As the crowd increased, and the rooms became full, the party separated into groups, classing themselves by the various standards of rank, opinions, wit, or tastes. For all, amusement was provided in case conversation should not be sufficient to fill up the time; and many took advantage of such arrangements to favour or to conceal the purposes and the views with which each came thither more or less preoccupied. In one chamber the dice rolled upon the board, while one of the most vehement players was every now and then seen to hold a brief conversation with various persons who came and went in the room. At other tables again, those flat, dull pieces of mischievous pasteboard called cards were dealt and played in solemn silence, except when some biting jest, or well-directed and premeditated sneer, found a hook to hang itself upon, even in so insignificant a thing as the foolish names assigned to different cards. Then, again, in a vast and brilliant hall beyond, music of the sweetest kind hung upon the air; while the dance offered its protection to every sort of scheming, from the soft business of innocent love, to foul intrigue and tortuous policy.
In the midst of all this, St. Real, in the simplicity of his heart, saw nothing but very innocent amusement. Eugenie refused to take a part in the dance; and how or why he knew not, St. Real found himself generally by her side. Such a scene, of all others on the earth, affords the greatest opportunity of private communication; but, if the thoughts, the wishes, and the purposes of the speakers be not intimately known to each other, it may become the most dangerous place for such communion also. The half-spoken sentence is so often interrupted at the very point where it is the most interesting, and where it most needs explanation--so much must be said in haste, or not said at all--so much must be left to fancy--so great is the treasure turned over to imagination--that he who plays with hearts should be very sure of his game before he ventures boldly in such a scene as that. St. Real and Eugenie de Menancourt conversed, at first, upon subjects of every-day import and of general reference; but there were between them so many stores of private feeling and thought, that, upon whatever topic they began, the conversation soon flowed back to matters in regard to which their own hearts were in unison respecting either the past or the present. They found it vain to struggle against the stream of sympathies that either sooner or later drew their communion apart from the things that surrounded them; and as the evening went on, they more and more gave way to what they felt; endeavouring, indeed, to avoid speaking of their own sentiments in an individual manner, but still only covering their personal feelings under a thin veil of general observations. This veil, too, was so often rent by accidental interruptions--the termination of a phrase which was intended to give it its general character so often remained unspoken, that every minute, as it flew, left the hearts of Eugenie de Menancourt and Huon of St. Real with deeper and more agitating feelings than either of them had ever felt before: and yet, like all other people who have loved where it would have been wiser not, they were unconscious of what they were encouraging in their own hearts. Eugenie was agitated, but was not alarmed. St. Real was delighted, but only fearful, when he saw the eye of any one marking the close position that he occupied by Eugenie's side, lest it should be supposed that he was making love to her who had been promised to his cousin; but he never believed--he never dreamed--that he was making love--that he was winning her heart, and yielding his own. The very efforts he had made that very night in favour of his cousin were sufficient to blind him entirely, and to lead him, like a general deceived by his guides, into the cunning ambush which the keen archer Cupid so skilfully lays for the advanced parties of the human heart.
At length, towards midnight--that enchanted hour, when all the powers of the imagination, the fairies of the microcosm within us, are up and revelling in the greenest spots of the human heart--at length, towards midnight, when music, and conversation, and gay sights, and happy faces all around, and pleasant words, and the bright eyes of the sweet and beautiful, had left St. Real's fancy as excited as ever was Bacchus' self by the juice of the Achaian vine, Madame de Montpensier stood by his side; and, laying the jewelled forefinger of her right hand upon his arm, called his attention while she said, "I have a message to give Monsieur de St. Real from my brother, who cannot detach himself from that group to speak with you in person, and who fears that you may be absent to-morrow, ere he can see you. I will not detain you one instant."
St. Real obeyed the summons at once, giving but one look, as he turned to follow Madame de Montpensier, towards Eugenie de Menancourt, and another towards a young cavalier, who hastened to fill up the place he abandoned at her side. The Duchess also gave a glance to each, and a third to St. Real; and then, with a smile, led the way across the ball-room, and through two or three chambers beyond, to the utmost verge of the long suite of apartments, which was that night thrown open to the public.
There, looking round her to see that she was unobserved, she paused, and turned towards the young cavalier. "Monsieur de St. Real," she said, in a calm, sweet, but impressive tone, "when you came to Paris, you came undecided whether to join the friends and supporters of the Catholic faith, or its enemies. I think that you have seen enough of us now to judge and to decide; and I have not the slightest doubt of what your decision will be; nay, what it is! But, setting all that apart, I have an offer to make you, which the noblest amongst all yon glittering throng would give his right hand to hear addressed to himself. Mark me, Monsieur de St. Real! A woman's eyes are keen: you love Mademoiselle de Menancourt! Nay, stop me not; but hear! Eugenie de Menancourt loves you! I, in the name of the lieutenant-general of the kingdom, offer you her hand. Take it, and be happy! Spare my brother a world of anxiety and difficulty on her account; spare her the pain of importunity; relieve her from the helpless exposure of her present situation; and make the loveliest creature of all France happy, in the protection of him she loves!"
Pausing for a moment, she gave one glance at the countenance of her auditor, and then added, "Say not a word to-night! but breakfast with metête-à-têteto-morrow, when all difficulties and obstacles shall be removed for ever!"
