Before a mirror of the most beautiful polish that it was possible to conceive, and a toilet table covered with all the most costly essences and perfumes which could be procured from the four quarters of the globe, appeared the Duchess of Valentinois, seated in a large armchair of rich velvet, towards nine o'clock in the evening of the day whereof we have just been speaking. She was clothed in a dressing-gown of silver tissue, and all the stately and somewhat cumbrous apparel of the day had been put off, while, with three maids all busy about her person, she was dressing for the assembly of the court, which was to be held that evening. Nor did she appear in the least the less lovely that she was without any of the additions that dress and ornament sometimes make to beauty; nor, strange to say, did she appear less young when thus unassisted by art, than even when dressed in the most sumptuous mode of the court. The eye of the woman who was combing her long, rich, luxuriant brown hair, detected not one silver thread marking the passing of years among the rest. The teeth were as white and pearly as those of youth. The brow and neck without a furrow ploughed by the hand of time.

On a footstool at the lady's feet sat a very lovely girl, bearing in her countenance a slight resemblance to herself. She was already dressed with great splendour, and sat looking up in the face of the duchess, as if admiring and wondering at the beauty which seemed to set even the great destroyer of all things at defiance.

The duchess, upon her part, looked down at her with pleasure and affection, calling her "Ma belle Henriette," and, parting the hair farther away from her brows with her own hands, she said, "You must look your loveliest to-night, Henrietta; for you must do much in the way of captivation."

The girl smiled playfully, and replied, "No, no! that were bad policy; I would rather not look so lovely now as afterward. His love, at present, I can count upon. But I must try and be more captivating hereafter, to keep it when he is my husband."

The duchess smiled in turn: "Ah, my Henrietta," she said, "the love of man is not so difficult to keep, if woman do but use the same efforts to retain it that she does to win it. We often make men fickle who would be faithful, thinking that to captivate them once is all-sufficient. How many do I daily see, Henrietta, who take all imaginable pains to win affection; who are gay and cheerful, courteous and kind, willing to please and ready to be pleased; robing themselves, as it were, in small graces and sweet allurements; and who, when the object is attained, cast away, at once, every effort; are dull and cheerless, exacting, sullen, and harsh, and then wonder that the won heart is lost more quickly than it was gained! When children catch flies, my Henrietta, they put not down a drop of honey, which the insects can eat and fly away. There must be enough honey to keep them, my child."

"It is a lesson that I will remember," replied Henriette de la Mark. "But, as I have always thought, dear lady, that it is happiness we seek, and not admiration, I trust I should never have forgotten that the same means must be taken to keep affection that are used to win it. But hark! there are manifold sounds below. Surely the guests are not arriving already?"

The question was soon answered; for, a moment after, one of the female attendants was called to the door, and returned to tell the duchess that two gentleman had arrived in haste, and anxiously desired to speak with her. She turned towards the woman with somewhat of angry scorn in her countenance, asking if they had been told that she was at her toilet. The woman replied in the affirmative; but that they had, nevertheless, urged the important nature of their business.

"Bid them send me their names," replied the duchess, after thinking for a moment. "Meyrand's letter declared that he would soon be here. Perhaps he has come himself."

It was as she thought. But the other name which the servant brought back was that of the Lord of Masseran.

"Bid them wait but a moment," replied the duchess. "I will not be long. Tie up my hair, Laurette, in a large knot. Any how, any how; but be quick."

Then, drawing the dressing-gown more closely round her, and preceded by one of her women bearing a light, she descended to a saloon below, making a sign to Henriette de la Mark to remain till she returned.

Standing near a table in the room which Diana of Poitiers now entered, appeared the tall and graceful Count de Meyrand, and the dark-looking and subtle Marquis of Masseran. Each, to a certain degree, retained his usual aspect, though neither could entirely banish from his countenance the varied emotions which were busy at his heart. Graceful and dignified in demeanour Meyrand still was. Indeed, it was so much a matter of habit with him to act with ease and calm self-possession, that they could never be entirely lost; but still his usual air of indifference was gone, and there was an eager impatience in his eye which marked that strong and busy passions were agitating him within. On the other hand, the look of calm subtlety, which was the reigning expression of the countenance of the Lord of Masseran, but which we have already seen, on more than one occasion, give way to fiercer passions, had now yielded to an expression of restless disquietude, while his eye turned sharp and flashing at every sound.

On the appearance of Madame de Valentinois, the count advanced with signs of low and humble homage, and raised the hand which she proffered him respectfully to his lips. The Lord of Masseran came a step behind, and then a momentary pause took place. It was broken, however, by the duchess herself, who was much too impatient to learn the cause of their sudden arrival to wait till it was explained in the course of conversation.

"Welcome to Paris, Monsieur de Meyrand!" she said. "But say, what is it that brings you here at this hour? It must be business of importance, I am sure."

"Nothing but business of immediate moment, madam, would have induced me thus to trespass upon you," replied the count; "but I have myself arrived within this half hour in the capital. I came, I confess, with some wrongful suspicions of my good friend the Marquis of Masseran here, in regard to the lady of whom I wrote to you. I fancied that he had been instrumental in preventing me from executing my purpose of bringing her with all speed to the presence of the king. His manner, and his solemn assurances, however, madam, both show me that I was mistaken; and it would appear—"

"But stay, stay, Monsieur de Meyrand," said the duchess; "first tell me exactly what is the case, and how you and Monsieur de Masseran are interested in the business. I remember well Mademoiselle de Brienne, of whom you speak, and a sweet girl she was, well fitted to set any cavalier's heart on fire, so that I can easily conceive that yours was touched, Monsieur de Meyrand, with that same flame of love. But, if all friends agree, the lady surely can never have such great objections to yourself as not to be won by less forcible means than those you seem to have been using. I will speak with her: I will see what can be done. Let me thank you, my good lord, for the tidings you sent me concerning the edict: I have turned them this day to good advantage. But still the king is not easily won in this matter."

"By Heaven! madam," replied Meyrand, vehemently, "he must be won, and that right soon, or all will go wrong with us. But hear me, dearest lady! hear me out. You have a faint and very wrong idea of all this affair. We are all deeply concerned; and, pardon me for saying it, but your own wishes and excellent views are closely and intimately connected with our objects and purposes. You ask for a frank and candid explanation: you shall have it in a very few words. The Lord of Masseran and I are equally, but somewhat differently, interested in this matter. I am moved in some degree, as you are pleased to say, by love. Yes!" he added, "it is so! by love the most strong and passionate; and yet, I know not why or how, but something very like hatred mingles with it: deep and bitter indignation at having been made the sport of a mere girl, and determination to force her to be mine or die—"

He paused and bit his lip, and a shade of dissatisfaction came over the brow of Diana of Poitiers as she listened; but the next moment the count went on, with a slight sneer.

"The Lord of Masseran is affected otherwise. He, madam, as you know, married the mother of this fair dame; and to this bright Isabel descend, at that mother's death, certain fair estates close to the frontier line of France and Savoy."

"I understand, I understand," replied Diana of Poitiers, interrupting him. "The Count of Meyrand may be easy in his dealings about those estates, if he but obtain the hand of the fair lady. Is it not so, my good lords?"

"Something of the kind, madam," replied the count.

