CHAP. VI.
While the conversation just narrated was taking place, and the character and views of the Abbé de Boisguerin were being commented upon in a manner which he could but little have wished, he himself was pursuing his way towards the town of Augoulême, with feelings and purposes varying at every step; though in his case it was not the slightest sting of remorse or regret which occasioned this vacillation of purpose.
Probably there never was a man on earth who wholly and entirely stilled the voice of conscience, and there might be moments when the Abbé's own heart reproached him for things which he had done. But the habit of his thoughts was different. He had been brought up in a school where right and wrong were so frequently confounded for the purpose of maintaining the temporal dominion of the church that, at a very early period of his life, he had arrived at that conclusion, which the sceptical followers of Pyrrho arrive at by a more lengthened process, namely, that on earth there is no absolute and invariable right and wrong.
The Jesuits had taught him, that what was wrong under some circumstances, and marked by the reprobation both of God and man, was right under other circumstances, and even praiseworthy; and forgetting the cautious restrictions under which the wiser and the better members of the order attempted, though vainly, to guard the doctrine, his keen and clear mind at once determined, that if fraud could ever be pious, virtue of any kind could be but a name. If there were no invariable and universal standard: if his thoughts and his actions were to be governed by the opinions, and directed to the purposes of men, the only rule of virtue, he saw, must be the approbation of others like himself; and as every course of action must have an end and object to secure energy in pursuing it, he readily fell into the belief that gratification was the great object, and men's good opinion but to be sought as a means to that end.
It may be easily conceived how far he went on upon such a course of reasoning. It naturally ended in the disbelief of every thing that other men hold sacred: yet he put on all the semblances of religion; for as he believed in no hereafter, to do so, did not seem to him an impious mockery, but merely an unmeaning ceremony required by society. Every thing had become with him a matter of calculation; any thing that was to be obtained, was to be obtained by a certain price; and, as he himself declared, he never regretted giving any price, provided the object was attained, and was of equal value.
It was his passions alone that led him wrong, and made him calculate falsely. They had done so more than once in life, but yet not frequently; not indeed that he sought to subdue them, but that they were not naturally easily roused.
It was no remorse then, or regret, that moved him in the varying state of his thoughts as he rode on. It was doubt as to the means that he was employing; It was doubt as to whether the strong passion, which he felt within his breast, was not blinding his eyes, and misleading his judgment, as to the choice of paths and instruments. He felt that on the present occasion he calculated not so coolly as he was accustomed to do; he felt that the object he had proposed to himself--or rather which passion, and rash passion had suggested--was one so great and so little likely to be obtained, that the means employed must be great and extraordinary also; and that no single false step could be taken without the loss of every hope. His sensations were all strangely complicated, however. He felt and reproached himself for feeling that the passion in his heart had grown up so powerful, so overwhelming, that when he thought of staking life itself upon the issue, not a hesitation crossed his mind, and that he was ready to say, like a love-sick boy, "Let me die, if she be not mine!" But with that passion, he had mingled ambition, both as a means and as an end; prospects had opened before his eyes which had roused in his heart aspirations, which he thought he had put down; and not only to succeed in his love, but to gild that love with pageantry and state and power, had now become his object.
Still, however, he remembered that in grasping at these high things, he might overlook matters which would prevent him reaching them; and after riding on quickly for some time, he drew in his rein, to think more calmly, to review his situation, and to calculate exactly all the important, the critical steps which were now to be taken.
"What am I next going to do?" he thought. "To seek for a priest, who may work upon that impetuous, weak-minded boy, to yield the object of his passion, because, in the pursuit thereof, he has shed his brother's blood. And yet, is it likely that he will yield it? No! I fear not! and yet stronger minds than his have been bowed down by superstition to greater sacrifices. He may, it is true; and it may be as well to secure that chance: but then, even then, only one small step is gained. If one could get him to yield all his great possessions at the same time, that were something! But he will not do that! Two centuries ago we would have sent him to the holy land: but those good times are past. What then is to be done?--To hurry him on into some rash enterprise, and sharing his danger, take the equal chance of which shall live and which shall die?--That were a gamester's policy indeed.--No! we must find more easy means than that."
