We must now pass over a considerable lapse of time without taking any note of the political intrigues with which it was occupied, and lead the reader at once from the month of May to the end of summer, and from the city of Paris to the distant town of Augoulême.
Under the high hill on which that city stands, at the distance of about a league from the base, was in those days a beautiful park with a pavilion of four towers; and in one of these towers, on a fine summer day towards the end of July, sat the young Marquis of Montsoreau together with the Abbé de Boisguerin: not exactly in conversation, for the Marquis had not spoken a word for nearly an hour; but in dull companionship.
The young nobleman's back was turned towards the light, his eyes were bent down upon the ground, his head drooped forward in a desponding attitude, the nostril was painfully expanded, as if he drew his breath with difficulty, and the teeth were tight shut, as it were to keep down some struggling emotions that swelled for utterance. An open letter lay upon the table, and another much more closely written, and written in cypher, was in the hand of the Abbé de Boisguerin. The Abbé's brow too was a good deal contracted, and his lip was somewhat pale, though it quivered not; but from time to time he addressed the young nobleman with words of consolation, regarding some afflicting tidings just received.
Those words, however, though well chosen, appropriate and elegant, were not of the words that console, for they were not of the heart. He reasoned logically on the inutility of human grief, and still more on the vanity of regretting that which could not be recalled. He spoke lightly of all deep feelings for any earthly thing, and he talked of every deed upon the face of the earth being justified by the importance of the objects to be obtained.
When he had talked thus for some time without obtaining any answer, he was going on to justify the past; but Gaspar de Montsoreau suddenly started up, and interrupted him with a vehemence which he had never displayed before.
"Abbé de Boisguerin," he said, "talk not to me of consolation and of comfort. Is not my brother dead? Is not my brother dead, killed by my own hand? Can you tear that from the book of fate? Can you blot it out from memory? Can you rase it for ever from the records of crimes done? Can you find me a pillow on all the earth, where I can lay my head in peace?"
"Your brother, indeed, is dead," said the Abbé de Boisguerin, without in the least degree trying to relieve the mind of his young companion from the crime with which conscience charged him. "Your brother, indeed, is dead; and it is not to be denied that your hand, my dear Gaspar, took his life; but yet you were in a city where war was actually going on between two parties, one of which you served, and the other your brother. These things have happened every day in civil wars, and always will happen. They are to be grieved at, but who can help them?"
"But I was engaged in no civil wars," exclaimed the young Marquis. "My men were at the Louvre. I was not fighting on the part of the King: I was not engaged in trampling down the people. But what was I busied with, Abbé de Boisguerin? I was engaged in a scheme for carrying off--from him she loved, and from those who had a right to protect her--one whom I had no title to control, whom I was bound by honour to guard and to defend. I was injuring her; I was preparing to injure her. If I had not lied to her myself, I had caused her to be deceived and lied to; and all that I had previously done made the act itself which I had committed, but the more hateful. Speak not to me of consolation, Abbé; speak not to me of hope or comfort. You of all men, do not venture to mention to me a word like happiness or confidence."
"And why not, my Lord?" demanded the Abbé somewhat sternly. "What have I done to merit reproach in the matter?"
"Has it not been you that have prompted me throughout?" demanded the Marquis. "Was it not you who devised the scheme, prepared the means, got possession of the Queen's letter by corrupting her servants. Was it not your tool, that, upon pretence of assisting her to the other gates of the hotel, got her into our power; and was it not you, when her prayers and entreaties and agitation would have made me yield--was it not you that resisted, and remorselessly bade the men carry her on? Did you not yourself stand by me when the shot was fired; and was it not your warning, that disgrace and death must follow hesitation, which winged the ball that took my brother's life?"
"It is all true, Gaspar," replied the Abbé de Boisguerin in a sad but no longer a harsh tone. "It is all true; and from you I meet the reward, which all men will meet and well deserve who love others better than themselves, and who do for them things that they would not do for themselves. Nevertheless, I still think that there was not that evil on our side with which you seem to reproach yourself. Shocked and mourning for your brother's death, you see all things in dark and gloomy colours. Those things which you regarded before as light, have now become to you heavy and sombre as night. But all this is but mood, and let me call to your remembrance what sense and reason say. You and your brother loved the same person,--you vehemently, warmly, devotedly; he coldly, and by halves. You, as the elder brother and as lord of the dwelling in which she was received, had, if any thing, the first claim upon her; and he himself rendered that claim still greater by leaving her entirely to you, and absenting himself from her. You had every right, therefore, to seek her hand by all means; and when you found that, though he affected generous forbearance, he had gone covertly to forestall your demand, and gain the promise of her hand from her guardian, surely you were bound to keep no measures with him. All I did subsequently was to serve you in a cause that I thought was right, and it is but a few days ago that you were grateful to me for so doing. I said at the time, and I say again, that if at the moment when your brother commenced his attack upon the house in the Rue de la Ferronière, either you or I had been taken, death and eternal disgrace would have been the consequence. We acted but in our own defence, and those who assailed us cannot accuse us for so acting."
Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him in sullen silence, his dark eyes rolling from side to side beneath his heavy eyebrows. In his dealings with the Abbé de Boisguerin he had by this time learned fully how artful and politic was the man who led him. He saw it, and he could not doubt it, even while he shared in the things at which his better spirit revolted. But that very knowledge taught him to doubt, whether the art and the policy were used for his service, and out of affection to him, or whether they were all directed in some secret way to the benefit of him who wielded them so dexterously. The suspicions which Villequier had instilled rose fresh in his mind at this very time; and as his only answer to the Abbé's reasonings, he demanded with a keen glance and a sharp tone, "Tell me. Abbé, was it, or was it not, you who brought the reiters upon us, and who gave the King's forces notice of our passage?"
"I did the one, but not the other," replied the Abbé calmly. "I dealt not with the reiters, Gaspar de Montsoreau, for that would have been dangerous to me, to her, and to you. But I did inform the troops of the King, because I already had learned how deeply the Duke of Guise was pledged to your brother; because I knew that no reasoning would prevent either you or this fair girl from going on to Soissons; and because I saw that there was no earthly chance of your obtaining her hand, but by placing her under the charge of her father's nearest male relation, from whom the Duke of Guise unjustly withholds the guardianship. I own it, I acknowledge it, I am proud of it."
The way in which the Abbé replied was not such as Gaspar de Montsoreau had expected; but dissatisfied with himself, and of course with every thing else, Gaspar de Montsoreau still gazed sullenly on the floor, and then raised his eyes to the open window of the pavilion, where the warm sun was seen streaming through the green vines, with the birds still singing sweetly in the woods without. But it was all to him as the face of Eden to our first parents after the fall; a shade seemed to come over his eyes when he looked upon the loveliness of nature; the very sunshine seemed to him darkness; and the fair world a desert.
"Can you give me back my delight in that sunshine?" he said, after a pause. "Can you make the notes of those birds again sound sweet to my ear? Can you remove the heavy, heavy burden of remorse from this heart? Can you ever, ever prove to me, that for this unrequited love I have not made myself a guilty wretch, bearing the sign of Cain upon his brow, the curse of Cain within his bosom?"
"If such be your feelings," replied the Abbé, "if such--contrary to all justice and reason--is the state in which your mind is to remain, there is one way that will alleviate and soothe you, that may seem in your eyes some atonement, and put your conscience more at rest. Cast off this love which you believe has led you into evil, yield the pursuit of this fair girl, renounce the object for which you did that whereof your heart reproaches you, and by that voluntary punishment and self-command, do penance for aught in which you may have failed. Doubtless, that penance will be severe and terrible to endure; but the more it is so, the greater is the atonement."
The Marquis gazed him in the face thoughtfully while the Abbé spoke, and then fell into a long reverie. His brow was raised and depressed, his teeth gnawed his nether lip, his hand clenched and opened with the struggle that was going on within, and at length, stamping his heel upon the ground, he exclaimed, "No, no, no! I have paid a mighty price, and I will save the jewel that I have bought with my soul's salvation! That fiery love is the only thing now left me upon earth.--She shall be mine, or I will die! What is there that shall stop me now? What is there that shall hinder me? Have I not wealth, and power, and courage, and strength, and daring, and determination? The fear of crime! the fear of crime! that weak barrier is cast down and trampled under my feet. Have I not broken the nearest and the dearest ties of kindred and affection, murdered the brother that hung on the same breast, dimmed the eyes that looked upon me in infancy, frozen the warm heart that was cradled in the same womb with mine?--Out upon it! What is there should stop me now? The lesser crimes of earth, the smaller violences, seem ground into unseen dust by this greater crime. Abbé, I will buy her of Villequier!--I know how to win him!--I will force her to love me, or she shall hate her husband! What is there shall stop me now? I will buy the priest as well as the ring, or the wedding garment; and she shall be mine, whether her heart be mine or not!".
While he spoke the Abbé de Boisguerin gazed upon him with one of his calm dark smiles; but upon the present occasion that smile upon the lip was at variance with a slight frown upon his brow. He replied little, however, saying merely, "It is so, Gaspar! It is so, that men seek to enjoy the fruit, and yet regret the means. They will never find happiness thus, however."
"Happiness!" exclaimed the Marquis, with a look of agony upon his face. "Is there such a thing as happiness? Oh yes, there is, and I once knew it, when together with that brother who is now no more, and you also, my friend, undisturbed by stormy passions, content with that I had, blessed with the only friendship and affection that was needful to content, I passed the sunny hours in sport and joy, and scarcely knew the common pains incident to man's general nature. And you have aided to destroy this state, and you have helped to drive me forth from happiness, to blot it out so entirely, that I could almost forget it ever existed."
