Neither St. Real nor his companion spoke much as they advanced towards Meudon. The rapid pace at which they proceeded, and the still more rapid thoughts that were passing in the mind of each, left little room for conversation. Each, however, seemed so instinctively to appreciate the character of the other, that the few words which did occasionally pass between them conveyed far more than much longer communication might have accomplished between persons whose ideas flowed in a less direct and straightforward channel. So rapidly did their horses bear them forward indeed, that but a few minutes elapsed ere they beheld the pleasant little upland supporting the village in which the witty but licentious Rabelais poured forth the biting and sarcastic torrent of satire that, however ill understood by after ages, has rendered his name immortal; and in which also he exercised all those clerical functions that were far less adapted to the character of his mind.
Coming from the side of St. Cloud, and bearing about his person those conventional signs which were understood to indicate an officer of the royalist party, Monsieur de Sancy, accompanied by his young companion, was permitted to go forward, with scarcely any interruption almost to the gates of the old chateau in which Henry of Navarre had fixed his head-quarters. Here, however, they were challenged by the sentinels; but, giving the word, they passed on, and meeting with an inferior officer attached to the prince, inquired if he had yet gone forth.
"More than an hour," was the reply; "but he may certainly be found with the advance guard at thePré aux Clercs."
Without farther question, and somewhat mortified at the loss of time, De Sancy and St. Real turned their horses' heads, and at some risk galloped down the steep descent; nor pulled a bridle rein till they reached the large open plain called thePré aux Clercs, which at this time offered a singular and not unpicturesque exhibition. From the spot where the road which they followed entered the plain, the country lay flat and unvaried to the very suburbs of the city of Paris, which rose behind, forming a dense back-ground of grey buildings, towering up one beyond another in the misty light of a summer's day. The open ground between was not exactly covered with multitudes, but was living with a hundred groups of gay and glittering cavaliers; while two strong bodies of infantry, and a squadron of horse, covered the several roads which led from that part of Paris to Meudon and St. Cloud. The groups of horsemen of which we have spoken, armed at all points, and, in general, bearing the old knightly lance--some decorated with the colours of the League, some displaying those of the Catholic Royalists, and some carrying the white scarfs and sword-knots of the Huguenots--were seen, now wheeling about the plain, endeavouring to gain the vantage ground of a party of opponents; now standing still, waiting in firm ranks the attack of a body of the enemy; now hurled in impetuous charge against the foe, and mingling in brief but desperate struggle; with the armour, and the pennons, and the scarfs, and the rich caparisons, glancing in and out of the clouds of dust that covered them. Every now and then, also, when any of the Leaguers advanced too near, the arquebusiers, who covered the roads, would keep up upon them a rolling fire from their levelled pieces; and occasionally some of the batteries erected for the defence of the suburbs would pour forth flame and thunder upon the position of the Huguenot infantry, though with but little effect.
About a hundred yards in advance of the foot, upon one of the few slight rises which the plain afforded, appeared a group, consisting of about twenty horsemen, principally distinguished by the Huguenot scarf, who took no further part in the skirmishes which were going on than by every now and then detaching a messenger from their body, apparently to bear directions or commands to other parts of the field. At the head of this group, armed at all points except the head, appeared Henry, King of Navarre, with his fine, but strong-marked features, full of animation and excitement from the scene before him. St. Real was the first who remarked his position; and, pointing it out to Monsieur de Sancy, paused only till they had ordered their attendants to remain near the body of infantry, and then spurred on with his companion to the spot where the monarch was watching the progress of the morning's skirmish--an amusement of which he rarely deprived his soldiery. Turning round as they came up, he welcomed St. Real with a look of surprise and satisfaction, and greeted De Sancy with a smile.
"This is unexpected and gladsome, my good young friend," he said, grasping St. Real's hand. "I heard you were in Paris; and, though your cousin declared you would certainly visit us ere you decided, yet, good faith! I thought the cunning of the League would be too much for you."
"It was, I believe, too much for themselves, your Majesty," replied St. Real; "for I am not only here, but purpose to remain. We have, however, something of more importance to tell your Majesty, if you will give us your ear for one moment."
"Instantly," replied the king; and then turning to some of those behind him, he pointed with his leading-staff to one of the groups of skirmishers, exclaiming, "Some one ride in there, and bring out Rosny! The lad is mad with sorrow for the loss of his wife. Ventre Saint Gris! 'Tis a strange thing that what would make one man mad for joy, should make another man mad for grief! He will get himself killed now, in order to go to heaven after his wife; while there are many men who would almost to the other place, to get out of the way of theirs. But ride in, ride in, and bring him out--tell him I want him! Now, St. Real! now, Monsieur de Sancy! I am for you!"
Thus speaking, he rode on twenty or thirty paces in advance of his attendants, and looked first to St. Real, and then to De Sancy, as if requiring them to give him their tidings. The latter then spoke: "We have to communicate to your Majesty," he said, "an event that has occurred at St. Cloud, and which may be productive of great and sorrowful results--which pray God avert!"
"Amen!" cried Henry; "but what is it, what is it?"
"This, my lord," replied de Sancy. "About an hour ago, while Monsieur de St. Real and myself were both in the audience-chamber of his Majesty, the king was wounded severely by a Dominican friar, and I have many fears that the result will be fatal."
Henry made no reply, but gazed upon Monsieur de Sancy's face with a look of anxiety and horror. "This is ruin indeed!" he exclaimed--"to be killed at the very moment that our united arms had so nearly seated him securely on the throne! This is ruin indeed!"
"I trust not, your Majesty," replied St. Real. "First, the king is not yet dead, and may recover; and next, even should he die, you, my lord, have not only a righteous cause to support you, but a more fair renown. You would then be as much king of France as he is now, and many a subject who serves him unwillingly will draw his sword with joy for you."
"At all events, my lord," said De Sancy, "whatever may be the conduct of others, and whatever may be the result of this most lamentable affair, your Majesty will find that two at least of the French nobles, without consulting or considering any other interest but that of their country, will be ready, should fate place the crown of France upon your head, to serve your Majesty with their whole heart and soul. I, for my part, engage at once to bring over the Swiss to your Majesty's service; and, if I have understood him right, Monsieur de St. Real here present will immediately move his troops from Senlis to your support."
"Without a moment's hesitation," added St. Real; "and if I have hitherto even entertained a scruple in regard to joining the royal forces, that scruple would not exist after your Majesty's accession to the throne."