"However," continued the Abbé, after a pause "in the meantime, I must strike for myself alone. She hates and abhors him evidently. I myself have been too rash and rough with her. My passion has been too impetuous--too fiery. I know that those women who seem so cold and circumspect are often like Ætna, icy above but with fire at the heart. But I have been rash. She will easily forgive that offence, however, and forget it too, when I can woo her as one unbound by the clerical vows, and companion of the high and great. I must lose no time, however, for events are drawing clearly to a mighty issue. Here is the party of Henry, and the party of the League. I must choose between the two without delay. And yet the choice is soon made. In the first place, it would be long ere Guise would trust me: in the next, he would never love me: in the next, he himself is not long lived. As I have seen a bird, when hit by a skilful fowler, tower high into the air before it falls, so Guise is soaring up with mighty effort, which will end but in his own destruction. I will away to Epernon at once. He is the man whose fortunes will yet rise; his unconquerable spirit, his courage, determination, and activity, his gross selfishness, his insolence, his very weakness, will all contribute to support him still. This is a world in which such things thrive! Epernon must be the man; and if I show him such cause as I can show him, he may well be glad to attach me to himself, as increasing his power and enhancing his importance with the King. It is to him I will go! Doubtless his reverses have humbled him somewhat, otherwise it were no light task to deal on such subjects with Epernon."
In judging of Epernon the Abbé judged by mankind in general, for in almost every breast pride is a cowardly quality, and once depressed sinks into grovelling submission. Epernon, however, was the exception to the general rule, and seemed rather to rise in haughtiness under adversity.
With thoughts like those which we have just detailed, the Abbé spurred on towards Angoulême; but as he began to climb the steep ascent, he saw several indications of popular emotion, which made him hesitate for a moment, as to whether he should proceed or not. There were two or three groups of citizens all speaking eagerly together, and in low tones; and at the gates of the city he remarked a man whom he had seen before, and knew to be the mayor of the place, conversing in a low tone, but in what seemed an anxious manner, with the soldiers of the Corps de Garde. The Abbé contrived to make his horse pass as near them as possible, but at the same time affected to be deeply busied with his own thoughts while really listening attentively to their conversation. He could only catch, however, the end of one sentence and the beginning of a reply:--
"This Duke--a proud insufferable tyrant," said the voice of the mayor.
"Get along; if you were not what you are, I would put my pike into you," replied the soldier; and went on with some observations upon his companion's conduct, not very complimentary, the whole of which the Abbé de Boisguerin did not hear.
As he advanced into the town, however, his keen eye remarked many more signs and symptoms of the same kind, from all of which he drew his own deductions; and on entering the castle, which was then inhabited by the Duke of Epernon, he dismounted in the court of the guardhouse, as it was called, where there were a considerable number of the Duke's soldiery loitering about. Though it was not the usual place for visitors to dismount, they suffered him to attach his horse to one of the large iron hooks in the wall, and in a few minutes after he was in the presence of the Duke of Epernon. Not a trace of humiliation or abasement was to be seen in the Duke's countenance or demeanour. He was as proud, as fierce, as fiery as ever; and although he received the Abbé, having seen him more than once in Paris during the late events, and entertaining that degree of consideration for him which a keen and powerful mind almost always commands, he nevertheless seemed to doubt whether he should ask him even to sit down, and did it at length with an air of condescension.
"Well, Monsieur de Boisguerin," he said at length, "to what do I owe this visit?"
"I come, my Lord," replied the Abbé without a moment's hesitation, "to offer your Lordship my poor services."
The Duke smiled. "They are of course," he said, "welcome. Monsieur de Boisguerin. But the time of offering them is somewhat singular, when all men think my fortunes on the decline, or, perhaps, I should say, utterly down."
"Such it may seem to them, my Lord," replied the Abbé; "but such it seems not to me. There are sciences, my Lord, which teach us what the future is destined to produce; and I own that I am quite selfish in my present act, seeking to attach myself to one who is yet destined to uphold the throne of France, to affect the fortunes of the times, to triumph over all his enemies, and to outlive most of them now living."
"Indeed!" said the Duke thoughtfully; "and am I to believe this prophecy seriously?"
"Most seriously, my Lord," replied the Abbé. "I myself believe it and know it, as I believe and know the great fortunes that are likely to attend myself--otherwise, perhaps, you might not have seen me here to-day."
"That is candid, at all events," said the Duke; "and to say truth, I think that your prophecy, in some things, may be right; for I feel within my breast that undiminished power, that sense of my own strength, that confidence in my own destiny, which surely never can be given to a falling man. But you spoke of your own future high fortunes, sir. What may they be?"
The Abbé paused and looked down for a moment, but then replied, "I tell not the prophecy to every one, my Lord; but to you, to whose services I hope to dedicate those high fortunes, I fear not to relate it. It was pronounced long ago, in the city of Rome, when I was there studying, and as a rash young man had entangled myself in an affair with a fair girl of the city, who suffered our intercourse to be discovered, and consequently well nigh ruined all my prospects. I thought indeed it was so, and was turning my back upon Rome for ever, when I met with an old monk, who from certain facts I told him drew my horoscope, and assured me that I should find my fate in France; that my fortune would be brought about by the death of two relations far younger than myself; and that I should suddenly take a share in great events, and rule the destiny of others when I least expected it. Such was the old man's prophecy now many years ago; and I have seen no sign of its accomplishment till the present time."
