It was with a feeling of some gladness that, after a long and, to my fair Louise, somewhat fatiguing march, I at length saw the camp of the Reformed army occupying a position not very different from that in which it had been placed when I left it. The convenience of the troops had of course been consulted, and the greater part of the army had been put into quarters, either in the town of Loudun, or in the villages round about. Three or four of these villages to the southeast of Loudun had indeed been converted into a sort of detached camp, being united by long lines of tents, which served the soldiery for many of the occupations of the day; and here I saw the colours of the Prince de Condé hurrying about, so that it was to the centre of this part of the army that I directed my progress, knowing that there my own tents and baggage would be found.
The frost was somewhat less intense, and the sun shining clear and bright, when my little cavalcade approached a battery of three small pieces of artillery which defended the principal entrance of the village that formed the centre. It was a gay and cheerful scene; strife for a time had ceased, and the soldiers were amusing themselves, as best they might, in various manners, though just on the outside of the camp the amusements that were going on were certainly all of an athletic kind, for it needed the most robust exercise to make the blood circulate freely in the terrible cold of that year. A considerable number of officers and gentlemen were gathered together near the battery I have spoken of, looking out over the wintry scene before them; and as my coming formed a little incident in the somewhat monotonous life they had led for the last two days, five or six of those who knew me came forth to shake hands, and to congratulate me on my safe return.
"Well, fortunate De Cerons," cried one, looking somewhat earnestly at Louise, who had drawn the veil down over her whole head and face as we approached, "You have made a fair booty, as usual."
He spoke with a smile, but I replied, "I sent all the booty that I did get back to the camp the day before yesterday; but all that was found was in the enemy's tents, I believe. I have been lucky enough, however, to rescue my fair cousin, Mademoiselle de Blancford, from the hands of the Catholics, who had taken her prisoner; so I must see where I can find some sort of comfortable quarters. You have no idea, Monsieur de Luze, where my people are with the baggage?"
"Oh, the Prince de Condé has taken especial good care of you," said the other, laughing; "he has given you the house of a fat farmer there up at the end of the village, and a cottage close by it for your people. Montgomery wanted it, and half a dozen others; but he said you had done him as much service that night by your army of baggage-wagons on the hill as if you had brought him up ten thousand men; and therefore, having sent you to follow the enemy, he would be your quartermaster himself."
I thanked him for his information, and was riding on, but another officer stopped me, putting his hand upon the bridle, and asking, "Do you always go to war, brave De Cerons, with afemme-de-chambrein your suite!"
My cheek began to glow, for I thought he had applied that term to Louise: but he added immediately, "I do not know whether you are aware of it, but three or fourfemmes-de-chambre, with five or six blue-nosed serving-men, and a good old clergyman, who preached us an excellent sermon yesterday, have taken possession of your quarters, right or wrong, though the prince refused them to me and to Montgomery."
"That is your father's servants, and La Tour, and your own woman, Louise," I said. "We must ride on and find them out. They will all be right glad to see you safe."
But I was destined to be stopped once more; for one of the officers I had just passed called after me as the troop rode in, "Hi, De Cerons! Hi! Where did you get this that the man is carrying? Why, it is Martigue's own cornet!"
"It is his no longer," I answered: "but the fact is, I beat up their quarters in their camp last night. They came out after me, and we drove them back again, taking their cornet."
"You are certainly the luckiest man in the camp," cried another. But, without waiting for any more observations, I rode on as quickly as possible towards the house which had been indicated as my quarters. It proved, however, that eager eyes had been looking for my return; and, before I had reached the farmhouse, good La Tour was out and through the little gate of the courtyard to meet me. The old man's face sparkled with joy when he saw me, but ten times more when he saw Louise along with me; and he exclaimed, embracing me as closely as my iron covering would permit, "I should never do for a soldier, my dear Henry, I should never do for a soldier. I have been more anxious than you can conceive; every half hour, every moment, I thought that it was either you returned, or some one to say that you had been killed or wounded."
"Oh, you would soon forget such things, my good friend," said I. "But, dear La Tour, here is a poor girl who wants not a little comfort and consolation; so I will leave her with you for one hour, to tell her own story and mine too, and go and repeat my proceedings to the Prince de Condé."
"Ay, you must do so quickly," replied the old man: "for I hear he sets out for Niort either this night or early to-morrow morning. But I will take care of this dear child till you come back, and--see, here comes Marguelette to welcome her mistress."
While Marguelette was literally shrieking with joy and surprise, I gave orders to Moric Endem to lodge the men, and to entertain the horse arquebusiers who had been our companions, at my expense, and then, with a boy to guide me, and one of my troop, carrying the cornet we had taken, behind me, I hurried on with all speed to an old sort of chateau, called themanoir, where the prince had taken up his quarters. There were people hurrying about the place, preparing, it seemed, for departure; but, on my being admitted, I found him sitting calmly with De Luze, who had joined him, and given the news of my return before my appearance, together with the famous Montgomery, better known for accidentally killing Henry II., king of France, than for all the bold, gallant, and chivalrous actions he performed, and one or two other gentlemen, all of whom looked as merry as might be.
