"Always this same Martin-Guerre," said the constable. "An abominable rascal, to be sure. And his master, this Vicomte d'Exmès, whom I instructed you to keep a sharp watch on, is not likely to be of much more worth than he; for he upholds and defends him, and vows that his squire is the mildest and most sedate of men."
"That is what you used to have the goodness to say of me, Monseigneur. Martin-Guerre believes that he is possessed by the Devil, whereas in truth it is I who possess him."
"What! What do you mean? You are not Satan, are you?" cried the constable, crossing himself in his terror, for he was as ignorant as a fool, and as superstitious as a monk.
Master Arnauld replied only with an infernal leer; but when he thought he had alarmed Montmorency sufficiently, he said,—
"Oh, no, I am not the Devil, Monseigneur. To prove it to you and to reassure you, I ask you to give me fifty pistoles. Now, if I were the Devil, should I have any need of money, and couldn't I draw myself out of all my scrapes with my tail?"
"That's true," said the constable; "and here are your fifty pistoles."
"Which I have well earned, Monseigneur, by gaining the confidence of Vicomte d'Exmès; for although I am not the Devil, I am a bit of a sorcerer, and have only to don a certain brown doublet, and draw on certain yellow breeches, to make Vicomte d'Exmès speak to me as if I were an old friend and a tried confidant."
"Hm! all this has a smack of the gallows," said the constable.
"Master Nostradamus, just from seeing me pass in the street, predicted for me, after one glance at my face, that I should die between heaven and earth. So I resign myself to my destiny, and devote it to your interests, Monseigneur. To know that one is to be hung is a priceless advantage. A man who is sure of meeting his end on the gallows, fears nothing, not even the gallows themselves. To begin with, I have made myself the double of Vicomte d'Exmès's squire. I told you that I would accomplish miracles! Now, do you know, or can you guess, who this viscount is?"
"Parbleu! a lawless partisan of the Guises."
"Better than that. The accepted lover of Madame de Castro."
"What's that you say, villain? How do you know that?"
"I am the viscount's confidant, as I told you. It is I who generally carry his notes to the fair one, and bring back the reply. I am on the best of terms with the lady's maid, who is astonished only to have so changeable a lover,—bold as a page one day, and the next day as shy as a nun. The viscount and Madame de Castro meet at the queen's levees three times a week, and write every day. However, you may believe me or not, their affection is absolutely pure. Upon my word, I should be interested for them, if I were not interested for myself. They love each other like cherubs, and have from childhood, so far as I can make out. I have opened their letters now and then, and they have really moved me. Madame Diane is jealous; and of whom, do you suppose, Monseigneur? Of the queen! But she is altogether wrong, poor child. It may be that the queen thinks about Monsieur d'Exmès—"
"Arnauld," the constable interposed, "you are a slanderer!"
"And that smile of yours is quite as slanderous as my words," replied the blackguard. "I was saying that while it might well be that the queen was thinking about the viscount, it is perfectly certain that the viscount is not thinking about the queen. Their young loves are Arcadian in their simplicity and perfectly irreproachable, and move me like a gentle pastoral of ancient Rome or of the days of chivalry; and yet it doesn't prevent me, God help me, from betraying them for fifty pistoles, the poor little turtle-doves! But confess, Monseigneur, that I was right in saying, as I did at first, that I have well earned those same fifty pistoles."
"Indeed you have," said the constable; "but once more I ask you how you have come to be so well informed?"
"Ah, Monseigneur, pardon me; that is my secret, which you may try to guess if you choose, but which I certainly shall not disclose. Besides, my means of information are of little consequence to you (for I alone am responsible for them, after all) provided you attain your end. Now, your end is to be informed as to all proceedings and plans which may tend to injure you; and it seems to me that my revelation of to-day is not unimportant, and may be of great use to you, Monseigneur."
"You are quite right, you rascal; but you must continue to play the spy on this damned viscount."
"I will, Monseigneur; I am as devoted to you as I am to vice. You will give me pistoles, and I will give you words, and we shall both be content. Ah, there's some one coming into the gallery. A woman! The devil! I must bid you adieu, Monseigneur."
"Who is it, pray?" asked the constable, whose sight was beginning to fail.
"Good Lord! it's Madame de Castro herself, who is going to the king, no doubt; and it is very important that she should not see me with you, Monseigneur, although she wouldn't know me in this dress. She is coming this way, and I must avoid her."
And he made his escape in the opposite direction from that in which Diane was coming.
The constable hesitated a moment; then, making up his mind to satisfy himself of the accuracy of Arnauld's report, he advanced boldly to meet Madame d'Angoulême.
"Were you going to the king's closet, Madame?" said he.
"I was, Monsieur le Connétable."
"I am much afraid that you will not find his Majesty disposed to listen to you, Madame," replied Montmorency, naturally alarmed at this step; "and the serious news he has received—"
"Make this just the very most opportune moment for me, Monsieur."
"And against me, Madame, am I not right? For you have bitter enmity for us."
"Alas, Monsieur le Connétable, I have no enmity against anybody in the world."
"Have you really nothing in your heart but love?" asked De Montmorency, in so meaning a tone that Diane Mushed and lowered her eyes. "And it is on account of that love, no doubt, that you oppose the king's wishes and the hopes of my son?"
Diane in her embarrassment held her peace.
"Arnauld has told me the truth," thought the constable; "and she does love this handsome triumphal messenger of Monsieur de Guise."
"Monsieur le Connétable," Diane found strength to say at last, "my duty calls upon me to yield obedience to the king, but I have the right to implore my father."
"And so," said the constable, "you persist in going to find the king."
"Indeed I do."
"Oh, well! then I shall go and see Madame de Valentinois, Madame."
"As you please, Monsieur."
They bowed, and left the gallery by opposite doors; and as Diane entered the king's closet, old Montmorency was ushered into the favorite's apartments.
"Here, Master Martin," said Gabriel to his squire on the same day and almost at the same hour, "I must go and make my rounds, and shall not return to the house within two hours. Do you, Martin, in one hour go to the usual place and wait there for a letter, an important letter, which Jacinthe will hand you as usual. Don't lose a moment, but make haste to bring it to me. If I have finished my rounds, I shall be before you, otherwise await me here. Do you understand?"
"I understand, Monseigneur, but I have a favor to ask of you."
"What is it?"
"Let me have one of the Guards to keep me company, Monseigneur, I implore you."
"A guard to keep you company. What is this new madness? What are you afraid of?"
"I am afraid of myself," replied Martin, piteously. "It seems, Monseigneur, that I outdid myself last night! Up to then I had exhibited myself only as a drunkard and a gambler and a bully; but now I have become a rake! I whom all Artigues respected for the purity of my morals and my ingenuous mind! Would you believe, Monseigneur, that I have sunk so low as to have made an attempt at abduction last night? Yes, at abduction! I tried by main force to carry off the wife of Gorju, the iron-monger,—a very lovely woman, so they say. Unfortunately, or fortunately rather, I was arrested; and if I had not been still in your employ, and recommended by you, I should have passed the night in prison. It's infamous!"
"Well, Martin, were you dreaming when you committed this last prank?"
