some one who has been in it too long, and troubles you?"
A bitter and painful smile played round the beautiful lips of Beatrice of Ferrara, while, bowing her head slowly, she replied, after a moment's thought, "Perhaps I do."
"Then I am right at last," said Armandi, softly, rubbing his hands together. "I am right at last; and you have nothing to do, fair lady, but to name the person, and the time, and the manner, and it shall be done to your full satisfaction; though I must hint that all the preparations for rendering disagreeable people invisible are somewhat expensive; and the amount depends greatly upon the mode. Would you have it slow and quietly, that he or she should disappear? That is the best and easiest plan, and also the least expensive--for there is the less risk."
"No!" replied Beatrice, firmly, "I would have it act at once--in a moment, and so potently, that no physician on the earth can find skill sufficient to undo that which has been done."
"Of the latter be quite sure," replied the perfumer. "But with regard to the former, it is much more dangerous, as a sudden catastrophe leads instantly to examination. Now, a few drops of sweetaqua tophanahas its calm and tranquillizing effects so gradually, that no doubt or suspicion is awakened; and you can surely wait patiently for a month, or a fortnight, to give it time to act?"
"You mistake," replied Beatrice, thoughtfully; "you mistake: yet say, how are such things managed? Let me hear, that I may judge."
"Why, lady," replied Armandi, with a mysterious smile, "there are secrets in all things on this earth, from the fine composition of a lady's heart, to the simples of poor Armandi. Nevertheless, although the mysteries of the art must remain hidden in my own bosom, as I enjoy the blessing of having been born in the same land with one so beautiful, and as I know that you were deeply beloved by my late royal and honoured mistress, though somewhat frowning on the soft pleasures of her court, I will, without reserve, reveal to you how your purpose may be best effected."
Thus saying, he took a small silver key from his pocket, and opened a Venetian cabinet, that stood near. "See here!" he said, producing a small gilded phial, containing, apparently, a quantity of a perfectly limpid fluid; "see here! the water that Adam found in the first fountain he met in Eden was not more clear than this; and yet the fruit of the tree that stood near it was not more certain death. No odour is to be discerned therein: to the eye it has no colour; to the lip no taste; and yet, like many another thing, with all this seeming simplicity, it is the most potent of all things, having power unlimited over life and death. Three drops of this, in the simplest beverage, will ensure that slow and gradual decay, which, at the end of a year, shall leave him who drinks it a clod in his mother earth. A larger dose will shorten the time by one half; and a larger still will reduce the time to a few weeks or days. The only difficulty is how to give it: but that I will find means for when I know the person."
"It will not do!" replied Beatrice; "it will not do! it is not quick enough. Have you no other means?"
"Many, lady! many!" replied the perfumer, smiling; "but, in good sooth, you are as impatient as a young lover. All our art has been tasked to render the means at once slow and secure, so as, in cases of necessity, to effect our deliverance from enemies without calling suspicion on ourselves. See here! this artificial rose, so like the natural flower, that the eye must be keen, indeed, which, at the distance of half a yard, could detect the difference. The scent, too, is the same----"
"But why do you keep it under that glass ball?" demanded Beatrice, interrupting the long description with which he was proceeding.
"Because, lady," replied the Italian, "that rose, placed in as fair a bosom as your own, and worn there for one half-hour, would lose its scent, and the wearer health and life within a week. Its odour, therefore, is too valuable to trust to the common air."
"And those gloves?" asked Beatrice; "those gloves, so beautifully embroidered, for what purpose are they designed?"
"Heaven forbid that I should see them on your hands!" replied Armandi; "though I have heard that they were once worn by a queen--who is since dead. But you spoke of quicker means. Here is this small box of powder, containing a certain salt that, in the twinkling of an eye, extinguishes the fire of the heart, and the light of the mind, and leaves nothing but the ashes behind. We often use it, diluted with other things, for other purposes; but I would not administer one dose of that, to any one of note, for a less sum than ten thousand golden Henrys, though the whole box is scarcely worth a hundred crowns. But so quick is its effect, and so marked the traces that it leaves behind, that the chirurgeon were a fool who did not at once pronounce the cause of death in him who took it."
"Give me yonbonbonnière," said Beatrice, pointing to a painted trifle on one of the tables. "And now," she continued, as the man gave it her, "is that enough for one dose?" and as she spoke, she emptied part of the powder from the box which contained it into thebonbonnière--"Is that enough for one dose?"
"It is enough to kill the King's army!" replied the man. "But what mean you, lady? What do you intend to do?"
"The person for whom I mean this drug," replied Beatrice, "shall receive it from no hands but my own. You shall risk nothing. There is a jewel, worth one half your shop," she added, drawing a ring from her finger, and casting it upon the table; "and the powder is mine."
"But, lady! lady!" cried the perfumer, regarding the diamond with eager and experienced eyes, and yet trembling for the consequences which his fair visitor's strong passions might bring upon himself; "but, lady, if you should be discovered! You are young and inexperienced in such matters. They must be performed with a calm hand, and a steady eye, and an unquivering lip: and if you should be discovered, and put to the torture, you would betray me."