"A treaty of partition! ha?" continued the lady. "Now for the obstacle, and for the manner in which this affects me?"

"The obstacles are somewhat difficult to be encountered, madam," joined in the Lord of Masseran, "especially as this noble count is somewhat of a suspicious nature. But, to make a long tale short, madam, there was, it seems, in years long past, a promise made by the old Count of Brienne that his daughter should marry a certain young nobleman named Bernard de Rohan. That promise was foolishly committed to writing; but I hold that it was of course conditional, and requires to be confirmed by the consent of the mother. The young gentleman we speak of has been long warring with the armies in Italy; but, called thence, as I believe, by the young lady herself, who has a marvellous love for her own way, he appeared in Savoy some short time ago. I absented myself for a few days from my own home, making a pretence of coming to Paris, in order to see what would take place. But, although I had good information of all that passed, what between the young lady's wit and the youth's impudence, they had very nearly won the race. Myself and Monsieur de Meyrand, here, surprised them in the very celebration of a clandestine marriage."

"Were they married? Were they married?" demanded the duchess, eagerly; for, whatever be her own views, woman's heart is rarely without interest in a tale of love.

"There was a ring upon the young lady's finger," replied the Marquis of Masseran, while the Count de Meyrand stood silent and bit his lip; "farther we know not."

"What did you do next?" exclaimed the lady, with an impatient look, which neither of her two companions thought very favourable to their cause.

"Why," replied the Lord of Masseran, "we separated them, of course; and I carried the young lady some way through the mountains, arranging, in fact, a little sort of drama or mystery with my good friend the count, wherein he played the part of deliverer, rescued the young lady from my hands, and, according to our agreement, was bringing her here to Paris, in the trust that you, from wise motives which the count knew you to possess, would support the right of the mother to dispose of her daughter's hand to whom she pleased."

The marquis, in delivering this account, had paused and hesitated several times, and Diana of Poitiers had remarked that he avoided carefully all mention of the after-fate of Bernard de Rohan.

"What has become," she asked at length, interrupting him, and fixing her eye full upon his face, "what has become of the young Baron de Rohan, sir?"

The Lord of Masseran turned his look to the Count de Meyrand without answering; but the duchess went on sternly and impetuously, "I insist upon knowing, sir, what was done in regard to Monsieur de Rohan? You surprised him at the very altar, you say! You have gone too far not to say more!"

"Why, of course, madam, it was necessary to separate them," replied the Count de Meyrand. "Monsieur de Rohan was carried into the chateau of my friend, Monsieur de Masseran, who kindly and liberally undertakes to provide the young gentleman with board and lodging for a certain time. No evil was done him, though the very act that he was performing might well have justified more violence than was used."

"In short, sir," said the duchess, addressing the Lord of Masseran sternly, "in short, sir, you have imprisoned one of the king's very best officers and most faithful subjects—the right hand of the Maréchal de Brissac—and one who has rendered himself famous in the wars of Italy, and without whose assistance the difficulties which surround the marshal in Piedmont would be terribly augmented."

"Madam," replied the Count de Meyrand, with a slight sneer, which no prudence could repress, at the reputed tenderness of the duchess towards Brissac, "had we known that Monsieur de Rohan was so absolutely necessary to your graceful friend, we would have sent him under a strong escort across the mountains, for time was all that we wanted."

"He must speedily be set at liberty," answered the duchess; "for I cannot have it said that anything in which I take a share is connected with a transaction so detrimental to the service of the king; and now, Monsieur de Meyrand, show me in what way you think I am interested in this affair."

"Why, madam, you must clearly see—" said the count.

"It matters not what I clearly see, my lord," exclaimed the duchess, interrupting him. "Give me your own showing of the matter."

"Why thus it is," replied the count. "Since I had the honour of bearing to Rome the copy of an edict proposed by the king, you have three or four times done me the great favour of writing to me, and consulting with me in regard to the opposition made to that edict, and to the best means of inducing the king to promulgate it. Now, madam, one clause in that edict annuls all existing marriages which have been contracted without the consent of parents or guardians; and you did me the honour to reveal to me that such a clause was absolutely necessary to the proposed marriage of the Duke of Montmorency and the king's daughter, Madame de Farnese, and to that between the constable's second son, the Duc Damville, and your fair relation, Mademoiselle de la Mark. That clause is equally necessary to me and to Monsieur de Masseran, in order that, the clandestine marriage of Mademoiselle de Brienne with the Baron de Rohan being annulled, she may, with her mother's consent, give her hand to me. Thus, madam, what I pray and beseech you to do is, as the views of both tend absolutely to the same point, to give us the most zealous aid and co-operation in persuading the king to promulgate this edict at once."

Diana of Poitiers paused for a moment in intense thought ere she answered, while the two noblemen stood gazing upon her in silence. "I will do so," she replied at length; "but, in the first place, Monsieur de Rohan must be set at liberty."

"Madam, that is impossible," exclaimed the Lord of Masseran. "Were he set at liberty, all our plans and prospects are at an end together. His very first act would be to seek this rash, imprudent girl, who thinks herself fully justified by her father's written consent; and, depend upon it, he would soon find means of discovering her, though we cannot."

"Why, in the name of Heaven, where is she?" demanded the duchess. "Why, you said but now, Monsieur de Masseran, that you left her in the count's hands, that he might bring her to Paris."

"Ay, but she escaped from his hands, madam," replied the Lord of Masseran. "Whether the count is quite innocent of all knowledge of female wiles, or whether he had been somewhat harsh and importunate with her, I cannot tell; but at the end of the very first day's journey she contrived to escape from him, how or when no one can discover. I had come on to Paris in order to justify the detention of Bernard de Rohan, and, in fact, to give an account of my whole conduct to the king; but the good count, thinking that I must have some hand in the lady's flight, followed me hither as rapidly as possible, without taking sufficient time to inquire after her on the spot."

The duchess heard him to an end, but her mind had run on far before her; and she was gazing thoughtfully upon the ground, with various feelings contending more strongly in her bosom than her two companions imagined. Bernard de Rohan, she well knew, was the dearest friend of one who certainly possessed her highest esteem—perhaps her highest affection—the Maréchal de Brissac, and she loved not to take any share in injuring or grieving him. We must say even more. Not being naturally of a harsh or unkindly disposition, she was anything but disposed to abet such machinations against two people who loved each other; and she could not but feel at her heart that there existed between the Lord of Masseran and the Count de Meyrand a dark and shameless conspiracy for frustrating the intentions of the Count de Brienne, and thwarting the affections of his daughter. All these considerations opposed themselves to the very thought of aiding them in their purposes; but yet her own views, her own dearest objects, were to be obtained by the same means which tended to promote theirs; and she clearly saw that, if without exposing, as she might do, the real views and purposes of the parties concerned, she were to bring this case before the king as a new instance of a marriage in opposition to the parent's consent, she would instantly obtain the promulgation of the edict which was so necessary to her own designs. She paused, then, and thought, considering, in the first place, the opposing motives which led her this way and that, and afterward asking herself whether she could not combine the two; whether it was not possible to use the fact of this clandestine marriage in order to obtain the king's signature to the edict, without ultimately separating the hands of Bernard de Rohan and Isabel de Brienne. A few moments convinced her that she could do so. The edict would, of course, annul their marriage; but then she thought, "the great services of this young cavalier, the friendship of Brissac, the support of Montmorency, the father's written consent, will surely be enough to obtain for him afterward the hand of this fair girl from the king himself; at least, my management shall render these things sufficient;" and, trusting that it would be so, she resolved upon that evil policy of employing bad means in the hope of directing them to good results; a policy which has seldom, if ever, yet failed to end in misery and ruin.