"Thank you, thank you, my friends!" exclaimed Henry, "this is noble! This is generous! But still let us hope that the calamity will be averted, which, by the death of the king, would cast amongst us a fresh ball of discord, when so many already exist. Still it is necessary for me to be prepared; but while I speed to St. Cloud, in order to learn, as far as possible, what is proceeding there, let me beg you, my friends, to converse over the matter with those you can trust, and ascertain upon whom I may rely--who are likely to be doubtful friends, and who will prove open enemies."
St. Real and his companion promised obedience; and the king, after speaking a few moments with some of the gentlemen of his train, turned his horse's head towards St. Cloud, and galloped off. De Sancy and St. Real returned more leisurely, conversing over the event that had occurred, and its probable results.
"You, Monsieur de Sancy, and the King of Navarre also, seem to apprehend much more danger from the death of the king," said St. Real, "than I can conceive likely to accrue. Far be it from me to speak evil of a man who, even now, may be dying; yet who can doubt that in virtues as a man, and in high qualities as a sovereign, the monarch who has just left us is as superior to him who now reigns in France as light is to darkness? As a military leader, too, his renown is justly among the first in Europe; and with the sole command of the army, which is now divided, the affection of all that is noble and good in the land, and the warm co-operation of many of those who have held aloof from the present sovereign, he would surely be able to accomplish far more towards reducing the land to a state of tranquillity and subordination, than a king who is not only hated but despised."
De Sancy shook his head, with a somewhat melancholy smile, at calculations made upon grounds so very different from the motives which actuated the generality of men in the disorganized land wherein they lived.
"If every one were Monsieur de St. Real," he answered, "if every one--I do not mean in France, but even in this camp and army--were actuated by the same pure and patriotic feelings as yourself, your calculations would be undoubtedly right, and the extinction of the line of Valois would be the signal for tranquillity and happiness to resume their place in our distracted land. But the men that we see around us are divided into many classes, and actuated by many motives. The Huguenots have among them one principle of action--I mean religious fanaticism. But, taking all the rest of the united armies, I suppose there are not ten men of rank amongst us who have any general principle whatsover."
"You give a sad picture of our countrymen, Monsieur de Sancy," replied St. Real; "but if your view be correct, how happen such discordant elements to have adhered so long?"
"From causes as numerous," replied De Sancy, "as the men themselves. Some have adhered to the king out of gratitude for favours conferred, and from a knowledge that their fortune, almost their very existence itself, depended upon that monarch. Such are the minions, the favourites, the priests. Others again, of a nobler nature, have remained attached to the same party equally from gratitude for favours conferred, but without entertaining any further hopes from, or being bound by any tie of interest to, the king. Such is the Duke of Epernon, and several more. Others, again, serve the monarch because their own dignity and power are connected by various ties to his. Such are the princes of the blood. An immense number follow him only because, seeing the country split into factions, and knowing that they must attach themselves to some party, they judge that they can obtain most from the court; and, at all events, can sell themselves to the League hereafter, in case they find their first expectations disappointed. Many, too, have some individual object in view, which they may obtain from the king, but could not obtain from the League; and many serve the monarch from personal hatred to some one in the opposite camp. Monsieur de St. Real, I could go on for an hour, and yet leave half the motives unreckoned by which men of different parties are actuated in every civil strife. All these motives are at work amongst us; and patriotism, depend upon it, comes in for but a very small share, when there are so many other greedy passions to divide with her the hearts of the multitude."
St. Real was silent for a few moments, and thoughtful too; for in the picture of the manifold hues and shades of human baseness thus presented to his sight, there was something very painful to a mind accustomed to view the world in a brighter light. After having considered for a short time, however, letting his mind roam to more general thoughts, he returned to the immediate matter of their conversation. "I am sorry to hear," he said, "that such is the composition of an army from which I had hoped better things. But tell me, Monsieur de Sancy, will not the same motives which have hitherto bound them to the present king bind them also to his successor?"
"By no means," replied De Sancy. "In the first place, the difference of religion will be a great objection to many, and an excellent pretext to more. A thousand to one all the zealous Catholics will abandon the heretic monarch at once. Those who personally love him will seek to make him change his religion; those who love him not will leave him without any question. All who are already doubtful will seize this favourable opportunity of going over to the League. All who are serving upon interested motives will demand place, preferment, or promise, as the price of their future assistance. Of these--and I am sorry to say that at least one half of the royal camp is composed of such--of these there will be a general market--a buying and selling, as in the halls of Paris; and if the king cannot outbid the League, they will go over together."
"Well, let them go," cried St. Real. "By Heaven! Monsieur de Sancy, I hold that we shall be better without such false and doubtful allies. Our swords will strike more firmly, our confidence in ourselves and in each other will be redoubled, when the army is purified from such a nest of mercenary villains."
"Ah! my young friend," replied De Sancy, "you may make a good soldier; but you are not yet fit for a politician in this bad world of ours. Call them by some softer name, too, than mercenary villains," he added, with a laugh; "for, till you see the event, you do not know whom you may find amongst them."
St. Real was silent; for his mind was not without some shade of doubt as to what would be the conduct of his own cousin in the event of the king's death breaking asunder all those ties which, for the time, united the incoherent parts of the royalist army together. However much St. Real might love the Count d'Aubin, and however much he might strive to conceal from himself the faults and failings which disfigured his character, he could not help experiencing a vague internal conviction that his actions were more the effect of impulse than of principle, and that there was not sufficient firmness in his character to restrain him from following where his passions or his interests led him, if to the path which he thus chose no very signal disgrace was attached in the eyes of the world.
He was silent then, and a few minutes more brought them back to St. Cloud, which exhibited all the usual marks of a small place in which some great event has happened. The eager faces; the gliding up and down of important-looking persons; the whispering groups at every corner, and at every house-door; the loud-tongued politicians, demonstrating to their little assemblage of hearers the events that were to follow, or the events that were past; and here and there the mercenary soldier, sauntering indifferently through the streets, and caring not who died, or who survived, provided that his pay was sure, and that the blessed trade of war was not brought to an untimely end.
Monsieur de Sancy and St. Real drew up their horses at the first group of respectable persons they met with, and demanded news of the king. The reply was favourable: "the monarch was better," the people said; "the surgeons apprehended no evil; and the consequences of the crime had fallen upon the head of him who perpetrated it."
After receiving this answer, St. Real and De Sancy separated, each well pleased with the other, and promising mutually to meet again before night, whatever might be the result of the events which had brought them first together.
St. Real then directed his course up the road towards the smallauberge, in which he had hired the only apartments that on his first arrival were to be found vacant in the village, and at which he had left a part of his attendants to prepare for his return. The door of the inn, like that of every other house in the place, was surrounded by its own little group, discussing the events of the time; and as St. Real approached, he distinguished amongst the crowd his dwarf page Bartholo, together with the handsome Italian boy, who had been left in his service by Henry of Navarre. The young marquis--whose mind was not of that indifferent cast which looks with philosophical coolness upon the dangers or discomforts of every person except its own particular proprietor--had been not a little anxious for the fate of the fair delicate youth amidst the troubles and perils of the capital and its environs, and was in no slight degree rejoiced to see him in safety in a spot where he could afford him protection.