"Dreaming! Monseigneur, here is the report. When I read it, I blushed up to my ears. Yes, there was a time when I believed that all these infernal performances were frightful nightmares, or that the Devil amused himself by taking on my form for the purposes of his horrible nightly deeds. But you undeceived me; and besides, I never see now the one that I used to take for my shadow. The holy priest in whose hands I have placed the guidance of my conscience has also undeceived me; and he who so persistently violates all divine and human laws, the guilty one, the wretch, the villain, is no doubt myself, judging from what is told me. So that is what I shall believe henceforth. Like a hen who hatches out ducklings, my soul has given birth to honest thoughts, which have resulted in wicked deeds. I should not dare to say except to you that I am possessed, Monseigneur, because if I did I should be burned alive at short notice; but it must be, as you can see, that at certain times I really do have, as they say, the Devil in me."
"No, no, my poor Martin," said Gabriel, laughing; "but you have been indulging rather too freely in strong drink for some time, I fancy, and when you are drunk, why, deuce take it! you see double."
"But I never drink anything but water, Monseigneur, nothing but water! Surely this water from the Seine doesn't go to the head—"
"But, Martin, how about the evening when you were laid under the porch dead-drunk?"
"Well, Monseigneur, that evening I went to bed and to sleep, commending my soul to God; I rose also as virtuous as when I went to bed; and it was from you and you only that I learned what I had been doing. It was the same way the night when I wounded that magnificent gendarme, and the other night of this most shameful assault. And yet I get Jérôme to shut my door and lock me into my room, and I close the shutters and fasten them with triple chains; but,basta! nothing is of any use. I must believe that I get up, and that my vicious night-walking existence begins. In the morning when I wake I ask myself. 'What have I been doing, I wonder, during my absence last night?' I go down to find out from you, Monseigneur, or from the district reports, and at once go to relieve my conscience of these new crimes at the confessional, where I can no longer obtain absolution, which is rendered impossible by my everlasting backsliding. My only consolation is to fast and mortify the flesh part of every day by severe scourging. But I shall die, I foresee it, in final impenitence."
"Rather believe, Martin, that this evil spirit will be appeased, and that you will become once more the discreet and sober Martin of other days. Meanwhile, obey your master, and faithfully discharge the commission with which he intrusts you. But how can you ask me to allow you to have any one with you? You know very well that all this business must be kept secret, and that you alone are in my confidence."
"Be sure, Monseigneur, that I will do my utmost to satisfy you. But I cannot answer for myself, I warn you beforehand."
"Oh, this is too much, Martin! Why do you say so?"
"Don't be impatient on account of my absence, Monseigneur. I think that I am there, and I am here; that I will do this, and I do that. The other day, having thirtyPatersand thirtyAvesto say for penance, I determined to triple the dose so as to mortify my spirit by tiring myself beyond endurance; and I remained or thought that I remained in the church of St. Gervais telling my beads for two hours and more. Oh, well! when I got back here I learned that you had sent me to carry a letter, and that in proof of it I had brought back a reply; and the next day Dame Jacinthe—another fine woman, alas!—complained of me for having been rather free with her the day before. And that has happened three times, Monseigneur; and you wish me to be sure of myself after my imagination has played me such tricks as that? No, no, I am not sufficiently master of myself for that; and although the blessed water does not burn my fingers, still there are times when there is somebody else than Master Martin in my skin."
"Well, I will run the risk," said Gabriel, losing his patience; "and since you have, at all events up to now, whether you have been at church or in the Rue Froid-Manteau, skilfully and faithfully acquitted yourself of the trust I have imposed upon you, you will do the same to-day; and let me tell you, if you need such a stimulus to your zeal, that in this letter you will bring me my happiness or my despair."
"Oh, Monseigneur, my devotion to you doesn't need to be worked upon, I assure you; and if it wasn't for these devilish substitutions—"
"What! are you going to begin again?" Gabriel interrupted. "I must go; and do you start too in about an hour, and don't forget a single point of my instructions. One word more: you know that for several days past I have been anxiously expecting my nurse Aloyse out of Normandy; and you understand that if she comes while I am away, you must give her the room adjoining mine, and make her as welcome as if she were in her own house. You will remember?"
"Yes, Monseigneur."
"Come, then, Martin, we must be prompt to act, and discreet, and, above all, not lose our presence of mind."
Martin replied only with a repressed sigh; and Gabriel left his house in the Rue des Jardins.
He came back two hours later, as he had said, absorbed and preoccupied. As he entered, he saw only Martin, rushed up to him, seized the letter which he had expected with so much impatience, made a gesture of dismissal, and read:—
"Let us thank God, Gabriel," said this letter; "the king has yielded, and our happiness is assured. You must have learned of the arrival of the herald from England, bearing a declaration of war in the name of Queen Mary, and of the great preparations in Flanders. These events, threatening for France, perhaps, are favorable to our love, Gabriel, since they add to the influence of the young Duc de Guise, and tend to lower that of old Montmorency. The king, however, still hesitated; but I implored him, Gabriel: I said that I had found you again, and that you were noble and valiant; and I told him your name—so much the worse! The king, without promising anything, said that he would reflect; that after all, when the affairs of State became less urgent, it would be cruel in him to compromise my happiness; and that he could make some amends to François de Montmorency with which he would have to be content. He has promised nothing, but he will do everything, Gabriel. Oh, you will learn to love him, as I do, this kind father of mine, who is going to bring to pass all the dreams we have dreamed these last six years! I have so much to say to you, and these written words are so cold! Listen, my friend, come to-night at six o'clock during the council. Jacinthe will bring you to me, and we will have a good long hour to talk of the bright future which is opening before us. But I can foresee that this Flanders campaign will claim you, and that you must make it, alas! to serve the king and to deserve my hand,—mine, who love you so dearly. For I do love you,mon Dieu, I do! Why should I try now to conceal it from you? Come to me, then, so that I may see if you are as happy as your Diane."
"Let us thank God, Gabriel," said this letter; "the king has yielded, and our happiness is assured. You must have learned of the arrival of the herald from England, bearing a declaration of war in the name of Queen Mary, and of the great preparations in Flanders. These events, threatening for France, perhaps, are favorable to our love, Gabriel, since they add to the influence of the young Duc de Guise, and tend to lower that of old Montmorency. The king, however, still hesitated; but I implored him, Gabriel: I said that I had found you again, and that you were noble and valiant; and I told him your name—so much the worse! The king, without promising anything, said that he would reflect; that after all, when the affairs of State became less urgent, it would be cruel in him to compromise my happiness; and that he could make some amends to François de Montmorency with which he would have to be content. He has promised nothing, but he will do everything, Gabriel. Oh, you will learn to love him, as I do, this kind father of mine, who is going to bring to pass all the dreams we have dreamed these last six years! I have so much to say to you, and these written words are so cold! Listen, my friend, come to-night at six o'clock during the council. Jacinthe will bring you to me, and we will have a good long hour to talk of the bright future which is opening before us. But I can foresee that this Flanders campaign will claim you, and that you must make it, alas! to serve the king and to deserve my hand,—mine, who love you so dearly. For I do love you,mon Dieu, I do! Why should I try now to conceal it from you? Come to me, then, so that I may see if you are as happy as your Diane."
"Oh, yes, indeed I am happy!" cried Gabriel, aloud, when he had finished the letter; "and what is lacking to my happiness now?"