"What says the mother?" demanded the duchess, after this long pause.

"Oh, she says the same as myself, of course," replied the Lord of Masseran.

"Of course!" replied the lady, her lip curling slightly as she spoke. "I had forgotten! Is she in Paris?"

"She is here," replied the Lord of Masseran; "and not only ready, but eager, to declare that this marriage has been against her will."

"Indeed!" said the duchess: "and the brother? There is a youth I have seen about the court, a gay, thoughtless, high-spirited lad, who gained some renown under this very Baron de Rohan: what says he to the marriage?"

"Oh! he is too young and thoughtless," replied the Count de Meyrand. "He has been asked nothing on the subject, though there is reason to fear, we must not deny, that he would give his voice in favour of his old companion."

"But one thing is clear and certain," added the Lord of Masseran. "His consent was not asked to the marriage; therefore it was without his approbation and against the mother's."

"So far so good," replied Diana of Poitiers. "Now mark me, gentlemen, you must leave the whole conduct of this business to me; and if you pledge yourselves to act exactly as I am about to dictate, I, on my part, will pledge myself to obtain the promulgation of an edict annulling this marriage within twelve hours from this time."

A glad smile lighted up the face of the Count de Meyrand. But the Lord of Masseran asked in a low, sweet tone, "Pray what are the conditions, madam?"

"These," replied the duchess at once. "And remember, gentlemen, that I am one who will not be trifled with; so that, if you fail to perform exactly your part, you shall find your whole schemes fall about your heads, and perhaps crush you in the ruins thereof. The very moment that I have obtained that edict, Monsieur de Masseran, without the loss of a single hour, you shall depart from Paris, and set this young cavalier, Bernard de Rohan, at liberty. Do not interrupt me! This is indispensable. You can leave the marchioness behind. In the next place, to guard against the evil consequences which I see you anticipate, you shall engage the young Count of Brienne to set off instantly in search of his sister, in order to bring her at once to Paris to the presence of the king. You, Monsieur de Meyrand, shall not make the slightest attempt to seek for her yourself, nor shall you at present quit Paris. But this young gentleman, instructed that this edict annuls the clandestine marriage, and is upon the very point of being signed, shall go as the guardian of his sister's honour, and, at the same time, as the friend of Monsieur de Rohan, to bring her safely back to the protection of her mother and of his majesty. His own sense of what is right, under such circumstances, will be a sufficient guarantee that he do not suffer his sister to remain an hour with a man who is not her husband; and now—"

"But, madam," said the Count de Meyrand, "if you will pardon me for thus rudely interrupting you, I would point out one slight obstacle to the arrangement you propose, which renders it absolutely impossible, and may make it expedient that I should go myself. Henry of Brienne is at Grenoble, I understand."

"Well, then, sir," said the duchess, imperiously, "some one else must go. You must not! Were the other the lowest valet in my household, he is more fit than you are to bring this lady to Paris."

The Lord of Masseran had remained silent till the duchess's answer was made, but he then joined in the conversation again, in one of his sweetest tones, saying, "The count is mistaken, dear madam; Henry of Brienne is in Paris. He thought of going to Grenoble, but did not go. He was with his sweet mother not an hour ago."

"Well, then, hear me!" said the duchess. "Do you undertake, Monsieur de Meyrand, not to set out upon this search at all?" The count laid his hand upon his heart, bowed with mock humility, and replied, "Who ever yet resisted your commands? Nay, I am not jesting! I give you my promise, madam."

"Then, my Lord of Masseran," continued the duchess, "all I have to say is this: Wait here for five minutes till I write a note above. Give it to Henry of Brienne: afford him every direction and hint for finding his sister, and bringing her at once to Paris. As soon as he has set out, come with your fair lady to the palace to offer your complaint regarding this clandestine marriage to his majesty. I will take care that you shall have an immediate hearing, and I pledge myself that the edict shall be signed this night. To-morrow morning, at daybreak, you depart alone, posthaste, to liberate Bernard de Rohan. Is it not so?" and she fixed her keen eye firm upon him.

"It is, madam," replied the Lord of Masseran, better pleased at the arrangement than she knew.

"As for you, Meyrand," she added, with a smile, "take my advice: come also to the court, appear totally unconcerned in this whole business, and press your suit upon the king, if you so please, when the edict is signed."

"A woman's policy is always the best, madam," replied the count, "and in this instance I shall follow it to the letter."

"I must now leave you," said the lady, "for I am already late. Wait here for the note, and then let us to our several parts with all speed."

In less than the time that she had specified, a servant brought in an open note, which contained these words:

"Diana, duchess of Valentinois, to Henry, count of Brienne, greeting:

"These are to inform you that your sister Isabel de Brienne has contracted a clandestine marriage with Bernard, baron de Rohan; and that, inasmuch as this night an edict will be signed annulling all marriages of the sort, it is absolutely necessary to your own honour and to that of your sister that you should immediately proceed to find and bring her to Paris till the farther pleasure of the king be known. The Baron de Rohan having been arrested the moment that the marriage was celebrated, will be set at liberty immediately; but it is requisite that you should prevent all communication between him and your sister until it be authorized by his majesty."

The Lord of Masseran made no scruple of reading the contents and showing them to the Count de Meyrand, who marked them with a smile, and adding, "We must make quite sure of the youth, however," led the way from the apartments of the duchess.

In the great hall of the Louvre, the princes, the nobles, and the ladies of France—all who had a right, from their rank and station, to be present at the great festivals of the court, and all who could by any means obtain an invitation from the king himself—were assembled before the hour of ten at night, on that occasion to which reference has been made in the last chapter. The monarch himself had not yet appeared; but one of those services which Henry principally required from his great officers was to entertain with affability and kindness those whom the etiquette of his court obliged him to keep waiting; and, on the night of which we speak, the famous Marquis de Vieilleville in fact, though not ostensibly, represented the king, and, aided by a number of other gentlemen and officers commissioned so to do, received the court, and endeavoured to make the time of expectation ere the sovereign's arrival pass lightly.

Everything had been done that could be done to give splendour to the apartments, and many of those ornaments and decorations which we attribute to the taste of modern days, but which, in fact, have but come back again in the constant revolutions of fashion, were displayed on this occasion to render the scene of royal festivity bright and exciting. Some of the rooms were blazing with light, and covered with every sort of ornament of gold and silver: rich draperies were hanging from the walls, banners waving over head, garlands festooning the cornices, and music floating on the air. In others, again, by some means, a green hue had been given to the light, and it had been shaded and kept down to a kind of soft twilight by flowers and green branches; while a cool wind found its way in through open casements and well-watered plants, and a stillness reigned upon the air only broken by the far-off sound of the music, the murmur of distant voices, and the sighing of the night air through the gardens.

