CHAP. VIII.

It was in the grey of the dawn, that about ten horses were assembled in the court-yard of the château of Montsoreau, on the following morning. Six were saddled and bridled, as if for instant departure; and the men who stood by the sides of those six were armed up to the teeth. Steel-caps, then called salads, crowned the head of each; and long swords slung high up on the hip, with the point of the scabbard almost touching the ground, showed a preparation for desperate resistance in case of attack; while the small pistols in the girdle were accompanied by several others attached to the saddle, so as to give every man an opportunity of firing five or six shots without the necessity of pausing to reload.

The other four horses were burdened with various packages; and after the whole had been assembled for a few minutes in the court-yard, Charles of Montsoreau himself, accompanied by his brother and the Abbé de Boisguerin, descended the steps from the great hall, while his own strong charger was led forth, together with a spare horse to be led in hand by one of the grooms.

The countenance of the young nobleman was pale as the day before, and deep emotions were certainly busy in his bosom. But his aspect was calm and collected; and he gazed round the château of his fathers, from which he was going forth, perhaps for the last time, with an air of grave and tranquil resolution, which contrasted strongly and strangely with the agitation evident on the countenance of his brother. He grasped the hand of the Abbé de Boisguerin in silence; then spoke a few words, and made a few inquiries of his attendants; and at length turning to his brother, extended his hand to him, fixing his full eyes upon his countenance, and saying, "Farewell, Gaspar!"

The Marquis pressed his hand eagerly, but he did not speak, for he was agitated in a very terrible degree; and his brother put his foot into the stirrup, and slowly threw himself into the saddle, in a manner very different from that light and buoyant one with which he usually mounted his horse to go forth from the same walls.

As he was passing through the archway, however, something suddenly seemed to strike him; and he turned his horse round to say to his brother, "Remember my poor dog Lupo, and be kind to him, Gaspar," and his eye ran for a moment over the upper windows, at one of which the curtain was partly drawn back, though neither the hand that drew it, nor the eyes which gazed from behind it, were visible to the sight of those below.

Charles of Montsoreau turned his horse again, and rode through the archway.--"God bless you, sir!" said the warder who stood near;--"God prosper you, my noble young count," said the porter of the gates--and in another minute Charles was riding away from his home.

At the bridge across the stream, the party which thus left the château of Montsoreau found another horseman waiting to join them on their way; no other than the blithe-looking forester, Gondrin, who, with all his earthly goods enclosed in a large pack behind him, and mounted on a powerful horse which had borne him many a mile in various forest sports, looked not a whit the less cheerful--not a whit the more depressed--at quitting the place which he had made his home for several years, than he did upon going out in the morning to track the footsteps of a boar or deer in the course of his usual occupations.

The truth is, that Gondrin was one of those men who are without attachments absolutely local. There was far more of the dog than of the cat in his nature. Where those he loved were, there was his home; and if those he loved had not been with him, he would have felt a stranger even in his birthplace. Our local attachments, indeed, are in themselves almost all made up of associations; the pleasures that we have tasted--the happy hours that we have known--the friends that we have loved--the sports, the pastimes, the little incidents--ay, even some of the pains of life are woven by memory and association into ties to bind our affections to certain places. Our loves and our friendships almost always derive the vigour of their bonds from the present and the past together--the ties of local attachments are all found in the past.

On the present occasion, Gondrin had with him the great object of his love and admiration: his young lord, the Count of Logères. He had with him, too, in the train of his master, more than one old companion of his forest sports. Two of the under piqueurs were to follow him as soon as safe-conducts could be obtained for them, with six dogs, which were the special joy of his heart; so that--with the abatement of a certain degree of anxiety regarding the temporal welfare of the aforesaid hounds--Gondrin was as happy as he could be; and whether on his horse's back, or reposing in the inn-kitchen, or resting by the roadside, he considered himself just as much at home as in his cottage under the castle of Montsoreau.

He bowed low to his lord as the young nobleman came up, and would have spoken to him also with his usual frank cheerfulness, but Gondrin was as shrewd an observer of men's faces as he was of beasts' footmarks; and he saw on the countenance of Charles of Montsoreau such indubitable traces of care and thought, that he judged it better to fall back at once amongst his companions in the rear, whose gay voices and merry laughter soon showed the effect of his presence.

Of his young lord, Gondrin had judged rightly, when he thought that he was in no mood to be interrupted in pursuing the current of his own ideas. The heart of Charles of Montsoreau was too sad and sorrowful--too full of bitter memories--too full of dark anticipations--to bear any interruption with patience. He had parted from Marie de Clairvaut--he had parted from her probably for ever--he had been disappointed in his hopes of love returned--he had voluntarily sacrificed the chance of winning her--he had cast away the bright and golden opportunity--he had cast away the delight of her society--he had left behind him the home of his infancy, a place filled with every sweet memory--he had parted, too, from his brother, the object of all his early affections, and had parted from him with feelings changed, and with a heart wounded and bleeding.

Yet on his way he was borne up by the consciousness of rectitude, and by the vigour of high resolves. He had determined resolutely and firmly, not only to put down in his bosom any vain hopes of ever obtaining the hand of her he loved, but, as far as possible, to conquer that affection--not only to leave his brother full opportunity of striving for her hand himself, but to aid, as far as it was in his power, by every exertion and by every thought, to remove all ordinary difficulties from his brother's path. He had already laid out his plans, he had already made up his mind to his course of action. He would go to Logères, he thought; he would call out the numerous retainers which were then at his disposal; he would take a part in the strifes of the day; he would attach himself to the Princes of the house of Guise; and he doubted not to be enabled to render such service to their cause, as to obviate all opposition, on their part, to the union of his brother with the daughter of one of the younger branches of their family.