She turned away, and left St. Real standing alone in the room, feeling that the casket of his heart was opened to his own sight, and its deepest secrets displayed, never to be concealed again by any of the thin and glistening veils with which human weakness cloaks itself so effectually against the purblind eyes of self-examination. He cast himself into a seat, and for some minutes remained in bitter commune with his own heart, while the music and the dancing, and the gay society of the capital, were as unmarked as if they had not existed. Then remembering, painfully, that his demeanour had been already but too accurately watched, he rose, and, with a flushed cheek and contracted brow, returned to the chief saloon. As he approached Eugenie de Menancourt, however, he perceived that she was preparing to depart with a lady of high rank and advanced years, under whose especial care Madame de Montpensier had placed her. Eugenie paused as he came near. The crowd of gay gallants, who were pressing forward with the formal courtesy of the day to offer their services in conducting her to the carriage, drew back as he approached, as if already warned of the purposes of Mayenne in regard to the rich heiress. St. Real felt what was expected of him, and at once offered his hand; but it was with an air of restraint and absence that instantly caught the eye of her to whom he spoke. She suffered him to lead her through the rooms in silence; but, as a turn on the staircase left them for a moment alone, her anxiety prevailed, and, with an unsteady voice, she said, "You seem suddenly unhappy, Monsieur de St. Real. Has anything occurred to pain you?"
St. Real was not a good dissembler; and Eugenie had not dissembled. He heard in the soft, scarce audible tone--he felt in the trembling of the hand that lay in his--he saw in the soft and swimming eyes that looked on him--the truth of one part of what the Princess had said; and in his own heart he felt but too strongly the truth of all the rest. St. Real was not a good dissembler; and all he could reply was, "Oh, Eugenie!" but it was enough.
St. Real entered not again the lighted halls in which the leaders and partisans of the League were assembled; but he paused for a moment in the open air, after the carriage which bore Eugenie de Menancourt towards her solitary home had driven out of the courtyard and passed away down the echoing streets. A momentary burst of artillery and small arms came, borne upon the wind, from a distance, as the indefatigable Henry of Navarre roused the Parisian garrisons with analertefrom the side of Meudon: but the mind of St. Real was too deeply busied with other thoughts for the thunder of the cannon to awake in his heart the martial and chivalrous spirit that lay within. The discovery which he had made of his own feelings was, in every respect, painful; and the insight which he had gained into those of Eugenie de Menancourt herself--although there is ever a sweet and soothing balm in the consciousness of being loved--was hardly less bitter. The idea of entering into rivalry with his cousin--of attempting to deprive one who confided in him of the hand of his promised bride--the idea of seeking, or even receiving happiness himself at the expense of that of Philip d'Aubin, found not harbour in the bosom of St. Real for one single moment. Deeply and severely did he blame himself for having suffered such feelings to grow up in his heart as the occurrences of that night had discovered to his own sight; and still more bitterly did he reproach himself for having allowed his feelings to carry him away as they had lately done. Even the degree of regard with which he saw that Eugenie de Menancourt looked on him was an additional reproach; for he well knew that that regard could not have been obtained without conduct on his own part which, although involuntary, he looked upon as a betrayal of his cousin's confidence.
St. Real was not a man, however, to waste upon fruitless regrets those powers of mind which should be employed in forming and executing noble resolutions. He grieved bitterly for what was past, but he grieved only with the purpose of shaping his conduct differently for the future; and, as he turned again to enter the Hotel de Guise, it was with the full determination of never seeing Eugenie de Menancourt again, till the fate of Philip d'Aubin, as far as it was connected with hers, was fixed beyond all recall.
This resolution was joined with another, which rendered the first not difficult to execute. With all her art, with all her skill, with all her knowledge of human character, and with all her insight into that of St. Real, Madame de Montpensier had overreached herself. She had been able to comprehend and appreciate the simplicity and purity with which he was attached to Eugenie de Menancourt, without perceiving the nature of his own feelings; but the quality of her own mind prevented her from comprehending the deep firmness of principle which existed in his heart, and from foreseeing the means that principle would take to combat love as soon as ever the progress of the insidious enemy was discovered. The proposal that she had made to him had produced upon the mind of St. Real an effect the most directly opposite to that which she had intended. The character of the Duke of Mayenne St. Real could not but esteem: there was a dignity, a generosity, a frankness about it, which, together with his splendid talents, commanded no small admiration; and had St. Real been convinced that his opposition to his king, that his bold rebellion, that even his connexion with a party, factious, turbulent, and depraved, originated in motives of patriotism and virtue, his views of the League might have been modified by his opinion of the leader, and his ultimate conduct determined by the judgment he might form in regard to whether that leader's efforts would, or would not, be ultimately beneficial to his country. In the course of that night, however, he had heard and seen enough to convince him that the passion of Mayenne was ambition, and that his object was his own aggrandizement; and the only hold, therefore, that the League could have had upon St. Real would have been virtue, honour, and patriotism, in the whole, considered as a party.
The question, therefore, with the young Marquis had now become, whether the League did, or did not, possess such qualities. At the Jacobins, on the preceding night, however, he had witnessed the means employed by those who were considered the holiest men amongst them to obtain ends which he could not doubt were treacherous and bloody: that very night it had been calmly proposed to him, as a bribe to attach him to the party of the League, to betray his cousin's confidence, and to gratify his own passions at the expense of his honour and integrity. In his examination of the city during the day, he had seen the high and the noble demeaning themselves to court popularity by fawning on persons they despised--an irrefragable proof that their own designs were base; he had seen the good and the just in the filthy and unsparing hands of villains and plunderers; and he had seen those who professed to be the ministers of a God of peace armed to promote a civil war and to shed the blood of their fellow-creatures!
What then could be the result, he asked himself, when a leader, whose principle was ambition, took upon him to guide a fierce and lawless multitude, composed of nobles whose motive was selfishness, of priests whose spirit was fanaticism, and of a rabble whose objects were licentiousness, bloodshed, and plunder? The answer was not difficult; and, as he turned and mounted the staircase, amidst the crowd of lacqueys and attendants who stared at his thoughtful and abstracted demeanour without his noticing their presence, he determined to proceed to the royal camp as early as might be on the following morning, doubting not that, whatever might be the vices and the follies it presented to his sight, he should there find the path which led to his country's welfare, and, he trusted, also to his own peace of mind.