"No, no, Gaspar of Montsoreau!" exclaimed the Abbé quickly, "I have not done any of these things you talk of. I have not aided in any one degree to take from you the happiness you formerly had. There is but one secret for the preservation of happiness, Gaspar. It matters not what is the object of desire, for any thing that we thirst for really may give us happiness in nearly the same portion as another. Happiness is gained by the right estimation of the means. If a man ever uses means that he regrets, to obtain any object that he desires, he loses the double happiness which may be obtained in life, the happiness of pursuit and the happiness of enjoyment. Every means must, of course, be proportioned to its end; where much is to be won, much must be risked or paid: but the firm strong mind, the powerful understanding, weighs the object against the price; and, if it be worthy, whatever that price may be, after it is once paid and the object attained, regrets not the payment. It is like an idle child who covets a gilt toy, spoils it in half an hour, and then regrets the money it has cost, ever to sorrow over means we have used, when those means have proved successful. Say not, Gaspar, that I disturbed your happiness! While you were in your own lands, enjoying the calm pleasures of a provincial life, knowing no joys, seeking no pleasures but those which, like light winds that ruffle the surface and plough not up the bosom of the water, amuse the mind but never agitate the heart, I lived contented and happy amongst you, believing that, but once or twice at most in the life of man, a joy is set before him, which is worthy of being bartered against amusement. I joined in all your sports, I furnished you with new sources of the same calm pleasures; and as long as I saw the passions were shut out, I sought no change for myself or for you either. But when the moment came, that strong and deep passions were to be introduced; when I saw that your heart, and that of your brother, like the moulded figure by the demigod, had been touched with the ethereal fire, and woke from slumber never to sleep again, then it was but befitting that I should aid him who confided in me, in the pursuit that he was now destined to follow. If the object was a great and worthy one, the means to obtain it were necessarily powerful and hazardous. No man ought to yield his repose for any thing that is not worth all risks; but having once begun the course, he must go on; and weak and idle is he who cannot overleap the barriers that he meets with, or, when the race is won, turns to regret this flower or that which he may have trampled down in his course."
"You are harsh, Abbé," replied the Marquis thoughtfully, somewhat shaken by his words--for though the wounds of remorse admit no balm, they are sometimes forgotten in strong excitement. "You are harsh, but yet it is a terrible thing to have slain one's brother."
"It is," replied the Abbé; "but circumstances give the value of every fact. It is a terrible thing to slay any human being; to take the life of a creature, full of the same high intelligences as ourselves: but if I slay that man in a room, and for no purpose, it is called murder; if I slay him in a battle-field, in order to obtain a crown, it is a glorious act, and worthy of immortal renown."
The Marquis listened to his sophistry, eager to take any theme of consolation to his heart. But any one who heard him, would have supposed that the Abbé de Boisguerin thought his companion too easily consoled. Perhaps it might be that the Abbé himself sought to defend his share in the transaction, rather than to give any comfort to his unhappy cousin. At all events, after a brief pause, during which both fell into thought, he added, "What I grieve the most for is, that Charles was kind-hearted and generous, frank and true, and I believe sincerely that, but for this unhappy business, he loved us both."
"Ay, there is the horror! there is the horror!" exclaimed the Marquis, casting himself down into a chair, and covering his eyes with his hands. "He did love me, I know he did; and I believe he sought to act generously by me."
The Abbé suffered him to indulge in his grief for a moment or two, and then replied, "But the misfortune is, that, with all this, your object is not yet secured; that though you have once more snatched her from the power of the Guises, you have not contrived to keep her in your own."
The Marquis waved his hand impatiently, saying, "I cannot--I will not talk of such things now. Leave me, Abbé, leave me! I can but grieve; there is no way that I can turn without encountering sorrow."
The Abbé turned and left him; and descending the steps into the gardens, he walked on in the calm sunshine, as tranquilly as if purity and holiness had dwelt within his breast. "I must bear this yet a while longer," he said to himself. "But now, if I could find some enthusiastic priest, full of wild eloquence, such as we have in Italy, to seize this deep moment of remorse, we might do much with him to make him abjure this pursuit; perhaps abjure the world! The foolish boy thinks that it was his hand that did it, and does not know that I fired at all, when his hand shook so that he could not well have struck him. Perhaps there may be such a priest as I need up there," he continued, looking towards Augoulême, "perhaps there may be such a priest up there, of the kind I want. Epernon has his fits of devotion too, I believe. At all events, I will go up and see. The madder the better for my purpose."
Thus saying he called some servants, ordered his horse, and, as soon as it was brought, rode away towards Augoulême.
Gaspar de Montsoreau remained in the same position in which the Abbé had left him for nearly an hour, and the struggle of the various passions which agitated his heart, were perhaps as terrible as any that had ever been known to human being. His situation, indeed, was one which exposed him more than most men are ever exposed, to the contention of the most opposite feelings. He had not been led gradually on, as many are, step by step, to evil; but he had been taken from the midst of warm and kindly feelings, from the practice of right, and an habitual course of calm and tranquil enjoyment, and by the mastery of one strong and violent passion had been plunged into the midst of crimes which had left anguish and remorse behind them.