He hoped that it might be so; and he trusted that it might be so. He could not, indeed, deceive himself into a belief that he could wish Marie de Clairvaut to return his brother's love. That he could not do: but if his brother won that love, he could at least contribute, he thought, to his gaining her hand also; for there was something in his bosom which told him--though they had never yet competed for any great stake--that he possessed energies and powers which would enable him to accomplish more, far more, than Gaspar could achieve in the eager strife of the world.

Such were his views, and such his determinations; but it need hardly be said, that in forming those views and determinations, there ran through the whole web of his thoughts the dark and mournful threads of disappointment, and care, and regret. He was gloomy then, and melancholy; and though to all who approached him, he spoke kindly--though he was ever considerate and thoughtful for their comfort, he uttered not one word uncalled for, and ever fell back into silent thought as soon as he had uttered any order or direction.

The scene through which he passed was certainly not one well calculated to dissipate gloomy thoughts. After the first four or five miles, it subsided into a flat watery country, with manifold streams and marshes, and long rows of stunted osiers and low woods seen in dim straight lines for many miles over the horizon, with nothing breaking the continuity of brown but thin white mists rising up from the dells and hollows, and looking cold, and sickly, and mysterious. The pale grey overhanging sky vouchsafed but little light to the earth; and though the sun at one period struggled to break through, his radiant countenance looked wan and faint. The road itself was heavy and tiresome for the horses, and relieved by nothing but an occasional plashy meadow; while ever and anon a wild duck flapped heavily up from the morass, or a snipe started away at the sound of the horses' feet with a shrill, low cry.

Seldom, if ever, does it happen that the aspect of the scene through which we pass has not some effect upon us. When deeply absorbed in our own thoughts; when filled with grief, or care, or anxiety; or even when occupied altogether with thoughts of joy and happiness to come, we know not, we do not perceive the scene around us stealing into our spirit, mingling with, and giving a colouring to, all our thoughts and feelings, softening or deepening, rendering brighter or more dark, the colouring of all our affections at the moment. But still it does so: still every object that our eyes rest upon, every sound that greets our ear, has its effect upon the mood of the moment; and the sadness of Charles of Montsoreau, the dark disappointment, the bitter regret, the withering of all his hopes, the casting behind him of his home and all sweet associations, were rendered darker, more painful, more terrible than they otherwise would have been, by the sky, which seemed to frown back the frown of fate, and by the misty prospect, as dim, as vague, as cheerless as the future of life appeared to his mind's eye.

At length, between ten and eleven o'clock, a little village presented itself; but the population was few and scanty, while a sickly shade, as if from the bad air of the place, pervaded more or less almost every countenance, and bespoke the marshy nature of the soil. In the middle of this little place, where in England would have been a village green, was an old stone cross covered with lichens, and exactly opposite to it, at the side, appeared a large stone building with a bush over the door, and written above it, "The Inn for Travellers on horseback.--Dinner at fourteen sols a head."

The horses and the servants wanted both rest and food, and Charles of Montsoreau turned in thither. He himself, however, ate nothing, and continued walking up and down before the door, musing bitterly of the future. It mattered not to the innkeeper, indeed, whether the young nobleman ate his viands or not; for though he had a certain pride therein, he charged as much for each man that entered the doors, whether they ate or not, as if they had consumed the best of his larder; and though he would fain have bestowed the solace of his company upon the young traveller, the manner of Charles of Montsoreau, joined with a few words, soon showed him that his company would be burdensome, and he wisely desisted.

Peace and quietness, however, were not to be the portion of Charles of Montsoreau; for scarcely had the aubergiste left him to his own reflections, when a number of gay sounds made themselves heard from the other side of the village, and looking that way, the young count saw a company of itinerant musicians, who, even in that time of war and bloodshed, did not cease to practise their merry avocation, wandering in gay dresses from city to city, sometimes exposed to plunder and injury, but often strong enough and well enough armed to defend themselves, or perhaps to pillage others.

To tell the truth, these traders in sweet sounds did not altogether bear the very best of characters; and yet, in that time of discord and tumult, when the greater part of men's time was given up to painful thoughts of self-defence, or the fierce struggles of civil contention, the wandering musicians were generally received with a glad heart to every abode, and obtained payment of some kind, either in food or money, for the temporary enjoyment they afforded.

The party which now approached consisted of two men, a woman, and a boy. The two men were ferocious-looking persons enough, with dresses of gay colours, embroidered with tinsel, and each bearing in his girdle a dagger, the meretricious ornaments of which seemed adopted for the purpose of persuading people that it was there only for show, though in reality the sharp broad blade of highly tempered steel was very well calculated to effect any murderous purpose. The woman had once, perhaps, been pretty, and she now decked out charms, blighted perhaps by vice as much as faded by time, with every ornament within her reach. The boy, however, was the personage of the group certainly the most interesting. He preceded his brethren along the street, playing on a small pipe, from which he produced most exquisite sounds; while a small spaniel dog ran on before him, and from time to time stood upon his hind legs, much to the amusement of the children and women that followed the musicians.

The truth is, the whole band had been lodging at the other end of the village, in one of those little public houses called, in those days, Répues; but hearing of the arrival of a body of gay cavaliers at the larger inn, they were coming up in haste to see how many sous their music could extract from the pockets of the troop. The two elder men and the woman were pushing in at once into the auberge, without taking any note of the young Count de Logères, whom they looked upon as a mere idler at an inn-door; but the boy stopped, and, uncovering his dark curly head, gazed for a moment in the count's face, with eyes full of fire and intelligence.

