The rock which it meets with in its course turns the impetuous river from the way it was pursuing, even when it comes down in all the fury of the mountain torrent. The slight slope of a green hill, the rise of a grassy bank at an after-period, bends the calm stream hither and thither through the plains, offering the most beautiful image of the effect of circumstances on the course of human life. Some streams also become coloured by the earth they pass over, or mingle readily with the waters that flow into theirs. But there are a few--and they are always the mightiest and most profound--which retain their original hue and character, receive the tribute of other streams, pass over rocks and mountains, and through the midst of deep lakes, without the Rhone losing its glossy blue in the bosom of Lake Leman, or the Rhine mingling its clear stream with the waters of Constance or the current of the Maine.
The firm and powerful mind may be affected in its operations by circumstances, but not in its nature, and the depths of original character remain unchanged from the beginning to the end of life. Even strong feelings in such hearts, like objects cast upon a grand and rapid river, are borne along with the current through all scenes and circumstances, till with the waters themselves they plunge into the ocean of eternity.
Neither by nature nor by the period of his life was Charles of Montsoreau likely to retain and nourish long any light feelings of disappointment, but such was not the case with deep sorrows or with strong affections. His heart was of that firm and tenacious kind that it lost not readily any thing once strongly impressed upon it. The love of Marie de Clairvaut was one of those things never to be forgotten; the sorrows by which that love had been followed were never to be obliterated from his mind.
In the gay scenes of the sort of second court which the Duke of Guise held for some days in the city of Rheims, Charles of Montsoreau mingled without any apparent grief weighing upon his mind, or any dark and gloomy memory seeming to oppress his spirit. He smiled with those who smiled, he admired all that was fine, and bright, and beautiful; and if he felt for a moment coming over him the deep melancholy with which he had quitted his own home, and which had now concentrated itself in his heart, he struggled against it and banished the outward appearance of it speedily, deriving only from those deeper feelings which lay concealed within, that degree of indifference towards the pleasures and amusements of youth which is seldom obtained but by experience. He forgot not Marie de Clairvaut, however--he forgot not the painful task which he had imposed upon himself; but he gladly occupied his immediate thoughts with the objects around him, and remained for some days well pleased himself, and not un-noted by others for his calm and graceful demeanour, amongst all the proud nobles who now surrounded the princely Guise.
At length, however, all his attendants but two, whose wounds promised a tedious convalescence, were sufficiently recovered to enable him to pursue his journey to Logères; and he set out, with his train increased by six or seven veteran soldiers, whom the Duke spared to him, for the purpose of completing, as rapidly as possible, the discipline and training of his own retainers. As the distance was not far, and the Duke of Guise had given him more than one hint that no time was to be lost, he resolved to accomplish the march in one day; and, setting off early in the morning, approached Logères towards sunset upon a short spring day.
It was a wild and wooded country, on the borders of the ancient Ardennes, with the scene continually varying in minor points, but never changing the character of rough, solitary nature, which that part of France, and indeed many other parts, at that time displayed. Here the ground was rocky and mountainous, shooting up into tall hills covered with old woods; there, smooth and even, with the feet of the primeval oaks carpeted with green turf. Then, again, came deep dells, and banks, and ravines, and dingles, so thick that the boar could scarcely force his way through the bushes; and then the trees fell back, and left the wild stream wandering through green meadows, or sporting amongst the masses of stone. If a village appeared, it was perched high up above the road, as if afraid of the passing strangers; if a cottage, it was nested in the brown wood, and scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding banks. The air was now as warm as May, and all the sweet things that haunt the first dream of summer had come forth: the birds were tuning their earliest songs; the flowers were gathering round the roots of the trees, and the branches above them were making an effort, though but faint, to cast away the brown cloak of winter, and put on the green garmenture of the spring.
The evening sunshine was clear and smiling. Pouring from under a light cloud, which covered a part of the sky, it streamed in amongst the bolls and branches of the trees; it gilded the green turf, and danced upon the yellow banks: and what between the wild music of the blackbird, and the thrush, and the woodlark, the flowers upon the ground, the balminess of the air, the spring sunshine, and the peaceful scene, Charles of Montsoreau felt his sorrows softened; and though not less deeply melancholy than before, yet owned the influence of that season, which is so near akin to youth and hope, and rode on with a vague, but sweet feeling, that brighter hours might come.
He had spent many a happy youthful day at Logères; and though he had forgotten much, so that the charm of novelty was not altogether wanting, he remembered enough to make his heart beat with the thrill of memory, while many an object, once familiar to his eye, rose up, as if to greet him on his return. At length, the road passing straight over a ridge of rising-ground, showed him his own little village, in the sweet valley below, with the château rising on a tall hill that started up from the side of the little town, unconnected with any of the other heights around. The clouds that were in the zenith at that moment were pouring forth a light shower of spring rain; the sun was shining bright near the edge of the horizon, catching on the weathercocks, and turrets, and windows of the château; while spanning over the castle and the village, and wavering on the face of the light grey cloud above was seen the radiant bow of heaven, the pledge of brightness for the days to come.
