Mary Stuart and Gabriel.
Mary Stuart and Gabriel.
Mary Stuart and Gabriel.
And he, poor fellow, no longer knew where he was going or what he was doing. He descended the stairs mechanically, reeling like a drunken man. These three fearful experiences were too much for his reason. When he reached the grand gallery of the Louvre, his eyes closed in spite of him, his legs gave way, and he sank on his knees against the wall, murmuring,—
"I foresaw that the angel would cause me more bitter agony than the two devils."
He had fainted. Night had come on; and no one was passing through the gallery.
He was recalled to his senses by feeling a soft hand smoothing his forehead, and hearing a sweet voice speaking to his very soul. He opened his eyes. The little queen-dauphine, Mary Stuart, stood before him, with a lighted taper in her hand.
"Ah, how fortunate! Another angel!" said Gabriel.
"Is it you, Monsieur d'Exmès?" said Mary. "Oh, how you frightened me! I thought you were dead. What is the matter? How pale you are! Do you feel any better? I will call for help, if you wish."
"Useless, Madame," said Gabriel, trying to rise. "Your voice has restored me to life."
"Let me help you," said Mary. "Poor fellow! Are you ill? You had fainted, hadn't you? As I was passing, I spied you lying here, and I hadn't strength enough to cry out. And then reflection gave me courage, and I came nearer to you; and I was pretty brave, I think. I laid my hand on your forehead, which was like ice. I called you, and you came to yourself. Do you still feel better?"
"Yes, Madame; and may God bless you for your goodness! I remember now, I had a fearful pain in my temples as if they were being pressed by an iron vice; my knees shook under me; and I fell here by this drapery. But how did the pain come on? Ah, yes, I remember now, I remember it all. Alas,mon Dieu!mon Dieu! Too well I remember."
"It is some terrible sorrow that oppresses you so, is it not?" asked Mary. "It must be so, for, see, you are paler than ever again at the mere remembrance of it. Lean on my arm, for I am willing and strong; and I will call help, and find somebody to go home with you."
"Thanks, Madame," said Gabriel, struggling to recover his strength and his resolution. "I find I still have strength enough to go home alone. See, I can walk without help, and with a firm step. I am no less grateful to you; and while I live I shall never forget your simple and touching kindness, Madame. You came to me like an angel of comfort at a painful crisis in my life. Nothing but death, Madame, can ever efface it from my heart."
"Oh,mon Dieu! what I did was the most natural thing in the world to do, Monsieur d'Exmès; I would have done as much for any suffering creature, and so much the more gladly for you whom I know to be the devoted friend of my Uncle de Guise. Pray don't thank me for such a small matter."
"This small matter was everything, Madame, in the state of despair to which I was reduced. You don't wish that I should thank you; but I, Madame, wish to remember it. Adieu; I shall remember."
"Adieu, Monsieur d'Exmès; pray take care of yourself, and try to find comfort somewhere."
She gave him her hand, which Gabriel kissed with deep respect. Then she left the gallery by one door, and he by another.
When he was outside of the walls of the Louvre, he walked along the river-bank, and arrived at the Rue des Jardins in about half an hour. He had but one thought in his brain, and was suffering terribly.
Aloyse was anxiously awaiting him.
"Well?" said she.
Gabriel struggled manfully to overcome a feeling of faintness which dimmed his sight anew. He would have liked well to weep, but he could not. He replied in a faltering voice,—
"I know nothing, Aloyse! Everything has been dumb and speechless,—these women and my heart as well. I know nothing except that my brow is as cold as ice, and yet I am burning up.Mon Dieu!mon Dieu!"
"Courage, Monseigneur!" said Aloyse.
"I have had courage," said Gabriel; "but God be merciful to me, I am dying!"
And once more he fell backward on the floor, but this time he did not come to himself again.
"The sick man will live, Dame Aloyse! The danger has been very great, and his convalescence will be very slow. All this blood-letting has weakened the poor fellow terribly; but he will live, never fear! And thank God that the extreme debilitation of the body has lessened the blow that his mind has received, for we cannot cure those wounds; and this one of his might have been fatal,—indeed, it may yet be!"
The physician who spoke thus was a man of great height, with a great bulging forehead and deep-set and piercing eyes. The common people called him Master Nostredame; but he signed his own name Nostradamus. He seemed to be not more than fifty years old.
"But, holy Jesus, look at him, Messire!" replied Dame Aloyse. "He has been lying there since the evening of June 7; and it is now the 2d of July, and during that whole time he has not spoken one word,—has not even seemed to see me or to know me, and has been like one dead, alas! Look, if you touch his hand, he doesn't appear to notice it!"
"So much the better, I tell you, Dame Aloyse! I pray that he may be as long as possible in awaking to the remembrance of his sorrows. If he can continue, as I trust he will, another month in this weak state, without knowing or thinking about anything, he will recover, beyond a doubt."
"He will recover!" said Aloyse, raising her eyes to heaven as if offering thanks to God.
"Yes, he will recover if there is no relapse. And you may say so to that pretty maid who comes twice a day to get news of him; for there is an affair with some great lady hidden under all this, is there not? Sometimes that sort of thing is very delightful, and sometimes fatal."
"Yes, indeed, it is fatal; you are quite right, Master Nostredame," said Aloyse; with a sigh.
"God grant that he recover from his passion as well as from his illness, Dame Aloyse! if indeed illness and passion haven't always the same cause and the same effect. But I will answer for the one, and not for the other."
Nostradamus opened the soft and apparently lifeless hand that he held in his, and looked very carefully and attentively at the palm; he even lifted the skin from the fore and middle fingers. He seemed to be racking his brain to remember something.
"It is strange!" he said in an undertone, as if he were talking to himself. "Several times I have examined this hand, and every time it has seemed to me as if I had already examined it long ago. But what are the marks which have struck me so? The mensal line is of favorable length; the medial is a little doubtful; but the line of life is perfect. There is nothing extraordinary about it. The predominating characteristic of this youth should be a steadfast will, firm and unswerving as the arrow aimed by a sure hand. That is not what has aroused my wonder heretofore. And then my memories are too confused not to refer to some long ago time; and your master is not more than twenty-five, is he, Dame Aloyse?"
"He is only twenty-four, Messire."
"He was born in 1533, then. Do you know the day?"
"It was the 6th of May."
"But you don't know whether it was in the morning or the evening?"
"Pardon me! I was with his mother when he was born. It was just on the stroke of half after six in the morning."
Nostradamus made a note of these facts.
"I will see what was the condition of the heavens on that day at that hour," said he. "But if Vicomte d'Exmès were twenty years older, I would swear that I had already held his hand in mine; but that's of little consequence, after all. It is not the sorcerer, as the people sometimes call me, but the physician, who has work to do here; and I tell you again, Dame Aloyse, the physician will answer now for the invalid's welfare."
"Pardon, Master!" said Aloyse, sadly; "you say that you will answer for the disease, but that you will not answer for the passion."