"And what signs have you seen now?" demanded Epernon.
"That I have been suddenly led, my Lord," replied the Abbé, "from the calm and tranquil quiet of a provincial life, without my own will or agency, into scenes of activity and strife; and that one, out of the two lives which lay between me and the great possessions of Montsoreau, Logères, and Morly--lives, which in their youth and healthfulness seemed to cut me off from all hope--has already lapsed, and left but one."
"How is that?" exclaimed the Duke. "What life has lapsed?"
"That of the young Count of Logères," replied the Abbé.
"Indeed!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon in a tone somewhat sorrowful. "I had not heard that. He was a bold, rash youth; but yet there was in him the seeds of great things. He was fearless, and proud, and firm: virtues, the parents of all dignity and greatness.--You say then that there is but one life between you and all these lordships."
"But one," replied the Abbé; "that of Gaspar of Montsoreau, in regard to whom you took some slight interest, at the time his marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was talked of."
"Was talked of?" said the Duke. "Is it not talked of still?"
"Why, my Lord," replied the Abbé, "the Lady's evident detestation of the young Marquis has rendered the matter hopeless. You yourself remarked it, when you spoke with her at Vincennes; and he is now convinced of it himself. The grief and depression thus produced have impaired his health; and, indeed, it would seem as if ten years had gone over him, instead of a few months, since all this affair began."
"I hope, Monsieur de Boisguerin," said the Duke of Epernon with a bitter smile, "I hope that you have not been taking too deep lessons of our friend Villequier. I would rather be a prisoner on a charge of high treason, and with Guise for my enemy, than I would be next akin to Villequier, and between him and lands and lordships."
The Abbé's brow grew as dark as night. "My Lord," he said, "I will not affect to misunderstand you; but I am sure that fate will work out its own will without any aid of mine; and had I been disposed to clear the way for myself, who should have stopped me, or who could have discovered any thing I did, when these two youths have been under my care and guardianship ever since their father's death?"
"I did but jest, Abbé," replied the Duke. "But supposing that the events which you anticipate were really to occur, what would be your conduct then?"
"So sure am I, my Lord," replied the Abbé, "that they will occur, that my conduct has been put beyond doubt. I have already demanded of the Court of Rome to be freed from this black dress; and my last letters from the eternal city announce to me, that the dispensation is already granted, and, drawn up in full form, is now upon the road."
"Ha!" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon. "Is it so, indeed? You must have powerful protectors in the conclave."
"I have," replied the Abbé; "and though his Holiness is not fond of relaxing the vows of any one without some puissant motive; yet, when there is a strong one, he does not let the opportunity of unbinding slip, lest his key should grow rusty. But however, my Lord, supposing these things done away, and I Marquis of Montsoreau and Lord of Logères, my first aim and object would be to raise what power and forces I could, and with my sword, my wealth, and my life, were it necessary, serve his Majesty the King, under him whom I hope soon to see directing the state, namely, the Duke of Epernon, if----"
"Ay, there is still an if," replied the Duke. "Well, sir, what is the condition?"
"It is, my Lord," said the Abbé after a pause, in which it was evident that he considered the way he was to put his demand, "It is, that the Duke of Epernon will pledge me his princely word, that as far as his power and influence go, he will support my claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."
The Duke actually started back with surprise; and, forgetting altogether the splendid future with which the Abbé had been endeavouring to invest his pretensions, he exclaimed, in a tone of anger and contempt that chafed and galled the spirit of the ambitious man with whom he spoke, "Yours,--yours? Abbé de Boisguerin? you, a poor preceptor in your cousin's house, an insignificant churchman, unbeneficed and unknown--you, to lay claim to the heiress of Clairvaut, a niece of the Guise, a lady nor far removed from a sovereign house? On my soul and honour, I mind me to write to Villequier at once, and bid him marry his cousin to this young Marquis out of hand, in order to save your brains from being cracked altogether!"
"Villequier can marry his cousin to no one," answered the Abbé, "without my full consent. No, nor can the King either!"
"Mort-bleu!" exclaimed Epernon with a scornful laugh. "Vanity and ambition have driven the poor man mad. Get you gone, Monsieur de Boisguerin; get you gone! I shall not trust with any mighty faith to your fine prophecies."