He had scarcely paused a moment, however, when one of the men returning, caught him violently by the arm, exclaiming, "What are you lingering for, idle fool?" and struck him a blow upon the face with the open hand, which left the print of his fingers upon the boy's young cheek. The boy neither wept nor complained, but stood with his hands by his sides, a dark and bitter frown upon his brow, and a flashing fire in his eye, which showed that his passive calmness proceeded from no want of indignant sensibility to the injury. The blow might very likely have been repeated, had not the man's eye, at that moment, fallen upon Charles of Montsoreau, and perceived in his countenance a look of angry indignation, while his apparel and bearing at once showed that he was superior to the party whom the musicians had met with within.

"Come in, Ignati," cried the musician, with somewhat of a foreign accent; "either play on your pipe to the gentleman here, or come and help us to sing to the company within doors."

"I will not go in," said the boy, "unless you make me; but I will sing the gentleman a song here, if he likes it."

"Ay, do, do," said the man; "sing him that Gaillard song with the chorus."

"I am in no mood, my poor boy," said Charles of Montsoreau, "to take pleasure in your music. My heart is too sad for your gay sounds. There is something for you, however. Go in, and sing to the lighter hearts within."

And giving him a small piece of money, he was turning away; but the boy drew closer to him, and looking up in his face with a sweet and kindly smile, pressed him to hear his music.

"Oh let me sing to you," he said, "let me sing to you, noble gentleman. You don't know what music can do for a sad heart. It often makes mine less heavy; and I will choose you a song, where even the gay words are sad, so that they shall not be harsh to the most sorrowful ear."

"Well, my good boy," replied the count, "if you must sing, let it be so; but you must expect me to listen but lightly, for I have many things to think of."

The boy instantly laid down his pipe on a bench by the door, and lifting his two hands gracefully, which had before been clasped together, he looked up for a minute to the sky, and then began his song, as follows:--

The boy's music had contrived to fix the attention of Charles of Montsoreau, and awakened an unexpected interest in the fate of the youth, who seemed capable, not only of the mere mechanical art of singing the words of others, or, like a taught bird, whistling music by rote, but of feeling every word and every tone that he uttered. As the young nobleman looked from his face to that of the man whom he accompanied, and who sat by his side on the bench at the door, gazing at him with an affected smile upon his coarse assassin-like features, he could not but think that it must be a hard fate for that poor, sensitive-looking boy to wander on under the domination of a harsh being like that, and he almost longed to deliver him from it. He gave the boy some additional money, however, which made the man's eyes gleam; and he was proceeding to ask some questions regarding the fate and history of the whole party, when Gondrin and the rest of the servants issued forth with the horses, and Charles of Montsoreau prepared to mount.

"These are the vagabonds, my lord," said Gondrin, "who were up at the castle gates on the day you saved Mademoiselle de Clairvaut from drowning."

"I did not see them," replied Charles of Montsoreau with some surprise--"I did not remark any one there."

"No," answered the boy with a light smile, "no, you were thinking too much of some one else."

"You must have made speed to get here before me," said Charles of Montsoreau.

"Ay, we go by paths, sir, that you cannot go on horseback," joined in the man; "and we will be at the next inn gate before you to-night, if you would like to hear the boy's music again."

"Perhaps I may," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "at all events, you shan't go without reward."

"We will be there, we will be there," replied the man; and the Count having ascertained that the reckoning was paid, rode on upon his way.

The little incident which had broken in upon the train of his melancholy thoughts did not very long occupy his mind. "This must be a shrewd boy," he thought, "to adapt his song so well to the circumstances; for it is clearly from what he saw at the castle gates that he judged of the nature of my feelings, and sang accordingly."

Thus thinking, he rode on, and his mind readily reverted to the darker topics which had before occupied it. When he arrived at the sleeping place, which were in those days called Gîtes, he found a large and comfortable inn, such as was scarcely ever to be met with in any other country but France in those days. He looked naturally for the band of musicians at the door; but it seemed that they had either forgotten their promise, or had not yet arrived; and the young count had entered the hall and commenced his supper before there was a sign of their approach.

The first thing that gave him any intimation of their coming was the sound of voices speaking sharp and angrily in the Italian language; and he thought he heard amongst them the tones of the boy uttering a few, but indignant, words of remonstrance.

Rising from the table at which he sat, the young count approached the window, and found that he was right in supposing the party of musicians had arrived. The boy was standing in the midst, and the woman, as well as the two men, were bending over him, talking to him earnestly, with vehement grimaces on the countenance of each, while the clenched fist of the elder man shaken unceasingly, though not raised even so high as his own girdle, showed that some threats were being used to the boy, in order, apparently, to drive him to something, to do which he was unwilling. Although the window was on a level with their heads, the count could not distinguish what they said, for they were now speaking low, though still eagerly. They raised their voices, indeed, almost to a scream, when they uttered some wild Italian exclamation, but it was meaningless without the context. At length, however, to the surprise of Charles of Montsoreau, the boy seemed moved by a sudden fit of rage; and lifting the hand which held his pipe, he dashed the instrument of music upon the ground, shivering it to atoms, and exclaiming, "Never! never! I will neither sing nor play a note!"

At that instant the elder man struck him a blow on the side of the head, which knocked him at once down upon the road; and Charles of Montsoreau opening the window, leaped out, and interfered, while several of his attendants followed him from the supper room.

The faces of the Italians fell when they saw him; and there was a sort of confused and guilty look about them, which might well have made any one of a suspicious nature believe that they had been planning no very good schemes, when the obstinacy of the boy had obstructed them.

"You treat this youth ill," said Charles of Montsoreau, frowning upon the man who had struck him. "Are you his father?"