"The passion! Oh! But," Nostradamus replied, smiling significantly, "I should say that the attendance of the little maid twice a day tends to show that the passion is not altogether a hopeless one."
"Quite the contrary, Master,—quite the contrary!" cried Aloyse, in an accent of horror.
"Come, come, Dame Aloyse! wealthy, gallant, young, and handsome as Vicomte d'Exmès is, a man is in no danger of being held off for long by the ladies in a time like ours. A brief postponement is the utmost he has to fear."
"But suppose that this is not the case, Master. Suppose that when Monseigneur is restored to life and reason, the first and only thought which his restored reason will entertain should be this: 'The woman whom I love is irrevocably lost to me,' then what will happen to him?"
"Oh, we must hope that this supposition of yours has no foundation in fact, for that would be terrible! Such an overwhelming grief as that would be a terrible strain for his enfeebled brain. So far as one can judge of a man by his features and the look of his eyes, your master, Aloyse, is no mere superficial creature; and in such a case as you suppose, his energetic and forceful will would be only one danger more, and being shattered by trying to do what is impossible, might shatter his life with it."
"Holy Jesus! my boy will die!" cried Aloyse.
"He will at least be in danger of inflammation of the brain," said Nostradamus. "But why need it be so? There must be some way of showing him a mere glimmer of hope. The most remote or most elusive chance it may be, yet he will grasp it, and it will save him."
"He shall be saved, then," said Aloyse, gloomily. "I will perjure my soul, but he shall be saved. Messire Nostredame, I thank you."
A week passed, and Gabriel seemed to be trying to think, even though he did not succeed. His eyes, still wandering and expressionless, seemed to be asking questions, nevertheless, of the faces and objects about him. Then he began to assist himself in the changes which they had to make in his position, to raise himself in bed alone, and to take of his own volition the potions that Nostradamus handed him.
Aloyse, standing unwearied at his pillow, waited.
At the end of another week, Gabriel could speak. Light had not yet fully evolved order out of the chaos of his mind. He could only say a few words, incoherent and unconnected, but which had reference to the events of his past. Aloyse fairly quaked with terror when the physician was there, lest he should reveal some of his secrets.
Her apprehensions were justified by the event; and one day, Gabriel, in a feverish sleep, cried aloud before Nostradamus,—
"They think that my true name is Vicomte d'Exmès. No, no, don't think it! I am the Comte de Montgommery."
"The Comte de Montgommery!" said Nostradamus, in whose brain the name had awakened some memory.
"Silence!" said Aloyse, her finger on her lip.
However, Nostradamus went away without Gabriel's having said anything further; and as he did not mention the words that had fallen from the invalid on the next or any following day, Aloyse, thinking it over, feared to attract his attention to something which it might be her master's interest to conceal. So the incident appeared to have been forgotten by both of them.
Gabriel continued to improve. He recognized Aloyse and Martin-Guerre; he asked for whatever he needed; and he spoke with a gentle sadness which made it possible to hope that his reason had returned.
One morning, it was the first day that he had left his bed, he said to Aloyse,—
"Well, nurse, and the war?"
"What war, Monseigneur?"
"Why, the war against Spain and England."
"Oh, Monseigneur, I hear sad news of that. The Spaniards, reinforced by twelve thousand English, have entered Picardy, they say, and there is fighting going on all along the frontier."
"So much the better," said Gabriel.
Aloyse attributed this reply to the remains of his delirium. But the next morning, with perfect coolness, Gabriel said to her,—
"I did not ask you yesterday if Monsieur de Guise had returned from Italy."
"He is on the way, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, in amazement.
"That is well! What day of the month is it, nurse?"
"Tuesday, August 4, Monseigneur."
"It will be two months on the 7th since I have been lying on this bed of anguish," was Gabriel's comment.
"Oh," cried Aloyse, trembling, "how well Monseigneur remembers!"
"Yes, I remember, Aloyse,—I remember; but," he added sadly, "though I have not forgotten, it seems that I have been forgotten. Has no one been to inquire for me, Aloyse?"
"Yes, indeed!" said Aloyse, in an uncertain voice, and anxiously watching the effect of her words on the young man's face,—"yes, indeed, Monseigneur! a maid named Jacinthe came twice a day to learn how you were. But for the last fortnight, since you have been perceptibly and surely improving, she has come no more."
"She comes no more! And do you know why, nurse?"
"Yes, Monseigneur. Because her mistress, according to what Jacinthe said the last time she came, has obtained the king's leave to withdraw to a convent till the end of the war at least."
"Really!" said Gabriel, with a sweet and melancholy smile.
And as a tear, the first he had shed for two months, rolled slowly down his cheek, he added,—
"Dear Diane!"
"Oh, Monseigneur," cried Aloyse, beside herself with delight, "Monseigneur has uttered that name! and without a shock, and without swooning. Master Nostredame was mistaken. Monseigneur is saved! Monseigneur will live, and I shall not need to be false to my oath."
We can see that the poor nurse's delight had almost made her mad; but Gabriel, luckily, did not notice her last words. He replied simply, with a smile full of bitterness,—
"Yes, I am saved; but still, dear Aloyse, I shall not live."
"How so, Monseigneur?" said Aloyse, trembling again in every limb.
"My body has held out manfully," Gabriel replied; "but my soul, Aloyse, my soul, do you think that it has not been stricken to death? I am going to recover from this long sickness, it is true; and I am allowing myself to be cured, as you see. But, luckily, there is fighting on the frontier; and I am captain of the Guards, and my place is where they are fighting. As soon as I am strong enough to mount my horse, I shall go where my place is. And at the very first battle in which I have a hand, Aloyse, I shall take good care so to arrange matters that I shall never have to return."
"You will kill yourself! Holy Virgin! And why, Monseigneur,—why, I pray you?"
"Why? Because Madame de Poitiers refused to speak, Aloyse; because Diane may be my sister; and because I love Diane; because it may be that the king was responsible for my father's murder; and because I cannot wreak my vengeance on him unless I am sure of it. And so, since I can neither avenge my father nor marry my sister, I don't see what more there is for me to do in this world. That is why I choose to leave it."
"No, Monseigneur, you shall not leave it," said Aloyse, gloomy and cast down, and in a spiritless voice. "You shall not leave it, because you have much to do, and a terrible task, I promise you. But I shall not speak to you of it until the day when you are entirely well again; and Master Nostredame tells me that you may hear what I have to say, and that you have sufficient strength to bear it."
That day arrived on the Tuesday of the week following. Gabriel had been out for the three days preceding, getting ready his equipments, and preparing for his departure; and Nostradamus had said he would come once more during the day to see his convalescent, but that it would be for the last time.
When Aloyse was alone with Gabriel, she said to him,—
"Monseigneur, have you considered well the extreme resolution you have taken, and do you persist in it?"
"I do indeed," said Gabriel.
"And you mean to kill yourself?"
"I mean to kill myself."
"And is it because you have no means of ascertaining whether Madame de Castro is or is not your sister that you mean to die?"
"For that very reason."
"What did I say to you, Monseigneur, to put you on the track of this fearful secret? Do you remember what I said!"