The young Count, as he paused for a moment to gaze, could hear gay distant voices, borne on the wind, rising up from the village in the valley. It was a cheerful sound; but, more than any thing else, it recalled the former times, and wove between them and the present a tissue of associations both sweet and melancholy. He thought of the gallant father, by whose knee he had played in those very scenes in other days; he thought of the mother, whose inheritance those lands had been; he thought of the mutual love and harmony that had subsisted between them all, and how death had taken two, and how disunion had arisen between the two that remained. He thought of all this; and he thought of how--if fate had willed it otherwise--he might have led a happy bride to those glittering towers, have listened with her to the glad voices of the rejoicing peasantry, and have pointed to the sunshine that lit their dwelling, and the rainbow that waved across their sky, as auguries of hope, and happiness, and mutual love. He thought of all this, and how it was all in vain: and the tears filled his eyes, as he rode on towards the dwelling before him.
The two servants, whom he had sent on the day before, had spread the news, and given the probable hour of his coming; the street of the village was thronged with people, in their holy-day attire; the old grey cross, and the rude stone fountain, were decked with flowers; the light-hearted peasantry echoed his name with shouts when he appeared, and greetings and gratulations poured forth upon him: but the heart of the young Count of Logères was sad. The face of nature reviving from the wintry cold, the voices of the birds, the eloquence of sunshine and of flowers, had soothed, and calmed, and inspirited his heart; but the rejoicings of fellow-beings like himself--he knew not why, and he was angry to feel it--made him even more melancholy than before.
The elders of the village, conscious of dignity, the Count's own intendant, and the seneschal of his lands, came forward to greet him, and conduct him on his way, while Gondrin lingered behind, shaking hands with many an old friend, and inquiring after many an old acquaintance, vaunting the high deeds and noble qualities of his lord, and gladdening the hearts of the villagers with the promise of great doings at Logères.
Such was Charles of Montsoreau's arrival on his own estates; but the aspect of the interior of his dwelling again recalled bitter feelings and manifold regrets. But we must pass over such things, and merely notice briefly what followed after his arrival. Immediate inquiry showed him a state of things which few lords who absent themselves long from their own lands can ever hope to find:--his tenantry, his vassals, were in general contented and happy; no one had been pressed hard upon by his officers in his absence; no one brought forward any accusation of extortion or oppression; and though there were many who had their little petition to present, or their request to make for the future, there was none who found occasion to complain of the past. At the same time, he found that considerable sums, and a considerable quantity of produce, had accumulated for his own use; that there were large woods, the trees of which required to be thinned; that the wool of many years yet remained to be sold; that some distant mines had poured unexpected wealth into his coffers; and that, in fact, great riches, which seemed still greater to an inexperienced eye, were immediately at his command.
The secret of all this was, that those left in authority behind him were all old tried and attached servants of his mother's house; and the feudal system had that advantage at least, if it had no other, that it created an identity of interests between a lord and his servants, which nothing but blindness and folly could break through on either part.
On speaking with the old seneschal in regard to the military capacity and disposition of the people, the old man smiled at the question if he could raise a hundred strong troopers within the ensuing month.
"The ringing, sir, of the old ban-cloque," he said, "which, thank God, I have heard but once in my day, would bring double the number of well-armed lads round your gate in an hour. They are only angry because, in all the feuds that have lately fallen out, I would never let them go to join either one party or another, if I could help it. Your own orders upon that head were strict; and I certainly thought it very wise, as long as they judged fit to leave us at peace here, to avoid all occasion of bringing feuds upon ourselves. Some of the young men stole away, indeed, whether I would or not, and took service with the good Duke of Guise against the reiters. They have almost all come back now; but the tales they bring of battles here and there, and driving the Germans out of France like sheep, are not likely to make those that remained more fond of home."
"I have no wish," replied the Count, "to drain the place of its peasantry, good seneschal. A hundred men will be enough for my purpose, and of those, none but such as are willing. I would rather, of course, have those who have served already, if they are inclined to serve again under their own lord's banner. And now let this be arranged with all speed, for I have promised the Duke of Guise not to delay a day longer than necessary."
No delay or obstruction of any kind was met with by the young Count in his proceedings. Though neither very populous nor very productive, except in wood and pasture, his territories were very extensive; and no sooner were his wishes known, than many more volunteers flocked in to serve beneath his banner than he was willing to receive. With the old soldiers who accompanied him, and the aid of such of his peasantry as had served before, whatever was wanting to the discipline of the rest was soon accomplished. The providing them with arms and horses occupied a some--what longer time; but every thing was in active preparation, when, at the expiration of about a fortnight, a courier from the Duke of Guise arrived at Logères, bearing a letter dated from Soissons, and addressed to the young Count.
"I fear," the letter said, "that this will not find you in such a state of preparation as to enable you to join me at once, at the little town of Gonnesse, with all the men you promised. If you could, however, advance at once towards that place, with whatever men you can command at the moment, you might render the greatest of services to Henry of Guise.