"No, the blessed Virgin be thanked!" exclaimed the Italian; "his name is Carlo Ignatius Morone, though we call him Ignati. No, obstinate little brute! he is no child of mine! I bought him of his mother to sing and dance for us. A bad bargain I made of it too, for he does not gain his own bread with his whims. His mother was a courtezan of Genoa."

"She was not my mother!" cried the boy in an indignant tone. "My mother was dead long before that. But whatever she was, Paulina Morone was always kind to me; and she would never have sold me to you, if I had not asked her, when she had no bread to eat herself, and had given me the last crust she had to give."

"This is a sad history," said Charles of Montsoreau; "and as you say the boy does not gain his own bread, you will, doubtless, be glad enough to sell him to me, my good friend."

The man hesitated. "I don't know that exactly," he said, "noble lord. The boy can sing well, if he likes it, as you know; and he can play well both upon the pipe and the lute when he likes it and is not obstinate; and he is as active as a Basque, and can dance better than any one I ever saw. Would you like to see him dance, my lord? I'll make him dance fast enough. That I can always do with a good stout stick, though sing he won't unless he likes it."

"I wonder not at it," replied the count. "But you shall not make him dance for me. What I wish to know is, will you sell him to me? You said you had made a bad bargain, and that he did not gain his own bread, much less repay you."

"Not here in the provinces, sir," replied the man. "But I am sure if I took him to Paris, I could make a good sum by showing him to the lords and ladies there. However, I will sell him, if I can make something by him, sooner than be burdened with him any more."

"What do you demand?" said Charles of Montsoreau. "If you are moderate, perhaps I may give it to you, for I like to hear the boy sing."

"I will have," said the man, "I will have at least a hundred and fifty crowns of gold, crowns of the sun, sir, remember, or I'll not part with the boy."

"That is three times as much as you gave to the Morone," cried the boy--"you know it is."

"Ay, little villain," answered the man; "but have I not brought you from Italy since, and fed you for more than a year?"

"And spent a fortune in cudgels too upon him," said the woman.

Charles of Montsoreau gave her a glance of contempt, and then turned his look towards the boy, whose eyes were full of tears. The sum that was asked for him was, in fact, considerable, each gold crown being in that day worth sixty sous, and the value of money itself, as compared with produce, being about five times that which it is at present. But the young nobleman, unaccustomed to traffic in human flesh, that most odious and horrible of all the rites of Mammon, looked upon the sum to be given as a mere trifle when compared with the boy's deliverance from the hands into which he had fallen.

"You shall have the money," he said.--"Gondrin, bid Martin bring me the leathern bag which he carries, and I will pay the sum immediately."

The first sensation of the Italian was joy, at having over-reached the young French nobleman, the second was equally natural to the people, and the class to which he belonged, sorrow at not having contrived to over-reach him to a greater extent. The money, however, being produced, and the sum paid, the boy demanded and received from the younger man, who carried a pack upon his shoulders, some little articles of property belonging, he said, to himself.

"The boy is now yours, my Lord," said the Italian, looking wistfully at the closing mouth of the bag; "but surely your Lordship will give me another crown for the bargain's sake."

"I will tell you what I will give you," replied Charles of Montsoreau:--"if you and your base companions do not take yourselves out of the place as fast as your legs can carry you, I will order my horsemen to flog you for a mile along the road with their stirrup leathers."

The man put his hand, with a meaning look, to the gilded hilt of his dagger; but, in an instant, one buffet from the hand of Charles of Montsoreau replied to the mute sign, by laying him prostrate on the ground. A loud laugh echoed from the inn door at this conclusion of the scene; and starting on his feet again, the Italian and his companions hurried away as fast as possible, the elder one only pausing for a moment, at about a hundred yards' distance, to shake his clenched fist at the young nobleman, with a meaning look.

"Come, my boy," said the Count, "come and get thee some supper. Thou shalt be better treated at least with me than with them."

The boy caught his hand, and kissed it a thousand times, and the young nobleman led him towards the house, asking him as they went, "What was it they wished you to do when I came out to stop them from maltreating you?"

"To sing and play to you, and engage all your thoughts," replied the boy, "while they stole the jewel out of your hat, and put a piece of glass in its place."

CHAP. IX.

The sweetest of all balms to a hurt mind is the doing a good action; and with that for his consolation, Charles of Montsoreau retired to rest, and, though he slept not well, certainly, he obtained more repose than he had expected. On the following morning, he found--that which we so often find--that things done for kindly and benevolent purposes bear with them sources of recompense to ourselves which we never calculated upon. The unfortunate boy whom he had delivered from the hands of his persecutors on the preceding day, afforded the young count a subject of interest and occupation, that withdrew his thoughts from more painful themes, and gave him a degree of relief, which, though merely temporary, was in itself a blessing.

The boy stood by his side while he took his breakfast, and looked so full of joy, that Charles of Montsoreau could not help congratulating himself upon what he had done, though he was not sufficiently ignorant of the world to suppose that, for the sum of a hundred and fifty crowns, he had bought himself a treasure of high qualities, such as the best education can hardly bestow upon the best disposition.

He had made the boy over entirely to the care of Gondrin, and told the shrewd huntsman to watch his disposition well, and let him know all the peculiarities thereof. He was himself too much occupied with gloomy thoughts, to investigate the matter fully; and, as the boy stood by him, he confined his questions to some points of his former history, and to the various accomplishments which he possessed.

To a question as to whether he could ride, the boy only replied with a smile; and it appeared afterwards that, while with the Italians, the whole of the first part of their journey through Italy and France had been performed on horseback, till some acts of dishonesty, committed in the town of Grenoble, forced them to fly on foot with all speed, and leave their beasts behind them.