"The presence of your old nurse, no doubt," unexpectedly replied Aloyse, who had been sitting motionless and silent in the shadow.
"Aloyse!" cried Gabriel, rushing to her and embracing her: "oh, Aloyse, my dear old nurse, if you only knew how I wanted you! How are you? You have not changed a bit. Kiss me again. I have not changed any more than you, in heart at least,—the heart that loves you so. I was worried to death at your delay: ask Martin. And why have you kept me waiting so long?"
"The recent storms, Monseigneur, have washed away the roads; and if I had not been in so great a state of excitement over your letter that it made me brave enough to venture in spite of obstacles of every sort, I should not have been here yet."
"Oh, you did very well to make such haste, Aloyse, you did very well; for really what good is it to be so happy all by one's self? Do you see this letter I have just received? It is from Diane, your other child, and she tells me—do you know what she tells me?—that the obstacles which stood in the way of our love may be removed; that the king will no longer require her to marry François de Montmorency; and last and best of all, that Diane loves me,—yes, that she loves me! And you are at hand to hear all this, Aloyse; so tell me, am I not really at the very acme of happiness?"
"But suppose, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, maintaining the grave and melancholy tone she had assumed at first, "suppose that you had to give up Madame de Castro?"
"Impossible, Aloyse! and just when these difficulties have smoothed themselves all out!"
"Difficulties created by man may always be overcome," said the nurse; "but not so with those which God interposes, Monseigneur. You know whether I love you, and whether I would not give my life to spare yours the mere shadow of trouble; well, then, suppose I say to you: 'Without asking for the reason, Monseigneur, give up all thoughts of Madame de Castro, cease to see her, and crush out this passion for her by every means in your power. A fearful secret, which in your own interest I implore you not to ask me to disclose, lies between you two, to keep you apart.' Suppose I should say this to you, begging you on my knees to do as I asked, what would your reply be, Monseigneur?"
"If it were my life which you asked me to destroy, Aloyse, without asking for the reason, I would gratify you. But my love is a matter outside my own will, nurse, for it also comes from God."
"Oh, good Lord!" cried the nurse, joining her hands, "he blasphemes. But you see that he knows not what he does, so pardon him, good Lord!"
"But you terrify me; don't keep me so long in this deathly anguish, Aloyse, but whatever you would or ought to tell me, speak, speak, I implore you!"
"Do you wish it, Monseigneur? Must I really reveal to you the secret which I have sworn before God to keep, but which God Himself to-day bids me keep no longer? Well, then, Monseigneur, you are deceived; you must be, do you hear, it is absolutely necessary that you should be deceived as to the nature of the sentiment which Diane inspires in you. It is not desire and passion (oh, no! be sure that it is not), but it is a serious and devoted affection, due to her need of the protecting hand of a friend and brother,—nothing more tender or more absorbing than that, Monseigneur."
"But you are wrong, Aloyse; the fascinating beauty of Diane—"
"I am not wrong," Aloyse made haste to say, "and you will soon agree with me; for the proof of what I say will soon be as clear to you as to myself. Know, then, that in all human probability Madame de Castro—courage, my dear boy!—Madame de Castro is your sister!"
"My sister!" cried Gabriel, leaping from his chair as if he were on springs. "My sister!" he repeated, almost beside himself. "How can it be that the daughter of the king and Madame de Valentinois should be my sister?"
"Monseigneur, Diane de Castro was born in May, 1539, was she not? Comte Jacques de Montgommery, your father, disappeared in January of the same year; and do you know of what he was suspected? Do you know what the accusation was against him, your father? That he was the favored lover of Madame Diane de Poitiers, and the successful rival of the dauphin, who is to-day King of France. Now, compare the dates, Monseigneur."
"Heavens and earth!" cried Gabriel. "But let us see, let us see," he went on, making a supreme effort to collect his senses; "my father was accused, but who proved that the accusation had any basis in fact? Diane was born five months after my fathers death; but how does that prove that she is not the daughter of the king, who loves her as his own child?"
"The king may be mistaken, just as I too may be mistaken, Monseigneur; remember that I didn't say, 'Diane is your sister!' But it is probable that she is; or if you choose, it is possible that she may be. Is it any less my duty, my horribly painful duty, to give you this information, Gabriel? I am right to do it, am I not? for you wouldn't give her up without it. Now let your conscience decide as to your love; and may God guide your conscience!"
"Oh, but this uncertainty is a million times more horrible than the calamity itself," said Gabriel. "Mon Dieu! who can solve this doubt for me?"
"The secret has been known to only two persons on earth, Monseigneur," said Aloyse; "and there have been but two human beings who could have answered you: your father, who is buried in an unknown tomb, and Madame de Valentinois, who will not be likely to confess, I imagine, that she has deceived the king, and that her daughter is not his."
"Yes; and in any event, if I do not love my own father's daughter," said Gabriel, "I love the daughter of my father's murderer! For it is the king, it is Henri II., on whom I must wreak vengeance for the death of my father, is it not, Aloyse?"
"Who knows but God?" replied the nurse.
"Confusion and darkness, doubt and terror everywhere!" cried Gabriel. "Oh, I shall go mad, nurse! But no," continued the brave youth, "I must not go mad yet; I must not! I will in the first place exhaust every possible means of learning the truth. I will go to Madame de Valentinois, and will demand from her the secret, which I will sacredly keep. She is a good and devout Catholic, and I will obtain from her an oath which will make me sure of her sincerity. I will go to Catherine de Médicis, who may perhaps know something. I will go to Diane, too, and with my hand on my heart will ask the question of my heart-beats. I would go to my father's tomb, if I but knew where it lies, Aloyse, and I would call upon him with a voice so potent that he would rise from the dead to reply to me."
"Poor dear child!" whispered Aloyse, "so brave and strong, even after this fearful blow; and showing such a bold front to such a cruel fate!"
"And I will not lose a moment about going to work," said Gabriel, rising with a sort of feverish animation. "It is now four o'clock; in half an hour I shall be with Madame la Sénéchale; an hour later with the queen; and at six at the rendezvous where Diane awaits me; and when I see you again this evening, Aloyse, I may perhaps have lifted a corner of this gloomy veil in which my destiny is now shrouded. Farewell till evening."
"And I, Monseigneur, can I do nothing to help you in this formidable undertaking?"
"You can pray to God for me, Aloyse."
"For you and Diane, yes, Monseigneur."
"Pray for the king, too, Aloyse," said Gabriel, darkly, and he left the room precipitately.
The Constable de Montmorency was still with Diane de Poitiers, and was addressing her in a loud voice, as rough and imperious with her as she had shown herself sweet and gentle with him.
"Well, after all, she is your daughter, isn't she?" he was saying; "and you have the same rights and the same authority over her as the king has. Demand that this marriage take place!"
"But you must remember, my good friend, that having hitherto shown her very little of a mother's affection I can hardly hope to exert a mother's authority over her, and to chastise where I have never caressed. We are, as you know, Madame d'Angoulême and myself, on very cool terms with each other; and in spite of her advances at first, we have only met at very long intervals. Besides, she has succeeded in gaining a very great personal influence over the king's mind; and in truth, I should find it hard to say which of us two is the more powerful at this moment. What you ask me to do, my friend, is very difficult, not to say impossible. Lay aside all thought of this marriage, and let us replace it by a still more brilliant alliance. The king has betrothed his little Jeanne to Charles de Mayenne; we will induce him to bestow little Marguerite's hand on your son."