"You left us laughing as heartily as we could, Monsieur de Cerons," said the prince, "over the affair of the valets and the baggage-wagons, and your most excellent and successful stratagem. One of Monsieur de Coligny's band took an officer attached to the Duke of Anjou, and from him we have learned that the sight of that third camp, and a skirmish which took place in front of it towards morning, was the absolute cause of the enemy decamping in such haste. But how have you fared since you went! We have taken care of you, you see, in your absence."
"Why, I have fared extremely well, sir," I replied; "and have brought you a cornet which we took, and which some one says is Martigue's."
"Oh, it cannot be Martigue's," cried the Prince de Condé. "He would have charged to regain it if it had cost him his life."
"But it was not taken in the pursuit," I said: "it was taken last night. I determined to give them analerteon their right wing, and was in their camp for some minutes."
"Are you mad, De Cerons?" exclaimed the Prince de Condé. "Why, gentlemen, I thought I was the maddest man in the army, and this good youth is determined to outdo me, it seems. Give them analerte, too, with less than a hundred and fifty men! Pray how many did you bring back?"
"Every one I took, your highness," I replied, "and but with one slight wound among them. It seems lucky that I have brought back Martigue's cornet, or I should not get credit for my tale, however simple it might be."
"Oh, you have full credit," replied the Prince de Condé; "and I was proposing now, as the only reward that could be given you for your service three nights ago, to arm you a knight at once; but Montgomery asked me to stop a day or two."
"May I ask why?" I demanded, turning towards Montgomery with some surprise.
"With no ill meaning, I can assure you, Monsieur de Cerons," replied Montgomery. "I thought, if you were knighted for that exploit, the wags of the court would call you the knight of the valets.
"They must give him another name now, however," replied the Prince de Condé; "there lie the spurs, and he shall have them on his heels this night. They may then call him the ChevalierAlerte, if they like."
I thanked the prince, as may easily be supposed: for I imagine the time never was, and am certain it never will be, when any man of honour and of courage could feel the touch of the knightly sword upon his shoulder without sensations of joy and redoubled energy. I thought fit, in the first place, however, to let his highness know upon what occasion I had so boldly entered the enemy's camp, lest the personal object that conducted me there might be considered as a diminution of any honour attached to the act. I accordingly gave a full account of the whole transaction, which seemed, indeed, rather to augment than decrease the approbation of the prince. He paused and mused for some time, however, over the refusal of the Baron de Blancford to seize the opportunity of escape.
"It has long been reported," he said at length, "that the baron is wavering in his faith both to God and to his fellows in arms. On my honour! it were but right to detain this fair lady as a hostage for her father's conduct. What say you, De Cerons?" he added, with a smile: "Will you be her guardian?"
"I beseech your highness," I replied, "not to think of such a thing. Indeed, I intended to ask that your highness would send a flag to the Catholic camp to inquire whether the Baron de Blancford is detained there as a prisoner or not, and to demand that, if he be not there as a captive, a safe conduct may immediately be granted to his daughter and his domestics now in this camp, in order that they may join him without farther delay. I will, at the same time, write to him, explaining the cause of his daughter's temporary absence; and I trust that your highness will not refuse me this request."
"Certainly not, De Cerons," replied the prince. "But, if I do write, you must not expect me to spare your good cousin, for his conduct has been most base in the whole of this affair, and he must hear that we consider it such."
"Oh, in that matter be it as your highness pleases," I replied; "I have neither wish, nor reason to wish, that he should be spared; though perhaps, my lord, there may be causes for his conduct that we do not know."
"So shall it be, then, De Cerons. I will give the order this night. But, by my faith! you must see to the execution of it yourself, for I set out to-morrow morning, two hours before daylight, for Niort, Where I have business enough to do, in all conscience, during the five or six days that I shall be absent, to wring money from hard-handed usurers, and assistance from that great but stony-hearted woman, Elizabeth of England, who sees right willingly the internal feuds of France, but will give no aid to those whose part she pretends to espouse till they are driven to the last extremity."
"I had hoped, sir," I replied, "from what I heard from good Martin Vern, the merchant, that your highness was likely to obtain some supplies more easily."
"He has done somewhat, he has done somewhat," replied the prince; "and he deals liberally himself; but he is obliged to negotiate on my part with Jews and Lombards innumerable, and he has now gone to Paris with but small hope of getting their bills discounted except at exorbitant interest."
The news of Martin Vern having quitted the camp without giving me any acknowledgment whatever for the money he had received from me, was, as may be imagined, not very satisfactory to me; and I remained musing for a moment or two, while the prince wrote the order that I had demanded, and made some memorandums in regard to what was to be done in carrying it into execution.
"Come, De Cerons," he said, in a light tone, after he had done, "you seem sad, my good friend. Kneel down here. We will make a knight of you before we part, as young knights, they say, are always gay-hearted. Condé shall strike the stroke, Montgomery shall buckle on the spurs, and, lo! where comes D'Andelot, who was dubbed by the hand of the great Francis himself on his first field of battle, to buckle on the sword."
Certainly it could scarcely be by hands more distinguished that the ceremonies of knighthood were performed, and I might well go back to my quarters with a heart rejoicing in having taken a step far higher than any I had previously reached in the career which I had chosen for myself. Out of the small stock that remained to me, I gave a hundred crowns among the men as a largesse on my knighthood, and then immediately sought the room in the farmhouse where Louise had remained in conversation with good old La Tour and Dame Marguelette. Their rejoicing for her arrival had by this time poured itself forth, and they now all gathered round me with the strange mixture of feelings which I knew existed in their bosoms, causing an odd confusion of manner, which can only be understood when we recollect that those who now surrounded me remembered me chiefly as a boy--even as a child, whom they had been accustomed to direct, exhort, and to control, and that now the very same people found that child commanding, providing for, and protecting them with a tone of independence and authority, and proofs of power and right strangely opposed to all their former ideas.