Leonard de Monte sprang forward as soon as he beheld his lord, and welcomed him on his arrival, with all that peculiar grace which we have before had occasion to notice in his demeanour. There was something in his manner that expressed a willingness to serve and to obey; but, at the same time, it appeared to be the willingness of a free and generous mind to perform that which depended solely upon its own volition. There was a dignity withal in his tone and demeanour, that made his obedience seem a condescension rather than a duty; and yet, as we have said, it was all so cheerfully done, that St. Real, although he felt more as if he were speaking to a friend or a younger brother, than to one who was bound to obey, nevertheless did not feel the difference disagreeable, but rather looked with more interest upon a person whose demeanour was so superior to that of others in his station.
"I have had some fears for you, my good boy," said St. Real, "since I heard that you had come hither to seek me."
"Oh, never fear for me, sir!" replied the youth, speaking with that confidence in his own fortune, which is one of the many happy deceits whereby the human heart beguiles itself to forget the weariness, and the difficulties, and the dangers of the long and perilous path of life; "oh, never fear for me, sir! In my short day, I have passed through so many scenes, where others have found every sort of danger and tribulation, without receiving so much as a scratch of my hand, that I begin to believe myself enchanted against peril: besides, I had the two stout fellows you gave me to accompany me from Maine; and if I had met with any danger, I should have left them to fight it out, and have slipped away, finding safety under cover of my littleness."
"Well, well, we must not try your fortune too far, my good Leonard," replied the young noble. "But come hither with me, Bartholo, seek me wherewithal to write; and bid Martin and Paul hold themselves ready to set out in half an hour to Senlis. Have you seen the Count d'Aubin?"
"I saw him not half an hour ago," replied Leonard de Monte, ere the dwarf could answer. "He was riding forth with a gay company to thePré aux Clercs."
"That is unfortunate!" observed St. Real; "I would fain have spoken with him. But hark! there is the drum beating to arms, and the clarions sounding a march! See what that may mean, Leonard."
The boy sped away quickly; and during his absence St. Real proceeded to his own apartments, and wrote to the officer whom he had left in command of his troops near Senlis, directing him, in as few words as possible, to advance without loss of time to the distance of half a march from the royal army. Ere he had concluded, Leonard de Monte returned, and, in reply to St. Real's eager question of what news, informed him, that an order had just been given out to put the royal forces under arms, as it was supposed that those who had instigated the attempt at assassination, not knowing that it had failed, would endeavour to take advantage of the confusion they expected to follow its success amongst the royalists.
"A wise precaution!" said St. Real--"a wise precaution, marking that Henry of Navarre is in the camp, even if one did not know it from other circumstances. Now, tell me, Leonard," he continued, after having sealed and despatched his letter, "how long have you been here?"
"I reached Paris some five days since," replied the boy, "and waited two days there, in hopes of your coming; but, finding that you did not arrive, I grew anxious, knowing that there are wily men and unscrupulous of all parties in these places. Then, when you did not appear the third day, I set off hither to see whether you had been delayed against your will at the king's quarters; and ever since then I have been coming and going between the camp and the city of Paris, till I learned this morning that you were here."
"But were you never stopped at the outposts?" demanded St. Real; "your pass extended only to the capital?"
"Oh, no!" replied the boy, in a gay tone; "I passed and repassed as often as I liked, and will do it again whensoever it pleases me. I have the secret of making myself invisible; and they must be sharper eyes than either those of the League or of the Huguenots that will spy me out to stop me as I go."
"Indeed!" said St. Real: "that were a secret worth knowing."
"Easy to learn, but not so easy to practise," answered the boy. "I had first to consider the sentry as I came up to him; then, if I found him a Huguenot Gascon, to stop a quarter of an hour to listen to all the great exploits he had performed at Montcontour, Jarnac, or any other place; then--seeming to believe the whole--to tell him as great a lie as any that he told me, vowing that I was the truant son of some Huguenot lord, going back to hear Du Plessis Mornay preach against the Pope of Rome; and thus might I pass by without farther question. If, on the contrary, it were a royalist, I vowed I was King Henry's new page, and talked about Monsieur de Biron, and the good Duke of Epernon. If it were a Swiss, I boldly said, 'What is your price?' put the crowns in his hands, and walked on. And when I came back to the sentinels of the League, I had but to throw this toy over my shoulders," he continued, drawing a black-and-green scarf from the bosom of his vest, which, according to the custom of those days, was made very large and full, and often served the purpose of a pocket--"I had only to throw this toy over my shoulders, and swear by the holy mass that I had gone out to kill the king, and would have done it, too, if I had not, by mischance, trod on the toes of one of his Polish puppies, and been turned out of the ante-room for that grave offence."
St. Real laughed. "You are a brave boy," he said, "and seem to know these people thoroughly--perhaps better than I do."
"Perhaps I may," replied the youth: "but still, call me not a brave boy, for I am not; on the contrary, I am as arrant a coward as ever lived; so, if you intend to take me with you into a pitched battle, or even a skirmish, or so much as the siege of a town, you are very much mistaken, for I shall certainly lag behind."
"You jest," said St. Real, smiling; "for, though you are too young to be led into battles, or to sieges either, yet you are one of those whereof, some day, men may make good soldiers."
"Not I," answered the boy, seriously, and with a sigh; "not I, my lord!--I have a vow against it. Faith, I think that heretic Du Plessis Mornay has converted even me; and I hold, that for hundreds of honest men to shed each other's blood, for the sake of making their favourite sit in a great ivory chair, wear a gilt cap with a tassel, and call himself king, is not only a folly, but a madness, and not only a madness, but a crime. Be not offended, my lord," he added, seeing a slight cloud come over St. Real's brow, as he listened to doctrines very different from those which his own bold and chivalrous heart entertained; "be not offended, nor doubt me either; for you may well rest sure that, should danger threaten you, or misfortune overtake you, when I am your follower, this heart--though not so bold as a falcon's--would find courage for the time; this hand--though not so strong as a giant's--should do its best to defend or aid you."
"I believe you in that, at least, my good Leonard," replied St. Real; "yet, nevertheless, I have always held that life is valueless without honour, and that the drops of our heart's best blood can never be weighed against the service of our country, our king, or our friend. However, you are not my sworn soldier, so I shall not try you; and, to speak of matters whereon we shall better agree, tell me--for, amongst all your wanderings, you must have heard--how go men's opinions upon the events that are taking place here?"