"It would be as well," he continued in a postscript, "if you could cross the Aisne. My presence is required, with all speed, in the neighbourhood of Paris. I have not fifty men with me; and, notwithstanding the defeat of Auneau, I hear that a strong band of reiters has been seen in the neighbourhood of La Ferté sous Jouarre. If you can set off before night to-morrow, send me tidings that such is the case by the messenger who bears this letter; but do not go farther than Montigny before you hear more. God have you in his good keeping.
"Henry of Guise."
The consultation of Charles of Montsoreau with his seneschal was but short. He well knew that the field is the place to make good soldiers, and that but little more preparation was needful. He therefore caused his band to pass before the courier of the duke, and bade him tell that Prince what he saw, directing him to add, that he would, on the following day, make his first march towards La Ferté with fifty men; and that, in four days more, the rest would follow, if by any possibility their arms could be prepared by that time. With this message he mounted him afresh, and sent him back to Soissons.
A night of bustle and preparation succeeded, which left little time for that indulgence of calm thought during which the heart broods over its own griefs, and but increases them by contemplation. The first day's march was performed without danger or difficulty; and, not a little to the satisfaction of Charles of Montsoreau, the soldiers whom he had raised, being bred amongst a rural population, demeaned themselves peaceably and orderly amongst the inhabitants of the village where they halted for the night, so that no complaint was heard in the morning; and when they departed, many a villager was seen shaking hands with, and bidding God speed, the acquaintance of the evening before.
On the second day's march, which brought them to Grisolles, rumours and reports of the band of reiters which the Duke of Guise had mentioned began to reach their ears. The peasantry showed every sign of rejoicing on their appearance; and as they rode through the various villages, the young Count's horse was often surrounded by the peasantry, giving him this report or that, and expressing a hope that he had come to deliver them from the marauding strangers. On the third day's march towards Montigny, more accurate information was obtained concerning the real position and proceedings of the band of German adventurers, who were represented as lying further down towards the Marne, in the woods and hamlets about Gland and La Fern, intercepting the passengers on the roads between Château Thierry, Epernay, and La Ferté: the lower part of which latter town they were said to have attacked and plundered. Manifold were the entreaties now addressed to Charles of Montsoreau by the wealthy farmers and proprietors of that rich tract of country to go at once against the marauders, and drive them across the Marne. But he adhered firmly to his resolution of obeying the Duke's orders; and after halting for some hours to refresh his horses and men at Gandelu, he again began his march towards three o'clock in the evening, expecting to arrive at Montigny before nightfall.
On the whole of the road he had received no greater service from any one than from the boy Ignati, whose light weight and arms did not fatigue his horse so much as those of the other horsemen, and who was constantly riding hither and thither through the country obtaining intelligence, and bringing it rapidly to the young Count. He had left the little village of Gandelu about a quarter of an hour before the rest of the troop, and was not seen again for nearly an hour and a half after it had recommenced its march. The Count had asked for him more than once, and had become somewhat apprehensive regarding him, when, as they were passing through the wood of Ampon, his anxiety regarding the boy was not diminished by hearing a discharge of fire-arms at some distance, but apparently in advance. He was relieved on Ignati's account, however, in a moment after, by seeing him coming at full speed through the wood in apparent excitement and alarm.
"Quick! quick, my Lord!" he cried: "down in the meadow there, the Schwartz reiters have attacked a gallant little band just crossing a small stream, and are driving them back towards the Marne. I saw some ladies in a carriage, too; and they must have fallen by this time into the hands of the enemy."
No further inducement was wanting to Charles of Montsoreau. Giving orders to quicken his men's pace, he himself advanced at still greater speed, till he reached the point where the road issued forth from the wood upon the meadow, where he had at once before him, at the distance of scarcely three hundred yards, the whole scene which the boy had described, though it was, of course, somewhat changed in aspect during the time which had since elapsed.
On the bank of the small stream which, flowing through a slight hollow in the meadow, proceeded towards the Marne, was seen a party of some thirty or forty horsemen, the greater part of them well armed, making a gallant but ineffectual stand against a body of reiters nearly double their number, which charged them on every side, and seemed likely to overpower them in a few minutes. That, however, which struck Charles of Montsoreau the most, was to see, in the very front of the party who opposed the reiters, a man dressed in a clerical habit, who seemed, with the utmost coolness, skill, and determination, to be directing the movements of those around him, for the purpose of extricating a heavy carriage which was embarrassed in the bed of the rivulet.
The forms of the reiters passing here and there obscured the view of his person from time to time; but Charles of Montsoreau felt sure that his eyes could not deceive him, when they told him that there, in the midst of the fight, was the form of his old preceptor, the Abbé de Boisguerin. A moment after, he caught sight of his brother also, and prepared, without the loss of an instant, to extricate the whole party from their perilous situation.