Though the Abbé de Boisguerin felt no slight inclination to put his hand into his bosom, and taking forth the dagger that lay calmly there, to plunge it up to the hilt in the heart of Epernon, he showed not in the slightest degree the wrath which internally moved him. Nay, the great object that he had in view made him in some degree conquer that wrath, and he replied, "Well, my good Lord, I will get me gone. But, before I go, you shall hear another warning, which may enable you to judge whether my divinations are false or not. It is destined that, in the course of today or to-morrow, you should encounter a great peril. Remember my words! be upon your guard! and take measures to ensure yourself against danger! Go not out into the streets scantily attended----"
"Oh no!" replied the Duke with a sneer. "I do not trust myself alone in the streets and high roads without a footboy to hold my horse, like the noble aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. I am not so bold a man, nor so loved of the people; and as to chance perils, I fear them not."
"Your acts on your own head, my Lord Duke!" replied his companion. "I give you good day." And turning away abruptly, he passed out of the room through the long corridor, and part of the way down the stairs which led to the court of the guard.
He was scarcely half way down, however, when some sounds which he heard coming from the other side of the building made him suddenly stop, listen, and then turn round; and, with a step of light, he retrod his way to the chamber where he had left the Duke.
Epernon was busy writing, and looking up fiercely, demanded "What now?"
"Fly, my Lord, fly quick!" exclaimed the Abbé. "I come to give you time to save yourself, for the mayor and his faction are upon you. They have come in by the great court, and I think have killed the Swiss at your gate. Believe me, my Lord, for what I say is true! Fly quickly, while I run down to send the guard to your assistance."
His words received instant confirmation, even as the Duke gazed doubtfully in his face; for a door on the opposite side of the room burst open, and a terrified attendant rushed in, while eight or nine fierce faces were seen pursuing him quickly.
The Duke darted to a staircase, which led to a little turret, and the first steps of which entered the room, without any door, just behind his chair. He sprang up eagerly towards the small dressing-room above, and the mayor and his armed companions pursued as fiercely, leaving the Abbé to make his escape towards the court of the guard, without giving any heed to his proceedings. Before the Abbé had passed the door, however, he heard a loud crash, and turned his head to see by what it was occasioned, when, at a single glance he perceived that the very eagerness of his pursuers had saved the Duke of Epernon. Ten or twelve heavily armed men had all rushed at once upon the old and crazy staircase which led to the Duke's dressing-room. The wood work had given way beneath them, precipitating one or two into the story below, and the greater part back into the room itself, but leaving a chasm between them and the Duke, which it was impossible for them to pass.[5]
Without pausing to make any farther remark, the Abbé ran down hastily and alarmed the guard; and while the soldiers rushed tumultuously up to defend a commander whom they all enthusiastically loved, the Abbé de Boisguerin mounted his horse and rode quietly out of the town. He doubted not, as indeed it happened, that the soldiery would arrive in time to save their Lord, and to compel the mayor and his comrades to make a hasty retreat.
It was not, however, towards the Château of Islay, where he had left Gaspar de Montsoreau, that the solitary horseman took his way; but, on the contrary, crossing the Charente, he rode rapidly onward by the banks of the river, in the direction of that field of Jarnac, where, in his early days, Henry III. had given such striking promises of heroism and conduct which his after life so signally failed to fulfil.
As he rode along, he thought with somewhat of a smile upon his countenance, that his last prophecy to the Duke of Epernon had met with a speedy fulfilment; and he pondered with some bitterness over the parting words which that nobleman had spoken to him.
"The aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said to himself, "without a single footboy to hold his horse! That may be in the present instance policy rather than any thing else, my good Lord Duke. But still we may learn wisdom, even, from such bitter words as those. I had forgotten how much all men value the gilded exterior. But it shall be so no longer. This that I aim at must be soon lost or won. I have staked life upon the pursuit, and all that makes life valuable. And why should I not stake fortune also? 'Fortune buys fortune,' says the old adage; and as the stake is great, so shall my game be bold."
His resolution was instantly taken. He possessed, as we have said before, sufficient wealth to give him competence, and to enable him to mingle with decent splendour in the society in which he was born. But he calculated that the same fortune which put him at ease for life, might afford him the means of magnificence and display, if he resolved to expend the whole within a few years. He did so resolve, saying to himself, "I shall either be at the height of fortune and enjoyment ere two years be over, or I shall be no more. It suits me not to go on playing stake after stake, as many men do, beaten, like a tennis-ball, from prosperity to ruin, and from ruin to prosperity. I have bent myself to one great purpose, and I will attain it or die. That is always within one's power, to shake off life when it is no longer a source of happiness."
