The journey was long and tedious, the road heavy and bad, the coach which had been procured at Chartres ponderous and cumbersome, and the horses which had been placed in it unequal to drag its weight except at a slow and lingering pace. Poor Rose d'Albret sat far back in the vehicle, with her hands over her eyes, and the tears streaming fast down her cheek as they passed through the gates of Chartres, and as the last faint traces of the dream of happiness in which she had been indulging, faded away, and left her a reality of misery, anxiety, and care.
Tardy as was their progress, the feet of the horses seemed all too quick in drawing her towards a scene in which she anticipated nothing but distress of many kinds; reproach from those who themselves deserved the bitterest censure, threats, importunity, persecution, and that constant effort to deceive, which she knew would require on her part continual watchfulness and a guard upon every word, and look, and action. She could no longer hope to give way to one feeling of the heart; the free spirit was to be chained down and bound; the candid and the frank, was to put on reserve and policy; the trustful and the confiding, was to assume doubt and suspicion: every bright quality of her own mind was to be cast away for the time, as useless in the warfare in which she was about to engage; and she was to be called upon to take up the weapons of her adversaries, in order to meet them upon equal terms. It was all bitters, in short; and Rose shrank from the contemplation, and felt a sickening hopelessness of heart, to which she had never given way before.
Then her thoughts turned to De Montigni; and for the first time she felt to the full how much she loved him. Short as had been the time that they had passed together since his return to France, those few hours had been as much as years in binding heart to heart, so full had they been of events, thoughts, and feelings; and now that she was separated from him, she asked herself, what would be his fate; meditated over all that he would suffer on her account, as well as the weary weight of imprisonment; and, judging rightly of his sensations, knew that his grief and anguish for her, would be the most painful part of all he had to endure. She felt as if she were bound in gratitude to repay his anxiety, by equal grief for him; and, instead of endeavouring to console herself by listening to the voice of hope, she added, I may say voluntarily, to her own sorrow, by dwelling upon his.
Thus passed hour after hour, as they rolled slowly on, while the party of horsemen who guarded her, urged the coachman to greater speed, though, if her voice could have obtained a hearing, she would have besought him to delay at every step, rather than hurry on to a place, the very thought of which was horrible to her. The driver, however, was not one to be moved in any degree by the exhortations of his companions; and neither slower nor faster did he go, for all that could be said to him. At the same dilatory pace he proceeded, paused twice to water and to feed his horses, and seemed as deaf to the apprehensions of the guard, lest they should be overtaken by any party of the enemy, as to the threats which they held out of the anger of the governor and the Duke of Nemours. Thus night fell just before they reached a little town, not much more than half way to Marzay; and the coachman, declaring that his horses could proceed no further that day, pulled up at the door of what was then called aGîteor sleeping place, and proceeded unceremoniously to detach the cattle from the vehicle, giving no heed whatsoever, either to the questions or remonstrance of an old man who was in command of the troop.
As nothing could be done but to remain where they were, Rose was led to her bed-chamber, and told, in civil terms enough, that, by her leave, they would proceed at daybreak on the following morning. The old man paid every attention to her comfort, according to the orders he had received; and even listened, while, encouraged by his courteous manner, she ventured to remonstrate upon the conduct pursued towards her, in carrying her against her will to a place so hateful to her. He replied coldly, that the affair was none of his; he did but obey his orders; and Rose soon found, by the strictness with which she was watched, and by the placing of a guard at her chamber door, that the hope of escaping, and flying on foot at any risk, was altogether vain.
The journey of the next day went on as that of the day just gone; and it was evening when the sight of many well known objects, the wood through which she had often ridden, the little chapel where she had frequently stopped to pray, the hamlet, the church, the fountain, the stream, all of which she recollected, showed her that they were within a few miles of the place in which her youth had been spent. How changed were now all her feelings, from those with which she had wandered through the same scenes in girlhood! Where was now the sunshine of the heart, which at once lighted up every object around? Where was the interest with which imagination had invested all that now seemed so dead and cold? Some light had gone out in life since she was last there; and the visionary splendour had departed.
In about half an hour more, they came to the side of a hill, from which the Château of Marzay was visible, at the distance of about a mile. The evening sun was just setting, and casting long streams of light and shadow over the undulating country below. The snow had disappeared; the green herbage of the fields was seen; the brown branches of the wood grew warm and glowing in the evening rays; the river swollen with rain rushed on like a torrent of blood, reflecting the glowing crimson of the west, and every window of the château flashed back the bright beams of light, in lines almost too dazzling for the eye. Round the summits of the towers, however, as they rose above the eminence on which the castle was built, rolled a thin dull cloud of leaden vapour, faintly tinged with red, on the side next to the sun; and as the carriage moved slowly on, it descended lower and lower over the building, rendering the lines and angles indistinct to the eye, like the fate which awaited the poor girl who was journeying thither. She gazed out eagerly towards it with a heavy sigh, and a heart weighed down with the certainty of coming sorrow; and then turning her eyes over the open ground below, she traced the road which she had followed in her flight with De Montigni, and could have wept to think how vain had proved all the hopes that bore her up through the fatigues and discomforts of that journey.
