When the Abbé de Boisguerin on the following morning entered the presence of Charles of Montsoreau, his mind was prepared for every thing he was to say and do, for every thing he was to assert or to imply. But there was one thing for which his mind was not prepared--all shrewd, keen, politic, and experienced as it was.
There are points in the deep study of human nature which those who would use that mighty science for selfish purposes almost always overlook. Amongst these are the changes, both sudden and progressive, which take place in themselves and in others, and the changes in relative situations which they produce. In this respect it was that the Abbé de Boisguerin, thoughtful and calculating as he was, had not prepared himself for the meeting with Charles of Montsoreau. The time was short since they had parted. Not above six weeks had elapsed, if so much; and the Abbé had come ready to deal with a youth of keen and penetrating mind, of quick perceptions and extensive powers; of all whose feelings and thoughts he fancied that he knew the scope and quality; whose mind he believed that he had gauged and tested as if it were some material substance. But he knew not at all, what an effect the space of six weeks may have when spent in communication with great minds, and in dealing with great events; and the moment he entered the room he saw a change which he had never dreamt of--a change which through the mind affected the body, the countenance, and the demeanour.
Charles of Montsoreau, in short, had left him a youth high-spirited, feeling, intelligent, graceful,--he stood before him a man, calm, thoughtful, grave, dignified. There were even lines of care already upon his brow, which gave it a degree of sternness not natural to it; and the whole look and aspect of his former pupil was so powerfully intellectual, that the Abbé felt he must be more cautious and careful than he had prepared to be; that his words, his thoughts, and his looks would not alone be tested by old affection, nor even by the simple powers of an undoubting mind, but would be tried by experience likewise, and tried moreover with that degree of suspicion which is more active within us when we first learn the painful lessons taught by human deceit, than it is when we learn fully our own powers of separating truth from falsehood.
He saw that it would be necessary to be more cautious than he had proposed to be, and that, consequently, he must change much that he had intended to say and do. The very caution affected his manner, and his alteration of purposes caused occasional hesitation. Charles of Montsoreau, who remembered his whole character and demeanour during many years, found, without seeking it, a touchstone in the past by which to try the present, and the conclusion in his own heart was, "This man is not true."
The explanation given by the Abbé of all that had occurred on their route did not satisfy his hearer. He told him that he had remained with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and the carriage till the reiters had passed, and then had caused the horses to be turned into a bye-road, in the hope of escaping any returning parties: they had thus accidentally met with the King's troops, whose offered protection, of course, they could not refuse. But he touched vaguely and lightly upon the mission of Colombel to the young Marquis de Montsoreau; and the Count de Logères did not press him upon the subject, for he felt sufficiently upon his guard, and had a repugnance openly to convict one whom he had loved of falseness and treachery.
He turned then to the note which he had received on the preceding evening.
"You tell me now," he said, "Abbé, that you have some reason to believe that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, as I at first supposed, has seen my affection, and did not intend to discourage it. What are those reasons?"
The Abbé stated vaguely that some words, dropped by Madame de Saulny, had produced that belief in his mind.
Charles of Montsoreau mused, and made no answer. The time had been when he would have replied at once, and have discussed the question fully with his former preceptor; but now he held counsel with his own heart in his own bosom, and said, "This man has some object in telling me this. Her own words were sufficiently conclusive, that she did not see, that she did not remark, the signs of affection which I had fancied undoubted."
He still maintained silence, however, towards the Abbé, in regard to his own views, his own purposes, and his own feelings. Nor could the other, though he used all his skill, draw from him the slightest indication of what he intended to do, except that he waited in Paris for the arrangement of some affairs, which were not yet concluded, with the King. He in turn, however, questioned the Abbé much concerning his brother, expressing not only a wish but a determination to see him.
"I am happy," he said, "that my letter reached him; for--by whom or for what reason instructed to falsify the truth, I do not know--the porter of Monsieur de Villequier denied the fact of your being in the house. As nothing could shake my own belief that it was Gaspar and yourself I had seen, and as both Gondrin and the page confirmed my opinion, I sent the letter at all risks: and now, good Abbé, if you love Gaspar and myself as you used to do, contrive that we may meet again to-morrow, in order that all these clouds may be cleared away from between us, and that we may feel once more as brothers ought to feel towards each other."
The Abbé promised to do as the young Count desired, beseeching him, however, not to press his brother to an interview too suddenly, and assuring him that he would use every effort.