"To be sure! That God in the other world and two persons only in this had ever known this secret. The two human beings were Diane de Poitiers and the Comte de Montgommery, my father. I have begged and implored and threatened Madame de Valentinois; but when I left her, I was more uncertain and despairing than ever."
"But when I told you, Monseigneur," said Aloyse, "you declared that if it were necessary for you to descend into your father's tomb to wrest this secret from him, you would not shrink from the task."
"But," said Gabriel, "I have no idea where that tomb is situated."
"Nor I, but you must seek for it, Monseigneur."
"And even if I should find it," cried Gabriel, "God would have to work a miracle for me. The dead do not speak, Aloyse."
"No, the dead do not; but the living do."
"Great God! what do you mean?" said Gabriel, pale as a ghost.
"That you are not, as you kept calling yourself in your delirium, the Comte de Montgommery, Monseigneur, but only Vicomte de Montgommery, because your father, the Comte de Montgommery, is still living."
"Heaven and earth! Do you know that he is alive, my dear father?"
"I don't know it, Monseigneur, but I believe and hope so; for his was a strong and sturdy nature like yours, and should have resisted suffering and misfortune as valiantly. Now, if he is alive, he is not the one to refuse, as Madame Diane did, to reveal the secret on which your happiness depends!"
"But where shall we find him; of whom demand him? In Heaven's name, Aloyse, tell me!"
"It is a terrible story, Monseigneur! And I swore to my husband, by your father's command, never to reveal it to you; for as soon as you know it, you will plunge into the midst of fearful dangers, Monseigneur, and will declare war against foes a hundred times stronger than yourself. But the most desperate peril is preferable to certain death. You had made up your mind to die; and I knew that you would not grow weak in that determination. After all, I prefer to expose you to the doubtful chances of the bitter conflict which your hither dreaded in your behalf. At all events, your death will be less certain, and will be delayed a little. So I am going to tell you everything, Monseigneur; and it may be that God will pardon me for proving false to my oath."
"Yes, of course, dear Aloyse. My father! my father living! Oh, quickly! speak!"
But at this moment there was a soft knock at the door, and Nostradamus appeared.
"Aha, Monsieur d'Exmès," said he, "how bright and lively you are! I'm glad to see it! You were not like this a month ago. You seem to be all ready to take the field."
"Yes, indeed,—to take the field," said Gabriel, with sparkling eye, looking meaningly at Aloyse.
"So I see that the physician has no further business here," said Nostradamus.
"Nothing, save to receive my grateful thanks, Master, and I dare not say the value of your services, for under certain circumstances one's life is not valuable."
And Gabriel, pressing the doctor's hand, left in it a roll of gold-pieces.
"Thanks, Monsieur Vicomte d'Exmès," said Nostradamus. "But give me leave to make you a present which I think will prove of value to you."
"What is it, pray, Master?"
"You know, Monseigneur," Nostradamus began, "that I do not occupy myself entirely with men's illnesses. I have presumed to look farther and higher. I have tried to read their destinies,—a task full of uncertainty and obscurity; but in default of light, I have sometimes, I think, caught glimpses of the truth. God, I am convinced, has written twice over, in advance of his birth, the vast and mighty scheme of each man's destiny; in the stars of heaven, his native land, to which he raises his eyes so often, and in the lines of his hand,—an intricate conjuring book which he carries always with him, but which he cannot even begin to spell except at the cost of unwearying study. During many days and nights, Monseigneur, I have dug and delved away at these two sciences, as fathomless as the cask of the Danaïdes,—chiromancy and astrology. I have summoned before me all future ages; and a thousand years from now, those who are then alive may be sometimes amazed at my prophecies. But I know that the truth only shines in streaks, for although I sometimes see clearly, often, alas! I am in doubt. Nevertheless I am certain that I have now and then hours of clairvoyance which almost frighten me, Monseigneur. In one of these infrequent hours, I saw, twenty-five years ago, the destiny of a gentleman attached to the court of King François clearly written in the stars which watched over his birth and in the complicated lines of his hand. This extraordinary, curious, and perilous destiny made a strong impression on me. Fancy my astonishment, then, when in your hand and in the stars which presided over your birth, I seemed to read a horoscope like that which had so surprised me long ago; but I could not distinguish it so clearly as before and the lapse of twenty-five years had confused my memory. Last of all, Monseigneur, last month, in the height of your fever, you pronounced a name; I heard only the name, but it caught my attention at once. It was the name of the Comte de Montgommery."
"Of the Comte de Montgommery?" Gabriel cried in alarm.
"I tell you again, Monseigneur, that I heard nothing but the name; and the rest is of little importance, for that name was the name of the man whose destiny had been made as clear to me as the noonday sun. I hastened home and hunted among my old papers until I found the Comte de Montgommery's horoscope. But a most singular circumstance, Monseigneur, and one which I have never met with before in more than thirty years of study, is that there must be some mysterious connection, some strange affinity, between you and the Comte de Montgommery; and God, who never ordained the same destiny for two men, must have reserved both of you for the same fate. For I was not mistaken; the lines of the hand and the constellations had the same aspect for both. I should not dare to say that there was to be no difference in the details of your two lives; but the predominating feature of both horoscopes is the same. I long ago lost sight of the Comte de Montgommery; but I ascertained that one of my predictions in his regard was fulfilled. He wounded François I. in the face with a red-hot brand. Has the remainder of his destiny been fulfilled? That is what I cannot say. I can only be sure that the same misfortune and the same violent death which threatened him are impending over you."
"Can it be?" said Gabriel.
"Here, Monseigneur," said Nostradamus, handing to Vicomte d'Exmès a roll of parchment, "here is the horoscope which I drew off at the time for the Comte de Montgommery. I should make no changes in it were I to write yours to-day."
"Give it me, Master, give it me!" said Gabriel. "This is indeed an inestimable gift; and you cannot imagine how precious it is to me."
"One word more, Monsieur d'Exmès," said Nostradamus; "one last word to put you on your guard, though God be supreme, and one can hardly turn aside His plans. The nativity of Henri II. presaged that he would die in a duel or in single combat."
"But," asked Gabriel, "what connection?"
"When you read this scroll, you will understand me, Monseigneur. Meanwhile it remains only for me to take my leave of you, and to hope that the catastrophe with which God menaces your life may at least be not sought by you."
And having saluted Gabriel, who pressed his hand warmly and escorted him to the door, he took his leave.
As soon as he was with Aloyse once more, Gabriel unrolled the parchment; and having made sure that no one could interrupt him or spy upon him, he read aloud the following lines:—
"En joûte, en amour, cettuy toucheraLe front du roy,Et cornes ou bien trou sanglant mettraAu front du roy.Mais le veuille ou non, toujours blesseraLe front du roy.Enfin, l'aimera, puis, las! le tueraDame du roy."[2]
"En joûte, en amour, cettuy toucheraLe front du roy,Et cornes ou bien trou sanglant mettraAu front du roy.Mais le veuille ou non, toujours blesseraLe front du roy.Enfin, l'aimera, puis, las! le tueraDame du roy."[2]
"It is well!" cried Gabriel, with beaming eye and a look of triumph. "Now, dear Aloyse, you may tell me how my father, the Comte de Montgommery, was entombed alive by King Henri II."
