While such was the conduct of the Count d'Aubin, St. Real, whom he had left hurt, agitated, and gloomy, continued to pace his little chamber, giving way to many a melancholy thought. The more he yielded to reflection, the more he examined the state of his own heart, the more deeply and bitterly he felt that the deceit he had practised upon himself did not date from a late period, but had been of long existence. He remembered the pleasure he had felt in the society of Eugenie de Menancourt from his earliest days, in the sweet reciprocation of simple and innocent feelings, in the mutual communication of thoughts and sensations peculiar to the retired state of life in which they then passed their days. He remembered how much pain he had felt when her father, taking part in the troubles of the time, had removed for a short period from his neighbourhood; and he remembered how gladly he had heard that the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt had been promised to his cousin the young Count d'Aubin, inasmuch as that engagement was destined to bring her back to the vicinity of his father's chateau. He had calculated, simply enough, upon always regarding her as a beloved sister; and as he never for a moment having dreamed of any other feeling towards her during his early days, the idea certainly never presented itself after he was informed of an arrangement which he was taught to look upon as a positive engagement towards his cousin. When she did return to Maine, he greeted her with what he fancied brotherly affection; and though when he beheld his cousin apparently neglecting her, to pay devoted attention to the gay and sparkling beauties of the royal court, he felt a degree of anger and indignation on Eugenie's account, which made him devote himself entirely to her, he would have considered those feelings--had he thought of the matter in such a light at all--as the surest proofs that his inmost sensations towards Eugenie de Menancourt were merely those of a relation, inasmuch as, instead of feeling jealous of the attentions his cousin paid her, he was angry that those attentions were not more. Now, however, he knew the whole--he saw that the love he had felt had been early conceived, and secretly nourished; and the insight that he gained into his own feelings showed him that those feelings could never change, but would last in all their intensity to cause his misery through life.
While these thoughts passed in his mind, the time flew quickly by; and the meal which his principal attendants took care should be placed before him, was served and taken away almost untouched. Shortly afterwards, Monsieur de Sancy visited him; and St. Real, whose mind was not one to yield where it could resist, endeavoured to enter vigorously into everything that could distract his attention from himself, spoke again and again of all the probable consequences of the events that were occurring, and endeavoured to gain a clear and distinct knowledge of the characters, purposes, and power of the various nobles forming the royalist party.
For the time the attempt succeeded, and his mind found some relief from the memory of personal sorrows; but the moment that Monsieur de Sancy left him, his thoughts returned to himself as bitterly as ever. As evening fell, he fancied that music might soothe his mind or distract his attention; and sending for his page, Leonard de Monte, he asked, "Did you not once tell me, Leonard, that you could sing, and play upon the lute? I am somewhat sad just now, my boy, and would fain hear a little music to while away unpleasant ideas."
The boy smiled with a peculiar expression, and replied. "Music!--I will sing, if you like--that is to say, if I can find a lute; but music which will soothe care, and refresh the mind fatigued of business, calm the turbulent thoughts of ambition, or soften the feverish pangs of sickness, is no antidote against sorrow, and is, they say 'the food of love.'"
"Well, well," replied St. Real, "let me hear your instrument and your voice; I must have amusement of some kind, for this night wears heavily."
"I have not my own lute here," replied the boy, "but the dwarf will soon find one, I warrant;" and, going out, he returned in a few moments followed by Bartholo, carrying one of those guitars with eleven strings which were the principal musical instruments then in vogue. The boy struck his hand across the chords, and then pushed it from him to the dwarf, exclaiming angrily, "Take it from me, and tune it. Why give me a thing all discord, like that?"
"May it please you," replied the dwarf, with a look of humble deference, which did not escape St. Real's eyes, and which he had never seen assumed towards himself, "I did not know that it had been out of tune, or I should not have failed----"
"Well, well, take it away," replied the boy; and, remaining seated on the spot where he had placed himself to sing, he leaned with his elbow on the arm of the chair, and his head upon his hand, and the dark shining locks of his black hair falling in linked curls over his clear beautiful brow and small graceful fingers. He seemed to be thinking over the song he was about to sing. At least, so St. Real read his attitude. But the tone in which the youth had spoken to the dwarf, and that in which the dwarf replied, had struck and surprised their common master, and he was about to disturb the page's reverie, by making some inquiries in regard to his previous history, when Bartholo again returned with the lute. The boy took it, and running his fingers through the strings, scarcely seeming to know what note he struck, produced, nevertheless, a wild plaintive wandering melody, which nothing but the most exquisite skill and knowledge of the instrument could have brought forth.
"There are few songs," he said, looking up in St. Real's face, "that are good to soothe sorrow; but I will sing you one of the battle-songs of my own unhappy land, in which liberty begat anarchy, and anarchy strife, and strife weakness, till foreign tyrants made a prey of nations who knew not that military and political power are the children of internal union and civil order--a land which, from sea to sea, has been one vast battle-field for ages past."