"Opinions!" cried the youth. "They go, my lord, as the waves of the sea. Looked at from a distance, and at first sight, they seem innumerable, and all distinct one from the other; but when one examines a little more closely, they are found to be nothing but one great flow of the same things, following the first that comes forward and dashes upon the shore. I know not well what the wordopinionused to mean in the days of old, but now, I know it means the portrait of every man's selfishness, painted as he likes it to appear. One man has a strong desire to be governor of Dijon, and he represents it under the form of a sincere admiration of the Catholic faith; another wishes to be made marechal of France, and he displays his wish under a full approbation of the murder of the Guises."
"It is wonderful," said St. Real, with a smile, "how soon, in the camp and in the court, the wisdom of the brow of sixty years finds its way down to the curly head of sixteen! Do you know, Leonard, I have just heard this morning from Monsieur de Sancy the same fine sarcastic character of the good folks around me that you have given me now?"
"Then you have heard the truth from two people in one day," replied the boy gravely. "It is worth marking with white chalk! and, though you think that I ape the sententiousness of wiser persons than myself, you will find, that one who has lived amongst these scenes from his earliest years knows the characters that appear in the mystery as well as one of themselves. At all events, my lord, hope not to find Spartan virtues even in your dearest friend; or, if he do possess such jewels as patriotism, and firmness, and integrity, happy--thrice and fully happy, is he in this place; for nothing is so saleable here as virtue and a tolerably good reputation."
"Spartan virtue in my dearest friend!" said St. Real, repeating the words on which the youth had laid the strongest emphasis. "What mean you by that, Leonard? Tell me, are you frank and honest? If so, you have some meaning! Now, make it a plain one!"
The boy coloured a good deal, and, for a moment, seemed struggling between two emotions; but at length he replied, "I am frank and honest, sir, and I will make my meaning plain, feeling sure that you will not let my candour hurt me. When I spoke as I did speak, I thought of your noble cousin; for it is the common report of camp and city, that a large dower, and a lady's unwilling hand, will soon convert the Count d'Aubin from a bold Royalist to a zealous Leaguer."
It was now St. Real's turn to feel troubled, and the blood irrepressibly mounted to his cheek. "I trust that the camp and the city are both mistaken," he replied, at length; "and that Philip d'Aubin, if he do change his party, which may, perchance, happen, will have nobler motives to assign than any selfish advantages. One thing, however, is certain, no lady'sunwillinghand can be the object, for no man will or can force her inclination."
The boy shrugged his shoulders. "These are times, sir," he replied, "when men can do anything; but, nevertheless----"
Ere he could finish his sentence, the door of the little saloon in which he stood was thrown quickly open; and, as so often occurs, the very object of the conversation which had just passed appeared, and put an end to any farther observations. The boy, indeed, coloured deeply, and glided out of the room; but St. Real, whose consciousness of upright purpose and integrity of heart had restored his calmness and confidence in himself, turned to greet his cousin kindly, and prepared to speak with him upon the great events of the day, avoiding, as far as possible, those subjects which might renew any painful feelings between them. "I heard that you had gone to thePrés aux Clercs," he said, looking at his cousin's dusty garb; "but you are not armed, I see."
"Oh, that matters not!" answered D'Aubin; "it is as well sometimes to show these gentlemen of the League that, in a velvet pourpoint and silken hose, we can overthrow their best cavaliers, clothed from head to heel in good hard iron. I had not time to arm, and therefore ran two lances in my jerkin, having promised to give a course to Duverne and Maubeuge. So the king is wounded, they say! You have heard of it, of course. Should he die now, Huon--should he die, 'twould make a great difference in men's fates."
"I do not see why or how," replied St. Real; and then--not remarking that his cousin, whose very speech had been rambling and unconnected, suffered his mind to wander inattentive to what any one else said--went on to give all his reasons for thinking that the death of Henry III. should make no earthly change in the conduct of any honourable man hitherto attached to the royal cause.
"Huon!" interrupted D'Aubin, at length, "I have been thinking over what passed between us this morning, and I have come to crave a boon of you. Your safe-conduct from Mayenne is not yet near its end; and I would fain have you make one more journey to Paris. As I said before, I would trust you with aught on earth, such is my confidence in your honour; and you have great influence with Eugenie de Menancourt. She esteems and respects you, which is a very different thing from love, you know; no woman loves a man that she respects----"
"Nay, nay, nay, Philip!" said St. Real, somewhat sickened with his cousin's conduct, and yet pained to remark the evident anxiety and distress which D'Aubin strove in vain to cover under a tone, half jest, half earnest. "Nay, nay, Philip! speak not thus of those who form more than one half of man's happiness or misery--speak not thus if you would ever win the love of those whose love is worth possessing."
"Pshaw, Huon! you know them not!" replied the Count. "Respect and esteem may be the foundation of man's love for woman, but not of woman's love for man. Fear, jealousy, revenge, scorn, even hate itself, are nearer roads to woman's love than respect and esteem. You may disappoint her wishes, contradict her opinions, insult her understanding, pain her heart, ay, even cross her caprices! and yet win her love, if you will but pique her vanity. But a truce to such dissertations. Mark me, Huon! I think you love me, and wish me well; and I tell you sincerely, it imports much and deeply to my peace and comfort, that Eugenie de Menancourt should yield me a willing consent."
"Not, I trust, from any pecuniary consideration," said St. Real, who entertained some vague suspicions that his cousin had outstepped even his princely revenues in the gay and thoughtless course he had pursued for many a year. "If so, speak at once, Philip, for you know the extent of my resources; and you likewise know, I trust, that those resources are your own, when you choose to command them."
"No, no, Huon!" replied the Count, while his brow and cheek grew as red as fire. "No, no! I thank you for your kindness, good cousin; but there are many causes which make it as necessary to me as life, that Eugenie de Menancourt should become my wife. Why, think," he continued, raising his tone, "I should become the talk and the pity of all Paris!--the laughing-stock of every friend I have!"
St. Real bent down his eyes without reply, merely muttering to himself the word, "Friend!" while his cousin went on. "What I wish then, Huon, is this, that you would return to Paris, and seeing Eugenie, represent to her that my claim to her hand in consequence of her father's promise is indubitable; that I would sooner part with life than resign that claim; and that, in order to atone for aught I may have done to offend her, and to remove whatever objections she may have, I will change my course of living, cast from me those faults that appear so much blacker in her eyes than in those of our fair dames in the capital, and live a life as pure and holy as any nun was ever reputed to do, if she will promise at the end of a certain period to fulfil her father's engagement towards me. Will you do this for me, Huon, and exert all your eloquence?"