The still more important subject of what had become of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut remained to be discussed; and Charles of Montsoreau, though resolved to make the inquiry, approached it with distaste and with caution, from a feeling that the Abbé would not deal truly with him, and would only endeavour, in the course of any conversation upon that point, to discover what were his secret intentions, even while he concealed from him the true circumstances.
It was as he expected. The Abbé told him that, in some degree under the care, and in some degree under the guard, of the King's troops, the whole party had been brought to the neighbourhood of Paris, where a messenger from the monarch had conveyed to himself and the young Marquis an invitation to take up their abode at the house of Villequier, while Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was conveyed to Vincennes. They had done all that was possible, he said, to prevent such a separation; but the King's commands were peremptory; and he had since learnt, or at least had reason to believe, that the young lady had been sent in the direction of Beauvais, to the care of some distant relations.
The young Count smiled, and said nothing; and the Abbé then, with an air of grave sincerity, proceeded to ask him what had best be done under such circumstances. He replied that he could give no advice; and many a vain effort was again made to discover what were his purposes in regard to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. Finding that no indirect means succeeded, the Abbé, trusting to their former familiarity, asked the question directly, "What do you intend to do in this business, Charles."
"Indeed, my dear Abbé," replied the young Count, "it is difficult to tell you. I have no definite plan of action at present, and must be guided by circumstances as they arise."
Thus ended their interview; and it formed a strange contrast to that between the Abbé and Villequier,--showing how simple honesty may often baffle cunning which has succeeded against astuteness like itself. The following day passed without any communication reaching the young Count, either from the Abbé or from his brother, from the King or the Duke of Guise; and expectation of receiving tidings from some one caused him to remain at home during the greater part of the day.
On the succeeding morning, however, he determined to proceed to the house of Villequier, and to demand peremptorily the fulfilment of the promise which the King had made. Ere he set out, however, he received a note in the hand of the Abbé de Boisguerin, informing him briefly that his brother, having determined to return to Montsoreau, was upon the very point of setting out. He, the Abbé, was to accompany him for two days' march upon the road, but would return to Paris in four or five days without fail.
Charles of Montsoreau read the note with a faint and melancholy smile, and again said, "This man is not true!"
He rode at once, however, to the hotel of Villequier, but found that the minister had once more gone to Vincennes. He inquired for the Marquis of Montsoreau of the same porter who had denied the fact of his being there. The porter, not at all discomposed, replied that the Marquis and the Abbé de Boisguerin, with their train, had set out fully two hours before for Montl'hery; which, being confirmed upon farther inquiry by an Italian confectioner on the opposite side of the street, was believed by the young Count, who returned home with a heart but ill at ease.
Another day was passed in gloomy and impatient expectation; but at night Gondrin reappeared from Soissons, bringing with him a brief note from the Duke of Guise:--
"Your interview," it said, "was such as might be expected; your conduct all that it should have been; your view of the result right. They are endeavouring to trifle both with you and me; but we must show them that this cannot be done. I send off a courier at once to Villequier, requiring that the King's authorisation shall be immediately given to you. If it reach you not before to-morrow night, I pray you set off at once with the passports you possess for Chateauneuf; for I have information scarcely to be doubted, that our poor Marie has been conveyed thither. Show her the letter which I gave you, requiring her to follow your directions in every thing. Endeavour to bring her at once, with what people you can collect upon her lands, across the country towards Rheims, avoiding Paris. If any one stops you, or attempts either to delay your progress or dispute your passage, show them my letter of authority, as well as the passports that you already possess; and if they farther molest or delay you, they shall not be forgotten, be they great or small, when they come to reckon with your friend, Henry of Guise."
In a postscript was written at the bottom--"In going, avoid Dreux and Montfort, for the plague is raging there. If there be any force stationed at Chateauneuf to prevent the removal of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, only ascertain distinctly the fact of her presence in the château, and come back to rejoin me with all speed."
The tidings brought by Gondrin showed Charles of Montsoreau that great events of some kind were in preparation. Various bodies of troops attached to the House of Lorraine were moving here and there in Champaign and the Ardennes; daily conferences were held between the Duke of Guise, the Cardinal of Bourbon, the Cardinal of Guise, and a number of other influential noblemen; the propriety of deposing the King was said to be openly discussed at Soissons, and ridicule and hatred were unsparingly busy with the names of Epernon, Villequier, and others. Couriers, totally independent of those which were sent upon the business that brought the young Count to Paris, were almost hourly passing between the capital and Soissons; and it was daily whispered in the latter city, that experienced officers and small bodies of troops were daily gliding into the capital from the army which the Duke had led to victory on so many previous occasions.