Suddenly from behind a clump of trees, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, emerged slowly a figure on horse-back, bearing in his hand what Rose at first imagined to be a lance. The next moment, however, she perceived that it was a cross; and, at the same solemn pace, following the first on foot, came six other men carrying something like a litter on their shoulders. The light caught upon it, however, as they began to ascend the slope towards the château, and Rose saw the fluttering of a pall; several other persons followed, likewise, on foot, and then a party of some fifteen or sixteen horsemen, with lances lowered, and a pennon flickering in the wind.
"They are bearing back a dead body to the château, Mademoiselle," said the old man, who was riding by the side of the carriage at the moment; "likely some one who has fallen at Ivry. Perhaps we had better stop and let them get before us. It is unlucky to go in with a corpse."
"Unlucky to go in at all," said Rose, sadly; "do as you will. Sir, I am a captive, and have no authority in such matters."
The old man gave orders to halt; and the funeral procession of the good old Commander de Liancourt, which was following a road that formed an acute angle with the one they were themselves pursuing, moved slowly on towards the château. When it had come within three or four hundred yards of the gates, the Count de Liancourt, with his nephew Chazeul, and a number of the soldiers and attendants, came forth to meet it, preceded by father Walter, and two boys, belonging to the chapel, dressed in their robes. The procession immediately halted; and Estoc dismounting from his horse, advanced a few steps in front to confer with the Count and his companions.
The loss of a brother, to a man in the decline of life, can never be a matter of indifference, and Monsieur de Liancourt was evidently much agitated; but there were other feelings in his bosom, besides those of mere grief, and his manner was hesitating and embarrassed, as he returned Estoc's grave salutation, and listened to the solemn words,
"I have brought back to you, Sir, the corpse of your brother, Michael de Liancourt, Commander of the Order of St. John, who fell, gallantly fighting for his King, on the glorious field between St. André and Ivry; and I claim your permission to carry it into the chapel of the château, according to his own request."
"I receive my poor brother's body at your hands, Monsieur Estoc," replied the Count, "and thank you for your letter of this morning; but as you know we have few people in the castle, and many of us not altogether holding the same opinions as yourself; you cannot, expect us to suffer you to enter with such a body of armed men."
"We are armed, Sir Count," answered Estoc, "as soldiers carrying the body of a soldier; but you know right well, we come in peace upon so sad an errand. As soon as we have performed our duty, we will depart in peace, if we are suffered to do so; but what we have undertaken we will perform, and trust to meet with no opposition."
"This is foolishness, Sir," cried Chazeul, sharply; "you cannot expect such permission, after all that has taken place; and, in one word, you may enter yourself with any two or three, but no more shall have admission."
Estoc's cheek grew red. "To you, young man," he replied, "I do not speak, for you are not the lord of that château, and never will be; but to you, Monsieur de Liancourt, I answer, we have all of us sworn to lay the body of our old leader before the altar of the chapel of Marzay, and we will do it. If you will give us admission, well; if not, I will bear it back to the church in the village, there set it down till we are joined by the men of Montigni, and then forcing my way in at the point of the sword, will keep my oath, whoever tries to stay me. You know old Estoc too well to believe that he will break his word; so choose, and that quickly, for it is growing late."
But at this moment father Walter interposed, advancing with an air of grave authority, and saying, "Cease, cease! in the name of decency and Christian charity, cease! and in the presence of the dead, let us have peace. My son," he continued, turning to the Count, "you will never, I am sure, oppose Monsieur Estoc in carrying in the body of our poor friend into the chapel according to his vow, if he pledge his word to retire immediately after it be accomplished. You, Monsieur Estoc, will never refuse to plight your word as a French gentleman, to re-tread your steps as soon as you have laid the corpse before the altar, without doing injury to any one, or interfering in any way with the affairs of the castle."
"Most willingly, good father," replied Estoc; "I come but for one purpose; and as soon as that is accomplished, I am more anxious than any one to leave this place at once, for I have promised to lead these good fellows back to join the King, and reap our share in the fruits of this great victory."
"Then it is true that Henry won the battle?" asked Monsieur de Liancourt.
"Ay, Sir!" answered Estoc, "most true--and a decisive battle it was. The League is now, nothing but a name."
Chazeul smiled contemptuously; but the priest brought back the discussion to the point, saying, "Monsieur de Liancourt, you have not answered. I trust you will be satisfied with this promise."
The Count hesitated; but Estoc, turning towards him with a reproachful look, demanded, "Have you known me so long, Monsieur de Liancourt, and yet doubt my word? I promise you, Sir, to quit the castle with these good men, as soon as I have laid that bier before the altar, and given father Walter here the message which I have to deliver to him, regarding the watching of the body and the masses for the soul."
"Well," said the Count, whose eyes had been turned for a moment to the hill behind Estoc, "well, I consent on condition, Sir, that you immediately retire to the village without meddling in any way with what you may see within the castle. Do you promise as a man of honour?"
"I do!" replied Estoc; "though I know not what you are afraid I should interfere with. But as I come here for a fixed purpose, when that is accomplished, I will go."
"Well, then, march on!" said the Count; "and we, as mourners for my brother, will bring up the rear."