Passing the doors of the saloons, he proceeded to that part of the house in which was situated the apartments that had been assigned to him; and, sending for his master of the horse--a common officer at that time, in the houses of the principal French nobility--he directed him to have everything prepared to quit Paris by daybreak on the following morning. The earliness of the hour which he thus appointed was not dictated by any apprehension that Mayenne would endeavour to impede his departure; but, his resolution being taken, and his opinion fixed by the most favourable view that could be afforded him of the party of the League itself, he wished to avoid, as far as possible, anything like solicitation; and he likewise desired neither to explain his feelings, nor reason upon his motives, in the conduct he was about to pursue regarding Eugenie de Menancourt.
His sensations, indeed, upon the subject were so painful in themselves, that St. Real did not wish either to speak of or to dwell upon them. Arguing, with the usual simplicity of his nature, that, where our wishes and our duties are at variance, it is better to employ our thoughts in performing the duties, than to give them up to the hard task of combating the wishes--in which combat they are but too often defeated--he prepared to occupy all the energies of his mind in the attempt to serve his country, and to benefit to the utmost of his power the party he had determined to espouse, leaving his cousin to pursue his suit towards Eugenie de Menancourt as best he might, but endeavouring to serve him therein by pointing his efforts to nobler objects than had hitherto employed them, and by taking care that all he did should be placed in a fairer light than that in which the levity and somewhat vain indifference of d'Aubin had hitherto permitted his own actions to appear.
Poor St. Real, however, did not know how hard is the task--how painful, how continual is the struggle, to turn the thoughts of a feeling and affectionate heart from the objects of its first attachment, and to occupy, even in the busiest scenes and most stirring actions wherein other men find employment for their whole soul, a mind to which love has given its direction elsewhere. His first experience of what he was but too long to undergo, was made when he lay down to rest, on the night of which we have just spoken. He thought to sleep, to taste the same refreshing, undisturbed slumbers which were so rarely absent from his pillow; but, alas! alas! how changed were all his sensations. The burning thirst for thoughts to which he would not give way--the consciousness that he was resigning for ever that which would have made his happiness through life--anxieties, which he dared not probe, regarding the happiness of her he loved--self-reproaches, slight, indeed, but bitter, because they were the first he had ever had occasion to address to his own heart--and doubts respecting the conduct and vows of his cousin, which he now saw with eyes sharpened by love--all planted his pillow thick with thorns; and he tossed in feverish restlessness upon his uneasy couch, while slumber and all its wholesome balms were far away.
The sounds of music and of laughing, which to his saddened heart rang like the revelry of fiends, came in bursts up to his windows; and the roll of carriages, the trampling of horses, the shouts of torch-bearers, and the murmuring hum of a thousand less vociferous tongues, poured irritatingly upon his ear, and set sleep at defiance. Gradually, however, those sounds died away, and that space of time which the citizens of the masterless metropolis called a day, and set apart for the transaction of a certain portion of intrigue and faction, levity, sensuality, and bloodshed, came to an end. The bell of the neighbouring church, unheard during many an hour of turbulence and noise, struck two, and the whole world around sank into silence, if not into repose. Still, however, sleep came not to the eyes of St. Real; and he lay and counted the moments till a new class of sounds were heard, announcing that the sons of toil were up and busy in the task of preparing luxuries for the sons of idleness and dissipation. At length, a faint rosy light was seen to glimmer through the open window, the indistinct forms of the massive furniture began to stand out from the gray darkness, and St. Real started up more weary and fatigued with that one night of restless anxiety than he would have felt after weeks of watching in the tented field.
The first task, after dressing himself, was to sit down, and, with the writing materials that stood at hand, to indite a brief note to the Duke of Mayenne, apologizing for not waiting to make a more formal leave-taking. He did not, it is true, announce in distinct terms his determination of joining his arms to the other supporters of the royal cause, because he felt it was within the bounds of possibility that circumstances might yet change his purpose; though, as he left the matter still open, he thought that bad must be the scene presented by the camp of the Henrys indeed, if it could make him prefer the craft, the treachery, and the baseness he had beheld in Paris. In this respect, while expressing his high opinion of the Duke himself, he did not scruple to use language and to display sentiments which had already brought many a venerable and respected head low, amongst the factions and anarchy of the day; and, having said enough to show which way his feelings at that moment led him, he descended to the court, and, mounting his horse, which, with his train, stood prepared for departure, he bade adieu to the Hotel de Guise.
The streets of Paris now presented a very different scene from that which they afforded in either the full life of the risen day, or in the dregs of the evening. Few were the persons to be seen walking slowly along in the fresh, clear, unpolluted light of the early morning; and the long irregular perspective of the antique streets might be seen unencumbered by the many gaudy vehicles which obstructed the sight at a later hour. As St. Real rode on towards the suburbs, one or two patrols of horse, returning from their night watch beyond the walls, passed him with tired faces and soiled arms; but, although the numbers that composed his train were sufficient to have justified some inquiry, yet such was the confused organization of the garrison of Paris, and of the army of the League in general, that no one asked his errand, and he passed on uninterrupted to the gates.
