The sight of pain and suffering, to which man's heart--even if it do not become totally hard and obtuse by his own dealings with the rough things of the world--grows less sensible every day as he advances in life, is always matter of painful interest to woman. There is something in her bosom that tells her it is her own destiny to suffer. There are fine links of sympathy that bind her affections to the sufferer, and not alone the general tenderness of her nature, to which such feelings are commonly altogether ascribed. The words of a woman's compassion are always different from those of a man's; they show that she brings the pain she witnesses more home to her own heart. Man may grieve for another's anguish; she sympathises with it; man feels for the man, she actually shares his pain.
Helen de la Tremblade remained in the lower story of the house, even after the shutters had been put up and the door closed by the farmer, when the first party of fugitive Leaguers passed by. She took little note of anything that followed, but sat meditating over her own fate, with her head leaning on her hand, till the sound of a groan struck her; but then starting up at once, she advanced towards the door of the room, which led into a wide, long passage. There she found four stout soldiers bearing in a wounded man; and though she could not see his face, from his visor being down, the languid attitude in which he lay, as his men carried him in their arms, showed her clearly that he had received some terrible injuries. Self was forgotten in a moment; her own sorrows, her own wrongs, the bitter regrets of the past, the desolate despair of the future, were all swept away for the time, and, clasping her hands, she exclaimed, "Alas! alas! he is dying, I fear.--Bring him hither, bring him hither," she continued: "there is a bed in this room," and she led the way through the hall to the chamber, where she and Rose d'Albret had passed the preceding night.
Carrying him slowly forward, the soldiers laid the wounded man, still in his dinted and dusty arms, upon the couch, and instantly began to unfasten his cuirass, through, which a small hole, as if pierced by the shot of an arquebuse, might be seen, stained at the edge with blood; but he waved his hand saying, in a faint voice, "The casque, the casque! take off the casque! Where is my nephew?--Where is Louis?--He should be here."
"Ah," cried Helen de la Tremblade, "he went out to the battle not an hour ago. Perhaps he too is wounded or dead."
"Mad-headed boy!" cried the old Commander as they removed his casque, "he had no arms! Why did they let him go? Ha! Is not that Helen, the priest's niece?"
"Yes," replied Helen approaching timidly and taking his hand, "it is poor Helen de la Tremblade."
"Ay, I remember," said the old Commander; "but where is Rose? Where is Rose d'Albret? She was with my nephew Louis."
"Oh, she is without, here," cried Helen; "I will call her directly," and away she ran, through the hall, into the passage, and to the door. But she found it barred and bolted, and the Farmer bending down, with his ear to the key-hole, striving to catch the sounds without.
"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" asked Helen.
"Hush," he cried sternly, waving her back with his hand, and still listening to the door. Helen listened too, but she could hear nothing but the indistinct murmur of several voices speaking, mixed with the sound of horses' feet trampling and stamping, as if brought to an unwilling halt; but a moment or two after, some one spoke in a still louder tone, crying, "To Chartres!" and then came the noise of a party moving off, and the plashing sound of cavalry marching through the ford.
"Where is Mademoiselle d'Albret?" repeated Helen, as the farmer raised his head from the key-hole.
"Good faith, I cannot tell," replied he; "run up wife, run up to the room above! and see what is going on without."
The farmer's wife did as he bade her, and the next instant her feet were heard over head coming back from the window to the top of the stairs. "Ah, heaven!" she cried in a loud voice, "they have carried off the young lady, and Monsieur de Montigni, and his servant, and all. You should not have shut the door, Jean. You are a cruel, hard-hearted man. I heard them push it myself to get in; and now they are prisoners; and no one can tell what will happen."
"Hold your tongue! You are a fool, wife," answered the farmer angrily. "Do you think I was going to leave the house open for the Leaguers to come in! We should have had the place pillaged, and all our throats cut."
But the woman's tongue, as is sometimes the case with that peculiar organ in the female head, was not to be silenced easily, and she continued to abuse her husband, for excluding poor Rose d'Albret and her lover, in no very measured terms, while Helen de la Tremblade, sad and sorrowful, returned to the bed-side of the old commander to communicate the painful intelligence she had just received.
"Where is Rose?" demanded the old officer as soon as he saw her; "why does she not come?"
"Alas!" replied Helen, "a party of the League, just now sweeping by, have taken her away with them."
The old man, who by this time had been stripped of his arms, and laid in the bed, raised himself suddenly, and gazed in her face with a look of grief and consternation. Then sinking back upon the pillow again, he closed his eyes, but said not a word for several minutes. At length one of his attendants coming forward inquired, if he had not better ride away to St. André and seek for a surgeon.
"No," replied the old Commander abruptly, "'tis no use. This is my last field, Marlot, and, the sooner I go, the better. I am fit for nothing now. I could scarce sit my horse in the battle, though I did drive my sword through that fellow on Aumale's right hand. But it's all over; and I shall soon go, too. No use of being tortured by the surgeons. I've had enough of them.--No; but I will tell you what you shall do. Go and seek for Louis; though that is most likely vain, also.--Why the fiend did he go to the field without arms? Yet, Ventre Saint Gris! I love the boy for it too. But he never can have escaped from thatmêlée.--He is dead, so there is nothing worth living for."
Helen had refrained hitherto from telling him that his nephew was in captivity, as well as Rose d'Albret, for fear of weighing him down, in his weak state, under the load of misfortune; but now, seeing that his apprehensions for his nephew's fate, had a more terrible effect, than even the reality could produce, she said, "No, Sir, he is not dead. They have carried him away too, with Mademoiselle d'Albret!"
"Ha! girl, ha! Are you not lying?" demanded the wounded man.
"No, indeed," replied Helen, "it is the truth. The farmer's wife saw them a moment ago."
"Well, then, seek a surgeon," said the old man; "I will try to live, though it is idle, I think.--Look for Estoc, too. Where saw you him last?"
"He was in full pursuit with the Grand Prior, Sir," answered one of the men.
"I saw him take the red standard of the Count of Mansveldt," replied another.
"That's well, that's well," said the old commander, "take means to let him know where I lie. Then bring a surgeon if you will. They shall do with me what they like. Will you be my nurse, little Helen?" he continued, extending his hand towards her.
"That I will, if I may," replied Helen kneeling by the bedside and kissing the large bony hand he had held out.
"Well, get me a cloak or something," said the old man, "to cast over my feet, for I feel very cold. Then come, sit down and talk to me; and you fellows go away and get your dinner. It must be noon by this time."
"'Tis one o'clock, Sir," answered one of the men.
"Get your dinner, get your dinner," cried the Commander.
"I have no heart to eat, Sir," said the one nearest to him, "seeing you lying there."
"Poo!" exclaimed his master, "did you never see an old man die before? I have seen many; and they will die, whether you eat your dinner or not. Leave this young lady to tend me; dine, and, if you will, say a paternoster for my sake. That's the best you can do to help me, though you are good creatures, too, and love me well, I know,--as I love you. But we must all part, and my march is laid out."