Early on the following morning, Charles of Montsoreau again proceeded to the Hotel de Villequier, in order that nothing might be wanting on his part. But the reply once more was, that the minister was absent; and the day passed over without any tidings from either the King or his favourite. As he passed through various parts of the city, however, the young Count remarked many things that somewhat surprised him. He had hitherto ridden amongst the people quite unnoticed, but now many persons whom he met bowed low to him, and those seemingly of the most respectable classes of citizens. On two or three occasions the burgher guard saluted him as he passed; and in one place, where several people were collected together, there was a cry of "Long live the Duke of Guise!"
All these indications of some approaching event of importance at any other moment might have given him an inclination to remain in Paris: but he had other interests more deeply at heart; and having waited till the last moment to make sure that the King's authorisation was still delayed, he prepared to set out that very night, taking with him only the number of persons specified in the passports which he had brought from Soissons.
In a brief and hurried note which he wrote to Chapelle Marteau, he informed him that he was about to absent himself from Paris for a short time on business of importance; and begged him, as it was his intention to pass out of the city by the Faubourg St. Germain that very night, to facilitate his so doing as quietly as possible. That his absence might remain for some time concealed from those who might obstruct his proceedings, he retained his apartments at the inn, and the servants he had hired, paying the whole for some time in advance, and directing that if any inquiries were made, the reply should be, that he was only absent for a few days.
When all was prepared he set out, and at the gates found his friend of the Seize, with another personage, who seemed to consider himself of great importance. No words, however, were spoken, no passports were demanded, the two Leaguers bowed lowly to the Count, the gates opened as if of themselves, and, issuing forth, the young Count rode on upon the way, anxious to place as great a distance between Paris and himself ere the next morning as possible.
It was a soft calm night in April, the sky was unclouded and filled with stars, the dew thick upon the grass, and the air balmy; and the young nobleman pursued his way with a mind filled with thoughts which, though certainly in part melancholy, were still tinged with the soft light of hope. His horses were strong and fresh, and just in the grey of the morning, on the following day, he reached the small town of Rambouillet.
The signs and indications of the disturbed and anxious state of society in France were visible in the little town as the young Count gazed from the door of the inn, after seeing that his horses were well taken care of. There were anxious faces and eyes regarding the stranger with the expression of doubt, and perhaps suspicion; there were little knots gathered together and talking gloomily at the corners of different streets; the whistle of the light-hearted peasant was unheard; and the cart or the flock was driven forth in silence.
The Count's horses required rest; none were to be procured with which he could pursue his journey, and he determined to take what repose he could get ere he proceeded on his way. Casting himself down then upon a bed, he closed his eyes and sought to sleep: but suddenly something like a wild cry sounded from the other side of the street, and springing up he looked out of the window. He could almost have touched the opposite house, so narrow was the way, and he saw completely into a room thereof through the window that faced his own.
There was a woman in it of about the middle age, kneeling by the bedside of a youth who seemed just dead; and on looking down a little below he saw a man, dressed in a black serge robe, standing on a ladder, and marking the front of the building with a large white cross. On the impulse of the moment, Charles of Montsoreau ran down stairs, and approached the door of the house, intending to enter. But he was stopped at the door by two of the guards of the city. "Do you not see the mark of the plague?" they said. "You must not go in; or, if you go in, you must not come out again."
With a sorrowful heart, Charles of Montsoreau turned back into the inn, but he found no sleep, and the image of the woman clasping her dead son still haunted him in waking visions.