"My son sleeps in a bed and not in a cradle," replied the constable; "and how, I should like to know, could a young girl, just learning to talk, add to the fortunes of my family? Madame de Castro, on the other hand, has, as you have just reminded me most opportunely, a vast personal influence over the king; and that is why I wish her for my daughter-in-law.Mon Dieu! it is a most extraordinary thing that when a gentleman who bears the name of the foremost noble in Christendom stoops to wed a bastard, he should meet with so many obstructions in carrying out themésalliance. Madame, you are no more the king's favorite for nothing than I am your lover for nothing. In spite of Madame de Castro, in spite of this fop who adores her, in spite of the king himself, I insist that this marriage shall take place,—I insist upon it."
"Oh, very well, my friend," replied Diane de Poitiers, meekly, "I agree to do the possible and impossible to help you to attain your ends. What more do you want me to say? But at least tell me that you will be kinder to me, and will not rage and storm at me so, cruel one!"
And with her lovely red lips the beautiful duchess lightly touched old Anne's rough grizzled beard, while he grumblingly submitted to the caress.
For such was this singular passion, inexplicable except on the theory of extraordinary depravity, which was nourished by the idolized favorite of a handsome young monarch for an old graybeard who abused her. Montmorency's rough brutality made amends to her for Henri's love-making; and she took more delight in being ill-treated by the one than in being petted and caressed by the other. Prodigious caprice of the feminine heart! Anne de Montmorency was neither clever nor brilliant; and he was, on very good grounds, reputed to be covetous and stingy. The inhuman punishments he had inflicted upon the rebellious population of Bordeaux had of themselves attached a sort of hateful notoriety to his name. He was brave, it is true; but that quality is common in France, and he had up to this time hardly ever been fortunate in the battles in which he had taken part. At the victories of Ravenna and Marignan, where he had held no command, he had not made himself conspicuous above the common herd; at Bicocque, where he was colonel of the Swiss Guards, he had let his regiment be almost cut to pieces; and at Pavia he was taken prisoner. His military celebrity had not since been increased, and St. Laurent had made a pitiable ending to it. Without the favor of Henri II., inspired, no doubt, by Diane de Poitiers, he would not have risen above the second place in the king's council any more than in the army; and yet Diane loved him, coddled him, and obeyed him in everything, being at once the favorite of a manly, handsome young monarch and the slave of a ridiculous old veteran.
Just at this moment there was a discreet knock at the door; and a page, entering at Madame de Valentinois's summons, announced that Vicomte d'Exmès earnestly begged to be allowed a very brief audience of the duchess on a most serious matter.
"The lover himself!" cried the constable. "What can he want of you, Diane? Can he possibly have come to ask you for your daughter's hand?"
"Shall I allow him to come in?" meekly asked the favorite.
"Of course, of course; this incident may help us. But let him wait a moment. Just one word more between ourselves."
Diane de Poitiers gave orders accordingly to the page, who left the room.
"If Vicomte d'Exmès comes to you, Diane," the constable went on, "it must be because some unexpected difficulties have arisen; and it must be a very desperate emergency to drive him to resort to so desperate a remedy. Now, listen carefully to what I say; and if you follow my instructions to the letter, I will answer for it that your hazardous interference with the king in this matter will be quite unnecessary. Diane, whatever the viscount asks at your hands, refuse it. If he asks what path he shall take, send him in the opposite direction to that in which he wishes to go. If he wants you to say 'yes,' say 'no;' but say 'yes' if he hopes for a negative answer. Be contemptuous with him, and haughty and ill-tempered, the worthy daughter of the fairy Mélusine, from whom you of the family of Poitiers are said to have descended. Do you understand me, Diane, and will you do as I say?"
"In every respect, my dear Constable."
"Then my fine fellow's threads will be considerably tangled, I fancy. The poor fool, thus to walk right into the jaws of the—" he started to say "she-wolf," but caught himself—"into the jaws of the waives. I leave him to you, Diane; and you must give me a good account of this handsome claimant. Till this evening!"
He condescended to kiss Diane's brow, and went out. Vicomte d'Exmès was ushered in by another door.
Gabriel saluted Diane most respectfully, while she responded with an impertinent nod. But Gabriel, buckling on his armor for this unequal combat of burning passion against frigid vanity, began calmly enough:—
"Madame," said he, "the step which I have ventured to take with reference to you is a bold one, no doubt, and may seem mad. But sometimes in one's life circumstances come to light of such serious moment as to lift us above the ordinary conventions and every day scruples. Now, I am involved in one of these terrible crises of my destiny, Madame. I, who speak to you, have come to put my life in your hands; and if you let it fall, it will be broken forever."
Madame de Valentinois made not the least sign of encouragement. With her body bent forward, resting her chin on her hand, and her elbow on her knee, she gazed at Gabriel with a look of wonder mingled with weariness.
"Madame," he resumed, trying to shake off the gloomy effect of this feigned indifference, "you either know or do not know that I love Madame de Castro. I love her, Madame, with a deep, ardent, overpowering love."
"What is that to me?" seemed to say Diane de Poitiers's careless smile.
"I speak to you of this love which fills my whole soul, Madame, to explain my saying that I ought to understand and excuse, yes, even admire, the blind fatalities and insatiable demands of an engrossing passion. So far from blaming it, as the common people do, or of pulling it to pieces like the philosophers, or of condemning it like the priests, I kneel before it and adore it as a blessing from the Most High. It makes the heart into which it enters purer and more noble and divine; and did not Jesus Himself consecrate it when He said to Mary Magdalene that she was blessed above all other women for having loved so well?"
Diane de Poitiers changed her position, and with eyes half closed stretched herself out carelessly on her couch.
"I wonder how much longer his sermon is going to last," she was thinking.
"Thus you see, Madame," continued Gabriel, "that love is in my eyes a holy thing, and more than that, it is omnipotent. If the husband of Madame de Castro were living still, I should love her just the same, and should not even try to overcome the irresistible impulse. It is only a false love which can be subdued; and true love no more flees from itself than it commands its own beginning. So, Madame, you yourself, chosen and beloved by the greatest king in the world,—you ought not to be, on that account, out of all danger of contracting a sincere passion; and if you had been unable to resist it, I should pity you and envy you, but I would not condemn you."
Still unbroken silence on the part of the Duchesse de Valentinois. Amused astonishment was the only emotion expressed upon her face. Gabriel went on with still more warmth, as if to melt this brazen heart with the flames that were seething in his own.
"A king falls in love with your adorable beauty, as may well be imagined. You are touched by his affection; but may it not be that your heart does not respond to it, much as it would like to do so? Alas! yes. But standing near the king, a handsome gentleman, gallant and devoted, sees you and loves you; and this more obscure but not less powerful passion meets a response in your heart, which has not opened to admit the thought of a king. But are you not a queen too, a queen of beauty, just as the king who loves you is king in power? Are you not as independent and free as he? Is it titles which win hearts? Who could prevent you from having for one day, for one hour even, in your kind and loving heart, preferred the subject to the master? It is not I, at all events, who would have so little sympathy with lofty sentiments as to esteem it a crime in Diane de Poitiers that being beloved of Henri II., she had loved the Comte de Montgommery."
