Poor Rose d'Albret was like an inexperienced youth, playing for a high stake against a numerous party of unprincipled gamblers. While Chazeul was affecting to be her own partner in the game, his mother, as his confederate, was employing all her art against her. During the whole of that day, the Marchioness was busy in every part of the château, preparing all means for the attainment of her object. Now, she was dealing with her weak brother, now with the servants, now with the priest; and it was with no cold and lifeless calculation that she acted, but even with more interest than the mere promotion of her son's views could have inspired. She was in her element; she loved the exercise of her cunning; she took a delight in the act; it gave her excitement, in which to her was life; for all her days had been passed from very early years, either in the fine workings of intrigue, or in stormy passions and the struggles of the mind. Such things were to her as the strong spirit to the drunkard, or the dice to the gamester; and she could not live without them. We shall only trace her course, however, as far as this day is concerned, through one or two of her proceedings; for that will be enough to show how she conducted the whole. As soon as her son had left her in the morning, she proceeded to the chapel of the castle, and there, according to the expression of the day, gave holy water to the body of her brother. It may be asked if the sight of the coffin and the pall, produced no effect upon her mind; if the salutary thoughts of death, and the evidence, of how all vast schemes and laborious efforts must terminate--of the great consummation of earthly ambition--did not create doubt and hesitation, awaken remorse, or excite repentance? Not in the least! Those were strange and awful times, when the daily scenes of blood and death, and the constant spectacle of vice and crime, seemed to have hardened most hearts against all the great moral lessons which mortal fate affords to the living and the light. They did not--perhaps they would not--feel; and the most frenzied licentiousness, the most guilty schemes, the most black and terrible crimes, had often, for witnesses, the dead, for pretexts, religion, for a banner, the cross.
What she went to perform was but a ceremony; and as such she treated it, without one thought but. "We must get the body buried before the marriage, to-morrow.--No need to tell her anything about it."
She was turning to leave the chapel, when the priest entered, and approached her with a slow and solemn step. "Ah! good father," cried the Marchioness, as soon as she saw him, "I have been looking for you. I wished to speak with you about the conduct of this obstinate girl. She still holds out pertinaciously, and something must be done to overcome her headstrong opposition. We have thought of--"
"Not here," replied the priest, interrupting her, "not here! This is a solemn and a holy place, unfit for worldly discussions. Let us go somewhere else, where we can talk over the affair more decently. The lower hall was vacant as I passed through."
"Well, well," cried the Marchioness with a smile, not altogether free from scorn, "There, as well as here."
"Better!" said the priest, leading the way back to the château itself. When they had reached the lower hall, as a large stone paved chamber on the ground floor was called, father Walter was the first to resume the subject; saying, "I thought you would fail in persuading her. Monsieur de Liancourt must use all his authority."
"You know him, father!" answered Madame de Chazeul. "It is upon such occasions that he always fails his friends. Bold till the moment of action comes, he is as timid as a hare when it is most necessary to show firmness."
"Not when he can be made angry," replied the priest, "or when he can be convinced that his own dignity is at stake."
"But on this point, neither of those cases can occur," said the Marchioness. "She will weep and entreat, and then both his dignity and his weakness will take her part. There is but one way before us," she added, in a low and confidential tone, "and that is, to convince her, that her own fame and reputation require her marriage with Chazeul."
"That may be difficult," answered father Walter thoughtfully; "but yet with time it may be done. We may surround her with nets from which it is barely possible for her to escape; and continual importunity does much with woman, as you, lady--"
"Time! Time!" cried Madame de Chazeul impatiently, "but we have no time. That is the very thing that is wanting. The marriage must take place to-morrow, before noon--That is decided. It shall be if I live!"
"Nay, but why such haste?" asked the priest. "With no farther any obstacle but a young lady's reluctance, it were well worth while, to give up a few days to the task of vanquishing that."
The Marchioness gazed at him for a moment with a glance half angry, half doubtful, and then repeated his words, "No obstacle!--Hark ye, Walter de la Tremblade," and she whispered in his ear, "De Montigni is alive and well!"
Father Walter heard the tidings with a calm sarcastic smile, answering, "I thought so, my daughter. But were it not better to have owned this to me, at once? Such want of trust in those on whose prudence you can rely, has marred many a fair project, and will mar many another. De Montigni lives!--Then you must be quick, indeed!--Not that I bear the young man an ill will: not that I would injure him in anything! but if we can by any means prevent it, he must not carry to the heretic party he has espoused, such estates as would centre in his person by his marriage with this lady. Now, Madam, what is your plan? for you have one already contrived, I see."
The Marchioness laughed. "Did you ever know me without a plan?" she asked; "but my present scheme is somewhat difficult to explain. However, do you not think, good father, that things might be so contrived, as to render, in a marvellous short time, a wedding with my son Chazeul, a very good and expedient thing in the eyes of Rose d'Albret herself?"