The men departed one by one, and Helen remained alone with the old Commander de Liancourt, doing the best she could to tend and serve him. He suffered her to examine his wound, for the good old chivalrous custom which required that ladies should know something of leech-craft had not yet passed away; but it was one beyond her skill. The ball of an arquebuse or pistol, fired point blank at a short distance, had pierced his chest on the right side, a little more than a hand's breadth below the arm. Some blood had followed the wound, but not much; and all hemorrhage had ceased. He declared that the only pain he felt was, a burning sensation near the back.
"That's where the ball lies, Helen," he said; "I wish it had gone through; for these things taking up their lodging in the body, often make the house too hot to hold the proper tenant. However, God's will be done. I never valued life a straw; and now, after having known it sixty years, I certainly do not prize it more for the acquaintance. 'Tis an idle and a bitter world, fair lady, as I fear you have found out by this time."
Helen shrunk and turned pale, as the old man seemed to allude to her situation and his eye rested upon her face, she thought, with a look of meaning. He said no more, however; and in a moment after the farmer entered to offer his services to the wounded man, with whose rank he was now acquainted, and to give him farther tidings which had just arrived from the field--how the Swiss and French infantry had surrendered without resistance, and all the standards and cannon had fallen into the hands of the King.
The Commander cut him short, however, asking after his nephew, which way they had taken him, how many the party numbered, and many another questions, all of which the man might have answered without betraying the fact that, to his own fears, was in some degree owing the capture of Rose d'Albret and the young Baron de Montigni. We put our armour where we are weak, however; and the first words of the farmer were in his own defence, betraying at once all that had taken place. As the wounded man heard him, and began to comprehend what had passed, his cheek turned fiery red, and raising himself partly in bed, he bent his eyes sternly upon him, and cursed him bitterly, calling him coward, and knave, and telling him he knew not what he had done.
"Fool!" cried the Commander; "do you think they would have stayed to plunder your pitiful house with the sword of the King at their heels? Curses upon you, Sir! you have delivered a fair sweet lady to the hands of her persecutors, as gallant a gentleman as any in France to his knavish enemies. By the Lord that lives, I have a mind to make my men take thee and drown thee in the river, poltroon!"
The farmer was irritated, as perhaps he might well be; and, but little inclined to bear from another reproaches which he had endured quietly from his wife, he was about to reply in angry terms, when Helen interposed; and, with gentle firmness, which might perhaps not have been expected from the tender and yielding disposition which she had hitherto displayed, she led him from the room, and insisted upon his making no reply.
She then turned all her efforts to calm and soothe the old Commander; and so tenderly, so kindly, did she busy herself about him, that the heart of the rough old soldier was moved, and he exclaimed, "Bless thee, my child, thou art a sweet good girl; and I wish I could but live to do thee some service. But it is in vain, Helen, it is all in vain; not that I mind this burning pain; for that more or less follows every wound, but 'tis the sudden failing of my strength. All power seems gone; and, in an instant, I have become as if I were a child again. I was lame and well nigh crippled with old wounds before; for I never was in battle or combat but I was sure to receive some injury--such was my ill-luck; but still in my hands and arms I was as strong as ever, could bend a double crown between my thumbs, or break the staff of a lance over my knee. Now it is a labour to me to lift my hand to my head; and that has come all in a moment. This means death; Helen, this means death!"
"Nay, perhaps not," replied Helen de la Tremblade. "The body is strangely composed; and the ball may rest upon some sinew or some nerve that gives strength; yet all may be well again."
The old man shook his head, but still he remained cheerful, often talking of death, yet never seeming to look upon it with dread or horror. In about an hour a surgeon arrived, examined and probed the wound, and descanted learnedly upon its nature. But with him, the good old Commander showed himself irritable and impatient, writhed under his hand, declared he tortured him, and seemed to shrink more from pain, than from death itself. The man of healing soon saw that he could do but little. To Helen's anxious inquiries, however, he did not give the most sincere answers, leaving her to hope, that the wound might be cured, and saying, that he would come again at night. He calculated indeed, that his patient would live over the next day, and that there would be time enough for a priest to be summoned. That was all that his conscience required; and he judged--perhaps kindly--that it was useless to torment a sick man with the thoughts of death, for many hours before the event took place.
During the whole of the rest of the day, Helen seldom, if ever, quitted the bed-side of the Commander de Liancourt. Though careless of life, inured by long habit to suffering, and even somewhat impatient of anything that seemed like forced attention to his state, the old warrior was not at all insensible to real kindness. He saw that she sympathised with him, that she really felt for all he endured, that she did her best to soothe and to allay, to comfort and support him. He could not but see it; for though, ever and anon, the shadow of her own fate would fall upon her again, and she would sit, for a moment or two, in gloom and darkness, yet at his lightest word, at his least movement, she was up and by his bed-side. The cup was always ready for his lips, the pillow was constantly smoothed for his head, his wishes seemed anticipated, his very thoughts answered, and even the burning impatience of growing fever could not run before her promptitude. When he obtained a moment of repose, she was calm and silent. When he wished to speak, she was ready to answer, in sweet and quiet tones that sounded pleasant to his ear; when his breathing became oppressed, she was there to raise his head upon her soft arm, to open the window for the air of spring to enter, and to bathe his fiery brow. To another young and inexperienced being, the scene might have been terrible, the task hard; but to her, it was all a relief. A share in any sorrow, was lighter than the full burden of her own; and aught that took her thoughts from herself, delivered her from a portion of her anguish.
More than once, the old man gazed upon her fixedly for two or three minutes, as if there was something that he wished to say, and yet did not; more than once, he sent away his followers, who came and went during the afternoon between his room and the next, as if he were about to speak of something that lay at his heart; but still he refrained, till, just as the light was beginning to fade, he turned painfully in the bed, and murmured, "Helen."
The poor girl was by his side in a moment; and putting forth his now burning hand, he took hers, continuing, "Helen, I wish to talk to you about yourself before I go."
Helen trembled like an aspen leaf. Four-and-twenty hours before, in the first agony of desolation and despair, she would have poured forth her whole soul to any one who offered her a word of kindness and sympathy; but a change had come over her since then; the power of thought had returned, conscience and shame and remorse had made themselves heard, over even the tumultuous voices of grief and indignation and hopeless agony. The still, but all-pervading words of self-reproach, filled her ear continually; and, in the blank wilderness of existence, she saw but her own folly. She shrank then, and trembled when he spoke of herself. There was no name but one that he could have pronounced, which would have sounded more horrible to her ears than her own.
"Oh not now, not now!" she cried, drawing back.