As he thus thought, his horse slowly descended a gentle hill by the side of the river, with a meadow down to the Charente on the one side, and a bank crowned with the wall of a vineyard on the other. Built up against the wall was a little shrine, with a virgin and child behind a net-work of iron, and the votive offering of a silver lamp burning below.
Sitting on the little green spot which topped the bank at that place--after having apparently said his prayers at the foot of the shrine--was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age; and as the Abbé came slowly near, the youth took a pipe out of his pocket and began playing a wild plaintive Italian air, full of rich melody and deep feeling. The music was not new to the Abbé; he had heard it before in other lands, when the few pure feelings of the heart which he had ever possessed had not been crushed, like accidental flowers blossoming on a footpath, by the passing to and fro of other coarser things.
He drew in his horse and paused to listen, and then gazed at the boy, and thought he had seen him somewhere before. The eyes, the features, the expression of the countenance, seemed to be all connected with some old remembrances; and the air which he played too, brought his memory suddenly back to early scenes, and a land that he had loved. As he gazed at the boy, who went on with the air, the recollection of his person again connected itself with different events; and, though now he was clothed in simple grey, he fancied he recognised in him the youth who had been seen with Charles of Montsoreau when he attacked and defeated the small body of reiters near La Ferté, and whom he had also beheld more than once in Paris, when he was watching the proceedings of the young Count in the capital.
This conviction became so strong, that he went up and spoke to him, and found that it was as he suspected. After conversing with him for a few moments, he told him that if he would pursue that road for nearly a league, he would meet with some buildings belonging to a farm; and then, turning again down a road to the left, he would find him at a château upon the banks of the river. The boy promised to come, and the Abbé rode on, while Ignati putting up his pipe followed as fast as possible, and soon arrived at the gates of the dwelling to which he had been directed.
He was brought into the presence of the Abbé by an attendant wearing the colours of no noble house in France, and found him with some fruit and wine before him. But in regard to the subject on which the boy expected to be questioned most closely, namely, the death of Charles of Montsoreau, the Abbé spoke not one word. Notwithstanding all his firmness of purpose, notwithstanding the remorseless character of his mind and of his habitual thoughts, he loved not to touch upon the subject of his young cousin's death, unless forced on to do so by circumstances. He spoke of Paris and of the Duke of Guise; and where he had first met with the young Count of Logères, and of all the accidents that had befallen him while in company with Charles of Montsoreau. But he spoke not one word in regard to the day of the barricades, or the young nobleman's death.
From time to time, while he talked with the boy, Ignati saw that the Abbé's eyes fixed upon his countenance, and at length he asked him, "You are an Italian by birth, are you not?"
"I am," replied the boy; "that is, I am a Roman." And he said it with that pride which every person born within the precincts of the ancient queen of empires feels, although glory has long departed from her walls, and the memory of past greatness is rather a reproach than an honour.
"And what is your name?" demanded the Abbé sharply.
"My name is Ignati," answered the youth.
"Ignati!" said the Abbé, "Ignati!" But you have some other name. What was your father's?"
"I do not know," answered the boy, with his cheeks and his brow glowing. "Why do you ask?"
"Your mother's then?" said the Abbé, without replying to his question. "Your mother's? what was your mother's name?"
"Her name was Laura Pandolfini," replied the boy, gazing upon the Abbé with a degree of sternness in his look. "Did you know her?"
The face of the Abbé changed from deadly pale to glowing red in a moment; and after a pause he replied angrily and abruptly, "I know her?--I know her? I know a common strumpet?"
The boy's eyes flashed fire; and his hand was in his bosom in a moment seeking the knife that lay there. But he had put the pipe in the breast of his doublet also, and ere he could reach a weapon, which, as we have seen, he was able to use with fatal effect, the form of a lady passing across the two open doors on the other side of the room made him suddenly pause; and after a moment's thought, he drew back his hand and said, "What you say is false! She deserved not the name you have given her!"
He was turning towards the door, when the Abbé cried "Stay!" and as the boy turned, he put his hand to his head and mused thoughtfully. Then starting suddenly he added, "No, no! It would be discovered!--Come hither, boy!" he added; and taking out his purse he counted out some pieces of gold, to no light amount; and giving them to the boy, he said, "There, you have lost your master and seem to be poorly off. Take those, and get thee into some reputable employment."
But the boy gave one fierce glance at his countenance, dashed down the gold upon the pavement, and exclaiming, "I will have no liar's money!" quitted the chamber and the house.
The Abbé gazed after him for a moment or two, fell into deep thought, and ended by pressing his hands over his eyes and exclaiming, "I am a fool!"