Here, however, he was detained for some minutes, while the drowsy commander of the guard examined his pass and safe-conduct: and some suspicious glances were given to the apparel of his followers, who wore neither the black cross, nor the scarf of the followers of the League. At the end of about a quarter of an hour, however, he was suffered to proceed; and, as the position of the royal armies was not distinctly known to him, he directed his course towards Meudon, at which place it was certain that a part, at least, of the Huguenot force had shown itself the day before. Greater watchfulness was now apparent on the part of the League; and St. Real was challenged and stopped five or six times within half a mile of the gates of Paris. At length, a wide green meadow by the banks of the Seine presented itself; and at the angle of this meadow and the road stood a solitary sentinel, covered with his cuirass, hissaladeor iron cap, and steel plates to defend the thighs. In one hand he carried his long musket, while with the other he held his coil of match, smouldering slowly, between the finger and thumb, and only requiring to be blown to prepare it for immediate action. In the ground, just one pace before him, was planted the iron-shod stake, which, supporting a sort of two-pronged fork, afforded a rest for his long and unwieldy weapon in case of his being called upon to make use of it against any advancing enemy. Painted in front of his iron cuirass appeared the black cross of the League; and there could be no doubt that this was the extreme outpost of the garrison of Paris. It would seem, however, that he had no order to oppose the passage of persons coming from the side of the city; for, although he gazed attentively at the young Marquis and his party as they passed, he asked no questions; and St. Real advanced along the road skirting the meadow, towards an extensive building that he saw at the distance of a quarter of a mile before him, and which bore every sign of being, what it really was, a religious house belonging to some order of friars.
Scarcely had he passed half the distance between the sentinel of the League and the gate of the monastery, when a considerable body of horsemen drew out from behind some trees at the farther extremity of the field, and galloped towards the travellers with their lances down in somewhat menacing array. St. Real immediately halted his men, and waited calmly for the approach of the strangers, who advanced at full speed almost till the parties met, without choosing to notice the peaceable demeanour of the young lord and his attendants. The moment after, however, they came to a halt; and two or three, riding forward before the rest, demanded "Qui vive?" apparently not half satisfied with the appearance of St. Real and his attendants. The white scarfs borne by the leaders of this impetuous party sufficiently indicated to what army they belonged; and, replying "Vive le Roi!" St. Real produced the pass he had received from Henry III.
"No game for us, this!" exclaimed he who seemed to be their chief, as he read the authentic letters of safe-conduct placed before his eyes. "Good faith, Sir Marquis of St. Real, we thought that Monsieur de Mayenne had roused himself from his bed full four hours before his ordinary time, and was sending out parties to take us by surprise, thinking that we were as laggard and sleepy-headed as himself. However, we will, if you please, form your escort to the next post, and beyond that you will find your way easily to the king."
St. Real signified his assent, and, thus guarded, proceeded onward towards Meudon, conversing, as he went, with the leaders of the Huguenot party--for the strangers were followers of the King of Navarre--and gaining from them some knowledge of the real state and position of the royal armies. On the side of the two kings he found a much greater degree of activity and military caution; and, notwithstanding the presence of the party he had first encountered, he was not suffered to pass the second outpost without a strict examination of his letters of safe-conduct, and was afterwards escorted from post to post by a small body of men-at-arms, until he had proceeded beyond the quarters of the King of Navarre, and had fully entered those of Henry III. of France, who had taken up his abode, by this time, at St. Cloud. Here, again, the discipline seemed more relaxed; and St. Real was suffered to advance without any further question, till, at the entrance of the neat little village of St. Cloud, he perceived a group of persons gathered together round the door of a house, from which, the moment after, issued forth his cousin the Count d'Aubin, booted and armed, as if prepared to mount a horse that was held ready by a groom before the house.
"The lost one found!" exclaimed D'Aubin, embracing his cousin as soon as they met; "the lost one found! Why, St. Real, I had even now my foot in the stirrup to set out once more for Paris, in search of your fair person. But how has all this happened? Let me hear all; for you have had to do with the shrewdest heads in France; and his Highness of Mayenne, with his fair sisters of Montpensier and Guise, are well worth studying, if it be but to lay out a map of human cunning, in order to find our way through its tortuous roads in future."
As St. Real returned the warm embrace of his cousin, there were sensations in his bosom that he had never felt before. It was not that any feeling of rivalry had diminished his affection for Philip d'Aubin, even by a feather's weight; but it was that, notwithstanding every wish to serve his cousin and promote his suit, he had unintentionally cast in his way a greater obstacle than ever; and, although conscious of his own virtue and integrity, he felt as if he had wronged him. With St. Real the predominant feelings were not, as with the rest of mankind, concealed or distorted with laborious care, but on the contrary were always the first to find utterance. "Oh! I will give you all that history hereafter; but I have something of more importance to communicate." Thus saying, he entered the house with his cousin, who led the way to some apartments apparently appropriated to himself, and demanded, laughing, "What now, Huon? what now? You rustic nobles see things in the capital with magnifying glasses, and think many matters of deep consequence, which to us, who see them every day, are, of course, every day affairs."
"I trust you may think as lightly of it as you seem to expect," replied St. Real: "but the matter is this--last night I saw Mademoiselle de Menancourt."
"Ha!" exclaimed D'Aubin, instantly roused to attention; "what of her--where did you see her?"
"I saw her at the Hotel de Guise," replied St. Real; "supped with her there, and was near her afterwards, at the great entertainment given, as I suppose, to the partisans of the League."
"Indeed!" exclaimed D'Aubin somewhat moodily; "and what saw you then? Who fluttered round her? Who was favoured in their suit of the great heiress? To which of his partisans does Mayenne propose to give her hand? Tell me all you saw!"
"I saw much," replied St. Real. "I had an opportunity of speaking with her alone, and was near her the whole evening; so that----"
"Ay! doubtless, doubtless!" replied his cousin; "and were the favoured knight, beyond a doubt; and, probably, sweet Madame de Montpensier encouraged your suit, and Mayenne offered you her hand, if you would join the League----"
He paused; and St. Real was silent for a few moments, somewhat astonished at the accuracy with which his cousin--partly in the random venturing of passion and ill-humour, partly from a shrewd knowledge of the actors in the great drama going on at Paris--hit upon the facts as they had occurred. At length, the Marquis seeing impatience flashing up in his cousin's eye, replied, "You are right, Philip; such an offer was made me!"