The purchase of a fresh horse for the boy, and of some suits of clothes better fitted to a nobleman's page than the gay and mountebank costume in which he had come to his new master, occupied a considerable part of the morning; and by the time Charles of Montsoreau issued forth to proceed upon his journey, the mists of the early day had cleared away; the grey veil of clouds which had obscured the sky during the preceding day had been scattered into small feathery fragments by the sun and the wind; there was a feeling of spring in the breath of the air, and a look of hope and joyfulness upon all the world around.

As the boy Ignati stood by his master's stirrup for a moment before they set out, he lifted his fine dark eyes to the countenance of the young nobleman with a look of love and gratitude that was not to be mistaken. It is true that a man may smile, and smile, and be a villain; it is true that the language of looks may often be as false as the words of the tongue; it is true that no human mode of expression may not be poisoned by hypocrisy, and that even actions themselves are often as false as looks and words. But there are moments when the free soul bursts forth through all the bonds of habit or of cunning, and sports, if it be but for a single instant, at liberty; and in those times, though the words may still be false, or at the best regulated with deliberate skill, yet there are momentary expressions that cross the countenance--lights that beam up in the eye--smiles that flutter round the lip--which betray the secret of the heart's feelings, notwithstanding the most careful guard.

Charles of Montsoreau looked down, and laid his hand upon the boy's head.

"You know, Ignati," he said, "that you are a freeman, and not a slave. I paid your price to the Italians to give you liberty, and not to purchase you myself; so you are free to come and to go, to stay with me, or to leave me, as you like."

"I will go with you through the world," replied the boy; and though he said no more, he said it in such a tone as to leave no doubt upon the mind of Charles of Montsoreau that he was sincere for the time at least.

The boy sprang into his saddle with alacrity and grace; and the first horseman of the court of France could not have sat his horse with more ease and vigour. His whole demeanour seemed changed from the former day, as if slavery and the degrading trade to which he had been previously bound had bowed down his spirit, and with it his corporeal frame. There was a lightness, a joyous fire in his look, which spoke the consciousness of freedom and of dawning hopes. Before, he had been but a handsome, sullen boy; while, now, he looked older than before, and all was quickness and activity.

The sky, we have said, was brighter, the day more cheerful, and the scenery itself gradually assuming a finer and a bolder character. Entering that hilly district which lies between Limoges and Tulle, the road was constantly ascending or descending. Wide woods and moors, broken by rocks and streams, were seen on either side; while now a soft green meadow covered the slope, now a rich-coloured fallow field showed traces of man's industrious hand. Here and there, too, a cottage appeared, with its little garden and orchard round about it; here and there a forge, while the castellated houses of many of the small provincial nobility showed their glittering weathercocks above the grey woods. The aspect of the whole scene was very peaceful; and so, indeed, that part of the country was at the time; for no towns of sufficient consequence were near to render it, though extremely defensible, worth the while of any of the various parties which tore the state to defend it against the rest. Through these scenes the young count and his attendants rode on during the day, till they came to their gîte for the night, at the pleasant-named town of St. Germain les belles Filles.

When the young Count de Logères sat down to supper, with none but one habitual attendant near him--while the rest of his train dined at a table at the other end of the hall--his mind drew up the short summary of what changes of feeling his heart had undergone, which we are almost always inclined to make unconsciously, when we come to the end of a day's journey.

It were vain to say that the scenes through which he had passed, or the aspect of the day, or the occupation of his thoughts by the boy that he had freed, had made his heart lighter; but they had, perhaps, taught that heart to bear its load more firmly. He still thought of Marie de Clairvaut with the intense passion of first, true, ardent love. He felt but the more convinced, at every step he took away from her, that that love would last throughout his being. He felt that, without her, life was now a blank, void of the grand pointing interest of existence--void of all sustaining power, but a knowledge of rectitude, and a purpose of endurance. It was hard, far more hard, for a young heart like his, that had seldom, if ever, tasted sorrow before, or known affliction, to undergo at once the extinction of that brightest of life's lights, the hope of mutual affection. We value not our minor sorrows sufficiently: there are great ones to be endured by every man on earth; and did not the lesser ones prepare us gently for the burden, we should be crushed under the first mighty misfortune that befall us. But Charles of Montsoreau had known few, so few, that he felt, as it were, stunned and benumbed by the weight of grief that now came upon him. He had been deprived of the belief that he possessed the love of Marie de Clairvaut; he had abandoned the hope and task of winning that love; and, at the same time, the deep, warm confidence which he had ever till that moment possessed in his brother's strong, unalterable affection, had been swept away too. He could regard Gaspar de Montsoreau no longer as he had regarded him; he could think of him no longer as he had thought; he could not respect or esteem him as heretofore; and all the fraternal love that remained in his bosom towards his brother, rendered him but the more sorrowful, that his brother was less worthy than he thought.

He was sad and gloomy then, and that sadness was seen in every look and action: he seemed scarcely to know what were the meats placed before him, and only mechanically to taste of that which was next to him. After he had eaten as much as was necessary to satisfy mere nature, he leaned his head upon his hand, and fell into deep thought, which was only interrupted by the low sweet voice of the boy, who had come quietly up to his side, saying, "May I not sing to you, sir count? I have seen a song prove better sauce to a poor meal than a duke's kitchen could produce."

"It would not be so with me, Ignati," replied the Count. "You shall not sing to me to-night, my good boy; but go to bed, and rest your young limbs."