"What do you mean?" exclaimed the priest after a moment or two of consideration. "You would use no violence? You would not--surely you would not do her a bitter wrong!"
"Oh, no!" cried the Marchioness, "but simply by means and contrivances, which I well know how to manage, make her believe that her fair fame is lost, if she do not marry Chazeul. Luckily, he has a goodly reputation as a bold and successful lover, and so the matter will have every appearance of truth."
"But can you ever clear a fame once clouded?" asked the priest; "can you remove the black plague-spot from the fair name which you have stained? Alas! lady, in this world, every idle tongue, every vain, licentious man, every rancorous woman, can blast the reputation of the good and bright, even by a light word; but where is the power that can restore it? Foul suspicion still whispers the disproved lie in the ear of the credulous multitude, and human malice receives it with delight, and propagates the scandal with busy pertinacity. Will you thus destroy the good name of your son's wife?"
"Only to make her his wife!" replied Madame de Chazeul, "only to herself;" and she proceeded to detail her plan, not sincerely, indeed, not fully; for she was one of those who can deal in complete sincerity with no one; but the priest knew her well, and gathered that which she did not tell, from that which she did. His brow was doubtful and gloomy, however, and he asked, "And yet no violence?"
"None, none!" cried Madame de Chazeul.
"Well," he said, after another long pause, "perhaps it is the only way to obtain her acquiescence.--Yet I love not such plans; and am glad that I myself am to play no part in the affair."
"But should you hear or see Chazeul," asked the Marchioness, "You will take no notice?"
"I shall neither hear nor see him," replied the priest, "for I keep vigil in the chapel by your brother's corpse, according to my promise, until matins."
"That is fortunate!" cried Madame de Chazeul; and then she added, lest he should put his own interpretation on her exclamation, "I mean, that you will be thus freed from all personal knowledge of the business."
"True!" he answered, "true! and I would fain know as little of it as possible.--I must now go and say mass, lady.--The Count, I trust, will be present; though, to speak truth, this house is more like a Huguenot dwelling, than that of a zealous Catholic, so sadly are the ordinances of religion neglected.--But in the course of the morning, I will find a moment to speak with him, and strive to confirm him in his resolutions."
"Do, do, good father!" replied the Marchioness, and left him, not altogether satisfied with herself for having given him any insight into the scheme, of which she was now full.
Blanchette was the next person she practised on; but to her she afforded no intimation of her intentions, leaving her son himself to deal with the maid. But she prepared the way for him, by many an artful hint of the necessity of Blanchette's pleasing him in everything, both before and after his marriage with her mistress, giving her to understand, that her fortunes depended entirely upon his favour, and that if that were maintained, they were secure.
Blanchette listened, and promised to be most obedient; but she clearly saw that there was some ulterior object, to be explained at an after period; and she waited impatiently throughout the day, to learn what it was, hoping to find in it a source of profit to herself. Towards night, her friend, the confidential servant of Chazeul, called her to his master's chamber, and she remained with him in close conference for more than half an hour. When she came out, notwithstanding the obtuseness of her mind, and the air of still greater dulness which she somewhat affected, it was evident that the girl was a good deal agitated and even alarmed. She went back with a hasty step to the room in which she slept, stopped for a moment in the middle of the floor, then turned and went out again and knocked at the door of the priest's room, which, as we have before shown, was adjacent to that of her mistress. There was no answer; and, hurrying down, she asked some of the servants whom she met below, if they could tell her where Monsieur de la Tremblade was to be found.
One replied that he was in his own chamber; but another exclaimed, before Blanchette could tell the first that he was mistaken, "No, no, Ma'mselle Blanchette, he is in the chapel," and the girl hurried thither at once. Crossing herself with holy water from the bénitier at the door, and making due genuflexions as she advanced, Blanchette approached the altar, gazing with a look of distaste, and even fear, at the bier of the old commander as she passed.
The priest was just concluding some one of the many services of the Roman Catholic Church; and the girl waited till the last words died away upon his lips, and then with lowly reverence drew nigh.
"What is it, Blanchette?" said Monsieur de la Tremblade; "you seem alarmed and in haste."
"I want to know what I am to do, father," said Blanchette in a low tone. "I am sure I do not know, whether I ought to consent to what Monsieur de Chazeul wishes or not."
"Hush," said the priest. "Come into the confessional;" and, placing himself within the old oak screen, he bent down his head, while Blanchette kneeling on the other side of the partition, poured, through the aperture, her tale into his ear.
The priest listened without surprise, as she told him that Monsieur de Chazeul had required that admission should be given him to her mistress's chamber, at an hour after midnight. "He assured me," the girl said, "that it is with Mademoiselle d'Albret's consent, but that she did not like to mention it to me; and he added, that I was not to speak of it to her."
"That was not right, for, I believe, it is not true," replied the priest. "But what you have to do, is to ask Madame de Chazeul, and follow her directions."