"By King Henri II.!" cried Aloyse; "how do you know, Monseigneur?"
"I guess it! But you can tell me of the crime, since God has pointed out to me my revenge."
[2]"In tilting and in love-making this youth shall everBe matched against the king,And shall in winning hearts and breaking headsE'en triumph o'er the king.Yea, though he wish it not, still shall his brandWound in the face the king.And then, alas! shall love him and destroy himThe lady of the king."
[2]
"In tilting and in love-making this youth shall everBe matched against the king,And shall in winning hearts and breaking headsE'en triumph o'er the king.Yea, though he wish it not, still shall his brandWound in the face the king.And then, alas! shall love him and destroy himThe lady of the king."
"In tilting and in love-making this youth shall everBe matched against the king,And shall in winning hearts and breaking headsE'en triumph o'er the king.Yea, though he wish it not, still shall his brandWound in the face the king.And then, alas! shall love him and destroy himThe lady of the king."
Elaborated and perfected by the aid of contemporary memoirs and chronicles, the narrative of Aloyse, who had been informed by her husband, Perrot Travigny, squire and confidential servant of the Comte de Montgommery, of all the incidents of his master's life, so far as he knew them,—the narrative of Aloyse, we say, thus perfected, gave the following sad story of Jacques de Montgommery, Gabriel's father. His son knew the leading details of it; but the sinisterdénouement, which brought it to a close, was a sealed book to him, as to everybody else.
Jacques de Montgommery, Seigneur de Lorges, was, as all his ancestors had been, daring and brave; and during the stormy reign of François I. he was always to be found in the front rank when fighting was going on. And so he became a colonel in the French infantry very early in life.
But among his many brilliant exploits there was one untoward incident to which Nostradamus had had reference.
It was in 1521, when the Comte de Montgommery was barely twenty years old, and only a captain. It was a severe winter; and the young men, young King François at their head, were indulging in a snowball fight,—a sport not unattended with danger, and much in vogue at the time. They were divided into two parties, one defending a certain house which the other assaulted with bullets of snow, Comte d'Enghien, Seigneur de Cérisoles, was killed in just such a game. Jacques de Montgommery was very near killing the king on this occasion. The battle over, they set about warming themselves; the fire had been allowed to go out, and the whole crowd of young madcaps rushed about to rekindle it. Jacques came running in, first of all, with a blazing stick in a pair of tongs; but on the war he encountered François, who had no chance to protect himself, and received a violent blow on the face from the red-hot brand. Fortunately nothing came of it but a wound, although a very severe one; and the ugly scar left by it was the cause of the fashion of wearing the beard long and the hair short, which was ordained by François at that time.
As the Comte de Montgommery atoned for this unfortunate casualty by a thousand brilliant exploits, the king bore him no ill-will for it, and interposed no obstacle to his rising to the first rank at court and in the army. In 1530 Jacques married Claudine de Boissière. It was a mere marriage de convenance; but he long mourned for his wife, who died in 1533, when Gabriel was born. Melancholy, moreover, was the most marked trait of his character, as is the case with all those who are predestined to some fatality. When he was left a widower and alone, he found relief only on the battlefield, and was driven into danger by sheer ennui. But in 1538, after the truce of Nice, when this man of war and of action had to conform to the etiquette of the court, and to walk up and down in the galleries of the Tournelles or the Louvre, with his parade-sword at his side, he was near dying of disgust.
A mad passion saved him, and was his ruin.
The regal Circe involved this overgrown boy, sturdy and ingenuous, in her toils. He fell in love with Diane de Poitiers.
Three months he revolved about her, gloomy and lowering, without ever addressing a single word to her; nor was there any need of a word for the grande sénéchale to understand that his heart belonged to her. She made a note of that passion in a corner of her memory as something that might possibly be of use to her on occasion.
The occasion came. François I. began to neglect his beautiful mistress for Madame d'Étampes, who was less beautiful in face, but had the great advantage of being attractive in other respects.
When the signs that she was being superseded were unmistakable, Diane, for the first time in her life, spoke to Jacques de Montgommery.
This took place at the Tournelles, at a fête given by the king to the new favorite.
"Monsieur de Montgommery," said Diane, calling him by name.
He drew near her, with heaving chest, and made an awkward salutation.
"How very sad you are, Monsieur de Montgommery!" she said.
"To the point of death, Madame."
"And why, in Heaven's name!"
"Madame, because I should like to kill myself."
"For some one, no doubt?"
"To kill myself for some one would be very sweet; but,ma foi, to do it for nothing would be sweeter yet."
"What a fearful state of melancholy!" said Diane; "and whence comes this black despair, pray?"
"Ah! can I say, Madame?"
"Well, then, I know, Monsieur de Montgommery. You are in love with me."
Jacques turned white as a sheet; and then, with a more tremendous struggle than it would have cost him to cast himself headlong and alone into the midst of a whole battalion of the enemy, he replied in a harsh and uncertain voice,—
"Well, then, Madame, you are right. I do love you. So much the worse for me!"
"So much the better, rather," replied Diane, laughing.
"What did you say, Madame?" Montgommery cried, with his heart thumping against his ribs. "Ah, Madame, take heed! this is no joke, but a deep and sincere passion, whether it be a possible or an impossible one to gratify."
"And why should it be impossible?" asked Diane.
"Madame," was Jacques's reply, "pardon my frankness, but I never learned to envelop facts with many words. Does not the king love you, Madame?"
"Yes," sighed Diane; "he loves me."
"And don't you see, then, that it is not for me to declare my unworthy love, though I cannot help loving you?"
"Unworthy of you, it is true," said the duchess.
"Oh, no, not of me!" cried the count; "and if the day should ever come—"
But Diane interrupted him with an air of grave melancholy and well assumed dignity,—
"Enough, Monsieur de Montgommery; let us put an end to this interview, I beg."
She bowed coldly, and turned away, leaving the poor count a prey to a whirl of conflicting emotions,—jealousy, love, hatred, grief, and joy. So Diane saw the adoration which made him bow down before her. But perhaps he had wounded her! He must have seemed unjust, ungrateful, cruel to her! He repeated to himself over and over again all the sublime nonsense of love.
The next day Diane de Poitiers said to François I., "You didn't know, did you, Sire, that Monsieur de Montgommery was in love with me?"
"What's that?" said François, laughing. "The Montgommerys are of an ancient family, and almost as nobly born, upon my word, as I; and what's more they are almost as brave, and now it seems that they are almost as good at love-making."
"And is that all the reply that your Majesty has to make to me?" Diane asked him.
"And what do you want me to say, my dear?" replied the king. "Do you really think that I ought to take it ill of the Comte de Montgommery that he has as good taste and as good eyes as I have?"
"If Madame d'Étampes were in question," muttered Diane, wounded to the quick, "you would not say so."
