The heart of poor Rose d'Albret beat so fast as she sat upon the battlements, leaning her head and arm upon the stone-work of one of the embrasures, that she feared she would faint before De Montigni appeared. She longed eagerly to think over all that had taken place that morning, over her own sensations, over her past, over her future conduct. But her ideas were all in wild confusion; and she could not command her mind sufficiently to give them anything like order and precision. In a few minutes, however, she heard a step; and looking round towards the door which led across the drawbridge into the château, she saw De Montigni advancing towards her with a quick pace. She trembled to meet him, but yet as she gazed there was nothing stern or harsh or cold in his countenance. It was somewhat grave, perhaps; but still there was a light in his eyes, a look of hopefulness and satisfaction. It was more like that of the youth, who had left her five years before, than it had appeared since his return; and, as he came near he held out his hand towards her, saying, "Rose!--dear Rose!"
She could not resist the tone and the manner; but starting up at once, she placed both her hands in his, while the warm blood of emotion mounted up into her cheeks and forehead, and made her whole face one glow. The next moment her eyes were drowned in tears; but De Montigni, without noticing them, drew her arm through his, and led her towards the further part of the rampart, while good old Estoc, with a heavy sword by his side, appeared upon the flying bridge, and leaned over the chains, looking into the space below.
"Dry your tears, dearest Rose," said De Montigni; "dry your tears, and calm your heart, and listen with your whole mind to one who has always loved you, as a boy, as a youth, as a man--one who is ready at your slightest word to make any or every sacrifice, but to procure you one moment's happiness."
"Oh, De Montigni!" exclaimed Rose d'Albret, "do not speak to me so tenderly, do not speak to me so kindly, or any little calmness, any little power over my mind that I may hope to possess, will be lost altogether."
"Nay, that must not be, Rose," replied De Montigni; "I have need of your full attention, dearest Rose, and I have not come here to agitate or afflict you. I have sought this interview that we may understand each other clearly and fully, or rather, that I may know and be quite sure that, in anything I do, I am really consulting your wishes and your happiness, and that you are not deceived, as I have been, in regard to the circumstances of your position."
"Alas, De Montigni!" answered his fair companion, "I fear no explanation can deliver me from the terrible embarrassment in which I am placed. Indeed, indeed, I know not which way to turn or what to do. I would give worlds, I would do anything, to restore peace to this family, but I have no right to ask you to make sacrifices, I have no right to injure or to distress you."
"Talk not of sacrifices, Rose," replied De Montigni in a mournful tone; "talk not of sacrifices to me. I am ready to make any,allfor your dear sake. You have nothing to do but to command, and I will obey; but it is upon the sole condition that I know it to be for your happiness; and first, Rose, let me beseech you to tell me, how you conceive you stand regarding this marriage."
"I do not understand you," replied Mademoiselle d'Albret; "how do you mean, De Montigni?"
"We have but an hour, Rose, for all that we have to say," answered De Montigni, "therefore forgive me if I ask you plain and straightforward questions upon subjects into which I have, perhaps, no right to inquire; and answer me candidly and frankly--I know you will. First, dearest Rose, is it love, or what you consider duty, that binds you to Nicholas de Chazeul?"
"Duty, duty," replied Rose d'Albret eagerly; then placing her hand upon her brow, she thought for an instant, and added with a melancholy shake of the head, "Love? Ah, no! Alas, love has little to do with it, on either side!"
"Then almost all my questions are answered, Rose," replied De Montigni, taking her hand, and pressing it in his own.
"Nay, do not, do not, Louis," said his fair companion; "you agitate, you alarm me. I must do my duty, De Montigni; I have promised to endeavour to restore peace to this household. Remember, I must obey--I must fulfil the engagement entered into by my father."
"Then, Rose d'Albret," replied the young nobleman, "you are the bride of Louis de Montigni, and not of Nicholas de Chazeul: the bride of one who has loved you from infancy, not of a cold and heartless villain, who loves nothing but himself."
Rose d'Albret turned, withdrew her arm, and gazed upon him for a moment in pale and speechless astonishment. The next moment her lips too turned white, and she would have fallen had not her lover caught her in his arms.
Poor De Montigni knew little of woman's heart, and could ill distinguish between the effects of mere emotion and distress. He carried rather than led her to the side of the wall, and seating her in one of the embrasures, hastened to reassure her, as he thought. "Listen to me, Rose, listen to me, dearest girl," he said; "De Montigni is not about to take advantage of any circumstances of his situation. It is for you, as I said just now, to command, and for me to obey. I am ready at a word to renounce my inheritance, my rights, my hopes--yes, Rose, even you yourself--if it be necessary for your happiness--I forgive you for having deceived me but now. If you now answer that you love this man, I am willing, ready to renounce all, even my newly awakened joy, that you may be at peace. I shall soon find repose on some field of battle."
"I have promised nothing," murmured Rose d'Albret to herself; "Thank God, I have promised nothing! I have acquiesced in what they told me was a duty--nothing more--Oh no, no, thank God, I have done no more;" and she burst into a passionate flood of tears.
After a moment, however, she dried them suddenly and looked up. "What was it you said, De Montigni?" she cried; "tell it me again! It seems like a dream. Tell it me again. Surely you said I was not doomed to wed Chazeul!"
Louis de Montigni gazed upon her with a look in which surprise, and joy, and thankfulness gradually rose up like the increasing flame upon an altar. "Oh, Rose," he said, "your words give me life. I did say you were not doomed to wed Chazeul. Your fate depends upon your own decision, and upon my actions, which your decision will rule. Listen to me, dear one, and I will in a few short words explain all. We shall have much to speak of afterwards, so mark well every point. My uncle, the commander, will confirm all I say, if you doubt me."