The order was accordingly given, and the funeral train was once more put in motion. The party of the Count, with the exception of father Walter, who remained in front, paused till the rest had passed, and then fell in behind; but, on a word from Monsieur de Liancourt, one of his attendants quitted the line, and at a quick pace sped up the hill to the spot where the coach, containing poor Rose d'Albret, was still standing. Had Estoc been aware of whom that vehicle contained, it might have changed the fate of many an after day; but as yet he had not perceived it at all; and following the corpse of his old leader with a slow and heavy step, while a thousand memories of other days, associated with the very building he was now entering, pressed sadly on his mind, he ascended the slope with his eyes bent down upon the ground, till the body passed the low arch of the gate, and he found himself in the outer court, so long familiar to his footsteps.
The priest, in the meantime, sped on into the chapel, in order to receive the body with the usual ceremonies; and, dismounting from their horses, the soldiers who had followed the old commander to the field of Ivry, soon thronged the space before the altar, with their armed forms falling into fine but sombre groups, as the last faint rays of the setting sun streamed through the stained glass window on the western side, and cast their long shadows across the floor, covered with many a monumental stone and inscription. The Count de Liancourt and Chazeul stood behind, with their followers and attendants; and even when the ceremony was over, they lingered still, as if to see the old soldier and his comrades quit the chapel.
Estoc looked round more than once in the hope that they were gone. Perhaps he wished to give way to the feelings of sorrow and regret that were strong in his heart, without the presence of colder witnesses. Perhaps he wished to have some private conversation with the priest before he departed. But the Count and his companions remained where they were; and finding that they had no intention of retiring, he at length turned to the priest, saying, "Monsieur de la Tremblade, I have now to ask you, on behalf of him who is gone, first, to say one hundred masses for the repose of his soul."
The priest bowed his head, replying, "It shall be done right willingly, my son."
And Estoc proceeded, "Secondly, to keep vigil this night and to-morrow by the body, till the hour of matins."
"It is unusual, my son," answered the priest, "except in the case of very high personages; but still, as you require it, it shall be done."
"I beseech you in charity to do so, father," replied Estoc: "and I know that which you promise you will accomplish."
"Without fail," answered father Walter, and Estoc, turning from the chapel led his men back into the court. The first object his eyes fell upon was a carriage, apparently just arrived and surrounded by several armed men, bearing the green scarfs of the League. The door of the coach was open, and a lady in the act of alighting; and the next moment Rose d'Albret held out her hands to the old soldier, exclaiming, "Ah! good Estoc!"
Yielding to the first impulse, Estoc sprang forward towards her, exclaiming, "Have they brought you here already, dear lady?"
"Much against my will," replied Mademoiselle d'Albret; but Chazeul and the Count de Liancourt instantly interposed.
"You promised, Sir," exclaimed the latter, "to retire from the château without interfering with anything that you might see or hear. Is this the way you keep your word?"
"I will keep my word with you, Sir," answered Estoc, "better than you have kept yours with this lady's father.--Alas! Mademoiselle d'Albret," he continued, "I am bound to quit this place at once; and all I can say is, that steadfast truth and firmness will prevail at last, and so I must bid you farewell."
As he spoke, he kissed her hand and turned away; and Rose, yielding to a violent burst of tears, suffered herself to be led into the building by the Count de Liancourt, who remained silent till they reached the hall, where the first object that presented itself to her eyes, in the dim twilight that now reigned through the wide chamber, was the tall harsh form of the Marchioness de Chazeul, advancing as if to meet her. For a moment, Rose's heart sunk at the sight; but, the next instant, she murmured to herself, "I must not give way. My task is one of firmness, and I must not yield to any weakness like this."
"So, girl, so," cried Jacqueline de Chazeul, "all your fine plots have proved of no avail! Was it not decent, delicate, and feminine, to fly from your guardian's protection and cast yourself, unmarried, into the arms of a man you scarcely know?"
"Scarcely know!" exclaimed Rose d'Albret; "whom do I know so well? But, Madam, to fly with him was my only choice, in order to escape the arts and persecutions which I was sure to encounter here. I believe that I was justified by the contract of my father, which had been so long concealed from me. I could trust to the honour of the man to whom my father had engaged my hand; and I went to seek from the King that protection and justice which I was not likely to meet with where I was best entitled to except it."
"You have learned boldness enough, it seems, minion," replied Madame de Chazeul, in a sharp tone, "and, if you think to justify yourself here, by saying that it was to a heretic usurper you fled, to one condemned and degraded by God and the apostolic church, from your lawful guardian and the husband whom he has selected for you, you are very much mistaken."
"To you, Madam, I seek not to justify myself at all," replied Rose; "I have nought to do with you, nor you with me. To Monsieur de Liancourt, when he thinks fit, I am ready, in private, to assign the motives of my conduct, and to none else am I responsible."
"I will teach you that I have to do with you, pretty lady," replied Madame de Chazeul. "Have you not deceived and ill-treated my son? and you shall make him full atonement, before I quit this château."
"I have not ill-treated nor deceived him, Madam," replied Rose. "'Tis he that has ill-treated and deceived me, and many others, too. He cannot say that I ever affected to love him, that I ever did more than yield a cold and unwilling acquiescence to that which he made me believe, by a shameless falsehood, was my poor father's will. I learned, at length, what that father's intentions really were; and then, contempt and abhorrence of the deceiver took place of the indifference I before felt towards him. He knows it well," she continued, "that I am bound to him by no tie, no promise, no engagement whatsoever. I was told that I must marry him--"
"And so you must, fair lady," exclaimed Madame de Chazeul, in a mocking tone, "and so you must, and so you shall! Assure as my name is Jacqueline de Chazeul, you shall be his wife before two suns set."