"By the Lord! I thought so!" exclaimed D'Aubin. "On my honour, this is right merry and good! and fair Eugenie de Menancourt, as timid as a young fawn, and as gentle as a turtle dove, may do more good service to the armies of the League than a whole regiment of reitters, or half-a-dozen hot nobles of Provence! Why, the devil incarnate seize upon the man! he offered her to me in the morning, if I would join the League, and to you in the evening on the same conditions; and now, doubtless, Huon, if you choose to turn your horses' heads back to Paris, and call in your troops from Senlis, put on a black scarf, and sign the blessed Union, you may to-morrow have the hand of the sweet heiress of Maine, and become a distinguished leader of the hypocritical League. Ha! what say you to violating your cousin's confidence, and gallantly carrying away his promised bride? On my honour and soul, it were a worthy commencement, and would rank you high amongst us libertines of the court and the capital."
"You are angry, Philip," replied St. Real, calmly, though somewhat sorrowfully; "you are angry, Philip, and without cause. Such is not the commencement that I intend to make, nor has it ever entered into my thoughts to do so."
"But what said Eugenie?" interrupted D'Aubin, fixing his keen eyes upon him; "what said Eugenie to all this fine arrangement? Doubtless it pleased her well!"
"She said nothing to it," replied St. Real, "because she never heard it; and, in regard to what you would insinuate of myself, my being here in order to serve the King in arms, is a sufficient reply, I should think."
"And are you here for that purpose?" demanded D'Aubin, softening his tone. "Have you positively decided on joining the royal forces?"
"Positively," replied St. Real, "if I find nothing here which would render the King's service perfectly insupportable."
"Then get ye gone to the court as fast as possible, Huon," exclaimed D'Aubin, relapsing into the usual levity of tone which was fashionable at that time, even in speaking of the most serious subjects; "get thee gone to the court, and see all the vices and horrors it contains; for, till you have done so, I shall not know what you consider supportable or not. Yet, stay, Huon," he added, more generous feelings for a moment resuming their sway, "I doubt you not, my cousin--I know your nature, St. Real, too well to doubt you; so let not your determination be influenced by me. I would trust you as fully with Eugenie in Paris, as if thousands of miles, or hostile armies, or wide-flowing seas, separated you from her."
"You might!" replied St. Real; "but, in the present case, my purpose is fixed. With the private vices of Henry III. or the vices of his court either, I have nothing to do, at least, as far as regards my public actions; and, if I see no reason to believe that my joining the League is absolutely necessary for the salvation of my country, my allegiance to my King is my first public duty, after the service of my native land. Yet, hear me a word more, in regard to Eugenie----"
"Hark, what a noise!" exclaimed D'Aubin, turning towards a window that looked into the street. "Those dogs of Huguenots are always quarrelling with us cats of Catholics, and the distance between Meudon and St. Cloud cannot keep us asunder. Look, Huon, look! they will come to blows presently! See that fellow in the white scarf, how he is laying down the law and the Gospel with the bony finger of his right on the broad hard palm of his left. If he were the renegade, voluptuous, fiery Luther himself, or the keen, fierce, bloodthirsty Calvin, he could not argue the matter more eagerly. Now there, I warrant ye, goes the demonstration of the superiority of theprêcheover themesse--the refutation of transubstantiation, and an utter condemnation of poor purgatory!"
St. Real had followed unwillingly to the window, wondering not a little--although his own ear had been caught by the turbulent sounds in the streets--at the light volatility of his cousin, who could so easily break off a conversation in which he had already shown such heat, and which St. Real himself felt but too deeply to be one of painful interest, in order to gaze upon a squabble between some rude soldiers. The scene which presented itself, however, soon obtained a stronger hold of his attention: it was evidently, as D'Aubin had divined, a quarrel between a small party of the Huguenot soldiers, who, serving under Henry of Navarre, had been quartered in the neighbouring town of Meudon, and a body of the Catholics, forming part of the army of Henry III. who seemed not at all disposed to show much hospitality in the streets of St. Cloud to their allies with the white scarfs. According to the usual course of such occurrences, two persons were more distinguished than the rest by vehemence of manner, loudness of tone, and fierceness of look; but behind the principal speaker on the part of the Protestants stood another of the same party, gifted with that dark and ominous look of silent determination which betokens, in general, a man more disposed to deeds than words. As the argument was evidently getting higher and higher, and the dispute was apparently reaching that point where strong blows are brought in corroboration of vigorous assertions, St. Real proposed to his cousin to interpose with that authority which their rank conferred, and which the number of their retainers, who were standing by enjoying the scene, enabled them to render effectual. D'Aubin agreed to the propriety of this proceeding; but he still continued to gaze out, more amused than affected by what he saw, till at length the more quiet personage, whom we have described as belonging to the Huguenot party, stretched forth a long arm from behind his more voluble comrade, and cut short a very vehement and vigorous tirade on the part of the Catholic soldier, by dealing him a blow on the side of the head that instantly stretched him on the bosom of his mother earth.
Swords and daggers were drawn on all sides in a moment; and St. Real, waiting for no further question, sprang down the stairs, followed by his cousin; and, calling upon the attendants to aid him, he interposed between the contending parties, thrusting his powerful form between the two principal combatants, and casting them asunder like two pugnacious curs unwilling to be separated. In the struggle, however, and ere D'Aubin and the attendants could come to his assistance and enforce order, St. Real had received a slight cut upon the face, which speedily stained his collar in blood; and his clothes suffered equally from dust and dirt, and the profaning fingers of more than one unclean hand. At length the tumult was appeased; and D'Aubin, after treating the contending parties to a witty harangue in praise of peace, turned away with St. Real, saying, "Well, well, Huon, now that you have had enough of fighting for your morning's meal, get you gone to the King, or he will be out for the day. He is not at the chateau, but in that house with the large garden--you can hardly see it as we stand; but, by the number of people I see gathering in that direction, I should suppose he was now about to set out. So hasten on, and you will find me here at your return."