"Oh, if I am to do that," cried the girl, "she bade me already do everything that Monsieur de Chazeul told me; but I thought it right to come and ask you, father, that I might be quite sure of what I was about."
The priest paused and hesitated; but, after several minutes' thought, he replied, "I know not the circumstances, my daughter.--Doubtless Monsieur de Chazeul has no evil intentions." And thus saying, he rose and quitted the confessional, leaving Blanchette to draw her own deductions and follow her own course.
The girl paused and pondered thoughtfully for several moments; then shrugging her shoulders, she murmured with a low laugh, "Well, if he sees no harm in it, what business is it of mine?" and, with this comfortable reflection, she returned slowly to the château.
It was near midnight; all was quiet in the château; sleep seemed to have fallen upon all eyes but those of the sentries upon the walls. The wind sighed amongst the towers and pinnacles; the old oak panneling creaked; and every now and then the screech-owl whirled with its shrill scream past the windows; but those were the only sounds that disturbed the deep silence of night, while the priest, in the chapel, watched the body of the dead man, according to his promise. The building itself was dark and gloomy; the tapers on the altar cast their rays but a little distance beyond the coffin; and the light faded away gradually into the deep obscurity of the other parts of the chapel, while the large cluster pillars and the rich, sculptured groins of the arches, caught the beams faintly as they darted towards the vaulted roof, or strove to penetrate the aisles. It was a solemn scene, and might well fill the breast with thoughts high and grave. There lay the dead: the dust ready for the earth, the spirit returned to God who gave it. There stood the altar, raised for the worship of that God, and bearing aloft in the full light, the symbol of the salvation which was purchased by the blood of His Son. Death, immortality, and redemption, were prominent and clear before the eye, while all round was obscurity, like the misty darkness of mortal fate which wraps us, in this strange world wherein we live.
Father Walter had watched through the preceding night, and had felt less than he did at present; he had done it as a duty, as the mere fulfilment of a promise. He was familiar with the deathbed, the coffin, and grave; and as usual, they had lost much of their impressiveness. But now for some reason,--perhaps that his own heart was not well at ease,--he felt sensations of awe and gloom creep over him. He knelt and murmured prayers before the altar; he went through some of the ceremonial observances of his religion; but they now gave him no relief. The words fell cold and meaningless from his lips; the sign of the cross, the genuflexion, and the counted beads, seemed for the first time all dull forms, having no reference to the heart.
Then he came forward and gazed upon the coffin; and memory recalled many an event connected with him who now lay so still within. He had known him for many years: he recollected him in his youth, and in his prime, and memory ran back over the long chain of linked hours, pausing here and there upon the brighter spots, till the natural affections of the heart--which not even the cold philosophy of a religion which bars its priesthood from all the more kindly associations of human life, can ever totally extinguish--were reawakened by the thoughts, and some of the fresh and generous impulses of earlier years rose up, and brought a tear into his eye.
Again he knelt down and prayed; but it seemed that, in the act of prayer, a voice from the cross above the altar reached his heart mournfully and reproachfully. He thought it asked him if, in the counsels he was giving, if in the deeds he was sanctioning, he was a true follower of the guileless and holy Saviour, of the pure, the true, the meek, who showed God to be truth and love, and falsehood, deceit and wrong, to be the offspring of the arch-enemy. He covered his face with his hands as if the All-seeing eye were more especially upon him; and then starting up he murmured, "I wish I had taken no part in this." With a quick and agitated step, he paced the nave of the chapel; and, as he did so, half spoken words betrayed the troublous anxiety of his soul.
"I wish I had not done it," he said. "Who can tell what may be the result?--They are not to be trusted,--neither mother nor son,--dark, dark and deceitful!--Even to me they cannot be sincere. De Montigni is an angel of light compared to them.--Would to heaven he had not embraced the party of the heretic!--and this poor girl, why should she be tortured so? Can I not stop it even now?--He is to go thither at one o'clock.--What may be the result?--No, no he will never dare!" and with agitated pace, again he trod and retrod the whole length of the chapel; and then, after pausing and gazing once more upon the coffin, he suddenly turned, and opening the great door, issued out into the court. Entering the house, he crossed the stone hall, passed through the corridor beyond, and approached the foot of the staircase which led to his own apartments, and those of Mademoiselle d'Albret. But there he paused; and, laying his hand upon his brow, mused for several minutes.
"No," he said at length, "No, not now. I will return at the very time;--and yet I must not stop him," he added, after a moment's pause. "It seems the only chance for insuring this vast property to the side of the Holy Catholic League. That should be the first question; and yet,--" he paused again, and with a slow step, stopping more than once to consider, he found his way back to the hall, into which the moonlight was streaming through the open door. On the steps he stood for several minutes, gazing up towards the sky, where the faint twinkling stars looked out, like angels' eyes watching the slumber of the world. He thought they might be so, or, at least, that eyes as clear and bright, though hidden from his view, might be even then hanging over him, and all whom that place contained, and he exclaimed, "Oh may they protect, as well as watch!" and, with a slow step, and his looks bent upon the ground, he advanced once more to the door of the chapel.