She pursued the conversation no further, but resolved to go on with the experiment. When she next saw Jacques some days later, she began to question him again,—
"How is this, Monsieur de Montgommery? Still more melancholy than usual?"
"I am indeed, Madame," said the count, humbly; "for I shudder to think that I have offended you."
"Not offended, Monsieur," said the duchess, "but grieved sorely."
"Oh, Madame," cried Montgomery, "I, who would give all my blood to spare you a tear,—how can it be that I have caused you the least grief?"
"Did you not tell me that because I was the king's favorite I had no right to aspire to the affection of a simple gentleman?"
"Ah, I had no such idea as that, Madame," said the count; "indeed, I could have no such idea, for I, a simple gentleman, love you with a passion as sincere as it is profound. I only meant to say to you that you could not love me, since the king loves you and you love him."
"The king does not love me, nor do I love the king," replied Diane.
"God in heaven! Then you may come to love me!" cried Montgommery.
"I may love you," replied Diane, calmly; "but I can never tell you that I love you."
"And why not, Madame?"
"To save my father's life," said Diane, "I consented to become the mistress of the King of France; but the way to restore my honor is not to become the mistress of the Comte de Montgommery."
She accompanied this half-refusal with so passionate and so languishing a glance that the count could not restrain himself.
"Ah, Madame," said he to the coquettish duchess, "if you love me as I love you—"
"Well, what then?"
"What then! Why, what matters the world, or the prejudices of family or of honor? For me you are the universe. For three months I have seen nothing but your face. I love you with all the blind devotion and all the ardor of a first passion. Your sovereign beauty intoxicates me and distracts me. If you love me as I love you, be Comtesse de Montgommery,—be my wife."
"Thanks, Count," said Diane, triumphantly. "I will remember these noble and generous words. Meanwhile you know that green and white are my colors."
Jacques in a transport of delight kissed Diane's hand, prouder and happier than if the crown of the whole world had been on his head.
And when François I., the following day, called Diane's attention to the fact that her new adorer had begun to wear her colors in public,—
"Has he not a right to, Sire?" said she, fixing her keen glance upon the king. "And may I not allow him to wear my colors when he offers to let me wear his name?"
"Is it possible?" the king asked.
"There is no doubt about it, Sire," the duchess replied, with confidence, thinking for a moment that her plan had succeeded, and that the jealousy of her unfaithful lord would reawaken his love.
But after a moment of silence, the king, rising to put an end to the interview, said to Diane, gayly,—
"If that is so, Madame, we will give the office of grand sénéchal—which has been vacant since the death of Monsieur de Brézé, your first husband—to Monsieur de Montgommery as a wedding present."
"And Monsieur de Montgommery will accept it," was Diane's proud reply; "for I will be a faithful and loyal wife to him, and I would not be false to my troth to him for all the kings in Christendom."
The king bowed and smiled, without making any reply, and left the room.
Unquestionably Madame d'Étampes's star was in the ascendant.
The same day Diane the ambitious, with bitter anger at her heart, said to the enraptured Jacques,—
"My gallant Count, my noble Montgommery, I love you with all my heart."
The marriage of Diane and the Comte de Montgommery was appointed to take place in three months; and it was currently rumored in that scandal-mongering and licentious court that Diane de Poitiers, in her eager desire for revenge, had given earnest-money to her future husband.
The three months passed. The Comte de Montgommery was more infatuated than ever; but Diane postponed the performance of her promise from day to day, on one pretext or another.
A very short time after she had given this promise, she had noticed that the young Dauphin Henri was in the habit of feasting his eyes upon her when no one was by. Thereupon a new ambition awoke in the heart of the imperious Diane. The title of Comtesse de Montgommery was only of use to conceal a defeat, while the title of favorite of the dauphin would be almost a triumph. What! Madame d'Étampes, who was always prating contemptuously about Diane's age, was loved by the father only; that was nothing. She, Diane, would be loved by the son! For her a youthful passion; for her hope; for her the future! Madame d'Étampes had succeeded her; but she would succeed Madame d'Étampes. She would keep always before her, waiting patiently and calmly for her time to come, a constant, living menace. For Henri would some day be king; and Diane, always beautiful, would be queen once more. It would be in truth a notable triumph.
Henri's character made her still more certain of her game. He was only nineteen at this time, but had taken part in more than one war; for four years he had been married to Catherine de Médicis, but remained none the less an uncouth and muddle-headed boy. He was as awkward and embarrassed at the fêtes at the Louvre, and in the presence of the other sex, as he was accomplished and daring in horsemanship, in feats of arms, or at tilting,—in all directions, in short, where skill and address were requisite. Being dull intellectually, and slow-witted, he was an easy prey to anybody who cared to take him up. Anne de Montmorency, who was not on good terms with the king, devoted his attention to the dauphin, and had no difficulty in enforcing his views upon him, and bringing his tastes to conform to his own, which were those of a man of mature years. He led him hither and thither according to his will and caprice. Ultimately he succeeded in planting in that weak and yielding mind the wide-spreading roots of an all-powerful influence, and obtained such control over Henri that thenceforth seemingly nothing but the ascendency of some woman could disturb his power.
But he was horrified before long to see that his pupil was on the verge of falling in love. Henri abandoned the friends with whom the constable had shrewdly surrounded him. Henri became melancholy and dreamy where he had been shy before. Montmorency looked around, and thought that he could see that it was Diane de Poitiers who was enthroned in his fancy. This rough gendarme preferred that it should be Diane rather than another, for in his vulgar fashion he estimated the royal courtesan much more nearly at her true worth than did the chivalrous Montgommery. He based his plans upon the low motives which he attributed to her, judging her by himself; and with his mind once more at ease, he left the dauphin to hover sighing about the grande sénéchale.
It was indeed her beauty which aroused Henri's sluggish heart. She was roguish and provoking and lively; her finely-shaped head moved very prettily and quickly hither and thither; her glance shone with promise; and her whole person had a sort of magnetic attraction (they called it magic in those days) which easily led poor Henri astray. It seemed to him that this fair creature would unveil to him the secret of a new life. The siren was to him, strange and innocent savage that he was, as fascinating and dangerous as the hidden mysteries of a cavern.
Diane saw all this; but she still hesitated to incur the risk of this new future, through fear of the past in the shape of François I., and of Comte de Montgommery in the present.
But one day when the king, always courteous and attentive to the other sex, even to those with whom he was not in love, and to those whom he had ceased to love, was talking with Diane de Poitiers in the embrasure of a window, he noticed the dauphin watching them with a sly and jealous look.
François called him.
"Aha, Monsieur my son, what are you doing there? Come this way," he said.
But Henri, pale and ashamed, after hesitating a moment between his duty and his fear, instead of replying to his father's invitation, adopted the expedient of running away as if he had not heard him.
"Well, well, what a boorish, shy dog!" said the king. "Can you understand such bashfulness, Madame Diane? Have you, goddess of the forests, ever seen a fallow deer more terrified? Ah, what a wretched failing?"