"However I may contemn thee, man," answered Beatrice, "there is no power on earth that could make me betray thee. But rest satisfied; I take the powder from thee, whether thou wilt or not;--but I will make thee easy, and tell thee, that if one grain thereof ever passes any human lip, that lip will be my own. It is well to be prepared for all things--to have ever at hand a ready remedy for all the ills of life--to possess the means of snatching ourselves from the grasp of circumstance: and, in the path which I may be called to tread, the time may well come when I shall wish to change this world for another. I leave to better moralists to decide whether it be right or not, courageous or cowardly, to shake off a life that we are tired of. For my part, I will bear it to the utmost; and, when I can endure it no longer, then will I try another path."
"If such be your purpose, lady," answered the perfumer, with a sweet smile, and a low inclination, "far be it from me to oppose you. Every one, as you say, should be prepared for all things; and I hold that man not half prepared who does not possess the means of limiting the power his enemies have over him to simple death, a fate that all must undergo. Men think far too much of death: it is but cutting off a few short hours from a long race of pain and anxiety: far oftener is it a mercy than a wrong. Men think too much of death!"
"You think little enough of it in others, at least," answered Beatrice, looking upon him with curiosity and hate, not unmingled with that peculiar kind and degree of admiration, which wonder always more or less produces. "Have I not heard that you were busy amongst the busiest on the night of St. Bartholomew?"
"Not I, lady! not I!" exclaimed the perfumer, with a look of disgust and horror at the very name of that fearful massacre. "Not I, indeed! not for the world would I have borne a part, either in that shameful affair, or in the late brutal murder of the great Duke and the Cardinal de Guise."
"Why, how now!" cried Beatrice. "Would you, who hold life so lightly, and take it so carelessly from others; would you affect scruples at slaying those you consider heretics, or at putting away ambitious tyrants?"
"Lady, you mistake it altogether," answered the dealer in poisons, with a grim smile. "The Huguenots are heretics, and damnable heretics, since such is your good pleasure and the Pope's: but in that capacity I have nought to do with them. The Guises were tyrants if you will; though Heaven forbid that any ears but yours should hear me say so! But they tyrannised not over me. What I objected to, was the manner of the thing; and it is the manner that, in this world, makes the only difference between crime and virtue. What is murder in one manner, is war and glory in another; what is fraud in a merchant, is skill in a minister; what is base when done in a burgher's coat and with a simpering smile, is noble when done in royal robes and with a kingly frown. Now, what could be more beastly, or brutal, or indecent, than to cut the throats of some hundreds of men in their beds, stain all their pillows with blood, and throw the old admiral himself, half-naked, out of a window? What could be more cruel than to put them for hours in mortal terror; inflict upon them excruciating wounds, and, in some instances, leave them half dead, half-living, when the whole might have been effected without pain, without fear, without bloodshed, in the midst of some gay banquet, or some pleasant carouse: where they would all have died as if they were going to sleep! Nay, nay, lady! our late royal mistress made there a great and a cruel mistake; and as for the Guises--Pho! was ever anything so stupid and so filthy as to swim the King's own closet with gore, and have a man reeling and tumbling about in the midst, under the strokes of half-a-dozen daggers! I cannot conceive how the King, who is as delicate a gentleman as any in all France, could consent to such an indecency."
Beatrice of Ferrara listened, but she thought deeply too; for there was something in the character of the man who spoke--such a blending of frivolity and foppery with cold-blooded villany, that it led her thoughts far on into the wilds of speculation; and was not without its moral for herself. She saw, from his example, how easy it is for any one to persuade oneself of anything on earth, however much opposed to reason, or to virtue. She saw that there are no bounds to self-deceit, that it is illimitable, and that there was never yet a crime so base, so horrible, so revolting, for which it will not find a pleasant mask and a gay robe;--she saw it, and she began to doubt whether all her own reasonings in regard to self-destruction had not derived their strength from the same source. She resolved that, ere she ever thought again of attempting such an act, she would consider well, and scrutinise her own feelings minutely; but still, with the usual weakness of human nature, she would not lose her hold upon the means of doing that which she more than half believed to be wrong. Without replying to the perfumer's dissertation, she turned thoughtfully towards the door; but, as she did so, she took the poison which she had purchased from the table, and concealed it in her bosom.
Armandi hastened to open the door between the inner and the outer shop, and, with low reverence, presented the tips of his delicate fingers to lead the lady to her chair; but at that very moment the clatter of many horses' feet, and the rush and murmur of a passing crowd, made them both pause, and turn their eyes towards the street. The matter did not remain long unexplained. A considerable body of those mercenary soldiers, who, from their blackened arms, were called the black reitters, were passing along before the house: but their march through the streets of Paris was so common an occurrence, that it would have attracted no crowd to gaze, in the present instance, had not some additional circumstance given another kind of interest to their appearance on this occasion. In the midst of them, however, well mounted, but disarmed, appeared a handsome and noble-looking young man--no other than the Marquis of St. Real--followed by about twenty retainers, also disarmed, and bearing those black scarfs which were, at that time, symbols of military mourning. There was nothing either depressed or anxious in the countenance of St. Real; and he gazed about at the many interesting objects which the streets of the capital presented, with the calm and inquiring glance of a person mentally at ease: but, at the same time, on either side of the file in which he and his followers rode, appeared a body of the reitters, with their short matchlocks rested on their knees, their hands upon the triggers, and their matches lighted; evidently showing, that those they guarded were brought into Paris in the condition of prisoners.