One side of the building rested against the outer wall which surrounded the château; and the sentries passed it on their round above. Thus, when the priest approached, he heard a step like that of an armed man, but he did not look up at the sound, though it was not unpleasant to his ear; for the feelings that were in his heart, and the thoughts which were hurrying through his brain, rendered the proximity of some human being in the dead hours of the night, rather a relief to him than otherwise.
Passing on, however, at a very tardy pace he entered the chapel; and, when he had reached the first column of the six which, on either side, supported the roof, whether there was some noise which roused him from his reverie, or whether there was one of those vague and undefined impressions on his mind, which we sometimes receive without knowing how, that he was no longer alone in that dark and gloomy place--he suddenly paused and raised his eyes; when, between the coffin and the altar, in the full light of the tapers which stood upon the latter, he beheld a human figure, standing with the head bent down, and the hands clasped together. It was that of a woman, young and apparently beautiful, dressed in black garments, but with the head bare, and the glossy hair reflecting the beams from the altar, so that for an instant, to the dazzled eyes of the priest, there seemed a sort of glory round her brow.
He started, and his heart beat quick as, for an instant, he gazed in silent wonder; but his heart beat quicker still when, recovering from his surprise, he recognized the beautiful form and features of Helen de la Tremblade, his niece.
She had been to him as a child, from her earliest years. On her had centred all the affections which he yet permitted to have any power over him; and, as they were few and confined but to one object, they were strong and vehement in proportion. So vehement, indeed, were they, that at times they alarmed him. He fancied it almost sinful, vowed for ever to the service of his God, so to love any mere mortal creature. Often did he deny himself the delight of seeing her for weeks and months together; and sometimes, when he did see her, he would put a harsh restraint upon his tenderness, and seem cold and stern, though at other times it would master him completely, and he would give way to all the deep affection of his heart.
He gazed on her then, as she stood there, with surprise and alarm. He had been told, that she was ill; and her face, as he looked upon it, was deadly pale. She moved not, though she must have heard his step; not a limb seemed agitated. He could not even see her bosom heave with the breath of life. A cold thrill came over him, as with feelings common to every one in that day, he asked himself, "Can it be her spirit?--Helen," he said, "Helen!"
A convulsive sob was the only reply; but that was enough; and, advancing with a rapid step, he passed the bier, and stood before her.
With her eyes still bent down upon the ground, with her hands still clasped together, Helen sunk down upon her knees at his feet. The old man stretched forth his arms to raise her, but she exclaimed vehemently, "Do not touch me! Do not touch me! I am unworthy that a hand so pure and holy should be laid upon me!"
Walter de la Tremblade recoiled for a moment, and gazed upon her with a look of mute and stern inquiry; but then, moved and softened by all the agitating feelings of that night, the full flood of tenderness and affection swept every other emotion away; and casting his arms round her, he pressed her to his bosom, crying, "Whatever be thy faults, thou art my dead brother's child, thou art my own nurseling lamb, and woe to any one who has injured thee!"
As nature in the colours with which her beautifying hand has adorned the creation, for the glory of God, and the delight of his creatures, has far excelled in richness, and brightness, and variety of hues, all that the art of man can produce, merely leaving to his vain efforts the task of falsely imitating her; so does she, in the real course of events, far exceed in the marvellous and extraordinary, anything that imagination can conceive. The boundless springs of human passions and prejudices; the endless variety of human character; the infinite combinations which man and circumstances may afford, are every day offering more wonderful and striking scenes than the boldest poet would venture to display. There is not a house in the land but has its tragedy to tell; there is not a chamber that has not been stained by bitter and passionate tears; there is hardly one human heart that has not within itself its own tale of romance. But as it is the object of this history, but to depict events very ordinary in the days to which it relates--and as it is, indeed, the object of its author in all his works, to keep to calm and quiet probabilities, in order, if possible, to cure his fellow countrymen of that longing for over excitement, that moral gin-drinking which has become a vice amongst us, and teach them that there may be both pleasure and health in less stimulating beverages; he is anxious to explain every event as it took place, and to leave nothing to the charge of the marvellous.
The reader has already inquired, how happened it, that Helen de la Tremblade, after taking the firm resolution of doing that which, though bitterly painful to her own feelings, she considered a duty to those who had shown her kindness and tenderness in her moment of distress, did not present herself before her uncle, on the first night of his solitary watching by the corpse of the old commander, De Liancourt;--and, had I been reading the work, instead of writing it, I should have asked the same question too. The answer is very simple, but it requires some detail.
