It was about nine o'clock at night, in the spring of the year 1588, that Charles of Montsoreau, with two companions, his faithful Gondrin and the little page, presented himself at the gate of Paris which opened upon the Soissons road. A surly arquebusier with a steel cap on his head, his gun upon his shoulder, and the rest thereof in his hand, was the first person that he encountered at the bridge over the fosse. Some other soldiers were sitting before the guardhouse; and the wicket-gate of the city itself was open, with an armed head protruded through, talking to a country girl with a basket on her arm, who had just passed out of the gate, none the better probably for her visit to the city.
The arquebusier planted himself immediately in the way of the young cavalier and his followers, and seemed prepared to stop them, though on the young Count applying to him for admission, he replied in a surly tone, "I have nothing to do with it. Ask the lieutenant at the gate."
To him, in the next place, then, Charles of Montsoreau applied; but though his tone was somewhat more civil than that of the soldier, he made a great many difficulties, examining the young nobleman all over, and looking as if he thought him a very suspicious personage. The Count after a certain time grew impatient, and asked, "You do not mean, I suppose, to refuse the passport of the King?"
"No," replied the other grinning. "We won't refuse the passport of the King, or the King's passport; but in order that the passport may be verified, it were as well, young gentleman, that you come to the gates by day. You can sleep in the faubourg for one night I take it."
"Certainly not without great inconvenience to myself," replied the Count, "and more inconvenience to the affairs of the Duke of Guise."
"The Duke of Guise!" said the man starting. "Your tongue has not the twang of Lorraine."
"But nevertheless," replied the Count, "the business I come upon is that of the Duke of Guise, which you would have seen if you had read the passport and safe-conduct. Does it not direct therein, to give room and free passage, safeguard, and protection to one gentleman of noble birth and two attendants, coming and going hither and thither in all parts of the realm of France, on the especial business of our true and well-beloved cousin, Henry, Duke of Guise? and is there not written in the Duke's own hand underneath, 'Given to our faithful friend and counsellor, Charles of Montsoreau, Count of Logères, for the purposes above written, by me, Henry of Guise?'"
The man held the paper for a moment to a lantern that hung up against the heavy stonework of the arch, and then exclaimed in a loud voice, "Throw open the gates there, bring the keys. Monseigneur, I beg you a thousand pardons for detaining you a minute. If I had but seen the writing of the Duke of Guise the doors would have been opened instantly."
As rapidly as possible the heavy gates, which had remained immoveable at the order of the King, swang back at the name of the Guise, and one of the attendants and the captain of the night running by the side of the Count's horse to prevent all obstruction, caused the second gate to be opened as rapidly, and the Count entered the capital city of his native country for the first time in his life.
The streets were dark and gloomy, narrow and high; and as one rode along them looking up from time to time towards the sky, the small golden stars were seen twinkling above the deep walls of the houses, as if beheld from the bottom of a well. Charles of Montsoreau had not chosen to ask his way at the gate, and though utterly unacquainted with the great city in which he now plunged, he rode on, trusting to find some shop still open where he might inquire his way without the chance of being deceived. Every booth and shop was then shut, however; and for a very long way up the street which he had first entered, he met with not a single living creature to whom he could apply for direction. At length, however, that street ended abruptly in another turning to the left, and a sudden glare of light burst upon his eyes, proceeding from a building about a hundred yards farther on, which seemed to be on fire.
There was no bustle, however, or indication of any thing unusual in the street; and Charles of Montsoreau riding on, found that the blaze proceeded from a dozen or more of flambeaus planted in a sort of wooden barricade[2] before a large mansion, which fell back some yards from the general façade of the street, while a fat porter clothed in manifold colours, with a broad shoulder-belt and a sword by his side, walked to and fro in the light, trimming the torches with stately dignity. The young Count then remembered having heard of the custom of thus illuminating the barriers, which were before all the principal mansions in Paris during the first part of every night; and riding up towards the porter, he demanded whose hotel it was, and begged to be directed to one of the best inns in the neighbourhood.
The man gazed at him for a moment with the evident purpose of looking upon him as a bumpkin; but the porters of that day were required to be extremely discriminating, and the air and appearance of the young Count were not to be mistaken, and bowing low he replied, "I see you are a stranger, sir. This is the house of Monsieur d'Aumont. As to the best inn, inns are always but poor places; but I have heard a good account of the White House in the next street, at the sign of the Crown of France. If you go on quite to the end of this street and then turn to your right, you will come into another street as large and longer, at the very end of which, just looking down to the Pont Neuf, you will see a large white house with a gateway and the crown hanging over it. I have heard that every thing is good there, and the host civil; but he will make you pay for what you have."
"That is but just," replied the young Count; and giving the porter thanks for his information, he rode on and took up his abode at the sign of the Crown of France.
The aspect of the inn was very different from that of an auberge in the country; for, though the court-yard into which Charles of Montsoreau rode was littered with straw, and a large and splendid stable appeared behind, it was not now grooms and stable-boys that appeared on the first notice of a traveller's approach, but cooks and scullions and turnspits; while the master himself with a snow-white cap upon his head, a jacket of white cloth, and a white apron turned up sufficiently to show his black breeches and stockings with red clocks, appeared more like what he really was, the head of the kitchen, than the master of the house.
He looked a little suspiciously, at first, at the young stranger arriving with only two attendants, and with no other baggage than a small valise upon each horse, and an additional upon that of Ignati, to render the boy's weight equal to that of his fellow travellers. But the host was accustomed to deal with many kinds of men; and like the porter, after examining the Count for a moment, seeing some gold embroidery, but not much, upon his riding-dress, gilded spurs over his large boots of untanned leather, and a sword, the hilt and sheath of which were of no slight value, he also made a lowly reverence, and conducted him to one of the best apartments in his house. It consisted of three rooms, each entering into the other with a small cabinet beyond the chief bed-room; and the arrangements which the Count made at once--placing Gondrin's bed in the antechamber, and having the page's truckle-bed removed from his own bed-side to occupy the cabinet beyond--gave the host of the Crown of France a still greater idea of his importance.