Though he refused him, yet the voluntary offer the boy had made came sweetly; for, on the first sweep of disappointment's heavy wing, a sort of misanthropy is cast upon us which we own not even to our own hearts. We doubt, without our will, that there is such a thing as affection, or gratitude, or kindly feeling, or generous sensibility left upon earth; and it is sweet, and happy, and consoling when any thing happens, however light or small, to show us feelingly that our dark judgment of the world was wrong. He still refused the boy's music, however, though kindly; for he was busy with his own thoughts, and wished to pursue them undisturbed.

On the following morning he continued his journey: nor is it worth while to follow him day by day, while, taking his way by Bourges and Chalons, he approached the north-eastern frontier of France. The journey was long and tedious, but it was accomplished without any accident or interruption; and, indeed, till he approached near the frontiers of Lorraine, the traces of the war which desolated France were comparatively small. Commerce, indeed, there was little or none throughout the land; but agriculture was pursued with less difficulty; and in those districts where the strife was not actually going on, the first return of spring saw the husbandman again in the field.

The neighbourhood of Troyes and Chalons, however, began to show evident marks of the ravages of war: the fields were uncultivated; the towns guarded with rigorous strictness; no tall ricks of corn were seen near the farm-house; the cattle lowed not in the plains; the shepherd turned anxiously round at every sound of a horse's steps; and, in many places, the vineyards themselves showed the marks of fire, and the vines were seen cut down and piled up for fuel. Wherever the traveller stopped and inquired what was the cause of the destruction he beheld, he was told that a body of reiters had pillaged here, or a horde of Germans wasted there; and, although there were some who ventured, in the angry indignation of their heart, to curse both the house of Guise and the house of La Mark, and to express their horror of all parties alike, yet it was evident that the chivalrous spirit of the Guises, their gracious demeanour, and their heroic actions against a foreign enemy, had in general won the love of the people, so that they were greatly preferred to the Protestant princes of Sedan, who had led an army of thirty thousand strangers to the invasion of their native country.

Charles of Montsoreau learned all these tales as he passed; and at each inn where he stopped he received some warning not to advance rashly in this direction, or in that, lest he should meet with some of the scattered bands who had turned their swords into reaping hooks in a very different sense from the pacific one, and were gathering in a harvest which they had not sown, from the fears and necessities of the country.

Thus it happened in setting out from Chalons, the good aubergiste, who had taken care to extract from the purse of the young nobleman as much as could be obtained with any appearance of honesty, counselled him strongly, instead of pursuing the high road towards Rheims, to follow the way along the river towards Mareuil, and thence across the country. "For," said he, "there is a band of at least fifty reiters have been watching the Rheims' gate for the last ten days, and have taken toll of every one that passed, be he citizen or gentleman. Your train, too, is so scanty, young sir, that one sees evidently you come from a quieter place. Why, no one here ever thinks of riding without forty men at least; and the good Duke of Guise dare not go himself from one château to another without a hundred salads at his back."

As Charles of Montsoreau was not by any means well satisfied with the peculiar species of honesty of his host, he made no reply to his counsels, but followed his former purpose, and took the high road. Ere he had pursued it two miles, however, the merry huntsman Gondrin rode up, with the boy Ignati by his side, and some eagerness on his countenance.

"My Lord," he said, "the boy declares that he saw the gleaming of spear-heads upon the side of the hill a mile on."

"Indeed, Ignati!" said the Count--"your eyes must be sharp. Point out to me these spears; for I have seen nothing of them, though I have been watching anxiously."

"I can't show them to you now, sir," replied the boy, "for they have gone slowly behind the wood; but I saw them, believe me, and I am not mistaken."

Even while he was speaking a peasant was seen coming along the road upon an ass which he was beating forward to as fast a pace as the brute's natural indocility would admit. The moment, however, that he saw the count's troop drawn up in the midst of the road, he suddenly paused in his course, with a look of some alarm, which did not seem at all to subside upon the young nobleman riding up to him with Gondrin and the boy, and insisting upon his stopping; for he was now endeavouring to drive his beast into one of the by-paths through the country.

He was soon re-assured, however; and no sooner did he find that the party he had met with was not calculated to be an object of terror, than he endeavoured to inspire the persons of whom it was composed with the same fears which had taken possession of himself, informing the young count that he had just himself passed the reiters, who, though they had left him the vegetables that he was carrying in his panniers to the market at Chalons, had taken from him all his poultry and eggs. He magnified their number and their ferocity very greatly; and as it was evident that they would not prove the most agreeable of companions on the road he was about to travel, Charles of Montsoreau obtained more correct information of the peasant as to the way to Mareuil, and struck back again from the high road towards the course of the Marne.

The circuit that he had made, however, and the time that had been lost by one interruption or another, rendered it late before he reached the village of Condé, and it was dark before he approached Mareuil. The place was unfortified, and, as far as he could judge in passing through the little narrow street by which he first entered it, had an air of greater tranquillity and comfort than he had lately seen.

No house of public entertainment was apparent till he reached an open part of the street, near the centre of the little town, where a large stone building stood back from the rest, and displayed a wide front, with windows few and far between, and a single large archway for a door. Over this swung the sign of the inn, under a highly ornamented and gilded grating of iron-work; and as soon as the feet of horses were heard in the dusty open space before the building, mine host and two of his palefreniers rushed forth to receive the new guests.

The night was clear, and the moon was up; and what between the assistance of the fair planet and the host's lantern, a very sufficient knowledge could be obtained in a moment of the persons of the strangers. That knowledge seemed in some degree to surprise and puzzle the landlord; and had Charles of Montsoreau remarked very acutely, he would have perceived that some one else had been expected in his place.