"Philip, it would be in vain," replied St. Real; "last night, I said all that I could say in your behalf--I promised even more for you than I well knew that you would perform--on my life, on my honour, Philip, I urged all that could be urged in your exculpation and in your favour; but she remained firm; and nothing I could say made any change in her replies. Your conduct, she said, had produced its natural effect; that effect was not to be effaced. Her father's promise was conditional; and, free from any engagement herself, she was resolved, she said, never to give her hand to one who had not sought her affection, and did not----"
St. Real hesitated, but his cousin finished the sentence boldly for him. "And did not possess her esteem, or deserve her love, or something of that kind," he said; "all that she told me before! It is but the ringing of the same chime! But by Heavens! it shall go hard if I do not find means to ring that chime backwards! Yet, listen, St. Real; yesterday, you were not empowered by me to say anything, and therefore she might doubt. I now empower you on my part to vow constancy, and promise amendment, and so forth. Will you undertake it?--will you go?"
"No, Philip, no," replied St. Real, in a tone of firm determination, "I will not; I love Eugenie de Menancourt too well myself, to cheat her with promises made in so light a tone as that. Nay, frown not on me, Philip d'Aubin, for you shall hear more, that you may never say your cousin deceived you. I refuse to go back to Eugenie to plead your cause, not alone because I believe it to be both a bad and a hopeless one, but, because I feel that it would be dangerous to my own peace; and might make me unhappy without serving you."
"Ho, ho!" cried D'Aubin, his brow darkening, "is such the case? Then I see somewhat more clearly how all this may end!"
"I trust you do," replied St. Real; "I trust from my conduct through life, and from my conduct now, that you may plainly see what will be that conduct still."
D'Aubin's lip curled into a cold, unpleasant smile; but his brow did not relax, and he answered, "What your conduct may be, like all future things, must be left to fate; but I shall certainly take means to ensure myself against what it seems it might be. I give you good evening, Huon, for I find it time to bestir myself! Farewell!"
So saying, he turned upon his heel, and left the apartment. At the foot of the stairs he paused for a moment to speak a few eager words with the dwarf Bartholo, and then springing on his horse galloped back to his own abode.
Leaving St. Real to meditate over the effects which his candour and honesty had produced, and to strengthen himself in his integrity against the bitterness of undeserved suspicion and reproach, we must follow the Count d'Aubin to his dwelling, and be his companion for the next few hours. Springing from his charger, he threw the reins to one of his attendants, ordered fresh horses to be saddled in the stable, a change of dress to be instantly brought him, and eagerly demanded if no packet had arrived from Paris. The answer was in the negative; but still the count proceeded to change his dress, apparelling himself with no small care and splendour, brushing the dust from his dark curling locks, and adding the fine essences that were then held a part even of the simplest toilet. Ere he had done, there was a sharp knock at the door of his chamber, and the next moment the dwarf Bartholo stole in, bearing a packet in his hand.
"I saw the messenger straying about the town," he said, "and knowing you would want this, I hastened to bring it hither."
"You see into my thoughts, and anticipate my wishes, good Bartholo," replied D'Aubin, breaking open the packet, and running his eye over the words of a regular safe-conduct from the Duke of Mayenne. "It is all right," he added, "though they limit me to four and twenty hours; but say, have you aught to tell me, Bartholo; for the day wears, and I am ready to set out. There seems matter in that face of thine. Speak, man! speak boldly. We know each other well."
"Your lordship is kind," replied the dwarf, with one of his sardonic grins. "I would fain give your lordship a piece of advice; but knowing from sweet experience how advice is relished in this wise world, I wish to know whether you have any appetite for it?"
"Yes, yes; speak boldly," replied D'Aubin; "I am as hungry for good advice as a famished wolf, and I am inclined to believe thee, just now, seeing that the hint you gave me not long since concerning my simple-seeming cousin has proved but too true. He would act in all honour as yet, it seems; but we all know with what tiny footsteps love begins the course, that he determines, ere the end, to stride over like a giant. Not that I think," he added, giving a glance to the mirror, and marking there as handsome features as ever that crowning invention of personal vanity reflected to the self-satisfied eyes of man--though the countenance he beheld might be somewhat worn with the strife of passions, it is true--"not that I think that, were it come to rivalry, I should have to fear the result. But I would fain put it beyond all chances; so speak your advice, good Bartholo. If it suit me, I will take it; and if not--why it is but empty air."
"Ay, ay," replied the dwarf, "empty air, and dust and ashes! Those few words are the history of the whole world--man's fame, and wisdom, and wit, and eloquence, and power, and strength, and beauty--empty air, and dust and ashes, are the whole!--so that brings me to my tidings, and to my advice;" he continued, resuming his ordinary tone. "You have heard of the king's wound, my lord. Now, do not you be one of the fools who deceive themselves, and think he will recover! Take my word for it, he will die!"
"Nay; but the surgeons say," replied D'Aubin, "that he is already far better, and give many shrewd reasons to show that he is nearly well."
"Let them give what reasons they will," answered the dwarf, "do not you believe them. Why, my good lord, do you think that your fair friend, the Duchess of Montpensier, or any of the holy and devout men of the Catholic union, are such fools in grain as to trust to a simple bit of smooth innocent iron to do the work of their hatred, while they have our dearly beloved Rene Armandi at hand, to smear the edge and the point with some of his blessed contrivances for shortening pain and making the work sure? No, no! my lord. Not more than two days ago, I was hanging about the gate of that very Jacobin convent from which this foul monk came forth, and I saw three people arrive to lay their heads together with the very reverend and respectable Father Prior, whose meeting told its own tale, whereof this morning's butchery is but the comment. First came Armandi the poisoner, next came the Duchess of Montpensier, and then came Wolfstrom the rogue; so be you sure, my lord, that the king will die; and this very night make your bargain so firm that no one will dare to break it. To-night," he added, his lips curling with more cynical bitterness than ever, "to-night you may dispose of your assistance and co-operation at what rate you like; but if you wait till tomorrow, your merchandise will fall a hundred per cent., for the market will be overstocked."
The manner in which the dwarf put his counsels was certainly not the most agreeable; but D'Aubin was accustomed to his bitterness, and was willing enough to cull wholesome advice for the direction of his own plans and purposes from amongst the gall and wormwood wherewith good Bartholo seldom failed to savour his discourse. "I believe thou art right, Bartholo," he replied; "and as I am determined sooner to lose life itself than to be foiled, and made a laughing-stock and held up to the scorn of all my companions by this fair-faced country-girl, I must even make the most of my time, and bind Mayenne to his promises by ties that he cannot shake off. Thanks, then, good Bartholo, for your advice; I will be back before dawn to-morrow, and will reward you better than by thanks. In the meantime, keep a wary eye on all that is going forward here; and, both for ancient love, and for future advancement, bring me, as often as may be, a hint of other men's doings. And now, fare thee well--away to thy lord, lest he miss thee. But hark I there are the horses, and I go."