He paused, and seemed to give a moment of sad thought to the sorrows of his native country; then suddenly dashing his hand over the chords, he made them ring with a loud and peculiar air, so marked and measured that one could almost fancy one heard the regular footfalls of marching men, mingled with the sounding of the trumpet, and the beating of the drum. Then joining his clear melodious voice, he sung of the dreams of glory and of patriotism wherewith the soldier on his way warms his heart to battle, and conceals from his own eyes the dark and bloody nature of the deed itself. Then again the chords of the instrument, with a quicker movement, and more discordant sounds, imitated the clang and clash of charging hosts; and the deep and frequent tones of the bass might be supposed to express the roar of the artillery, while still between came the notes of the clarion, and sounds that resembled the distant beating of the drum. At the same time the voice of the youth, in few but striking words, and, as it were, with brief snatches of song, called up the images more forcibly, and aided imagination in supplying all that the scope of the lute could not afford. Gradually, however, as he sung, the louder sounds were omitted; the imitation of the trumpet changed from the notes of the charge to those of the retreat; the strings seemed to rustle under his touch, as if from the hasty rush of flying multitudes; and then, with a sudden change of time, the music altered to a sweet and plaintive strain of wailing, while his voice took up the song of mourning for the dead.
Till that moment St. Real had no idea of all that music can produce. He had heard sweet songs, and what were then considered fine compositions; but this was something totally different; this was a painting addressed not to the eye, but to the ear; and that not with words which with laborious minuteness, describe insignificant parts, without conveying effectually grand impressions; but with sounds which, rousing fancy's greatest powers at once, called up all the splendid pageantry of imagination to complete for the mind's eye the grand pictures that those tones suggested. The boy, too, as he sung, looked like one inspired; his eyes flashed and glittered; his voice rose and fell with every touch of feeling which his song expressed; and his hand seemed now playing amidst the strings, as if in childish sport; now sweeping them with all the fire and power of some mighty master of song; but ever with such perfect ease and grace, that it seemed a gift rather than an accomplishment. When his voice had ceased, St. Real sat rapt for one moment by all the feelings which the music had inspired; and then, gazing upon the youth, he said, "You are an extraordinary boy, and I must one day have your history, Leonard."
The youth shook his head; but then after a short pause added, abruptly, "Perhaps you may, perhaps you may--but now while the lute is in tune, I will sing you another song--a song about love;" and without waiting for reply, he struck the chords, and began, with a measure and a tone so different, as for a time to seem almost tame and insignificant, when compared with the wild and thrilling energy of the former music. But as he went on, there was a touching and melancholy pathos in the words and in the air which went direct to St. Real's heart, rousing feelings which he would fain have lulled to sleep, and overwhelming him with deeper melancholy than ever. So sad, so sorrowful did it make him,--so completely did it master him and take possession of his imagination, that he could have given way even to tears, if there had been no eye to see him so unmanned.
The boy was still going on; but St. Real waved his hand, exclaiming, "Hush, hush! no more! It is too much for me!"
The boy looked up with a smile, saying,
"He that will not findEase when he may,Leaves all joy behindFor ever and a day."Yet let him witherHis own hopes at will,So that no otherBlossoms he kill."
St. Real started, somewhat surprised. "You seem to know," he said, "more of me and mine than I fancied. I must hear what you do know, Leonard, and how you know it, before you quit me."
"Nay, nay, my good lord," replied the boy, still smiling, "look not so suspicious. Does it need a very shrewd guess to discover, or to fancy, when a gallant cavalier, like yourself, falls into sadness suddenly, as if he had caught some infectious disease, and then looks more dark and gloomy still, when one sings a simple song to him about love, and beautiful eyes--does it need a very shrewd guess to fancy that after all, that same passion of love is at the bottom of the mystery?"
"But you spoke but now," replied St. Real, "as if you knew more than that, and made allusions that you could not have made unless you had known more."
"Faith then, my lord," replied the boy, "the man who compounded the old proverb I repeated, must have had a mighty skill in divination, to see what was likely to go on in your lordship's heart some hundred years after he himself had lived, and that it would serve a page at his need instead of a better answer--but yet the proverb is a good one," he continued, rambling on. "Good faith! I hold that no man has a right to make a woman love him, and then leave her for any whimsy whatsoever. I do not know much about these things, it is true, but I think that it is dishonourable."
"But suppose," replied St. Real, "that honour has some other claim upon him which calls him in a different way--what should he do then?"