The numbers which he brought were hardly sufficient to make his band, even when united with that of his brother, equal numerically to that of the reiters. But he knew that there was much in surprise; and, though he did not exactly despise his enemy, yet he by no means looked upon each reiter as a match for one of his own men at arms. His troopers had followed him at all speed; and, the moment they came up, his orders were given, the lances levelled, the spurs struck into every horse's sides, and down the gentle slope they went, against the flank of the enemy, with a speed and determination that proved for the moment quite irresistible. The commander of the foreigners had scarcely time to wheel a part of his force to receive the charge of this new adversary, before the troops of Logères were upon him, and, in a moment, he was driven down the stream for nearly fifty yards.
But the marauders had one great advantage over ordinary troops. Accustomed to fight in small parties, and even hand to hand, they were fully as much, if not more, in their element when their ranks were broken than when they were in a compact mass, and Charles of Montsoreau now found that the success of his first onset by no means dispirited them; but that, superior in numbers to his own soldiery, they met his troopers man to man, and that a body was even detached to pursue the carriage, which by this time had been extricated; while neither his brother nor the Abbé de Boisguerin, embarrassed in protecting the unarmed persons of their own party, thought it needful to give him the slightest assistance in his contention with the reiters.
Under these circumstances, the only thing that appeared to be left for him to do, was to keep his men in the most perfect order, and fall gradually back, covering his brother's band, and sending to demand his co-operation for their mutual benefit. The reiters, however, in the mean time, made every effort to frustrate this purpose, which they at once divined, and by repeated charges endeavoured to break his line, and force him to fight after their own manner. In pursuing this plan, however, they committed the oversight of making a part of their body cross the stream in order to take him on the flank.
With a quickness of perception, which he generally displayed in times of difficulty and danger, he had remarked, even while in the act of charging the enemy, that the stream higher up grew deeper, and the banks more steep. He now saw that, by falling back a little farther than he had at first intended, he could deal with the Germans in separate bodies, and in all probability rout them band by band.
To do so, however, obliged him to leave his brother's party, the carriage, and those whom he knew it contained, to struggle unassisted with the little force which had been detached from the reiters, as well as they might, and for a moment he remained in a state of suspense which almost lost him the advantage. The hour, however, was late; the shades of evening were beginning to fall: one look to the other side of the field showed him that the first attack of the reiters on his brother's party had been repulsed, apparently with considerable loss, and he accordingly took his resolution, and gave orders to retreat slowly up the stream, preparing his men, however, to charge again the moment that he found it expedient so to do.
The reiters, thinking him defeated and intimidated, pursued him fiercely, and those on the right bank of the stream galloped quickly on to cut him off from a retreat by the high road. But the others immediately in front of him were surprised, and somewhat astounded, to find that as soon as he perceived the stream was deep enough, and the bank was high enough--if not to prevent the other body of reiters from crossing, at all events to embarrass and to delay them--the order was given to the French troopers to charge, and the young Count and his band came down upon them with a shock which scattered them before him in an instant.
He was now, in turn, superior to that party in numbers, and knowing that not a moment was to be lost, he exerted every energy of mind and body. With his own hand he struck the commander from his horse, and urging on his men with all speed, drove a number of the scattered parties over the banks into the stream. Some escaped unhurt to the other side, but in many instances the horses fell, and rolled over into the water with their riders; and in the mean time terrible havoc was going on amongst those who remained upon the bank.
The pistols and musketoons of the German soldiery had been discharged in the first contest with his brother; but the troops of Logères, charging with the lance, had still their fire-arms loaded: and seeing that the struggle with the sword might be protracted till the other party came up, the young commander shouted loudly to his men to use their fire-arms. His voice was heard even in the midst of the strife; and now mingled as the two parties were with each other, the effect of the pistol was terrible. A number of the enemy were killed and thrown from their horses on the spot, a number were wounded, and unable to continue the conflict, and the rest, seized with panic, were flying amain, when the other band, seeing the error that had been committed, endeavoured to repair it by crossing the stream and attacking Charles of Montsoreau in the rear.
Though they succeeded in their first object, it was with difficulty and in disorder, some choosing one place, some, not liking to venture too far, seeking a safer passage; and heavily armed as were both horses and men, the task was certainly one of great danger. In the midst of the strife which he was carrying on, the young Count had not failed to watch eagerly, from time to time, the movements of the party on the other bank.
The body immediately opposed to him was by this time completely routed, and in full flight; and wheeling his men to encounter the other, he calmly brought them once more into good order, and led them to the charge.
But the leader of the enemy in that part of the field seeing that he had come too late, and that his men were in no condition to protract the struggle with success, was wise enough not to attempt to play out a losing game. Giving orders for instant retreat, he kept a firm face to his adversary, till his men had recovered from the disorder of crossing the water, and then marched firmly up the hill, facing round every two or three minutes to receive the charge of the French troopers, and not suffering his pace to be hurried, though he lost several men as he went.