Thus saying, he threw on his hat and plume, cast a wrapping cloak round his shoulders to keep his apparel as much as possible from the dust; and, springing down the stairs, mounted his horse, which stood saddled at the door. Bartholo watched him, as making a sign for his usual train of attendants to follow, he struck his spurs into his charger's flank, and galloped away at full speed towards Paris. A grim smile hung upon the dwarf's lips as he saw him depart, and muttering--"Ay, there he goes! to seek an unwilling bride, and for pure vanity to marry, neither loving nor beloved: but it matters not--my end is gained!"--he turned back towards the abode of St. Real.
In the mean time, D'Aubin galloped on hastily, giving the word as he passed any of the posts of the royal army, till at length, having got beyond the precincts of his own camp, he was challenged by the outmost sentinel of the League. Occupied with other thoughts, and giving way to the vehement impatience of his nature, the Count spurred on without reply; and the man, presenting his matchlock, fired without further ceremony. The ball whistled past D'Aubin's head; but, merely shaking his clenched hand at the sentinel, he pursued his rapid way, till at length he was encountered by a body of Mayenne's horse, who again challenged him, and obliged him to display his pass. More than once, ere he was permitted to enter the town, the same ceremony was observed; and, what between one delay and another, the evening sky grew deep purple, and then faded into grey, as he rode along, at a more cautious pace, through the streets of the capital.
Directing his course by the shortest way, he passed through many of the narrow gloomy lanes of the Faubourg, and, crossing one of the bridges which joined the island in the middle of the Seine to the shore, he plunged in amongst that dingy accumulation of tall, dark, small-windowed houses, which lie behind the great cathedral of Notre Dame. In these streets, at the hour of which we speak, the twilight, which would have still been seen in the open country, existed not; and all was darkness, except where, here and there, citizens returning from their shops to their dwelling-houses, or persons of a higher class going on some expedition of pleasure or business, were seen finding their way along, preceded by a lantern or a torch; and also where, before the hotel of some of the old nobles of the court, who still lingered in that quarter, were to be seen a few torches fixed in sockets at the door. It was to none of these more lordly dwellings, however, that D'Aubin took his way; but, at a door which stood open in a tall, unlighted, gloomy-looking house; he sprang to the ground, and after giving his servants directions to take up their temporary abode in an inn, where he should find them in case of necessity, and some money wherewithal to provide themselves their evening meal, he entered the house, followed by his page and one armed attendant, and began mounting, in utter darkness, the long, steep, narrow stair.
At the second story D'Aubin stopped, and by the little light that found its way from a lamp through a small lattice upon the staircase, he struck several hard blows with the hilt of his dagger against a massive unshapely oaken door, which stood on one side of the landing-place. Immediately after, a sound was heard within, and, the door opening, the Count was admitted, shading his eyes from the sudden glare of light, into a small ante-room or vestibule, where, stretched on benches or settles, were ten or eleven stout attendants, together with one of those large sort of vehicles which we are accustomed to call sedan-chairs, wherein the ladies of Paris were very much accustomed, at that time, to go from house to house, and one of which we have already described.
The person who opened the door was a trim-looking serving-man, dressed somewhat in the garb of an inferior burgher of the town; and, conducted by this personage, D'Aubin was led on, leaving his groom behind him, but followed by the page. The next chamber into which he was led presented a different aspect, being a small octagon room, with the ceiling of black oak exquisitely carved, the walls beautifully painted and gilt, and the furniture as rich and elegant as the art and taste of that day could produce.
Here D'Aubin was met by no less a personage than Armandi the perfumer, who, bowing low and reverently, welcomed him to his house, and then led him on through several chambers, each more tastefully decorated than the other, into one where eastern luxury itself was outdone, and where Madame de Montpensier was waiting the guest she had invited there to supper. Strange as it may seem that the highest and noblest in such a capital as Paris should abandon their own convenient and splendid dwellings, to make these little parties at the houses of inferior, and often of very base and dishonourable persons, yet the custom was not restricted to this period of French history, but even in the succeeding reigns the monarch himself was frequently known thus to indulge; and the custom, which was begun probably with political views, or for the sake of a temporary relaxation from the fetters of state, was found to be too convenient for a debauched court to be readily abandoned.
"True to your appointment, most noble Count," said the Duchess, in a light tone. "I augur from your punctuality, that all goes well and happily with the heretics and tyrants beyond the walls, so that they can spare the services of so gallant a cavalier as the Count d'Aubin."
"The fact is, most beautiful Lady Catherine," replied D'Aubin, whose plan was already fixed, "that their majesties are waiting till the day after to-morrow, ere they begin serious operations against the city; for, first, with that brilliant forgetfulness which characterises great men, they did not remember till yesterday that fifteen hundred cannon-balls are hardly enough to begin a regular bombardment; and, secondly, they wished that my worthy cousin should bring up his troops on the side of St. Denis, in order to straiten you a little in your diet, as they are resolved, absolutely, to try whether your stomachs are not like that of the ostrich, and capable of digesting mere iron in default of other food. They must therefore wait a day to give time for casting bullets and marching men."
D'Aubin spoke with so much of his ordinary levity, that he left Madame de Montpensier still doubtful whether he spoke in earnest or in jest--whether he was saying what was really the case, or from some particular motive was endeavouring to deceive her.
"You seem in a mood for revelations to-night," she said. "Thank you for your warning, Monsieur d'Aubin, we shall be upon our guard; but whether the two kings will thank you for telling us, remains to be proved."
"I care very little whether they thank me or not," replied D'Aubin; "besides, what I have said can do you no good, and them no harm, otherwise I should not have told it. You are here in a net, fair lady; and you must employ some other means to get yourself free than those you have hitherto employed, or depend upon it, the fisherman will put in his hand and take you."
"He may find that he has a shark in the net," replied Madame de Montpensier, "and be glad enough to let it escape ere it devour him."
"Well, we shall see," replied D'Aubin--"we shall see. But oh! by the Lord, I had nearly forgot to compliment your Highness on your exploits of this morning. Has none of the Dominican come back to you yet?
"None of the Dominican!" exclaimed Madame de Montpensier, with evident astonishment--"none of the Dominican! What do you mean, D'Aubin?"