After pausing for a few moments more, he said to himself, "Well, I must wait no longer here. This girl seems pleased with my new demeanour towards her. Of my past language which frightened her, it seems that very soon no other impression will remain but the memory of the deep and passionate love I testified. That is never displeasing to any woman; and if I can lead her gently on, the matter will be soon accomplished, now that this her first fancy is at an end, and the grave has taken the great obstacle out of the way. Love him, she did not, with true, womanly, passionate, love; but fond of him she was, with the sickly fancy of an idle girl; and her grief will be sufficient to soften her proud heart. It is a wonderful softener, grief; and she will cling to whosoever is near her, that has skill and power to soothe and support her. I will teach her to love better than she has loved!--But I must write down these tidings. I must not tell them to her with my own voice, and with her eyes upon me, lest she learn to hate me as the bearer of evil tidings."
And seeking for pen and ink he wrote a note, such as few others but himself could have composed. It was tender, yet respectful,--not lover-like, yet through every word of it love's light was shining--sad, but not gloomy--melancholy, yet with words of hope. When he had done he folded and sealed it, and then listening to the distant village clock, he said--
"If I am absent much longer, Gaspar may suspect; and I am rather inclined to believe that some one has roused suspicions in his mind already. Well, we shall soon see; it is no very difficult task to rule a light-brained youth like that."
Thus thinking, and leaving the note behind him on the table, the Abbé proceeded to the stables, chose a fresh horse, caused it to be saddled and bridled, and rode back to the Château of Islay with all speed. Before he proceeded to the saloon to join the young Marquis, he questioned his own servants as to all that had taken place during his absence; heard of the long visit of Villequier; and planned his own conduct accordingly.
Gaspar of Montsoreau, when he joined him, expressed some surprise that he had not returned before, and added, in as gentle a tone as he could assume, "I trust, nay good friend, that you have been pursuing the inquiries which have so long frustrated us in regard to the dwelling of that sweet girl, whom we were very wrong to place again in the hands of Villequier, even though it might have cost us our lives had we either remained in Paris, or attempted to take her with us."
Though the young Marquis spoke quickly, his companion, who knew his character to the very bottom and could instantly see the workings of his mind when he used any of the arts he himself had taught him, perceived at once that Villequier had betrayed the secret of Marie de Clairvaut's abode; and he replied deliberately, "Yes, Gaspar, I have been more successful; and I think now--tamed down as you have been by grief, and requiring some consolation--I think now, I say, that it is not only safe but right, to let you know both that this fair girl is in the neighbourhood of the spot where we now stand, and that she is under my care and guidance."
"In the neighbourhood?" exclaimed Gaspar of Montsoreau. "Under your care and guidance? How happened I not to hear this before, Abbé?"
"Simply," replied the Abbé, "because the state of violence and irritation in which you were when I last returned to you from Blois--the period when I first became possessed of any knowledge on the subject--would have led you into acts of impetuosity, which, in the first place, would have terribly injured your cause with her; and, in the next, would have discovered the place of her abode to every one from whom we seek to conceal it. Now, however, I think you can command yourself, and you will find the benefit of what has been done to serve you. All I require is, that you would let me know when you visit Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; that you would do so with prudence and caution and forbearance; and though it is not of course necessary that you should desist from pleading your own cause with her, yet let it be as gently as may be."
The Abbé de Boisguerin knew that Gaspar de Montsoreau could not do as he asked him; that it was not in his nature to plead his own cause gently. He felt perfectly confident that the rash impetuosity of the young Marquis would alienate more and more the regard of Marie de Clairvaut, and thus, perhaps, facilitate even his own views and purposes. Could he have prevented it, he would not willingly have let him visit her at all; but it was now impossible to exclude him; and he knew that the secret of Charles of Montsoreau's death gave him the power of destroying at once all his former pupil's hopes, if he saw that he even made one step in removing the bad impressions Marie previously had received.
On his part, though not quite satisfied with being deceived, Gaspar of Montsoreau believed that the Abbé had deceived him for his own good; and the selfish purposes which were most needful for him to discover, were still concealed in spite of the warnings of Villequier.
CHAP. VII.