The moment this spectacle met her eyes, Beatrice of Ferrara called to the armed attendant who had accompanied her chair, and who, like his mistress, had now turned to gaze upon the cavalcade as it passed by. "Quick!" she cried, "follow them quick, Bertrand! follow them quick, and leave them not till you see their prisoner safely lodged. Make sure of the place, and then bring all the tidings you can gather to me."
The servant, accustomed to comprehend and to obey at once the orders of a mistress whose mind was itself as rapid as the lightning, sprang from the door, without a word, and, mingling in the crowd, followed the reitters on their way. Beatrice remained in silence till the last had passed, and then, entering her chair, was borne back to her own dwelling.
We must now turn to trace the proceedings of Philip Count d'Aubin, who, riding on at full speed, drew not his bridle rein till he reached the magnificent Hotel de Guise; where, pushing through the mingled crowd of attendants and petitioners, that swarmed, round theporte cochereof the dwelling, in which, for the time, resided all the power of Paris, if not of France, he advanced, with hasty steps and abstracted look, to the foot of the great staircase. He had even proceeded some way up the stairs ere he noticed, or even seemed to hear, the reiterated inquiries regarding his name and business, which were addressed to him by the various grooms and porters in his progress. When, at length--called for a moment from his fit of absence--he did condescend to speak, he merely mentioned his name, without indicating in any manner which of the many persons that the house contained was the object of his present visit.
Although unacquainted with his person, the valet, who had at length obtained an answer, happening to recall some of the court scandal of former times, instantly, by an association not unnatural, connected the coming of the Count d'Aubin with the presence of the Duchess de Montpensier, the sister of the Duke de Mayenne, in the house at that moment; and he proceeded forthwith to show the Count to her apartments. D'Aubin entered the splendid saloon in which the Duchess was sitting with the same thoughtful and abstracted air which had been left behind by the strong and turbulent passions, that had just been excited in his bosom by his interview with Beatrice of Ferrara. Madame de Montpensier, surrounded by a group of the gay idlers of the capital, who even at that time mingled in their character that degree of levity and ferocity which marked with such dreadful traits the first French revolution, was engaged in the seemingly puerile employment of cutting out a paper crown with a huge pair of scissors, the sheath of which, black, coarse, and disfiguring, was passed through the silken girdle that spanned her beautiful waist.
Shouts of laughter were ringing through the hall, when the valet opened the door, and announced the Count d'Aubin. The Duchess instantly looked up, with a smile of pleasure; but, remarking the ruffled aspect of the Count, she instantly exclaimed--"Why, how now, D'Aubin! how now! After so long an absence, do you come back to our feet, not like a penitent suing for pardon, but rather like a harsh husband, full of scoldings and tempests?"
The cause of those gloomy looks, which she remarked, was not one which Philip d'Aubin would willingly have communicated to the gay, satirical Duchess de Montpensier, who, to the libertine freedom common to the whole court, added many a wily art, and many a vindictive passion, derived from the angry political factions of the time. The immediate cause of his visit to Paris, however, afforded him a ready motive to assign for his dark brow and agitated look. "Well may I be disturbed, madam," he replied, after a hasty word of salutation, "when my noble cousin, St. Real, confiding in an authentic pass, from the hands of your Highness's brother, has been entrapped in the neighbourhood of Senlis, and is now, as I am informed, a prisoner in Paris!"
"Nay, but why bear such a countenance into our presence, Count d'Aubin?" rejoined the Duchess; "I am guiltless of entrapping your cousin, or of even trying to entrap yourself; though, once upon a time," she added in a low tone, "I may have seen the Count d'Aubin a tassel not unwilling to be lured;" and she looked up at him with a glance in which reproach was so skilfully mingled with playfulness and tenderness, that D'Aubin, although he knew that full two-thirds of the pageant which daily played its part on her countenance, was mere artifice, could not refrain from smiling in his turn.
"Ever willing to be lured, dear lady, where the lure is fair!" he replied; "and though I certainly came to speak reproaches, they were not to you. I know not why your blockhead groom," he added, "brought me hither, unless he divined, indeed, how much the sight of your Highness softens all wrath. My business was with your brother, the Duke of Mayenne."
The Duchess muttered to herself--"That will never do! If he see Mayenne, he will spoil the whole! I appeal to you, fair ladies and gentlemen all," she exclaimed aloud, with one of those quick and happy turns of artifice, which no one knew better how to employ, "if this is not a high crime and misdemeanour in the court of love and gallantry, to tell a lady, whom he dare not deny to be fair, that he came for any other purpose on earth than to see herself?"
"Blasphemy! blasphemy! utter blasphemy!" cried half a dozen voices. "Judge him, fair lady, for his great demerits!"
"Philip d'Aubin!" exclaimed the Duchess, putting on a theatrical air, "you are condemned by your peers; but, under consideration of your having been thoroughly brutalized, by a two months' residence at the distance of a hundred leagues from Paris, we are inclined to show you lenity: kneel down here, then; humbly, at our feet, confess your crime! and swear upon this paper crown, which we have cut expressly for the royal Henry's head, never to commit the like iniquity again!"