"Nay, nay, my dear mother," said Chazeul, who had been speaking to the Count de Liancourt at a little distance, "you are too harsh, and too unkind to Mademoiselle d'Albret. She will yield when she finds that it must be so. She will also yield, when she finds she is mistaken about this contract, and that, in reality, her father left it open for Monsieur de Liancourt to bestow her hand on which of his nephews he thought fit. I can assure you, Rose," he continued, in a soft, but emphatic tone, "Monsieur de Marennes believed that my uncle, here, could bequeath his estates to myself, if he chose it; and, therefore, I might as well be meant by the contract as my cousin."
"Cease, Sir, cease," answered Rose; "it is vain to stain yourselves with any more deceits. I now know the whole truth, that the good Commander resigned his claims in favour of Madame de Montigni; that to her son those claims appertained when my father signed the contract, and, therefore, it was to him he pledged me. But I have something more to say, and I beg you will mark it. Had you been even meant by the contract, which you know right well you were not, nothing on earth should ever make me give you my hand, now that I know some other of your doings. I would rather, a thousand-fold, vow myself to the seclusion of a convent, than pass my life with a man whom I can neither respect, esteem, nor love."
"We will not give you the choice, minion," cried Madame de Chazeul; "your fate is sealed and determined; you are to be his wife, if not by fair means, then by force. This will bear no farther trifling, Liancourt; you must exert your power over her, and compel her to do what is right."
"I hope he will exert it," exclaimed Rose, "to protect me from those who would do me wrong. Monsieur de Liancourt," she continued, "I have always loved you well. You have ever been kind to me, till this last sad occasion, when, persuaded by others, I am sure, rather than by your own inclination, you have well nigh sacrificed my happiness and peace. For my part, I have tried, from my young days, to show you the affection of a daughter, and I would willingly show you the obedience of one, were it possible; but in this instance, it is not so. My father's contract I will fulfil, happy that my own inclinations and the earliest affections of my heart go with it, but still more happy that it saves me from wedding one with whom I could expect nothing but misery. I beseech you, then, give me that protection which you promised my father you would afford me; suffer me not to be injured and insulted in your own house, even by your sister; and do not allow me to be persecuted to break the engagement made between you and your wife's brother. Rather, aid to maintain it to the utmost of your power; and be my support and stay in this hour of difficulty and distress."
"You ask much at my hands, Mademoiselle d'Albret," replied the Count, coldly, "and yet do not offer much in return. You cannot suppose that I approve of your quitting my house with Monsieur de Montigni; and your claim to protection on my part, must be founded on your obedience to my commands, which I trust you will now honour somewhat more than you have lately done."
Rose turned away, with a sad look, and sickening sinking at her heart. Every one was against her; and, though it was what she had expected, yet it made her feel more deeply desolate and hopeless. To reply, she saw was vain; and she felt that she could not much longer keep up the firm and determined tone in which she had forced herself to speak; for tears, at every other moment, were ready to betray the feelings that she laboured to conceal. "I am weary," she said, abruptly, "and I would fain retire to rest. By your leave, Monsieur de Liancourt, I will seek my chamber."
"I will show you which is your chamber," said Madame de Chazeul, "for you must not fancy that you are to tenant a room so easy of access. Who can tell," she continued, in a jesting tone, "what gay gallants we may have in the castle, who may be pleased to scale a lady's window, when they know she is so ready to receive them?"
Rose could bear no more, and burst into a flood of tears.
"Hush, Jacqueline, hush!" said Monsieur de Liancourt; "I will show her the room myself;" and, taking her hand, he led her away from the hall.
For one moment--it could scarcely be more--the old Marchioness de Chazeul gazed down upon the pavement of the hall after her brother had left them; and then looking up, with the demon smile which was not uncommon upon her countenance, when anything especially daring and evil was working in her mind, she took her son's arm, and gazing in his face, said in a low sarcastic tone, "Do you know, my son Nicholas, you are but a fool after all?"
"Indeed, sweet mother?" said the worthy offspring of such a parent, with a look of supercilious indifference; "I am glad to hear you think so. Variety is charming in a family; and I have heard men say that you are no fool. But may I know how I have merited the pleasant appellation you so glibly bestow upon me? What have I done, said, or thought, which deserves that ancient and honourable title?"
"You have thought that this girl can be won by civility, flattering, coaxing, and tenderness," replied the Marchioness; "and therefore you are a fool, as well as my weak brother, your uncle. It needs but a glance of her eye; it needs but a word from her lip, to show that such means are as vain as whistling to the wind. I tell you, Chazeul, and I tell you true, that force--force--do you mark me? force is the only engine you can employ against this haughty spirit. Ay, and it must be applied quickly, if you would have your bride. She knows more than we imagine--she knows all, that is clear. There is now no stopping in midway. You must overleap all idle barriers; rend to pieces all morsels of black and white parchment. You must render yourself the only man she can marry; and all will be soon yours."
"But what course would you have me pursue, my most politic mother?" asked Chazeul; "If one frightens and alarms her, she will only shrink from me the more."