Charles of Montsoreau did not fail to examine the face of the aubergiste, and to remark his proceedings with as much accuracy. The man's countenance was intelligent, his eyes quick and piercing, but withal there was an air of straightforward frankness, tempered by civility and habitual politeness, which was prepossessing; and as the young Count knew that he might have occasion to make use of him in various ways during his stay in Paris, he resolved to try him with those things which were the most immediately necessary, and which at the same time were of the least importance.
"Stop a minute, my good host," he said, as the man was about to withdraw to order fires to be lighted and suppers to be cooked. "There are some things which press for attention, and in which I must have your assistance."
"This youngster speaks with a tone of authority," thought the aubergiste; but he bowed low and said nothing, whilst the young Count went on, "What is your name, my good friend?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau.
"I am called Gamin la Chaise," replied the aubergiste with a smile.
"Well then, Master la Chaise, as you see," he continued, "I have come hither to Paris on some business which required a certain degree of despatch, and have ventured with few attendants and little baggage. As however the business on which I did come will call me into scenes where some greater degree of splendour is necessary than perhaps either suits my taste or my general convenience, I must before I go forth to-morrow morning, have my train increased by at least six attendants, who are always to be found in Paris ready fashioned I know; and therefore I must beseech you to find them for me in proper time, having them equipped in my proper colours and livery, according as the same shall be described to you by my good friend Gondrin here. This is the first service you must do me, my good host."
"Sir," replied the landlord, "the six lackeys shall be found and equipped in less time than would roast a woodcock. They are as plenty as sparrows or house-rats, and are caught in a moment."
"Yes, but my good host," answered the Count, "there is one great difficulty which you will understand in a moment. Amongst the six, I want you to find me one honest man if it be possible."
The landlord raised his shoulders above his ears, stuck out his two hands horizontally from his sides, and assumed an appearance of despair at the unheard of proposition of the Count, which had nearly brought a smile into the young nobleman's countenance. "That indeed, sir," he said, "is another affair; and I believe you might just as well ask me to catch you a wild roe in the garden of the Louvre, as to find you the thing that you demand. Nevertheless, labour and perseverance conquer all difficulties: and now I think of it, there is a youth who may answer your purpose; he knows Paris well too; but, strange to say, by some unaccountable fit of obstinacy, he would not tell a lie the other day to the Duke of Epernon in order to pass an item of the intendant's accounts, which would have come in for a good round sum every month if he would but have sworn that he used five quarts of milk every week to whiten the leather of his master's boots. He would not swear to this, and therefore the intendant discharged him, as he was a hired servant."
"Let me have him; let me have him," cried the Count. "I will only ask him to tell the truth, and hope he may not find that so difficult."
The Count then proceeded to speak about horses, and the host readily undertook, finding that money was abundant, to procure all the horse-dealers in Paris with their best steeds, before nine o'clock on the following day. The demeanour of the young nobleman, it must be confessed, puzzled the good aubergiste a good deal; and on going down to his own abode, he acknowledged to his wife, what he seldom acknowledged to any one, that he could not make his guest out at all.
"I should think," he said, "from the plenty of money, and the expensive way in which he seems inclined to deal, that he was some wild stripling from the provinces, the son of a rich president or advocate lately dead, who came hither to call himself Count, and spend his patrimony in haste. But then, again, in some things he is as shrewd as an old hawk, and can jest withal about rogues and honest men, while he keeps his own secrets close, and lets no one ask him a question."
On the following morning, at an early hour, the six attendants whom he had required were brought before him in array, exhibiting, with one exception, as sweet a congregation of roguish faces as the great capital of roguery ever yet produced. The countenance of the lad who had been discharged from the service of the Duke of Epernon pleased the young Count much, and without waiting till he was farther equipped, he put Gondrin under his charge for the purpose of notifying at the palace of the Louvre that he had arrived in the capital, bearing a letter from the Duke of Guise to the King, and of begging to have an hour named for its delivery. He found, however, with some mortification--for his eager spirit and his anxiety brooked no delay--that the King was at Vincennes; and his only consolation was that the communication which he had sent to the palace, bearing the fearful name of the Duke of Guise, was certain to be communicated to the monarch as soon as possible. Some short time was expended in the purchase of horses, and in making various additions to his own apparel, well knowing the ostentatious splendour of the court he was about to visit.
We have indeed remarked that there was perhaps a touch of foppery in his own nature, though it was but slight. Nevertheless, splendour of appearance certainly pleased him, even while a natural good taste led him to admire, and to seek in his own dress, all that was graceful and harmonising, rather than that which was rich or brilliant.
He was thus engaged, with several tradesmen around him, ordering the materials for various suits of apparel, which a tailor standing by engaged to produce in a miraculously short time, when the door of his apartment was opened, and a somewhat fat pursy man in black was admitted, entering with an air of importance, and receiving the lowly salutations of the good citizens who were present. Charles of Montsoreau gazed at him as a stranger; but the good man, with an air of importance, and an affectation of courtly breeding, besought him to finish what he was about, adding, that he had a word for his private ear which he would communicate afterwards. The young Count, without further ceremony, continued to give his orders, examining his new visiter from time to time, and with no very great feelings of satisfaction.
The countenance was fat, reddish, and, upon the whole, stupid, with an air of indecision about it which was very strongly marked, though there was every now and then a certain drawing in of the fringeless eyelids round the small black eyes, which gave the expression of intense cunning to features otherwise dull and flat.
When he had completely done with his mercers, and tailors, and cloth-makers--who had occupied him some time, for he did not hurry himself--Charles of Montsoreau dismissed them; and turning to his visiter said, "Now, sir, may I have the happiness of knowing your business with me?"
"Sir," replied the other, rising and speaking in a low and confidential tone, "my name is Nicolas Poulain. I am Lieutenant of the Prévôt de l'Isle."
He stopped short at this announcement; and the Count, after waiting a moment for something more, replied somewhat angrily, "Well, sir, I am very happy to hear it. I hope the office suits Nicolas Poulain, and Nicolas Poulain suits the office."
A slight redness came into the man's face, rendering it a shade deeper than it ordinarily was; but finding it necessary to reply, as the Count, without sitting down, remained looking him stedfastly in the face, he answered, "I thought, sir,--indeed I took it for granted, sir, that you might have some communication for me from the Duke of Guise."