We shall pause no more, however, on the decorations of that gay scene, inasmuch as so to do would be merely to give description without an object; for we have no reason to assign why the reader should bear any part thereof in mind. It is principally with the great hall we have to do, but more especially still with the people that were in it. Shortly after ten the king himself, with his queen, the famous Catharine de Medicis, several of his children—among whom were three destined to be kings, and two queens of mighty nations—entered the hall, and took his place towards the head of the room.

It was very customary in those times to give the balls of the court in open day; and, though it certainly would strike us as somewhat strange to see dancing take place except by candlelight—unless, indeed, it were upon the greensward, where the smiling look of Nature herself seems to justify and to call for that exuberant life which she first taught in the world's young days—yet then as gay and as merry dances as any that we now behold, took place in the painted saloons, under the somewhat too bright and searching eye of the sun. The whole of that morning, however, had been spent in either business or in festivities of another kind, and the present was one of those more rare occasions selected, as we have said, for a ball at night.

Shortly after the king entered the room, he spoke a few words to the young Count Duilly, then celebrated for his skill and grace in the dance, and he, making his way to the spot where the musicians were placed, communicated to them the orders of the king. What was called the Danse Royale was then played; and Henry himself, graceful and distinguished in every sport and exercise, opened the ball in person. Shortly after, another dance was played; and all who were, or believed themselves to be, the most skilful of the court, hastened to figure in the galliarde. Upon the execution of that marvellous performance, the galliarde, however, perhaps the less we say the better; for it is to be acknowledged that the various names of the wonderful steps danced—the desportes, capriolles, turns and returns, fleurettes, close and dispersed gamberottes, &c.—convey as little definite idea of what was really done to our own mind as they would to the minds of most of our readers. It was all very successful, no doubt; and there is much reason to believe, from the account which Monsieur de Vieilleville himself wrote on the occasion, that many a young lady's heart was pierced through and through by the graces of particular cavaliers.

The king himself took part in the dance, as we have said, but it was a dignified part; and, having set the example, he retired from it as speedily as possible. When he had done he looked round, as if searching for some face he had missed, and his eye soon fell upon the fair Duchess of Valentinois, whom he had not beheld before; for, to say the truth, she had just entered, taking advantage of the general movement round the galliarde to come in without attracting much attention. Her countenance bore an expression of such unusual gravity, that Henry himself, ere he resumed the place in the saloon where he usually stood on such occasions, paused and spoke to her; first playfully scolding Henrietta de la Mark for not having joined the dancers, and then asking the duchess, in a lower tone, if anything had gone amiss.

Diana smiled, and replied, "No, sire, nothing exactly amiss; but I have had visiters this evening at an unusual hour, and they have been pressing me to obtain for them an audience of your majesty on this very night, regarding matters of much importance."

"Nay, why should that cloud your fair brow?" said the king, in the same low tone: "I will give them audience ere I go to bed, if my so doing will please you, bright queen of night. If they can put it off, however, let them come to-morrow, and your name shall open the doors of the cabinet to them, be they the lowliest in the land."

"That they are not, sire," replied Diana. "They are high enough to present themselves here this night even unbidden; but I fear that to-morrow will not do; for, upon your majesty's reply to them, a courier must depart at once for the South. Still let me say, ere they come forward—for I see them entering now—that it is not their requested audience that makes me somewhat grave; no, nor their pressing for it at an unseasonable hour, but it is that they come to urge upon your majesty the selfsame suit I urged this morning; and, as I then saw that for the first time I was doubted and suspected of art, in trying to lead rather than to argue with my king, it may now be thought I have some share in their coming, when, Heaven is my witness, it could take no one more by surprise than myself."

"Nay, but what is all this?" demanded the king, in a soothing tone; and then, suddenly turning to Mademoiselle de la Mark, he exclaimed, "Lo! Henriette—belle Henriette! here comes Damville, all love and ambergris, to claim your fair hand—for the dance. Go with him, lady! Now, Diana, what is this that agitates you thus? Faith, I suspect you not, and never have suspected. I did but smile this morning at your eagerness, though natural enough, and to see how we kings find soft leading, and all things prepared to bring us to that which wise or fair counsellors judge is for our good; it is the vice of power, my Diana, it is the vice of power! As men by years reach childhood again, so kings by power fall into weakness. But that matters not; your wishes were for the best; and, if there was a little management in the matter, there could be but small offence."

"With one so placable as you are, sire," rejoined the duchess, gazing in his face with a smile; "but the matter is this: There came to me this night the Lord of Masseran—one of your majesty's faithful adherents in Savoy—beseeching that I would obtain for him and for his fair lady immediate audience of your majesty on matters that brook no delay. He, judging wrongly that I had some little credit or influence with you, besought me to urge upon your majesty the immediate promulgation of the edict, so long delayed and often spoken of, concerning clandestine marriages, and besought me to tell you the cause of his application. All this I refused to do, telling him that on the subject of the edict I had already done my best; that I had pleaded for myself; that I had even pleaded in behalf of what I thought your majesty's best interest; and that, having done so, I could not say a word for any other being on the earth. Thus, sire, all I have to request is, that you would hear him and judge for yourself."

The expression of Henry's face while she was speaking puzzled not a little Diana of Poitiers. The king's brow became for a time dark and heavy, and his eye flashed angrily. But then, again, when he saw that the lady seemed somewhat alarmed by his look, he smiled upon her kindly, as if to mark that any feelings of dissatisfaction which he experienced were not directed towards herself. His real feelings were explained, however, immediately, by his replying in the same low tone, "He is, I believe, a most consummate villain, this Lord of Masseran; and there is good reason to suppose he has been playing false both to France and Savoy. He has the very look of a handsome wolf," the king continued, turning his frowning brow to the part of the room towards which the eyes of Diana of Poitiers directed his in search of the Lord of Masseran: "I will speak with him presently, however. Let him be taken into the white chamber, next to that in which they serve the confectionery. Send likewise for Bertrandi. He is in my closet. I will join you there in a quarter of an hour. A guard, too, may be wanted before we have done. So, as you pass, bid Beaujolais keep near the door."

Thus saying, the king turned away and occupied himself with other matters, speaking to the most distinguished persons present, and laughing gayly with many a fair dame as he passed along. The duchess remained for a short time where he had left her, not only for the purpose of preventing her long conversation with the king from connecting itself in the suspicions of those around with whatever might take place regarding the Lord of Masseran, but also because she had some doubts as to whether she should herself be present or not at the interview between the Savoyard nobleman and the king. Henry had certainly implied that she was to be present. But she had doubts and fears in regard to meddling too much with the matter; and, if she could have trusted to the Lord of Masseran, she certainly would have stayed away.

Trust him, however, she could not; for there was something in his whole aspect, demeanour, and tone which at once inspired suspicion. Indeed, he did not try to avoid it; for, looking upon skill, cunning, and acuteness as the greatest of human qualities, he made no pretence whatever to either frankness or sincerity. She still hesitated, however, when the Count de Meyrand, dressed in the most splendid, and, at the same time, the most tasteful habit that perhaps the whole court that night displayed, passed by her as he retired from the dance. He bowed as he did so with lowly reverence, but, at the same time, with a meaning glance of the eye towards the spot where the Lord of Masseran stood.