He noted not the demeanour of the landlord at all, however; but, springing from his horse, entered the archway, and passed through a door which stood ajar to the right, showing through the crevice a well lighted room within. It was one of the large open halls of an old French inn, the rafters low and black with smoke, the chimney wide and stretching out far into the room, the andirons, on which were piled up immense masses of wood, containing each more than one hundred weight of iron, and the table in the midst fit to support viands for forty or fifty people. The light which the young nobleman had seen proceeded both from the fire which was blazing and crackling cheerfully, and from two large sconces of polished brass hung in different parts of the room.

The hall possessed at the moment of the Count's entrance only one tenant, of whom he could see little more, than that he was dressed in grey of the most ordinary kind. His hat was on, and differed a good deal from the cap and feather then common at the court of France, being tall in the crown, broad in the brim, and decorated by a single cock's feather raising itself from the button on the right side. Large untanned riding-boots were drawn up above his knees, a light sword was by his side, as if he felt himself in perfect security; and he wore a falling collar of lace over his doublet, instead of the ruff, which was ordinary at that period. The buttons of the grey suit were of jet, and on the middle finger of his right hand was a large seal ring, of apparently coarse manufacture. He was sitting at one of the farther corners of the table, with an inkhorn before him and a pen in his hand, busily writing on a sheet of coarse paper, which had been supplied to him by the host; so that looking at him as he sat, one might very well have taken him for some public notary of a neighbouring town, in not the best practice in the world.

Such, indeed, would have been the interpretation which Charles of Montsoreau would have put upon his appearance, had it not been for the somewhat Spanish cut of his hat, and the singular fashion of his collar, which puzzled him a good deal; for, notwithstanding the occupation of his mind with other thoughts, and the very ordinary apparel of the stranger, there was something in his form and aspect which attracted attention and excited curiosity in the young nobleman, he neither knew why nor how.

As soon as he heard a step entering the room, the stranger turned partially round and half rose from his seat; but a momentary glance was sufficient to show him that the person who appeared was unknown to him; and, turning towards the table again, he pursued his occupation. The young count advanced slowly to the fire, and drawing a settle near, stretched out his feet to warm himself, turning his back to the stranger so as to avoid any air of scanning his proceedings. Gondrin and the other attendants came and went, asking him questions and directions as he thus sat; and from time to time the writer turned round his head and examined their movements and appearance, but without uttering a word. The aubergiste himself at length approached the fireplace, in order, it seemed, to consult with the young gentleman regarding his supper. There was but little, he said, in the house, and at that late hour it was impossible to procure much more. However, he would do his best, he added, and assured his new guest of at least giving him good wine.

Charles of Montsoreau informed him that he was easily satisfied, and doubted not that every thing would be good and abundant. But somewhat to his surprise--for such things were not at all customary in that day--the aubergiste proceeded to demand whether he would not prefer having a chamber apart to sup in, rather than take his meal in the common hall. He was in the act of replying in the negative, when the voice of the stranger who was writing at the table made itself heard for the first time, exclaiming, in an authoritative tone, "Pierre Jean."

The innkeeper instantly flew to his side, and the other addressed him in a low tone, to which the innkeeper replied almost in a whisper.

"As you will, Maître Henri, as you will," said the landlord in conclusion. "But I think it very strange they have not come."

The other merely nodded his head in reply, and then folding up the paper he had written, he put it in his pocket, and approached the fire with an air of being quite at home. He was a man of about six or seven and thirty years of age, and, as he now stood before Charles of Montsoreau at his full height, appeared to the eyes of the young nobleman one of the most powerful men he had ever beheld. His chest was at once broad and deep, his limbs muscular and long, the head small, the flanks thin, and the foot and hand well formed. Every indication was there of great strength and great activity, and the countenance also harmonised perfectly well with the figure, the broad high forehead giving that air of a powerful and active mind which we are all, whether physiognomists or not, inclined by nature to see in the expanse which covers and seems to represent the great instrument of the human intellect. He wore the mustachio somewhat long, and the beard pointed, but small. The eyes were large and fine, the eyebrows strongly marked, the nose was beautifully formed, displaying the wide expansive nostril, generally reckoned a sign of generous feelings; and though there was a cut upon his brow scarcely healed, and a deep scar in his cheek of a more remote date, yet they did not at all detract from the handsomeness of the countenance, which, notwithstanding the plainness of his dress and appearance, was peculiarly striking and attractive.

"This is a cold night, young gentleman," he said, as he approached the fire, "and you ride out somewhat late for a traveller in these parts of the world."

"Oh, I fear not the cold," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "and though I certainly prefer not the night to travel in, yet, when I must betake myself to it, I do so without much discomfort or hesitation."

"Ay; but there are other things sweep over this country besides the wind," said the stranger, "things more cutting and more sharp, I can assure you."

"Oh, against those I go pretty well prepared also," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "every French gentleman is a soldier, you know; and we are not unwilling or unable to make use of our arms when it may be needful."

"You have served, I suppose," said the stranger, "perhaps at Coutras, with the Duke of Joyeuse, or with Harry of Navarre and his Huguenots."

Charles of Montsoreau looked up with a smile. "If we begin talking of where we served, and on what causes, good sir," he said, "we shall have our worthy host, Pierre Jean, requiring us to give up our swords into his safe keeping till we set out again, as indeed he is bound by law to do."

"Oh, no fear, no fear," replied the stranger, laughing. "We shall not quarrel and cut each other's throats, depend upon it. You are here, a young lord, with, it seems to me, a dozen or two of attendants, and I am alone, a poor Escribano, by name Maître Henri, as you just heard."

"And yet," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "the poor Escribano, I should judge, had seen some service in his day, and that not very many years ago either."

"Oh, you judge from that cut upon my forehead. That is but the scratch of a cat."