D'Aubin had entered the apartment, not very well disposed to jest, but yet the feelings which had oppressed him were of such a nature, that he was quite willing to forget them; and the smiles of the Duchess de Montpensier, as well as the tone of tenderness she assumed towards him, together with the remembrance of many gay moments, spent in her society long before, made him gladly enough take up the part that she assigned him. Bending his knee gracefully before her, then, he made confession of his crime, declared his penitence, and, vowing, in the terms she had dictated, never to offend again, he stooped his head to kiss the paper crown which she held upon her knee. At the same moment the Duchess bent forward, as if to receive his vow, and, as she did so, she whispered, rapidly, "Stay with me, D'Aubin, and I will soon send these fools away."
The Count replied nothing, but rose; and, still holding the paper crown playfully in his hand, demanded, in his ordinary tone, what was the real intent and purpose of that fragile mockery of the royal symbol.
The Duchess saw that he had heard, understood, and was prepared to obey her whisper; and she replied, "'Tis exactly as I have told you, most incredulous of men. When, by the fate of war, or by the blessing of God, Henry, calling himself the Third, shall be brought in chains into Paris, it might be expected that the sister of the murdered Guise"--and as she spoke, her eye flashed for a moment with all the fiery spirit of her race;--"it might be supposed that the sister of the murdered Guise should not bound her wishes for revenge, till she saw the assassin's blood flow like water in the kennel. But she is more charitable, or, rather, he is too pitiful a thing to be worthy of severe punishment. With these scissors shall be cut off his royal locks, ere he quits the courtly world for the world of the cloister; and on his head shall he bear this crown, from the door of Notre Dame to the abbey of St. Denis, when he goes to take the vows that exclude him for ever from the world."
D'Aubin laughed. "So, this crown is for King Henry!" he exclaimed: "and have you never thought, madam, of cutting out another, from some different materials, for your noble brother of Mayenne?"
"It must be an iron crown, then," replied the Duchess, tossing her head proudly; "and he must hew it out for himself, with his good sword."
"Rather a Cyclopean labour," remarked D'Aubin; "rather a Cyclopean labour I suspect! especially since Harry of Valois, to whom you deny the crown, has chosen to turn up his hat with a Huguenot button."
"We shall see, we shall see!" replied the Duchess: "I know, sir Count, you laugh at all parties; so I understand not why you should cling so fondly to the rabble of accursed murderers and heretics, who lie out there at St. Cloud, like vipers in a garden."
D'Aubin laughed outright at the Duchess's vehemence, and reminded her that some of her near relations were amongst the rabble she so qualified.
"They are none the less vipers for that," she replied: and the conversation taking a turn neither very wise nor very decent, may as well be omitted in this place. It lingered on, however, from minute to minute, without the Duchess making any apparent effort to fulfil the promise she had made to D'Aubin, and send away the idlers by whom she was surrounded. Too long accustomed to the intriguing society of Paris, and too well acquainted with the character of the wily woman with whom he had now to deal, not to be armed at all points against every art and deception, D'Aubin began to suspect that the Duchess was trifling with him for some particular purpose, and was seeking to occupy him with other matters, till some moment of importance, to himself or his cousin, was irretrievably lost.
"Hark!" he exclaimed, as this thought crossed his mind; "there is the clock of St. Gervais striking one, and I must really seek my lord the Duke."
"I hear no clock," replied the Duchess--nor could she, for none had struck--"I hear no clock! But not yet, D'Aubin, not yet; I am not yet going to slip the jesses of myfaucon gentil, after having just recovered him from so long a flight. Stay you with me, D'Aubin, and I will send and see if my brother be within. You go, Mont-Augier," she added, turning to one of the young cavaliers, who instantly sprang to obey her; but, ere he reached the door, the Duchess, by a sudden movement, placed herself near him; and, while D'Aubin was for a moment occupied by some other person present, she said, in a low voice, "Do not return, do not return: we must keep the Count away from Mayenne, or they will together spoil some of our best schemes."
D'Aubin's eye turned upon her; and his quick suspicions might have gone far to counteract her purposes, had not Madame de Montpensier, almost as soon as Mont-Augier's back was turned, contrived, on various pretences, to dismiss the rest of her little court. Left thus alone with a fascinating and beautiful woman, who condescended to court his society, D'Aubin could not resist the temptation to trifle away with her half an hour of invaluable time, though he knew all her arts, and even suspected that, on the present occasion, they were employed against him for insidious purposes. He was on the watch, however, and, ere long, the clatter of many horses' feet in the court-yard caught his attention, and led him instantly to conclude that the Duke of Mayenne was about to go forth, without having seen him. It was now all in vain that Madame de Montpensier, who likewise heard the sounds, and attributed them to the same cause, endeavoured to occupy his attention by every little art of coquetry. D'Aubin started up, and, in gay, but resolute terms, expressed his determination of seeing the Duke ere he left the house.