Still, however, the passion which had at first led him astray, existed in all its fierceness and all its intensity; and, like some quiet field--from which the husbandman has been accustomed to gather yearly, in the calm sunshine, a rich and kindly harvest--when suddenly made the place of strife by contending armies, his heart, so tranquil and so happy not a year before, had now become the battle-place of remorse and love.
Sometimes the words of the Abbé came back upon his ear, urging him to abandon for ever, as a penance for his crime, the pursuit which had already led him to such awful deeds; but then again the thought of Marie de Clairvaut, of never beholding that beautiful being again, of yielding her for ever, perhaps, to the arms of others, came across his brain, and almost drove him mad.
Then would rush remorse again upon his heart, the features of his brother rose up before him, his graceful form seemed to move within his sight; the frank warm-hearted, kindly smile, that had ever greeted him when they met, was now painted by memory to his eye; and many a trait of generous kindness, many a noble, many an endearing act, the words and jests of boyhood and infancy, the long remembered sports of early years, the accidents, the adventures, the tender and twining associations of youth and happiness, forgotten in the strife of passion and the contention of rivalry, now came back, as vividly as the things of yesterday--came back, alas! now that death had ended the struggle, rendered the deeds of the past irreparable, thrown the pall of remorse over the last few months, and left memory alone to deck the tomb of the dead with bright flowers gathered from their spring of life.
It was too much to bear: he turned back again to the words, not of consolation but of incitement, which the Abbé had spoken to him. He tried to think it was folly to regret what had been done; he tried to recollect that it was in a scene of contention, and in moments of strife, that his brother had fallen; he strove to persuade himself that Marie de Clairvaut had been under his care and guidance and direction, and that his brother Charles had had no right even to attempt to take her out of his hands. He laboured, in short, to steel his heart; to render it as hard iron, in order to resist the things that it had to endure. He sought anxiously to rouse it into activity; and he tried to fix his mind still upon the thoughts of winning Marie de Clairvaut. He resolved, at whatever price, by whatever sacrifice, to gain her, to possess her, to make her his own beyond recall: with the eagerness of passion and the recklessness of remorse, he determined to pursue his course, trusting, as many have idly trusted, that he should induce the woman, whose affections and feelings he forced, to love the man to whose passions she was made a sacrifice.
The struggle was still going on, the voice of conscience was raising itself loudly from time to time, memory was doing her work, and passion was opposing all, when, without hearing any step, or knowing that any one had arrived at the house, he felt a hand quietly laid upon his arm, and starting up with a feeling almost of terror, which was unusual to him, he beheld the dark and sinister, though handsome, countenance of Villequier.
The courtier grasped his hand with enthusiastic warmth, and gazed in his face with a look of deep interest. "You are sad, Monsieur de Montsoreau," he said; "I grieve to see you so sad. I fear that the news which I came to break to you has been told you, perhaps, in a rash and inconsiderate manner. You are aware then that your brother is no more. I hoped to have been in time, for I only heard it the day before yesterday, in the evening, from the Duke of Guise, who is now with the King, and, as you know, all powerful."
Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him to an end, and then merely bowed his head, saying, "I have heard all, Monsieur de Villequier." But although he saw that his companion--who had more than once witnessed the fierceness of his feelings towards his brother regarding Mademoiselle de Clairvaut--was surprised at the deep grief he now betrayed, he dared not let him know how much that grief was aggravated by remorse, from the belief that his own hand had cut the thread of his brother's life.
"I am sorry. Monsieur de Montsoreau," added Villequier, "to see you so deeply affected by this matter. Pray remember, that though Monsieur de Logères was your brother, he was struggling with you for the hand of the person you love, and that his being now removed, renders your hope of obtaining the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut no longer doubtful and remote, but certain and almost immediate."
"I see not the matter in the same cheering light that you do, Monsieur de Villequier," replied Gaspar de Montsoreau thoughtfully. "You say, and I hear also that it is so, that the Duke of Guise is now all powerful with the King; if such be the case, what results have we to anticipate? Do you think that the Duke of Guise will ever consent to the union of his ward with me? Do you think that, prejudging the question as he has already done, he will give me the bride that he promised to my brother? Have I not heard from those who were present, that he has sworn by all he holds sacred, that never, under any circumstances, should she be mine?"
"The Duke of Guise is not immortal," replied Villequier drily; "and his death leaves her wholly in my power. Should such an event not take place, however, and the period of her attaining free agency approach, we must risk a little should need be, and employ a certain degree of gentle compulsion to drive or lead her to that which we desire."
"When will it be?" demanded Gaspar of Montsoreau. "Why should we pause? why should we risk any thing by delay?"