The sight, however, of a group of peasantry, watching the strife from a part of the road above, seemed to strike the reiters, who probably mistook them for a fresh band of soldiers, with panic and dismay. Their leader lost all command over them; and though he was seen in vain endeavouring to rally them, and keep them in their ranks, they fled down the road at full speed, pursued by Charles of Montsoreau and his band for some time, till the coming on of night rendered it useless to protract the chase any farther.
The young officer then caused the recall to be sounded, and turned his bridle rein towards the field where the skirmish had taken place, in order both to ascertain what was the amount of his own loss, and to give assistance to the wounded. He found a number of peasants on the field; and though in all instances they were giving the tenderest care and attention to the wounded troopers of Logères, there was too good reason to suspect that the knife of the boor had been employed without mercy to end the course of any of the wounded Germans who had fallen into their hands. Only two were found alive upon the field, and it is probable that they owed their lives to the return of Charles of Montsoreau.
His own loss in persons actually killed was very slight, but a number were severely wounded; and in order to gain some assistance for these poor men, it was necessary, of course, to proceed to the nearest town. On inquiring what that was, the peasantry replied that none was nearer than La Ferté sous Jouarre, and thither the young Count bent his steps, as soon as some litters and carriages could be procured to bear the wounded men.
Night had fallen heavily over the world, ere Charles of Montsoreau and his party approached the town of La Ferté: but the moon was coming out heavily from behind the clouds, and cast a silvery radiance over all that part of the sky which lay behind the heights of Jouarre, throwing out a part of the towers and pinnacles of the old abbey in clear relief, as they rose above the shoulder of the hill.
But there were other lights in the prospect of a different hue, which not a little puzzled Charles of Montsoreau, as he rode on at the head of his men. What seemed to be torches, by the red and heavy glare they gave, were seen moving about fitfully amongst the banks and vineyards on the heights, and, in a minute or two after, a horseman passed the young Count at full speed.
He turned suddenly from the path, however, and plunged his horse down the banks into the neighbouring meadow, as soon as he saw the body of men at arms; but though the young Count judged it useless to pursue him, the faint light that was in the sky was quite sufficient to enable him to judge that he belonged to a part of the marauding band which had been defeated in the morning. He concluded, naturally and rightly, that he was one of those who had followed the party of his brother Gaspar, and had probably pursued it towards Jouarre. A moment or two after, the sound of coming horses again met his ear; and, ordering some of his men to advance, and cut off the way into the meadow, he halted the rest of the troop, and waited in listening expectation.
At the end of a few minutes, three more horsemen appeared, and dashed into the very midst of the ambush that the young Count had laid for them.
"Halt, and surrender!" he cried in a loud tone, ordering his men at the same time to close round them; and the reiters, for such indeed they were, finding escape impossible, yielded without resistance. From them Charles of Montsoreau found that his suspicions were true, and that they formed part of the band which had pursued his brother towards La Ferté. He could gain no further information, however, from the men he had taken, except that the Marquis had effected his retreat in safety, and that a large body of armed burghers, coming out from La Ferté, had forced the reiters to fly with all speed.
Having given the prisoners in charge to those who would not lose sight of them, Charles of Montsoreau resumed his march; and, as his band approached La Ferté, their trumpet sang cheerily out in the clear night, giving notice to the citizens of the arrival of a friendly party.
The streets were now full of horses and people, the red light of the torches flashing upon the eager and excited countenances of those who had taken part in the affray; and, by the glare, Charles of Montsoreau easily distinguished the chief inn, with a number of horses held around the door, and a group of fifteen or sixteen persons gathered together round one, in whom he at once recognised his brother.
Perhaps Charles of Montsoreau had not any cause to be more satisfied with that brother's conduct during the eventful day which had just passed, than he had been with that which preceded his departure from Montsoreau. But fraternal affection was strong at his heart, and halting his men in the market-place, he rode up with the page and two or three others to gratulate his brother, and ask how he fared after the perils he had undergone. He was surprised, however, as he came near, to see a heavy cloud lowering on the Marquis's brow, and his eyes rolling with an expression both fierce and anxious.
"So, Charles of Montsoreau," he exclaimed in a loud harsh tone, even before his brother could dismount, "so you have come to render an account of your conduct this day, I trust, and to explain away the treachery which is but too evident."
The young Count heard him with surprise, as may be well supposed; but he saw that he was under the excitement of some strong passion, and instantly dismounting from his horse, he walked up to his brother through the crowd, holding out his hand, and saying, "Gaspar, you are under some mistake. How do you fare? You shall explain to me what is the matter within."
But the Marquis put his hand angrily by, exclaiming, "I take no hand stained with such treachery, even though it be my brother's. I care not who sees or who hears. I suppose, sir, you have brought the Lady with you, whom you have contrived to rescue once more, by first leading her into danger, that you might then deliver her from it."
"I can hardly suppose you sane, Gaspar de Montsoreau," replied his brother at length. "What danger have I led you or any one else into? though you say true, when you say that I have delivered you, even when you thought fit to give me no assistance. But I ask again, What danger have I led you into, or any one else? What is it that you mean?"