"None whatever, sir," replied the young Count drily. "Have you any thing to tell me, Monsieur Nicolas Poulain, on the part of his Highness?"
"No, sir, no," replied the other, attempting to assume an air of spirit which did not become him. "If you have not seen him more lately than I have, I am misinformed."
"And pray, my good sir," demanded the Count, "who was it that took the trouble of informing you of any thing regarding me?"
"That question is soon answered, sir," replied Nicolas Poulain, "though you seem to make so much difficulty in regard to answering mine. The person who informed me of your arrival was good Master Chapelle Marteau, who saw you last night at the gates when you entered."
The name immediately struck the young Count as the same with one of those written on the letters which the Duke of Guise had given him to be used in case of need; but feeling how necessary it was to deal carefully with any of the faction of the Sixteen, to which both Chapelle Marteau and Nicolas Poulain belonged, he determined to say not one word upon the subject of his mission to any one. Much less, indeed, was he inclined to do so in the case of Nicolas Poulain, in whose face nature had stamped deceit and roguery in such legible characters, that the young Count, had he been forced to trust him with any secret, would have felt sure that the whole would be betrayed within an hour. All, then, that he replied to Master Nicolas Poulain was, that though he knew well the personage he mentioned by name, he had not the pleasure of his personal acquaintance.
The answers were so short, the tone and manner so dry, that the worthy citizen found it expedient to make his retreat; and taking a short and unceremonious leave of one who had given him so cool a reception, he left the Count's apartments, and descended the stairs. The moment he was gone, some suspicion, which crossed the young cavalier's mind suddenly, made him call the page, and bid him follow his late visiter till he marked the house which Master Nicolas entered, taking care to remember the way back.
The boy set off without a word, and returned in less than half an hour, informing the young Count that he had tracked Master Nicolas Poulain into a large house, which, on inquiry, he found to be the private dwelling of the Lord of Villequier.
"The Duke is betrayed by some of these leaguers,--that is clear enough!" thought the young Count. "I have heard that many of his best enterprises have been frustrated by some unknown means. Who is there on earth that one can trust?" And leaning his head upon his hand he fell into deep thought, for to him the question of whom he could trust was at that moment one, not only entirely new, but one of deep and vital importance also. In his journey to Paris he had two great and all-important objects before him. To find out his brother, and, if possible, to persuade him to change a course of conduct which he felt to be dishonourable to himself and to his house, was one of these objects; and he doubted not that--if he could fully explain, and make the Marquis comprehend, his own conduct and his purposes--if he could show him that his only chance of obtaining the hand of Marie de Clairvaut was by attaching himself to the House of Guise, and that he had not a brother's rivalry to fear--Gaspar de Montsoreau might be induced to return to the party he had quitted, and not finally to commit himself to conduct so little to his own interest as that which he was pursuing.
The other object, however, was much more important even than that, to the heart of Charles of Montsoreau; and the feelings which were connected with it--as so often happens with the feelings which affect every one in human life--were sadly at variance with other purposes. That object was to discover and guide to the court of the Duke of Guise, her whom he himself loved best on all the earth; to free her from the hands of the base and dangerous people into whose power she had fallen, and to leave her in security, if not in happiness.
When he thought of seeing her again,--when he thought of passing days with her on the journey, of being her guide, her protector, her companion, the overpowering longing and thirst for such a joyful time shook and agitated him, made his heart thrill and his brain reel; and, bending down his face upon his hands, he gave himself up for a long time to whirling dreams of happiness. But then again he asked himself if, after such hours, he could ever quit her; if--following the firm purpose with which he had left Montsoreau--he could resist all temptation to seek her love further, and after plunging into the contentions of the day could dedicate his sword and his life, as he had intended, to warfare against the infidels in the order of St. John? There was a great struggle in his mind when he asked himself the question--a great and terrible struggle; but at length he answered it in the affirmative. "Yes," he said; "yes, I can do so!" But there was a condition attached to that decision. "I can do so," he said, "if I find that there is a chance of her wedding him; if I find that, in reality and truth, the first bright hopes I entertained were indeed fallacious."
To say the truth, doubts had come over his mind as to whether he had construed Marie de Clairvaut's conduct rightly. Those doubts had been instilled into his imagination by the words of the Duke of Guise. Fancy lingered round them: shall we say that Hope, too, played with them? If she did so, it was against his will; for he was in that sad and painful situation where hope, reproved by the highest feelings of the heart, dare scarcely point to the objects of desire. Terrible--terrible is that situation where Virtue, or Honour, or Generosity bind down imagination, silence even hope, and shut against us the gates of that paradise we see, but must not enter. These, indeed, are the angels with the flaming swords.
Charles of Montsoreau would not suffer himself to hope any thing that might make his brother's misery; but yet fancy would conjure up bright dreams; and knowing and feeling that if those dreams were realised, a complete change must come over his actions and his conduct, he saw that it would be needful to use guarded language to his brother,--or rather to use only the guard of perfect frankness. He resolved, then, to tell him fully his purposes, but to tell him at the same time the conditions under which those circumstances were to be executed.
As he pondered, however, and thought over the changed demeanour of his brother, over the fiery impetuosity and impatience of his whole temper and conduct, he remembered that it might be with difficulty that he could obtain a hearing for a sufficient length of time to explain himself fully, and he consequently determined to write clearly and explicitly, so that there might be no error or mistake whatever, and that his conduct might remain clear and undoubted; and sitting down at once, he did as he proposed, that he might have the letter ready to send or to deliver as soon as he discovered where his brother was.
The epistle was short, but it was distinct. He referred boldly and directly to his conversation with the Abbé de Boisguerin; he explained his conduct since; and he told his decided and unchangeable purpose of seeking in no way the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, unless he had reason to believe that the deep attachment which he felt and acknowledged towards her were already returned. He ended by exhorting his brother to do that which his pledges and professions to the Duke of Guise had bound him to do, to guide back Mademoiselle de Clairvaut himself to the protection of her uncle, and to avert the necessity of his seeking her and conducting her to Soissons.