The old pastor, though he certainly did not look upon me still as a boy, could scarcely understand how the men that he saw around me came to pay such instant deference to my orders; how one waited for my casque, another took off my cuirass, another came to me for one direction, and another on something else; and Dame Marguelette, for her part, would, I believe, willingly have patted my head when the helmet was taken off, and she saw again the brown curls that she used to twine round her fingers in my infancy. Louise alone seemed fully to look upon me as a man and a commander; but we must remember that on my arm had she leaned from her own childhood; that I had not only been her companion, but her counsellor and her protector; and that, side by side with my greater strength and powers, she had grown up like a violet under some taller shrub, shaded but sheltered.
I found good old La Tour thoughtful, very thoughtful; and at the meal which ensued, I remarked that he frequently laid down his knife and spoon, and fell into a deep revery. Louise, on the contrary, was bright and happy, full of joy and satisfaction at being once more amid those whom she loved best; and though, ever since the preceding night, a slight shade of timidity--timidity shall I call it? no, it was not timidity, nor exactly tenderness perhaps, but a depth, a profundity, a feelingness of tone--mingled with all she said to me. Though the colour in her cheek became somewhat brighter, and her eye acquired a calm intensity of look when she spoke to me long upon any interesting subject, yet it was evident that the change in her feelings towards me was, if I may use the term, less complete, even though greater, than with the two others; she beheld me with sensations which were only the expansion of what had gone before; they saw me under a point of view altogether altered; I saw the change in her, perhaps, in one little trait more than in anything else.
With natural, vanity I happened, during the meal, to mention that the Prince de Condé--at that time the great hero of the Protestant party--had just conferred upon me the order of knighthood with his own hand. Louise started up with her eyes and her cheeks all glowing, and with a look of joy and delight that can never pass from my mind. The tears of deep satisfaction were almost overflowing her eyes, and the words of congratulation were almost overpowering to her; but she sat down again immediately, and only held out her hand to me. The time had been when she would have cast her arms around my neck, and kissed me while she wished me joy.
After supper I went round the quarters which had been assigned to me, and concluded all my arrangements; and Louise, fatigued as she had been during the preceding night and day, retired to rest soon after my return. Dame Marguelette, and one of the maids who had been with her, slept in the same chamber, and retired at the same time; and good old La Tour and I were left alone. I was certainly altogether unprepared for the conversation that was to ensue.
"Henry," he said, as soon as we were quite alone and the door shut, "Henry, I am anxious for you and for Louise, most anxious for Louise." And, as he spoke, there was a sad and foreboding look about his eyes which showed that the anxiety that he spoke of was deeper than the lips.
"Indeed!" I replied, with a thousand vague and unreal fears excited in a moment: "and what makes you so anxious, my dear friend? Why are you troubled, La Tour? I have seen, indeed, that it was so all supper-time, though I knew not why."
"Oh Henry," cried the old man, "does not your own heart tell you why? Do not your own feelings at this moment?"
"No, indeed, my dear sir," I replied, "I have no such feelings at all, no such sensations; I know not what you allude to. It might, perhaps, be wrong to bring Louise away, and I would not have done it if there had been any choice. But she must have explained to you that it was done without my knowing it, and, once done, impossible to take her back."
"It is not that at all, it is not that at all, Henry," replied La Tour; "it is--it is," he continued, hesitating, "it is that you love Louise, Henry, and that," he paused for a moment or two, and then added, "it is useless to conceal it; you know it already; you guess it, you see it, even if she have not acknowledged it to you with her own lips; it is that you love Louise, Henry, and that she loves you."
I might have replied that it was quite natural that it should be so; I might have replied that we had always loved each other, and that he knew it; but I would not have equivocated with that straightforward, honest, kind-hearted old man for the world, and I therefore answered him. "Is that the cause, my good friend, why you are so grieved? In truth, I see not why it should so grieve you; nothing can be more natural than that it should be as it is. I affect not to deny that I love Louise to the full extent of your meaning. Whether she loves me or not--though I do believe and hope she does--I can in no degree tell, for we never have spoken to each other on such a theme; but, even taking it for granted that she does, where is the terrible evil which should make our best and oldest friend look sad, and evidently feel pained, to behold two people, to whom he has been a father indeed, love each other mutually, dearly, and well?"
"It is because I love you both," replied La Tour. "You have been frank and honest with me, Henry, and your confidence shall never be ill-rewarded, shall never be betrayed. But, oh, my son! how little do you yet know of the world's ways! You may have some small experience in arms; you may divine what other men learn of the military art; but of the world, Henry, of the world, you as yet know little, or you would at once see what it is that grieves me in your mutual love; what it is that will render it nothing but misery to you both. Say, Henry, what is it that you can expect, but that you should see the hand of Louise bestowed upon some other man when her heart is yours? What is then to be the result?"
"But, my dear friend," I replied, "let me ask you, in return, one question. Why may I not obtain that hand myself?"