"I simply mean," replied the Count, "that by this time I thought your Highness might at least have got a leg, or an arm, or a foot, or a little finger of your martyr, to make a relic of; for it could scarcely be more than two o'clock when he was torn to pieces by the four horses. No, it could not be more than two; for as soon as ever he attempted to stab the king, La Guesle ran his sword through him, and, almost immediately after, casting him out of the window, they tied him to the horses' heels, and tore him to pieces, in the little square down by the end of the bridge."
"Attemptedto kill the king!" said Madame de Montpensier, but ill concealing, in her desire to hear more, her previous knowledge of the act that had been perpetrated--"attempted! Then hedid notkill him."
"Oh, no," replied D'Aubin, gaily, and purposely affecting to laugh at her disappointment. "You do not think Henry is such a fool as to let himself be killed by a bungling Dominican. You should have sent our friend in the next room there, Armandi, or some other skilful, delicate, dexterous personage. Besides, dear lady, when you and Armandi and good father Bourgoin were consulting together, surely three such shrewd heads as yours might have fallen upon some better and more politic plan of getting rid of a bad king than that of trusting the execution of the act to an ignorant, clumsy, timid friar. Good faith! I should have thought that you might have even acted Judith yourself, and have delivered the land of our worthy Holofernes of St. Cloud with your own hand."
Madame de Montpensier turned pale, and red, and pale again; and there was a quivering of her fine lip, and a flashing of her proud dark eye, which showed D'Aubin at length that he was urging her too far. As soon as he perceived it, he dropped the sarcastic irony which he had been using; and drawing nearer to her, he took her fair, soft, jewelled hand in his, and raised it to his lips. "Forgive me," he said, "for teasing you. I love not Henry of Valois more than you do--as you well know; and though I will not say that I regret your attempt has failed, yet I do believe that all knowledge of the share you had in it rests with me alone, and, believe me, my lips are and shall ever be sealed by this kiss upon this hand--except towards yourself."
Madame de Montpensier gazed on him in no small surprise. "You assume things, sir," she said with some hesitation, "which you have no right to assume."
"Nay, nay," replied D'Aubin, "say not a word, dear lady. I know the whole as well as if I had been one of your triumvirate at the Jacobins the day before yesterday, all the means employed, the vision of the angel, and all----"
"Either some one has betrayed me, or you deal in magic, D'Aubin!" cried the Duchess.
D'Aubin smiled to see her consternation; for although, by combining the information he had received from St. Real with the hints that had been given him by the dwarf, and adding thereunto his own knowledge of the parties, he had been able to form a very correct guess at the truth--and although he knew the effect which vague hints of greater knowledge than one possesses, supported by one or two distinct facts, will produce upon a mind loaded with a heavy secret and apprehensive of discovery, yet he had hardly calculated upon so completely deceiving such a shrewd intriguer as Madame de Montpensier, in regard to the extent of his information. "No one has betrayed you," he replied; "nor do I deal in magic; but I have far greater means of knowing things that pass both in the city and in the camp than you suppose. What I have said just now I said but to tease you; and, indeed, fair lady, you deserve somewhat worse at my hands."
"Wherefore, wherefore? How so?" demanded Madame de Montpensier; "how have I offended you, D'Aubin?"
"Why, I do think," replied D'Aubin, "that considering all the old friendships which had existed between us, it should not have been you who attempted to mar my fortunes, and thwart my purposes. Did you not only last night propose to my cousin St. Real to bestow on him the hand of my promised bride?"
"I did," replied Madame de Montpensier, boldly, recovering in a moment all her composure--"I did, and I will tell you why I did so, Philip d'Aubin. I saw, by your conversation of the day before, that you had irretrievably attached yourself to the party of the tyrant; and I consider the interests of our cause far before any private interests or friendships. I am resolved, and so I know also is Mayenne, that the hand of Mademoiselle de Menancourt shall never be given to any but a member of the union; and it was therefore that I offered her hand to your cousin, if he would bring his forces to our side."
"Ah! but, lady," replied D'Aubin, "how could you venture on such an offer, when your own brother, the very morning before, had made the same to me, and left me a certain time to deliberate and act?"
"Nay, of that I know nothing," replied Madame de Montpensier. "Had I been aware of that, of course I should have acted differently."
"But if you and your brother will play at cross purposes," said D'Aubin, "what surety is there that the promises of either will be kept? And observe the consequences of this sort of dealing! My cousin at once determined to join the forces of the king, told me the story, and thus well-nigh changed all my views and purposes, unsettled my designs, and nearly determined me to take an oath of perpetual service to the kings."
"Nay, nay," replied the Duchess, giving him her hand, "but join us at this moment of our need, and Eugenie shall be yours."
"Ay," said D'Aubin; "but I must have some better security than mere promises."
"Surely you do not doubt me," said Madame de Montpensier, "when I most solemnly declare----"
"Declare nothing, dear lady," answered D'Aubin; "I doubt nobody, but my resolution is taken. The hand of Eugenie de Menancourt must be promised to me this night, under the hand and seal of his Highness of Mayenne, as lieutenant-general of the kingdom; or when I return to the camp to-morrow, I pledge myself, in the most solemn terms, to serve the Kings of France and Navarre, till there is no such thing as a Holy League and Union in France. And more, I assure you most solemnly, that I will instantly send an order unto Maine to cut down remorselessly every acre of my old forests, in order to raise another regiment for the service of the state. Now, mark me, lady!--mark me well! In doing this, I know what I am doing; for, if you cannot obtain this written promise for me, it will be evident your brother does not intend that the hand of Eugenie should be mine, and I have no other means to obtain it, but the capture of Paris and the destruction of the League. It will be therefore well worth my while to sacrifice everything to swell the ranks of the royal forces, in order to insure success."
"Well, well, say no more, say no more," replied Madame de Montpensier; "the promise you shall have, if I have any influence with Mayenne; and besides, you say he voluntarily made it himself, and therefore he will not hesitate to write it. But tell me what are the terms in which this promise is to be couched--you mean him to promise you her hand, if she herself consents?"
"No, no," replied D'Aubin; "I will leave no hold for after tampering and intrigue by any party. But," seeing a cloud come over the brow of Madame de Montpensier at his intemperate words, "I mean not any offence to you, dear lady. Others may tamper--there are others may intrigue, and may delay her consent and our union so long that my views in favour of the League itself may be overthrown. The moment that the hand of Eugenie is mine, I will raise for the service of the Duke all the retainers of the house of Menancourt who are now either lying idle, or swelling the ranks of the royalists. What I demand then is, that your brother--acting as lieutenant-general of the kingdom, as well as calling himself so, and consequently considering himself as the lawful guardian of all wards of the crown--shall promise me, without other condition than that in three days I subscribe the Union and join my forces to his, the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt, which was promised to me by her own father."