On the day following the battle of Ivry, hasty preparations were made for conveying the body of the dead leader to Marzay. All those sad and solemn preparations which are required by custom in consigning the mortal dust to the earth from which it came: the coffin, the bier, and the shroud, were to be made ready; and, whatever diligence was employed, it was known that all this could not be complete before evening. The soldiers who had followed the old leader to the field, determined to take their turns in carrying him back to his last home; and Helen, as has been said, resolved to accompany them; but still, during the day, she showed some signs, as it seemed to Estoc, of irresolution and doubt, and the good old warrior determined to speak a word to her, for the purpose of removing her hesitation. She had not quitted for more than a few brief moments the chamber of the dead man, and the attachment which she displayed to even the inanimate remains of his dead friend, deeply touched the heart of one who, for years, had evinced towards the good old knight, that strong and pertinacious love, so often found in the one-affectioned dog, so rarely in many-motived man. Even had he not promised, he would still have been a father to the poor girl, on account of her devotion to one who had been a father to him; and, as he entered the chamber where she sat, he strove to smooth his somewhat rough tone, in order to speak to her tenderly.
"Come, young lady," he said, "you had better really go into the hall and take some refreshment. We must all die, old and young; and, as the gamblers say, every year that goes makes the odds stronger against us; so there is no use sitting here, pining by yourself, and I hope we shall be able to march in a couple of hours."
"So soon!" asked Helen.
"Ay," answered Estoc, "the sooner it is all over, the better, my dear. I know it is painful to you to fulfil your promise, but I don't think you will shrink from it."
"Oh! it is not that," cried Helen de la Tremblade; "my mind is made up; and if it kill me, I will do it. But I did not want to go just yet, for the first person who was kind to me, and took compassion upon me, promised to come or send after the battle was over. He will think me ungrateful if I go, without waiting to see him; and yet who can tell whether he be dead or alive? I am sure he is not a man to shrink from any danger, but rather to seek it; for the kindest-hearted are always the bravest."
"That's very true," exclaimed Estoc. "I have marked that through a struggle of fifty-four years with this good world.--But what is his name, young lady? We have had accounts this morning of all the great men killed and the wounded; so I can tell you if he be amongst them."
"Oh, he is a man of no great rank," answered Helen. "A very poor French gentleman, he told me: his name is Chasseron."
"Oh, he is quite safe and well," answered Estoc, with a smile; "I know him a little, too. But Monsieur de Chasseron is a very busy man, and has many things upon his hands, just now. He is at Mantes with the King, or at Rosni, some say. I wish to heaven I could see him myself," he continued, "for I think if he heard that Monsieur de Montigni and Mademoiselle Rose had been taken by the enemy, he might give us some help."
"Can I not go to him at Mantes?" cried Helen; "I could tell him all, and be back very soon."
Estoc paused, and thought. "Not before we set out," he replied. "It's along way to Mantes, my dear. If you do, you must join us by the way. But how am I to get you thither, and back again?"
"Oh, I am a poor friendless creature," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "it matters not what becomes of me. I do not think any one would injure me, but that cruel woman; and she is far away."
"No, you are not friendless," exclaimed Estoc warmly; "and never shall be while I live. No, I cannot let you go alone; but I can send two of my old fellows with you, who will take care that no one does you wrong. Perhaps there may be some bands too going down, and if I could find any stout old leader whom I know, he would take care of you. I will go up to the village and see; for it would be a great thing, indeed, if you could let Monsieur de Chasseron know all that has happened.--He might help us--he might help us, though I don't know if he has the power."
"I am sure he will if he can," cried Helen; "for he has a kind and generous heart, as I have good cause to say."
"Well, I will go, I will go," replied Estoc. "At all events, you shall have two men to go with you. Old Jaunaye and Longeau, they shall be the men. They are of the good old stuff, out of which we used to make soldiers in my young days; none of the coxcombs that we have at present. But, you get ready to go, and I will be back in half an hour. My horse is saddled at the door."
Thus saying, he departed, and, in less time than he had mentioned, returned, with an eager air, exclaiming, "Quick, quick, Mademoiselle Helen; here is the band of the old Count de Ligones, just marching this moment, and you can easily come up with them. I saw him and told him, and he says he will take care of you. But you shall have Jaunaye and the Longeau, to bring you across to us to-morrow. You can easily catch us up, either at Tremblaye, or Châteauneuf, for we must needs go slow. The men are ready."
"And so am I," answered Helen, "but how am I to find Monsieur de Chasseron in all the bustle and confusion of the court?"
"True," said Estoc, thoughtfully; "you may have some trouble. I will tell you what," he continued; "here, write down upon a piece of paper the gentleman's name, and send it into Monsieur de Biron. He is an old friend of Chasseron's, I think, and will bring him to you."
Pen and ink were soon procured, the name written down, and Helen de la Tremblade covering herself with the thick veil which Rose d'Albret had left behind--for she herself had been driven forth all unprepared--went out, and with the assistance of Estoc, mounted a pillion behind one of the men. After riding for about three miles, they overtook the band of the Count de Ligones, an old soldier of near seventy years of age. He was hearty and gay, however, and would fain have entertained his fair companion for the rest of the way, with many a jest, and many a tale; but Helen, as the reader may suppose, remained grave and sad, answering his questions by a monosyllable, and listening to his jokes without reply.