"Let her shrink," cried the Marchioness. "What matters her shrinking, to you? Do not pretend to things you do not feel. She must be your wife, Chazeul, shrinking or willingly; and which, matters not much, either to you or me. She must be yours, I say; and as it is clear that she will not with her consent, it must be without."
"But how? but how is this to be accomplished?" demanded her son. "Here are a thousand obstacles, good lady. We must work through my uncle, and you must see that it is vain to hope he will use any violent means. How weakly he answered me this morning, when Nemours' trumpet came!"
"We must act through some one else," answered the Marchioness. "He is not to be trusted, but when he considers his rights invaded; and 'tis useless to think of employing him. We must find another, and get him to aid our plan."
"But what is that plan?" demanded the young nobleman. "Let me hear in a word what is the purport of all these hints?--How is it to be done?"
"By various ways," replied Madame de Chazeul. "First and above all, you must remove from this busy scene the man whom she fancies that she loves."
"Remove him!" exclaimed Chazeul; "I know not how. He is surrounded by people devoted to him. I should find some difficulty.--He is now in the hands of Nemours too, who would not suffer it. The Duke is scrupulous in such matters."
Such were the words of Chazeul. He expressed no surprise; he displayed no horror at the proposal; but in those days such thoughts were familiar to the minds of most men. In the preceding reign, private assassination had been one of the means of war, so often really committed by persons high in station and education, that rumour as usual exceeded the truth, and no death took place with circumstances at all out of the common course, without being attributed to the agency of man. The revenge of individuals, the malignity of faction, the policy of states, all took the same direction; and kings and princes prompted and paid for dark deeds of blood, as well as the corrupt minions of the court, and the vicious women with whom it was thronged. Each day some murder had stained the records of the country, and men had more cause to guard themselves against the covert enmity of the rival in ambition or in love, than against the open wrath of the acknowledged foe. So common, indeed, had such crimes become, that circumstances were supposed to justify, and custom to palliate them; and when they were discovered, no wonder or disgust was excited, and multitudes who had taken no part in the deed itself, were found to conceal, protect, and plead for the assassin. It was an age of crime.
Chazeul, then, and his mother discussed the means of removing De Montigni from their path, as calmly as if they had been laying out some party of pleasure; there was no hesitation, no repugnance, no tragic movings of remorse. The difficulties were all that were considered and how to obviate them. It was of everyday deeds and events they spoke, and they conversed over them in an every-day tone.
"I do not see," replied the Marchioness, "why that should prevent the business. His being in the hands of Nemours, but fastens him to one spot, where he can always be reached."
"But there will be guards and people about him," said Chazeul, "who would give him help. To accomplish it, we should need too many men, to be able to introduce them quietly."
"Too many men!" cried his mother with a laugh; "why, you soldiers always are thinking of violence, and swords, and daggers. You do not fancy, do you, that I would have recourse to means so rough? Out upon such coarse handy-work! One little cup of drink--one savoury ragout--will do the deed better than bullet or steel, and put you in possession of Liancourt as well as Marennes. But leave that to me, for you seem unskilful in such matters. You must have both; and your task must be with the girl--leave me the man. We must have no more trifling, Chazeul, or secrets may come out which it were well to hide till you have obtained all that you can desire. The girl must be yours before two days have past--did you not mark her words?"
"I marked many of them," replied Chazeul; "they were well worthy of notice.--But which do you mean?"
"Are you so dull?" asked his mother. "Did you not hear her say, that you had deceived others as well as herself? and did not your own mind read the comment?--Hark ye, boy! Did you ever see or know a person--a sweet tender, delicate creature, called Helen de la Tremblade?"
Chazeul's cheek grew pale and then red; not from remorse; not from shame; but from dread. It was dread, however, of only one human being. All the world might have been made aware of his baseness, without causing him a care or anxiety, if he could have kept it from his mother. But he knew her well, the dark and fiendish nature of her character, her remorseless seeking for her own ends, her vindictive hatred of all those who offended her, and the little regard she had for any tie, in pursuit of her own objects. Vanity, vice, and intemperate passions, had not yet altogether quenched every natural feeling in his heart; and some lingering affection for the unhappy girl he had injured, made him apprehensive for her, more than for himself. His mother might use the knowledge she had obtained, to drive him in the course she thought fit, or to frustrate his purposes if he opposed her, but she would do no more as far as he was concerned. The result to Helen, however, might be death, or worse than death; and, for a moment or two, he remained silent, considering how he should act.
The keen eye of Madame de Chazeul was upon his countenance all the time, marking every change of expression, and translating all she marked; but after waiting his answer for some time, she demanded, "You have heard of such a person, have you not?"
"Well," he replied somewhat impatiently, "what of her? What has Mademoiselle d'Albret to do with Helen?"
"Ha, ha, ha," cried Madame de Chazeul, with a bitter laugh. "What has she to do with Helen! Why, simply to tell Walter de la Tremblade, that gay Nicholas de Chazeul has made a paramour of his niece, in order to raise a devil that will soon send all our projects flying to the wind.--You now see there is no time to be lost. The thing cannot long be kept secret. This girl has got some inkling of the truth, and she must be your wife before she can hint her suspicions to him, and he inquire into the facts."