"Doubt you, De Montigni? Doubtyou?" asked Rose d'Albret, extending her hand to him. "I'd sooner doubt myself. But speak, Louis, speak. What have you to tell?"
"A brief tale, but a sad one," answered De Montigni. "In years long gone, your guardian, the Count, being then married to your aunt, and childless, the good old commander made a renunciation, on my father's marriage, of all his claims to the estates of Liancourt in my mother's favour. I became, therefore, the presumptive heir; and your good father entered into a contract with my uncle, the Count, by which, in case of his death, you were to become the ward of Monsieur de Liancourt, and to wed the nephew to whom his estates naturally descended. Since then, I find, the Count has been persuaded by some persons--my aunt Jacqueline de Chazeul, I believe, and I fear the priest also--to favour a scheme for substituting Chazeul in place of myself. The particulars of the contract have been kept secret from you and me. I have been sent afar till the whole plot was mature; you have been taught to consider yourself as the promised bride of another. My renunciation, however, was necessary, in order that, by rendering Chazeul the heir of the estates of Liancourt, it might give validity to your marriage with him, in the face of which stands my uncle's contract with your father so long as the estates are entailed upon me. For this purpose was I sent for from Italy, still kept in ignorance. But I had never forgotten Rose d'Albret. I shrunk from signing away my birthright without inquiry. Forgive me, Rose, forgive me, if I say I would have done anything to obstruct--ay, even to delay for a day or hour your marriage with another. Then came the priest to talk with me; and from him--by a slip of the tongue I believe--I learned my claim to the estates. In a private interview with my uncle, the commander, I learned my whole rights, and the contract signed by your father. The whole villanous scheme was in short exposed; and from others rather than my own presumption, I learned to hope--what shall I say?--that Rose d'Albret might as willingly unite her fate with the companion of her girlhood, as with a man whom she must, when his fraud is all discovered, in some degree condemn. Yet still, Rose, still, if your heart leads you towards him, speak but the word! De Montigni is yours: without you I am nothing--fortune, rank, hope, life itself, is an empty bubble. All shall be resigned at your first bidding; and to know I have made you happy by my own wretchedness, shall be the consolation of my remaining days, the one sole light of a dark existence, the friendly hand that closes my willing eyes in death. But if not--if you have been but constrained by a cold sense of duty--if you can find happiness with one who has always loved you--if you can give your heart in return for passion such as you deserve--oh Rose, oh, my beloved!"
He held out his arms to her as he spoke; the wall shaded them from observation: he drew nearer, more near; and Rose d'Albret with a cheek of crimson, and overflowing eyes, bent forward her head and sobbed upon his bosom.
"Thou art mine! thou art mine! Thou dearest and best beloved," cried De Montigni, clasping her to his heart. "But hark!" he exclaimed, "there is the clock striking ten. We have but half an hour, Rose, to settle all our plans. Thou art mine, however; and it shall be a strong hand that tears thee from me."
"But, oh, De Montigni," exclaimed Rose d'Albret, withdrawing herself from his arms and looking up with apprehension in her face, "How will all this end? There will be strife--there may be bloodshed!"
"Fear not, dear one," answered her lover. "It is that which I would fain avoid; and if Rose d'Albret will deign for the sake of De Montigni, to overstep some cold proprieties, to trust herself entirely to one in whom she has acknowledged she can confide, to fly to the court of the King with her promised, her contracted husband, all difficulties, all dangers will be at an end; and in our sovereign's presence, with all the nobility of France to witness, we will pledge our vows at the altar, let who will gainsay it."
"To fly!--Oh, Louis," cried Rose d'Albret; but the next moment she bent down her eyes, placed her hand in his, and added in a low tone, "But I am yours. Do with me what you will. I know you would not wrong me."
"Not for the joy of heaven," answered De Montigni. "But it is the only way, dear Rose, to avoid evils innumerable, strife, contention, and a thousand black and terrible things hidden from us by the dark curtain of the future. You must fly with me, dear Rose. You must fly with me this very night."
"To-night!" said the young lady; "to-night, Louis?" but after a moment's thought, she continued, "Yet it must be so, I believe. To-morrow might be too late; and perhaps, they may not let me speak with you again, Louis."
"If they discover the nature of our conversation most certainly they will not," replied De Montigni; "but that we must conceal from them. I am not one to teach you deceit, dear Rose. God forbid that you should lose that bright candour which, to the mind, is what the hue of warm health is to the face. But these people have dealt wrongfully with you and me; to deliver you from their hands without long contention, there is but one way open; and we are not bound to reveal our plans and purposes, our views and feelings, to those who would misuse their knowledge."
"But if they ask me?" said Rose d'Albret; "what can I do?--what can I say?"
"Say as little as possible, my beloved," answered De Montigni. "Enter into no particulars; merely tell them that you found me very resolute; but add, that my decision must rest with myself, after what you have said, and that you believe, upon due consideration of all the circumstances, I will do what is right. Be sure too, dear Rose, that you may safely say so; for I will do what is right to the utmost. Then if they try to investigate more closely, boldly refuse to answer. Say that, to tell them all the words which passed between us would be to betray my confidence, and you will not do it. Let them not lead you on from one thing to another, but keep your reply to as simple a statement as possible."
"I will! I will!" replied Rose d'Albret; "I know the danger of suffering them to entangle me in explanations or discussion."