"You, Henry! you!" exclaimed the good pastor; "that, indeed, is a vain imagination! Can you entertain it for a moment? Do you think her father, wealthy, powerful, proud, will wed her to one who has nothing but his sword to depend upon, however good that sword may be? Ask yourself, is such a thing probable? is it possible?"
"At present, certainly not," I replied; "but Louise is still young, quite in her youth. I have already been successful in an extraordinary degree; why may I not, step by step, advance in the same course, till a high point, both of fame and of wealth, is obtained? Why may not I, though without the birth of a Condé indeed, raise myself as high as he has done, who set out in life poorer even for a prince than I am for a gentleman! Why may not I build up a new house, like my great ancestor, the Count de Cerons, who founded the noble house to which I belong with nothing but his sword?"
"True, he did so," replied La Tour, "and you may do the same; but recollect, Henry, that your grandfather alienated the estates and barony of Blancford to a younger brother, to support the cause for which he fought; that your father did the same, and that the trade of war, like every other trade, is now great gain, and now heavy loss, but with this difference, that accident in war mingles in a tenfold proportion, and that it is a game in which there is always an important and heavy chance against the player. But, granting that fortune favours you to the utmost and to the end; that you acquire wealth, honour, and distinction; granting, too--which may well be granted--that Louise would willingly wait till all this was accomplished, think you that her father will wait? think you that he will patiently reserve his daughter for one towards whom he cannot help feeling respect and esteem, but for whom he has shown no great affection throughout the whole course of his life? Can you say, Henry, to put it in one word, can you say that he will not to-morrow promise the hand of Louise to another? can you be sure that he has not already promised it?"
There was something in the old man's manner which seemed to imply more than his words expressed; and, determined to come to the point at once, I rose and took his hand in mine. "What is it you mean, La Tour?" I said. "There is something you would warn me of; there is something upon your mind. Speak out--speak plainly. We have always been honest and true towards each other; let us be so, I beseech you, still."
"There is no reason why I should not be so toward you," replied La Tour; "No pledge has been extorted from me, no promise of secrecy has ever been asked. The baron, then, does destine Louise's hand to another. He has even, I believe, promised it."
His words fell like drops of molten fire upon my heart; they were agony to me; they were beyond all agony I had ever felt before. "To whom?" I said, "To whom?"
"To the Seigneur de Blaye," replied the good clergyman; "a Catholic, a persecutor, an enemy to the faith that we ourselves profess, but wealthy, powerful, handsome, brave, nobly connected--"
I stamped my foot angrily upon the ground, exclaiming, "A libertine, a debauchee, a sot, and a fool!"
"Indeed!" exclaimed the clergyman. "But how do you know all this, Henry de Cerons? Let not jealousy, my son, ever tempt you to take away the reputation of another; there is a great commandment against it. How can you know all this? I demand, Henry."
"Because," I replied, "he was my prisoner and my guest for several days, and during that time he lived a life of folly, intemperance, and vice, which would have shamed the lowest debauchee in the most corrupt capital of Europe."
"Alas! alas!" said the old clergyman, "you now do make me tenfold unhappy, indeed, Henry. I know you would not pervert the truth on any account, and yet I would fain believe that this terrible tale might be untrue."
"It is as true as I live!" I replied, vehemently. "Does Louise herself know of this proposed marriage? Has she ever seen the man they seek to make her wed?"
"Never," replied La Tour; "Nor does she know aught of it. He is distantly related to the baroness. She, doubtless, has managed the whole; and all I know is, that, on the application of this young lord, the baron replied that his daughter was still too young to wed, or even to think of marriage. What more he added I know not, but I understood that expectations, if not promises, were given."
"They are promises that shall never be fulfilled!" I replied, seating myself more calmly at the table. "He shall never marry Louise de Blancford, were he as wealthy as an Indian king!"
"How so?" demanded the good pastor. "Think what you say, my son, think what you say. What should stay him, Henry de Cerons?"
"This right hand," I replied, pressing it firmly on the table; "and now, my good father, in this business I must act without control. Willingly will I ask your advice, willingly will I listen to your counsels, but I must determine upon the results myself; and remember, in anything that passes between us on this subject, or anything connected therewith, as a friend, as a preceptor, as a monitor, I expect, and shall receive your assistance whenever it agrees with your own views of right and wrong to give it; and as a Christian pastor and an honest man, I expect the most profound secrecy in all things. I know that with you I shall have no double dealing or prevarication, no pious frauds, as I might expect among the priests of our enemies and persecutors."
"But what do you propose to do, Henry?" demanded the pastor. "What am I to suppose are your intentions?"
"I know not as yet, good friend," I replied, "and I even now hesitate whether to tell Louise at once what are my changed feelings towards her, and to ascertain what are her feelings towards me, or to leave matters to take their course."
"Nor know I well what to advise, my son," replied La Tour. "It is woful and terrible to think that one so beautiful, so pure, so innocent, should be forced to wed one of a different creed, who, in the very first instance, will doubtless pervert, or try to pervert, her religious principles, and then, perhaps, the purity of her mind; who will ultimately neglect, abandon, perhaps ill-treat her, and who will never, can never make her happy. It is a sad fate, De Cerons, a sad and terrible fate, especially for one who loves another."
"Can I feel certain that she loves me?" I said, more musing than questioning the good man.