Madame de Montpensier mused for a moment; and then rising, she replied, "It shall be done, D'Aubin; it shall be done. The world--which Mayenne fears more than he will acknowledge--can say nothing against this act, for it is but a ratification of her father's promise by him who now stands in her father's place. Here," she cried aloud, ringing a small silver bell that stood on the table before her, and which was instantly answered by the appearance of Armandi, "bring me ink and paper, René. You shall write down the promise as you would have it, D'Aubin, and I will get my brother to sign it before you go; but make haste, for every moment I expect Wolfstrom to make our third at supper."
"I, too, must be speedy," replied D'Aubin; "for I must be back in the camp long before dawn, lest there be any tampering with my troops. They are all fresh, and new-arrived, so that I can do with them what I will at present; but there is many a shrewd head both amongst the Huguenots and royalists, and, not being too sure of my attachment, they may think to make sure of my soldiers."
With his swift and gliding step Armandi soon re-appeared, bearing the writing materials which had been demanded, and D'Aubin proceeded to put down the brief promise which he required from Mayenne; but scarcely had he finished, when the leader of the reitters made his appearance, and seemed somewhat surprised at the grave and business-like faces by which he was received.
"What is the hour, sir Albert?" demanded Madame de Montpensier. "Has it yet struck nine?"
"The light, or rather the darkness, says that it is nearer ten," replied the German; "and I heard the nine o'clock bell near an hour ago."
"Then I shall not find Mayenne till eleven," replied the Duchess. "His clock-work habits have, at all events, the advantage of letting one know when and where he is to be met with. Come, Armandi, is the table ready? We may as well fill the moments with something more real than poor thought."
In a moment Armandi re-appeared, and with soft and courtly words informed the Duchess that the best refreshments which his poor house and inferior artists could prepare waited her gracious presence. Catherine of Guise and her two companions followed where he led; and, proceeding into another small cabinet, they found a table covered with what might well have merited the name ofcates divine, if ever anything can be so called which is destined to pamper the most animal propensity of our nature.
Placing himself beside the Duchess's chair--while his own lacqueys and the pages of the guests served and carved the dishes, and poured out the wine--Armandi, in his low, sweet tone, mingled in the conversation, descanted upon the merits of the various kinds of food, and read one of those lectures upon the mysterious art of cookery which persons addicted to the pleasures of the table are always well pleased to hear during their meals--stimulating their appetite for the good things before them, by exciting theireating imaginationwith pictures of unseen delicacies.
The exquisite fare, however, which was placed before them, the choice and delicious wines that flowed amongst them like water, and even the culinary eloquence of Armandi, did not seem capable of rousing either Madame de Montpensier or D'Aubin from the thoughtful seriousness into which their preceding conversation had thrown them. Albert of Wolfstrom, indeed, ate and drank, and enjoyed to the uttermost, and showed his white teeth in many a grin at the thoughts of all the rare ragouts and savoury sauces which the perfumer described; but his companions were grave and abstinent, and when the dessert was placed upon the table the Duchess rose.
"I leave you, gentlemen," she said, "for half an hour, trusting you can amuse yourselves, at least for that time, without a woman's presence. D'Aubin," she added, turning to the Count, and marking a certain degree of stern anxiety upon his brow--"D'Aubin, it shall be done!"
Thus saying she quitted them; and Wolfstrom looked to D'Aubin with inquiring eyes, as if for information regarding what was passing. But D'Aubin's countenance replied nothing; and the German, filling high a glass with sparkling Burgundy, exclaimed, "Come, come, Count, think no more of your mysteries with the lovely Duchess! Let us have the dice, and pass her half hour's absence pleasantly."
"With all my heart," replied D'Aubin; and there shot through his own bosom one of those strange dreams of superstition which are felt even in the present time, but which were much more common then. "I have cast my last great stake already," he thought; "but the dice will soon show me whether fortune favours me to-night or not!"
The dice were brought, a small table placed beside them, and Wolfstrom and D'Aubin shook the accursed boxes, and cast throw after throw. Fortune, however,didfavour D'Aubin: he won invariably; and though the sums for which they played at that time were too small to make the gain or loss a matter of any consequence, yet the fancy which had taken possession of him made him rejoice more at the winning of a few hundred crowns than if he had acquired a fortune. His lip smiled, his eye sparkled, his cheek glowed; and though the time of Madame de Montpensier's absence was nearly double that which she had anticipated, D'Aubin found it not tedious, even under expectation.
At length she returned; and, without a word, laid down a paper on the table before the Count. D'Aubin ran his eye over the promise he had himself drawn up; and there assuredly, at the bottom of the page, stood Mayenne's name in his own handwriting, together with the broad seal of his arms.
What arguments she had used, what reasons she had assigned, what motives she had called into action, to obtain that signature, the Duchess did not tell, but gazed for a moment with a look of triumph upon the Count; and then, as her eye caught the dice upon the table, she turned with an air of gay indifference to Wolfstrom, demanding--"Well, sir Albert! have you won the Royalist's gold!"
"Good faith, no!" cried the German, throwing the dice into a water-jar of rock-crystal that stood upon the supper-table; "those little demons have played me false, and he has won six hundred of as good crowns of the League as ever were squeezed from a heretic Huguenot."
"Well, well!" replied Madame de Montpensier, "if the dice forsake you, turn again to the wine, Sir Albert; there is a resource for you in all time of trouble. Fill me yon Venice glass too; and you, D'Aubin, give me that sweet manchet--for, to tell the truth, the thoughts of this encounter I was about to undergo in your behalf, sir Count, kept me from supper."
D'Aubin gracefully spoke his thanks, taking care, however, to veil, in the circumlocutory ornaments employed in that day, all direct allusion to the nature of the service for which he expressed his gratitude. The conversation became gay and animated for half an hour; roamed to a thousand indifferent subjects, touching each with a momentary light--like a sunbeam breaking through the clouds of a windy autumn day, and skipping from point to point in the landscape as the vapours are hurried on before the gale--and then, drooping for a moment, paused as if to breathe the wits of the gay little coterie. Madame de Montpensier took advantage of that minute to rise and depart; and D'Aubin, bidding his male companion "Good night," proceeded to call together his attendants and return to the camp.
A more strict watch was kept in the night than in the day; and, what between one halt and another, the dawn was beginning to purple the eastern verge of the sky, when the Count arrived at the spot where his troops were quartered. As he was dismounting from his horse, however, some one whispered a word in his ear; and, springing again at once into the saddle, he turned his horse's head, and galloped on to his lodgings at St. Cloud.