"And particularly beware of the priest," added her lover. "He is not honest, Rose, and has made himself their tool."
"I fear it is so," answered the young lady. "Even now he tried to deceive me, and partly succeeded."
"Let him not do so again, dear one," said De Montigni; "but there is another person of whom you must likewise have a care. I mean Madame de Chazeul. She will be here soon, and though, perhaps, I judged harshly of her while I was a boy, I find my good uncle, the commander, her own brother, is but little more merciful to her character."
"If she be coming, I will hide myself," answered Rose. "Oh, she is a horrible woman! I always avoid her; I always abhor her company. I remember well things she has said that froze my blood. She scoffs at the very thought of goodness and honour; and with her serpent-tongue would have one believe, that no one is virtuous but in appearance; and yet I have heard her as bitter against others for light faults, as if she had none herself."
"She is treacherous too, as well malevolent, I find," replied De Montigni; "therefore avoid her to-day as much as possible, dearest."
"I have a bad head-ach, Louis, with all this agitation," said Rose; "but I am glad of it; for it will give me a fair excuse for lying down again. Burdened with the secret now in my bosom, I would not spend a day with that woman for the world. She would try all means, to make me tell her everything that has passed or force me to a lie to conceal it."
"Perhaps your plan may be the best," rejoined De Montigni; "but remember, dear Rose, you will have to wake and rise an hour after midnight, to fly with him who loves you."
"But how, Louis? how?" asked Mademoiselle d'Albret. "Remember in these times the gates are guarded."
"All that is settled and laid out," replied her lover. "Only be ready, dear one, to come with me at the hour I name. Bring little with you; leave jewels, and clothes, and all behind. All I seek, all I desire, is Rose herself; and though, perhaps, amidst these contentions, your guardian may keep us long from our rights in your inheritance, yet De Montigni has enough for himself and her he loves; and I do not think that Rose will murmur at the want of splendour and high estate, if her heart be satisfied with its choice."
Rose d'Albret gazed at him with a bright smile, for she could not but contrast with pleasure, his thoughts with those of Chazeul. "I will be ready, Louis," she said, "and I will own, a crust of bread, with one who feels as you do, will be better to me than splendour and feasting with another. But there is one difficulty, Louis," she added, suddenly, while the smile passed away, and a look of apprehension took its place. "What can I do with my maid Blanchette? I thought the girl was honest and true, but these people have corrupted her. Every one who approaches me seems to have been gained by some means; and, with those who have not been so gained, they have long suffered me to have no private conversation. Even with the good old commander himself, since he returned hither from Paris, about two months ago, they have not allowed me to speak for a moment without some one being present. But Blanchette, what is to be done about Blanchette? She owned this morning that she had received bribes from Chazeul to a considerable extent."
De Montigni mused. "We must find some remedy, dear Rose," he replied at length: "a person who has received one bribe will generally not refuse another, and I must try to outbid Chazeul. But why should she have any part in the affair? Why should she know it at all?"
"She sleeps in my ante-room," answered Rose d'Albret. "I cannot pass out without her hearing me."
"There is the window, dearest Rose," said her lover; "it is but a few feet above the wall; and we must try that, if other resources fail. At all events, be at the window at one. I will come to speak to you there, and tell you what is arranged. You must be quite ready, however, dearest Rose; for our safety may depend upon a moment."
"My heart sinks when I think of it," replied Rose d'Albret. "But yet, Louis--but yet, Louis," she answered, "I will not hesitate; for it is the only way to escape from a fate, of which I now feel, for the first lime, all the wretchedness:--but how shall I know when you are beneath the window?"
"I will reach up and knock with the point of my sword," answered De Montigni, "and then we must speak low, lest any one should hear.--Hark! there are voices; the time, I suppose, is at an end. Adieu! dearest Rose, adieu! Be ready--pray be ready; for I feel sure that happiness will attend us. Nevertheless, let us now have grave and serious countenances; for we must not let them see, that there are any warmer feelings in our hearts."
"I shall not find it difficult to look grave, Louis," replied the lady; "for it is a hard necessity that drives me to do that which I do.--But, hark! they are surely quarreling there!"
"'Tis Estoc will not suffer Chazeul to pass, I dare say, answered De Montigni.
"Go, Louis, go," cried Mademoiselle d'Albret; "for heaven's sake, do not let them dispute.--Adieu! adieu!"
They were at this moment on a part of the walls which, running round from the drawbridge we have mentioned, passed under a defence which was calledthe cavalier, and was concealed by it from the windows of the building, as well as from the bridge and the rest of the rampart. De Montigni felt strongly inclined to press his fair companion to his heart before he left her; but he wisely refrained, and looking up to the top ofthe cavalier, he had cause to be satisfied with his own self-command; for just above the parapet, he caught sight of part of a man's head, evidently watching them.
Taking Rose's hand, then, he bent his head over it, whispering, "We are watched, Rose;" adding aloud, "Farewell, then, Mademoiselle d'Albret, I will consider all you have said," he took a step back, bowed low, and retired along the wall.
When he came within sight of the bridge, he found that, as he had supposed, the good old soldier had thrust himself right in the way of Chazeul, and holding his sheathed sword in his left hand, seemed ready to draw it if the other attempted to pass him. Chazeul was in the act of turning to speak to some person behind; and De Montigni heard him exclaim aloud, "Call Monsieur de Liancourt!"