"Enough to make her unhappy with another, am I very sure," replied La Tour; "and that is one reason, Henry, why I am almost inclined to counsel you to speak with her on the subject of your mutual affection. She may feel deeply that she loves you, but may not discover how much till she has become the bride of another. I, of course, can never counsel her to disobey her father, unless I were to see, beyond all doubt and casuistry, that her soul's salvation was endangered by it; but I think there might be a safeguard in knowing her own feelings towards you and yours towards her, which might guide her rightly even where I dare not counsel and you scarcely dare act--I know not, Henry--yet I know not."
"I will think of it, my good friend," I replied, "I will think of it often during the night; and I will endeavour, as far as possible, to cast away every selfish consideration; so fare you well for this evening, for I have duties that now call upon me."
I passed the most anxious and most restless night that I ever yet had known in life. New feelings had got possession of my heart, strong, violent, irresistible and thoughtful, watchful, unreposing, my mind remained active with many bitter and painful images, and with many wild and anxious thoughts. My determination, however, was taken ere I rose the following morning, nor was it taken without full consideration of the circumstances under which I was to act. Had my cousin's conduct towards me, I asked myself, been such as to lay me under any bond of gratitude or tie of honour to sacrifice calmly all my own hopes of happiness in life, while at the same time I saw sacrificed the peace, the comfort, the temporal, perhaps the eternal repose of the being I most loved on all the earth? The answer was plain and straightforward; there was no such tie: and then, again, I thought of the baroness--not the second wife, but the first--of her who had been a mother to me--more than a mother; and I asked myself how all that I owed to her ought to affect my conduct towards her child. That, too, was soon determined. I felt a consciousness that I could make Louise happy, that I could secure her peace and comfort, and that, if fortune were but added, there could be no danger or difficulty, no pain or anxiety within the common range of probabilities, that I could not guard her from and protect her against.
Was there anything, therefore, in the deep feelings of gratitude and love which I experienced towards the dead, which should forbid my making the attempt so to protect and shield the child of her who had conferred so many benefits upon me? Was it not rather what I owed her, to endeavour, as far as Heaven gave me power, to prevent my poor Louise from being driven into a union with one who could make her only wretched; the pure tied to the impure, the innocent to the corrupt? Again the answer was--yes!
No one can say, when he argues with his own heart on a question where all its deepest feelings are interested--no one can say that simple, straightforward reason alone dictates the reply; nor can I say that it was so in the present instance. But still I had done my best to make it do so. I believed that I was right; I believed that there could scarcely be any farther question of what my conduct ought to be; and I determined, therefore, to tell Louise of how I loved her; to inform her of my hopes and wishes for the future; not, indeed, to bind her by any promises, but to open her eyes, to satisfy myself as to the feelings of her heart, and then to leave her native strength of mind, her resolution and her love, to do the rest.
With this resolution I rose at daybreak on the following morning. It was a clear, bright, cheerful day, and on my going my early rounds, I found the soldier charged to bear the flag of truce, with letters from the Prince de Condé to the Duke of Anjou, waiting for my farther orders. I instantly sat down and wrote the letter which I had promised to the Baron de Blancford, explaining in few and brief words what had happened in regard to Louise, expressing my grief that she had been subjected to some inconvenience and fatigue, but making no excuse or apology whatever for an event which I did not think required any.
Having done this and despatched the messenger, I made some farther inquiries concerning the state of the army, perceiving that a large body of troops were moving to the left from the spot which had been assigned to us for our quarters, leaving only five or six hundred men in the hamlet. I now found that the troops I saw marching were destined to take up their quarters nearer Loudun, in order to strengthen the centre of the position, as a violent fever had broken out among the soldiers from Provence, which had occasioned a mortality of nearly two thousand men within a few days.
Our little hamlet was now comparatively deserted; a number of the officers had gone to Niort with the Prince de Condé; and though Montgomery remained in the command, he was the only man of any consequence left.
After occupying myself with various military avocations, I returned, and found the rest of my little household up and waiting for me. Good old La Tour looked at me with grave and thoughtful eyes; but Louise had risen refreshed and beautiful as the morning; and had there been any doubt or irresolution remaining in my mind, I do not believe that it would have resisted those bright looks. There was no irresolution, however, and immediately after our morning meal was over, I said,
"Come, Louise, the day is most beautiful; good Marguelette here will doubtless find you some better head-gear than that with which you travelled through that terrible cold night, and I will take you round the camp, to let you see more of the military world than perhaps you have ever seen yet."
Marguelette assured me that almost all the young lady's wardrobe was within immediate reach, for that the baron had gone off so hastily, he had taken little enough for the journey with him. Louise, therefore, was soon equipped for her walk, and, leaning fondly on my arm, she went forth, walking with me from post to post for about half an hour. Not knowing what was in my heart, she might, doubtless, wonder at the fits of silent thoughtfulness into which I fell, and, beginning to think that all went not well with me, she asked, with the sweetest and tenderest tones of her sweet and tender voice, what made me so sad, and why I did not tell my own Louise. I replied that I would tell her presently, and, walking forth out of the hamlet, I led her past the old manoir, where the Prince de Condé had made his abode for a time, up the slope of the hill to a little wood of tall fir-trees, whose ever-green tops spread out till they met each other, although the bolls below were far apart, suffering the clear rays of the low winter sun to stream in over the red and yellow leaves which had fallen from the branches above, and thickly strewed the ground beneath. The day, indeed, was as bright as summer, and it was cheerful and refreshing too; but there was something which told that it was not summer; something in the aspect of the whole scene which gave a shade of thoughtfulness, if I may so call it, even to the brightness of the morning. The blades of grass upon the sides of the hill were all shining as if they had been decorated with gems; but one saw and felt that, like the blaze of light upon many another gem, the sunshine fell upon nothing but frostwork, and that everything was cold and frozen underneath. There was now no fog upon the ground, and through the clear, calm air the church of Loudun and various other buildings in that small town were seen rising up in the distance, and we paused, and gazed over the scene around, without one sound breaking the wintry silence of nature.