Diane, at this home-thrust, made a sudden movement and half rose from her seat, opening her great bright eyes to their fullest extent. Too few persons at court knew her secret for her not to have felt a shock at these words of Gabriel.
"Have you any substantial proof of this love that you prate of?" she asked, not without a shade of anxiety in her tone.
"I have nothing but moral certainty of it, Madame," replied Gabriel; "but I have that."
"Ah!" said she, resuming her insolent pouting. "Well, then, it is all the same to me if I confess the truth to you. Yes, I did love the Comte de Montgommery. And what next?"
But next, Gabriel had no more positive knowledge, and could only stumble about in the darkness of conjecture. However, he continued:—
"You loved Jacques de Montgommery, Madame, and I venture to say that you still love his memory; for if he disappeared from the face of the earth, it was on your account and for your sake. Very well! it is in his name that I come to beg your indulgence, and to ask you a question which will seem to you, I say again, very presumptuous; but I also repeat that your reply, if you are good enough to reply, will arouse only gratitude and worship in my heart, for upon your reply my life hangs. Again I repeat that if you do not refuse to answer me, I will be henceforward at your service, body and soul; and the most firmly established power in the world may sometime be in need of a devoted heart and hand, Madame."
"Go on, Monsieur," said the duchess, "and let us get at this terrible question."
"I ought to ask it of you on my knees, Madame," said Gabriel, suiting the action to the word.
And then he resumed with beating heart and faltering voice,—
"Madame, it was in the course of the year 1538 that you loved the Comte de Montgommery, was it not?"
"Possibly," said Diane; "and then?"
"It was in January, 1539, that the Comte de Montgommery disappeared, and in May, 1539, that Madame Diane de Castro was born?"
"Well?" asked Diane.
"Well, Madame!" said Gabriel, so low that she could hardly hear him, "there lies the secret which at your feet I implore you to divulge to me,—the secret on which my fate depends, and which shall die with me, believe me, if you will deign to reveal it to me. On the crucifix which hangs above your head, I swear it, Madame; I will yield up my life rather than your confidence. And besides, you will always be able to prove me a liar, for your word would be believed before mine; and I ask you for no proof, but for your word alone. Madame, Madame, was Jacques de Montgommery the father of Diane de Castro?"
"Oho!" said Diane, with a contemptuous laugh, "that is rather a bold question; and you were quite right to precede it with such a lengthy preamble. But never fear, Monsieur, I bear you no ill-will for it. You have interested me like a riddle, and now you interest me still more; for what is it to you, pray, Monsieur d'Exmès, whether Madame d'Angoulême be the child of the king or the count? The king is supposed to be her father, and that should satisfy your ambition, if you are ambitious. Why do you draw me into it; and what claim have you to thus question me about the past to no purpose? You have a reason, no doubt; but what is the reason?"
"I have a reason indeed, Madame," said Gabriel; "but I conjure you not to ask it of me for mercy's sake!"
"Oh, yes," said Diane, "you want to know my secrets and to keep yours to yourself. That would be a very advantageous thing for you, no doubt!"
Gabriel detached the ivory crucifix which surmounted the carved oakprie-Dieubehind Diane's couch.
"By your everlasting salvation, Madame," said he, "swear to keep silent as to what I tell you, and to make no use of it to my disadvantage!"
"Such an oath as that!" said Diane.
"Yes, Madame, for I know you to be a zealous and devout Catholic: and if you swear by your everlasting salvation, I will believe you."
"And suppose I decline to swear?"
"I shall hold my peace, Madame, and you will have refused to save my life."
"Do you know, Monsieur," replied Diane, "that you have strangely aroused my woman's curiosity'? Yes, the mystery with which you so tragically surround yourself attracts me and tempts me, I confess. You have triumphed over my imagination to that extent, I tell you frankly; and I did not suppose that any one could so pique my curiosity. If I swear, it is, I give you fair warning, so that I may learn more about you. From curiosity, pure and simple, I agree to do it."
"And I too, Madame," said Gabriel, "I implore you thus, so that I may learn more; but my curiosity is that of the criminal awaiting his death-sentence. Bitter and fearful curiosity, as you see! Will you take this oath, Madame?"
"Say you the words, and I will say them after you, Monsieur."
And Diane said, after Gabriel, the following words:
"By my salvation, in this life and the next, I swear to reveal to no one on earth the secret which you are about to impart to me, and never to make any use of it to injure you, and to act in all ways just as if I had never known it, and never should know it."
"Very well," said Gabriel, "and I thank you for this first proof of your condescension. Now, in two words, you shall know all: my name is Gabriel de Montgommery, and Jacques de Montgommery was my father!"
"Your father!" cried Diane, springing to her feet in a state of stupefied excitement.
"So that if Diane de Castro is the count's daughter," said Gabriel, "Diane de Castro, whom I love, or whom I thought that I loved to distraction, is my sister!"
"Ah, I see," replied Diane de Poitiers, recovering herself a bit.—"This will be the constable's salvation," she thought to herself.
"Now, Madame," continued Gabriel, pale but firm, "are you willing to do me the further favor of swearing, as before, upon this crucifix, that Madame de Castro is King Henri II.'s daughter? You do not reply? Oh, why do you not reply. Madame?"
"Because I cannot take that oath, Monsieur."
"Ah,mon Dieu, mon Dieu! Diane is my father's child, then?" cried Gabriel, tottering.
"I did not say that! I will never assent to that!" cried Madame de Valentinois; "Diane de Castro is the king's daughter."
"Oh, really, Madame? Oh, how kind you are!" said Gabriel. "But, pardon me! Your own interest may induce you to say so. So swear it, Madame, swear it! In the name of your child, who will bless you for it, oh, swear it!"
"I will not swear," said the duchess. "Why should I?"
"But, Madame," said Gabriel, "this very moment you took the same oath simply to gratify your vulgar curiosity, as you told me yourself; and now, when a man's very life is at stake, when by saying these few words, you might rescue two souls from the bottomless pit, you ask, 'Why should I say these words?'"
"But I will not swear, Monsieur," said Diane, coldly and decidedly.
"And if I should marry Madame de Castro notwithstanding, Madame, and if Madame de Castro is my sister, don't you think that the crime will rebound upon you?"
"No," replied Diane, "not when I have not taken my oath to it."
"Oh, horrible! horrible!" cried Gabriel. "But consider, Madame, that I can tell everywhere that you loved the Comte de Montgommery, and were false to the king, and that I, the count's son, am certain of it."
"Mere moral certainty, without proofs," said Diane, with a wicked smile, having resumed her air of impertinent and haughty indifference. "I will say that you lie, Monsieur; and you told me yourself that when you affirm and I deny, you will not be the one to be believed. Consider, too, that I can say to the king that you have presumed to make love to me, threatening to circulate slanders about me if I didn't yield to you. And then you will be lost, Monsieur Gabriel de Montgommery. But pardon me," said she, rising; "I must leave you, Monsieur. You have really entertained me exceedingly, and your story is a very singular one."
She struck a bell, to summon a servant.