"I must watch what takes place myself," thought the duchess: "I will take no part in the matter unless there be great need; but I will watch all that is said and done."

She accordingly drew herself gradually back from the circle, and, choosing a moment when some change in the dance produced a momentary confusion, she retired to the room which the king had named.

A minute or two after, an attendant passed through the ballroom and whispered a few words to the Lord of Masseran, who instantly followed the servant, accompanied by a lady who had continued to stand beside him since his entrance, but to whom he had not addressed more than one or two words during the evening. She was a tall and handsome woman, and in her countenance there was certainly some degree of resemblance to the fair Isabel de Brienne. The features, however, though still fine, were all larger and harsher except the eyes, which were small and of a different colour from those of Isabel, being of a keen, eager black. She was pale, and looked somewhat out of health; and, mingling with an air of sternness which sat upon her brow, there was an expression of anxiety and grief which made her countenance a painful one to look upon. It seemed to bear written upon it, in very legible lines, the history of a haughty spirit broken.

When the Lord of Masseran and his wife reached the chamber to which the royal servant conducted them, the Duchess of Valentinois was there alone. She received them affably, but with somewhat of regal state, and begged the marchioness to seat herself, acting in all things as if the palace were her own.

"Is that note for me, Monsieur de Masseran?" she inquired, after having announced that the king would join them in a few minutes, and asked some questions of common courtesy regarding the health of the Marchioness of Masseran. "Is that note which you hold in your hand for me?"

"It is, madam," replied the other. "It is from Monsieur de Brienne, whom we left booted and spurred, with his horses at the door, ready to mount at a moment's notice."

The duchess took the note and read. "Madame," it ran, "I am ready promptly to set out for the frontier of Savoy as soon as my errand is clearly ascertained. My dear sister Isabel is either the wife of my earliest friend Bernard de Rohan, to whom she was promised by my father, and to whom it is my first wish she should be united, or the marriage which I understand has taken place is null. If she be his wife, Heaven forbid that I should make even an attempt to separate them, which I am sure De Rohan would instantly and justly resist. If, however, the king, by an edict which I must not dare to impugn, has thought fit, as I am told, to declare such marriages void, whether past or future, it, of course, becomes my duty immediately to seek my sister, and to keep her with me till such time as we obtain his majesty's permission for her final union to my friend. But I must first be positively certified that such an edict has been signed. If I can show this to De Rohan, I know him too well to doubt his conduct; but, if I cannot show it to him, I must not and dare not attempt measures towards him which he would infallibly resist. At the same time, madam, let me tell you, with all respect, that I find I have been trifled with; that false information regarding De Rohan's movements has been given me, in order to prevent my joining him at Grenoble, as he wished; and that I am certain my sister Isabel has been driven to give her hand thus suddenly to her promised husband by circumstances of which we are not aware."

"More good sense than I gave him credit for," said the duchess, musing.

"May I be permitted, madam, to see the note which has excited your admiration?" inquired the Lord of Masseran, with a quiet sneer.

"Nay, Monsieur de Masseran," answered the duchess, "it was not written for the public benefit."

"And, doubtless," continued the Lord of Masseran, "as the young gentleman was not in the sweetest of moods, it was not written for my private benefit either?"

"He never mentions your name, my lord," replied the duchess, "nor speaks of you in any way. But here comes my good lord the chancellor: the king will not be long."

Her prediction was verified, for Bertrandi had scarcely entered the room when Henry himself appeared, accompanied by his son, afterward Francis the Second, and followed by a page, who placed himself at the door to prevent any one from entering without permission. Every one present drew back as the king appeared, and bowed low; while, with a frowning brow, he crossed the cabinet, and seated himself at a small table. The dauphin then took a place upon his father's right hand, and the chancellor, after a deprecatory bow to the Duchess of Valentinois, advanced to the king's left.

"I grieve, madam," said Henry, addressing the Marchioness de Masseran, in a courteous tone, "I grieve to see you apparently so much altered in health. It would seem that the air of Savoy—that pure, fine air—suits not your constitution. We must keep you more with us in Paris."

"I have been suffering some anxiety and grief, sire," replied the lady, while the eyes of the Lord of Masseran were bent keenly and fiercely upon her.

"Most sorry am I to hear it," replied the king. "We believed that, in providing for you so noble and high a husband as the Lord of Masseran, we should have moved grief and anxiety from you altogether. We trust that we have not been deceived in this noble lord," continued the king, gazing sternly upon the Savoyard.

"Your majesty has, I believe, been mistaken in what this dear and excellent lady said," replied the Lord of Masseran; "I discovered no charge against myself in her words. Was there any, dear lady?"

"Oh, no," replied the lady, quickly, and, it seemed, fearfully; "none, none; I spoke alone of the grief and anxiety which, as you know, I came hither to lay before his majesty, if we were fortunate enough to find audience."

"Then I will beg you, madam," said the king, "to lay it before me at once, and fully, confiding in me entirely as you would in a brother, and remembering that, whoever be the offender, you have in the king one who can protect as well as punish, and who will protect wherever he sees wrong offered or evil suffered."

The lady gave a momentary glance at her husband, as if of timid inquiry. It was like a child saying its lesson, and looking up for a word of direction or encouragement. "I thank your majesty much," she said, "for your gracious promise, and I come to you with full confidence, feeling that you will grant me redress for what I consider a great injury. My complaint is this: that a gentleman of high rank and station, connected with some of the highest families of this realm, a distinguished soldier also, and one who has hitherto borne a high character—has, while pretending to carry on the war in Piedmont, and commanding certain bodies of your majesty's troops—has, I say, clandestinely carried away my daughter, Isabel de Brienne, during the temporary absence of my husband, Monsieur de Masseran. He had even induced a priest to perform the marriage ceremony between him and her, when the fortunate return of my husband at the very moment enabled him to seize them at the altar. I say, sire, that this is my complaint, and for this I beg redress; the more so, indeed, inasmuch as this very gentleman who has so acted was well aware that your majesty had expressed yourself strongly against such clandestine marriages, and had even proposed an edict declaring them void and of no effect."

"Pray who is this gentleman?" demanded the king, in a stern tone. "By your showing, madam, he has acted bitterly wrong, and, unless some extenuations appear, he shall be most severely punished; nor shall that punishment be the less on account of his rank, distinction, and services, as he could neither plead ignorance, inexperience, nor folly."

The features of the Lord of Masseran relaxed into a dark smile; and the lady replied, "His name, sire, was once dear and familiar to me and mine—it is Bernard, baron de Rohan."

"What! our good friend and daring captain?" exclaimed the king; "this is indeed too bad. Monsieur de Rohan ought to have known that he had nothing to do but to apply to ourself, not only at once to obtain our royal permission, but also to induce us to use every argument with such of the lady's family as might be opposed to his wishes."

"Sire," replied the lady, taking advantage of a pause in the king's answer, "this gentleman has acted ill in all respects. He neither put confidence in your majesty nor in me; he never even applied for my consent; he has never seen me since he crossed the Alps."

"This is altogether amiss," replied the king. "You say they are separated," he continued, in a musing tone; "where is the young lady? I would fain see and speak with her."