"How far is it to that town?" demanded Louise, after gazing for some time.
"Nearly five miles, dear one," I replied.
"How near it looks!" she said: "I should not have thought it were two."
"It looks so near, dear Louise," I replied, "from the clearness of the wintry air; and so it is, Louise," I said, "With future as with distant things. To the calm, cold, icy eye of experience and reason, the future and distant times, the five or six years hence, look near as if we could touch them; the space between dwindles down to nothing, and the rest of life seems but as a moment: while, on the contrary, in the warm and sunny days of youth, the airy mist of passion, of fancy, and of expectation, throws every future thing far, far away, and the five or six years that lie between us and happiness seem a long age of wearisome expectation."
She looked up in my face and smiled, saying, "I suppose it is so, Henry. I know that since you went away from Blancford, in thinking when I might probably see you again, the space has seemed interminable."
"And, now that we have met again, Louise," I said, "We are to part in a few short hours--to part, when to meet again?"
She gazed down upon the ground, and sighed deeply; and I said, "You know, Louise, the messenger has gone to the Duke of Anjou's camp, to demand a safe conduct for you and the rest to join your father?"
"So Marguelette told me," she replied; "oh, I hope he will not return immediately."
"It will seem as but a moment to us, dear Louise," I replied; "but as a short moment, and then you will leave me, and it may be years before we meet again; and perhaps by that time, Louise"--my voice trembled, I believe, very much as I spoke--"and perhaps by that time you may be the bride of another."
Louise started and let go her hold of my arm, gazing up in my face with eager and intense looks, as if she had been startled from a dream by the horrible images that came across it.
"Oh, no!" she cried, somewhat reproachfully, "no, Henry--no--no." Her voice dropped as she slowly pronounced the words, and she fell into a fit of musing.
"Louise," I said, after having given her some time for thought, "do you know how I love you?"
"Oh yes, Henry," she replied, looking up still very pale, "I know you love me."
"But do you know how well I love you, Louise?" I demanded. "Do you know that I love you doubly, that I have loved you twice?"
"Twice!" she said, musing. "That is strange, Henry. I think I know what you mean, too; and yet it is strange."
"Scarcely strange, dearest," I answered, "scarcely strange. You know I loved you well before I quitted Blancford; dearly, most dearly, Louise. But I love you differently now; better, more dearly, more warmly, more tenderly."
I heard her breath come very thick as I spoke, and she leaned her hand upon my arm, still looking down, and saying, as if for the first time she was scanning her own feeling, "Differently? oh yes--and I love you differently too."
I threw my arm around her and drew her to my bosom, saying, "Thank you, thank you, dearest Louise, for that word. Yet tell me, oh! tell me, what it is you feel towards me?"
"I cannot," she said, pressing her glowing forehead against my breast, "I cannot tell you, Henry. I scarcely know myself. I feel strangely, very strangely, but it seems as if to part with you again were the most terrible thing that could befall me."
Again I pressed her gently to my heart.
"Sit down here, Louise," I said, "on these dry fragments of the fir-trees, and let us speak more calmly. Look here, dear girl; this sword that you see is the sole inheritance of him who loves you better than life. Already, however, that sword has raised him to some renown, and won him some wealth: on it he trusts for more: he trusts to win with it higher rank and station, fortune sufficient for a moderate ambition, and a right to demand the hand of her he loves. That, that, Louise, is the end and object of all my endeavours; that is the hope that animates me, and will carry me on to greatness if I am permitted to indulge it. It is that hope which has made me what I now am; it is that hope which will make my efforts far greater: it is for your love, Louise, that I strive; it is that you may be mine entirely, heart of my heart, and soul of my soul, that my arms may be your resting-place for life, and that no one may ever, ever tear you from my bosom.
"Oh, tell me, dear Louise--give me that one bright consolation, that one surpassing motive for every kind of exertion--tell me, tell me, does the change which you admit has taken place in your feelings towards me, does it tend to the same as my own wishes; does it make you feel that you could be happy as mine--not as a sister, but as a bride--not as a mere companion, but as the one united to me for life, and through life, by every link of love in one, being the sister, the companion, the friend, the wife? Oh, tell me, Louise, tell me. Is it so? Does the change in your feelings towards me speak to your own heart, and say that you can love me with such love, ardent, deep, intense, passionate as my own?"