To what evasion Madame de Montpensier would have had recourse, is difficult to say; but, ere she could reply, the door opened, and a lady entered, whom we will not pause here to describe. Suffice it, that she was the widow of the murdered Duke of Guise, and that, though her person wore the weeds, her face betrayed few of the sorrows, of widowhood.
"Catherine! Catherine!" she exclaimed, entering; "there is our slow brother of Mayenne just returned, and calling for you so quickly that one would think he were himself as nimble as Harry of Navarre."
"Returned! I knew not that he was absent!" replied the Duchess de Montpensier, with an air of irrepressible mortification, on finding that all her arts had been thrown away, and, instead of preventing D'Aubin from seeing her brother ere he went forth, had only tended to keep the Count there till he returned. A meaning smile, too, on the lip of D'Aubin, served to increase her chagrin; and she exclaimed, with a slight touch of pettish impatience in her tone, "Well, well, I go to him; and you, my fair sister, had better stay and console this tiresome man, till my return."
The Duchess of Guise saw that something had gone wrong; but D'Aubin laughed, and replied, as Madame de Montpensier turned towards the door, "May I request you to tell his Highness that the tiresome man waits an audience; and, as his business will be explained in few words, he will not detain the Duke so long as he has detained Madame de Montpensier,--or as, perhaps, I might say, more truly, Madame de Montpensier has detained him,--probably under a mistake;" and he made her a low and significant bow, to which she only replied by shaking her finger at him as she passed through the doorway.
"Where is the Duke?" she demanded eagerly of the pages in the corridor, who started up at her approach; and then, scarcely listening to their answer, she hurried on to the room in which she expected to find him, and opened the door without ceremony. The Duke was seated at a table, hastily sealing some letters, while a courier, booted, spurred, and armed, stood by his side, ready to bear them to their destinations as soon as the packets were complete.
"Why, how now, Catherine!" he exclaimed, turning towards her as she entered, and, in so doing, spilling the boiling wax over his broad hand, without suffering the pain to produce the slightest change of expression on his heavy, determined countenance; "why, how now, Catherine! you have been tampering, I find, with things wherein you have no right to meddle. What is this business about the young Marquis of St. Real? Is it not bad enough that that rash boy, Aumale, should lose me a battle beneath the walls of Senlis, without my sister losing me my honour?"
"Tush, nonsense, Duke of Mayenne!" replied his sister; "Nonsense, I tell you! If you intend that packet for Senlis, you may spare the wax, and your trouble, and your fingers, for it shall never go!"
"Indeed!" said the Duke, pressing firm upon it the broad seal of his arms; "indeed! and why not? Do you not know me better than that, my fair sister? Do you not know that my word, or my safe-conduct, was never in life violated by myself, and never shall be violated by any one else with impunity?"
"All very true! all very true, Charles of Mayenne!" she replied; "but, in the first place, I tell you that your safe-conduct cannot be said to be violated, because some friends of mine choose to help this young St. Real to pursue his journey on the very road for which the safe-conduct was given; and, in the second place, there is no use of sending to Mortfontaine or Nanteuil either, for within an hour St. Real will be, I trust, in Paris."
"Then within an hour he shall be set at liberty!" replied the Duke; "for I shall suffer no quibbling with my honour: he shall be free to come and free to go, till the term of the safe-conduct expires."
"Nonsense, nonsense, Charles!" replied the Duchess; "do not talk like the man in the mystery. Send this fellow away, and let me speak with you calmly; for here is the Count d'Aubin already in the house; and, if you go on vapouring in this way, you may miss a golden opportunity of gaining more than the battle of Senlis has lost."
The Duke made a sign for the courier to withdraw. "I know your skill well, Kate!" he said, as the man left the room, "and am far from wishing to counteract your views; but neither must you meddle with my schemes, nor affect my honour. Now let me hear what it is you have done, and what you propose to do."
"For the done first, then," replied Madame de Montpensier: "what I have done is simply this:--Hearing from good authority that this St. Real had left his troops under the command of his Lieutenant, and, while his cousin D'Aubin went to join Longueville, at Chantilly, had shown a strong inclination to seek the camp of the Henrys before he came to Paris, I thought it much better to change his destination, and bring him hither, well knowing that the first step is all. So much for the past! and now for the future. Leave him but in my hands two days; and if, in that time, I do not find a way, by one means or another, to make him put his hand to the Union, and draw his sword for Mayenne, why, set him free, in God's name! and then talk of your honour and your safe-conducts as much as you like. He shall be well and kindly treated, upon my word!"
The Duke smiled. "I doubt not that, Catherine," he said; "you and your fair sister of Guise, who, I suppose, has some hand in the affair, are not such hard-hearted dames, I know, as to use harsh measures, when tender ones will do."
"Well, well, Mayenne," she answered, "if we bestow our smiles to promote your interest, you, at least, have no occasion to complain, good brother: but you consent, is it not so?"
"On condition that no harshness is used--that I know not where he is--that I see him not--and, that he finds no means for applying for liberation to me: for on the instant I set him free!"
"Manifold conditions!" replied his sister; "but they shall be all complied with. And now for the Count d'Aubin. If we can but win St. Real, I will promise you D'Aubin; for I know one or two of the good Count's secrets, which give me some tie upon him."