In thus letting his thoughts flow on in collateral channels from subject to subject, he had deviated from the original object of his contemplations, which was, the method to be pursued for instituting private inquiries throughout the city, in regard to the arrival, both of his brother and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. Unacquainted with any persons in Paris, he knew not how to set on foot the inquiry; and his mind had just reverted to the subject, which appeared more and more embarrassing each time he thought of it, when he was informed, with an air of great importance, by the host, that Monsieur Chapelle Marteau demanded humbly to have the honour of paying him his respects.
The Count ordered him instantly to be ushered in; and, during the brief moment that intervened before he appeared, considered hastily, whether he should employ this personage in any way in making the inquiries that were necessary. He knew that he was highly esteemed by the Duke of Guise; but yet it was evident that, by some of the members of, or the followers of, the League in Paris, the Duke was himself entirely deceived; and yet Charles of Montsoreau was more inclined to trust this man's sincerity than that of the person who had left him some short time before, inasmuch as the Duke had addressed one of the private letters we have before mentioned to him, while he had never named the other. The countenance and appearance of Chapelle Marteau confirmed any prepossession in his favour. It was quick, and intelligent, and frank, though somewhat stern; and he had moreover the air and bearing of a man in the higher ranks of life, although he held but an office which was then considered inferior, that of one of the Masters in the Chamber of Accounts.
"I come, sir," he said, as soon as the first civilities were over, "to ask your pardon for some quickness on my part in refusing you admittance at the gates last night. The fact is, that bad-intentioned people have been endeavouring to introduce into the city of Paris, under the King's name, a multitude of soldiery, in twos and threes, for the purpose of overawing us in the pursuit of our rights and liberties."
"Say no more, say no more, Monsieur Chapelle," said the Count; "I doubt not you had very good reasons for what you did."
He then paused, leaving his companion to pursue the subject as he might think fit; and the leaguer seemed somewhat embarrassed as to how he should proceed, though his embarrassment showed itself in a different manner from that of Master Nicolas Poulain. At length he said, "I entertained some hope, sir, that you might bring me a communication from the Duke of Guise, as, when I had the honour of seeing him at Gonesse three days ago, he gave me the hope that he would write to me ere long."
"No, Monsieur Chapelle," replied the Count deliberately; "I have no message for you. His Highness directed me indeed to apply to you in case of need; and I know that he has the highest esteem for you, believing you to be a zealous defender of our holy faith, and a man well worthy of every consideration;--but I have no present message to you from the Duke; and the case in which it may be necessary to apply to you for assistance, according to his Highness's direction, has not yet arrived."
"Most delighted shall I be, my Lord[3] Count," replied the leaguer, "to afford you any aid or assistance or council in my power, both on account of his Highness the Duke of Guise and on your own. Might I ask what is the case foreseen, in which you are to apply to me?"
The Count smiled. "In case, Monsieur Chapelle," he said, "that I do not succeed in objects which the Duke has entrusted to me by other means, you shall know. At present, however, I have had no opportunity of ascertaining what may be necessary to be done, finding that the King is at Vincennes. In the mean time I am employing myself about some personal business of my own, which I am afraid is likely to give me trouble."
He spoke quite calmly; but a look of intelligence came immediately over the countenance of Chapelle Marteau, and he said, "Perhaps I might be enabled to assist your Lordship. My knowledge of Paris, and all that is transacted therein, is very extensive."
"You are very kind," replied the Count, "and I take advantage of your offer with the greatest pleasure. The matter is a very simple one. My elder brother, the Marquis de Montsoreau, set out some time ago to join the Duke of Guise, having under his charge and escort a young lady, named Mademoiselle de Clairvaut."
"Daughter of the Duke of Guise's niece," said Chapelle Marteau with some emphasis.
"I believe that is the relationship," answered the young nobleman. "But, however, the facts are these: I have reason to believe that my brother was interrupted in his journey by the attack of a party of reiters, and was obliged in consequence to put himself and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut under the protection of a body of the King's troops coming to Paris. Now, my wish is, to ascertain whether he or any of his party, either separately or together, are now in Paris, and where they are to be found."
The leaguer gazed in his face for a minute or two with an inquiring look, and then replied, "I can tell you at once, my Lord, that no considerable party whatever has entered the gates of Paris under the protection of the King's troops for the last ten days, no party of even ten in number having the ensigns of Valois having appeared during that time. But the party you mention may have come in by themselves without the King's troops; and I rather suspect that they have so done. However, I will let you know the exact particulars within four and twenty hours from this moment, and every other information that I can by any means glean regarding the persons you speak of; for I very well understand, my Lord, that there may be more intelligence required about them than you choose to ask for at once."
The young Count smiled again, but merely replied, "Any information that you can obtain for me, Monsieur Chapelle, will be received by me most gratefully; and in the mean time will you do me the honour of partaking my poor dinner which is about to be served?"
The leaguer, however, declined the high honour, alleging important business as his excuse; and, after having dined, the young Count rode out through the streets of Paris, endeavouring to make himself somewhat familiar with them, and feeling all those sensations which the sight of that great capital might well produce on one who had never beheld it before. On those sensations, however, we must not pause, as matters of more importance are before us. A couple of hours after nightfall he received a note to the following effect:--
"The Marquis de Montsoreau, with a body of horsemen, bearing no badge or ensign, entered Paris yesterday at about four o'clock, and lodged at the Fleur-de-lis. He is not there now, however, and is supposed to have quitted Paris. Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is not known to have entered the capital; but a carriage, containing ladies and waiting-women, was escorted to Vincennes this morning by a body of troops of Valois. The name of one of the ladies was ascertained to be the Marquise de Saulny."
Charles of Montsoreau received these tidings with a beating heart, and sleep did not visit his eyelids till the clock of a neighbouring church had struck five in the morning.
Dark heavy clouds hung over the world, and totally obscured the face of the sky; the morning was chill, the air keen, and the eye of the peasant was often turned up towards the leaden-looking masses of vapour above his head, as if to inquire whether their stores would be poured forth in lightning or in snow; and as Charles of Montsoreau rode on through the park to the Donjon of Vincennes, he felt the gloomy aspect of the whole scene more than he might have done at any other time.