Chazeul paused, and thought for a moment, and then repeated his mother's words. "The thing cannot long be kept secret!--why not?--What have you done with her, my good mother?--Something assuredly; for Helen would keep her own counsel.--You have not put her to death, surely?"
"Not I," cried Madame de Chazeul. "I am not called upon to punish such sins as that. It's only when people stand in the way, that wise men put them to death. There, be satisfied,--be satisfied. I have done her no harm; but, as I told you, the thing cannot long be concealed. Rose d'Albret has obtained some intimation of it. Of that I am sure by her manner. The old priest will wonder that his niece does not come hither, for I told him she was ill, or I would have brought her; and he will go to see her, so that I say, it cannot be long concealed. You must use your time, therefore, busily."
Chazeul saw that his mother did not tell him all; but he was well aware, that it was impossible to obtain the straightforward truth from her, when she, wished to conceal it, and accordingly following the bent which she gave to the conversation herself, he asked, "But how--how am I to use my time busily and to good purpose? I, unaided, cannot force Rose d'Albret to give me her hand. If my uncle would assist vigorously, we might indeed succeed. But he is timid, as you know, in action, however bold he may be in words; and depend upon it, we shall need strong measures to induce her to yield."
"Ay, strong measures indeed," replied his mother, "but they may be used without my brother's will or consent; and, if you manage matters rightly, you may make the lady less positive than she is at present. Hark ye, Chazeul, a word in your ear!" He bent down his head, and the Marchioness whispered to him a few brief words.
"No, no!--Impossible," he cried; "utterly impossible! The maid sleeps in the ante-chamber, the priest in the next room.--'Tis quite in vain."
"Why, foolish boy," replied his mother, "I mean no violence--I mean no wrong. You do not comprehend me. Do you not know, how much store she sets upon virtue and reputation? She would never consent to carry to Louis de Montigni, a sullied name. Let but her fame be in your hands; let us but be able to prove that you have passed the night in her chamber; and we shall have no more idle resistance. The girl Blanchette will give you admittance, and be a witness also. Then keep as still as death for an hour or two, leave something on the table--a glove--a hat--anything in short, to mark that you have been there, and to show her herself that it is so, without your telling her."
Chazeul paused and meditated. He thought the scheme not unlikely to succeed; and yet he feared to undertake it. If discovered, he knew that it would prove his ruin with his uncle; and he did not see how he could bring it to work upon the mind of Rose herself, without acknowledging the truth or more than the truth to Monsieur de Liancourt. Just as he was about to reply, the Count himself returned with father Walter; and one of the servants entered at the same time to light the sconces in the hall. Madame de Chazeul held up her finger; as a warning to be silent; and as soon as the attendant was gone, the Marchioness turned to her brother, inquiring, "Well, what have you done with this obstinate girl, Anthony?"
"In good faith, nothing," replied the Count; "she was more mild and gentle than with you; and I left her weeping; but she is as firm as ever."
"Well," said Madame de Chazeul, in an indifferent tone, "if she will not by fair means, she must by force. We have every right to compel her to do that which is good for her."
Monsieur de Liancourt shook his head doubtfully, saying, "I do not know."
"Ah, my good brother," answered Madame de Chazeul in a bitter tone, "a battle lost makes great difference with doubtful friends. What say you, Monsieur de la Tremblade? Are you for giving up the Holy Catholic Union, and bestowing the lands of Marennes and Liancourt upon a supporter of the heretics?"
"Far from it, Madam," replied Walter de la Tremblade. "If anything, this unfortunate defeat should make us more zealous, active, and determined. The party of the League is the party of truth and religion; and doubtless it will ultimately triumph. It should be our part to promote it the more strenuously, as each new obstacle arises; and I must say that, conscientiously, no guardian could bestow the hand of his ward upon a man, who, like Monsieur de Montigni, has drawn his sword against his religion."
"But that is a different thing," said Monsieur de Liancourt "from forcing her to a marriage without her consent."
"Not altogether," answered the priest. "If you do not compel her to wed the one, she will wed the other; and when she finds there is no escape, most probably her resistance will give way."
Madame de Chazeul watched the countenance of father Walter while he spoke, and listened, well satisfied, to words which showed her beyond all doubt, that neither her own conduct towards his niece, nor that of her son, was ever dreamt of by Walter de la Tremblade. "If we can accomplish this marriage," she thought "within a few hours all will be safe. He may rage then, as much as he will. It is amusing enough, to make him aid in bringing about that, which he will wish undone, when he knows the truth."
"What you say is very true, father," rejoined the Count, "but I see not what means one can employ actually to force her. As she said to me but now, we may drag her to the altar, but she will refuse the vow, and protest against it in the face of God and man."
"Such things have taken place," said Walter de la Tremblade, "and yet the ceremony has proceeded."
"But then, the contract," said Monsieur de Liancourt. "If she will not sign it, how can we force her?"
"Oh, leave all that to me," cried Madame de Chazeul. "If you, brother, will only promise not to interfere, except by exerting your authority on behalf of your nephew, and laying your commands upon her to marry him, I will do all the rest."
"But I fear your violence, my good sister," replied the Count.
Madame de Chazeul was about to answer, when a servant again entered the hall; and Monsieur de Liancourt exclaimed impatiently, "what now?"