"Pshaw!" exclaimed his brother, turning away with a look of contempt, which was very hard to bear. "You had better bring the Lady into the house, sir, and let her take some repose; and if she be not altogether blinded, I will take care to explain to her how all this day's brilliant achievements have been brought about."
"In the name of God, Gaspar of Montsoreau!" exclaimed his brother, at length, "what is it that you mean? What Lady? Where is Mademoiselle de Clairvaut? What madness has seized upon you now?"
Gaspar of Montsoreau took a step forward, till he almost touched his brother, and demanded in a voice that was loud, but that trembled with passion, "Did I not see your page, that very page who is holding your horse now--that very page, who was pointed out to me by one that knows him well, as your bought bondsman--did I not see him--can you deny it?--did I not see him with the reiters at the moment that they charged down the hill upon us? And then I saw him by your side five minutes after, when you came pretending to assist us."
"The man's mad, or drunk!" said the boy aloud; but Charles of Montsoreau turned upon him sharply, exclaiming, "Hush! Remember, sir, he is my brother!"
"I am sorry that he is, sir," replied the boy. "He might see me near the reiters, but he never saw me with them, for I had been watching them for half an hour, concealed behind a great mass of bushes, and not daring to stir for my very life, till I saw them begin to ride down the hill, when I came out and galloped as fast as I could to tell my noble Lord, and bring him up to attack them.--Out upon it!--Pretending to help any one, when there is scarcely a man in the troop unwounded!--Out upon it!--Pretending to attack the reiters, when he has well nigh cut them to pieces, and not left two men together of the whole band!"
The boy spoke loud and indignantly, and at the joyful news of the marauders being cut to pieces, a glad shout burst from the town's people, who had gathered round, listening with no small surprise to the dispute between the two brothers.
"For Heaven's sake, Gaspar," said Charles of Montsoreau, "govern your feelings for a few minutes. I am here on the service of the noble Duke of Guise, and set out from Logères only three days ago. I had heard of the reiters by the way, and determined to fight them if I met them. The first moment that I saw or had any communication with them--on my honour and on my soul!-was that when I ordered my men to level their lances, and charge them in the flank. You have nothing to do but either to look at the banks of the stream, where they lay by dozens, to speak to the prisoners I have brought in, or to take one glance into those litters and those carts that carry my own wounded, to show you that it was no feigned strife, as you have wildly fancied, that went on between us. And now believing this, and feeling that you have done me wrong, tell me where is Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, for your words alarm and agitate me concerning her? Where is she, Gaspar? I say where is she?"
"I know not," said the Marquis, turning sullenly away, "I know not, Charles. In the last charge of the reiters, which happened nearly at night-fall, they drove us beyond the carriage, and I have seen no more of her. The Abbé, however, was with her, and he has not come up either; two or three of the men, too, were there."
"Bring up the prisoners," exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, with a degree of agony of mind that it is impossible to conceive. "These men can give us information, for we took them on the road just now.--Bring up those prisoners."
With their arms tied, and their heads uncovered, the three Germans, who had endeavoured, as was customary with many of their bands, to make themselves look as fierce and terrible as possible, by suffering their hair and beards to grow in confused and tangled masses, were now brought before the young commander; and gazing sternly upon them, he said, "You are here not as fair and open enemies, but as plunderers and marauders, after the generals who brought you here have retreated from the land, and entered into a treaty with the King of this country. Your only way, then, of obtaining any portion of mercy is, by answering the questions I am going to ask you distinctly and truly; for if I catch the slightest wavering or falsehood in your replies, I will have you shot one by one within the next five minutes, as a just punishment for the crimes that you have committed."
His words seemed to make little or no impression upon men accustomed to the daily contemplation of death. They all seemed to understand him, however, though it was with difficulty that they answered him in his own language, mingling German with French, so as to render it nearly unintelligible.
"We will tell you the truth to be sure," replied one of the men. "What should we tell you a lie for? All that ought to be lied about you know already; so we can do no harm by telling you the truth, and may do our own throats harm by telling you a lie. Hundred thousand! Ask your questions, and you shall have truth."
It was in vain, however, that Charles of Montsoreau questioned the man sternly and strictly in regard to what had become of Marie de Clairvaut, and those who were with her. It was evident that he knew nothing. He admitted that they had driven the party of the Marquis beyond the carriage, and had passed it themselves in the eagerness of pursuit; but the sudden appearance of the armed burghers of La Ferté had caused them, he said, to retreat in great haste, and in separate parties. He and those who were with him had not taken the same road by which they came, and had seen nothing of the carriage.
This information, though so scanty, afforded Charles of Montsoreau a hope. "If the road," he exclaimed eagerly, "on which these men were captured, is not the same on which the carriage was left, it may still be there, and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut safe."
But his brother shook his head with an air of sullen grief and despair. "No!" he said, "No, the carriage is not there! I have been out myself to seek it, and have passed the spot. Not a trace of it was to be seen, and I only returned when I heard your trumpets, believing that you were bringing in your prize in triumph."