"My visit to the King may well wait a few hours," replied St Real; "and I would fain, Philip, conclude with you a conversation which can never be renewed between us without pain. I have got much to tell you. But stay!" he exclaimed suddenly, as his eye fell upon the figure of a Dominican monk, who was slowly proceeding up the road, and had just passed the spot where he himself stood in conversation with his cousin; "but stay! I think I know that friar, and, if so, I must to the King with all speed!"
Thus speaking, and without waiting for any reply, he made a sign to his attendants to follow, and hurried on, after the Jacobin, on foot. The monk was proceeding at a calm quiet pace, with his eyes fixed upon the ground; and St. Real was by his side in a moment. One glance showed him the dull heavy features of Brother Clement, who had tenanted the chamber to his own in the convent of the Jacobins; and the voices and the jugglery he had seen played off upon the wretched fanatic, as well as the effect which the whole had produced upon the object of those artifices, instantly came up before St. Real's mind, and made him hesitate whether he should not question him in regard to his errand at St. Cloud. The next moment, however, a gentleman, in whom St. Real could easily recognise a high officer of the law--as, in those days, every class and profession had its appropriate garb--came up, followed by some other people carrying papers, and, stopping the friar, as a person whom he knew, held a brief conversation with him, and then walked slowly on by his side towards the dwelling of the King. St. Real, after a moment's consideration, paused, and beckoning to the dwarf Bartholo, from whose knowledge of Paris and its inhabitants he had already derived much information, inquired the name of the personage now walking forward with the monk.
"His name is La Guesle," replied the dwarf, drily: "he is the king'sProcureur Général."
Such information was sufficient to remove from the mind of St. Real some part at least of the apprehensions which he had entertained; but, nevertheless, there was a lingering suspicion that the Jacobin's intentions were not all righteous, which made him resolve to inform the king at once of what he had seen in Paris, and put him upon his guard against the machinations of his most insidious enemies. With this view, as he saw that theProcureur Généraland his companion were proceeding exactly in the same direction as himself, he hurried his pace, and passed them. Making his way onward through the various groups of soldiers, courtiers, and officers, that were scattered thickly through the streets of their temporary residence, enjoying the fine sunshine of the early summer morning, he hastened forward towards the spot to which his cousin had directed him as the abode of the king, inquiring as he went which was the exact house amongst the many splendid buildings that St. Cloud then contained.
At length the abode of one Hieronimo de Gondi was pointed out to him; and, entering the court, the walls of which had concealed from his sight a crowd of guards and attendants at that time constantly waiting upon the sovereign, he proceeded to the great entrance, and mounted the steps which led to the first hall. Here his name and business were instantly demanded, and his reply transmitted through various mouths to the chambers above. While detained below for the king's answer to his demand of an audience, he was ushered into a side room, where some of the superior officers of the court were whiling away their daily hours of attendance. Some were playing with dice, and some at chess; but in all there was a fearful effeminacy in dress and demeanour, which made St. Real shrink from the soft and womanly things with which he was for the moment brought in contact. He was not destined, however, to remain long amongst them; for the next moment a page--fair and soft, and smooth-spoken, with jewels in his ears, and as much satin and lace upon his slashed doublet of sky-blue silk as would furnish forth a lady on a court birthday--glided into the room, and besought the Marquis of St. Real to follow him to the presence of the king.
Ascending the broad flight of steps which led to the principal apartments above, St. Real first passed through the chamber of the Gascon guards, the same unscrupulous body which had served the monarch so remorselessly in the assassination of the ambitious but heroic Duke of Guise. Their harsh and war-worn features, shaggy beards, and affectedly rough demeanour, offered a strange contrast to the soft and silken aspect of the rest of the court: but St. Real was soon introduced to a new, but not less sickening scene of luxurious effeminacy. Passing through an ante-chamber, in which lounged a number of creatures such as he had seen below, he was led into the audience-room prepared for the king. Faint rose-coloured velvet formed the hangings of the walls, a number of green silk couches were placed round the room, and the whole air was so burdened with manifold perfumes, that St. Real, disgusted with all he beheld, felt actually sick at the compound odour that assailed him as soon as he entered. A number of personages stood round, dressed in all the gaudy colours of the rainbow, and each without the slightest spot or stain to be seen upon his glossy vestments. In the midst of them all sat a man habited, like themselves, with all the scrupulous care that folly can waste upon personal appearance. His hands and his face were as white and as delicate as the satin lining of his cloak, except where on his cheeks appeared a faint delicate colour, like the hectic blush of a consumptive girl, but which, in him, was probably rather the effect of paint than of disease. He was speaking when St. Real entered: but it was none of his lords, or minions, as they were then called, who was so honoured at that moment by the effeminate Henry III. On his lap he held a beautiful worked basket, lined with faint blue satin, and containing no less than four small dogs, neither of which exceeded in size a well-fed miller's rat; and to one of these--his favourite pets and constant companions--he was addressing some tender reproaches for the crime of having scrambled over the back of one of the others, in its unceremonious attempts to escape from the delicate dwelling, which it would willingly have exchanged for a wooden box, and some clean hay.
St. Real's bold step in the room, the sound of his heavy boot and jingling spurs, instantly caught the king's attention; and, looking up from his basket of dogs, he gazed over the person of the young noble, with a glance first of surprise, and then, apparently, of horror and disgust. The silken watchers of the king's countenance instantly caught its expression, and divined the cause.