There, before his eyes, with the whole face of nature harmonising well with its dark and frowning aspect, rose the grey gigantic keep, which the vanquished opponent of Edward III., the rash and half-insane founder of the race of Valois, erected at an early period of his melancholy reign. Story above story, the large quadrangular mass, with its flanking towers, rose up till it seemed to touch the gloomy sky above; but in those days it had at least the beauty of harmony, for no one had added to the harsh and solemn features of the feudal architecture the gewgaw ornaments of a later age. The gallery of Marie de Medici was not built, and nothing was seen but the antique form of the Donjon itself, with the mass of walls surrounding its base with their flanking turrets, a pinnacle or two rising above--as if from some low Gothic building within the walls--and the still dark fosse surrounding the whole.
We form but a faint idea to ourselves--a very very faint idea of the manners and customs of feudal times; but still less, perhaps, can we form any just idea of the every-day enormities, crimes, and vices, that were committed at the period we now speak of, and of what it was to live familiarly in the midst of such scenes, and to hear daily of such occurrences. The mind of most men got hardened, callous, or indifferent to acts of darkness and of shame, even if they did not commit them themselves; and the world of Paris heard with scarcely an emotion that this nobleman had been poisoned by another--that the hand of the assassin had delivered one high lord of this troublesome friend or that pertinacious enemy--that the husband had "drugged the posset" for the wife, or the wife for the husband--or that persons obnoxiously wise or virtuous disappeared within the walls of such places as Vincennes, and passed suddenly with their good acts into that oblivion which is the general recompense of all that is excellent upon earth. No one noted such deeds; the sword of justice started from the scabbard once or twice in a century, but that was all; and the world laughed as merrily--the jest and the repartee went on--sport, love, and folly revelled as gaily through the streets of Paris, as if it had been a world of gentleness, and security, and peace.
Though of course Charles of Montsoreau felt in some degree the spirit of the day--though he thought it nothing at all extraordinary to be attacked by reiters in his own château, or stopped by fifty or sixty plunderers on the broad highway--though it seemed perfectly natural to him that man should live as in a state of continual warfare, always on his defence, yet the whole of his previous life having passed far from the daily occurrence of still more revolting scenes, in spots where calm nature and God's handiwork were still at hand to purify and heal men's thoughts, he had very different feelings in regard to the events and customs of the day from those which were generally entertained by the people of the metropolis. Thus, when he gazed up at the gloomy tower of Vincennes, and thought of the deeds which had been committed within its walls, together with the crimes and follies that were daily there enacted, a feeling of mingled horror and disgust took possession of his bosom; and had he not been impelled by a sense of duty, he would not have set his foot upon the threshold of those polluted gates.
The order to appear before the King at Vincennes had been communicated to him early in the morning, and notice of his coming had been given to the officers at the gates of the castle. He was punctual to a moment at the appointed time, and was instantly led into the château, and conducted up a long, darksome, winding stone staircase in one of the towers. Everything took place almost in silence; few persons were to be seen moving about in the building; and, while winding up those stairs, nothing was heard but the footfalls of himself and the attendant who conducted him.
Charles of Montsoreau certainly felt neither awe nor fear as he thus advanced, though some of the warnings of the Duke of Guise might cross his mind at the moment; but at the end of what seemed to be the first story, the attendant said, "Wait a moment;" and, pushing open a door, entered a room to the right. There was another door beyond, but both were left partly unclosed, and the previous silence was certainly no longer to be complained of, for such a jabbering, and screaming, and yelling, and howling, as was now heard, was probably never known in the palace of a king, before or since.
Human sounds they seemed certainly not to be, and yet words in various languages were to be distinguished, so that conjecture was quite put at fault, till after an absence of several minutes the attendant returned, and, bidding the young nobleman follow him, led the way once more into this den of noise and confusion.
The scene that then burst upon the eyes of Charles of Montsoreau was as curious as can well be conceived. Innumerable parrots, macaws, and cockatoos were ranged on perches and in cages along the sides of a large apartment, with intervals of monkeys and apes rattling their chains, springing forward at every object near them, mouthing, chattering, and writhing themselves into fantastic forms; six or seven small beautiful dogs of a peculiar breed were running about on the floor, snarling at one another, barking at the stranger, or teazing the other animals in the same room with themselves; baskets filled with litters of puppies were in every corner of the room; and several men and women were engaged in tending the winged and quadruped favourites of the King. Not only, however, were the regular attendants present, but, as one of the known ways to Henry's regard, a great number of other persons were always to be found busily engaged in tending the monkeys, parrots, and dogs. Amongst the rest here present, were no less than five dwarfs, four others being in actual attendance upon the King. None were above three feet and a half in height, and some were deformed and distorted in the most fearful manner, while one was perfectly and beautifully formed, and seemed to hold the others in great contempt. The voices of almost all of them, however, were cracked and screaming; and it was the sounds of their tongues, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, the chattering of the monkeys, and the various words repeated in different languages by the loquacious birds along the wall, which had made the Babel of sounds that reached the ears of Charles of Montsoreau while he stood without.
Passing through this room, with the envious eyes of the dwarfs staring upon his fine figure, the young Count entered the chamber of the pages--where, as if for the sake of contrast, a number of beautiful youths were seen--and was thence led on into the royal apartments, in which every thing was calm splendour and magnificence. Here and there various officers of the royal household were found lounging away the idle hours as they waited for the King's commands; and at length, in an ante-room, the young Count was bade to wait again, while the attendant once more notified his coming to the King. He was scarcely detained a moment now, however; but, the door being opened, he was ushered into the monarch's presence.
Henry on the present occasion presented an aspect different from that which the young Count had expected to behold. The Monarch had recalled, for a moment or two, the princely and commanding air of his youth, and received the young Count with dignity and grace. His person was handsome, his figure fine, and his dress in the most exquisite taste that it was possible to conceive. It was neither so effeminate nor so overcharged with ornament as it sometimes was; and the black velvet slashed and laced with gold, the toque with a single large diamond on his head, the long snowy-white ostrich feather, and the collar of one or two high orders round his neck, became him well, and harmonised with the air of dignity he assumed.
There were two or three gentlemen who stood around him more gaudily dressed than himself, and amongst them was the Duke of Epernon, whom Charles of Montsoreau remembered to have seen at his father's château some years before. All, however, held back so as to allow the monarch a full view of the young cavalier, as he advanced.