"You have learnt, Gaspar," said his brother, "I know not why or how, to do me sad injustice. However, it is the duty of both of us not to close an eye till we have discovered what has become of the young Lady whom you undertook to conduct in safety till she was under the protection of her relations."
"I see not how it is your duty, Charles," replied his brother, sharply. "I, as you say, undertook to conduct her, and therefore it is my duty; but you, it seems to me, have nothing to do with it."
"It is my duty, Gaspar," replied his brother, "as a gentleman, and as a man of honour; and it is also my duty as an attached friend of the Duke of Guise; so that I shall seek for her this very instant. Let us both to horse again; let us obtain guides who know the country well. You take one circuit, I will take another; and as there is now no farther fear of any attack from the reiters, we can suffer the greater part of our men to repose, and meeting here in the morning, report to each other what we have done, and concert together what steps are farther to be taken.--And oh, Gaspar," he continued, "let us, I beseech you, let us act together in a brotherly spirit; do justice to my motives and intentions, for they have been all what is kind and brotherly towards yourself."
"Doubtless," said the Marquis of Montsoreau, with one of those bitter sneers, which the determination of persisting in wrong too often supplies to the uncandid and ungenerous: "doubtless your motives and intentions were good and brotherly, when the first thing that you did after learning from the Abbé de Boisguerin my feelings, wishes, and hopes, was instantly to seek the Duke of Guise for the purpose of prepossessing him in your favour, and against my suit."
"In this, as in all else, you do me wrong, Gaspar," replied his brother; "and so you will find it when you see the Duke: but I cannot pause to explain all this. We lose time, precious and invaluable.--Gondrin, call out ten of our freshest and best mounted men. Let surgeons be obtained immediately to dress the wounds of the hurt, and tell Alain and Mortier to provide for the comfort and refreshment of the rest, according to the orders I gave them as we came along. Take this German with us, as a sure guide to show us the spot where the carriage was last seen. If I might advise you, Gaspar, you will go round under Jouarre, and stretch out till you reach Montreuil. The carriage cannot have passed the Marne except by this bridge, so that----"
"I shall follow my own plan, Charles of Montsoreau," said the Marquis sullenly; "I want not an instructor as well as a rival in my younger brother." And thus saying, he turned away to give his own orders to some of those who surrounded him.
In the mean time his brother remounted his horse in haste; and, followed by Gondrin, and the ten men who had been selected, he set out upon his search. That search, however, proved utterly vain. No tidings whatsoever of Marie de Clairvaut, or those who accompanied her, were to be obtained; the peasantry, in terror of the reiters, had kept all their cottages closed and defended as best they could; and, with few if any of them, Charles of Montsoreau could open a communication, as every door that they applied to was shut, and in general nothing but sullen silence was returned to his application for admittance or information. In the few instances where the sound of his voice, speaking in the French tongue, obtained for him any answer, the reply was still the same, that they had kept all closed, from fear of the reiters, and had neither seen nor heard of any one passing since nightfall.
With horses and men wearied and exhausted by their fruitless search, and with his own brow aching, and his heart sad and anxious, Charles of Montsoreau returned towards daybreak to the town of La Ferté. His brother, he found, had arrived some time before him, and had retired to rest without waiting for his arrival. The young nobleman argued from that fact, that though the Marquis had not absolutely brought back the carriage with him to La Ferté, he must have obtained some satisfactory intelligence concerning it; and, unbuckling his arms, without, however, casting off the dress he wore beneath, he cast himself down to rest in the apartment which had been prepared for him.
Though much fatigued, however, and with a mind and body both exhausted by all the events and anxieties of the day, sleep refused to visit his eyelids. His busy thoughts turned to every painful theme that memory could supply from the past, or despondency call up out of the future; and finding that it was in vain to seek repose at that moment, he approached the deep casement, threw open the window, and gazed out into the market-square, which lay directly beneath his apartments.
The morning was advancing brightly; the spring sunshine sparkling down the principal street, through an opening in which the Marne was seen flowing gaily on, with the open country rising up behind. The little market-cross was surrounded by the carts and litters in which he had brought in the wounded men, and some of the early townsmen were already seen walking hither and thither, while peasants and country-women in gay dresses came in one by one, now driving a horse or an ass loaded with the produce of their farms, now bearing the whole of their little store in a basket on their shoulders or their arm. Most of them paused to consider and to comment upon the array of vehicles round the cross, talking in a low voice, as if fearful of breaking the stillness of the morning hour. The scene was calm, and quiet, and soothing; and feeling tranquilised after gazing at it for some minutes, the young Count again turned to his couch, and wooed the blessing of slumber not now in vain. He slept profoundly, and might have gone on for many hours, had he not been awakened about nine o'clock by the page Ignati pulling him by the arm.
"What is the matter, Ignati?" he cried, starting up. "You seem in haste and agitated."