"She becomes a free agent by the law," replied Villequier, "on the morrow of next Christmas. If that day passes, it is true, prayers and supplications will be all that can be used, for the Parliament will extend its protection to her, and not the King himself can force her to wed any one she does not choose. Before that period her guardian can, for such is the feudal law of this realm, that she can be forced either to resign her lands or produce some one in her stead to lead her retainers in the King's service. The law has been somewhat stretched, it is true; but on more than one occasion, with the consent of the King, the guardian of a young lady difficult to please, has compelled her to make a choice, and the Parliament has sanctioned the act."
"Are you not her lawful guardian, then?" demanded the young Marquis, "that you should hesitate, in hopes of the Duke of Guise's death."
"I maintain that I am her guardian," replied Villequier, "and my suit is before the Parliament; but I should be much more certainly her guardian, if the Duke of Guise were dead."
"The Duke of Guise dead!" said Gaspar de Montsoreau sullenly. "A thing improbable, unlikely, not to be counted upon. If that be all my hold upon you, Monsieur de Villequier, the hopes that you have held out to me are but slight in fabric and foundation."
"Hear me, my good young friend," replied Villequier. "They are not so slight as you imagine. In the first place, we have for some time held in France that rash and troublesome persons who oppose our progress, or thwart our desires, are to be encountered for a certain time by the arts of policy and by every soft and quiet inducement we may hold out to them. When we have been patient as long as possible, and find that they are not to be frustrated by any ordinary means, it becomes necessary to put a stop to their opposition, and to remove them from the way in which we are proceeding. Now, the Duke of Guise has been very busily teaching a number of persons, both high and low, that his prolonged life would be extremely inconvenient to them. Biron does not love him, D'Aumont abominates him, D'O. has good cause to wish him a step beyond Jerusalem; Henry of Navarre has in him a bitter enemy; the rash, vain, Count of Soissons an obstacle and a stumbling-block; and though I am his humble servant, and the King his very good friend, yet both Henry and myself could do quite as well without him. Besides these, there are at least ten thousand more in France who would walk with their beavers far more gallantly, if there were a Guise the less in the world; so that I say, on very probable reasoning, that I would fully as soon reckon upon the life of a man of eighty, as I would upon the robust, powerful existence of Henry of Guise even for an hour. But putting all that aside. Monsieur de Montsoreau, taking it for granted that he lives, what can I do but what I propose? You have the King's promise and mine in writing; we can do no more. The cause is before the Parliament, and Henry, restrained in his own court, at war with his own subjects, and driven from his own capital, depend upon it, will never sign your contract of marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut till every other hope has failed; ay, and what is more, till he sees before him a very very great object to be gained by so doing."
"A fresh object you mean, Monsieur de Villequier," replied Gaspar de Montsoreau. "I know that this is the way in which kings and statesmen deal with men less wise than themselves. There must be always one object secured to obtain the promise, and another to obtain the performance. Pray, what is the new object, Monsieur de Villequier? and is it sure, that if an object be held out of sufficient worth and importance, the King will not find some specious reason for drawing back, or that some new irresistible obstacle does not present itself?"
"Consider the King's situation. Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, "with the Duke of Guise constantly at his side, dictating to him all his movements, with the question, of guardianship even now lying before the Parliament, he would run the very greatest risk at this moment if he were to do as we both wish, and forcibly hurry on this business to a conclusion. But the aspect of affairs is changing every day,--the Count of Soissons has come to join him; Henry of Navarre himself has sent him offers of assistance and support; Epernon, roused into activity, is levying forces in all parts of the country; every day the King may expect to make some way against the party of his adversaries; and therefore every day is something gained. But even were it not so very hazardous to attempt any thing of the kind at present, you could not expect the King to risk much, and embarrass his policy for your sake, without some individual motive. That this business should take place, is your strong and intense desire. It is very natural that it should be so; but neither the King nor myself have any such feelings, passions, or wishes. Let us each have our advantage, or our gratification, in that which is to ensue, and I will undertake, and pledge myself in the most solemn manner, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut shall be your wife before next Christmas-day."
Gaspar de Montsoreau paused, and thought carefully over all that had been said. "I thank you. Monsieur de Villequier," he said, "for speaking freely in this matter. Let us cast away all idle delicacy. Things have happened to me lately which have taught me to hold all such empty verbiage at naught. Let us look upon this business as a matter of dealing, a matter of merchandise."
"Exactly!" replied Villequier raising his eyes slightly, but not seeming in the least degree offended. "Let us consider it in such a light. Every matter of policy is but trade upon a large scale."
"Well then," continued Gaspar de Montsoreau in the same bold tone, "I will look upon you and the King, Monsieur de Villequier, as two partners in a mercantile house. Now, what sort of merchandise is it that you would prefer to have in barter for your signature to my marriage contract with this young Lady. Shall it be money?"