But the old man still held her hand in his, which seemed to scorch her; and he went on, "Why not now, Helen? It will soon be too late. The minutes are numbered, my poor girl. The hand upon the dial seems to go slow, but it will soon point to the hour when this fire shall have burned itself out, and nothing but the ashes will remain.--I have learned something of your story, Helen, from the people who came with my keen, harsh sister, Jacqueline.--Old Estoc heard it, and told it to me; but I would know more,--I would know all--"
"Oh not now, not now!" cried Helen again; and, by a sudden movement of anguish and terror, she drew her hand from him, and, with a gasping sob, ran out of the room.
There was no one in the hall, and when she reached the middle, she paused. "Shall I leave him?" she asked herself, "Leave him because he means and speaks kindly--leave him because I cannot bear to hear my own folly breathed,--leave him?--Oh no!" and with a movement as sudden, but with a downcast eye and burning cheek, she returned, and seated herself near in silence, gazing upon the ground.
"Helen," said the old Commander, "I have grieved you. Come hither, and forgive me."
She sprang towards him, and, casting herself on her knees by the bed-side, covered her aching eyes with her hands, exclaiming, "Oh, no, no! It is I who need forgiveness; not you. Do not speak so kindly, Sir, do not speak so gently; for it goes farther to break my heart, than all your sister's harshness."
"Hush, hush!" said the old soldier, "Do not move me, there's a good girl. But listen to me, Helen, for I wish you well, and you have been tender and affectionate to me this day, when I have much needed it.--I am a rough old man, Helen, and know not how to speak gently. But I would fain talk to you about yourself, before I depart from this place. Listen to me then, and do not think I mean anything but kindness. I hear that my sister has been hard upon you,--driven you out of her house,--given you harsh names.--Nay never shake so.--She is a bitter woman, Helen, to all faults but her own; and I am sure if you have any, they have been but too much gentleness.--Why, I remember you as a little child in your good father's time.--There now, you weep! I know not how to speak to you.--But never mind, I'll talk no more about yourself. But whatever be your faults, Helen, take my advice. Go to your uncle, tell him all. He will forgive you; for he is a good man at heart, and loves you; and besides,--"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Helen, "I cannot go to him, for his look would kill me.--Rose, so kind and good, so gentle to the faults of others, she too, persuaded me to go to him: but you do not know him. He is good and kind, and loves me well, it is true; but he is not forgiving.--Besides, how can I go there? How can I see him without meeting,--" and she gave a quick shudder, without concluding the sentence.
"Ay," said the wounded man, "that must be thought of. But all this is partly your uncle's own fault, Helen. I warned him when he put you with my sister, that he was giving his dove to a vulture. I told him it would be your ruin; but none of those people heeded the old soldier. They followed their own plans, and thought plain truth, foolishness.--Hark! do you not hear horses? It is good old Estoc, come to see his dying leader."
The next moment, there was a knock at the chamber door, and before any one could say, "Come in," it opened, and the tall bony figure of Estoc, clothed in armour, such as was worn in that day, but with the head-piece laid aside, appeared striding up with his wide steps to the bed-side of the wounded Commander.
"How goes it, Sir?" he cried, "how goes it?"
"Fast, Estoc, fast!" answered the old knight. "I am glad you have come, for there is much to talk about before I go. Helen, dear child, run away for a while; and take some repose and refreshment, for you have scarcely tasted aught since I have been here. She has been an angel to me, Estoc,--like my own child."
"Thank you, Mademoiselle, thank you," cried Estoc, taking her hand and kissing it, while she turned away her head, "God will bless you for it!"
The tears rolled over Helen's cheeks; and, saying "Call me when you want me, Sir," she left the room.
For more than an hour the old Commander de Liancourt and Estoc remained together, while Helen, at the window of a room above, sat and gazed out upon the sky, seeing the last rays of light fade away, and the stars look forth one by one. "Ah!" she said to herself, as she watched them, "other lights come in the heavens when the sun sets; but there is none so bright as that which is gone. The moon, too, may rise with her pale beams; but it is still night, shine she ever so brightly."
At length the surgeon arrived and went in again. The next moment he sent for Helen to aid him; but when she entered the old Commander's room, she found that he would not suffer his wound to be meddled with.
"It is of no avail, master surgeon," he said; "I know I am dying. You can do no good, and you do but torture me. Let the ball alone; it has performed its work right well; you only make it angry with your probes. Put on a cool cataplasm if you will, and tell me about what hour will be the end; for I see in your face that you know what I say is true. I would not go out of the world like a heathen; but the church is the only surgeon for me."
The man of healing answered in a vague and doubtful manner, but assured the old soldier that there was no immediate danger; and, after some vain persuasions, to the end that he might once more examine the wound minutely, he took his leave, after having applied what he thought fit externally.
Helen was about to follow, and leave the Commander and his friend together, once more; but the wounded man called her to him and bade her stay. "Here is Estoc will be a friend to you, Helen, when I am gone;" he said, "but listen to me, poor child, and do that which is for your own good, and for that of others. I pressed you, a little while ago, to go to your uncle for your own sake; but now I ask it for the sake of those who were once dear to you. You used to love Rose d'Albret--I think you do so still--"
"Oh! that I do," cried Helen, clasping her hand.
"Well, then," said the Commander, "her whole happiness, her future welfare and peace may altogether depend upon your going to Marzay, and with your own lips telling Walter de la Tremblade, all that has happened to you."
"Then I will go directly," cried Helen, eagerly, though sadly, "I will go directly, if I die the next moment. But does he not know the whole already?"
"I think not," replied Estoc, who stood near. "I don't think Madame de Chazeul has told him anything, for the good man, who spoke to me about it, said she would kill him if she knew that he had mentioned anything. But he thought you hardly treated, Mademoiselle, and wished me to speak to the Commander about it, that the matter might be inquired into."
Helen covered her face and sat and mused, till, at length, the wounded man woke her from her painful dreams, whatever they were, by saying, in a compassionate tone, "Ah! my poor girl, you suffer worse than I do, for your pains are of the heart."
"I will go, Sir, I will go!" cried Helen; "though it is very bitter so to do, yet I will go, if it can serve Mademoiselle d'Albret, even in the very least."
"It may serve her much, young lady," said Estoc. "As this sad affair has happened, and she has fallen into the hands of the Leaguers, beyond all doubt they will send her to Marzay; and then the old story will begin again, and no devilish scheme will be too bad, to drive her to marry Monsieur de Chazeul."
"Oh, no, no, no!" cried Helen, vehemently; "he will betray her--he will make her miserable, as he has made me. What right has he to marry her?" she continued, with her brow contracted and a wild look coming into her eyes. "Is he not married already? is he not contracted by oaths that he cannot break?"
"Ay, but he will break them," replied Estoc.
"I rave, I rave!" said Helen, after a moment's pause; "he has broken them already--every vow he made--every pledge he gave--every oath he took! and at what should he hesitate? But how can I prevent this? What can I do to avert it?"