"You seem very silent, Mademoiselle," said the old gentleman, at length; "I am afraid some misfortune has happened to you."
"I have lost a kind and generous friend in this last battle," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "and have no heart to speak."
"Ah! poor thing," said the old man. "You are not a soldier to bear these things lightly. We learn to weep for a friend one half hour, and to laugh the next. When a man holds life by the tenure of a straw, he soon gets to look upon the loss of it by others, as a matter of little moment. Yet here I am, have reached seventy years of age, and have been in twelve stricken battles, with at least a skirmish every week for this last thirty years, and never got but one scratch upon the face: yet I have seen many a blooming boy swept away in his very first fight."
Thus he continued talking on, during the whole way, till they reached the woods, which, at that time, skirted the banks of the Seine; and, giving his men orders to halt at one of the neighbouring villages, he rode on with Helen and her two companions, followed by a small party of his own attendants, towards the Château of Rosni, in which they found that the King had taken up his abode.
It was the bustle of a camp, rather than that of a court, that Helen now found. Tents were pitched in the meadows; baggage-waggons encumbered the ground, bodies of soldiers were moving here and there, and parties of armed men with their steel caps laid aside, were seen supping on the damp ground under the trees, by the light of the fires which they kindled to keep off the exhalations of the night, now drawing in around them. The great doors of the château were wide open, the hall filled with people, and though the Count de Ligones acted as her spokesman, and inquired of several whom they met, if they could tell where Monsieur de Chasseron was to be found, whether in the château, or in the village, she could get no satisfactory answer of any kind; and, indeed, so busy did every one seem with his own thoughts, or his own business, that very often no reply was returned at all.
As every one seemed at liberty to come and go, however, the old Count, more accustomed to such scenes than she, led her up the great staircase into the corridor at the top. But, as they were turning to the right, more at a venture than by choice, a guard placed himself before them, saying,--"You cannot pass, Sir, without an order. These are the King's apartments."
"Call a valet or an equerry," said Monsieur de Ligones.
The man obeyed; and, in a moment after, out came a tall good-looking man, in military attire, who exclaimed at once, "Ah! Ligones, is that you? You are to quarter your men at the farther end of the village. There are two houses marked for you; but, good faith, you must make them sleep as close as pigs in a sty. We only give them house room at all, because we know that there is not a man under seventy amongst them, and so take care of their old bones."
"Thanks, Aubigné, thanks," replied the Count; "but I want to see the King, and--"
"You cannot see him just now," answered Aubigné, "for he has got D' O and other vermin with him, and has for once lost his patience. I heard him swearing like a Reiter, with all the language of Babylon come back upon him in full force. I believe he will frighten them into disgorging something; but whether or not sufficient to carry us to Paris, I doubt. However, if you will wait half an hour, the fit of blasphemy and finance, will have left him. May I ask what are your commands, Madam? If your business be with the King, I must report it; for he is always much more accessible to ladies than to gentlemen."
"No, Sir," said Helen, "I have not the honour of knowing his Majesty; but I would fain speak for a moment with Monsieur de Chasseron."
"He is not here, that I know of," replied Aubigné. "I have not seen him for some time."
"If you would give that paper to Marshal Biron," answered the young lady, "and ask him to condescend to put down where Monsieur de Chasseron is to be found, you would greatly oblige me."
"That I will do with pleasure," replied the equerry. "Let this lady and gentleman pass," he continued, speaking to the guard; and then adding, "I will keep you in the passage for a moment," he left them, entering a room at the very farther end of the corridor. Within that was another chamber, the door of which Aubigné opened gently; and then stretching in his hand to a gentleman who sat nearest the end of a long table, surrounded by a number of persons, he gave him the paper he had received, saying, "Will you have the goodness to hand that up to Monsieur de Biron, and ask him to put down for a young lady who waits without, where that gentleman is to be found. You may tell the King, if you like," he added, in a whisper; "that she is prodigiously handsome."
He paused a moment, while the paper passed from hand to hand. Some who received it, smiled; some passed it on in silence; but Henri Quatre who sat at the head of the table, remarked what was taking place, and exclaimed, "What is that?--What have you got there? Pardi, send it up."
The command was immediately obeyed; and, at the same moment, Henri nodding his head to Aubigné a little gravely, as if to reprove him for the curiosity he seemed to evince, said, "You may go, companion."
The equerry retreated, and closed the door, without, however, quitting the adjacent room; and Helen and Monsieur de Ligones remained standing in the corridor for nearly a quarter of an hour, while numerous attendants and officers passed them every minute. At the end of that time, Aubigné again appeared; and, after informing the Count that he could now speak with the King if he would go into the room at the end of the passage, he turned to Helen, saying, "Follow me, Mademoiselle. Monsieur de Chasseron is expected very soon; and you can wait for him."