"Why, methinks he should become an apothecary!" replied the boy; and then added, seeing St. Real's brow slightly contract, "what I mean is, my lord, that he should take the very nicest scales that conscience can supply to weigh out medicines for hurt honour, if he have got himself into such a scrape that honour must be injured either way. Or he may do the matter differently, and weigh in those nice scales which is the heaviest sin,--to break a lady's heart; to leave her unhappy and cheerless through the long days of life; to doom her to wed one that she does not love, or perhaps hates; to have her reproaches and her sorrow to answer for at his dying day; or, on the other hand, to violate what he may think a claim upon his honour, which very likely priests and prelates, and saints and martyrs, and his own heart too, in the calm after-day of life, may tell him was no claim at all."
"And do you tell me that you speak thus from mere guess?" demanded St. Real. "No, no, my boy! You have some other knowledge; and you must give me an answer how it was obtained."
"Indeed, my lord," answered the youth, starting up and laughing "I am tired, sleepy, and thirsty, with looking for you all the morning, and singing you two songs at night. So, by your leave, I will e'en go to bed and sleep; and I dare say before to-morrow morning I shall be able to make an answer, for I have not one ready made; and even if my wit should run low, I will away by cock-crow to the nearestfripier, and buy me an answer second-hand. One often finds one as good as new that has served twenty people before;" and seeing St. Real about to speak again with a serious brow, he ended with a gay laugh, and darted out of the room.
A momentary feeling of anger passed through St. Real's breast, and he half rose in his chair, determined to call the boy back and make him explain distinctly what was the meaning of the allusions he had made, how he had obtained his information, and to what length it extended. Brief reflection, however, caused him to pause and change his purpose; thinking that it would be better to take time to regulate his own thoughts, and command his own feelings, ere he questioned his page upon subjects so likely to awaken and expose deep emotions in himself. Casting himself back into his seat again, he revolved all that had just passed; and his mind, reverting to everything that was painful and distressing in his situation, fell into one of those sad and melancholy dreams which must have visited almost every one at some time of life, when the bright and brilliant prospects of youth are suddenly obscured by the dark and lowering clouds which precede the first storms of life.
However painful may be this mode of mind,--however desirous we may be of escaping from it,--however sensibly we may feel that the only relief we can hope is to be found in activity, occupation, and resistance; yet there is a benumbing influence in that peculiar state of grief and disappointment, which, like the fabled fascination of the serpent in regard to the birds it seeks to devour, prevents us from employing the only means of delivering ourselves. St. Real knew as well as any one, that the occupation of his thoughts upon other subjects was the only relief he could hope for; but still he lingered on from hour to hour, no sooner attempting to turn his mind to other things, than falling back again into the same desponding memories of all that he cast away when he resigned the hope of ever seeing Eugenie de Menancourt again. Ere he was aware of it--for deep grief, like intense happiness, "takes no note of time"--the grey daylight of the early summer dawn began to pour through the open window. All had been long quiet in the town, the inns and cabarets had long been closed, and not a sound had for some time stirred in theaubergewhere he had taken up his quarters. But at length his reverie was broken by the distant sound of horses' feet; and, rising from his seat, he almost mechanically proceeded to the window, and gazed out up and down the road. At first no one was visible, except a small group of guards at the gates of the Maison de Gondi, in which King Henry III. had fixed hie abode, and though they were apparently speaking together, the tones they used were so low that not even the murmur of their voices reached St. Real's ear through the still, calm silence of the early morning. The next moment, however, the sound of coming horse became suddenly more distinct, as, turning the corner of the road from Meudon, a party of five cavaliers galloped into the village. St. Real fixed his eyes upon them as they advanced, and instantly recognised in their leader Henry of Navarre.
The guards at the gate of the Maison de Gondi seemed, from the bustle created amongst them, not only to see the party, but to recognise the cousin of their monarch. The tidings of his arrival appeared to be passed on into the court; and the moment after, the soldiers and officers of the Scottish guard came pouring forth without any symptoms of their usual discipline and orderly demeanour. The King of Navarre perceived their approach; and nearly opposite to the window at which St. Real stood drew up his horse, which hitherto had proceeded at full gallop. Several of the officers of the guard instantly rushed forward, and cast themselves upon one knee at the stirrup of the monarch, exclaiming, "Oh, sire! you are our king and our master!" and, at the same moment, one or two voices from the crowd pronounced, for the first time, the often repeated words, "Vive Henry Quatre!"
The king sprang to the ground, affected even to tears, exclaiming in a tone of unfeigned regret, "Alas, alas! is he then really dead?" Walking rapidly forward, he proceeded towards the royal headquarters, and entered the Maison de Gondi; and the news of Henry III.'s death proceeded rapidly through the town. Every house began soon to pour forth its inhabitants; and ere the sun was well risen, all was bustle, and agitation, and confusion.