"A messenger is just arrived from Chartres, Sir," replied the man, "with orders for Monsieur de Mottraye who escorted Mademoiselle Rose back, to return without a moment's delay, as the town is menaced by the King. He brings tidings, too, Sir, that a duel has been fought between Monsieur de Montigni and my lord of Nemours."
"Nemours has killed him for a thousand crowns," cried Chazeul, as joyfully as if De Montigni had shown himself his bitterest enemy through life.
"What more? what more?" cried Monsieur de Liancourt; "which of them fell?"
"He knew little about it, Sir," replied the servant, "for he came away, before the matter had spread over the town."
"I will go and see him," exclaimed Chazeul. "Nemours has killed him without doubt."
Thus saying, he hurried away, and was absent for several minutes, during which time the Marchioness talked in a low voice to the priest. But the Count remained standing in the middle of the room, with his eyes bent down and his heart sad. He could not but recollect the days that were passed. The boy whom he had brought up from early years, the graces and high qualities he had displayed, and many a little act, and many a little scene, forgotten till that moment, rose up reproachfully before his eyes, and for the time filled him with grief, and with remorse. The voice of conscience, which in its own hour will be heard, told him that the deed was his, that, had he not attempted to injure and deceive his sister's son, all the long train of dark and sad events, which had filled the last few days, would not have happened, that joy, and peace, and mutual love, and kindly affection might have reigned, where strife and evil passion, violence and death, had been introduced, as the black followers of fraud. His brother and his nephew, both were gone in a few short days; and his heart told him, that the virtuous and the good had been cut off, while the dishonest and the vile remained!
It was but during a few minutes, however, that such thoughts oppressed him; for vanity, his besetting sin, the besetting sin of so many, the salve with which the devil medicates all the wounds of conscience was soon brought to his relief. He was too vain to believe, for any length of time, that he could do wrong, even though the warning angel of the human heart thundered it in his ear. "Had De Montigni done as he was asked," he thought, after he had mastered the first impression, "nothing of this kind would have happened. It is all in consequence of his own obstinacy. What a sad thing it is, that men will not be persuaded to their own good!"
As these comforting reflections passed through his mind, Chazeul re-entered the hall. "He is dead," he cried, "beyond all doubt he is dead. The man himself saw Nemours come back into the city, alone and uninjured."
"Well, then," said Madame de Chazeul, "we are saved all farther trouble; for now you are the only heir. You had better go and tell her the news, Chazeul. Perhaps it may deliver her from as great an embarrassment as any one feels."
"Fie now, Jacqueline! Fie now!" cried the Count. "You know not her heart or feelings."
"I know very well, my good brother," replied Madame de Chazeul, "that women if they have said a thing, often adhere to it with the constancy of a martyr, when they would give their right hand for a fair excuse for changing; but vanity keeps them to the point, with a much firmer sort of resolution than conviction can supply. Do not tell me about her feelings! I know my own sex far better than you do; and I am sure there is not one woman out often, who would not rejoice at the death of her dearest friend, if it delivered her from a great embarrassment."
"I find the church is merciful as well as wise, in imposing celibacy upon its priesthood," said father Walter, with a cold sarcastic smile. "But, indeed, I think it would be better, not to tell Mademoiselle d'Albret to-night. She must be fatigued; her mind depressed with disappointment and anxiety; and she should be allowed some time for repose."
"No, father, no!" replied Madame de Chazeul. "She must know it to-night, for the marriage shall take place to-morrow, or, at farthest, the next day. Let her have to-night for grief--for I do not say she will not weep--to-morrow her mind will be made up, and the affair can proceed with decency."
"Will you tell her, father Walter?" said Monsieur de Liancourt.
"Nay," exclaimed the Marchioness, "why give him that trouble? I will do it in a moment."
"No, Jacqueline, you shall not go," cried the Count. "You are too harsh and fierce to bear such tidings.--Go, Father, go!--It is an office of Christian charity."
"She is more likely to believe it from my lips, than yours, Madam," said father Walter, "and therefore I will undertake the task; but I must be quick, for I have my watch to commence in the chapel."
"Let us hear how she bears it," said the Count de Liancourt. "I grieve for the poor girl."
"Pshaw!" cried Jacqueline de Chazeul; and the priest quitted the hall, leaving the Marchioness evidently uneasy.
A chamber had now been assigned to Rose d'Albret, higher in the building than that which she had formerly tenanted, and next to the room of father Walter himself. It opened first into an ante-chamber, somewhat smaller than the other, and thence upon a large landing place, separated from the stairs by a balustrade. The ante-room, as before, was occupied by the maid Blanchette, who, well warned and tutored, was kept as a spy upon all her mistress's actions; and, on entering this little suite of apartments, the girl was the first person whom father Walter encountered.
She was sitting at a table, knitting, with a sullen brow and pouting lips; and, notwithstanding deep habitual reverence for the priest, she seemed scarcely willing to answer him civilly, when he inquired, if he could speak with her mistress.
"I cannot tell," replied the girl, rising for a moment, and resuming her seat; "I really do not know what she is doing,--she does not want my services, she says; she would rather be alone."
"Go and see, daughter!" said the priest. "Doubtless Mademoiselle d'Albret is grieved and perhaps angry; but that does not exempt you from respect and obedience towards her in all things, where other duties do not require you to oppose her wishes."