Louise did not answer--she could not answer--for some time; for the tears were rolling over her cheeks, the tears of strong emotion; but her hand was clasped in mine, her head leaned upon my shoulder. The cheek burned, the eyes were bent down, and the lip quivered; but there was not a sign of all the many which her demeanour gave that could teach me anything but hope; and yet I was impatient to hear more. I repeated my question in a different form; I kissed her cheek again and again; I urged her to speak. It was long ere she did so, however; till at length, looking up at me, she said, almost reproachfully, "Oh, Henry, Henry, you know, you feel, you are aware, well, well aware, that I love you as deeply, truly, fully, as any woman can love man; that, had I my will, I would never part with you, I would never leave you. What can I say more?"
"Nothing, dearest, nothing," I replied; "you have said enough; you have made me happy, most happy; happier than I almost ever fancied I should be. And yet much remains, dear Louise, before we can be fully happy together. I have to use every energy and every exertion to place myself in such a situation that I may rightly and wisely ask your hand. You, Louise, may have fully as much to do on your part. Ere you can be mine, they will press you to give your hand to others; they will command you, they will urge you--"
"Never, never!" cried Louise, eagerly; "I will never hear them, I will never listen to them for a moment; from this instant, Henry, I am yours; and I promise--"
"Nay, nay, dear Louise," I said, "let me not bind you by any promise; that I have, as yet, no right to do."
"You bind me by no promise, Henry," she said, "but I bind myself. I will never listen to such a thing even for a moment, so let not that trouble your repose at any time. Believe nothing that you hear of the kind; doubt not, fear not, dear Henry. I am yours, and none but yours; when first you began to speak just now, and said you might perhaps find me the bride of another, though I had not thought of all this as I now have, yet I felt that it could never be so, and that never, never would you find me the wife of any one."
We spoke longer upon the same theme, we dwelt upon our thoughts and feelings; agitation, and emotion, and timidity in some degree passed from Louise's mind, and gradually she let me see more and more deeply into the recesses of her heart, and made me at each instant happier by showing that I was beloved as fully and deeply as I could wish. We lingered for a considerable time under those fir-trees; and then again we walked down the hill to the hamlet, but turned before we reached the camp, and walked some way farther round, and lingered still and turned again, and more than once hesitated, and paused, and spoke a few fond words more before we went back to that world between which and ourselves there was now drawn a thin and filmy screen, perceptible to none but ourselves, but yet sufficient to be a perfect separation. It seemed as if love was now at home in our mutual bosoms, and the casements of the heart were closed.
Good La Tour was for the time our only confidant, if I may so call it; for in the evening he questioned me closely as soon as he found an opportunity, and I told him at once that I had spoken with Louise upon the subject of my love, and that with joy unutterable I had found it was returned. I farther added, that I had bound her by no promise; that she was free from all but such engagements as her own heart imposed upon her; but that now to obtain her was the end and object of my existence, and that to him I trusted at least to throw some impediment in the way of her union with one where misery was the only fortune that she could expect.
He said, in reply, that he could scarcely blame me for what I had done; he could scarcely approve either, he added, for there were so many contending considerations that he saw not what was the most fit plan to be adopted. In short, it was evident to me that the good man's sense of what was right towards Louise and towards myself were struggling against ideas preconceived of what was right to the baron as a father. He saw evidently to what the baron's own conduct had led; to what consequences, fatal to his own peace and to the happiness of his family; and he evidently doubted my cousin's power and his inclination to conduct his child to happiness and to peace, though he dared not deny his right to direct her.
The conversation was luckily soon terminated by the entrance of other persons, and the two days that followed passed without any material conversation between La Tour and myself on the subject that was uppermost in both our thoughts. With Louise those days passed in joy, mingled with that kind of gentle sadness which the knowledge that our hours of happiness were destined to be few, was well calculated to produce. Each of us felt drawn more and more closely towards the other as the moments became few that we were to be together; the knowledge that we must soon part but increased the desire to remain, and gave at once delight and anxiety to our short communion.
At length, however, the messenger arrived with the safe conduct; there was no farther delay to be gained; the period of Louise's departure for the camp of the Duke of Anjou was fixed for the following morning early, and but a few hours remained ere we were to be parted for an indefinite length of time. There wanted but such a state and such a prospect to bring forth all Louise's deep and fervid feelings. Her affection, her love, were no longer concealed, were no longer veiled under any show of reserve. She wept at the thought of parting from me long and sadly; she felt it more difficult to bear than she had anticipated; and the only thing that seemed to comfort her was a promise that, by writing sometimes to her, and frequently to La Tour, I would give her continual tidings of my proceedings and of my well-being. We passed a long evening, which, as our days of pleasure had been mingled with pain, now gave us hours of pain not unmingled with pleasure.
At length the time came for her departure, and I mounted with a small body of my men to escort her till we were met by the party appointed to receive her. La Tour, Marguelette, and the rest of the old servants, with the baggage and all the rest of the things they had brought, followed in our train, and we rode slowly on, calmer, indeed, than we were the night before, but still sad. We talked, however, of the joy we had in meeting, of the happy days we had spent together, and we spoke of hopes and pleasures for future years, even while fears mingled with the hopes, and dark images of pain crossed the bright visions that we were inclined to indulge.
Thus we rode on, making the way which, if our wishes could have had effect, would have been interminable, far shorter than it might otherwise have seemed; and at length, before I thought that we could have gone above a quarter of the way, we saw upon the opposite slope of a valley we were crossing a considerable body of horsemen, bearing, like ourselves, a white flag in the midst of them. They halted as soon as they saw us, and, halting my men likewise, I rode forward alone, to make sure that we were right. The moment that this was perceived, two gentlemen came forth from the other party, the one a man pretty well advanced in years, and the other apparently a youth, whom, as he rode down the hill, I naturally enough concluded to be Alfred de Blancford, Louise's brother; but I soon perceived that I was mistaken. It was a boy whom I had seen once before, but where I could not recollect.