"Much," answered the Commander. "Your uncle, Helen, has been one of the prime movers in all this. Without him they could do little; for he is a skilful and a scheming man, not moved by the same passions that both prompt and embarrass them. What are his motives or his views, I know not; but,pardie, right sure am I, when once he hears how you have been treated, he will find means to frustrate all their plots, and to save our dear Rose, by one means or another."
"Yes, yes, he will--he will," cried Helen; "I know he will, if it be but in revenge. Oh! he never wants means to work his own will. My poor father used to say, he had ruled all his family from infancy. But I will go at all risks, at any cost.--Yet," she added, hanging her head, "yet I could wish that it were possible for me to avoid that cruel and hard-hearted man, whom I must see if I go there openly."
"Oh! that will be easily managed," said Estoc; "I will answer for that, Mademoiselle; for I took care to ensure myself and my good Commander here, the means of entering the Château of Marzay when we liked. God forbid that I should use it wrongly! But I foresaw the time might come, when, in justice to ourselves or others, we might need to stand face to face with those who have been plotting so darkly against people whose rights they should have protected."
"You are right, Estoc, you are right," said the old Commander, whose voice was growing feeble, with the fatigue of speaking so much. "You are right, my good friend. I thought not of that precaution, but it was a wise one. Have you the key of the postern, then?"
"No," answered Estoc; "that would be missed; but I have a key to the chapel, which, as no one uses that way in or out, will never be wanted by any one but ourselves."
Helen raised her eyes and smiled, with the first look of satisfaction that her countenance had borne, since she had been driven from the Château of Chazeul. "That makes all easy," she said; "for, not only can I enter by that means, but dear Rose d'Albret can come out; and oh! what would I give to guide her back again to liberty and him she loves?"
But Estoc shook his head. "That may not be so easy," he answered; "now they are once upon their guard, they will watch her closely. She will be henceforth a prisoner, indeed. Her only hope is in the priest, Mademoiselle. Gain his aid for us, and we are secure."
"I will try," answered Helen, "I will try--But look," she continued, touching Estoc's arm and speaking in a low voice, "Monsieur de Liancourt seems weary, and asleep, I think."
Estoc bent down his head, and gazed in the sick man's face, by the pale light of a lamp that stood upon the table. He almost feared, from all that he had seen, that what Helen imagined slumber, was the repose of death; but, as he leaned over him, he saw a red spot upon the cheek, and heard the quick low breath come and go; and, turning to her again, he whispered, "He sleeps; that is a good sign. I will sit with him till he wakes."
"No, no," answered Helen; "leave me to watch him. You take some repose; I neither want it, nor could obtain it."
Estoc accordingly left her, gaining the door as noiselessly as he could. Then, clearing the hall of all the persons by whom it was now crowded, he seated himself on a bench, ate some bread and drank some wine; and leaning his head upon his hand, soon fell into slumber, with that easy command over the drowsy god, which is often acquired by those habituated to the labours and the dangers of the camp.
It was past one o'clock; and all the noises of the house were still. The farmer and his family had retired to rest, the soldiers and attendants were seeking slumber in the kitchen and the barn, when Helen de la Tremblade opened the door between the sick man's chamber and the hall, and called "Estoc! Estoc!"--"Monsieur de Liancourt is awake," she added, as he started up, and then continued, in a lower tone, "he is very ill--There is a terrible change--Come quick, come quick!"
Estoc followed in haste; and, approaching the wounded man's side, he saw too clearly the change she spoke of, that awful change which precedes dissolution; that inexpressible dim shade, that cold unearthly look, never, never to be mistaken. Fever may banish the rose from the cheek; the eye may grow pale and glassy; the lip may lose its red; and sickness, heavy sickness may take away all that is beautiful in life; but yet, while there is a hope remaining, the countenance of man never assumes that hue which death sends before him as his herald on the way;--and there it was. To the eyes of Helen, it was strange and terrible, and made her heart sink though she knew not all it meant; but Estoc had seen it often, and knew it well; and whispering to her, "This is death!" he took his old friend's hand in his.
"Ah, Estoc!" said Monsieur de Liancourt, "where is Helen?--Come nearer, my kind nurse, let me see your face, for my eyes grow dim."
"Shall I send for a priest, Sir?" asked Helen.
"Not yet," said Monsieur de Liancourt, "for I have much to say. Bring me my cross of St. John. Lay it on my breast, that I may die under the standard of my salvation." Helen hurried to get it, where it lay with the armour and clothes in which he had been dressed, and placed it gently on his bosom a he told her. The old man gazed wistfully in her face for an instant, and then said, "I am going, Helen--fast. If I had lived, I would have been a father to you. Estoc, will you protect her--defend her?--Do you promise me?"
"I do from my heart," replied Estoc. "As long as I live she shall never want a home to receive her, or an arm to do her right."
"Kiss the cross!" said the old Commander; and, bending down, the good soldier pressed his lips upon it, as it lay upon his dying leader's bosom.
"So much for that," said the Commander. "When I am gone, Estoc, give her all that I have brought with me.--You, I have provided for, long ago.--See me buried as a soldier should be. Lay me before the altar at Marzay, and bid the priest say masses for my soul.--Now give me the papers that I may explain them well."
Estoc proceeded to the corner of the room in which the old commander's garments had been laid down in a heap; and searched for some minutes before he could discover the packet of papers for which he was looking. He found it at length, and, turning round, approached the bed-side where Helen de la Tremblade sat watching the wounded man. She held his hand in hers, she gazed upon him eagerly with her beautiful lips slightly open, showing the fine pearly teeth within; and, as the light of the lamp fell upon her, she was certainly as fair a creature as ever man beheld; but there was a look of anxious fear in her eyes that startled Estoc, and made him hurry his pace. The eyes of the old commander were closed, and Helen whispered, "He has had a terrible shudder."
"Here are the papers, Sir," said Estoc.
The old man made no answer, but by a heavy sigh.
"Send for a priest, quick," cried Estoc; and Helen running hastily from the room, woke one of the soldiers in the kitchen, and dispatched him to the village in haste. When she returned to the chamber, however, all was still: and, approaching with her light foot the bed-side, she saw Estoc with his arms folded across his chest, and his eyes, glistening with an unwonted tear, fixed upon the countenance of his old friend and leader, from which all expression seemed to have passed away. She listened, but could hear no breath. The lips were motionless; the breast had ceased to heave; the hand, which he had lately held in her own, had fallen languidly on the bed; the other, by a last movement, had been brought to rest upon the cross which lay upon his bosom. Life had passed away, apparently in an instant, and the sufferings of the stout old soldier were at an end.
The moment after several of the men, who had been awakened by a voice calling to one of them to seek a priest, crept into the room to see their good leader once more before he died; and Estoc, brushing away the moisture from his eyes with the back of his hand, turned towards them, saying, "You may come forward.--You cannot disturb him now. He is gone; and a better heart, a stouter hand, a kinder spirit, never lived, my friends. Few there are like him left; and we at least never shall see such another. God have mercy on his soul, and on ours too."