It was about nine o'clock at night, and the moon, rising later than the night before, had not yet gone down, as Charles of Montsoreau passed through the wide forest that then surrounded Chateauneuf en Thimerais. It was a beautiful moonlight scene, affording to the eye many various and pleasant objects. The greater part of the forest, indeed, consisted of old trees far apart from each other, and only surrounded by brushwood in patches here and there. Occasionally, indeed, deeper and thicker parts of the forest presented themselves, where the axe had not been plied so unsparingly; but the ground was hilly and broken, and the road ascended and descended continually, showing every change of the forest ground. There were manifold streams too in that part of the country, and small gushing fountains, while a chapel or two, here and there raised by the pious inhabitants of the neighbourhood, broke the desolate appearance of the wood by showing sweet traces of human hope or gratitude. The heart, however, of Charles of Montsoreau enjoyed not that scene as it might at any other time, for many dark and painful reports had reached him of the state of the country in that district, and he looked anxiously forward to his arrival at the little village of Morvillette seated in the midst of the forest, to hear further tidings of Chateauneuf and its neighbourhood. A party of soldiers he had already heard had passed along some days before, escorting a carriage, and it was understood their destination was Chateauneuf; but the people of Tremblay, where he received this intelligence, shook the head doubtingly, and added, that the traveller would hear more at Morvillette, and could there get a guide to the château, which was two miles from the town.
At length, lying in a hollow of the woodland, the moonlight showed him a group of dark cottages; but no friendly light appeared in the windows; and as he rode on amongst the houses, there was a sort of awful stillness about the place, which seemed to indicate that it was not slumber that kept the tongues of the peasantry silent. There were no dogs in the streets; there was no smoke curling up from any of the chimneys; all was still, and many of the doors stood wide open in the night air, exhibiting nothing but solitude within.
"There must be somebody in the place," cried Gondrin, springing from his horse and approaching one of the cottages, the door of which was shut.
Without knocking, the man threw open the door at once, and went in as far as the bridle of his horse would let him; but he came out again immediately, and his master could see that his face was pale and its expression horrified.
"A man and a woman," he said in a low voice, "both dead! the one in the bed and the other on the floor, and both of them looking as blue as a cloud."
The boy Ignati pressed up his horse to hear; and the Count said, "In all probability there may be things still more horrible before us. I shall go on, Gondrin; I must go on: but there is no need for either yourself or the page to do so. You had better both go back. Make the best of your way to Soissons, there tell the Duke what you have seen, and assure him that I will do my best to fulfil his wishes if I live."
"My Lord," said the boy, "I might quit you for a kind and noble master when danger was not about you, but I will only quit you now with life."
"And so say I," replied Gondrin in a somewhat reassured but still anxious tone. "But let us ride on, my Lord, and get out of this horrible place. We shall find no one here to show us the way."
"I believe I can find it myself," replied the Count. "We turn to the left as soon as we have passed the village. Come on!"
Thus saying, he somewhat quickened his pace and rode away, the moon now declining towards her setting, throwing longer shadows, and giving more uncertain light. Anxiously did the young Count gaze from the brow of every rise, hoping to see the form of the château rising upon the eminence before him. Several times he disappointed himself by fancying that he saw it when it was not there, so that, when at length he beheld a single faint point of light, like the spark of a firefly amongst the distant branches, he could scarcely believe that it afforded any true indication of that which he sought.
Riding on, however, he again and again caught sight of it, till at length the forms of the building grew more clear and defined, and after about half a mile more he rode up the gentle slope that conducted towards the château.
It was situated in the midst of a wild game park, not unlike that of Vincennes, only that the ground was more irregular. The building, however, was very different: it had been erected by that Count de Clairvaut who had been sent ambassador in the reign of Henry II. to the Republic of Venice. He had formed his ideas of beauty in architecture under another sky, and, but that it was somewhat larger and heavier, it might have been supposed that the building had been transported by some Geni from the banks of the Brenta. There was a strong old castellated gate, however, in the walls of the park, which had belonged to some former building. But the heavy iron gates were wide open, and the voice of no porter responded to the call of the young Count and his companions.
Still, however, he saw a light in the windows of the château, and he eagerly rode on along the path which conducted to the principal gates of the building. Here there was a wide flight of marble stairs, which had been brought ready polished at an immense expense from Italy, yellow and green with the damp, but still altogether of a different hue and consistence from the ordinary stone of the place. From those steps the wide forest scene beyond was fully displayed to the eye, the château being built very near the highest point of the acclivity, and the whole ground towards Dreux, Maintenon, and Chartres lying below, with the forest itself sweeping down the edge of that chain of high hills which separates the southern parts of Normandy from the northern parts and Maine.
The moon at that moment was just sinking beyond the trees on the left, and poured over the woods and plains below a flood of silver light, caught and reflected here and there by some open stream or wide piece of water, and, shining full upon the front of the marble building, which, with its pillars, its capitals, and its cornices, its wide doors and spreading porticoes, looked like the spectre of some bright enchanted palace from another land.