The elder of the horsemen I had never till then beheld, but from his dress and demeanour he was evidently a person of high distinction; and when we met at the bottom of the valley he saluted me with much courtesy, inquiring if I were the Seigneur de Cerons, and had escorted thither Mademoiselle de Blancford. I replied that such was the case, and begged to know if he was empowered to receive her from my hands, inquiring at the same time to whom I had the honour of speaking.
"My name," he said, "is Montpensier, and in the absence of the Duke of Anjou I am commander-in-chief of the army, with whom the Baron de Blancford sojourns at this moment. I took upon myself the task of meeting Mademoiselle de Blancford for various reasons, but for one especially. This young gentleman is my son, Monsieur de Cerons. You have, I think, seen him before."
"I remember him perfectly, monseigneur," I replied, "but where I had the honour of seeing his face last I cannot recollect."
"Under your horse's feet, I rather suspect, Monsieur de Cerons," replied the young gentleman, with a graceful inclination of the head. "My visor flew up as that vile brute I was riding stumbled and fell with me."
"Oh! now I remember you well," I replied at once. "You are the young gentleman who made so gallant a charge against us when we were pursuing the other day. I rather imagine you would have given me some trouble," I continued, smiling, "if your horse had not fallen with you."
The young man coloured with pleasure, and the duke replied for him. "You speak too flatteringly, Monsieur de Cerons; but he is a brave youth, too, and he told me, the moment he came back, what had occurred, and how generously you had behaved to him."
"God forbid, sir," I said, "that I should strike one blow at a gallant young gentleman when he is down."
"But," said the duke, "You might have made him prisoner, and his ransom would have been no slight sum. We cannot, therefore, thus rest your debtors, Monsieur de Cerons, and I brought him here this day, that we might both acquit ourselves to you of that which we owe you."
"You are both more than acquitted already, my lord," I replied. "The thanks which you have been pleased to give me are sufficient recompense; and let it be remembered always, that this young gentleman neither surrendered nor demanded quarter; that what was done was my doing; and perhaps the time may come, on some future day, when the little kindness I showed may be returned by some other. Will you allow me," I added, in order to change the subject, "To inquire whether any of the relations of Mademoiselle de Blancford are with your company above?"
"No," replied the duke. "The truth is, Monsieur de Cerons, that the Baron de Blancford has been somewhat enraged by a letter from the Prince de Condé to the Duke of Anjou respecting him, and by one which, I understand, you wrote to him yourself. I therefore undertook the task of meeting you here, to prevent any unpleasant collision. I wished his two sons to have accompanied me; but he replied, that if he did not go himself, none of his family should go. But that I have full authority to receive the young lady, you may believe."
"I doubt it not in the least, my lord," I replied; "but I was in hopes that the two boys were there, who have been brought up beside me from their infancy, but whom I have not seen for a long time. However, Mademoiselle de Blancford shall be delivered into your hands immediately, and I pray you to do your best to induce her father to look differently upon my letter, and to believe that, when I gave you the littlealèrtethe other night, my only view was to rescue him, if, as I suspected, he was detained as a prisoner."
"What, then, it was you," said the duke, "Who roused us in such a manner, and who carried off one of the cornets. Take care how you come in the way of Martigues, Monsieur de Cerons, for he has not forgotten the loss of that cornet."
"I will treat it with all honour and distinction, my lord," I replied, smiling: "I will carry it with me into the very next field where I am likely to meet your army, and there Monsieur de Martigues may take it if he have the will and the power."
"I shall tell him so, I shall tell him so," replied the duke. "We shall have the days of chivalry revived again. But we must waste no more daylight, Monsieur de Cerons, for we shall but have light enough to get back to the camp."
At this hint I immediately went back, and telling Louise who it was that had come to meet her, I dismounted from my horse, and led her forward by the bridle-rein. Good old La Tour and the rest followed at a little distance, giving us an opportunity of passing those few last moments alone. We said nothing, however, as we went on. Her hand rested for a moment in mine; our eyes looked long and speakingly into each other's; and thus we went on till we approached the Duc de Montpensier, who, dismounting also, took a step forward to meet his fair charge. He asked her some courteous question of no great import as he approached, but Louise could not answer; her voice was choked, her eyes were full of tears. The duke looked to me as if for an explanation. I had none to give, and felt that the best way was to withdraw as soon as possible.
"Louise," I said, approaching as close as I could, and speaking in a low voice, "Louise, my beloved, adieu! God be with you, and protect you, and give you courage, and give you strength."
Louise bent down over her jennet, let her arm drop over mine, and her weeping eyes fell upon my shoulder. After a moment she made an effort and raised her head, saying, "Adieu, Henry, adieu!"
As she did so our lips met, and, turning hastily away, I quitted a scene that was becoming too much for me in every respect. Ere I had taken ten steps, however, some one touched me on the arm. It was the young Prince de la Roche,[2]the Duke of Montpensier's son, who held out his hand to me, and grasped mine, saying, "We shall meet again, Monsieur de Cerons, we shall meet again."