Helen thanked the old Count warmly for his courteous protection on the road, and then prepared to accompany Aubigné; but Monsieur de Ligones whispered with kind intentions in her ear, "I will tell your two men to wait for you in the hall; and, as soon as your conference is over, you had better ride away to Rolleboise or Bonnières, for this is not the best place for a young creature like you. There are too many men here, and too few women."
The blood came up into the poor girl's face; but she understood that the old nobleman's meaning was good, and replying, "I will!" she followed her conductor to a small cabinet but scantily furnished, where Aubigné left her, and closed the door.
Seating herself by the table, Helen remained in anxious meditation for more than half an hour, at the end of which time a number of steps were heard in the corridor, and a tall stout man opened the door and looked in. He withdrew again, immediately; and some ten minutes more passed without anything occurring to disturb her reverie. Then, however, the door again opened; and, to her infinite satisfaction, the figure of Chasseron himself, in his worn doublet and heavy boots, appeared, turning round his bead as he entered, and saying to some one without, "Wait, here! I will return directly."
Helen sprang up to meet him with that look of gladness and confidence, which is hard to resist; and, taking her hand, he exclaimed with a good-humoured smile, "Ah! my little protégée!--Now, I warrant you thought the grey beard had forgotten you; but such was not the case, and you must have passed one of my men on the road. I have been so busy I could not send before. But every one who cares for poor King Henry, must be busy now; for no sooner does he gain one advantage than his own people help the enemy to deprive him of the fruits of it. Well, what news from St. André? Were the people with whom I left you kind?"
"Oh! most kind," answered Helen de la Tremblade; "Mademoiselle d'Albret is an old and generous friend--better alas! than I deserve; but it is for her sake I have come hither, not my own."
"Ha! How is that?" asked Chasseron; "has anything happened? Are they not married?--Pardi. I thought they would lose no time. Yet I saw the young Baron in the field. He may have been wounded? He is not in the list of killed."
He spoke so rapidly, that Helen had not time to answer anything he said, before something new was uttered. When he paused, however, she replied, "No! Oh, no! He is not killed; but he is a prisoner which is--or may be worse."
"Parbleu! that is unfortunate!" cried her companion. "He was one of those, I suppose, who ventured too rashly forward in the town of Ivry. Yet I saw him not there; and I was not far behind myself."
"It was not there he was taken," answered Helen; and, as briefly as possible--for she saw that Chasseron, though wishing to show her every kindness, was in haste--she recapitulated all that had occurred on the banks of Eure, since she had been placed in the farm-house.
The stout soldier shut his teeth, which were as white as snow, upon his grizzled moustache; and then murmured, "They are unlucky folks! Poor things! To Chartres, did you say? Ventre Saint Gris! something must be done for them.--Well, well, that may be set to rights."
These words seemed more the out-pourings of what was passing in his own mind, than addressed to his fair companion; but the moment after, he turned to her, saying, "I have some small influence here; and I will not fail to use it for Monsieur de Montigni. He once came to my aid, fair lady, when life or death hung upon the event of a moment. He has since served the King to the best of his ability, and the King should show himself grateful. Doubtless he will, and he shall not fail to know the facts. Then it will not be impossible to exchange, against Monsieur de Montigni, some prisoner in his hands."
"But they fear the Duke of Nemours will send back Mademoiselle d'Albret to Marzay," said Helen; "and then--and then--"
"What then?" asked Chasseron, quickly. "Oh! I see," he continued; "They will force her into a wedding with Nicholas de Chazeul; as dishonest a rogue as ever used the pretence of religion to cover base designs. He shall not have her!--Pardi, he shall not have her if I have any say in the matter."
Helen turned pale, and trembled, but she replied not; and her companion added, after a moment's thought, "Well! that shall be cared for, too, as far as I am able.--What was it you said about our good old friend the Commander? Dead, did you say? Why, he fell not on the field!"
"No," answered Helen in a subdued tone, "He died last night of his wounds."
"God have his soul in guard!" cried the stout soldier. "He was a good old man!--But now, my poor young lady, to tell truth--though I am right glad to see you--yet your coming puzzles me not a little. I know not what to do with you here. They say, pity is akin to love, but--" He saw that Helen's cheek turned pale; and, he added quickly, "Nay, do not fear; There's honour amongst thieves; and I am not one to take advantage of misfortune--What I would say is simply, that I know not how or where to lodge you here in honesty or safety. Then, too, where the King goes I must go; and--"
"Nay, Sir," replied Helen, "Do not embarrass yourself, for me or my fate. Deeply grateful am I for kindness to one who, when you found me, was outcast, hopeless, and unfriended; but I am now no longer without protection and support. Good Monsieur Estoc, whom I think you know, sent me hither to tell you all that had occurred, hoping that your influence with the King, or his ministers, might enable you to aid Monsieur de Montigni and Mademoiselle d'Albret; but Monsieur Estoc will protect me. He has promised to do so, and I am sure he will perform it."