The moment, however, that Estoc caught sight of the young Baron advancing rapidly along the wall, he dropped the sword back into its place, and suffered Chazeul to come forward. The cheek and brow of the latter were fiery red, and his eye flashing with anger, as he exclaimed,
"This is very modest and proper indeed, Monsieur de Montigni! Do you forget that you are in your uncle's château, that you thus set a guard upon his walls to prevent his family from passing?"
"To ensure, Sir, that they keep their word with me," said De Montigni. "I am quite well aware that I have but little more right than yourself to command in this place; however, do not let us quarrel, Chazeul," he added with a serious air; "we have things of more serious consequence to think of--at least I have."
"I dare say you have," replied Chazeul with a triumphant smile, judging from his cousin's countenance that all things had gone according to his own wishes. "Well, what is the result of your conference?"
"Of that hereafter," answered De Montigni, passing on. "Nay, no words at present, good Estoc," he continued; seeing the old soldier eying Chazeul with an angry glance, "let the past be forgotten, if you would not grieve me."
"But one warning first to this young gentleman," said Estoc; "Do not use such words again to a French gentleman, Monsieur de Chazeul; for I give you fair notice, that, if I be the one on whom you spend them, I will send my sword through your body, as I have done to many a better man than yourself before now."
"You might not find me quite tranquil under such an honour, Master Estoc," replied Chazeul; "but I will take care that you shall be chastised for your insolence, by those whom it may better become to meddle with you:" and thus saying, he followed De Montigni over the bridge and through the passage into the hall.
To say the truth, the heart of Louis de Montigni was not quite at ease: for, how long he had been watched fromthe cavalier, and how much of what he had said had been overheard, he could not tell. The small part of the man's head which he had observed, did not enable him to judge who it was that had been playing the eaves-dropper; and he more feared the priest than any one else. But when he entered the hall he found father Walter there, and his uncle absent; and, the moment after, Monsieur de Liancourt himself appeared with an air of so much satisfaction, that De Montigni's apprehensions of discovery were at an end.
"Well, Louis," said the Count, "I trust you are satisfied, and that you have made up your mind to yield all this idle resistance, and sign the papers at last with a good grace."
"I have promised my reply before noon to-morrow," replied De Montigni with a frown upon his brow; for he was not well pleased with the pitiful art which had been used towards him. "Before I sign anything, however, I must read the papers, and consider them well; it is but fair to know, what I am asked to do."
"You are mightily long and deliberate, Monsieur de Montigni," said Chazeul; "I understood that you were to make up your mind by what Mademoiselle d'Albret thought fit to say. Now I will take it upon myself to affirm, that she did ask you to sign them."
"You are wrong, Monsieur de Chazeul," replied his cousin, turning upon him sternly, "she did not."
"You are too frank and noble, my son, I am sure," observed father Walter, "to have recourse to an evasion; and we have every reason to suppose that, if the young lady did not actually ask you to put your hand to these documents, she did what was tantamount, and expressed some wish that it should be so."
"I have every reason to think so too," said Monsieur de Liancourt; "nay, indeed, I am sure of it. Come, Louis, be frank, and tell us what she did say upon the subject."
De Montigni mused for a moment, and then replied, "Our conversation was long, Sir, and I have neither will nor power to repeat it all; but the only words which she used, that could at all bear the interpretation you would give to them, were, as far as I can remember them, these; that she would give worlds, she would do anything to restore peace to the family, but that she had no right to ask me to make sacrifices, or to injure or to distress me."
"I think nothing could be more plain," said father Walter; "surely, my son, you cannot pretend to misunderstand her meaning?"
"I do not pretend to misunderstand her at all, good father," answered the young nobleman; "and I am in no degree disposed to cavil or to evade. I will not be hurried, however, in any of my proceedings. By what Mademoiselle d'Albret judges best for her own happiness, I will be guided; and, as I said before, ere noon to-morrow I shall be prepared to act decidedly. In the meantime I require to see these papers; and as, perhaps, it may be needful that I should have some one with me to explain to me, while reading them, anything I do not understand, I should wish uncle Michael, or father Walter here, or both, to be present with me while I look over them."
"Oh, father Walter by all means!" cried Monsieur de Liancourt; "you know my brother Michael, though as good a soldier as ever lived, is nothing but a soldier. He does not understand these things at all."
"And I but little," rejoined the priest. "However, if Monsieur de Montigni is content that I should be his fellow-student, I am most willing to give him any explanation in my power."
"Madame de Chazeul is just coming into the court-yard, my lord," said a servant, hurrying up the hall and addressing Monsieur de Liancourt.
"I must go down to receive her," exclaimed the Count. "Then it is understood, De Montigni, that you will read the papers with father Walter? Fix the hour yourself, and you shall have them."
Thus saying he hastened away; and, after a few minutes' more conversation with the priest, De Montigni went in search of his uncle, the commander, whom he found walking up and down the corridor. Father Walter remained for an instant talking to Chazeul, but the old commander had scarcely time to say to his nephew, "Well, boy, well, is all settled?" and De Montigni to answer, "To my heart's content, my dear uncle," when the step of Chazeul was heard approaching.
"Devil fly away with the fellow," said the old soldier: "when I found that you were with our dear little Rose, I got out of his way, for fear I should betray myself; and now here he comes again. Keep it close, Louis, keep it close! No stratagem ever succeeded but with a shut mouth.--Ah, Chazeul! are not you going to see your mother? She is in the court they tell me."
"She will be here directly, Sir," replied Chazeul, "then I shall see her;" and, attaching himself to their party, he remained for the evident purpose of preventing any private communication between them.