Although a feeling of reverence for that fearful thing, death, and the awe which an event of such magnitude might well inspire, repressed much of the noise which otherwise would have been heard: and though the eager consultations and busy rumours were carried on in no louder tone than a whisper, still it was evident, from every symptom displayed by the multitudes which now thronged the streets of St. Cloud, that the ties which linked society together were broken, that the foundations were shaken, and that not only the fabric of the royal army, but even of the French monarchy itself, was wavering as if to fall.
After gazing out for a few minutes upon the scene below, with the feelings of a mere spectator, St. Real remembered that he himself had a part to act; and as theauberge, in common with all the other houses of the town, was by this time roused, he called for his attendants, and despatched a messenger to his cousin, intimating his wish to speak with him immediately. Then casting on his cloak, he went forth into the street; and entering into conversation with some of the inferior officers of the troops, he tried to gain some insight into the various feelings and motives by which the lower ranks of the royal army were actuated; and, wherever he found it possible, endeavoured to give a bias to the wavering and undetermined in favour of that conduct which could alone save the monarchy and the country.
To every one whom he addressed St. Real was a stranger; and though his dress was such as became his station, yet his rank and character being unknown, it was not at all improbable that he would have met with insolence, if not violence, had there not been in his whole demeanour that mingling of frankness and dignity, of sincerity and of grace, which went far, not only to win and to persuade, but to command attention and respect. While he was thus engaged, the attendant whom he had despatched to his cousin returned, and informed him that the Count d'Aubin had gone up to the royal quarters; and, almost at the same moment, a hand was laid upon his arm, and turning round, he beheld Monsieur de Sancy.
"A moment's conversation with you, Monsieur de St. Real," he said, leading the way towards theauberge. St. Real instantly followed, and on entering, conducted the old officer to his own apartments.
"Is your mind the same as when last I saw you?" demanded De Sancy, as soon as the door was shut.
"Undoubtedly," replied St. Real; "you cannot suppose I would change."
"One can never tell," replied De Sancy, smiling; "you will find this morning that more than fifty have changed since the same hour last night; and, to speak plainly, Monsieur de St. Real, your own cousin amongst the number. However, let us ourselves lose no time. The leaders are flocking up to the quarters of the late king, and many, I fear, will be the differences we shall find. Nevertheless, I hope that we shall still be able to make up a good party on our side, and perhaps we may shame a great many more to join us by taking a bold position ourselves, and letting the others see that they are not only contemptible, but weak. Will you come, for every moment is of consequence?"
"Instantly!" replied St. Real. "D'Aubin is there already."
"Then there will be mischief going on," said De Sancy; "for I have very sure information that your cousin has decidedly chosen his part. I do not fear to say to you, Monsieur de St. Real, that he is wrong, and that he knows it; and when such is the case, it is natural that a man should endeavour to persuade as many others to act in the same way as possible, in order that, at all events, he may shelter his own conduct from the odium of singularity."
"Very often, too," replied St. Real, as they walked on, "when a man is determined upon a thing, and does not clearly know whether he is right or wrong, he strives to satisfy himself that he is right, by bringing over as many more to his own side as possible. This I believe to be D'Aubin's case; for his opinions on any points are never very fixed, and many is the time that I have heard him defend both sides of a question with equal skill."
"Vanity, vanity, all that!" replied De Sancy, "and a most unhappy vanity too; for it has cheated many a man out of his honour and integrity, out of his own self-respect, out of the world's esteem--ay, and even out of his hopes of heaven. But at all events, as apostates, whether religious or political, are the most vehement against the creeds they abandon, so we may feel sure that Monsieur d'Aubin, and all those who have cast off their loyalty, will have many a furious argument in store against the cause which they are quitting. Let us be prepared then to assert in words, as well as deeds, the ancient loyalty of the French nobility."
"Of course, to the best of our abilities," said St. Real; "but my voice can have small weight. Who is that going in?" he added, just as they reached the gates of the Hotel de Gondi, the court of which was filled with guards and attendants--"I mean that stout, hard-featured man, who walks forward with as consequential a step as if the throne were his."
"By my honour, if it be not his to take," replied De Sancy, "it may be his to give; for if he act heartily with the king, there is little fear of the result. If he go over to the League, the clouds, which are dark enough already, will grow deeper still over our heads. It is Armand de Gontaut, Marechal de Biron. He is stopping to speak with the officer on guard. I will see if I can learn his determination; for he is so much in the hearts of the soldiers, that one half the army will fall off if he fail us."
Thus saying, De Sancy advanced; and, with an air of some deference, saluted Biron, who in return shook him warmly by the hand. He failed, however, in his object of gaining any insight into the purposes of the old soldier, though his questions were dexterously put. Whether at that moment the Marshal had not yet determined upon any precise line of conduct, or whether he hoped to gain greater advantages by concealing his own views, he evaded De Sancy's enquiries; and then said abruptly, "A great number of our friends are assembled already in the lower hall to talk over all these affairs. If you are going to them, I will walk in with you."