"You are welcome to Vincennes, Monsieur de Logères," said the King. "Our noble and princely cousin of Guise has notified to us that he has sent you to Paris on business of importance; and, having given you that praise which we are sure you must merit, has besought us to put every sort of trust and confidence in you, and to listen to you as to himself, while you speak with us upon the affairs which have brought you hither. We beseech you, therefore, to inform us of that which he has left dark, and tell us how we may pleasure our fair cousin, which is always our first inclination to do--the good of our state and the welfare of our subjects considered."
"His Highness the Duke of Guise, Sire," replied Charles of Montsoreau, not in the slightest degree abashed by the many eyes that were fixed upon him, scrutinising his person and his dress in the most unceremonious manner, "his Highness the Duke of Guise, Sire, has sent me to your Majesty, to ask information regarding a young lady, his near relation, who, he has reason to believe, was protected by a body of your Majesty's troops in a situation of some difficulty, for which protection the Duke is most grateful. She was then, he understood, conducted to this your Majesty's castle of Vincennes, doubtless for the purpose of affording her a safe asylum till you could restore her to his Highness, who is her guardian."
Henry turned with a sneering smile towards a dark but handsome man, with a somewhat sinister expression of countenance, on his left hand, saying, in an under tone, "Quick travelling, Villequier! to Soissons and back to Paris in four and twenty hours, ha! Had the swallow ever wings like rumour?"
This was said affectedly aside, but quite loud enough for the young nobleman to hear the whole. He, of course, made no reply, as the words were not addressed to him; but waited, with his eyes bent down, apparently in thoughtful meditation, till the King should give him his answer.
"You have given us, Monsieur le Comte de Logères," said the King, "but a faint idea of this business; and, as unhappily the commanders of our troops are but too little accustomed to afford us any very full account of their proceedings, we are ignorant of the occasion on which any one of them rendered this service to the young lady you mention."
This affected unconsciousness, displayed absolutely in conjunction with a scarcely concealed knowledge of the whole affair, Charles of Montsoreau felt to be trifling and insulting: but he lost not his reverence for the kingly authority; and he replied, with every appearance of deference, "I had imagined, Sire, that the quick wings of rumour must have carried the whole particulars to your Majesty, otherwise I should have been more particular in my account. The service was rendered to the young lady very lately, between Jouarre and Gandelu. I am not absolutely aware of the name of the officer in command of the troops at the time, but one gentleman present bore the name of Colombel."
"And pray what was the name of the young lady herself?" demanded the King, with a sneer. "The Duke of Guise has many she relations, as we sometimes find to our cost. It could not be our pretty, mild, and virtuous friend, the Duchess of Montpensier, nor the delicate and fair-favoured Mademoiselle de St. Beuve; for the one is staying in Paris in disobedience to the orders of the King, and the other is remaining there, waiting for the tender consolations of the Chevalier d'Aumale."
The young Count turned somewhat red, both at the coarseness and the scornfulness of the King's reply. "The young lady," he answered, however, still keeping the same tone, "is named Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, daughter of the late Count de Clairvaut."
"Your first cousin, Villequier," said the King, turning to his minister. "You should know something of this affair?"
"Not more than your Majesty," replied Villequier, bowing low, and perceiving very clearly that Henry had maliciously wished to embarrass him.
The King smiled at the double-meaning answer, and then, turning to the young Count, replied, "Well, sir, you have fulfilled your mission, and may tell the Duke of Guise, our true and well-beloved cousin, that we will cause immediate inquiry and investigation to be made into the whole affair; and let him know the particulars as soon as we are sufficiently well-informed to speak upon it with that accuracy which becomes our character. You may retire."
This was of course not the conclusion of the affair to which Charles of Montsoreau was inclined to submit; and it was evident to him that the King and his minions presumed upon his apparent youth and inexperience. But there was a firm decision in his character which they were not prepared for; and after pausing for a moment in thought, during which time the King's brows began to bend angrily upon him, he raised his eyes, looking Henry calmly and stedfastly in the face, and replying, "Your Majesty must pardon me if I do not take instant advantage of your permission to retire, as you have conceived a false impression when you imagine that my mission is fulfilled."
The King looked with an air of astonishment, first to Epernon and then to Villequier: but the former turned away his head with a look of dissatisfaction; while the latter bit his lip, let his hand fall upon a jewelled dagger in his belt, and said nothing.
Charles of Montsoreau, however, went on in the same calm but determined tone. "His Highness the Duke of Guise," he said, "directed me to inform your Majesty of the facts I have mentioned, and to beg in general terms information regarding them; but in case the general information that I obtained was not sufficiently accurate to enable me to write to him distinctly that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is in this place, or in that place, he further directed me humbly to request that your Majesty would answer in plain terms the following plain questions:--Is Mademoiselle de Clairvaut in the château of Vincennes? Is she under the charge and protection of your Majesty? Does your Majesty know where she is?"
"By the Lord that lives," exclaimed Henry, "this Duke of Guise chooses himself bold ambassadors to his King!"
"Do you dare, malapert boy," exclaimed Villequier, "with that bold brow, to cross-question your sovereign?"
"I do dare, sir," answered Charles of Montsoreau, "to ask my sovereign, in the name of the Duke of Guise, these plain questions, which, as he is a just and noble monarch, he can neither find any difficulty in answering, nor feel any anger in hearing."
"And what if I refuse to answer, sir?" demanded the King. "What is to be the consequence then? Is the doughty messenger charged to make a declaration of war on the part of our obedient subject, the Duke of Guise?"
The young Count was not prepared for this question, and hesitated how to answer it, though a full knowledge of how terrible the Duke of Guise was to the weak and effeminate monarch he addressed, brought a smile over his countenance, which had in reality more effect than any words he could have spoken. After a pause, however, he replied,--"Oh no, Sire. The Duke of Guise is, as you say, your Majesty's most devoted and obedient subject; and never conceiving it possible that you would refuse to answer his humble questions, he gave me no instructions what to say in a case that he did not foresee. I can only suppose," he added, with a low and reverent bow to the King, "that the Duke will be obliged to come to Paris himself to make those inquiries and investigations, concerning his young relation, in which I have not been successful."