"Oh, this is infamous!" cried Gabriel, beating his brow with his clinched fists. "Oh, why are you a woman, or why am I a man? But, nevertheless, take care, Madame! for you shall not play with my heart and my life with impunity; and God will punish you, and avenge me for what you have done,—for this infamy, I say it again!"
"Do you think so?" said Diane. And she accompanied her words with a dry, mocking little laugh which was peculiar to her.
At this moment, the page whom she had called raised the tapestry curtain. She gave Gabriel a mocking salute and left the room.
"Well, well!" said she to herself, "my good constable is decidedly in luck. Dame Fortune is like me,—she loves him. Why the devil do we love him?"
Gabriel followed her out, mad with rage and grief.
But Gabriel was strong and brave of heart, and filled with steadfast resolution. After the consternation of the first moments had abated, he shook off his despondency, held his head aloft once more, and requested an audience of the queen.
Catherine de Médicis had no doubt heard of this mysterious tragedy of her husband and the Comte de Montgommery; in fact, who knows that she did not herself play a part in it. At that time she was hardly more than twenty years old. Was it not likely that the jealousy of a beautiful but abandoned young wife would cause her to keep her eyes constantly open to every act and every misstep of her rival? Gabriel relied upon her memory to throw light upon the darkness of the path along which he was groping his way, but where he was so much interested in having his course made clear to him both as lover and as son, for his happiness' sake or for his revenge.
Catherine received Vicomte d'Exmès with that marked kindness which she had not failed to show him on every occasion.
"Is it you, my handsome king of the lists?" said she. "To what happy chance do I owe this welcome visit? You very seldom honor us, Monsieur d'Exmès; and I think this is the very first time that you have sought an audience of us in our apartments. But you are and always will be a welcome guest, remember that."
"Madame," said Gabriel. "I do not know how to thank you for such kindness; rest assured that my devotion—"
"Oh, never mind your devotion!" interposed the queen; "but let us come to the object which brings you here. Can I serve you in any way?"
"Yes, Madame, I think that you can."
"So much the better, Monsieur d'Exmès," replied Catherine, with a most engaging smile; "and if what you ask of me lies in my power, I promise beforehand to grant it. That may be rather a compromising agreement, perhaps, but I know you will not make an unfair use of it, my good friend."
"God forbid, Madame! I have no such intention."
"Go on, then, and tell me," said the queen, sighing.
"It is information, Madame, that I have ventured to seek from you,—nothing more. But to me this nothing is everything; so you will excuse me, I know, for recalling memories which may be painful to your Majesty. They relate to something which happened as long ago as the year 1539."
"Oh, dear, I was very young then,—almost a child," said the queen.
"But already very lovely, and most surely worthy of being loved," replied Gabriel.
"Some people used to say so," said the queen, delighted at the turn the conversation was taking.
"And yet," Gabriel went on, "another woman dared to encroach upon the right which was yours by the gift of God, and by your birth and beauty; and not content with drawing away from you, by witchery and enchantment, no doubt, the eyes and the heart of a husband who was too young to see clearly, this woman betrayed him who had betrayed you, and loved the Comte de Montgommery. But in your righteous contempt you may have forgotten all this, Madame?"
"By no means," said the queen; "and this incident, with all the intrigues dating from it, is very clear still in my mind. Yes, she loved the Comte de Montgommery; and then, seeing that her passion was discovered, she basely pretended that it was a mere feint to put the dauphin's affection for her to the proof; and when Montgommery disappeared, poor fellow,—made away with, perhaps, by her own order,—she never shed a tear for him, but appeared at a ball the next day, laughing and gay. Oh, yes, I shall always remember the first schemes by means of which this woman undermined my new-born power; for I was annoyed by them then, and I passed my days and my nights weeping. But since then my pride has come to my aid. I have always fulfilled my duty, and more too: I have compelled, by my dignified conduct, consistent and constant respect for myself as wife, as mother, and as queen. I have given seven children to the King of France; but now I love my husband only with a tranquil sort of affection, as a friend and the father of my sons, and I no longer recognize in him any right to demand any tenderer emotion. My life has been devoted to the public good long enough; and may I not now live a little for myself? Have I not bought my happiness sufficiently dear? If the devotion of some young and passionate heart should be laid at my feet, would it be a crime in me if I did not spurn it, Gabriel?"
Catherine's glances were quite in keeping with her words; but Gabriel's thoughts were elsewhere. As soon as the queen had ceased to speak of his father, he had ceased to listen, and had lost himself in thought. This revery, which Catherine interpreted as being in accord with her own wishes, by no means displeased her. But Gabriel soon broke the silence.
"One last explanation, and the most serious of all," said he. "You are so kind to me! I was sure that in coming to you I should be entirely satisfied. You have spoken of devotion; you may count absolutely on mine, Madame. But complete your work, for Heaven's sake! Since you knew the details of this tragic incident in the life of the Comte de Montgommery, do you know whether there was any doubt at the time that Madame de Castro, who was born some months after the count's disappearance, was really the king's daughter? Did not the tongue of scandal, of calumny, I may say, set afloat suspicion in that direction and ascribe to Monsieur de Montgommery the paternity of Diane?"
Catherine de Médicis looked at Gabriel for some time without a word, as if to satisfy herself of the feeling which had dictated his words. She thought she had discovered it, and began to smile.
"I have noticed," she said, "that you have been attracted by Madame de Castro, and have been assiduously paying court to her. Now I see your motive. Only, before you commit yourself, you wish to be sure, do you not, that you are following no false scent, and that it is really a daughter of the king to whom you are offering your homage? You don't wish, after you have married the legitimatized daughter of Henri II., to discover some fine day unexpectedly that your wife is the Comte de Montgommery's illegitimate child? In a word, you are ambitious, Monsieur d'Exmès. Don't protest, for it only makes me esteem you the more; and more than that, it may be of advantage to my plans for you, rather than detrimental to them. You are ambitious, are you not?"
"But, Madame," replied Gabriel, in great embarrassment, "perhaps it amounts to that—"
"Very good; I see that I have guessed your secret, young gentleman," said the queen. "Well, then! Are you willing to believe a friend? In the interest of these plans of yours, lay aside your views touching this Diane. Give up this doll-faced chit. I don't know, to tell the truth, whose daughter she is, whether king's or count's, and the last supposition may very well be the true one; but if she were born of the king, she is not the woman or the support that you stand in need of. Madame d'Angoulême's is a weak and yielding nature, all feeling and grace, if you please, but without force or energy or courage. She has succeeded in winning the king's good graces, I agree; but she hasn't the tact to take advantage of them. What you need, Gabriel, to help you to the fulfilment of your noble dreams, is a virile and courageous heart, which will assist you as it loves you, which will serve you and be served by you, and which will fill both your heart and your life. Such a heart you have found without being aware of it. Vicomte d'Exmès."
He looked at her in utter amazement; but she continued, warming to her subject:—
"Listen: our lofty destiny makes us queens free from the observance of the proprieties enjoined upon the common herd; and from our supreme height if we wish to be the object of the affection of a subject, we must take some steps forward ourselves, and extend a welcoming hand. Gabriel, you are handsome, brave, ardent, and proud! Since the first moment that I saw you I have felt for you a strange sentiment, and—I am not in error, am I?—your words and your looks, and even this very proceeding to-day, which is perhaps only a well-planned détour,—everything combines to make me believe that I have not to do with an ingrate."