The large doors that opened upon the terrace were ajar; and Charles of Montsoreau, leaving his horse with the page, mounted the steps and knocked hard with the haft of his dagger. A long melancholy echo was all the sound that was returned. He knocked again, there was no answer; and then pushing open the door, he entered the wide marble hall. The moonlight was pouring through the tall windows, but all was solitary; and putting his foot upon the first step of the staircase, he was beginning to ascend. At that moment, he thought he heard a distant sound as of an opening door; and a ray of light, streaming down some long corridor at the top of the broad staircase, crossed the balustrade and chequered the iron work with a different hue from the moonlight. He now called loudly, asking if there was any one in the building.
In a moment after, there were steps heard coming along towards the staircase, and a voice replied, "There is death and pestilence in the house. If you come for plunder, take it quickly; if you come by accident, fly as fast as you may, for every breath is tainted."
The tones of that voice were not to be mistaken, even before Charles of Montsoreau beheld the speaker; but, ere the last words were spoken, Marie de Clairvaut herself was at the top of the staircase, bearing a small lamp in her hand, and Charles of Montsoreau eagerly sprang up the steps.
The lamp flashed upon the form and features which she had not at first seen, and with a loud cry she darted forward to meet him.
The next moment, however, nearly dropping the lamp, she rushed back, exclaiming, "Come not near, Charles! Dear, dear Charles, come not near! These hands, not twelve hours ago, have closed the eyes of the dead. The plague most likely is upon me now!"
But before she could add more, the arms of Charles of Montsoreau were round her.
"You have called me dear," he said, "and what privilege can be dearer than sharing your fate, whatever it may be? Dear, dear, dear Marie! oh, say those words again, and make me happy!"
"But I fear for you, Charles," she said; "I fear for you. All are either dead or have fled and left me, and I shall see you die too,--you, you die also by the very touch, by the very breath, of one to whom you have restored life."
"I fear not, Marie," answered Charles; "I fear not; and that is the safest guard. Certainly you shall not see me fly and leave you; and I fear not, either, that you will see death overtake me. But oh, if even it did, how sweet would death itself be, watched by that dear face, wept by those beloved eyes!"
Marie bent down her head, and said nothing; but she strove no more against the arm that was cast round her; her hand remained in his, and the colour rose warmly into her cheek, which had before been deadly pale.
"If," she said at length, after a long pause, during which he had continued to gaze earnestly, fondly, sadly upon her,--"If it were not that I feared for you, your presence would indeed be a comfort and a consolation to me: not that I fear for myself," she added; "I know not why, but I have never feared. It has seemed to me as if there were no danger to myself--as if I should certainly escape. But oh, how terrible it would be to see you struck by the pestilence also!"
"Say no more, dear Marie; say no more," replied Charles of Montsoreau, feeling and knowing by every word that she was his own. "I fear not; I have no fear; and even if I had, love would trample it under foot in a moment. I would not leave you in such an hour, not if by descending that short flight of steps I could save myself from death: unless indeed you told me to go, and that you loved me not."
The tears sprang into Marie de Clairvaut's eyes. "I must not tell such a falsehood," she cried, clasping her hands together, "in an hour like this. I never told you so; indeed I never did, though Madame de Saulny, poor Madame de Saulny, with her dying lips assured me that you thought so."
"There have been many errors, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau, "which have pained both your heart and mine, I fear. But now, my beloved, I must call in those that are with me, for we have travelled far and ridden hard."
"Oh, call them not in!" said Marie de Clairvaut, "for they will be frightened when they see the state of the house, and catch the pestilence and die! Bid them lead their horses to the stables, and sleep there. Perhaps they may find some one still living there, for this evening at sunset I saw my father's old groom still wandering about as usual; but you must go yourself to tell them, Charles, for I do not believe that there is any one in the house but you and I. The stables lie away to the left. I will wait here for you till you come back. Go through the great doors," she said, as he descended, "and go not into the rooms either to the right or left, for there is death in all of them."
Charles of Montsoreau descended with a rapid step, and in a few words gave his directions to the servants. He then returned, and taking Marie de Clairvaut's hand in his, he pressed his lips warmly upon it, and gazed tenderly upon her as she led him along through a wide corridor to the room in which she had been sitting.