Those who have visited France in the present day, who have travelled over that rich and fertile land from end to end, who have journeyed through its least frequented districts, and examined into the nooks and corners which are but little exposed to the eye of the ordinary traveller, have yet, in general, but a very faint idea of the scene it presented at the period of which we write. Yet were they to bring history to aid their researches, from time to time, they would discover such fragments of a former day as might enable them to call up before their eyes a true picture of France during the wars of the League, as a Buckland or a Sedgwick, from the teeth and bones of long extinct animals, and from the leaves of trees that have decayed for thousands of years, are enabled to raise up from the waves of time an image of a by-gone world, and people it with monstrous things, such as the eye of man probably never beheld in actual existence.
The whole country towards the end of the sixteenth century, torn with factions, desolated by rapine, stained with bloodshed, knew nought of commerce, manufactures, or arts, and even agriculture itself, on which the daily support of the people depended, was accompanied with terror and danger. Thus hamlets and villages, through wide districts of the most fertile parts of France, were swept away or left vacant; the houses of the farmer and the labourer had grown few, and were sometimes defended with trenches and palisades against any of the smaller bands that roved the country; the greater part of the population was gathered into fortified cities; and the rest of the kingdom was dotted with châteaux and maisons fortes, generally at a considerable distance from each other, often in the hands of opposite factions, and always prepared for stern resistance against the attack of an enemy.
In the part of the country of which we have been writing, these castles of the old feudal nobility were somewhat numerous; and we must now beg leave to remove the reader for a time from the Château de Marzay to that of Chazeul, which lay, as he has been already informed, at no great distance. We must also go back to an early hour in the morning of that day of which we have just been speaking, in order that those who peruse these pages may be made acquainted with some events which weave themselves into the web of the history as we proceed with our task.
It was at an early hour then--perhaps a little before six o'clock; and, though there was a certain degree of grey mingling with the blackness over head, yet the light of a wintry morning had not sufficiently dawned to enable any one to see within the various rooms of the château. It was at this period that, in a small chamber, plainly furnished, and somewhat high up in one of the many towers of which the building consisted, there sat a very lovely girl, reading by the light of a small lamp a number of old letters which seemed to cause deep and painful emotions in her heart; for the tears streamed rapidly down her cheeks, and almost drowned her sight, as she continued that which seemed a sad and sorrowful task.
The eyes from which those drops poured so rapidly, were large and black as jet, but soft and yet lustrous, even when swimming in the dew of grief. Her hair too, and her fine eyebrows, were of the same inky hue, but her skin was beautifully fair and clear, with a faint tinge of the rose in the soft cheek. In years she might be somewhere between eighteen and twenty, delicate in form, yet with limbs so well proportioned and lines so exquisitely drawn by the pencil of the Great Artist, that every movement displayed some new grace, whether when leaning her head on her hand, she bent down over the page, or raised her look suddenly to heaven, as if appealing on high for comfort or for justice.
Her back as she sat was turned towards the door; and her whole soul was evidently busy with the task before her--too busy as it proved; for she heard no step upon the stairs; she heard no hand upon the lock; she heard no movement in the room. She fancied that all in the house, but her own sad self, were sleeping quietly till the break of day. But it was not so; for as she bent over the pages, the door behind her opened quietly and an elderly woman, dressed in the extreme fashion of the day, though in a travelling costume, looked in, and then paused suddenly on seeing the light and the figure I have described. Her features were aquiline and strongly marked, her eyes keen and sunk, her figure tall and upright, but upon the faded cheek, even at that early hour, might be seen aglow of red, which, it needed no very practised eye to discover, was laid on by another hand than that of nature; and her eyebrows also betrayed a debt to art.
She paused as I have said for a moment at the door, then advanced with noiseless step, the perfect silence of which was produced by the slippers of fur which she wore to defend her feet in travelling from the cold; and approaching the fair reader from behind, she stretched forth her long, and somewhat meagre neck, and peered over her shoulder at the papers on the table.
The next instant, she laid her large thin hand upon them with a firm and heavy pressure; and the poor girl, starting up with a short scream, stood before her, with face and lips as white as those of death, eyes gazing with astonishment and fear, and limbs as motionless as if she had been turned into stone.
"What is this, Helen de la Tremblade?" said the Marchioness de Chazeul, in a sharp and ringing tone; "What is this, girl? Answer me this moment."
"Oh, Madam, pardon me! pardon me!" cried the poor girl, falling at her feet.
"Pardon you?" said the lady, with a bitter look; "I will first see what I have to pardon;" and she began to gather up the letters.
"Oh no! no! no!" exclaimed the other, starting on her feet again, and endeavouring to snatch them away. "You must not--no you must not! Do with me what you will; but do not read those. They are mine, Madam,--they are mine alone!"
But the Marchioness thrust her rudely back, till she reeled to the other side of the room, at the same time crying, "How now, jade! Yours? I will read every word. Sit down upon that stool, and move a step if you dare.--But I will secure you!" and, first gathering up the letters, she turned to the door, locked it, and walking back to the table laid the key upon it, while she drew a seat facing the poor culprit, and repeated, "Sit down, this instant!"
The unhappy girl obeyed, and covered her face, now crimson, with her trembling hands; and Madame de Chazeul drawing the lamp nearer to her, began to read the letter which lay at the top, commenting, as she proceeded, in a low hoarse voice, like the croak of a raven towards the approach of day. "Ha!" she said, as she went on, "Chazeul's hand! Good! I might have divined this. 'Eternal love and passion!'--Fool! There's nothing eternal but folly."