Such communication would not have suited the purposes of the Lord of Masseran, even had it been possible to produce Isabel of Brienne; and now, having seen his wife make her formal complaint exactly as he could have wished, he took the rest of the business out of her hands, fearful lest she might make some rash admission. "Alas! sire," he said, "it is impossible that your majesty's commands can be complied with; not only is the lady not with us in Paris, but she has escaped from the hands of those into whose charge I gave her. Where she is, and what doing, we know not; and it is under these circumstances that we come to your majesty, not so much for redress as for aid."

"This complicates the matter, indeed," said Henry; "have you, then, reason to suppose that she has rejoined him?"

"No, sire," replied the Lord of Masseran, "not so at all; for I ventured to take a step which—although, of course, on my own territories I am free and independent, as lord and sovereign—I would not have done, had I not been aware that your majesty is as just as you are powerful. I found one of your majesty's subjects upon my territories committing an unlawful act, for which I would have punished any of my own vassals with death, and I ventured—"

"You did not kill him?" exclaimed the king, starting.

"Oh no, sire, no," replied the Savoyard; "I never dreamed of such a thing. I ventured to arrest and imprison him, in order to prevent the evil being carried farther; and, having done so, I set out immediately to cast myself at your majesty's feet, to inform you exactly how I had acted, to beg your forgiveness for having imprisoned one of your subjects, and to place the decision of his fate entirely in the hands of your majesty."

"You have acted well and wisely," replied the king; "and, such being the case, you shall not only have aid, but redress. The edict which renders such clandestine marriages null and void shall be signed this instant, and shall be registered by our Parliament to-morrow. My lord the cardinal, we trust that you come as well prepared this afternoon as you were this morning. Have you the edict with you now?"

"I have not, your majesty," replied Bertrandi; "but it is in your majesty's cabinet."

"Let it be brought instantly," said the king. "This new example of the fault which it is destined to amend, not only fully justifies the act, but also peremptorily requires the clause which remedies the evil just committed. Nor shall this be the only punishment which shall fall upon the head of him who has so far neglected what was due to himself and to us. He must be summoned to Paris immediately; and, in the mean time, means must also be taken to bring this refractory girl also to our court. Be quick, good cardinal, for we must not be long absent from the hall."

The dauphin listened to his father in silence, and with an air of deep reverence. "I trust, sire," he said, at length, as soon as he perceived that the king, having given his orders, was turning once more to address the Marquis of Masseran, "I trust that there are some circumstances in the case of Monsieur de Rohan which may mitigate your majesty's anger when known. It seems to me that Monsieur de Masseran has not been completely explicit on one or two subjects; may I presume to ask him a few questions in your majesty's presence?"

"Certainly, Francis," replied the king. "It gives me always pleasure to see you exercise your judgment and powers of mind on subjects of importance."

The young prince bowed with an ingenuous blush, while the Marquis of Masseran turned a shade paler than usual, and bent down his eyes upon the ground before the boy of sixteen, who now advanced a step to question him. "You tell us, Monsieur le Marquis," he said, "that the Baron de Rohan did not even apply for the consent of your fair lady: may I ask if he ever presented himself at your palace, or chateau, or whatever it may be, for the purpose of so doing?"

"It was the marchioness who said so, not I," replied the Lord of Masseran: "I was absent at the time."

"At what time?" demanded the prince, sharply; and, seeing the Savoyard hesitate, he added, "Did or did not Monsieur de Rohan come to your gates? and was he or was he not refused admission?"

"I believe he did," said the Marquis of Masseran, "I believe he did present himself at the gates when I was absent."

"He himself believed that you were not absent," replied the youth, with royal sternness, while the king felt no little surprise to find that his son had so intimate a knowledge of the facts in question; and the Marquis of Masseran, still more surprised, concealed his astonishment less skilfully than the monarch. "On my word, your highness," he said, "on my life, I was absent."

"But yet, Monsieur de Masseran," continued the prince, "you were perfectly well aware that Monsieur de Rohan presented himself at your gates, demanding to speak with yourself, in the first place, and then, in your absence, with this fair lady your wife, who certainly was within the chateau; and yet you suffered her—unconsciously upon her part, no doubt—to lead his majesty to believe that her approbation had not been sought and was utterly contemned. This was not right, sir, for it was misleading the king."

"You speak well and wisely, Francis," said his father: "go on, my dear boy, go on, if you have anything more to ask."

"One or two things more, may it please your majesty," he replied, with a look of pride in his father's approbation, but keeping his eyes still fixed upon the Lord of Masseran. "My next question is: as the young lady has a brother, who is her next male relation, did he or did he not give his consent to the marriage of Monsieur de Rohan with his sister?"

"In regard to that, sir, I can say nothing," replied the Lord of Masseran. "Monsieur de Brienne, your highness, is not under my charge and guidance. All I have to say is, that his mother most positively refused her consent."

"It might be more straightforward, sir," replied the prince, "to say whether, to your knowledge, Monsieur de Brienne consented or not."

"I think, monseigneur," said Diana of Poitiers, taking a step forward, "I think I may reply fully to your question, which Monsieur de Masseran seems not inclined to do. Henry de Brienne always has approved of his sister's marriage to Bernard de Rohan, and Monsieur and Madame de Masseran are amply aware of the fact."

"I do not deny it," said Madame de Masseran, sharply. "He is a headstrong and unruly boy."

"One question more," said the prince, "and I have done. Is not Bernard de Rohan justified, to a certain degree, in that which he has done, by a written promise of Mademoiselle de Brienne's hand, given to him by her own father shortly before the good count's death? I ask you, madam, is not this the case?"

"It is the case that he has such a promise," replied Madame de Masseran, in the same shrewish tone, "but not that he is justified by it, your highness. That promise never had either my consent or approbation; though the late Monsieur de Brienne, who was his guardian and brought him up, was foolishly fond of this boy, and thought that he was everything great and noble, I had always different views for my daughter, and never either directly or indirectly countenanced that promise."

"I am in no way interested in this business, sire," said the dauphin, turning towards his father, "not being personally acquainted in the slightest degree with Monsieur de Rohan; but I thought it necessary to ask these few questions in your majesty's presence, in consequence of information I had received in a somewhat circuitous manner. Having thus far elicited the truth, which was at first evidently concealed from you, your majesty's wisdom must decide the rest—"

"This is the edict, sire," said the Cardinal Bertrandi, re-entering the chamber; "it wants but your royal signature and the great seal. May I offer you the pen?" and, thus saying, he spread the parchment on the table before the king.

Henry took the pen, paused for a moment, and then turned his eyes upon the Duchess of Valentinois. She looked down upon the ground, however, and uttered not a word. The king dipped the pen in the ink and wrote his name at the bottom of the edict. The chancellor countersigned it, and raised it from the table.

"Now, Diana," said Henry, in a low voice, turning to the duchess, "what think you?"

"That your majesty has done perfectly right," replied the lady, in the same low tone. "Not that this poor Bernard de Rohan, it would appear, is really to blame."