"I hold him by a stronger bond," replied the Duke; "the bond of interest, Catherine; for, by my faith, if he quit not soon him whom Beatrice of Ferrara calls the crowned Vice at St. Cloud, I will give the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt to some better friend of the League. I am glad he is come, for I may give him a gentle notice to decide more speedily."
At the name of Beatrice de Ferrara, the cheek of Madame de Montpensier reddened, and her brow contracted; and, without noticing the concluding words of her brother, she replied, "I hate that woman, that Beatrice of Ferrara!" and as she spoke, she moved absently towards the door. The Duke marked her with a smile, and followed, saying, "Well, well, where is this Count d'Aubin?"
The Duchess led the way to the apartment in which he had been left with the Duchess de Guise, and where she still found him, bandying repartees with the fair widow, and with the Chevalier d'Aumale, who had lately been added to the party. The entrance of the Duke of Mayenne, however, at once put a stop to the light jests which were flying thick and fast; and the Duke, without preface, entered upon the subject of D'Aubin's journey to Paris.
"Good morrow! Monsieur le Comte," said he, with an air of unconsciousness, which his somewhat inexpressive countenance enabled him easily to assume. "Right glad was I of your application for a safe-conduct last night, doubting not that, by this time, you are heartily tired of consorting with the effeminate rabble of painted minions and Huguenot boors gathered together at St. Cloud, and are come to support the Catholic faith, with a sharp sword, that has been somewhat too long employed against her."
"Your Highness's compliment to the sharpness of my sword," replied D'Aubin, "does not, I am afraid, extend to the sharpness of my wit; for the occurrences which have taken place within the last five days are surely not calculated to bring over a cousin of the Marquis of St. Real to the party of the Catholic League, or to raise very high the character of dealers in Spanish Catholicon."
The Duke of Mayenne turned a sharp and somewhat angry glance upon Madame de Montpensier; but to D'Aubin he replied coldly, "You seem angry, Monsieur le Comte d'Aubin; and as it is far from my wish to give just cause for anger to a French nobleman, whose good sense, I am sure, will, sooner or later, detach him from a party composed of all that is either infamous or heretical, if you will explain the subject of your wrath, I will do all that is in my power to satisfy you, if I shall find your complaints just and reasonable."
"My complaint is simply this, my lord Duke," replied D'Aubin, smiling at the air of unconsciousness which Mayenne assumed:--"If my imagination have not deceived me, somewhat less than a month ago, Charles, Duke of Mayenne vouchsafed, under the title of lieutenant-general of the kingdom, to grant a regular safe-conduct to a noble gentleman called the Marquis of St. Real, in order that the said Marquis might visit, in safety, the capital of this country, as well as the court of King Henry, in order to judge between the factions which strangle this unhappy land, and take his part accordingly."
"True," said the Duke of Mayenne, bowing his head, "true, we did so."
"Well, then, my lord," continued D'Aubin, "is it not equally true that, when my cousin, St. Real, thought fit to leave his forces at a sufficient distance from either army to give him an opportunity of joining which he pleased hereafter, and was advancing calmly to confer with the King, he was entrapped by false information, surrounded by a party wearing the green scarfs of the League, and carried off, in direct contravention of the safe-conduct you had given him?"
"I will not affect to deny, Monsieur d'Aubin," replied the Duke,--and Madame de Montpensier looked in no small anxiety while he spoke; "I will not affect to deny, that the rumour of some such skirmish as you speak of has reached me--"
"Skirmish, my lord Duke!" exclaimed D'Aubin; "there has been no skirmish in the business; the simple facts are these:--My cousin, with only twenty gentlemen in his train, was surrounded by a party of two hundred men; and, of course, offered no resistance. He produced your safe-conduct, however; but it was set at nought and the leaders of the band gave him very sufficiently to understand, that they had your own authority for what they did. Such, at least, is the account brought to me by one of my cousin's attendants, who contrived to effect his escape; and I now make the charge boldly and straightforwardly, in order that you may have the opportunity of clearing yourself at once; or, that the spot of darkness, which such a transaction must affix to the character of the Duke of Mayenne, may be stamped upon it in characters which no aftertime can efface."
The Duke reddened, and bit his lip. "You make me angry, sir!" he said--"you make me angry!"
"No cause for anger, my lord Duke," replied D'Aubin, "if you be clear of this transaction. It is I who am a friend to the character of the Duke of Mayenne, by giving him an instant opportunity of clearing it;--and let me say, my lord, if you be not free from share in this business," he added, sternly and boldly, "you may find that you are not the only one who is made angry: for, putting aside all respect to your high rank, and to the station which you hold, I shall urge the matter against you as noble to noble, and gentleman to gentleman."
"Was ever the like heard?" exclaimed Madame de Montpensier. "Heed him not, Brother of Mayenne! heed him not; the man is mad, raving mad!"
"Not so mad, nor so foolish, lady," replied D'Aubin, his lip bending into a slight smile, "as to be turned from my purpose, either by sweet words, or angry ones. My lord Duke," he continued, approaching nearer to the Duke of Mayenne, who had taken a hasty turn in the room, as if to give his passion vent before he spoke; "my lord Duke, I mean not to offend you; but my cousin has suffered wrong, and that wrong must be redressed."