"Good God, sir!" exclaimed one, interposing between St. Real and the king, as if he feared that the young noble were about to assassinate the monarch; "good God, sir! is it possible that any one should present himself before his Majesty in such a plight? Retire, for Heaven's sake! you had better retire!"
St. Real laid his hand upon the attendant's breast to push him back out of his way; but the minion shrank back from the touch of the same stout doe-skin glove with which the young Marquis had parted the contending soldiers in the street, as if a dagger had been at his bosom.
"I would not have intruded upon your Majesty," said St. Real, "in a garb stained with blood as this is, had I not had something to communicate which I thought of immediate importance----"
"Whatever you have to communicate, sir," interrupted the king, frowning, "must be told when you have changed your dress: I will hear nothing at the risk of being suffocated. The blood has nothing to do with the matter! I have seen more blood, and shed more blood, than you ever have, or ever will, perhaps; but you bring in with you a whirlwind of dust, enough to choke up the lungs of any Christian king upon the face of the earth. Make no reply, sir," he continued, waving his hand; "make no reply, but leave the room; and when you have changed your dress, and appear in habiliments more befitting this place, I will hear what you have to communicate, but not before."
"As your Majesty pleases," replied St. Real; "but still, let me warn you of one thing at least----"
"Of nothing!" exclaimed the king. "Why, the very percussion of your breath shakes the dust from your cloak, till the whole air is dim. Away with him! away with him! Nevers, Joyeuse, Epernon, rid me of the sight of him! But gently, gently! Do not shake the dust off him: 'tis bad enough to be obliged to ride along the high roads, once every day, without having the high roads brought into our own audience-chamber."
There was a determination in the look and demeanour of the young Marquis of St. Real which augured something in his nature not pleasant to lay hands upon; and, consequently, the courtiers of the contemptible monarch took care not to enforce his commands with any rudeness. Nor was it necessary; for St. Real, finding that any farther attempt, at that moment, to communicate to the king the apprehensions he entertained from what he had seen in Paris, would be vain, retreated from the royal presence without farther question, resolving immediately to inform his cousin D'Aubin, and beg him to convey the bare intelligence of danger to the monarch, while he himself changed his dress, and prepared to give more full and minute information.
Rejoining his attendants in the court, and looking eagerly round, as he quitted the royal residence, in order to ascertain whether the monk were still in sight, St. Real turned his steps back towards the house where he had found D'Aubin on his arrival at St. Cloud. It was not, indeed, that he could feel particularly interested in the fate of the monarch whom he had just seen, or that he thought the death of such a degraded being would be, at any other period, much to be regretted in France; but the young lord, acting upon general principles which accidental circumstances never greatly modified, felt it his bounden duty to prevent, if possible, a meditated crime; and, even had it not been so, would have been extremely desirous of preserving the life of the reigning sovereign, at a moment when political and religious factions, personal enmities, and contending interests, convulsed the realm, and required no new brand of discord to bring down sorrows, desolation, and ruin, upon the people, the country, and the state.
Whichever way St. Real turned his eyes, however, various groups of persons loitering about, without any apparent object, interrupted his view ere it could penetrate many yards. Amongst them the figure of the Jacobin was not to be seen; and, mounting his horse, which had been led after him, he proceeded as fast as possible to the dwelling in which his cousin had taken up his quarters.
He found D'Aubin surrounded by a large party of the gay nobility of Paris; and levity and merriment had so completely taken possession of every one present, that St. Real could obtain no attention for the serious matter he had to communicate. Even his cousin himself, whom he knew to be full of strong and fiery passions, and whom he had seen that very morning moved by no light emotions, appeared now to have given himself up entirely to the idlest spirit of gaiety; so that the only effect produced by the tale which the young nobleman had to tell was loud laughter at the repulse he had met with from the monarch's presence, and advice to suffer Henry to deal with his friend the friar as best he might.
Somewhat offended, and still more grieved, at his cousin's conduct, St. Real quitted him, promising to rejoin him in the course of the day; and, betaking himself to the small rooms, which were the only ones he could find unoccupied in either of the twoaubergesthat St. Cloud at that time boasted, he hastily put off his riding-suit, removed the traces of travel and contention from his person, and then, dressed more in accordance with the courtly foppery of a great capital than the simplicity which he had expected to find in a camp, he returned to the temporary dwelling of the king, bent upon executing his own right purposes, whoever might laugh or sneer. Henry had by this time, it would seem, considered the impolicy of alienating so powerful a subject, at a moment when the throne so much needed support; and St. Real found a page waiting for him in the vestibule, charged, on his return, to deliver a sort of half apology for the treatment he had met with, and to conduct him immediately to the royal presence.
Led through the same rooms, St. Real entered the audience-chamber, which was still tenanted by the same personages, with the exception of the king himself, whose voice was heard in a cabinet beyond. The page, however, instantly proceeded to the door, and throwing it open, announced St. Real's return.
"We will speak with him presently," replied Henry, aloud: but the sight which met St. Real's eyes through the open door made him once more cast away all ceremony, notwithstanding his rebuke he had received in the morning. On the right of the monarch stood La Guesle, theProcureur Général, while at the king's feet knelt the very Jacobin friar whom St. Real had seen in conversation with that officer about half an hour before. The monk seemed in the act of presenting a letter; but though that action, and his whole demeanour, appeared perfectly pacific, yet St. Real was convinced, from his previous knowledge, that the ultimate designs of the Jacobin must be evil; and striding across the audience-hall with the purpose of interposing, he had nearly reached the door of the cabinet, when one of the nobles in attendance stopped him for an instant, attempting to explain to him that the King would summon him when he thought fit.