"Well, then," answered Charles, "if you will tell me sincerely whether that cat's claw was a reiter's estramaçon, or the spear of a De la Mark, I will tell you whether I drew my sword at Coutras, and on what part."

The stranger gazed at him for several moments, with an inquiring and yet half laughing-glance.

"You are as keen," he said at length, "as a Gascon; perhaps, for aught I know, as ambitious as a Guise, as hardy and obstinate as a La Mark, and as politic and secret as a Brisson. The last, at least, I am sure of; and I can tell you, my good youth, if I judge right, we are not likely to part so soon as we both expected when you entered this room."

"Perhaps not, Maître Henri," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "for, if I judge rightly, and you are, as you say, alone, I am not likely to leave you till I see you safe on the other side of Rheims. There lie a strong body of reiters on the Chalons road; and there is one man in France for whom I have much love and respect, but who is somewhat too famous for exposing himself unnecessarily. I have but few men with me; but, well led, and with a great purpose, those few may do much."

The expression which the stranger's countenance assumed, as he listened to this speech, was strange and mingled. There was a smile came upon it, as if half amused, half touched; and yet there was a degree of doubt hung wavering upon his brow, while he first scrutinised the countenance of his companion closely, and then, casting down his eyes, fell into a deep fit of thought. After a short pause, however, he replied,--"You fought at Coutras, sir, neither for Henry of Navarre nor Anne of Joyeuse, that is clear. Am I not right?"

"Quite, Maître Henri," replied the young count, with an air of indifference and a smile; "I fought neither for the heretics, because, Heaven be praised, I am a good Catholic, nor for the minions, because the hero of Jarnac and Montcoutour has passed away into a lover of pet puppies and a pedant in cosmetics."

A sarcastic smile curled the lip of his companion while he spoke. "Two good, wise, and sufficient reasons," he said, "such as a notary may approve of. But tell me, young gentleman, have we ever met before?"

"Never," answered Charles of Montsoreau, "unless we met before we were born. But, however, Maître Henri, to put an end to all doubts, that I see are in your mind, my name is Charles of Montsoreau, Count of Logères, whom you may have heard of, perhaps, though he has yet to make a name in history, and hopes to do so with his sword."

The stranger instantly extended his hand to him, exclaiming, "Indeed, young friend, indeed! How came you here? What brought you to this part of the world?"

"I came for two purposes," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "In the first place, it is long since I have seen Logères; my tenantry need my presence; and it is time that I should take the management of those estates out of the hands of underlings, and defend, protect, and direct them myself."

While he spoke, several of his attendants returned to the room, accompanied by the host, to make preparation for the visiter's supper, and the stranger instantly resumed the position he had at first been standing in, after he approached the fire, while Charles of Montsoreau went on, taking a hint to be cautious from his companion's eyes. "In the next place," he continued, "my second purpose was to visit the good Duke of Guise, who, I understand, is at Soissons, or in that neighbourhood."

"He was at Nancy but a week or two ago," replied the other; "but, after all, you may very likely find him at Soissons, for he is continually moving about the country; and there was a report not long ago, that he was to hold a private conference one of these days with Monsieur de Bellievre, sent on the part of the king. But there is little trust in this Henry, and Heaven knows whether he will send or not.--Shall we sup together, sir?"

"With all my heart," replied the young count, not a little to the surprise of some of his attendants who were in the room, and who did not at all comprehend how their lord, whom they were themselves accustomed to treat with much reverence and respect, came to sit down with a person of such plain apparel.

Their astonishment was not less when they beheld the young nobleman, after supper had been placed upon the table, wait till the other was seated, before he took his own place. The only one who seemed to understand the whole was the boy Ignati, who said, in an under voice, to Gondrin, "He has forgotten himself, master huntsman! Or is Maître Henri gone for to-night?"

"And who is Maître Henri?" demanded Gondrin, in the same tone.

"I could tell, if I would," answered the boy, "but our lord knows him, if you do not."

Before he had well ended, a servant, dressed like his master, in grey, entered the room in haste, and placed a written paper in the hands of Maître Henri, who read it with attention, and then bending over the table towards Charles of Montsoreau, demanded, in a low tone, "How many men have you with you, my young friend?"

"Only seven," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "besides myself and the page. But they are all well-armed, resolute, and determined, and I, the eighth, trust not to be behind any of them."

"Eleven!" said his companion, musing. "We should but muster eleven if we were to set off this moment; for though we counted six amongst us when I arrived, I have sent off three to a distance, and they cannot be back ere the morning. No, we had better wait till daylight. I must give them till twelve o'clock, too, to see if they will keep their word with me: though, by these tidings, it seems to be broken already.--Hark ye," he continued, speaking to the servant who had brought him the paper, and who still stood beside his chair--"hark ye; bend down your ear."

The man did as he was bidden; and, after whispering to him for several minutes, the stranger added, in a louder tone, "If you go by Les petites Loges, you will pass them. Tell him that fifty will do. I want no more, and we must not leave any point weak."

After he had thus spoken, he tore off a bit of the paper he had received, wrote a few words down upon it in a careless way, and tossed it over to Charles of Montsoreau. Those words were, "Schelandre, who you know is as brave as a lion and as cunning as a fox, is looking out for me, with two squadrons, on the road by Hautvilliers. He has got news of my coming by some means--very likely from Henry himself."

Charles turned an inquiring look upon his companion's face, as if to ask, what is to be done? But the other glanced his eye over his shoulder towards the attendants, and proceeded with his supper, commenting upon the landlord's good cheer, praising his wine, and laughing and talking gaily, as if there were no such thing as peril upon the earth.