"You have spoken too boldly, Count d'Aubin," replied Mayenne, to whom the considerations of policy had by this time restored the calmness of which personal anger had deprived him: "but I must make excuses for the warmth of affection which you seem to bear your cousin; and, in reply to your charge, I have merely to say, that the first correct information respecting this event"--and he turned a somewhat reproachful glance upon Madame de Montpensier--"has been received from yourself; that the capture of your cousin was unauthorized by, and unknown to me; that I know not precisely in whose hands he is; and, that I promise you, upon my honour, he shall be set free as soon as ever I meet with him. Farther still, I pledge myself to find him and liberate him before three days have expired, and to punish, most severely, those who are concerned, in case he have met with any ill-treatment whatever."
"Your promise goes farther than even I could expect, my lord Duke," replied D'Aubin, in a softened tone; "and I most sincerely thank you for having met so candidly a charge which I may, perhaps, have urged too boldly, as your Highness says. Forgive my hastiness, my lord; for, on my honour, in these times of indifference, it is sometimes necessary to give way to a little rashness, in order to show that we have some heart and feeling left."
"We esteem you all the more highly for it," answered the Duke, "and only regret, Monsieur d'Aubin, that one who can so well feel what is right and noble, in some points, should attach himself to a party stained with murder, treachery, falsehood, and many a vice that I will not number; while sense, and wisdom, and good feeling should all induce him to take the more patriotic part that we are in arms to maintain."
"And, let me add, his own interest also," said Madame de Montpensier, "should lead him to join us here."
"Wisely reserving the best argument for the last!" joined in the Chevalier d'Aumale. "The great God Interest, first cousin to the little God Mammon, is powerful both with Catholic and Huguenot, Leaguer and Royalist; and doubtless, beautiful priestess, if you can show that the Deity favours the League more than its opponents, you will soon bring over Monsieur d'Aubin to worship at his shrine."
"That can be easily shown," rejoined the Duke of Mayenne, following the idea of the Chevalier d'Aumale, half in jest and half in earnest: "Has not the god already put at our disposal sundry Huguenot lands and lordships, purses well stuffed with gold, and, above all, the hand of more than one fair heiress? On my word! Monsieur d'Aubin," he added, assuming a more serious and feeling tone, "far would it be from me to hold out to you views of interest, in order to bring you over to the party of the Faith, did not those views of interest coincide entirely with your honour, your reputation, and your duty."
D'Aubin mused for a moment, and then answered laughing, "I never yet did hear, my lord, that interest did not bring a long train of seeming virtues, to give greater strength to her own persuasions: and yet, I do not see how my honour could be raised by abandoning my king at a moment of his greatest need; how my reputation could be increased by quitting a party which I have long served; or how my duty is to be done by breaking my oath of allegiance to my legitimate sovereign."
"Thus, Monsieur d'Aubin," replied the Duke:--"if you are a man of honour,--and most truly do I hold you to be such,--you will flee the society of those who have none; if you have a fair reputation, you will quit a court whose very breath is infamy; and, if you hold sincerely to the Catholic faith, you cannot refuse to turn your sword against its most inveterate enemies."
"No, no, my lord!" replied D'Aubin; "King Henry holds the Catholic faith as well as yourself; and, indeed, loves monks and priests rather better than either you or I do. To him, also, have I sworn fidelity and attachment, as my lawful sovereign; and I will neither break my oath, nor forget my allegiance."
"Thank God, that the thread of a tyrant's life is spun of very perishable materials!" said Madame de Montpensier, with a significant glance at the Duchess de Guise; "and were this Henry dead, we might well count upon you, D'Aubin: is it not so?"
D'Aubin replied not for a moment; and the soft sleepy-eyed Duchess of Guise could not refrain from pursuing the subject jestingly; although her sister-in-law endeavoured, by a chiding look, to stay her, till D'Aubin had answered. "Perhaps the noble Count may be a Huguenot himself." she exclaimed: "who knows, in these strange changeable times----"
"Or, perhaps, this dearly-beloved cousin of his may have been one these twenty years," said the Chevalier d'Aumale; "for shut up in that old castle of theirs, these St. Reals may have been Turks and infidels, for anything that we can tell."
"I wish there was as good a Catholic present as St. Real," replied D'Aubin; "and as for myself, though not very learned in all its mysteries, I hold the faith of my fathers, and will not abandon it. My lord of Mayenne, I would fain speak with you for one moment, in this oriel here," he added.
The Duke of Mayenne instantly complied; and, advancing with the Count into the deep recess of one of the windows at the farther end of the room, he listened to what D'Aubin had to say, and then replied gravely. The Count rejoined; and, though the subject which they discussed seemed to interest them highly, it might be inferred, from the laughter which occasionally mingled with their discourse, that their conversation had taken a turn towards some topic less unpleasant than that which had been broached at the beginning of their first interview.
In the meantime, however, a new personage had been added to the party at the other end of the room. He was a tall gaunt man, of about five-and-forty, with aquiline features, a keen kite-like eye, fine teeth, and curly hair and beard: in short, he was one of those men who are called handsome by people in whose computation of beauty the expression of mind, and soul, and feeling make no part of the account. His dress was not only military, but of such a character as to show that his most recent occupation had been the exercise of his profession. The steel cuirass was still upon his shoulders, the heavy boots upon his legs; and, though some attempt had been made to brush away the dust of a journey, a number of long brown streaks, on various parts of his apparel, evinced, that whatever toilet he had made had been hasty and incomplete.