"Is it your Majesty's pleasure that I should undertake to amend Monseigneur le Dauphin's ways?" asked Diane, smiling.
"Surely," said the king, "it would be hard to imagine a prettier teacher or a more delightful apprenticeship."
"Consider his education completed, then, Sire," replied Diane; "I will take charge of it."
She soon hunted up the fugitive.
The Comte de Montgommery, being on duty that day, was not at the Louvre.
"I frighten you terribly, Monseigneur, do I not?"
Diane began the conversation thus; and the conversation thus begun was continued.
How she concluded it; how she seemed not to notice the prince's blunders, but hung upon his lightest word; how he left her with the conviction that he should soon be clever and fascinating; and how he did gradually become clever and fascinating with her; how, in short, she became his mistress in every sense of the word, ordering him about, giving him lessons, and humoring him all at the same time,—it was the same old, untranslatable comedy over again, which will always be played, but never has been and never will be written.
And Montgommery? Oh, Montgommery loved Diane too well to suspect her, and had devoted himself to her too blindly to have any clearness of vision left. Everybody at court was already gossiping about Madame de Poitiers's latest love-affair, as to which the noble count was in a state of blissful ignorance which Diane took good care not to dispel. The structure she was building was too fragile as yet for her not to dread the least shock, or any outburst; so while her ambition led her to maintain her hold on the dauphin, prudence kept her from breaking with the count.
Now let us allow Aloyse to go on and finish her tale, having narrated these preliminary facts by way of explanation of what is to come.
"My husband, brave Perrot," she said to Gabriel, who was all rapt attention, "had not failed to hear the reports which were on everybody's lips about Madame Diane, and all the sport that was made of Monsieur de Montgommery; but he did not know whether it was his duty to warn his master, who he saw continued trustful and happy, or whether he should hold his peace about the shameful plot in which this ambitious woman had involved him. He told me of his hesitation, for I used to give him very good advice, and he had put my discretion and my loyalty to the proof; but in this matter I was as undecided as he as to what course we should take.
"One evening we were sitting in this very room, Monseigneur and Perrot and I; for the count never treated us as servants, but as friends, and had chosen to retain, even here in Paris, the patriarchal custom of passing winter evenings current in Normandy, where the master and his retainers used to warm themselves at the same fire after working together through the day. The count, buried in thought, his head resting on his hand, was sitting before the fire. He used commonly to pass the evening with Madame de Poitiers; but for some time she had very frequently sent word to him that she was ill and could not receive him. He was thinking about her, no doubt, while Perrot was fitting the straps of a cuirass, and I was spinning.
"It was the 7th of January, 1539, a cold and rainy evening, and the day after the Epiphany. Remember that ill-omened date, Monseigneur."
Gabriel nodded to show that no word escaped him, and Aloyse continued,—
"All at once Monsieur de Langeais, Monsieur de Boutières, and the Comte de Sancerre were announced,—three gentlemen of the court, friends of Monseigneur, but much closer friends of Madame d'Étampes. All three were wrapped in great dark cloaks; and although they came in laughing, I seemed to feel that they brought disaster with them; and my instinct, alas! was not far out of the way.
"The Comte de Montgommery rose and advanced to greet the new-comers with the hospitable and courtly manner which became him so well.
"'Welcome, my friends!' said he to the three, as he shook hands with them.
"At a sign from him I came forward to take their cloaks, and all of them sat down.
"'What good fortune brings you to my poor quarters?' the count asked.
"'A threefold bet,' replied Monsieur de Boutières; 'and your presence here, my dear Count, wins mine for me on the spot.'
"'As for mine,' said Monsieur de Langeais, 'it was won before we came here.'
"'And mine,' said the Comte de Sancerre, 'I shall win in a moment, as you will see.'
"'What were your bets, pray, gentlemen?' said Montgommery.
"'Well,' said Monsieur de Boutières, 'Langeais here made a bet with D'Enghien that the Dauphin would not be at the Louvre this evening. We have been there, and have duly decided that D'Enghien has lost.'
"'As for De Boutières,' said the Comte de Sancerre, 'he bet with Monsieur de Montejan that you would be at home this evening, my dear Count; and you see that he has won.'
"'And you have won, too, Sancerre, I'll warrant,' said Monsieur de Langeais; 'for in fact the three bets were really but one, and we must win or lose together. Sancerre, Monsieur de Montgommery, bet one hundred pistoles with D'Aussun that Madame de Poitiers was ill this evening.'
"Your father, Gabriel, turned fearfully pale.
"'You have won, too, Monsieur de Sancerre,' said he, with a trembling voice; 'for Madame la Grande Sénéchale just now sent word to me that she could receive no one this evening on account of a sudden indisposition.'
"'There,' cried Monsieur de Sancerre, 'just as I said! You will bear witness for me to D'Aussun, gentlemen, that he owes me a hundred pistoles.'
"Then they all fell to laughing like madmen; but the Comte de Montgommery remained very grave.
"'Now, my good friends,' said he, with an accent not free from bitterness, 'will you kindly explain this riddle for me?'
"'With all my heart, upon my word!' said Monsieur de Boutières; 'but first send these good people away.'
"We were already at the door, Perrot and I; but Monseigneur motioned for us to remain.
"'These are devoted friends of mine,' he said to the young gentlemen; 'and as I have nothing to blush for, I have nothing to conceal.'
"'As you choose!' said Monsieur de Langeais; 'it seems rather provincial, but the matter concerns you more than us, Count. And I am sure, too, that they must know the great secret, for it has made the circuit of the whole town; and you will be the last one to hear it, as is generally the case.'
"'Tell me, I beg you!' exclaimed Monsieur de Montgommery.
"'My dear Count,' resumed Monsieur de Langeais, 'we are going to tell you, because it pains us deeply to see a brave and courteous gentleman like yourself so deceived; but if we do tell you, it is only on condition that you accept the revelation philosophically,—that is to say, with a laugh,—for the whole matter is not worth your anger, I assure you; and then, too, any outburst of wrath would be disarmed beforehand.'
"'We shall see! I am waiting,' replied Monseigneur, coldly.
"'Dear Count,'—Monsieur de Boutières it was who spoke now, the youngest and most heedless of the three,—'you are acquainted with mythology, are you not? No doubt you know the story of Endymion? But what do you think was Endymion's age at the time of his liaison with Diane Phœbé? If you imagine that he was in the neighborhood of forty, you are mistaken, my dear fellow, for he was less than twenty, and hadn't a sign of a beard even. I know that from my governor, who has the whole story at his tongue's end. And that is how it happens that Endymion on this particular evening is not at the Louvre; and that Dame Luna is in bed and not to be seen, probably on account of the storm; and lastly, that you are at home, Monsieur de Montgommery,—whence it follows that my governor is a great man, and that we have won our three bets.Vive la joie!'
"'Your proofs?' asked the count, coldly.
"'Proofs!' replied Monsieur de Langeais, 'why, you can go and seek those for yourself. Don't you live within two steps of La Luna?'