"Madame!" said Gabriel, whose surprise had changed to alarm.
"Oh, yes, you are touched and surprised, I see," continued Catherine, with her sweetest smile. "But you do not judge me harshly, do you, for my necessary frankness? I say again, the queen must make excuses for the woman. You are shy, with all your ambition, Monsieur d'Exmès; and if I had been withheld by scruples which would be beneath me, I might have been deprived of a devotion which is very precious to me. I much preferred to be the first to speak. Come, then! collect yourself once more. Am I such a very terrible object?"
"Oh, yes!" muttered Gabriel, pale and trembling.
But the queen entirely misinterpreted the meaning of his exclamation.
"Come, come!" said she, with a playful pretence of misgiving. "I have not deprived you of your good sense yet, so far as to make you lose sight of your own interests, as you proved by the questions you put to me on the subject of Madame d'Angoulême. But set your mind at ease, for I do not desire your abasement, I say again, but your elevation. Gabriel, up to this time I have kept myself out of sight in the second rank; but do you know, I shall soon shine in the first. Madame Diane de Poitiers is no longer young enough to preserve her beauty and her supremacy. On the day when that creature's prestige begins to wane, my reign will begin; and mark well that I shall know how to reign, Gabriel. The instincts of domination which I feel at work in me assure me of it; and then, too, it is in the very Médicis blood. The king will learn some day that he has no more clever adviser, none more skilful and more experienced, than myself. And then, Gabriel, when that time comes, to what heights may not that man aspire who linked his fortune with mine when mine was still in the shadow; who loved in me the woman, not the queen? Will not the mistress of the whole realm be able to recompense worthily the man who devoted himself to Catherine? Will not this man be her second self, her right arm, the real king, with a mere phantom of a king above him? Will he not hold in his hand all the dignity and all the might of France? A fair dream, is it not, Gabriel? Well, Gabriel, do you choose to be that man?"
She valiantly held out her hand to him.
Gabriel kneeled at her feet and kissed that lovely white hand; but his nature was too frank and loyal to allow him to involve himself in the tricks and falsehoods of a simulated passion. Between deceit and danger he was too honest and too bold to hesitate a moment, so raising his noble head, he said,—
"Madame, the humble gentleman who is at your feet begs you to look upon him as your most obedient servant and your most devoted subject; but—"
"But," said Catherine, smiling, "these are not the worshipful terms which I require of you, my noble cavalier."
"And yet, Madame," continued Gabriel, "I cannot make use of any more tender and affectionate words in addressing you, for—pardon me, I beg—she whom I loved dearly before I ever saw you is Madame Diane de Castro; and no love, even though it be the love of a queen, can ever find a resting-place in this heart, which is always filled with the image of another."
"Ah!" exclaimed Catherine, with colorless cheeks and tightly closed lips.
Gabriel, with head cast down, waited manfully for the storm of indignation and scorn which was impending over him. Scorn and indignation are not apt to be long in coming, and after a few moments of silence,—
"Do you know, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Catherine, struggling to keep down her voice and her anger,—"do you know that I consider you very bold, not to say impudent! Who spoke to you of love, Monsieur? Where did you get the idea that I wished to tempt your bashful virtue? You must have a most exalted and presumptuous opinion of your own deserts to dare to think of such things, and to put such a hasty construction upon a kindness of heart whose only mistake was in bestowing itself in an undeserving quarter. You have very deeply injured a woman and a queen, Monsieur!"
"Oh, Madame," replied Gabriel, "pray believe that my religious veneration—"
"Enough!" Catherine interposed; "I know that you have insulted me, and that you came here to insult me! Why are you here? What purpose directed your steps? Of what importance to me are your love and Madame de Castro, or any of your concerns? You came to seek information from me! Absurd pretext! You desired to make a queen of France the confidante of your passion! It is senseless, I tell you! worse than that, it is an outrage!"
"No, Madame," replied Gabriel, standing proudly erect, "it is no outrage to have met an honest man who chose to wound you rather than deceive you."
"Hold your peace, Monsieur!" replied Catherine; "I command you to hold your peace and to leave me. Consider yourself lucky if I do not yet think best to divulge to the king your audacious offence. But never let me see you again, and henceforth consider Catherine de Médicis your bitter enemy. Yes, I shall come across you again, be sure, Monsieur d'Exmès! And now leave me."
Gabriel saluted the queen, and withdrew without a word.
"Well," he reflected when he was alone again, "one hatred more! But what difference would that make to me if I had only learned something about my father and Diane? The king's favorite and the king's wife for enemies! Fate may be preparing perhaps to make the king himself my enemy. And now for Diane, for the hour has arrived; and God grant that I may not be more sad and despairing when I part from her who loves me than I have been on leaving those who hate me!"
When Jacinthe ushered Gabriel into the apartment in the Louvre occupied by Diane de Castro as the king's legitimatized daughter, she, in the pure and honest outpouring of her heart, rushed to meet her well-beloved without undertaking to dissemble her joy. She would not have refused to offer her brow to be kissed; but he contented himself with pressing her hand.
"Here you are at last, Gabriel!" said she. "How impatiently I have been awaiting you, dear! Lately I have not seemed to know whither to turn the full stream of happiness that I feel within me. I talk and laugh when I am all alone, and I am crazy with joy! But here you are, Gabriel, and we may at least have a happy hour together! But what is the matter, my love? You seem cold and serious and almost sad. Is it with such a solemn face and such cool reserve that you show your love for me, and your gratitude to God and my father?"
"To your father? Yes, let us speak of your father, Diane. As for this seriousness at which you wonder, it is my way to receive good fortune with a grave face; for I distrust her gifts, in the first place, having been unused to them heretofore, and my experience has been that she only too often hides a sorrow under the mask of a favor.
"I didn't know that you were such a philosopher, nor so unlucky, Gabriel!" replied the maiden, half in fun and half in anger. "But, come! you were saying that you wished to talk about the king; and I am very glad. How kind and generous he is, Gabriel!"
"Yes, Diane; and he loves you dearly, doesn't he?"
"With an infinite tenderness and gentleness, Gabriel."
"No doubt," muttered Vicomte d'Exmès, "for he may very well believe, poor dupe, that she is his child! Only one thing surprises me," he continued aloud; "and that is, how the king, who must have felt in his heart that he should love you thus dearly, could have allowed twelve years to elapse without ever seeing you or knowing you, and have left you at Vimoutiers, lost, to all intents and purposes. Have you never asked him, Diane, for an explanation of such strange indifference? Such utter forgetfulness, do you know, seems hardly consistent with the kind feeling that he seems to have for you now."
"Oh," said Diane, "it was not he who forgot me,—poor Papa!"
"But who was it, then?"
"Who? Why, Madame Diane de Poitiers, to be sure! I don't know if I ought to say my mother."