In the gardens of the Château by the banks of the Charente; which the Abbé de Boisguerin had left to return to Gaspar de Montsoreau, and in an arbour which had been constructed, as is still ordinary with the people of that country, by a number of vines entwined over a light trellis work; with a soft and beautiful scene before her eyes, and the autumn sunshine gilding the glowing waters, Marie de Clairvaut sat and wept, with the note from the Abbé which had conveyed to her the bitterest tidings she ever had received on earth open in her hand. A day had passed since the events just recorded had taken place, and she had now received the news many hours, but her grief had not in the least subsided; and to herself it even seemed greater than it had been at first. Her whole thoughts at first had been bent upon the one painful fact, that he whom she had loved with all the fervour, and the depth, and the devotion of a heart that had never loved before, was lost to her for ever; that she should never behold again that frank and candid countenance, beaming with looks of deep and indubitable affection; that she should never again see those eyes poring into hers with the intense gaze of love, and seeming at once to give and receive fresh light; that she should never hear the tones of that musical voice, which had so often assured her of protection and support; that she should never cling to that arm, which had so often brought her rescue and deliverance in the moment of danger. Then, she had felt only that he was lost and gone, cut off in the brightness of his days, in the glory and strength of his youth, in the full blossom of his hopes, and ere he had yet more than lifted to his lips the cup, which, offered to him by honour, virtue, and sincerity, ought to have been a sweet one indeed.
Now, however, there had grown upon her mind feelings indeed more selfish, but which were the natural consequences of her situation, and connected intimately with the loss of him she loved. A feeling of desolation had come over her--of utter loneliness in all the world. It seemed as if she had never loved or esteemed or clung to any but himself; as if there were no one to protect her, to guide, support, direct, or cheer her upon earth; as if life's youth were over, the fortune of existence spent like a prodigal, the heart's treasury empty, and nothing left for the immortal spirit on this side the grave but penury of every rich and noble feeling, lone solitude and petty cares, and all the dull anxieties of a being without an object.
Desolate, desolate indeed, did she feel: and well too might she feel desolate! for though her grief did some wrong to many who loved her as friends and relations, and would have done much to aid and support her; yet, oh! what is such love and esteem? what is aid and support wrung from the midst of hours devoted to other things, and thoughts and feelings centered upon other objects, when compared with the entire devotion, the pure, single love of an upright, an honourable, and a feeling heart--where the being loved is the great end and object of every thought and every action--where all the feelings of the spirit are hovering by day round that one object, and guarding it like angels through the watches of the night? Oh yes, she was lonely, she was desolate, she was unprotected and unsupported, when she compared the present with the past! Well might she think so; well might she grieve and mourn over her own deprivation, when she wept for him and for his early end!
Some comfort, perhaps, had been indeed afforded her by the change which had taken place in the demeanour of the Abbé de Boisguerin. She could never love him; she could never like him: his society could never even become tolerable to her: but yet it was no slight satisfaction to find that she was no more to hear words which she considered as little less than sacrilegious, or to endure the eager passion in his eye, and hear him dare to talk to her of love. She looked upon him as her gaoler indeed, though he often denied that he had power to liberate her; but yet she felt that peace and comfort at least depended much upon that gaoler's will, and was not a little pleased to find that during the three or four last visits which he had paid, no word which could offend her had been spoken, no tone or even look that she could take amiss was to be seen, though a certain tenderness and melancholy seemed to have fallen upon him, which she could well have wished removed, or not so openly displayed.
During the very morning of which we are now speaking, he had come there again, and his conduct towards her had been all that she could have desired. He had not spoken directly of the cause of the deep grief which he saw his intelligence of the former day had brought upon her, but all his words were chosen so as to harmonise with that grief; and the object of his visit itself, as he expressed it, was only to see whether he could do any thing to console her, or to alleviate the sorrow under which she laboured. She had thanked him for his courtesy and kindness; but, ere he had left her, he said with a tone of what seemed real regret, that he was sorry to say his own visit would be followed by another, which he feared might, in some degree, importune her.
"The young Marquis of Montsoreau," he added, "will be restrained no longer from seeing you; and you know, Madam, it is impossible for me to prevent him, which I would willingly have done, especially as the view he takes of the recent most lamentable event is not likely to do aught but give you pain."
"Oh, cannot you stay him?" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut. "Cannot you stay him at this terrible moment, when the very sight of him will be horrible to me?"
"I fear not indeed. Lady," replied the Abbé. "I would have given my right hand to prevent his coming, but he seemed perfectly determined. However, when I return, I will do my best once more, in the hope that he may yet be moved." And after a visit very much shorter than usual, he had taken his leave and departed.
The fair girl he left had gone out into the gardens, as we have seen, once more to weep alone over the sad and painful situation in which she was placed, and over the dark and irreparable loss which she had sustained; but ere she had gone out, she had taken the only precaution in her power to insure that her solitude would remain inviolate, directing the servants--who acted indeed the part of turnkeys--if the Marquis of Montsoreau applied to see her, to state at once that she was not well enough to receive him, and wished to pass some days alone and in tranquillity.