"'Very true. Thanks!' was the count's only reply.
"He rose from his chair; and the three friends had to rise too, chilled and rather alarmed by Monsieur de Montgommery's stern and forbidding demeanor.
"'Come, come, Count,' said Monsieur de Sancerre, 'don't go and do anything foolish or imprudent! And remember that it is as dangerous to rub against the lion's whelp as against the lion himself.'
"'Don't be alarmed,' replied the count.
"'At least you don't intend to do yourself any harm?'
"'That's as it may be,' said he.
"He showed them to the door, or rather almost pushed them out, and then, coming back, said to Perrot,—
"'My cloak and my sword.'
"Perrot brought them to him.
"'Is it true that you knew this thing, you two?' asked the count, adjusting his sword.
"'Yes, Monseigneur,' replied Perrot, looking at the floor.
"'Why didn't you give me some warning of it, Perrot?'
"'But, Monseigneur—' my husband began falteringly.
"'Oh, it's all right; you are not my friends, you two, but just good people, that's all.'
"He tapped his squire on the shoulder good-naturedly. He was very pale, but spoke with a sort of solemn calmness. Again he said to Perrot,—
"'Is it a long while that these reports have been circulating?'
"'Monseigneur,' said Perrot, 'it is five months that you have been in love with Madame de Poitiers; and your marriage was arranged to take place in November. I am assured that Monseigneur le Dauphin has been in love with Madame Diane since about a month after she welcomed your addresses. However, it is hardly more than two months since it has been talked about, and personally I have known of it for only a fortnight. The rumors did not take definite shape until the postponement of the wedding, and the talk has been mostly under the rose, for fear of Monseigneur le Dauphin. Only yesterday I whipped one of Monsieur de la Garde's people for having the face to laugh about it in my hearing; and Monsieur de la Garde didn't dare to say a word.'
"'They shall not laugh any more about it,' said Monseigneur, in a tone that made me fairly shudder.
"When he was ready to depart, he passed his hand across his forehead, and said,—
"'Aloyse, bring Gabriel to me; I want to kiss him.'
"You were sleeping, Monseigneur Gabriel,—sleeping calmly like a little cherub; and you began to cry when I woke you and took you from your bed. I wrapped you in a blanket, and thus carried you to your father. He took you in his arms, gazed at you for some time without a word, as if to take his fill of the sight of you, then pressed a kiss upon your half-closed eyes. At the same time a tear fell on your rosy cheek,—the first tear which he, the strong proud man, had ever shed before me. He gave you back to my arms, saying,—
"'I commend my child to you, Aloyse.'
"Alas! they were the last words he ever said to me. They have remained where they fell, and I seem to hear them always.
"'I am going with you, Monseigneur,' said my good Perrot then.
"'No, Perrot. I must go alone. Do you stay here.'
"'But, Monseigneur—'
"'I wish it so,' said he.
"It was useless to protest further, when he spoke thus, and Perrot therefore remained silent. The count took our hands.
"'Adieu, my dear friends,' said he; 'no, not adieu!au revoir'
"And then he went away, calmly and with a firm step, as if he were going to return in a quarter of an hour.
"Perrot said not a word; but as soon as his master was out of the house, he too took down his cloak and his sword. We didn't exchange a word, and I made no attempt to prevent his going; he did but his duty in following the count, though it were to his death. He held out his arms to me, and I threw myself weeping into them; then having kissed me most tenderly, he followed Monsieur de Montgommery's footsteps. All this had not taken a minute, and we had not exchanged one word.
"Left alone, I fell upon a chair, sobbing and praying. The rain outside was falling with redoubled violence, and the wind was howling dismally. But you, Monseigneur Gabriel, you had fallen off again into a peaceful sleep, from which you were to awake an orphan."
"As Monsieur de Langeais had said, the Hôtel de Brézé, where Madame Diane then lived, was in the Rue du Figuier St. Paul, only two steps from us, and there it still stands,—this abode of disaster.
"Perrot followed his master at a distance, saw him stop at Madame Diane's door, knock, and then go in. He drew near to the house. Monsieur de Montgommery was speaking haughtily and with much confidence to the valets, who were trying to prevent his entrance, declaring that their mistress was ill in her chamber; but the count forced his way in, and Perrot took advantage of the confusion to creep softly in behind him, as the door remained half open. He knew his way about the house very well, having carried more than one message to Madame Diane. He went upstairs in the darkness behind Monsieur de Montgommery, unopposed, either because nobody saw him, or because the squire's presence was of trifling consequence when the master had broken through all rules.
"At the top of the staircase the count found two of the duchess's women, terrified and weeping, who asked him what he wanted at such an unseasonable hour. Ten o'clock was just striking on all the clocks in the neighborhood. Monsieur de Montgommery replied firmly that he must see Madame Diane at once; that he had something of importance to tell her without delay, and that if she could not receive him, he would wait.
"He spoke loud enough to be heard in the duchess's bedroom, which was close at hand. One of the women went in, and came back at once to say that Madame de Poitiers had retired; but that she would come and speak with the count, who was to wait for her in the oratory.
"The dauphin was not there then, or else he was acting very timorously for a son of France. Monsieur de Montgommery followed the two women without objection as they lighted him into the oratory.
"Perrot then who had been crouching in the darkness of the stairway, went on to the floor above, and hid behind a high curtain in a corridor which separated Madame de Poitiers's bedroom from the oratory where Monsieur de Montgommery was awaiting her. At the ends of this wide passage-way were two disused doors, one of which had formerly led into the oratory, and the other into the bedroom. Perrot found to his great delight that by slipping behind the hangings of one or the other of these doors, which had been allowed to remain for symmetry's sake, though no longer in use, and by listening attentively, he could hear almost every word that was said in either apartment. Not that my brave husband was influenced by mere idle curiosity, Monseigneur; but the count's last words as he parted from us, and an undefinable instinct, warned him that his master was running some risk, and that at this very moment they were setting a trap for him perhaps; so he determined to remain at hand to assist him in case of need.
"Unfortunately, as you will see, Monseigneur, not one of the words that he heard and afterward repeated to me threw the least ray of light upon the obscure and fatal question which is in our minds to-day.
"Monsieur de Montgommery had not waited two minutes when Madame de Poitiers entered the oratory rather hurriedly.
"'What is the trouble, Monsieur?' said she; 'and why this nocturnal invasion after my request that you would not come to-day?'
"'I will tell you frankly in a word, Madame; but send these women away first. Now listen to me. I will be very brief. I have been told that I have a rival in your affection; that my rival is the dauphin, and that he is with you here this very evening.'
"'And you must have believed it, since you came running here to make sure?' said Madame Diane, haughtily.
"'I was in agony, Diane, and I came here hoping to find a cure for my suffering.'
"'Very well; and now you have seen me,' replied Madame de Poitiers, 'you know that your informants lied to you; so leave me to get some rest. In Heaven's name, go, Jacques!'