De Sancy replied that they were about to join the rest; and Biron, after running his eyes with a glance of some attention and pleasure over the fine and soldier-like person of St. Real, asked his companion in a low voice who he was. De Sancy replied in the same tone; and the Marshal rejoined in a louder voice, "Indeed, indeed!--I knew his father too--I knew him well, in the time of my uncle, you know. Monsieur de St. Real, I am glad to see you here, and I hope----" But here their conversation was interrupted by an officer requiring them to give up their swords, a ceremony which the two commanders seemed prepared for, and with which St. Real, of course, complied without opposition. De Biron then again turned towards St. Real, as if to conclude his sentence; but ere he could speak, a young man, whom St. Real had remarked with the King of Navarre as he rode into town that morning, came up, and after shaking hands with Monsieur de Sancy, drew Biron aside, whispered a word in his ear, and then passed on. The Marshal smiled, and from this slight indication De Sancy drew a favourable augury, saying to St. Real, ere the other rejoined them, "I think from that smile all will go well. That young gentleman is Rosny, an especial friend and adherent of his present Majesty."
By this time they had nearly reached the chamber in which the nobles of France, with the body of their late monarch lying in a room not very distant, and their lawful sovereign seated in the apartment directly above them, were deliberating what use they should make of the power which a foul and unjustifiable act of their common enemy had thrown into their hands. The table at which they were placed was nearly full, and Marshal Biron, with De Sancy and St. Real, placed themselves in a group at the end next to the door; while the Duke of Longueville, who was speaking when they entered, went on. He was a young man of a handsome and prepossessing appearance; but his manner was timid, and his elocution hesitating and difficult. He did not seem so much to want ideas as words, and appeared even to want words more from not having any confidence in himself, than from any other cause. He expressed shortly and confusedly the determination of himself, and of the little knot of princes and gentlemen by whom he was surrounded, to acknowledge the title of Henry IV. to throne of France, and to serve him with their whole souls, if he would renounce the Protestant heresy, and reconcile himself to the church of Rome. If he refused to do so, the Duke continued, it would be for the gentlemen, in whose name he spoke, to consider whether they would not beg leave to retire from his service.
Apparently not knowing how to wind up his speech, he was deviating into one of those long and unmeaning tirades with which unskilful orators often attempt to let themselves drop by degrees, when he was suddenly interrupted by the Duke of Epernon, who said, somewhat sharply, "In your offers of service, my lord Duke, I beg you to omit my name. I have much to do on my own lands, and have borne arms long enough."
"I will beg you to except me also," said the Count d'Aubin, who was sitting near the Duke of Longueville, and rose to speak as soon as he saw that Epernon had concluded. "I will not serve Henry King of Navarre, and I trust that my reasons are good ones. As a Catholic, I should think it treachery to my faith were I to attempt to establish a heretic monarch upon the throne of this realm. Therefore, if the king remains attached to the Huguenots, notwithstanding the eloquence of Monsieur de Longueville, I cannot remain in his army; and if he be suddenly converted by the arguments of my lord Duke, my faith in the miracle will be too small to assure me that it will last. For myself, gentlemen, I see no choice. If the king remain unchanged, he is a heretic; were he to change suddenly, he would be a hypocrite; and in neither case can I draw my sword in his behalf."
There was something sneering and bitter in the tone of the Count d'Aubin, which, though it made the Duke of Longueville, and others of the undecided party, hate him, and inclined them more than before to the service of Henry IV. yet rendered others, even better disposed towards the monarch, afraid to answer; and, for a moment there was a pause. Seeing that no one spoke, however, St. Real took a step forward to the table, and, without the slightest degree of hesitation, addressed the assembly, while his name passed from mouth to mouth, and many an enquiring ear was turned to hear what one of the simple St. Reals would say, after the speech of the sarcastic Count d'Aubin.