"Money!" exclaimed Villequier, with a slight ironical smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "Have you any money? It is indeed a surprising thing to hear any one talk of money except the Duke of Guise, or the Duke of Epernon. Why, Bellievre assures me, upon his honour, that the very dispatch which he was ordered to send to Soissons, to forbid positively the Duke of Guise coming to Paris, was stopped, for what reason think you? Because, when he took it down to the treasury, there was not found fifty livres to pay the courier's expenses. The courier would not go without the money, Bellievre had none to give him, so between them both they carried the King's dispatch to the post, and put it in with the common letters. The letters went to Rheims before they were sent to Soissons, and the Duke of Guise was in Paris, while the order to forbid him was on the road.[3] Money? Oh certainly, money above all things! But pray do not let it be a large sum, lest, like an apoplectic epicure, the King's treasury and my purse die of sudden repletion."
"Well then, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis, after taking one or two turns up and down the room, "I will tell you what I will do, to show you how dearly I hold the gift that is promised me. On the day of my marriage with Marie de Clairvaut, when it is all completed, the benediction said, the contract signed, your name as guardian, and the King's in confirmation attached, I will place in your hands the sum of one hundred thousand crowns of the sun."
"Heavens and earth!" exclaimed Villequier in the same tone in which he had spoken before, "I did not know that there was such a sum in France. If I were to tell it to Monsieur d'O. he would not believe me."
"But remember, Monsieur de Villequier," replied Gaspar of Montsoreau, not quite liking the levity of his companion's speech, "this is no jesting matter with me, whatever it may be with you; and I must have such sure and perfect warranty that you will not betray my hopes again, or ask for even the slightest further delay, that there cannot be a doubt rest upon my mind; otherwise----"
"Otherwise what, Monsieur de Montsoreau?" demanded Villequier. "If we do not keep our words, you know we shall lose the great advantage that we hope to gain from you. That is the surest bond! Let the matter stand thus, sir: if this marriage do take place, as I have promised you it shall, the hundred thousand crowns of gold are paid; if not, we are the losers. I see no alternative beyond this."
"By Heavens! but there is, and there shall be one," answered Gaspar de Montsoreau impetuously. "I see that Monsieur de Villequier, who is supposed to count upon every chance and circumstance collateral and direct, has forgotten one or two points, although he has not forgotten that I am heir of my brother's lands, both of Logères and Morly. But I will only put him in mind of what might take place on either side. The King and Monsieur de Villequier might find obstacles of great import rise up against my wishes, or they might find greater advantages in some other quarter; they might think it worth while to keep me trifling in inactivity, or employ me in their service against the enemy. They might do all this, and then forego the sum named for a greater. I, on the other hand. Monsieur de Villequier, might see wavering and hesitation; I might grow tired of waiting and dependence; I might say to-morrow I have no certainty in this business, and I might give my banner to the wind, broider the cross of the League upon my breast, or assume the double cross of Lorraine, and either range the spears of Montsoreau and Logères in the ranks of the army of Mayenne, or marching to Chartres, Tours, or Blois, might bow me lowly to my Lord of Guise, and begging him to forget the past, swear myself his faithful servant."
Villequier gazed on him for a moment with certainly not the most friendly expression of countenance, and was about to speak; but the young Marquis, conscious of his own importance, waved his hand, saying, "Nay, nay, Monsieur de Villequier! on all and on every account the plan I am about to propose is the only one that can be followed. Of course, in dealing with his Majesty, I cannot treat as crown to crown;" and he smiled somewhat bitterly. "But I must treat with you as gentleman to gentleman, and leave you to entreat his Majesty--urgently and zealously, as I doubt not you will do it, to accede graciously to our views. Thus then shall it be, that you and the King shall enter into a bond with me, by which you shall engage that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut shall, with the full consent of both parties expressed by their signature to our marriage-contract, become my wife on or before next Christmas-day, and in default shall be subject to amercement in whatsoever amount the Parliament of Paris may judge that I am damaged by the want of performance. This is merely to secure that the matter be explicit; and in the same bond may be placed my engagement to pay the sum named, upon the fulfilment of the contract. This is fair, and only fair; and you know my last resolve."
"In truth, Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, "if you knew but the state of our finances, you would see that we are far more likely to be so eager in concluding this business as even to risk dangerous consequences, than to trifle with you in any degree."
He remembered the curious engagement that he had entered into with the Abbé de Boisguerin, and he paused a moment, in hopes that Gaspar de Montsoreau might show even the slightest sign of hesitation: but, so far from it, the frown deepened on the young nobleman's brow, and he replied sharply, "I will trust to no contingencies. Monsieur de Villequier. These are changing times, as you well know. The cross Fleurdelisée in your arms[4] may well be changed, by the golden billets dropped around it, into the cross of Lorraine. If what I have offered be as good as you say, there is no earthly reason why his Majesty of France or yourself, Monsieur de Villequier, should object to enter into the engagement with me that I propose."