"Ay, good faith, that he will!" answered Chasseron, "and it is better that he should than that I should. As to influence, Heaven knows, the King, good man, can rarely be got to do what he ought; and, with his ministers, I have none, alas! But what I can do, I will; and, in the mean time, tell old Estoc, that you have seen Chasseron; and mayhap he will be with him, with a score of lances, for a day's sport. Let him give me speedy news of what is going on. I am here for a day or two, it seems, and cannot get away, for my movements depend on greater men than myself.--But to return to your own business--What do you do next?"
"To-morrow I am to join Monsieur Estoc," replied Helen, "and go with him to Marzay. They think," she added in a hesitating tone, "that I maybe of service there to Mademoiselle d'Albret. To-night I propose to go with the two men who came with me, to Rolleboise or Bonnières."
"Right! right!" replied Chasseron; "yet they are full of our people.--Well, I will send some one with you, to secure you protection.--And now," he continued in a lower and a gentler tone, "when I first found you, I think you were but poorly supplied with that, to which we are all, both great and small, obliged to bow our heads, though it be an idol: I mean money. I am, it is true, very poor; but--"
Helen waved her hand, bending her eyes to the ground, and colouring deeply. Why she did so, the reader must ask of his own heart; but, as her companion spoke, the words he had just before used, that "pity is akin to love," rung in her ears again.
"I have enough," she said, "more than enough, thanks to the generosity of poor Monsieur de Liancourt. Accept, Sir, my deepest, my most heartfelt thanks. Had it not been for you, I should not have been, at this hour, alive; and now I will keep you no longer, for I know you are in haste."
"Yet stay a moment," said Chasseron. "I must send some one with you. He shall be here directly. Now farewell."
He gazed on her for a moment--seemed to hesitate; and then, taking her hand in his, raised it to his lips, kissed it, not warmly, though tenderly, and, repeating the word "Farewell," turned to the door. When his fingers were upon the latch, however, he looked round saying, "Wait till somebody comes from me--He shall not be long;" and then, opening the door, he left her once more alone.
Ere ten minutes were over, Helen was joined by an elderly man, in a riding dress, who bowing low, said, "I have come from Monsieur de Chasseron, Mademoiselle, and am to accompany you to Rolleboise."
Helen expressed her readiness to set out; and following her new guide through the corridor and down the stairs, found the two old soldiers who had accompanied her, waiting with some impatience and anxiety in the hall. The whole party were soon on horseback; and, riding slowly through the darkness, with the bright Seine glistening on their right, reached Rolleboise in about three quarters of an hour. The little inn, however, which, at that time, stood wedged in between the high banks and the river, was filled to the doors; but at Bonnières, about two miles farther, they found all quiet and tranquil; and the accommodation which they wanted, was easily procured. Helen retired to rest at once; and rising early the next morning to pursue her way, found the man who had guided her from Rosni, waiting to see her depart.
Nothing more occurred on her journey worthy of the reader's attention, and I shall only therefore notice, that, at Châteauneuf, she found that Estoc and the funeral procession of the old Commander had already passed on towards Marzay. She was here obliged again to pause for the night, and did not reach the village of Marzay, which lay at the distance of about half a league from the château, till sunset on the following day. She found Estoc waiting her arrival, full of anxiety on many accounts; for some communication had naturally established itself, between the people of the château and their old companions, and many of the events which have been recorded in the preceding pages had become known to the old soldier.
The news she brought him of her interview with Chasseron seemed to interest him much. Its first effect, however, was to throw him into a fit of meditation, and he made little or no comment, but by the words, "He can do it if he will;--and yet I love not this rumour of the boy's death. He is hot and quick; and there may be truth in it, though, I think it is but one of their lies after all."
"Whose death?" cried Helen de la Tremblade, turning as pale as death, "not Monsieur de Montigni's?"
"Ay, so they have spread abroad the report," replied Estoc, "but 'tis a falsehood I believe, to drive poor Rose to do what they want. I trust in heaven she will not believe it."
"And if she does," exclaimed Helen, "she will sooner die than take the fate they offer her. Oh, no! it is one of that terrible woman's frauds. But Rose will never consent."
"I trust not," answered Estoc in a doubtful tone. "But a report has reached me, that they intend to force this marriage upon her to-morrow morning, and our best hope of preventing it lies with you, Mademoiselle Helen."
"I will go directly," said Helen, in a tone wonderfully calm. "I am ready now."
"No, no," replied the old soldier, "not so, my dear; you must wait till all the world's asleep, but your uncle. He watches all night in the chapel. You too have need of rest and refreshment; and an hour before midnight we will set out."
Helen took some food, and then lay down in the cottage, where a chamber had been prepared for her; but sleep visited not her eyelids; and her own thoughts were more wearisome than any corporeal exertion could have been.