Thus saying, he knelt down, murmured a prayer, and kissed the hand, still warm with the life that was departed. The soldiers did the same one by one, and then carried the tidings to their fellows who where still asleep. Starting up as they had lain down, they all ran hastily into the room; and, of course, amongst the number, there were many different ways of expressing their grief. Most of them, however, had tears in their eyes, and one man wished aloud, that he knew the hand that fired the shot.
"Fie," said Estoc, "it was the chance of battle. No soldier bears revenge for anything done in fair fight. He has sent many to their account, and now is sent himself; but by the grace of God his is no heavy one, and he will find mercy for that."
There was a momentary pause, and then two or three of the soldiers whispered together; after which one of them stepping forward, said, "Will you lead us, Monsieur Estoc?"
"I am not a rich man, my friends," said the old soldier, "and cannot pay you as the good commander did. What I have, however, you shall freely share; and if you are willing to serve the King as you have done this day, I will lead you willingly, in that cause.
"We will fight in none other," replied the man who spoke for the rest; "and as for pay, we will take our chance, so that we have food and arms."
"That we will always find," replied Estoc, "but we have a duty here to perform before anything else. We must carry the corpse to Marzay, and fulfil our dead leader's last commands; then we will seek the King; and, if he cannot entertain us himself, we shall easily find some banner under which to fight upon his side."
It was about two o'clock in the day, when the party of the Duke of Nemours entered the little town of Maintenon; for that Prince hurried along his prisoners at a rapid rate, although he was aware that, the main body of fugitives from the field of Ivry having taken a different direction, he was less likely to be pursued than if he had followed the same course towards Mantes. As he approached Maintenon, indeed, he somewhat slackened his speed, and gave orders for putting his men into better order; and before he reached the gates he brought his own horse, and those of the rest, to a walk, as if quietly marching through the country.
All appearance of flight and apprehension was banished; and De Montigni heard one of the soldiers, speaking to a citizen as they entered, declare, that they had had a skirmish at Ivry, in which the King had been defeated and driven back. A somewhat bitter smile curled his lip; but he made no observation; and the good townsman shaking his head with a doubtful look, replied.
"Ay, it may be so; but different tidings are about the place; and if you have won a battle, why are you marching away from the field?"
"Why, Coquin?" replied the soldier readily, "because we are carrying the tidings to Chartres, with orders to the governor to send out his people and cut off the fugitives from Alençon."
Still the man looked unconvinced; but the soldier rode on after his troop; and the Duke stopped in the town two hours to refresh his horses. While there, he sent for the officer commanding in the place, and held a long, private conversation with him, which afforded an opportunity to De Montigni and Rose d'Albret to speak together unnoticed, for the first time since their capture. The Duke had ordered dinner to be prepared, and had courteously invited them to partake of it, leaving them alone in the dining hall of the inn, while he held his communication with the governor without. But though it was a solace and a comfort to both of them, to be enabled to pour their griefs and anxieties into each other's bosom, yet their conference was a sad and fruitless one; for they could arrange no plan of action for the future, they could extract no hope from the painful situation in which they were placed. All they could do was to promise and repromise faith and constancy to each other, and to wait for coming events, in the hope of ultimate deliverance. De Montigni found no difficulty in binding Rose to fly with him whenever the opportunity should offer; and each vowed to the other to look upon their engagement as complete and inviolable, whatever means might be employed to break it.
"Let us regard ourselves as wedded, dearest Rose," said De Montigni; "and fear not for the result. The King is each day gaining advantages over his enemy. This faction must soon be crushed, notwithstanding the assistance it receives from Spain; my ransom will soon be agreed upon; and should they attempt to detain my bride, I will deliver her, should need be, with the strong hand. If bloodshed be the result, let Chazeul answer for it. The fault is his, not mine."
"Oh! no, no!" cried Rose; "do nothing rashly, Louis. I am yours, will be ever yours. Better to wait for months--ay, even for years, than dip your hands in kindred blood.--But I will trust that there is no need for such terrible deeds. When once the King's authority is at all established, Monsieur de Liancourt will soon yield to it. He is not one of those who will hold out to the last, in favour of a failing cause. But, at all events," she added, as the door opened, "be the time long or short, be the trial hard or light, I am yours for ever."
She knew not how hard that trial was to be.
As she spoke, the Duke of Nemours, with one or two of the gentlemen attached to him, entered the room; and the meal which he had ordered was soon after served. The irritation under which he had laboured, on account of the loss of the battle, when first De Montigni and his fair companion had fallen into his hands, had passed away; and towards Rose d'Albret, at least, he had resumed all that courtesy for which he was renowned. To De Montigni his demeanour was varying and uncertain; never, indeed, returning to the harsh rudeness which he had at first displayed, but sometimes cold and icy, sometimes gay and almost kind. He was a Prince who had acquired, without much cause, a high reputation throughout Europe, and De Montigni knew him by report to be brave to a fault, generous to prodigality, and affecting a chivalrous tone in his conduct and manners; but he was not aware of the faults, which afterwards developed themselves so remarkably and caused the Duke's ruin and his death,--selfishness, ambition, tyrannical severity, and a wild vanity, that led him to overestimate in all things his own abilities, and his own importance.
As they sat together at the table, for a time, the fairer points of the Duke's character were alone exhibited to his prisoners. He addressed De Montigni more than once, pressed Rose to partake of the meal before them, spoke of the events of the battle, and even lauded highly the skill and character of the King.--The young Baron deceived himself into the belief that these external signs of a high and noble nature, might be the genuine indications of the heart; and he resolved to cast himself upon his generosity, to explain to him the circumstances in which he stood, and to beseech him to refrain, at least for a short period, from placing Mademoiselle d'Albret in the power of those who were but too likely to misuse the opportunity. As if to check him in such purposes, almost the next moment, Nemours resumed towards him his haughty and overbearing manner; and thus he went on from time to time; at one moment appearing to forget that De Montigni was an adversary and a prisoner, and the next treating him almost as if he were a condemned criminal.
After the space of repose I have mentioned, the march towards Chartres was resumed, but the pace at which they proceeded was now slow; and before they reached that fair old town, the sun set in cloudless splendor, and the stars looked out in the sky. Weary, silent, anxious, and distressed, Rose d'Albret rode on, replying to the frequent attentions of Nemours with but a monosyllable, till at length they reached the gates, where they where detained during a few minutes; for the news of the defeat of Ivry had already reached the city, and all was anxious precaution to guard against surprise. At length the party was admitted; torches were procured at the Corps de Garde; and by their red and gloomy light, flashing upon the tall houses with their manifold small windows, the cavalcade wound on, through the narrow streets, towards the castle.