"Well," answered Villequier; "well, I must do my best with the King; but I dare say, Monsieur de Montsoreau," he said in a lower voice, "I dare say you are well aware that a little compulsion, perhaps, must be used in this instance."
He thought he saw hesitation, and he went on the more eagerly, for he wished to avoid the written engagement. "I must be permitted to use what means I think fit to wring consent from the young Lady herself. Nor must I have one word of objection on your part, whatever you see or hear--no asking for delay!--no yielding to her tears. One word of such a kind, remember, vitiates the engagement upon our part, but leaves you as strictly bound as ever."
Gaspar de Montsoreau gazed down upon the ground sternly for several moments, with his brows contracting, till his eyes were nearly hid beneath them. His fingers were seen to clasp into the palms of his hands, as if the nails would have buried themselves there. But after a short and terrible struggle, the evil spirit maintained its ascendancy, and he exclaimed, "Be it so! Be it so! But in the meantime, sir," he continued abruptly, "there is one thing I have to demand. How have I been led with hopes, and meeting nothing but disappointments, for the last two months. I who dared all, and underwent all, to snatch her once more from the power of the Guises. When forced to fly, it was under your power and in your charge I left her; and yet, though this is the fourth or fifth time that you and I have met, I have never been able to see her, or to learn distinctly where she is. This must be no longer, Monsieur de Villequier. I need consolation; I need comfort; the only comfort or consolation I can find is in her presence and in her society. Where is she?--I demand to know where she is. I was brought to Augoulême by information that she was in the neighbourhood; but I cannot discover her, and I will be trifled with no longer."
"By all I hold sacred," exclaimed Villequier, not a little surprised by the bold and daring tone and decided manner, which the young nobleman had so suddenly put on, "By all I hold sacred----"
"What is that, sir?" demanded Gaspar de Montsoreau.
Villequier smiled. "Oh many things, Monsieur de Montsoreau," he answered; "I hold many things sacred. But with any oath or abjuration that you think most convenient, I assure you that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is not under my charge, or in my power at this moment."
"But was so how long ago?" demanded the Marquis.
"About a fortnight," replied Villequier coolly. "The fact is, Monsieur de Montsoreau, that his high and mighty Highness, the Duke of Guise, having come to pay a humble visit to his Majesty--to congratulate him, I suppose, on being driven out of Paris,--gave significant notice to the King, on their first interview at Chartres, that he believed Mademoiselle de Clairvaut to be in my hands, and that he would have her instantly delivered up. I was not present, you know, but every thing passed as the Guises wished. I dare say you have heard all the rest; Epernon was banished, and fled to Augoulême here, stripped of his high posts and manifold emoluments; Guise was created generalissimo of the King's armies; in fact, Guise dictated the law to the King, and Henry was fain to forget all the past, or to cover the bitter memory with a jest."
"But to the point; to the point, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis de Montsoreau. "What of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut?"
"Why, the King told me," replied Villequier, "that the Duke demanded her at all events till the Parliament of Paris had decided our cause. The next day the Duke and I had an interview on the subject; but ere that, I had placed her in the hands of a friend, and begged him to remove her for a time from the house where she then was. The Duke was as imperious and unceremonious as an executioner. He vowed that I should give her up to him at once; and though we did our best to deceive him, exactly as we had done with your wild thoughtless brother, the Duke did not so easily believe us; and both I and the King were obliged to swear upon the mass that she was not in our power, and that we knew not where she was. That was easily done; but Henry's low laugh had nearly betrayed the whole; and the Duke swore loudly, and menaced high, that if he were deceived, he would have vengeance."
"And now, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis, "where is she now? And who is the friend in whose hands you have placed her?"
Villequier paused for a single moment, as if to consider whether he should tell him or not. But a moment after he answered with a smile, "The friend in whose hands she is placed, Monsieur de Montsoreau, is one in whom at that time you yourself placed great confidence. I trust the same feelings exist still towards him. I mean the Abbé de Boisguerin."
Gaspar de Montsoreau started at the intelligence with feelings of angry dissatisfaction, which he could hardly account for to himself, but which he instantly strove to conceal from the keen eyes of the artful man with whom he was dealing. The exclamation of "Indeed!" however, which broke from his lips, was uttered in a tone which instantly showed Villequier that the tidings were by no means pleasing; and while he suffered the young Marquis to digest them at leisure he laid out in his own mind a plan for keeping the Abbé and his former pupil at variance, not with any clear and definite object, indeed, but for the purpose of having a check upon the young Marquis at any future moment, in case of necessity. Villequier felt, too, that the clear, artful, and unscrupulous mind of the Abbé de Boisguerin was far better fitted to deal with, and frustrate him in any purpose that he might entertain, than that of the young Marquis, which, though not deficient either in acuteness or policy, was constantly misled by inexperience, or by the impetuosity of strong passions. He felt that the counsels of the Abbé might under many circumstances, if given sincerely, be a safeguard to Gaspar de Montsoreau against his arts; and he therefore saw no slight advantage in encouraging feelings of doubt and dissatisfaction in the mind of his young companion.