"Of course, of course!" replied St. Real, "but the King is in danger. See, see!" And at the same moment the Dominican, as he knelt, lifted his arm and struck the monarch, what appeared to be merely a blow of his clenched hand.
The King staggered back, however, exclaiming, "He has killed me!" And drawing from his side the long sharp knife which the Jacobin had left in the wound, he struck the assassin on the head as he was endeavouring to rise. Almost at the same time, La Guesle, drawing; his sword, passed it through the monk's body; and the nobleman, who had so ill-timedly stopped the advance of St. Real, sprang forward, crying, "The Monk has killed his Majesty;" and while the murderer was already falling under the blows of the King and La Guesle, drove his dagger into his throat and put a period to his existence. The other officers in attendance rushed into the cabinet in tumult and fury, and with an indecent excess of rage, cast the dead body of the Jacobin out of the window into the court.
There is no describing the terror, confusion, and despair, into which the large body of courtiers, interested deeply in the life of their master, were thrown by the event that had just occurred; but Henry himself, at that awful moment, recalled all the courage and self-possession for which he had been distinguished in his early years, and showed himself far more tranquil and undisturbed than any of the party.
"Send for a surgeon," he said, sitting down and pressing one hand upon the wound, while with the other he waved back those who were crowding round him. "La Guesle, you have done wrong to kill the wretch. We might have learned who were his instigators; but let the room be cleared. Monsieur de St. Real, I thought to have spoken with you, but it is impossible now. You said you had something to communicate; but if I recover, it must be told hereafter; if I die, it must be told to my successor."
"God forbid your Majesty should die at this moment," replied St. Real, whose intended communication was now rendered useless. "I trust that your wound will not prove serious."
"I trust not," replied the King; "but no one can say what, or how soon, may be the termination. Although I am inclined to think that the wound is not dangerous, yet in this body there may be but half an hour of life. Therefore remember, lords and gentlemen of France here present, that, should death be the result of this morning's bad work, Henry of Navarre is your lawful king! From the moment that my lips cease to breathe he is your king according to every principle of right and justice: the fundamental laws of the French monarchy make him so, and no power on earth can absolve you of your duty towards him. I only raise my voice to point out to my subjects what will be their duty when I am dead. Remember that this is my last injunction: but here come the surgeons; and now, once more, I say, let the room be cleared."
The monarch's orders were instantly obeyed, and the cabinet, in which he had received his wound, was accordingly abandoned by all but the surgeons and his immediate personal attendants. The whole party, however, lingered in the audience chamber, and in the ante-room adjoining, breaking into separate groups, and each speaking low, but eagerly, on the event that had occurred, and the consequences likely to ensue. As St. Real was not personally known to any one present, he was, of course, thrown out of all these small circles, and was proceeding through the rooms, in order to join his attendants and make his escape from the bustle, confusion, and tumult which were beginning to spread rapidly through the royal household, when a stout, plainly-dressed, middle-aged man, whom he had not particularly noticed in the crowd, laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "I think I heard your name mentioned as Monsieur de St. Real."
"The same," replied St. Real, bowing. "What are your commands?"
"My name is De Sancy," replied the other: "an old acquaintance of your father's. I would speak a word with you, but not here." Thus saying, he led St. Real on till they reached the court, where all was in the same state of confusion which reigned above--the gates closed, and no one suffered to go out. At the appearance of Monsieur de Sancy, however, the guards presented arms, and the porter threw open thegrillefor him and his companion to pass. A word, on his part, obtained the same facility for his own immediate followers, and for those of St. Real; and walking on foot down the road, while their horses followed, De Sancy spoke briefly to his young companion of what had occurred.
"The king will die," he said. "I see it in his countenance; and France will be thrown into a state of greater turbulence than ever. There is but one way to save her, Monsieur de St. Real; and, if you inherit your father's heart and principles, you will not hesitate to join me in following it."
"May I ask you," demanded St. Real, "what is the way to which you allude?"
"I mean," replied De Sancy, "boldness, decision, preparation, on the part of the friends of good order. You will see, Monsieur de St. Real, that as soon as the king is dead, the bonds which keep all these forces together will be suddenly dissolved. The greater part of the leaders will think all ties of honesty, loyalty, and patriotism at an end; and almost all will set themselves up for sale to the highest bidder, while many will join that party for which they have already a hankering. I heard, some time ago, that you were expected here, and I learned that you have a considerable body of troops lying near Senlis. Now tell me, supposing that the king were dead, in what light would you look upon Henry, King of Navarre?"
"As the legitimate successor to the crown," answered St. Real, "and as my rightful sovereign!"
"Then would you be as well contented to fight against the League under a Huguenot sovereign," demanded De Sancy, "as under the Catholic monarch, who has just met with such a fitting reward for his love of priests and friars?"
"A thousand times better," replied St. Real, "if that sovereign be Henry of Navarre, my father's friend and my own--honest and noble, if ever man was, and loving his country and his people better than himself."
"If such, then, be your opinions, Monsieur de St. Real," replied De Sancy, laying his hand familiarly on his shoulder--"if such be your opinions, without a word more let us mount our horses, and ride over together to Meudon, to bear to the Bearnois, as they call him, the first tidings of all that has happened here, and to promise him our unbought support in case of need. I bring with me nearly three thousand sturdy Swiss; and you, I hear, near a thousand hardy Frenchmen. What say you? shall we go?"
Great emergencies make short oratory. "With all my heart," replied St. Real, who, however brief had been the explanation, understood De Sancy's views and objects as well as if he had spoken a volume; "with all my heart!" he replied, "and we will ride quick."
Their horses were beckoned up; each cavalier sprang into the saddle; and, after a few words of direction and command to some of their attendants on either part, they galloped off towards Meudon as fast as they could go.