"Indeed, father," answered the girl sullenly, "I cannot undertake all this.--Here, I am told not to quit her ante-room, from the moment she enters her chamber, till the moment she leaves it, which is making me no better than a prisoner; and then, I am to be rated, and frowned upon by the Lady, as if I had behaved very ill to her.--I don't see why I should bear all this."
"Because you are ordered to do so," said the priest somewhat sternly: but he added the next moment, "It will not be of long duration however. Now go and tell her I am here, seeking to speak with her on a matter of deep moment."
Before Blanchette could obey, however, the door of the ante-chamber opened, and Madame de Chazeul entered, saying, "I have come to tell her myself, good father. I can then better judge of her frame of mind; and, as the Count tells me, you have to keep vigil by the body of my poor old brother Michael, which I did not understand before, I will not keep you."
"Nay," replied the priest, "I have time, and will never shrink from doing my duty. This poor child will need consolation, and it must be my task to give it to her, as far as my poor voice can do so."
The Marchioness was evidently not well pleased with this reply; and, though she masked her embarrassment as well as she could, yet a certain air of anxiety and uneasiness, did not escape the calm but penetrating eye of Walter de la Tremblade. "She doubts me," bethought. "She is one of those who have no confidence in any one. What must her own heart be like!"
As he thus pondered, Blanchette returned, and bade him enter, which he did, making way, however, for Madame de Chazeul to pass in first.
Rose had been weeping, but her eyes were now dry; and the usual mild and gentle expression was upon her countenance, till her eye lighted upon Madame de Chazeul; and then she turned away her head, with a look of shuddering horror, which the Marchioness did not fail to mark, though with less anger, than might perhaps have been expected. It was her wish to overawe and to command, both at present and in future and the age of wishing to be loved, had long passed by with her. Rose however, soon added to the offence; for, turning towards Walter de la Tremblade, she said, "The girl merely mentioned your name, father; and I was willing and even glad to receive you; but the conversation which has already taken place between this lady and myself, was not of such a character as to make her society very desirable to me."
"You must have it, nevertheless, pretty minion," replied Madame de Chazeul. "I know you are as ungrateful, as you are self-willed; but I came to break to you a piece of news which has just arrived, and which, as you must hear it sooner or later, we have thought fit to communicate at once."
"The sooner it is communicated the better," answered Rose; "I beseech you to make no delay; for I am anxious to retire to rest."
Madame de Chazeul turned towards the priest with a sign for him to proceed; and father Walter taking up the tale, addressed Rose in a gentle and a kindly tone, saying, "I fear, my poor daughter, what we have to communicate may grieve you more than you expect; and I would therefore have you prepare your mind, by thinking of how God tries all men in this world, with various deep afflictions, making them sometimes his chastisements for errors past, sometimes warnings against future faults, often depriving us of those things most dear which might prove snares to us, often frustrating our most anxious desires, which, if we knew all, might in their gratification produce misery, instead of joy."
Rose listened attentively, anxious to hear what was to come next; but Madame de Chazeul waved her hand impatiently, exclaiming, "You are not in the pulpit, my good father. Do you not see she is quite prepared for anything you have to say? The truth is this, Mademoiselle d'Albret, a messenger has just arrived from Chartres bringing orders for the men who accompanied you, to return immediately, and with that order they conveyed intelligence that a duel has been fought between Monsieur de Nemours, and your late lover De Montigni, in which the latter has met with the chastisement which his presumption deserved, and has been killed on the spot."
Rose started up and clasped her hands, while her face grew pale as ashes, and for a moment she seemed about to faint. The next instant, however, she passed her hand across her brow, gazed for a moment anxiously upon the ground, and then suddenly raised her head with a smile full of scorn, while the blood came back into her cheek and lip, exclaiming, "It is false! I know that it is false!"
"The poor creature is mad," said Madame de Chazeul. "You know it to be false, when we know it to be true! You must have wonderfully clever information. The man is in the château at this moment, who brought the tidings from Chartres."
"Let me see him!" said Rose d'Albret.
Madame de Chazeul paused, and saw that, by mentioning the messenger, she had committed a mistake; for it was her object to represent the death of De Montigni as certain, and she was aware that her son had run on to that inference, much more rapidly than the man's own account might justify.
"No," she replied, "you shall not see him. I pledge my word that the information is true. Here is father Walter ready to do the same. Monsieur de Liancourt will tell you the like story. If you insult us by doubting our word, it does not become us, to take any trouble to convince you."
"Madam, I have been deceived in more than one thing already," replied Rose, bending her head gravely; "and consequently, I do not lend my mind easily to everything that is told me. Father Walter, I beseech you, by your duty to God, by your sacred calling, as you shall answer for it hereafter, to let me know, has this information truly arrived, and is it certain?"
"That it has arrived, is beyond doubt," answered the priest, "but in regard to the certainty or the particulars--not having spoken with the messenger myself--I cannot say anything."
Rose waved her hand. "Enough," she said, "enough; I will beseech you now to leave me.--Nay, I can endure no more to-night."
Madame de Chazeul was going to add something; but the priest laid his hand upon her arm, saying, "Nay, Madam, let us not press upon her hardly. Give her till to-morrow to think over it;" and he led the Marchioness away, leaving poor Rose to her meditations.