"I do not know," replied the king, "I do not know; but we shall soon see. The question must be inquired into," he added, in a louder voice. "I will hear all parties, and then decide. For the present, the marriage is annulled. Monsieur de Masseran, hasten back to Savoy, and instantly set the Baron de Rohan at liberty. Let some one proceed immediately—her brother will be the best, the fittest, the only fit person. Let him immediately proceed to seek for Mademoiselle de Brienne, and bring her to Paris without loss of time. You, Monsieur de Masseran, will command De Rohan, in our name, to present himself in the capital within fourteen days from the date of his liberation by your hand. You will do well also to come hither yourself as speedily as may be; for our good friend Brissac, who is somewhat of a sanguinary person to deal with, has conceived an objection to the frequent passing of couriers through your part of the country. It were well to keep out of Brissac's way. My good Lord Cardinal, see that all things requisite be done, and also that the edict be duly registered in the Parliament to-morrow. Come, Francis, come. We shall have all the world marvelling at our absence."

What would life be without its varieties?

I forget where I have met with it—whether in the works of Kant and his disciples, or in the thoughts and imaginations attributed to Zoroaster, or in some of the lucubrations of Plato, or in the fragments of Epicurus, whose doubtful philosophy has left the world at war as to his tendency towards good or evil, virtue or vice: certainly it was not in Pyrrho, who had nothing good in him, or in Confucius, the great teacher of the tea-growing nation—I forget where I have met with it; but among the many speculations, wise and foolish, learned and ignorant, fanciful and earthly, with which we children of the lower sphere from time to time have amused ourselves, sometimes reverently, sometimes impiously, sometimes with humility, sometimes audaciously, there is to be found a theory—perhaps it merely deserves the name of an hypothesis—which attributes to the Deity, almost as an attribute, but, at all events, as a necessity, the endless variety of creations, and a satisfaction, if we may use the term, in viewing the infinite multiplicity of his own works.

Without presuming, however, to raise our eyes to scan things that are hidden from us, or to reason upon any attributes of God except such as he has deigned to reveal to us; without daring to lay down limits to infinity, or, like the stupid idolaters of ancient times, the Greek and Roman inventors of the most barbarous worship that ever, perhaps, was devised, who, after making to themselves gods, and clothing those gods with all the most infamous of human passions, ended by enchaining their very deities themselves, under the law of a necessity which bound all things, and left Godhead as impotent as humanity; without such audacity or such foolishness, we may well look round upon the universe exposed to our eyes, and, seeing that God has been pleased to render his creations infinite, we may at least feel certain that the varieties which he has displayed are in themselves excellent and beautiful, each deriving propriety from the other, and all forming a grand scheme in which the diversity of the parts is only one admirable feature. Our own eyes and our own senses, our own hearts and our own feelings, convince us of it every moment; and, from the glorious mountain to the minute blade of grass which grows by its side, from the boundless ocean to the small, bright, glistening drop that dashes in spray upon the rocks that bound it, every variety contributes visibly to our delight, and to the beauty of the wonderful scene in which we dwell.

Variety, then, forms a part of enjoyment; but let it not be supposed that the admission of this fact—derived, as we derive it, from the works of God himself—can ever have a tendency to produce evil, to generate the licentious desire of multiplying and changing pleasures, or to create the fickle and fluttering inconstancy which ranges dissatisfied from object to object. In the works of God, though the varieties be infinite, and the contrasts sometimes immense, there is still a general and beautiful harmony, a fine and exact adaptation of every part to the other. Each change and each variation has its end and object, each step has its purpose, and each contrast ends in some grand result.

By the same rules, however, must the search for variety be guided, as the condition of producing happiness. Means of varying our pleasures, almost to infinity, have been given us by the Almighty, within the limits which he has himself assigned to us. The enjoyment of His own works, the contemplation of His goodness, the devotion to His service, were alone sufficient, were man rightly wise, to afford more varied exercise to the human mind than would fill many a long life, even if the Almighty had not loaded our pathway with opportunities of a thousand other gratifications, innocent in themselves, and endless in their combinations. In fact, the variety which we seek in our way through life must be framed, not partially, but entirely, upon the model of that which we see in creation. Each new endeavour, each alteration of pursuit, must have its high object, and in itself be good; and, as we and our existence are but parts of a great system, so must each change be part of the great system of our life.

In an humbler and in a lesser way, he who sits down to tell a tale—intended not alone to while away an idle hour for himself or for others, but also to do some good while it amuses—may well indulge in following every work of nature, and every page in the book of human life, and change the scene continually, varying the characters, the personages, the events which he depicts; but he must also bear in mind that each is a part of one general scheme, each tends to one particular and distinct object.

From the court of France and the gay scenes of the capital we must once more travel back to the rugged mountain passes among which our tale began, and to those in whose fate, to say sooth, we are the most interested. Although we are ourselves somewhat anxious to discover what has become of the fair Isabel of Brienne—how her escape has been effected—where she is now wandering—how she is guided, guarded, and protected—we must, nevertheless—though we suspect that her path was dangerous, thorny, and sorrowful—return to Baron de Rohan, and leave him no longer upon the side of the mountain.

The young cavalier rode on, accompanied by Corse de Leon, with as much speed as the rough and tortuous nature of the road would admit. The men who brought the horses followed quickly after; and, in about twenty minutes, they reached the spot in the valley where the two roads divided, which we have already mentioned more than once. Here Corse de Leon was about to proceed at the same pace up the shorter road, leaving upon the left hand that by which, upon a former night, he had brought back Isabel de Brienne to the castle of Masseran. One of his followers, however, instantly shouted to him: "Ho! signior, ho! you cannot go by that road except on foot. It was that which kept us so long. The stream is swelled, and the bridge is gone again, and we were obliged to come round the other way."

"The stream swelled!" said Corse de Leon, in a thoughtful tone. "There must be something going on farther up in the mountains. The snows must be melting, or some glacier breaking up! However, let us go on by this other road. One of you remain here and see if we are followed," he continued, turning to the men behind him; "let the other go down to the cross, and tell Pinchesne and the rest to come over the hill. Let them leave one or two in the valley in case they should be wanted. Now let us on!" and he rode forward more slowly than before, though the left-hand road which he pursued was the longer of the two. He seemed, however, in one of those moody fits during which bitter memories continually mingled with a natural current of powerful abstract thoughts, changing their character from the calm reasoning of a man of acute and high-toned mind and intelligence, to morose and misanthropical ponderings, wherein all the images were gloomy and harsh. At such times his whole conduct and demeanour varied according to the mood of the moment: even his corporeal gestures, the quickness or slowness of his pace, as well as his look and his tone of voice, were all affected by what passed in his mind. When on his guard, indeed, no one was more deliberate, thoughtful, and measured, in every look, word, and gesture; but that was a matter of habit and acquired self-command. By nature he was one of those whose whole corporeal frame is, as it were unconsciously, the quick and ready slave of the spirit.

A change had come over him since they had mounted their horses, and such was, in reality, the secret of his riding more slowly. He might be actuated, indeed, in some degree, by consideration for the animal on which he was mounted; for the way, as we have before said, was nearly two leagues longer, and the night was excessively hot and oppressive, so that the white foam was already about the horse's neck and bridle. The sky was clear of all clouds, however, and the stars were shining bright, though they seemed smaller and farther off than usual. As they turned, the distant pointed summit of an icy mountain was seen towering over one of the passes, white and glittering in the starlight, while around it, without any visible clouds, there played occasionally bright coruscations as of faint summer lightning. For some way Corse de Leon did not speak; but at length he said, putting his hand to his brow, "Were there any clouds in the sky, I should think there would be a storm to-night. It seldom happens that the elements, as is the case with human life, give us storms without clouds. We have generally some warning of the tempest."