"Gentlemen of France," he said, "my opinion, in many respects, coincides with that of my cousin who has just spoken." D'Aubin, De Sancy, and Biron, looked at him and each other in astonishment. "My opinion," he repeated, "in many respects coincides with his; but, as is very often the case with us, my conduct will be the direct reverse. I think as he does, that to ask his Majesty to change his religion on a sudden change of fortune, were to ask him to become a hypocrite; and I should as soon think of requiring him to do so, in order to gain my services, as he would think of requiring me to abandon my faith to merit his favour. Let us be too just to do the one, and we may feel sure that he is too just to do the other. The claims of his majesty, King Henry IV. are known to us all. As the lineal descendant of St. Louis, he is king of this realm of France, unless some of his acts have been so black as to render him incapable of reigning. Now what have his acts throughout life been up to this day, but noble, generous, chivalrous, worthy to lead a nation of brave hearts upon the path of honour? And shall we attempt to pry into his conscience? Shall we demand that, by a sudden abjuration of his long-cherished belief, he should stain that honour which he has ever held so pure and spotless? The worst that the most zealous Catholic can apprehend--and none is more zealous than I am--is that a Protestant monarch should interfere with our faith. Let us not set him the example by interfering with his, and take for a guarantee of his future conduct the whole of his conduct that has gone before. We have, at this moment, two claims upon us--the claims of our country and our king,--both equally powerful on the hearts of Frenchmen, and happily both in this instance leading us in the same direction. Our first duty is to put an end to the factions which have torn this unhappy land, and left her scarce a shadow of her former prosperity; to compel the rebellious to submission, and teach the ambitious to limit their expectations to their rights,--to bring back, in short, security, and peace, and union to France. This can only be done by bending all our energies to uphold the shaken throne, and with those good swords, which have never yet been drawn in an unjust quarrel, to open a way for our gallant and our rightful monarch to the seat and the power of his ancestors. This, at least, is my determination; and I trust that I shall see no one who aspires to honour during life, or glory after death, fall from his duty at a moment when the safety of his country and the throne of his king depend upon union, energy, and fidelity."
"Well spoken, on my soul," cried Gontaut de Biron. "Well spoken, on my soul! And if all here present act up to it, the monarchy is safe!"
"That at least will I," rejoined De Sancy; "for I hold that to propose any terms to his Majesty at this moment when--encompassed is we have too fatally seen, by assassins, surrounded by difficulties and dangers, and opposed by an ambitious faction--he comes unexpectedly to a perilous throne, were base and ungenerous indeed. Let those who will, join the party of the assassin; my voice and my sword are ready for Henry IV."
The speech of De Sancy was followed by one of those slight murmurs which betoken a vacillation of opinion in a popular assembly. Each man looked in the face of his neighbour; some smiled and nodded to the speaker, as if in approbation of what he had said; some frowned and bit their lips; some whispered eagerly to the persons next whom they sat; and the cheek of the Count d'Aubin, as De Sancy denominated the League "the party of the assassin," grew as red as fire, while the veins in his temple might be seen swelling out through his clear dark skin.
There was a pause for a moment; but D'Aubin recovered himself quickly, and said, "Methinks the three noble gentlemen who, not deigning to take a seat amongst us, remain standing at the foot of the table, have not come here to deliberate, but to announce their determination; and if that determination were binding upon all the princes and nobles of France, it would become us to submit and break up the council; but as that is not exactly the case, I would propose that we should continue our consultations, without yielding more than due weight to the veto of Monsieur de Biron, the pithy sentences of the noble leader of the Swiss, or to the speech of my worthy but somewhat inexperienced cousin--a speech evidently got by heart."
"It is got by heart, Philip d'Aubin," replied St. Real, opposing to the sarcastic sneer of the Count d'Aubin a look of calm and dignified reproof. "It is got by heart; for it comes from my heart, and the actions of my hand shall justify it. As to my inexperience, what you say is true,--I am somewhat inexperienced; and I would thank God for it, did I believe that experience would ever debase me to take advantage of a noble monarch's utmost need either to dictate terms which he could not comply without dishonour, or to abandon his cause for a selfish motive or a weak pretext."
D'Aubin rose angrily from his seat, and, for a moment, it did seem that everything like deliberation was to be merged in anger and contention; but De Biron and the Dukes of Longueville and Epernon interfered; and after, in some degree, restoring order, Monsieur d'Epernon addressed the French nobles, and put an end to a meeting from which no good could accrue. "Angry words, gentlemen," he said, "can do no good, and are not at all required. We are not here to determine any settled plan which is to be binding upon us all; but each is as free as before to follow his own purposes and determinations. However, as the communication of our various opinions has produced some heat, I think it better that we should conclude a discussion which seems to be fruitless. Let each of us follow his own path. For my part, though I do not draw my sword against the king, yet I cannot reconcile it to my conscience to fight the battles of an excommunicated monarch against my brethren of the faith."
Thus saying, he rose; and beckoning one or two of those on whom he could rely, into one corner of the hall, he entered into conversation with them; while the same conduct was followed by various other persons in different parts of the room.
St. Real and his companions, however, did not remain long to witness this scene; for Marshal Biron laid his hand upon the arm of the young noble, saying, "Come, Monsieur de St. Real; come, De Sancy! Let us to the king. It is easy to see that he will need the consolation and support of all that are faithful to him." Thus saying, he quitted the chamber, followed by those to whom he spoke, and two or three others; and, speaking a few words with one of the attendants, he was led on to a large upper hall, where Henry IV. waited the result of the deliberations which he was well aware were taking place around him; the nature of which he knew, and the termination of which he feared, but which he had no power to stop or to control.