"It is surprising," said the Marquis, "that the Abbé did not communicate to me the facts which you have mentioned, Monsieur de Villequier; but I suppose that you bound him down to secrecy."
"To general secrecy," replied Villequier, "as was absolutely necessary. But you, of course, as my friend, and as the person most interested--you, of course, were excepted. No, Monsieur de Montsoreau, no! In this business the Abbé has acted upon his own judgment. He was then at Blois, you know. I was in great haste, knew no other person to whom I could apply, and therefore entrusted him with the task, thinking him also, at that time, you must remember, sincerely, truly, and devotedly your friend."
"And have you any cause. Monsieur de Villequier," demanded the Marquis, "have you any cause to suppose now that he is not my friend?"
"Nay, Monsieur de Montsoreau!" replied Villequier. "If you are satisfied, I have nothing to say. I only thought you seemed dissatisfied, and----"
"And what, Monsieur de Villequier?" demanded the Marquis, seeing that he paused.
"I was going to say," replied Villequier, "that it might be as well for you to be upon your guard. We are living in troublous times, Monsieur de Montsoreau. We are both of us placed in a delicate situation; every word and action ought to be guided by policy and forethought; and though I do not wish to wound the delicacy of your friendship towards your relation and friend, Monsieur de Boisguerin, yet we all know that he is a skilful politician, and that when, some years ago, even as a young man he appeared at the Court of France, her Majesty the Queen-mother was heard to say, she was glad when he was gone, for she was confident that he would outwit Satan himself, and therefore might go far to outwit her."
"I should not mind his policy," replied the Marquis. "I should not mind his policy, if you had not insinuated doubts as to whether he was at heart my friend."
Villequier answered nothing, but gazed down upon the ground with his brow somewhat contracted, and then stirred the rushes on the floor with the point of his sword, as if determined not to make any reply.
"You are silent, Monsieur de Villequier," said Gaspar of Montsoreau; "and yet there is hanging a cloud of much thought upon your brow, as if there were intelligence in your breast which you could give, but would not. I beseech you, if you are really friendly to me--or to speak more plainly--if our interests in this business are in some degree linked together, I beseech you to let me know fully and fairly what you think, and what you know, of the Abbé de Boisguerin."
"Thus adjured, Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, "I can but answer you, that I do not think Monsieur de Boisguerin is as friendly to you as you suppose. Depend upon it, he has his own purposes to answer first, and you are but a secondary consideration, if not, perhaps, a tool."
"These are grave charges, sir," said Gaspar de Montsoreau, somewhat angry at the term tool. "I should like to have some proofs to sustain them."
"See! you are angry already," cried Villequier. "However, at the present moment I have no proofs to give. At some future time--ay, before the period of your marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I may give you such proof of what is the Abbé's real character and real feelings towards you, that you will say I am well justified. In the meantime I have warned you sufficiently to put you on your guard. That is enough for the present moment: you must act as you think fit; but still you will be prepared. Farther, I have only to say, that it is not I that keep you from seeing Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You have my full will and consent to see her whom you will. I would not, indeed, have you visit her too often, lest discovery should ensue, and Guise obtain possession of her at once. But your own discretion must be your guide. I will now leave you, Monsieur de Montsoreau; and, depend upon it, you will not find that I will fail you in any of the promises I have made, and will very soon return to you with the business arranged by the King, in the manner that you desire. We must then wait until further delay be judged dangerous: then if nothing occurs to relieve us from the other obstacles, we must in the end step over them; and, forgetting a little law, conclude your marriage, whether the Parliament awards me the guardianship or not. When once she is made your wife, they cannot easily unwife her."
Gaspar de Montsoreau, full of thoughts rather than words, did not pursue the conversation further. "I have but shown you scanty courtesy, Monsieur de Villequier," he said, "in not asking you to make your home of my poor house. It is not, indeed, such as I could wish to offer you, having been taken from its bankrupt lord in some slight haste. But still----"
"I thank you most humbly, Marquis," replied Villequier. "But I am bound farther to the city on the hill there. I must lodge with Epernon to-night, for I have messages to him from the King."
Thus saying, after various more such ceremonious speeches as the age required, Villequier took his departure, and mounting his horse, which he had ordered to be kept still saddled in the court-yard, he rode on towards Augoulême, followed by his train. As he did so, he once more thought over the alliance between Gaspar de Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut. "If I can bring it about," he thought, "I not only gain this sum he promises, but bind him to me for ever. I am her nearest male relation, and I could not well find such an alliance in France. Montsoreau, Morly, Logères; it is a wonderful combination! But even, were it not for that--were it half as good, where should I get the man in France who would give a hundred thousand golden crowns for the possession of such a cold piece of pretty marble as that."