"There is a moaning sound in the hills," said Bernard de Rohan, "and yet I feel no wind. But do you not think," he continued, reverting to what his companion had said, "do you not think that it generally happens in human life we have some forewarning of the storms that befall us?"

"Not from external things," replied Corse de Leon, "not from external things. Often, often without the slightest cause to fear a change, suddenly a thousand adverse circumstances combine to overwhelm us. It is true, indeed it is true, that there may be other indications of a different kind."

"Ay," answered Bernard de Rohan, "that is what I mean. Do you not think that when we have no external omens of what is coming—when no cloud blackens the sky—when no red sun announces the tempest of the following day—do you not think that even then, within us, there may be a warning voice which tells us of the storm that we see not, and bids us seek some shelter from its fury?"

"Like that low murmuring that we hear even now," said Corse de Leon.

"I remember," continued Bernard de Rohan, without marking his words particularly, "that, not many days ago, as I was crossing the mountains to come hither, a fit of gloom fell upon me: I knew not why; for all was bright and cheerful in the prospect before me. I could not shake it off for some time; and in vain I tried to scoff at my own feelings. They would have way: I felt as if some misfortunes were about to befall me; and, though not one of all the things which have since occurred could by any chance have been divined at the time, yet you see that misfortunes did assail me even within a few days."

"Do you call these misfortunes?" demanded Corse de Leon. "You are younger in heart than I even thought you were. But what you say is worthy of memory; if what you felt were really a presentiment of coming evils, take my word for it, they are scarcely yet begun: you will want watching and assistance," he added, thoughtfully; "you will need aid and help with a strong hand; I have not forgotten my promise, and I will keep it. But quick, let us ride on! Our horses feel that there is something coming, and I would fain reach Gandelot's inn before it comes."

"I should suppose," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that it offers very inefficient shelter. It is built so completely at the foot of the mountain, that I wonder the snows in winter do not overwhelm it."

"It has twice been crushed under an avalanche," replied his companion, "and they still build it up again on the same spot; but what the house has to fear is as much the water as the snow; and it is because it is no place of shelter that I would fain be there."

Bernard de Rohan understood him in a moment; and the thought of Isabel de Brienne was quite sufficient to make him spur on eagerly. About half a league farther, the road turned a projection of the mountain, and, shortly after they had passed the angle of the rock, the spray of a cataract dashed in their faces, while an immense volume of water rushed furiously down from a spot some hundred yards above them, looking in that dim hour like some vast giant robed in white and leaning against the mountain. The torrent itself gushed across the road, and Bernard de Rohan turned his eyes upon his companion, not recollecting such an obstruction in their way.

"Some four or five hours ago," said Corse de Leon, "when I passed by that spot, there was scarcely water enough to quench the thirst of a wolf, and now it is a torrent. There is some great commotion above there. But perhaps it is all past, and these may be the results. We must try and force our horses through, however; keep as close to the face of the rock as possible."

So saying, he spurred on; but it was with the greatest difficulty that either he or his companion compelled their horses to make the attempt to pass the torrent. The pattering of the spray and the roaring of the stream terrified and bewildered them; and when, at length, urged forward, partly by chiding, partly by gentleness, they did dash on, the animals bore their riders through the midst of the current, where the ground was rough and insecure. Twice the charger which bore Bernard de Rohan stumbled, and nearly fell, and twice, though drenched with the pouring of the water on his head, and gasping for breath under the rushing weight upon him, he aided the horse up with heel and hand till he reached the other side and stood on firm ground.

Wellnigh stunned and bewildered, he turned to look for Corse de Leon. The brigand was standing beside him dismounted from the horse, and holding the animal by the rein with one hand, while he raised the other towards the sky with a look of eager, yet solemn attention. The next instant he grasped the young cavalier's hand, exclaiming, "Stir not a step! It is coming, it is coming! Now, as ever, we stand in God's good will to live or die; but death is very near us."

At the same moment there came a roar as of distant cannon; many shot off at once; then a murmuring pause; then a roar again; and, as it came on, the deafening sound of the thunder itself would have been as nothing to the terrific rushing noise that echoed through the hollow valleys. It seemed as if a thousand sounds were mingled; for the howling of the wind still continued, as if imitating the screams and wailing of people in pain; while the crash of rocks falling upon rocks, and of the stout trees of the forest rent into shivers, and of rolling masses of earth and snow, crags and cliffs, with one half the mountain itself, was alone overpowering by the very sound that beat upon the ear, even had it not been accompanied by an awful pressure of the air which took away the breath, and a sense of coming annihilation which seemed to check the beating of the heart even before death had stilled it with his icy hand.

There was time for but one short prayer to Him on high, and one thought of her he loved, before the crumbling ruin came down into the valley, sweeping close, past the very place where Bernard de Rohan stood. Rocks and stones rushed on before it, and one immense mass struck his horse on the knees and chest, threw him backward on his haunches, and beast and rider rolled over the edge into the stream. For an instant he lost his consciousness; and then, waking to life, found himself in the valley below, dashed by the torrent against the rocky banks.

He had been thrown free, however, from the horse; and, though to swim was impossible, from the crags, the trees, the projecting stones, and the fierce struggling of the torrent, yet he contrived to grasp a rugged branch that hung over the water, swung himself to the bank, and sprang upon the land. It was all impulse, for he hardly knew how he found the bough or reached the firm ground. Even when there, he was fain to cast himself down, and press his hands upon his forehead, for everything swam round with him: the earth seemed to shake beneath his feet; and the roar of falling rocks and crags still mingled with the loud voice of the turbulent waters from which he had just escaped. The mightier sound, however, had passed away—that awful rushing noise, unlike anything else on earth—and gradually, the others ceased also, till at length nothing was heard but the flowing of the river, as it foamed and struggled with the obstacles in its course.

When Bernard de Rohan could rise and look around him everything was dark, except where in the sky appeared the twinkling myriads of the night, beginning, he fancied, to look pale at the approach of morning. He listened in the hopes of hearing some voice; but, if there was any, it was drowned in the noise of the waters.

With a thousand painful apprehensions in his heart, with no way of relieving his anxiety, with nothing left but to wait for the return of daylight, he cast himself down again, after having called once or twice aloud upon Corse de Leon without receiving any answer. He could not distinguish whither he had been borne. He could see some large trees still standing near him, and some enormous black masses of rock lifting their heads around. The shadow of the giant mountain, too, rose up before him; but its form seemed changed, and he gazed as if to ascertain in what features it was altered.

Gradually the summit of the hill, warmed into a dusky brown, caught some of the rays of the rising sun, and—while every moment it assumed a brighter hue, till it crowned itself, and decorated the mists which surrounded it with gold—a sober twilight crept into the valley; and Bernard de Rohan found himself standing in the gray morning with a world of ruin and desolation around him, without a trace of road or human habitation, and with the narrow pass along which his way had been bent completely blocked up by the huge masses of the fallen mountain.