Farther on, however, she seemed to find matter which occupied her more deeply; for her muttered words ceased, her brow put on a still heavier frown, and her small black eyes flashed with double fierceness. "How? how?" she cried, after nearly finishing the letter; "and is it so? What need I more? This is enough in conscience--Oh, base girl! But I will see more--I will see more!" and she turned to another page.
When she had read some way farther, she laid the letter down again upon the table, and gazed at it sternly for several moments, with thoughts evidently busy afar; and then turning to the poor girl, who sat with her face still covered with her hands, she said, "Come hither!"
The girl obeyed with slow, trembling, and uncertain steps, not daring to raise her eyes. When she was near, however, she once more sank upon her knees before the harsh and heartless woman in whose power she was, and lifted her hands as if in the act of supplication; but for several moments her lips refused their office, and no sound of voice was heard. At length when she did speak it was only to say, "Forgive me, oh forgive me!"
"Perhaps I will," replied the Marchioness, in a somewhat softer tone, though at the same time there was a lurking sneer at the corner of her mouth that showed no very merciful sensations, "perhaps I will, if you instantly make a full confession. Tell me how all this happened, without disguise; and perhaps your shame may be yet concealed. Speak, girl, speak."
"Oh, what can I say?" cried the unhappy girl, "you know all now; you see the words he used, the promises he made; you know that I was left entirely to his guidance. Often when you were away, he has been here for weeks together; when you were here, he was always suffered to be with me. Long I resisted--for two years; ever since my uncle placed me with you, has he tempted, and urged, and vowed, and I refused. But I was like a besieged city without assistance or support, and was driven to yield at length, when perhaps deliverance was at hand."
"Without assistance and support, base girl!" cried Madame de Chazeul, "why did you not tell me? and you should have soon had aid."
"Oh, lady!" replied Helen de la Tremblade, "I did tell you at first, when his words were not so clear; and you scoffed and jeered at me till I dared not say more; and, after that, I learned to love him. Then, for his sake, I dared not speak."
"So it was my fault, was it?" said the Marchioness with a look of haughty contempt. "Thus is it ever; when a fool commits a folly, it is ever because somebody else did not counsel or help him. Was I the guardian of your virtue, girl?"
"You should have been," replied Helen de la Tremblade, a momentary spark of indignation rising in her breast as the worm was trampled on, "you should have been, against your own son."
"Ha!" cried the Marchioness with a flashing eye; but then, restraining herself, she demanded, "Who brought these letters? Who was the pander to your guilt?"
"Nay, do not ask me that," said her unhappy companion; "be angry with me, if you will; ask what you please about myself; but do not, do not vent your wrath on others."
"Will you say?" cried the Marchioness, in a furious tone. "This moment, will you say?"
"No, no!" answered Helen in a deprecatory tone, "I cannot, I will not. He knew not what he brought."
"You will not!" repeated the Marchioness sternly, "you will not! Girl, you shall! Are you not in my power?"
"You have no power to make me injure another," replied Helen mournfully; "I have injured myself enough; your son has corrupted, destroyed, betrayed me. With all these vows and promises written with his own hand, he is now about to wed another, whom he has no right to wed. Surely this is enough of misery; and I will not make my heart so sad as it would be, were I to add the ruin of another to my own."
"Vows! promises! no right to wed her, base girl! I will soon show you what are such promises!" and, snatching up the whole packet of letters, she held them open to the flame of the lamp.
Contrary, perhaps, to the expectation of Madame de Chazeul, Helen de la Tremblade made not the slightest effort to stop her in the act. Whether it was that she felt her strength was not equal to contend with the tall and masculine woman, who was thus taking from her the only proof of those promises by which she had been betrayed, or whether it was the apathy of utter despair that restrained her, I cannot tell; but there she stood, motionless though not unmoved, with her eyes now tearless though full of sorrow, with her lip quivering but without a sound. Oh, who can tell the dark and terrible feelings of the poor girl's heart at that moment when, to all the bitterness of sin, and shame, and sorrow, and betrayed love, and disappointed hope and blighted affection, she saw destroyed before her face every evidence of the arts that had been used to deceive her, all that could palliate, if not justify, her conduct?
The flame caught the letters in an instant; and with a resolute hand the Marchioness held the papers till the fire nearly scorched her, then cast the fragments on the tiled floor, and, as they were consumed, turned with a bitter and a mocking laugh to the poor culprit, exclaiming, "Now talk of vows and promises!"
"They are written in heaven, if not on earth," replied Helen de la Tremblade, gazing at her with a degree of firmness that but enraged her the more.
"Heaven!" she exclaimed in a contemptuous tone, "heaven! do you dare to talk of heaven? Fool, if that is your resource, I will make you rue your conduct, at least on earth!" Then advancing to the door, she unlocked it, returned, and, grasping the poor girl by the arm, dragged her after her, down the stairs and through the long corridors of the château, to the outer hall.
Now came the bitterest moment of the whole for the unhappy victim. The hall was filled with attendants prepared for a journey. There were servants and armed men, the two maids of Madame de Chazeul, and a gay page jesting with one of them. All eyes were fixed upon her as, dragged on by the Marchioness, she was brought into the midst of them; and oh, how thankful she would have been if the earth would but have opened and swallowed her alive!
"Undo the door!" cried Madame de Chazeul. "There, throw it wide! Now, strumpet, get thee forth, and carry your shame to any place where it may be marketable!"