Almost alone, with only two attendants of an inferior class stationed at the door, he was walking up and down the room in evident agitation. The moment he saw De Biron, however, he stopped, and gazed for a moment anxiously in his face; but the Marshal advanced at once, and throwing himself at the king's feet, kissed respectfully the hand that he held out to him. Henry instantly took him in his arms, exclaiming, "Rise, rise, Biron! Tell me what tidings you bear?" And at the same time he extended his hand to St. Real and De Sancy, who knelt and pressed it to their lips.
"The tidings I bear your Majesty from below," replied De Biron, "are, I am afraid, not very satisfactory. Several, I fear, will fall off from your Majesty, and several will be but lukewarm friends."
"That I expect," replied the king; "but if you, Biron, stand fast by me, on your shoulder will I lean, and defy all the factions in France to shake me."
"Thanks, sire, thanks!" replied De Biron, in his usual blunt tone. "Of my fidelity and attachment your Majesty need have no doubt; and I think," he added, "I think I can answer for the greater part of the troops."
"Then we are safe!" cried the king. "Then we are safe! What with my own forces, and those that you can bring me, Biron, the Swiss under Monsieur de Sancy here, and the fresh troops of Maine promised me by my young friend St. Real, I will not fear anything, even though D'Aumont and his division go over to the enemy."
"I do not think he will, sire," replied Biron. "He is not the most active of soldiers, but he is an honest and true-hearted man. De Rosny told me but now that he was going to him, and I doubt not but, at the first word, he will come to join your Majesty; but it might have been better to have directed Rosny to speak with his officers, and bring them over too, for D'Aumont will never think of it; and besides--"
"He has not the whole hearts of his soldiers, like Biron," added the king. "I thought of it, my friend, I thought of it, and begged De Rosny to see what could be done. But who have we here? Oh! our cousins of Longueville and Nevers; and Monsieur d'O, too, whom we hope speedily to replace in his government of Paris, which has been ill-governed enough certainly since he left it."
As he spoke, a large body of French nobles, headed by the persons whom he mentioned, entered the hall; and Monsieur de Biron and the others who were with the king, forming a semicircle on either hand, the gentlemen who had just arrived advanced, and one by one knelt and kissed the monarch's hand. There was, however, a degree of gloom and coldness in their countenances, which betokened no hearty wishes for the welfare of him who had so suddenly been placed upon the throne. When they had all saluted the king, Monsieur D'O, the titular governor of Paris, advanced a step before the rest, and addressed the monarch in the name of all. His tone was respectful, and his words well chosen; but after proceeding to offer some faint congratulations to the king on his accession to the throne, he stated that the fact of his Majesty's adherence to the tenets of the Huguenots pained and embarrassed many who were his faithful subjects and sincere well-wishers; and then he proceeded boldly and unceremoniously to propose that the monarch should reconcile himself to the Church of Rome, and receive absolution for his past heresies, holding out but a half-concealed threat, that if he did not comply with this sudden proposal, the great body of the French nobles and princes of the blood would be obliged to withdraw from the royal army.
Henry heard him patiently and calmly; though for a moment, while he was making his somewhat extraordinary request, one of those gay and brilliant smiles, with which his countenance was so familiar on ordinary occasions, passed over the king's lip and chequered the gravity of his attention. "My noble cousins and gentlemen," he said in reply, "I confess myself not a little astonished to find that you, who are so strongly attached to your religion, should think me so little attached to mine. It is true my attachment is more a matter of habit than perhaps of reason; for, living as I have lived in the tented field, and spending the greater part of my time between the council chamber and the battle plain, I have had no opportunity of hearing discussed the merit of those questions which unhappily divide the one church from the other. Nevertheless, I should think myself base, and--what is more to the purpose on the present occasion--you also would think me base, if for any worldly advantage I, unconvinced, were to sacrifice the religion in which I have been brought up. That, gentlemen, is impossible. But still I am not so foolish as to say that I will never abandon what is called the Reformed Faith; for, on the contrary, I will zealously and diligently investigate the merits of the arguments on both sides; and, if my conscience will allow me, will take those steps which I well know would be pleasing to the great majority of my subjects. Nevertheless, this must be the work of conviction, not of interest; and I tell you candidly, that I must have, at least, six months to hear, and ponder, and judge, ere I can give you any determinate answer as to what my ultimate conduct in these respects will be. In the meanwhile, believe me, I love you all as my children, and will serve and protect you as such to the utmost of my power; and should there be any one amongst you who has the heart to leave his king at the moment his king most needs his service, let him go in peace, and not be afraid, for I will serve him still, as far as may be, even against his will."