Intelligence of the arrival of the Duke of Nemours, had been sent on to the governor from the gates; and the outer court of the citadel was filled with gentlemen and officers when the party entered. Nemours dismounted from his horse as soon as he had given the word to halt; and, advancing to a stern-looking, middle-aged man, who seemed to be the chief of those present, he embraced him, saying,
"Well, Monsieur de la Bourdasières, I have come to you sooner than I expected. We have been badly served at Ivry; and the foreign troops have once more betrayed our confidence. However, I bring two prisoners with me--or at least one," he added, "for the lady is not a prisoner, and of her I will speak to you by and by, if you will have the goodness now to place her for the time under the protection of Madame de la Bourdasières."
The governor seemed to ask a question, which De Montigni did not hear; but Nemours replied, immediately, "Oh, yes, of the highest. It is Mademoiselle d'Albret, the daughter of the late Count de Marennes."
"Right willingly," replied the governor. "We will give her what poor entertainment we can;" and advancing with Nemours to the side of Rose's jennet, he assisted her to dismount, saying, "my wife will be most happy to entertain you, Mademoiselle d'Albret."
Rose turned an anxious look towards De Montigni, who sprang from his horse, and approaching her before any one could interfere, took her hand, saying, "I am rejoiced to find you placed under such protection, dearest Rose."
The governor turned a grave and inquiring look towards him; but De Montigni added, loud enough for all to hear, "Do not fear. The contract for our marriage, between your father and my uncle, cannot be broken, let them do what they will."
"Come, come, enough of this, Sir!" said the Duke of Nemours; and the governor, taking Rose by the hand, led her away into the castle.
"Monsieur de Nemours," said the young nobleman, as soon as she was gone, "I am your prisoner; and I cannot blame you for seizing the momentary advantage you had obtained, to make me so. I know the reputation of the Duke of Nemours too well to suppose, that he will show any want of courtesy toward one placed in such a situation; I, therefore, demand to be put to ransom, and that without farther delay, according to the common customs and usages of war."
Nemours gazed at him, for an instant, from head to foot, and then, turning on his heel, replied, "I will consider of it, Sir."
A sharp reply was springing to De Montigni's lips; but he repressed it, recollecting how much the fate of himself and one most dear to him, might depend upon the man to whom he was speaking. The colour came in his cheek, however; and he bit his lip to keep down the anger which could scarcely be suppressed, while Nemours, calling one of his gentlemen to him, gave some directions in a low tone.
"Take a parole from his servant," he said aloud, in conclusion, "and let him have free ingress and egress to wait upon his master. As to the chamber, speak with some of the people of Monsieur de la Bourdasières about it;" and then, turning round to De Montigni again, he added, "we shall meet to-morrow, Sir; in the mean time, good night."
Thus saying, he walked away and entered the castle, marshalled by some of the officers of the governor. De Montigni remained for a moment or two, while the followers of Nemours and the people assembled in the court conversed together round about him, in regard to the events of the day, and many an anxious inquiry was addressed to those who had shared in the battle, as to the course which it had taken, and the results which it was likely to produce. Each man answered according to his particular character and disposition. Some made light of it; asserted that it could scarcely be called a battle lost; that Mayenne was at the head of nearly as many men as ever; and that, though the enemy did possess the field, they had paid dearly for it. Others, more sincere, or more alarmed, acknowledged, that at last it had been a complete rout, that each had fled as best he could, and that the King was pursuing Mayenne, sword in hand, towards Mantes. Others contented themselves with a significant shrug of the shoulders, or a simple exclamation of anger and mortification; but, upon the whole, the governor's officers easily divined that a great victory had been won by the Royalists,--a terrible defeat sustained by their own party.
At length, the gentleman to whom Nemours had last spoken, and who had been conversing with another man at some distance, advanced towards De Montigni, saying, "Now, Monsieur le Baron, if you will follow me and Monsieur de la Haye, we will show you to your chamber.--Come hither," he continued, beckoning to De Montigni's servant who had been taken with him; "you can wait upon your master till he is ransomed, so you will see where he lodges;" and, leading the way with the officer to whom he had been speaking, he conducted the young nobleman into the castle. Following the walls which in those days were extensive, he approached a small detached building, which seemed to be used as a house of refreshment for the soldiery, or what we should, in the present day, call the canteen.
The lower story was thronged with men drinking and talking; but, walking through the passage, they reached a narrow and ill-constructed stairs, which led to some rooms above. In one of these was found a bed, a table, and a chair, all of the homeliest description. The casements were not in the best state of repair, and no curtains were there to keep out the glare of day or the winds of night. The walls were in the rough primeval state in which the hands of the mason had left them, and everything bore an aspect of misery and discomfort, not very consoling to the eyes of the captive.
This, he was informed, was to be his abode while he remained in the city of the Druids: and, well knowing that remonstrance was in vain, he seated himself in the solitary chair, while the officer of Nemours took the parole of his servant, and then, making a cold bow to the prisoner, retired.
De Montigni remained in silence, with his head resting on his hand, for a moment or two, while his follower gazed on him with a disconsolate countenance; but, at length, the man ventured to interrupt his master's reverie by saying, "This is a strange place to put you in, Sir. Not very civil,pardie, though you be a prisoner."
"The place matters little, my good friend," answered the young nobleman. "We slept in the Alps in worse abodes than this. It is the being a prisoner that makes the lodging bad--and at such a time too!" he added, with a bitter sigh, "when happiness was within my grasp; when the cause of the King was victorious; when another minute would have saved us both."
"'Twas unlucky indeed, Sir," said the servant. "They say fortune changes every seven years; God forbid that ours should last as long, for we have made a sad beginning in France. But, at all events, I will try to render the place somewhat more comfortable for you, Sir. Money will do anything in Chartres, as well as elsewhere."
"Would to Heaven it would get me out of it!" replied De Montigni. "He will never dare refuse to put me to ransom, surely?"
"I do not know, Sir," rejoined the man. "I have heard that, in these civil wars, they have done strange things; but, if he do, you must make your escape, Sir; and, as I was saying just now, money can do everything."
De Montigni shook his head, but he suffered the man to proceed as he thought fit to give the chamber an air of greater comfort. A sconce was brought up from below, to replace the solitary lamp which had been left by the officer; a piece of tapestry was obtained from some other quarter to cover the window; a bundle of rushes were found to strew the floor; a white sheet was spread over the bed, to cover the somewhat dirty furniture with which it had been previously decorated; and, thanks to the proximity of the canteen, wine and provisions of various kinds soon ornamented the table, which was covered with one of those fine white cloths for which, Le Grand assures us, France was at that time famous.