"Your brother is on horseback, and setting out," cried the boy; "and he has learned tidings of the Lady, which will fit ill with your wishes or those of the Duke."
"What tidings, Ignati?" exclaimed the young Count eagerly. "Quick boy, do not keep me in suspense."
"See your brother, and he will tell you," said the boy. "If he does not, I will. But, quick, or he will be away; run down at once, even as you are."
Charles of Montsoreau hastened towards the door, dressed as he was in the buff coat which he wore beneath his armour; and from the stairs heard sounds that hastened all his movements. There was the trampling of horses, and the noise of many tongues in the court-yard, but above all the voice of his brother, ordering his men as if for instant departure.
When he reached the foot of the staircase, which led into the great court of the inn, he found that those sounds had not deceived him. Gaspar de Montsoreau was on horseback, with his men drawn up in line ready to depart; and a cart containing two or three wounded men, and all the baggage which had not fallen into the hands of the reiters, was in the act of issuing forth through the archway into the marketplace. There was an air of eager and somewhat scornful triumph on the face of the Marquis de Montsoreau; and, at the very moment of the young Count's appearance, he was turning to speak with a well-dressed cavalier by his side, whom his brother had never before beheld.
As soon as the eyes of the two brothers met, the Marquis exclaimed aloud, in a scoffing tone, addressing his new companion, "Ha, Monsieur de Colombel! By Heaven here comes my good young brother of Logères! We must put spurs to our horses and ride quick, for he has taken service, it seems, with the Duke of Guise--commands a band of stout men-at-arms, enough to overpower us here--and may think fit to arrest us on the spot, if he finds that we are not of the same party as himself. He is not one to be stopped by brotherly love or consideration, I can assure you."
"Nay!" replied the cavalier whom he addressed, speaking with a courtly but significant smile, "the Duke of Guise is King Henry's dear friend and faithful cousin, and professes every sort of reverence for the crown of France."
The whole of this was spoken, as Charles of Montsoreau advanced towards them, with an evident intention that he should hear it; but he took not the slightest notice, and walking up calmly to the side of his brother's horse, he said, "This is not kind of you, Gaspar, to quit the place thus early, without giving me an opportunity of explaining to you things which you have misinterpreted and taken amiss."
"As you said to me last night, Charles," replied his brother, "I have not time for long explanations now; every minute is precious and invaluable. You can write to me if you have any thing to explain."
"You will inform me at least then," said his brother, "whether you have obtained any news of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and where she is."
"I am in haste! I am in haste, good brother!" replied the Marquis, "and can only wait to tell you that she is in safe hands and well, which must be enough to satisfy you."
"Not quite," answered Charles of Montsoreau. "As I am now upon my way to meet the Duke of Guise, and shall most likely reach him before you do, it will be but courteous of you to send him some fuller information regarding a Lady so nearly connected with himself."
"If you do not reach him before I do," replied his brother with a grim smile, "you and he will be long parted from each other, my good brother; and as to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, she is in safe hands, and will be well taken care of. Fare you well, my brother. Now march, my men!" And without waiting for any other reply, he shook his bridle and rode out of the court.
The patience of Charles of Montsoreau was nearly at an end, and he paused, gazing upon the ground for a minute or two, before he could overcome the pain and indignation that he felt. He then turned to his own chamber again, beckoning to the boy Ignati, who was still upon the stairs, to follow him thither.
"Now, Ignati," he said, "What is the meaning of all this? You have probably heard all that has passed. Give me what information you can, without loss of time."
"This is all that I know," replied the boy; "but it is enough. Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, the Lady whom you were asking about last night, has met with a party of the King's troops which had been sent against the reiters, and has by them been carried to Château Thiery, whence she sent that cavalier whom you saw with your brother, to tell him what had become of her. All those facts I heard the cavalier himself relate: but from the page he brought with him, who was in the room, or at least at the door, when his master and the Marquis were speaking, I gathered, that this Monsieur de Colombel--by the advice of some priest who accompanied Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I know not whom--has persuaded your brother to join the party of the King, telling him that Henry would certainly hold Mademoiselle de Clairvaut as a hostage for the Duke's good conduct, and would most likely bestow her upon any one he thought fit."
Charles of Montsoreau pressed his hand firmly upon his brow for two or three minutes. He had been learning for some time those dark and painful lessons of human nature which come so bitterly to a noble and a generous heart, when first the world, the contentions of self-interest, and the strife of passion, teaches us how few, how very few, there are who have any thought or motive in all their actions but the mean ungenerous ones of self--those bitter lessons which fix upon mature life the sad, the dark, the horrible companionship of doubt and suspicion.
"Can I," he muttered, speaking to himself, "can I have been mistaken in the Abbé de Boisguerin? Can I have trusted, and believed, and reverenced, where neither trust, nor belief, nor reverence was due?--It cannot be! No, it cannot be!" And after thinking again over all that the page had said, he added aloud, "The King's troops at Château Thiery!--The Duke at Gonesse!--We must lose no time, but get to Montigny as speedily as possible."