"Oh God!" cried Helen de la Tremblade, clasping her hands in agony, "can it be possible? Have you--have you no pity?--At least let me take that which belongs to me."
"Forth, wretch, forth!" cried the Marchioness, stamping her foot. "Drive her out, drive her out, I say!"
No one stirred to obey the cruel order; but Helen turned and waved her hand, roused into some firmness by the cruel treatment she met with. "That shall not be needed, Madam," she said. "I go; and when you stand at the awful judgment-seat of God, with all your sins upon your head; when all that you have done through life comes up before you as a picture, may you find a more merciful judge than you have proved to me."
"Away with you, away with you!" cried the Marchioness, adding the coarsest term of reprobation that in the French language can be applied to woman. "It is ever thus with such wretches as you: when detected in sin, they begin to cant. Away with you, I say; let us hear no more of it!"
Helen turned, and walked slowly towards the door; but the page ran after her, exclaiming, "Here is your veil, Mademoiselle; you left it below last night."
Helen took it; but before she could thank him, the Marchioness strode forward, and dealt him a box on the ear that cast him upon the ground, exclaiming "who taught thee to meddle malapert?"
"Ah, poor boy!" cried Helen; and with the tears in her eyes, she quitted the inhospitable doors, within which virtue and happiness had been sacrificed for ever.
For some way, she walked along utterly unconscious where she went. We must not say, she thought either of her situation at the time, of the past, or of the future; for there was nothing like thought in her mind. It was all despair; she asked not herself where she should go, what should be her conduct, what place of refuge she should find, how she should obtain even necessary food. The predominant sensation, if any were predominant, was a wish to die; and any road which led her from that hateful mansion was to her the same.
This troubled state continued for some minutes, till a small wood concealed her from the castle; but still she walked on, or rather ran; for her steps, under the impetuous course of her own feelings, grew quicker each moment as she went. At length she heard the sound of horses' feet and the grating roll of carriage wheels, and a vague remembrance of having seen the heavy coach of Madame de Chazeul standing prepared before the gates, made her believe that she was pursued by that terrible woman, and, a sudden feeling of terror taking possession of her, she darted in amongst the trees, and crouched behind some brushwood.
There she could hear the whole train pass by; and as they wound on down the hill, she saw the well-known colours and figures sweep slowly on till, as they were beginning to rise on the opposite slope, they came to a sudden halt, and a consultation seemed to take place. In a few minutes two horsemen detached themselves from the rest, and passed the wood in a gallop towards the château; but poor Helen remained in her place of concealment; and, as she did so, the tumultuous agitation of her heart and brain grew somewhat calmer, and a long and bitter flood of tears brought thought along with it. But, oh how terrible was reflection! how did she bemoan her own fatal folly! how desolate seemed her heart! how hopeless--how utterly hopeless--seemed her situation!
Where could she hide her head? she asked herself--where cover her shame?--where conceal herself from the eyes of all men?--who would help?--who would assist her?--who would speak one word of comfort, of consolation, of sympathy? None, none. From the sympathy of the virtuous and the good she had cut herself off for ever! Was she to associate with the abandoned and profligate?--was evil to become her good?--was moral death to bring her mere mortal life? Ah, no! she would sooner die, she thought, a thousand-fold sooner die; and she abhorred herself for her weakness past, more than many who think themselves virtuous, would abhor themselves for actual crime.
"Why should I stay here?" she asked herself at length. "I am an outcast--a beggar; my father and mother in the grave; my uncle's face I dare not see; I have no one to seek--I have no road to choose; the wide world is before me; I must trust myself to fate;" and rising up, with the feeling of desolate despair taking possession of her once more, she followed the path before her, then turned into another, then wandered along a third, and thus went on for nearly an hour-and-a-half, with several of the country people who passed her, turning round to gaze in surprise at so fair and delicate a creature straying abroad, with a vacant air and tear-stained countenance, at so early an hour of the morning.
At length she felt weary; and with listless indifference to all that might befal her, she seated herself on a stone, at the foot of a wooden cross, which had been erected by some pious hand beneath a high tree-covered bank, down which the snow, now melting under the first warmth of spring, was slipping from time to time in large masses, or sending forth a thousand small streams, which rendered the road almost like the bed of a river.
Poor Helen heeded it not, however; she took no notice of the cold and the wet. The bodily discomforts that she suffered had but little effect upon her; and, if she perceived them at all, they came but as things which recalled to her mind more forcibly the hopeless desolation of her situation. Thus, after a few minutes' rest and thought, she once more bent down her beautiful head upon her two fair hands, and wept long and bitterly.
While she was thus sadly occupied, the sound of a horse's feet striking the plashy ground at a quick pace came down the lane. She gave it no attention, and the horseman dashed passed her, apparently without noticing her. It was not so, however; and about a hundred yards farther on he pulled in his rein, and turned back again. In another minute he was by her side; and she heard a kind and good-humoured voice exclaim, "What is the matter, young lady, has any one injured you?"
Helen de la Tremblade looked up, and beheld in the person who addressed her a man of a frank and open countenance. He was dressed in a brown suit of a plain rough cloth, and seemed to be a substantial countryman of about forty years of age, though his beard and moustache was somewhat grey. There was a look of pleasant and intelligent interest on his face, which might have brought back some hope to her cold heart, for it spoke of sympathy; but she replied in a sad and bitter tone, "Alas, I have injured myself," bursting into a fresh gush of tears as the words of self-reproach passed her lips.