It formed a strange contrast,--the aspect of that room, with the desolate knowledge that all was death and solitude through the rest of the house. Beautiful pictures, rich ornaments, fine tapestry, gave it an air of life and cheerfulness, which seemed strange to the feelings of Charles of Montsoreau. But an illuminated book of prayer that lay upon the table told how Marie de Clairvaut's thoughts had been employed; and Charles of Montsoreau paused, and, lifting his thoughts to Heaven, prayed earnestly, fervently, that that bright and beautiful and beloved being might still be protected by the hand of the Almighty in every scene of peril and danger which might yet await her.
She sat down on the chair in which she had been reading with a look of melancholy thoughtfulness, and Charles of Montsoreau sat down beside her, and there was a long silent pause, for the hearts of both were too full of agitating feelings for words to be plentiful at first. The moment and the circumstances, indeed, took from love all shame and hesitation. Death and deprivation and desolation gave affection a brighter, a holier light,--it was like some eternal flame burning upon the altar of a ruined temple.
Marie de Clairvaut felt that at that moment she could speak things that at any other time she would have sunk into the earth to say; she felt that--with the exception of their trust in God--his love for her and hers for him formed the grand consolation of the moment, the healing balm, the great support of that hour of peril and of terror. She looked at him and he at her, and they mutually thought that a few hours perhaps might see them there, dying or dead by each other's side, with love for the only comfort of their passing hour--with the voice of death pronouncing their eternal union, and the grave their bridal bed.
They thus thought, and it may seem strange to say, but--prepared as their minds were for leaving the life of this earth behind them--such a death to them appeared sweet; and neither feared it, but looked forward upon the grim enemy of human life, not with the stern defying frown of the martyr, not with the fierce and angry daring of the warrior, but with the calm sweet smile of resignation to the will of Heaven, and hopes beyond the tomb.
Thus they remained silent, or with but few words, for some time; and Charles of Montsoreau felt that he was beloved. Indeed, there was not a word, there was not a look, that did not tell him so: and yet he longed to hear more; he longed that those words should be spoken which would confirm, by the living voice of her he loved, the assurance of his happiness. Gradually he won her from conversing of the present to speak of the past; and she gently reproached him for leaving her at Montsoreau so suddenly as he had done.
"Marie," he said, with that frankness which had always characterised him, "let me tell you all; and then see if I did right or wrong. If I did wrong, you shall blame me still, and I will grieve and make any atonement in my power; but if I only mistook, and did not act wrong intentionally, you shall forgive me, and tell me that you love me."
Marie de Clairvaut gazed in his face, and asked, "And do you doubt it now, Charles?"
"Oh, no!" he cried, "oh, no! I ought not to doubt it, for Marie de Clairvaut could not speak such words as she has spoken without loving." And gently bending down his head over her, he pressed a kiss upon that dear fair brow. "Marie," he said, "it is our fate to meet in strange scenes. The last time that I kissed that brow, the last time that I held you to my heart, was when I thought you dead, and lost to me for ever."
"And when I woke up," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "and was not only grateful to God and to you for having saved me, but happy in its being you that did save me, and happy," she added, slightly dropping her eyes, "in the signs of deep affection which I saw."
"And yet," he exclaimed, "and yet, when my stay or my departure hung upon a single word from your lips, you gave me to understand that you had not received those signs of affection as signs of affection; that you looked upon them but as the natural effect of my witnessing your restoration to life, when I thought you dead."
"Oh, Charles!" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut, with a slight smile, "could you not pardon and understand such small hypocrisy as that? Did you not know that woman's heart is shy, and seeks many a hiding-place, even from the pursuit of one it loves?"
"I never loved but you, Marie," replied the Count, "and I am sadly ignorant, I fear, of woman's heart. Nevertheless, upon those few words and that moment depended my fate."
"I knew not that," cried Marie de Clairvaut, eagerly; "I knew not that, or, upon my honour, I would have been more sincere: but what was it, Charles, made you take so sudden a resolution? what was it made you leave me, without a reply, in the hands of those who have striven constantly ever since to make me believe that you cared not for me?"