As soon as Madame de Montpensier caught the first glance of his person entering the saloon, she made him an eager sign not to come in; but he either did not perceive, or was unwilling to obey the signal, and proceeded, with an air of perfect assurance, till the Duchess, starting up, advanced to meet him; trusting, apparently, that the eager conversation which was going on between D'Aubin and the Duke would prevent either of them from remarking her man[oe]uvres at the other end of the room.
"What, in misfortune's name, brought you here?" she said, giving a hasty glance towards the oriel, and perceiving at once that she must make the best of what had occurred, for that D'Aubin's eye had already marked the entrance of the stranger; "what, in misfortune's name, brought you here just now? Here is D'Aubin himself inquiring furiously after this young kestril, that we have taken such pains to catch; and Mayenne, like a fool, standing on his honour, has promised to set him free as soon as ever he finds dim. So you know nothing about the matter: pretend utter ignorance; and swear you have never seen the young Marquis."
"That I can well swear," replied the other, in the same low tone, but with a slight Teutonic accent; "that I can well swear, most beautiful and charming of princesses! for I took especial care to keep out of the way while the poor bird was being limed; and have ridden on before to tell you that, by this time, he must be safe in my house, in the rue St. Jacques."
"Keep him close and sure, then," replied Madame de Montpensier, "at least till his shrewd cousin is out of the city; for Mayenne will let us keep him but two days; and we must work him to our purpose before that time expires." She had just time to finish her sentence, ere Mayenne and D'Aubin quitted the recess of the oriel window; and the latter, advancing towards the place where she stood, addressed her companion as an old acquaintance.
"Ha! Sir Albert of Wolfstrom," he said, with an ironical smile, "faithful and gallant ever! Receiving the soft commands of this beautiful lady with the same devotion as in days of yore, I see! But I have reason to believe that you are lately become acquainted with one of my cousins, and have laid him under some obligations."
"No, no;" replied Wolfstrom, with a grin, which showed his white teeth to the back; "no, no: if you mean Monsieur de Rus, we have been very intimate ever since that night when we three played together at Vincennes, and when I won from you ten thousand livres, Monsieur d'Aubin."
"Well, well, I will win them back again," replied D'Aubin, "the first truce that comes."
"I don't know that," rejoined the German; "you are always unlucky with the dice, D'Aubin: you should be more careful, or, by my faith, the Jews will have all your fine estates in pawn."
D'Aubin coloured deeply; for, as Wolfstrom well knew, the hint that he threw out of excessive expenses, and consequent embarrassments, went home. Mayenne, however, who by those words gained a new insight into the situation of the Count, smiled, well satisfied; assured, from that moment, that those who had it in their power to grant or to withhold the hand of the rich heiress of Menancourt would not be long without the support of Philip d'Aubin.
The Count recovered himself in a moment; and, turning the matter off with a pointed jest, which hit the German nearly as hard, he prepared to take his leave before anything more unpleasant could be said.
"I shall look for the performance of your promise, my lord Duke," he said, as he turned to depart; "and three days hence, shall hope to hear that my cousin has been liberated."
"Come, to make sure of it, yourself," replied Madame de Montpensier, holding out her hand, which he raised in gallant reverence to his lips; "come and make sure of it, yourself. Sup with me at Rene Armandi's, our dearly beloved perfumer, who has a right choice and tasteful cook; and, though the profane rabble insist upon it that he used to aid our godmother, of blessed memory, Catherine, mother of many bad kings, in sending to heaven, or the other abode, various persons, to prepare a place for her, we will ask him, on this occasion, to give us dainties, and not poisons."
"You must send me a safe-conduct, however," replied D'Aubin, laughing, "and I will come with all my heart."
"A safe-conduct you shall have," answered Mayenne, "and as many as you like. But, remember, I do not make myself responsible for Armandi no, nor Catherine, either," he added, with a smile.
"Oh! I will trust her Highness," replied D'Aubin: "the only thing I fear are her eyes;" and, with a low bow, and a glance which left it difficult to determine whether the gallant part of his speech was jest or earnest, he took his leave, and, mounting his horse, rode away towards the gates of Paris.
"He teases me, that Count d'Aubin," said Madame de Montpensier: "I don't know whether to love him, or to hate him."
"Oh! if he teases you, you will love him, of course," replied the Chevalier d'Aumale.
"I think you may love him, Kate," replied the Duke. "At all events, one thing is very certain, that Philip Count d'Aubin is varying fast towards the League; and if you, Catherine, by some of your wild schemes, do not spoil my more sober ones, we shall soon have him as one of our most strenuous and thoroughgoing partisans: for you know, Wolfstrom," he added, laying his broad hand significantly upon the iron-covered shoulder of the German, who, together with three thousand lansquenets, had deserted from the party of Henry III. on the pretence of wanting pay; "for you know, Wolfstrom, there is no one so zealous as a renegade!"