But, when the door opened and closed, De Montigni saw the figure of a soldier, either passing to and fro, or leaning on his partizan; and he felt bitterly that he was a prisoner, without power to alter the course of events which were taking place around him, to the destruction of all his hopes, to the frustration of those dreams of joy in which he had indulged but a few hours before. With the usual course of bitter and unavailing regret in a young and inexperienced mind, he reproached himself for not having done every act that might have averted the misfortune which had fallen upon him. He blamed himself for having joined the battle, when he had no occasion to do so; he forgot all the inducements and arguments to which his mind had yielded when he left Rose in the farm at Mainville, in order to share in the glories and the dangers of the field of Ivry. He next regretted that, anxious to bear her the first tidings of success, he had hurried back as soon as he saw the fight irretrievably turned against the Leaguers, and acknowledged that he ought to have gone on with the King in pursuit of the enemy.
He who knows by frequent trial the fallibility of human judgment, and how often the best calculations are proved false by the unexpected turns of fate, judges as surely as he can by the light of reason, acts resolutely when his decision is formed, and leaves the rest to the will of God, thanking Him who alone gives success, if his efforts prove effectual, bowing, without self-condemnation, if disappointment follows. But the young cannot do this; for it is the invariable fault of youth to attribute too much to human powers. We only discover their feebleness when we have tried them; and this is one of the first lessons of earthly existence, the great school wherein we learn, or, at least, may acquire, the knowledge that fits us for a higher state of being. The world is a school, and we are but school-boys, and all that we obtain is destined for another scene.
The night which De Montigni first passed as a prisoner, was without repose, as it well might be. Had his busy thoughts permitted sleep to visit his eyelids during the first five hours of the night, the noises which rose up from below would have effectually banished the gentle guest; but those sounds were hardly heard by the captive, and, long after his servant had left him, he sat and mused; now reviewing the past; now forming airy schemes for the future, destroyed as soon as raised; now pondering over the bitter present with unavailing anger and regret. Shortly after daylight, he was up and dressed; and, when his servant again appeared, he sent him at once to the Duke of Nemours to know when he would fix his ransom, according to the custom of the day. The answer was cold and formal, "That Monsieur de Nemours would see the Baron de Montigni in the course of the morning, and would then inform him of his intentions."
This was all that the man had been able to obtain; and, for many another impatient hour, De Montigni paced his narrow chamber, giving way to every dark and painful imagination, till, at length, a step, different from that of the guard at the door, was heard without, about an hour after noon, and the voice of the Duke of Nemours was instantly recognized by the prisoner, telling the soldier he might retire to the room below.
They were words of good augury to the young nobleman, who mentally said, "He comes to name my ransom;" and the impression was farther confirmed by the cheerful and courteous countenance of the Duke, who entered the moment after, more with the air of an old acquaintance than a captor.
"Well, Monsieur de Montigni," he said, "how have you passed the night? By heaven, they have assigned you but a paltry lodging here. 'Tis none of my doings this. La Bourdasière should have known better."
"The lodging matters little, my Lord," answered De Montigni, "it is the imprisonment that is painful;" and, resolved to follow the determination he had formed the day before, and cast himself and Rose upon the generosity of the Duke, he added. "Nor is it my own captivity that is the most grievous to me. It is the imprisonment of the lady you found with me."
"But she is not a prisoner, Monsieur de Montigni," replied Nemours; "therein you have made a mistake."
"She is worse than a prisoner, my Lord Duke," said the young nobleman, "if you send her back to the Château of Marzay.--Nay, hear me out, my Lord. I have ever heard that the Duke of Nemours is the flower of the French nobility for chivalrous generosity. His name has reached me even in Italy, where I have so long sojourned, and if when I entered France I had been asked on whom I would soonest rely for aid and protection in any honourable enterprise, I should have answered, 'on Monsieur de Nemours.' Now, my Lord, I will tell you the plain truth regarding the situation of myself and Mademoiselle d'Albret, and if your own heart will suffer you to send her back to the captivity in which she is held at Marzay, I am much mistaken."
He then proceeded to relate the circumstances in which he had found Rose on his return from Italy; the arts that had been employed to deceive them both; and the recourse which they had had to flight as the only means of delivering the lady from the position in which they had placed her. Nemours listened with a varying countenance, but without any interruption. At one moment De Montigni thought he was touched; at another, a heavy frown came upon his brow; at another, a look of impatience passed over his face, as if he were tired of the tale; and when the young nobleman had ended, he replied in an indifferent tone--"All very lamentable, Monsieur de Montigni; but still, unless you were prepared to subscribe to the Holy Catholic Union, I should not be justified in retaining Mademoiselle d'Albret from her guardian. Even if you were, indeed, it would still be a consideration whether the long services of Monsieur de Chazeul would not require us to bestow the hand of the lady upon him, rather than upon a fresh and uncertain convert."
"What!" exclaimed De Montigni, hastily, "the contract with her father, her own inclination, and my undoubted right to count for nothing!"
"I am no lawyer," answered Nemours coldly; "I know no thing of contracts. If you think yourself injured in regard to that matter, the courts are open to you."
"Nay, nay, Monsieur de Nemours," cried De Montigni. "Do not, for your own good name's sake, treat the matter in such a tone! Do not sanction, by the approval of the Duke of Nemours, a line of conduct which you must feel has been most base and dishonourable!"
The Duke coloured. "Well, Sir," he answered, "I will not sanction it. If all the circumstances be as you say, wrong has been done. But I am very sorry, I cannot help it now. A different statement of the affairs has been made to me in letters from Chazeul; and, to end all in one word, the lady is already far on her way towards Marzay."
De Montigni started and gazed on him with a stern and angry brow. "And you have really done this thing?" he asked.
"I have," replied Nemours, returning his glance with one of equal fire.
"Then, probably," said De Montigni, in a tone of bitter calmness, "Monsieur de Nemours is prepared still farther to favour his friend's honest and honourable proceedings by retaining the lady's affianced husband in prison, and refusing to put him to ransom, as is customary amongst gentleman in honourable warfare? Pray let me know my fate at once."
"No, Sir," answered the Duke, "I do not intend to do any such thing. I propose to set you free as soon as possible, either by exchange or ransom, for the very purpose of suffering you to pursue your claims to this lady's hand as you may think fit. There is one little preliminary, indeed, but that is a trifle which will be soon arranged."
"That is like the Duke of Nemours again," exclaimed De Montigni, warmly. "What is the amount of ransom you demand?"
"Name it yourself, Monsieur de Montigni," replied Nemours.
"Will twenty thousand livres suffice?" asked the young Baron.
"Fully!" said Nemours.
"Then they shall be yours with as much speed as can be used," replied De Montigni. "You will give me a messenger to my intendant at Montigni, who has more than enough in his hands to discharge the sum at once."
"Nay, I will do more," said Nemours, "I will set you free, to seek it yourself, and send it when you can.--Your time may be valuable to you just now; and heaven forbid that I should detain you."
"Now you are generous indeed, my Lord," answered De Montigni, "and my best thanks and gratitude are yours for ever."