"'No, Diane,' said the count made suspicious, no doubt, by her haste to get rid of him; 'for if they did lie in claiming that the dauphin was here now, they may not have lied in assuring me that he will be here before the evening is over; and I shall be very glad to prove them slanderers at every point.'
"'And so you will remain, Monsieur?'
"'I will remain, Madame. Do you go and lie down if you are ill, Diane. I will keep watch over your slumber, if you are willing.'
"'But by what right will you do this, Monsieur?' cried Madame de Poitiers. 'What title have you? Am I not free still?'
"'No, Madame,' replied the count, steadily, 'you are no longer free to make a loyal gentleman whose attentions you have accepted the laughing-stock of the whole court.'
"'At all events, I will not accept this last attention,' said Madame Diane. 'You have no more right to remain here than other people have to laugh at you. You are not my husband, are you? And I don't bear your name, so far as I am aware.'
"'Oh, Madame,' cried the count, in despair, 'what does it matter to me how much they laugh at me? That is not the question?Mon Dieu, no! and you know it, Diane; and it is not my honor that lies bleeding and crying to you for pity, but my love. If I had been offended by the gibes of those three idiots, I would have drawn my sword on them, and that would have been the end of it. But my heart was torn, Diane, and I came flying to you. My dignity! my reputation! it is not about those that I am troubled, not in the least; it is because I love you, and am raving mad with jealousy; because you have told me and proved to me that you love me; and because I will kill any one who dares to interfere with this love which is my all, whether he be dauphin or the king himself, Madame! I don't worry about the shape my vengeance shall take, I assure you. But as God lives, I will be revenged!'
"'And revenged for what, pray? and why?' demanded an imperious voice behind Monsieur de Montgommery.
"Perrot shivered with fear of what was to come; for across the dimly lighted corridor he saw Monsieur le Dauphin, who is to-day king, and in his wake the harsh and mocking features of Monsieur de Montmorency.
"'Heaven help me!' cried Madame Diane, falling upon a couch and wringing her hands; 'this is just what I feared.'
"Monsieur de Montgommery at first gave only a short sharp cry of dismay. Then Perrot heard him say with a marvellously calm voice,—
"'Monseigneur le Dauphin, just one word, by your leave! Tell me that you have not come here because you love Madame de Poitiers, and because Madame de Poitiers loves you.'
"'Monsieur de Montgommery,' replied the dauphin, restraining his rising anger, 'just one word, by my command! Tell me that I do not find you here because Madame Diane loves you, and because you love Madame Diane.'
"Matters having reached this stage, the actors were no longer the heir of the mightiest throne in the world and a simple gentleman, his subject, but two men, angered and jealous rivals, two suffering hearts, two distraught minds.
"'I was Madame Diane's chosen and accepted husband, as everybody knew, and as you knew,' replied Monsieur de Montgommery, altogether omitting the title by which the prince had a claim to be addressed.
"'A mere promise in the air, a forgotten promise,' cried Henri; 'and although perhaps of more recent date than yours, the rights of my love are no less sure, and I will maintain them.'
"'Ah, the villain! he speaks of his rights!' cried the count, already drunk with rage and jealousy. 'Do you dare to say, then, that this woman belongs to you?'
"I say that she doesn't belong to you, at all events,' replied Henri; 'I say that I am at Madame's house with Madame's approbation, and I fancy that you can hardly say the same. So I am impatiently awaiting your departure, Monsieur.'
"'If you are so impatient, well and good! let us go together; that's very simple.'
"'A challenge!' cried Montmorency, coming forward at this. 'Do you dare, Monsieur, to offer a challenge to the Dauphin of France?'
"'There is no Dauphin of France in the case at all,' replied the count; 'there is only a man who claims to be beloved by the woman whom I love, that's all.'
"He must have made a pass at Henri at this juncture, for Perrot heard Diane cry out,—
"'He means to insult the prince! he will murder the prince! Help!'
"Embarrassed, no doubt, by the strange part she was playing, she rushed out of the room, notwithstanding Monsieur de Montmorency's efforts to detain her by assuring her that she need not be afraid, for they were two against one, and had a strong escort below. Perrot saw Madame Diane cross the corridor and burst into her own room, weeping violently and calling aloud for her women and the dauphin's people.
"But her flight had no tendency to allay the heat of the two adversaries, far from it; and Monsieur de Montgommery repeated with bitter meaning the word 'escort' which had just been uttered.
"'It is with the swords of his retainers, doubtless,' said he, 'that Monseigneur le Dauphin intends to avenge these insults?'
"'No, Monsieur,' replied Henri, proudly, 'my sword alone will suffice to punish an insolent villain.'
"Each already had his hand upon his sword-hilt, when Monsieur de Montmorency interposed.
"'Pardon, Monseigneur,' said he; 'but he who may be king to-morrow has no right to put his life in jeopardy to-day. You are not a man, Monseigneur; you are a whole nation. A dauphin of France draws his sword only for France herself.'
"'But in that case,' cried Monsieur de Montgommery, 'a dauphin of France, who has everything at command, should not filch from me the one on whom my whole life depends, who is in my eyes dearer than my honor, than my native country, than my child in its cradle, even than my immortal soul itself; for she had made me forget all these,—this woman who has perhaps been false to me. But no, she is not false to me; it cannot be, for I love her too dearly! Monseigneur, pardon my violence and my madness, I beg, and condescend to tell me that you do not love Diane. Of course you would not come to the house of one you loved accompanied by Monsieur de Montmorency and a mounted escort of eight or ten! I ought to have thought of that.'
"'I chose,' said Monsieur de Montmorency, 'to attend Monseigneur with an escort this evening, despite his objections, because I had been secretly warned that a trap would be laid for him to-day. However, I meant to go no farther than the door of the house; but your loud voice, Monsieur, reached my ears, and was the cause of my coming farther than I intended, and thus becoming convinced of the accuracy of the intelligence afforded by the unknown friends who put me upon my guard so opportunely.'
"'Ah, I know who they are, these unknown friends!' said the count, laughing bitterly. 'They are the same ones, no doubt, who notified me also that the dauphin would be here this evening; and their plans have succeeded to admiration, to their delight no doubt, and to hers who set them about it. For Madame d'Étampes, I presume, had no object except to compromise Madame de Poitiers by a public scandal. So Monsieur le Dauphin, in coming to pay his visit with an army in attendance, has marvellously helped on this marvellous scheme! Aha! so you have no longer to show the least discretion, Henri de Valois, in your relations with Madame de Brézé? So you label her publicly as your declared favorite, do you? She is really yours by a certified and authenticated title; and I can no longer doubt or hope? You have surely stolen her from me beyond recall, and with her my happiness and my life? Well, then, by heaven and earth! I have no more occasion to be discreet either'. Because you are the son of France, Henri de Valois, is no reason why I should cease to be a gentleman; and you shall give me satisfaction for this insult, or you are nothing but a coward!"
"'Scoundrel!' cried the dauphin, drawing his sword and springing at the count.
"But Monsieur de Montmorency again threw himself between them.
"'Monseigneur, once more I say that in my presence the heir to the throne shall not cross swords about a woman with a —'