Charles of Montsoreau could see, notwithstanding the paint, which delicately furnished the King with a more stable complexion than his own, that at the very thought of the Duke of Guise coming to Paris the weak monarch turned deadly pale. The same signs also were visible to Villequier, who whispered, "No fear, Sire; no fear; he will not come!"
The King answered sharply, however, and sufficiently loud for the young nobleman to hear, "We must give him no excuse, René! we must give him no excuse! Monsieur de Logères," he continued, putting on a more placable air than before, "we are glad to find that neither the Duke of Guise nor his envoy presumes to threaten us; and in consideration of the questions being put in a proper manner, we are willing to answer them to the best of our abilities."
Villequier, at these words, laid his hand gently upon the King's cloak; but Henry twitched it away from his grasp with an air of impatience, and continued, "I shall therefore answer you frankly and freely, young gentleman; telling you that the Lady whom you are sent to seek is in fact not at Vincennes; nor, to the best of our knowledge and belief, in our good city of Paris; neither do we know or have any correct information of where she may be found, though it is not by any means to be denied that she has visited this our castle of Vincennes."
The first part of the King's speech had considerably relieved the mind of Villequier; but when he proceeded to make the somewhat unnecessary admission, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut had visited Vincennes, the minister again attempted to interrupt the King, saying, "You know, Sire, her pause at Vincennes was merely momentary, and absolutely necessary for those passports and safeguards without which it might be dangerous to travel, in the distracted state of the country."
"Perfectly true," replied Henry: but the King's apprehension of the Duke of Guise appearing in Paris was much stronger than his respect for his minister's opinion; and he proceeded with what he had to say, in spite of every sign or hint that could be given him.
"You must know, Monsieur de Logères," he said, "that, as I before observed, she did visit Vincennes for a brief space; but, there being something embarrassing in the whole business, we were, to say the truth--albeit not insensible to beauty--we were not at all sorry to see her depart."
Although Charles of Montsoreau judged rightly that the abode of Vincennes, to the high and pure-minded girl whom he sought, could only have been one of horror, he could not conceive any thing in her situation which should have proved embarrassing to the King, and he answered bluntly, "Then your Majesty of course has caused her to be escorted in safety to the Duke of Guise, as the means of relieving yourself from all embarrassment concerning her."
"Not so, not so, Monsieur de Logères," replied the King. "Young diplomatists and young greyhounds run fast and overleap the game. It so happens that there are various claims regarding the wardship of this young Lady. She has many relations, as near or nearer than the Duke of Guise. The care and guidance of her, too, under the authorisation of the Duke himself, has been claimed by a young nobleman whom you may have heard of, called the Marquis of Montsoreau;" and he fixed his eyes meaningly upon the young Count's face. "All these circumstances rendered the matter embarrassing; and as I was not called upon to decide the matter judicially; and the Lady, if not quite of an age by law to judge for herself, being very nearly so, I thought it far better to leave the whole business to her own discretion, and let her take what course she thought fit, offering her every assistance and protection in my power, which, however, she declined. You may therefore assure the Duke of Guise, on my part, that she is not at Vincennes, and that I am unacquainted with where she is at this moment. I now think, therefore, that all your questions are answered, and the business is at an end."
"I fear I must intrude upon your Majesty still farther," replied the young Count; "for besides the letter from the Duke of Guise, which I have had the honour of delivering to your Majesty, he has also furnished me with this document, giving me full power and authority to inquire, seek for, and require, at the hands of any person in whose power she may be, the young Lady whom he claims as his ward. He has directed me to request your Majesty's approbation of the same, expressed by your signature to that effect, giving me authority to search for her in your name also, and to require the aid and assistance of all your officers, civil and military, in executing the said task."
Henry looked both agitated and angry; and Villequier spoke for a moment to Epernon behind the King's back.
"Monsieur de Logères," exclaimed the latter, taking a step forward, "this is too much. I can hardly suppose that his Highness the Duke of Guise has authorised you to make such a demand."
"My Lord Duke of Epernon," replied the Count, "were it not that I hold in my hand the Duke's authority for that which I state, I would call upon you to put your insinuation in plainer terms, that I might give it the lie as plainly as I would do any other unjust accusation."
The Duke turned very red; but he replied, "And you would be treated, sir Count, as a petty boy of the low nobility of this realm deserves, for using such language to one so much above yourself."
"There is no one in France so much above myself, sir," replied the Count, gazing on him sternly, and with a look of some contempt, "as to dare to insult me with impunity; and though you be now High-admiral of France, Colonel-general of Infantry, Governor of half the provinces of this country, Duke, Peer, and hold many another rich and honourable office besides, I tell you, John of Nogaret, that when the Baron de Caumont dined at my father's table, he sat nearer the salt than perhaps now may suit the proud Duke of Epernon to remember."
"Silence!" exclaimed the King, rousing himself for a moment from his effeminate apathy, while, for a brief space, an expression of power and dignity came over his countenance, such as that which had distinguished him while Duke of Anjou. "Silence, insolent boy! Silence, Epernon! I forbid you, on pain of my utmost displeasure, to take notice, even by a word, of what this young man has said. You were yourself wrong to answer for the King in the King's presence. The Duke of Guise shall have no just occasion to complain of us," he added, the brightness which had come upon him gradually dying away like the false promising gleam of sunshine which sometimes breaks for a moment through a rainy autumnal day, and fades away again as soon, amidst the dull grey clouds; "the Duke of Guise shall have no occasion to complain of us. We will give this young man the authority which he has so insolently demanded, to seek for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and having found her--if she have not joined the Duke of Guise long before--to escort her in safety to our cousin's care. But, Monsieur de Logères, you show your ignorance of every custom of the court and state, by supposing that the King of France can write down at the bottom of the powers given you by the Duke of Guise his name in confirmation of the same, like a steward at the bottom of a butcher's bill. The authority which we give you must pass through the office of our secretary of state, and it shall be drawn out and sent to you as speedily as possible. I think that Monsieur de Villequier already knows where to send this authority. You may now retire; and rest assured that it shall reach you as soon as possible. At the same time we pardon you for your conduct in this presence, which much needs pardon, though it does not merit it."