"I will tell you all," replied her lover; and, pouring forth in eloquent words all the passion of his heart towards her, he told her how his love had grown upon him, how it had increased each hour; and making that the main subject of his tale, he told but as adjuncts to it the pain which his brother's conduct had inflicted upon him, and all the signs of rivalry which he had remarked. He then spoke of his conversation with the Abbé de Boisguerin on their way to visit the Count de Morly; and he told how agonised were all his feelings--how terrible was the struggle in his heart,--and what was the resolution that he took, to ascertain whether her affections were really gained, and by the result to shape his conduct. He next spoke of his conversation with her immediately preceding his departure, and of the words which had led him to believe that she was unconscious of his love, and did not return it.
As she listened, the tears rose in her eyes, and, laying her soft fair hand on his, she said, "Forgive me, Charles! oh, forgive me! but do believe that there is not another woman on all the earth who would not have done the same."
"Alas! dear Marie," he replied, "in such knowledge you have but a child to deal with."
"Oh, be so ever, Charles!" she cried, clasping her hands and looking up in his face. "There may be women who would love you less for being so; but I trust and hope that you will never love any one but Marie de Clairvaut, and she will value your love all the more for its being, and having ever been, entirely her own. But you were speaking of the Abbé de Boisguerin, Charles--you have told me of his conversation with you--I saw, when I was at Montsoreau, that you loved and esteemed him."--She paused, and hesitated. "I fear," she added, "that what I must speak, that what I ought to tell you, may pain and grieve you:--I doubt that man, Charles--I more than doubt him."
"And so do I, Marie," replied her lover with a melancholy shake of the head; "and so do I doubt him much. Indeed, as you say, I more than doubt him, for I know and feel that he is not true."
"Alas! Charles," she replied, "I fear that in that very first conversation with you he meditated treachery towards you. I fear much, very much, that his design and purpose even then was to separate us."
"Perhaps it might be so, Marie," replied her lover: "though he has never shown any strong preference, I have often thought he loves Gaspar better than he does me."
"But it was no love of your brother, Charles," she said; "it was no love of your brother moved him then; for if your brother trusted him, he betrayed him too. Now hear me, Charles, and let me, as quickly as possible, tell a tale that makes my cheek burn, for it must be told. After you were gone, I avoided your brother's presence as far as might be. I was never with him for a moment alone if I could help it, for I could not but see feelings that were never to be returned. Although there was something from the first in the Abbé de Boisguerin that I loved not, though I could not tell why--something in his eye that made me shrink into myself with a kind of fear,--I now courted him to be with me, in order to avoid the persecution of love for which I could not feel even grateful. At first he seemed inclined to give your brother opportunities; and I believe, I firmly believe, that he did so because he knew that those opportunities would but serve to confirm the coldness of my feelings towards him. When he saw that I sought him to be with us, he seemed to yield, and was now with me often almost alone, when there was none but one or two of my women in the further end of the room. He timed his visits well; and, for a space, well did he choose his conversation too. It was such as he knew must please my ear. He told me of other lands, and of princely scenes beyond the Alps, the beauties of nature, the miracles of art, the graceful but dangerous race of the Medici, the treasures, the unrivalled treasures of Florence and of Rome. I learned to forget the prejudices--I had first taken towards him, and he saw that I listened well pleased, and then he ventured to speak of you and of your brother. But oh, Charles, he spoke not as a friend to either. He blamed not, indeed; he even somewhat praised; but he undervalued all and every thing. There was not a word of censure, but there was every now and then a light sneer in the tone, a scornful turn of the lip, and curl of the nostril. It pleased me not, and seeing it, he wisely dropped such themes. He spoke of you no more; but he spoke of himself and of his own history. He told me that his was the more ancient branch of your own family, but that reverses and misfortunes had overtaken it; and that, careless of wealth or station, and any of the bubbles which the world's grown children follow, he had made no effort to raise his own branch from the ground to which it had fallen. But he said, however, that if he had had an object, a great and powerful object, he felt within himself those capabilities of mind which might raise him over some of the highest heads in the land: and none could hear his voice, and see the keen astuteness of his eye, without believing that what he said was true. And then again he spoke of the objects, the few, the only objects, which could induce a man of great and expansive intellect to mingle in the strife and turmoil of the world; and the chief of those objects, Charles, was woman's love. He was a churchman, Charles, and had taken vows which should have frozen such words upon his lips. I was silent, and I think turned pale, and he instantly changed the conversation to other things, speaking eloquently and nobly upon great and fine feelings, as I have seen one of the modellers in wax cast on the rough harsh form that he intended to give, and then soften it down with fine and delicate touches, so as to leave it smooth and pleasant to the eye. At length we set out to join my uncle; and your brother now had opportunities of paining me greatly by the open and the rash display of feelings that grieved and hurt me. He took means too to find moments to speak with me alone, which I must not dwell upon--means which were unworthy of one of your race, Charles. He tried to deceive me into such interviews by every sort of petty art; and if the Abbé de Boisguerin came to my relief, alas! it was but now to inflict upon me worse persecution. He dared to speak to me, Charles, words that none had ever dared to speak before--words that I must not repeat, that I must not even think of here, so near the holy calmness of the dead. These words were not, indeed, addressed to me directly; but they were used to figure forth what were the passions which an ardent and fiery heart might feel. They were intended evidently to let me know of what he himself was capable: though they breathed of love, there was somewhat of menace in them likewise. The very sound of his voice, the very glare of his eyes, now became terrible to me: but he seemed to consider that I was more in his power now than I had been at Montsoreau; and I need not tell you that to me the journey was a terrible one. To end it all, Charles--as I take it for granted that you know some part of what has taken place, even by seeing you here this night--I feel sure that it was by his machinations that I was betrayed into the hands of the King, whom I have all my life been taught to abhor, and by him given up to the power of a relation, from whom I have been sheltered by all my better friends as from the most venomous of serpents."