The man gazed at her for a moment in silence, seemingly puzzled by the contrast between her dress and her apparent situation. At length he exclaimed, "Parbleu! you cannot stay here, my poor girl. You seem a young thing, and well nurtured; what can have brought you into this state?"
"My own fault, as well as the cruelty of others," answered Helen de la Tremblade.
"Well, we all have faults," replied the man, "God forgive us for them! and as for the cruelty of others, we are none of us good enough to afford to be severe, especially when errors are freely acknowledged. But tell me, can I do anything to help you? I have little time; but I cannot find in my heart to see a fair young thing like you left to perish by the road-side."
"Oh!" cried Helen starting up; "if you would but give me shelter for a single night, till I can think, till I can give my mind some order, you might save me from destruction. Doubtless," she added, seeing him pause as if in hesitation, "doubtless you have a home not far off; doubtless you have wife and children,---daughters perhaps; and should you hear my prayer, be sure God will bless and protect them, if ever they fall into misery like me. I am not intentionally wicked, indeed; weak I may be: nay, weak I am, but not vicious; no, not vicious, whatever you may think."
"Pardie few of the fine dames of France can say that!" exclaimed the horseman. "But the truth is, my poor young lady, my home is not very near. But I would fain help you if I could. Where are your father and mother? Better go home to them, and if you have offended them, try to soften them with tears. They must have hard hearts if they resist."
"They are in the grave," answered the unhappy girl.
"And what is your name, poor thing?" inquired her companion.
She paused and hesitated; but the next moment she said, "Why should I conceal the truth? my name is Helen de la Tremblade."
"What!" exclaimed the farmer, "the niece of the good priest at the Château de Marzay?"
"The same," answered Helen with a mournful shake of the head.
"Then you have been residing with the old Marchioness de Chazeul," rejoined the other, adding, "at least the servants told me so."
"Till this morning," replied Helen with a sigh; "but I am now a houseless outcast."
The horseman dismounted from his beast, and took her kindly by the hand; "Alas, poor child," he said, "you have been, I fear, under a hard ruler. I know something of this woman; if not personally, at least by hearsay; and I can easily believe that she has been harsh and unkind."
"But I was first in fault," answered Helen, interrupting him frankly, "I deserved reproach, perhaps punishment, but oh, not so terrible as this."
"Why, what was the cause?" asked the farmer. "Nay, then," he proceeded, "as your cheek glows, I will ask no further questions. I seek not to distress you, young lady, but to serve you; and if I can, I will place you in security. You cannot--you must not remain here. Heaven only knows what might happen to you. But how I am to get you hence I cannot tell. I have not time to go back with you to Marzay, and--"
"Not for existence," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "no, not, for all that earth can give, would I set my foot within those walls."
"Ay, I forgot," rejoined the farmer, "she must be there by this time."
"Oh not for that--not for that alone," exclaimed the poor girl with a shudder, "you do not know--you cannot tell all."
"Well," replied her companion, "perhaps you may think differently by and by. But in the mean time, how am I to get you hence? I am going to the village of St. André, some eight leagues distance, and have no conveyance but the horse I ride. Stay," he continued, "I will go on a short way, and see if I can find a cottage or farm-house where we can hire horse or cart."
"Oh do not leave me," cried Helen, "you are the first who has spoken kindly to me; and perhaps--perhaps if you go you may not return."
"I will, upon my honour," replied the farmer; and setting spurs to his horse, he was away over the opposite hill in a few moments.
The time went heavily by with Helen de la Tremblade. She asked herself, "Will not he too deceive me?" and when nearly twenty minutes passed without her companion's return, her heart sank, and her eyes once more filled with tears. It had seemed, while he was near her, that she was not totally abandoned, that she had still some human being to hold communion with, that she was not, as she had at first believed, shut out from all sympathies. She knew not who he was, it is true; she had no information of his name, his station, or his character; but he had spoken kindly to her, he had shown feeling, humanity, compassion; and perhaps it was that which had made her fancy she had seen in his countenance all the higher and nobler qualities of the mind and the heart. She longed for his return then; and in counting the weary minutes and listening for every sound, she in some degree forgot the oppressive weight of the past and future. At length, tired with expectation, she rose and walked along the road to see if he were coming; and, as so often happens, no sooner had she given way to her impatience, than she saw his figure rising over the hill.
"I have got a man and horse with a pillion," he said, riding up to her, "I cannot promise you, Mademoiselle de la Tremblade, any long or sure protection, but I will engage to put you in a place of safety for a night or two. During that time you will have the opportunity of thinking over your future conduct. I am not a rich man, but, on the contrary, a very poor one; yet you shall share what little I have in my purse, as I must leave you to your own guidance towards nightfall; and if you like to confide in me fully, when we stop three hours hence, you will find that you have not misplaced your trust. Think of it as we go; for I cannot speak with you of such things, while your good squire is with you. Mayhap you might find worse people in whom to place your confidence than Michael Chasseron."
Helen did not reply; for while he was yet speaking, an old peasant with the horse which had been promised came in sight; but she mounted gladly, and rode on beside the companion, whom she had known barely an hour, with a heart relieved, though not at rest. As they went, too, he spoke to her of many things, in plain and homely terms, but with wide and various information, and with a winning kindness and consideration for her sorrows, which made her feel, that all the world were not harsh and bitter as those she had just left. She herself said little, but she found herself constrained in gratitude to answer such questions as he thought fit to ask; and, although he inquired nothing directly regarding her situation, and she believed she told him nothing, yet in fact, long before they reached their halting place he had learned nearly all that he desired to know, not by her words, but by his own conclusions.