She wept long and bitterly; but in about an hour after she had gone out, the sound of horses' feet reached her ear, and voices speaking at the gateway made themselves heard. She could distinguish even the tones of the young Marquis, and indistinctly the words of the servant in reply. But Gaspar of Montsoreau was hurt and offended by the message she had left, and a certain inclination to tyranny in his disposition broke forth with his usual impetuosity.
"Inform Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said, "who it is that desires to see her, and let me have an answer quick. Say that I much wish for a few minutes' conversation with her. What, fellow! Would you shut the gates upon me like a horseboy? Get ye gone and return quickly. I will walk in the gardens till you come back." And striding in he threw the gate violently to, and advanced directly to the water's side, as if he could have divined that the object of his search was there.
Marie de Clairvaut was indignant, and that feeling for a moment enabled her to throw off the overwhelming load of grief. Rising at once she came forth, and crossed the green slope towards the château, passing directly by Gaspar of Montsoreau as she did so, and intending merely to bow her head by way of salutation. He placed himself in such a manner, however, that she could not pass on, although he must have seen the tears fresh upon her cheeks, and her indignation was more roused than before.
"I directed the servant, sir," she said, when forced to pause, "to inform you, if you came, that I was not well enough to see you; and that I wished for solitude and tranquillity."
"Nay, indeed, dear Lady," said the young Marquis, conquering the feelings of anger with which he had entered, and speaking with a calm and tender tone, "I thought, if you knew that I was here, pity, if nothing else, would induce you to see, but for a few moments, one who has languished for weeks and months for a single glance of your eyes--one who so deeply, so tenderly, so devotedly, loves you."
Those words sounded harsh, painful, and insulting to the ears of Marie de Clairvaut--words which, from the lips of him she loved, would have been all joy and sweetness, but were now abhorrent to her ear; and looking at him sternly, with her bright eye no longer dimmed, though her lip quivered, she said, "Never let me hear such words again, sir!--I beg that you would let me pass!--Marquis of Montsoreau, this is cruel and ungentlemanly! Learn that I look upon myself as your brother's widow, and ever shall so look upon myself till my dying day." And thus saying she passed him, and entered the house.
She listened eagerly for the sound of horses' feet after she had entered her own apartments, and was very soon satisfied that the young Marquis had gone back. As soon as she was assured of this, she once more went out into the open grounds--for the load of grief ever makes the air of human dwellings feel oppressive; and again going down to the bank of the river, she gazed upon its tranquil current as she walked by the side; and though her sorrow certainly found no relief, yet the sight of the waters flowing beneath her eyes, calm, tranquil, incessant, led, as it were, her thoughts along with them. They became less agitated, though still as deep and powerful; they seemed to imitate the course of the river, running on incessantly in the same dark stream, but in quiet and in silence. The tears indeed would, from time to time, rise into her eyes and roll over her cheeks, but no sob accompanied them; and though a sigh often broke from her lip, it was the sigh of deep, calm despair, not of struggling pain.
It is wonderful how, when we are in deep grief, the ordinary sounds and sights of joyous nature strike harsh and inharmonious upon us. Things that would pass by unheard at other times, as amongst the smaller tones in the great general concert of the day, then become painfully acute. The lark that sung up in the sky above her head, made no pleasant melody for her ear; a country boy crossing the opposite fields, and whistling as he went, pained her so much, and made her gentle heart feel so harsh towards him, that she schooled herself for such sensations, saying, "He cannot tell that I am so sorrowful! He cannot tell that the sounds which I once was fond of, are now the most distasteful to me."
A minute or two after a few notes upon a pipe were played immediately beneath the garden wall--a little sort of prelude, to see that the instrument was clear; and unable to endure it longer, Marie de Clairvaut turned to seek shelter in her prison.
Ere she had taken three steps, however, she paused. The air was not one of the country; a finer hand, too, a more exquisite taste than France could produce woke the instrument into sounds most musical, and in a moment after, she recognised the sweet air which she had twice before heard, and both times from the lips of Charles of Montsoreau.
The memory of the first time that it had met her ear was sweet and delightful; but the memory of the second time was as the memory of hope; and, in despite of all, it woke again the feelings it had awakened before; and an indistinct feeling of glad expectation came across her mind, like a golden sunbeam, shining through the mist of an autumnal morning. What was it she hoped? what was it she expected? She knew not herself; but still there was an indistinct brightening came over her heart, and feelings; and when the air was over, instead of flying from the music, she listened eagerly for its renewal.
The pipe, however, sounded not again; but in a moment after she heard some one say, "Hark!" and the sweetest possible voice began to sing:--