Charles of Montsoreau had heard all in deep silence, without interrupting her once. He gazed indeed, from time to time, upon her fair face, watching with love and admiration the bright but transient expressions that came across it: but he listened with full attention and deep thought; and when she had done, he replied, "What you have told me, dear Marie, indignant as it well may make me, was most necessary for me to hear, and is most satisfactory, for it explains all that I did not before comprehend or understand. His machinations, however, dear Marie, I now trust are at an end. What may be between Villequier and him I do not know; but I trust, dear Marie, I trust in that God who never does fail them that trust in him, that I come to bring you deliverance and to lead you to happiness. It would be long and tedious to tell you, beloved, all that has happened to me since I left you at Montsoreau. Suffice it that I have seen the Duke of Guise; that I have spent the greater part of the time with him; that I have been able, Marie, to serve him--he says, to save his life; and that to me he has entrusted the charge of seeking you and bringing you to join him at Soissons, in despite of any one that may oppose us."
"Oh, joy, joy!" cried Marie de Clairvaut. "When can we set out?" And she rose from her seat as if she hoped their departure might take place that minute. Charles of Montsoreau drew her gently to his heart, and, gazing into her deep tender eyes, he asked, "Will your joy be less, dear Marie, if you know that you go to be at once the bride of Charles of Montsoreau, with the full consent of your princely guardian, given by one who is well worthy to give, to one who is scarcely worthy to receive, such a jewel as yourself?"
Marie de Clairvaut hid her face upon his bosom, murmuring, in a scarcely audible tone, "Can you ask me, Charles?--But oh, let us speed away quickly; for though I, who have been here now several days, and have seen nothing but death and desolation round me ever since I came, have become accustomed to the scene, and doubtless to the air also, yet I fear for every moment that you remain here."
"I still fear not, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau. "Nevertheless, most glad am I to bear you away to happier scenes; and as soon as the horses have taken some rest, we will set out. And now, dear girl," he added, "I will send you from me. You need some repose, Marie; you need some tranquillity. Leave me then, dear girl, and try to sleep till the hour of our departure, while I will watch here for you, and call you before break of day."
"If you watch, Charles," replied Marie, "I will watch with you, for I need not repose. This morning, after closing the eyes of poor Madame de Saulny, and weeping long and bitterly over her and the poor girl who was the only one that chose to remain with me, exhausted with watching, anxiety, and grief, I fell asleep, and slept long. Before that, I had felt so weary and so heated, that I almost fancied--though without fearing it--that the plague might be coming upon me; but I woke refreshed and comforted just as the sun was going down, and I felt, as it were, a hope and expectation that some change would soon come over my fate. But you need at least refreshment, Charles. In the next room remains my last untasted meal--the last that the poor frightened beings who abandoned me, set before their mistress yesterday. I fear not to take you there, Charles, for no one has died in this part of the house."
Charles of Montsoreau followed her, and persuaded her also to take some light refreshment; and there they sat through the live-long night, speaking kind words from time to time, and watching each other's countenances with hope strong at the hearts of both, though somewhat chequered by fears, each for the other.