"And why did she make up her mind to abandon you thus, Diane? Ought she not to have been glad and proud, and to have glorified herself in the king's sight for having given birth to you, and having thus acquired one claim the more to his affection? What had she to fear? Her husband was dead; and her father—"
"All that is very true, Gabriel," said Diane; "and it would be very hard, not to say impossible, for me to justify in your eyes this extraordinary feeling—is it of pride?—which has made Madame de Valentinois refuse to acknowledge me formally as her child. Don't you know, dear, that in the first place she induced the king to conceal the fact of my birth; that she consented to my being recalled to court only at his urgent request, which was almost a command; and that she didn't choose even to be mentioned in the decree by which I was legitimatized? I have no inclination to complain of her for it, Gabriel, because if it had not been for this inexplicable pride of hers, I should never have known you, and you would not have loved me. But, nevertheless, I have sometimes been pained to think of the sort of repugnance which my mother seems to feel for everything that relates to me."
"A repugnance which may be remorse only," thought Gabriel, with terror; "she was able to deceive the king, and it was not without hesitation and dread—"
"But what are you thinking about, dear Gabriel?" said Diane. "And why do you ask me all these questions?"
"Oh, for no reason at all! A misgiving of my anxious heart,—that's all; don't worry about it, Diane. But, at all events, if your mother does seem to feel only aversion and almost hatred for you, your father, Diane,—your father makes up for her coldness by his affection, doesn't he? And you, if you do feel shy and constrained with Madame de Valentinois, your heart expands in the king's presence, does it not, and recognizes in him a true parent?"
"Oh, yes, indeed!" said Diane; "and the very first day that I saw him, when he spoke to me so tenderly, I felt drawn to him at once. It is not from policy that I am affectionate and obliging with him, but from instinct. It was not the king, not my benefactor and my patron, that I loved so dearly,—it was my father!"
"One can never be mistaken about such matters!" cried Gabriel, beside himself with joy. "Dear, dear Diane, my dearest love, I am glad that you love your father so, and that in his presence you feel the tender emotions of gratitude and love! This lovely filial devotion does you honor, Diane!"
"And I am glad, too, that you understand it and approve of it," said Diane. "But now that we have spoken of my father, and of his love for me and mine for him, and of our obligation to him, Gabriel, suppose we talk a little about ourselves and our own love; why not? Come, what do you say? We are selfish creatures," added she, with the lovely ingenousness which was hers alone. "Besides, if the king were here, he would reprove me for not thinking at all of myself,—of ourselves; and do you know, Gabriel, what he keeps saying to me every minute? 'My dear child, be happy! Be happy; do you understand? And in that way you will make me happy.' And so, Monsieur, now that our debt of gratitude is paid, let us not be too forgetful of ourselves."
"Very true," said Gabriel, thoughtfully,—"very true. Let us now give ourselves up to this attachment which binds us to each other for life. Let us look into our hearts, and see what is going on there. Let us lay bare our very souls to each other."
"Well, we will," said Diane; "that will be delightful!"
"Yes, delightful!" responded Gabriel, in a melancholy tone. "And do you, first, Diane, tell me what you feel for me. Don't you love me less than your father?"
"Oh, you jealous boy!" said Diane. "Be sure that my love for you is very different, and it is not by any means easy to explain. When I am with the king, I am calm, and my heart beats no more quickly than usual; but when I see you, oh, then I feel a curious agitation, which pains and delights me at the same time, and spreads over my whole being. To my father I can say, even before the whole world, the sweet and loving words which come to my lips; but to you, it seems to me that I should never dare to say even the one word 'Gabriel' before another soul, not even when I am your wife. In a word, the happiness which your presence brings me is as restless and unquiet—I had almost said painful—as the joy which I feel with my father is calm and peaceful; but the pain of the one is more ecstatic than the tranquillity of the other."
"Say no more! oh, say no more!" cried Gabriel, in despair. "Yes, you do love me, indeed; and it terrifies me! And yet it encourages me, too, I must say; for surely God would not have implanted such a passion in your heart, if it had been wrong for you to love me!"
"What do you mean, Gabriel?" asked Diane, in amazement. "Why should my confession, which I have the best right in the world to make to you, since you are going to be my husband,—why should it put you thus beside yourself? What danger can be hidden in my love?"
"None, Diane, none. Pay no attention to me. It is joy which intoxicates me thus,—pure joy! Such supreme happiness makes me dizzy with delight. But you didn't always love me so restlessly and with such painful sensations. When we used to walk together under the trees at Vimoutiers, you had only friendship for me,—fraternal friendship."
"I was only a child then," said Diane. "I had not then been dreaming of you for six solitary homesick years; my love had not then grown as my body grew; I had not lived two months in the midst of a court where licentious language and corrupt morals had made me cherish more fondly still the thought of our pure and holy affection."
"True, true, Diane!" said Gabriel.
"And now, do you, dear Gabriel, in your turn tell me of your devotion and passionate love for me. Open your heart to me, as I have laid mine bare to your gaze. If my words have sounded pleasantly in your ears, do you let me hear your voice telling me how much you love me, and how dearly you love me."
"Oh, as for me, I don't know," said Gabriel. "I cannot tell you that! Don't ask me about it, don't press me to ask myself, for it is too terrible!"
"But, Gabriel," cried Diane, in deadly terror, "it is your words that are terrible; don't you see that they are? What! You don't choose even to tell me that you love me?"
"If I love you, Diane! She asks me if I love her! Truly, then, yes, I do love you, like a madman, perhaps like a criminal!"
"Like a criminal!" cried Madame de Castro, beside herself with terror and amazement. "What crime can there be in our love? Are we not both free? Will not my father consent to our union? God and the angels must delight in such a love."
"Grant, oh, Lord, that she blaspheme not," cried Gabriel, in his heart, "even as I perhaps blasphemed myself, in speaking to Aloyse!"
"What can be the matter?" repeated Diane. "My dear, you are not sick, are you? And you, generally so strong, whence come these fanciful fears? For I have no fear when near you. I know that with you I am as safe as with my father. See, to recall you to yourself, to life and happiness, I press close to your breast without fear, my dearly beloved husband! I press my brow against your lips without hesitation."
Smiling bewitchingly, she approached him, her glorious face turned up to his, and her angelic glance soliciting his pure embrace.
But Gabriel pushed her away in terror. "Away!" he cried; "no, no! leave me, flee from me!"
"Oh,mon Dieu!" moaned Diane, letting her arms fall by her side. "Mon Dieu! he repels me; he loves me not!"
"I love you too well!" said Gabriel.
"If you love me, why should my proffered caresses be so terrible to you?"
"Are they really terrible to me, then?" said Gabriel to himself. "Is it my instinct which repels them, and not my reason? Oh, come, Diane, let me see you and know you, and feel your presence! Come, and let me press my lips on your brow with a brother's kiss, in which a betrothed lover may indulge himself."
He strained Diane to his heart, and pressed a long burning kiss on her hair.
"Ah, I deceived myself!" cried he, in rapture at her very touch. "It is not the voice of blood which is crying to you from my heart; it is the voice of love! I know it! Oh, what bliss!"
"What did you say, dear?" replied Diane. "If you say that you love me, you say all that I care to hear or to know."
"Oh, indeed I love you, blessed angel; I love you passionately, madly! Yes, I love you, and to feel your heart beating against mine, like this, is very heaven to me; or is it hell?" cried he, suddenly, releasing himself from her embrace. "Away, away! let me fly, for I am accursed!"
And he fled wildly from the room, leaving Diane dumb with terror, and as if turned to stone by despair.