"There is, however, one little preliminary," continued Nemours, in a somewhat dry tone; "which we must settle before you go."
"I suppose you mean a bond or engagement to pay the ransom?" said De Montigni.
"Not so, my young friend," answered Nemours with a bitter smile. "You will have the kindness to recollect, that yesterday on the pleasant banks of the Eure, at a place I believe called the ford of Mainville, you thought fit to charge me with want of courtesy towards a lady. Now such charges should not be made lightly, and you have, moreover, by your conduct since--though not exactly in the same words--implied that you sustained that charge. The Duke of Nemours, Sir, lies under imputation from no man living; and, therefore, waving the privileges of his rank, as a Prince of a Sovereign house, he is ready to wipe it out in your blood without farther delay."
"Ah, Monsieur de Nemours," said De Montigni, "can you so tarnish the bright generosity you displayed just now, by--"
But Nemours waved his hand. "No more, Sir," he said, "no more! Arguments on such subjects are vain. The man who submits to insult, is a coward. You have heard what I have said. I pray you give me an answer."
"Assuredly, my Lord," replied De Montigni, "I am happy that I have some privileges too to wave, in order in some degree to put me on a level with so high a Prince."
"Indeed, Sir!" said Nemours, in a tone of some surprise; "may I inquire what they are?"
"Those of a prisoner, my Lord," answered the young Baron, calmly. "It is an old law of honour and arms, that no prisoner or person under ransom, can receive a challenge from any man, much less from his captor. Nor is he bound to take the slightest notice of such an invitation, the shame, if there be any insult or provocation given, resting upon the giver." Nemours coloured; but De Montigni proceeded: "This, my Lord Duke, is the privilege that I now wave, to gratify you; but it is upon condition, that I name the terms and circumstances of our combat."
"Assuredly," replied Nemours, "that you have a right to demand. What are the terms?"
"Somewhat numerous, my Lord," replied De Montigni. After a moment's thought, "First, that we fight without the town; next that our combat be restricted to one pistol shot on each side; next, which is absolutely necessary, my time being precious as you justly said but now, that we be without seconds; for, as perhaps you are aware, I have no friends in this town.[2]Moreover, taking you at your word, I will request you in all courtesy to give me under your hand a passport to come and go, in return for which, I will give you a bond for the amount of the ransom, and by your permission, will send my servant, who is with me, to bring it at once from Montigni."
"Agreed, agreed," cried Nemours, with a well-pleased air. "But you have forgotten to name the time, Monsieur de Montigni. I am at your disposal to-morrow, the next day, the day after,--the day following that I must quit Chartres."
De Montigni smiled: "I hope to quit it to-day, Monsieur de Nemours," he replied. "It may take half-an-hour to have the ransom bond drawn; as long, perhaps, for me to buy a pistol, for you know that I was unarmed when you made me prisoner. Say half-an-hour more for any other unexpected impediment; and then I am at your service."
De Nemours embraced him as if he had done him the greatest favour, for such was the spirit of those times; and then calling to the guard from below, he discharged him from his task, bidding him bring materials for writing, as speedily as possible. "I will save you the trouble of purchasing pistols, Monsieur de Montigni," he continued; "you shall have one of mine; and there are no better in all France."
"You do me honour, Sir," replied De Montigni, "and I accept your offer with gratitude; but you must name our place of meeting, as I am unacquainted with this locality."
"There is a stone cross," said Nemours, "little more than a quarter of a league from the Porte Drouaise: it is so far on your way; and there is a convenient field hard by, where we can have room to turn our horses. Yours is somewhat weary I fear from yesterday's exertions, but mine is not less so, so that there will be no inequality."
Everything was soon arranged. The pistols were sent for, the ransom bond drawn up, the passport given, the signature of La Bourdasière obtained to it; and, as nearly three-quarters of an hour yet remained of the appointed time, to which the Duke determined to be very punctual, he ordered refreshments to be brought up into the chamber of De Montigni, and there, talking gaily over a thousand indifferent subjects, passed half-an-hour as if he were occupied by no thoughts but those of peace and pleasure. De Montigni on his part did his best to maintain the same tone, and played his part as well as might be; but he was less accustomed to such transactions than his companion; and his thoughts would revert from time to time to Rose d'Albret, and a cloud of care would settle on his brow.
As time wore by, and the appointed hour approached, the Duke called to the people below, and ordered his horse to be brought from the stables of the castle. Then turning to De Montigni he added, "I think, as you are not acquainted with the spot, it may be as well if I conduct you thither myself; but in the first place, dispatch your servant on his errand. I will take care that none of mine follow us; and your horse can be brought round, after he is gone."
De Montigni made no objection, and the plan proposed was pursued. Nemours left his young companion for a few minutes, to make the arrangements necessary to guard against interruption; and, during the time that he was thus left alone, De Montigni wrote a few hasty lines to Rose d'Albret, telling her of the circumstances in which he was placed, and bidding her farewell, if he should fall. The letter was hardly sealed, when Nemours returned; and now that it was arranged they were to go forth for the purpose of taking each others' lives in deadly combat, he was all courtesy and urbanity, according to the customs of the day; and, to have heard his words, or to have witnessed his demeanour, one would have supposed that De Montigni was a dear and intimate friend, or perhaps a younger brother. Each charged the pistol of the other, each opened his pourpoint, to show that he had no secret, or coat of mail beneath; and then, after some ceremonies as to who should first descend the stairs, the Duke of Nemours led the way. Mounting their horses, which they found, held by some of the soldiers, at the door, they rode together towards the gates of the citadel. Several of the gentlemen attached to the Duke of Nemours were assembled near the bridge, and De Montigni thought that there were somewhat grave and even angry looks upon their countenances, which might indicate, that they were not quite so ignorant of the object of his companion and himself, as they affected to be. A little further on, at the outer gate, Monsieur de la Bourdasière came out of the guard house, and approaching the horse of the Duke of Nemours, spoke to him for a moment, in a low tone.
"Not if you value the friendship of Nemours," replied the Duke sternly. "The man who interferes in the slightest degree, is my enemy from that hour."
Thus saying he rode on; and passing the gates of Chartres, they advanced for some way along the road to Dreux, till at length the stone cross which the Duke had mentioned appeared in sight, and dismounting from their horses they knelt before it, and prayed for some moments in silence. Then mounting again, they took their way across the plain, till they had lost sight of the cross, it being considered, in those days, improper to commit murder in the neighbourhood of that symbol of salvation, although, with the heart full of every passion and every purpose condemned by Christ, they would kneel and pray, as they passed under the cross of him, who died to bring peace upon earth, good-will amongst men. Then choosing an open field by the bank of the river, the Duke made his companion a low bow, and wheeled his horse, saying, "Here, Monsieur de Montigni, we shall have space enough. We fire as we pass; and mind your aim be good!"
De Montigni bowed in return, and took his ground at the opposite side of the field.