When the king ceased, there were one or two amongst the group of nobles who looked as if they would fain have added something to the speech of their orator; and it was evident the noble and dignified manner in which Henry treated their absurd proposal was not without effect upon any. Like all other bodies of men, however, there were those amongst them destined to lead, and those only fitted to follow; and the latter did not venture to act without the approbation of the former. Bowing in silence then, the whole party retired, and were immediately succeeded by the Baron de Rosny, afterwards famous as the Duke of Sully, who approached with the Marechal d'Aumont. The latter at once, and with graceful zeal in words and manner, tendered his faith and homage to the king, and assured him that the officers under his command would present themselves within an hour to swear allegiance to their new monarch. He again was succeeded by another, in whom St. Real instantly recognised the Duke d'Epernon, though he had changed his garb within the last hour, and now appeared in deep mourning.
The keen eye of Henry IV. at once read his purpose in the countenance of the Duke; and, preventing him from kneeling, he said, "Pause, my cousin, and think what you are about to do. We will excuse your bending the knee to-day, if it be not to be bent tomorrow."
Though fantastic, and even effeminate in appearance, D'Epernon was brave even to rashness, and by no means destitute of that calm and dignified presence of mind which approaches near to greatness. Gravely taking half a step back, he persisted in bending his knee, and kissed the king's hand, replying, "My lord the king! your majesty's right to the throne of France and to the homage of your subjects is incontestable; and deeply do I regret that any circumstances, religious or political, should lessen that zeal which the nobles of France are so willing to display in behalf of their kings. But, to avoid all subjects which it would be painful for your majesty to hear and for me to speak, I come to crave leave to retire for a time to my own lands, which have much need of their lord's presence. I am weary of warfare, sire, somewhat anxious for repose, and my poor peasantry require protection and assistance."
"Well, cousin of Epernon," replied the monarch, "if you be really disposed to imitate the great Roman and hold the plough, my service shall not detain you; but let me trust that you are not about to reverse the scriptural prophecy, and turn the ploughshare into a sword in favour of new friends."
"I need no sword, sire," replied the duke, "but that which I lately proved beside your majesty at Tours; and be assured that if it be not drawn in your service, it shall not be unsheathed against you."
"Well, well!" said the king, with a sigh, "so be it, if it must be so. Fare you well, fair cousin of Epernon! and may the harvest you are going to reap have fewer thorns than that which is before me, I fear!"
The duke bowed and withdrew; and Henry, turning to those who surrounded him, proceeded with a sigh, "Let them go, gentlemen of France, let them go," he said; "better a few firm friends, than a discontented multitude. On you I repose my whole hopes; but we must lose no time. My confidence in your judgment and in your affection is unlimited; and therefore I send you forth amongst the mingled crowd of friends and enemies which surrounds me in the camp, with no other direction or command than this. Do the best you can for your king and for your country. Rejoin me here again in the evening, to let me know what has been done; by that time we shall have learned what troops remain with us, and shall be able to determine upon our future conduct."
All the king's immediate attendants now took their leave and withdrew. Biron and D'Aumont proceeded instantly to their several quarters. De Sancy set off to insure that there was no tampering with the Swiss under his command; and St. Real, returning to his lodging, called his attendants about him, and ordering a certain number to mount with speed, prepared to go in person, in order to bring up more rapidly the troops he had left near Senlis. In the hurry and agitation of the last few hours, his personal situation had been forgotten; but as he was just about to mount his horse, the appearance of his page, Leonard de Monte, recalled to his mind both the events of the preceding evening and his own determination of questioning the boy upon that knowledge of his inmost thoughts which Leonard seemed by some means to have obtained. He had no time, however, at the moment to pursue such a purpose, and after commanding him to remain at theaubergetill he returned, he inquired if the boy knew where the Count d'Aubin's forces were quartered.
"They lie under the hill at the back of the park," replied the youth. "Shall I show you the way?"
"Quick! get a horse, then, and come," said St. Real.
"I will run by your side, and be there ere a horse could be saddled," said the page. St. Real assented; and proceeding in the direction which had been pointed out, he rode on, determined to make one last effort to recall his cousin from a path which he firmly believed would lead to dishonour.
When they had mounted the little hill, however, underneath which, as the page had said, the Count d'Aubin's troops had been quartered, nothing was to be seen in the meadow where their tents had lately stood but one or two carts of the country, in which a small party of soldiers were busily stowing the canvass dwellings wherein they had lately made their abode, together with the spare arms and baggage of the larger body of troops just gone.
As St. Real halted and gazed, the sound of a clarion at a little distance struck his ear, and made him turn his eyes to the opposite slope. Over the brow of the hill, upon the road which led towards Paris, appeared horse and foot filing away with their arms glittering in the summer sun; and the distance was not sufficiently great to prevent St. Real from recognising the retainers of the house of Aubin, joined to another body apparently little inferior in number. The step thus taken by his cousin was too decided to admit a hope of change; and bidding the boy, who was gazing steadfastly in the same direction, return to St. Cloud, he resumed his own path, and rode on with all speed towards Senlis.