Charles of Montsoreau bowed low, and retired from the King's presence, fully convinced that Henry was deceiving him; that he knew, or, at all events, had every means of judging, where Marie de Clairvaut was; and that he had not the slightest intention of sending him the authorisation he had promised, unless absolutely driven to do so.
The moment that the young Count had quitted the presence, the King turned angrily to Villequier, exclaiming, "Are you mad, Villequier, to risk bringing that fiery and ambitious pest upon us? 'Tis but four days ago he was within ten miles of Paris!"
"Pshaw, Sire!" replied Villequier; "there is not the slightest chance of his coming. Did I not tell you when he was at Gonesse that I would find means to make him run like a frightened hare back again to Soissons? I fear your Majesty has ruined all our plans by promising this authority to that malapert youth, who doubtless already knows, or easily divines, that he is deceived."
"I have not deceived him," said the King: "I told him the girl was not at Vincennes; nor is she. I told him that I did not know where she is at this moment; nor do I; for she may be three miles on this side of Meulan, or three miles on that, for aught I know. It depends upon the quickness of the horses, and the state of the roads. I promised him the authority to seek her; and he shall have it in good due form, if he live long enough, and wait in Paris a sufficient time."
"If he have it not within three days," replied Villequier, "be you sure, Sire, that he will write to the Duke of Guise."
"But, Villequier," said the King in a soft tone, "could you not find means to prevent his making use of pen and ink to such bad purposes? In short, friend René, it is altogether your affair. You seem to think that the fact of this girl falling into our hands is quite the discovery of a treasure which may fix on our side this young Marquis of Montsoreau and the crafty Abbé that you talk of, and I don't know how many more people besides. Now I told you from the beginning that you should manage it all yourself: so look to it, good Villequier; look to it."
"He has let me manage it all myself, truly!" said Villequier, in a low tone, "But I wish to know more precisely, your Majesty," he added aloud, "what am I to do with this youth and the girl? Is he to have the authorisation, or not? Am I, or am I not, to give her up when he demands her?"
"Now, good faith," replied the King, "would not one think, Epernon, that our well-beloved friend and minister here was a mere novice out of a convent of young girls, a tender and scrupulous little thing, thinking evil, in every stray look or soft word addressed to her. He who has dealt with so many in his day, diplomatists and warriors and statesmen, has not wit enough to deal with a raw boy, whom, doubtless, our fair and crafty cousin of Guise has sent upon a fool's errand to get him out of the way."
"Certainly," replied the Duke of Epernon, "our wise friend Villequier seems to be somewhat prudent and cautious this morning. The young lady is in your hands, I think, Villequier; is she not? and you have sent her off into Normandy, I think you told me, with an escort of fifty of your archers. She goes there, doubtless, as his Majesty has said, with her own will and consent, and by her own choice, for there is a soft persuasiveness in fifty archers which it is very difficult for a woman's heart to resist; and, doubtless, by the same cogent arguments, you will induce her to marry whom you please. Come, tell us who it is to be; the hand of a rich heiress to dispose of, may be made a profitable thing, under such management as yours, Villequier."
"I have not discovered the philosopher's stone, like you, Monsieur d'Epernon," replied the other.
The King laughed gaily, for Epernon's extraordinary cupidity was no secret even to the monarch that fed it. But the Duke was proof to all jest upon that score; and looking at Villequier with the same sort of musing expression which he had before borne, he repeated his question, saying, "Come, come, disinterested chevalier, tell us to whom do you intend to give her?"
"Perhaps to my own nephew," replied the other. "What think you of that, Monsieur le Duc?"
The brow of Epernon grew clouded in a moment. "I think," he said, "that you will not do it, for two reasons: in the first place, you destine your nephew for your daughter Charlotte."
"Not I," replied the Marquis; "I never dreamt of such a thing. She shall wed higher than that, or not at all. But what is your second reason, Monsieur d'Epernon?"
"Because you dare not," replied the Duc d'Epernon: and he added, speaking in a low tone, "You dare not, Villequier, mingle your race with that of Guise. The moment you do, your object will be clear, and your ruin certain."
"It is a curious thing, Sire," said Villequier, turning to the King with a smile, "it is a curious thing to see how my good Lord of Epernon grudges any little advantage to us mean men. However, to set his Grace's mind at ease, I neither destine Mademoiselle de Clairvaut for one nor for the other; but I think she may prove a wonderful good bait for the wild young Marquis of Montsoreau. By the promise of her hand, as far as my interest and influence is concerned, he will not only be bound to your Majesty's cause on every occasion, but will exert himself more zealously and potently for that, than any other inducement could lead him to do. Even if he should fail in the trial--for we must acknowledge that he shows himself somewhat unstable in his purposes--he will, at all events, have so far committed himself as to give your Majesty good cause for confiscating all his land, cutting down all his timber, and seizing upon all his wealth. However, I must think, in the first place, of how to deal with this brother of his."
"No very difficult task, I should judge," said the Duke of Epernon, "for one so practised in the art of catching gudgeons as you, Villequier."
"I don't know that," answered Villequier; "I would fain detach that youth, also, from the Guises. You see, most noble Duke, I am thinking of the King's interest all the time, while you are thinking of your own. However, I must find a way to manage him, for, as their wonderful friend and tutor, this wise Abbé de Boisguerin, admitted to me last night, there are three means all powerful in dealing with our neighbours--love, interest, and ambition; and we might thus exemplify it,--the King would do any thing for the first, the Duke of Epernon any thing for the second, and his Highness of Guise any thing for the third."
"There are two other implements frequently used, which I wonder Monsieur de Villequier did not add," said the Duke, "as I rather expect he may have to use one or other of them on the present occasion; and men say he is fully as skilful in using them as in employing love, interest, or ambition, for his ends."
"Pray what are those?" demanded Villequier, somewhat sharply.
"Vicenza daggers," replied the Duke of Epernon, "and wine that splits a Venice glass!"
"Come, come, Epernon," cried the King, "you and Villequier shall not quarrel. Come away from him, come away from him, or you will be using your daggers on each other presently:" and, throwing his arm familiarly round his neck, he drew the Duke away.