Was the Duke of Guise unconscious of the dangers that surrounded him? Was he unaware that the power which he assumed, and the power which the States also put upon him, could not but render him obnoxious in the highest degree to the King, who, though weak and indolent, was jealous of that authority which he failed himself to exercise for the benefit of his people? Was the Duke ignorant that the Monarch was as treacherous as feeble, was as remorseless as vicious? Was it unknown to him, that to all the creatures who surrounded the King he was an object of hatred and jealousy; and that there were ready hands and base hearts enough to attempt any thing which the royal authority might warrant?
He was not so ignorant, or so unaware: he had been warned sufficiently, days and weeks before; but even had that not been the case, on that very night he received sufficient intimations of his danger to put him on his guard.
He had presided at the supper-table as Grand Master of the King's household, and he had received his guests with easy courtesy. The meal was over somewhat sooner than usual; and, the business of the State being considerably slackened, in consequence of the approaching festival of Christmas, he sat in his cabinet with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut only, enjoying an hour of refreshment in calm and tranquil conversation upon subjects, which, however agitating to them, was merely a matter of pleasant interest to him.
Charles of Montsoreau sat by his side making some notes of various little things that the Duke told him, and Marie de Clairvaut was seated on a stool at his feet, while he looked down upon her, from time to time, with the sort of parental tenderness which he had displayed towards her from her infancy.
A pleasing sort of melancholy had come over him,--a sadness without grief, and mingling even occasionally with gaiety. It was that sort of present consciousness of the emptiness of all worldly things, which every man at some moment feels, even the ambitious, the greedy, the zealous, the passionate. Perhaps that which had brought such a mood upon him, was the contrast of all the arrangements for his fair ward's marriage and the deep and intense feelings which that event excited in the bosom of herself and Charles of Montsoreau, with the eager and fiery struggles in which he had been lately taking part, while engaged in the dark fierce strife of ambition, or tossed in the turbid whirlpool of political intrigue. And thus he sat, and thus he talked with them of their future prospects and their coming happiness, sometimes speaking seriously, nay gravely--sometimes jesting lightly, and smiling when he had made Marie cast down her eyes.
As he thus sat there was a tap at the door of his cabinet, and the Duke knowing it to be the page, bade him enter; when the boy Ignati appearing, informed him that the Count de Schomberg was without.
"Bid him come in," replied the Duke, keeping his seat, and making a sign for his companions not to stir. "Welcome, Schomberg," he said; "you see that I am plotting no treason here. What do you think of my two children? Joinville will be jealous of my eldest son. But, jesting apart, I think you know the Count de Logères. My niece, Marie, I know you have had many a time upon your knee in her infancy."
Schomberg bowed to each, but gravely; and replied to the Duke, who held out his hand to him, "My dear Duke, I wish every body were as well persuaded that you are plotting no treason as I am. But I come to speak to your Highness upon a matter of business. I have a warning to give you," he added in a whisper.
"Oh! speak it aloud; speak it aloud," replied the Duke. "If it concerns myself, you may well speak it before these two."
"Indeed!" said Schomberg, apparently hesitating, and running his eyes over the tapestry, as if calculating how he had best proceed. "My good Lord Duke," he said, at length, "I believe you know that there are few who love you better than myself, though I neither am nor affect to be a zealot, but rather what your people call one of the Politics."
"I know Schomberg, what you mean," said the Duke; "you are my friend, but not my partisan. I can make the distinction, Schomberg, and love the friend no less. What have you to say?"
"Why this, my Lord," replied Schomberg. "Look up above the door there, just before your eyes. Do you see how beautifully they have carved in the black oak the figure of a porcupine, and how all the sharp and prickly quills stick out, ready to wound the hand that touches it?"
"Yes, I see," replied the Duke. "But do you know the history of that porcupine, Schomberg?"
"Yes," answered the Count, "I know it well, my Lord of Guise. Both in the stonework and the woodwork of this castle, there are many such. They were placed there, I think, my Lord--am I not right?--by an old monarch of France, as a sort of device, to signify that whoever grasps royalty too rudely, will suffer injury in consequence."
The Duke smiled in the same placid mood as before, but replied, "In the next chamber, Schomberg, which is my own bedchamber, you may see the device of Francis the First too,--a salamander unhurt in the midst of flames; which may be interpreted to mean, that strong courage is never more at ease than in the midst of perils."
A grave smile came over the face of Schomberg, to find the figures in which he involved his warning so easily retorted by the Duke of Guise. "I have heard of your Highness," he said, without noticing the Duke's reply, "that not very many years ago you were known to swim against the stream of the Loire armed at all points. You are a strong man, my Lord Duke; but there are other streams you cannot swim against, depend upon it."
"Then I will try to go with the current, Schomberg," replied the Duke. "As long as that is with me, it will bear me up."
"But it may dash you against a rock, Duke," replied Schomberg; "and I see one straight before you."
He spoke sternly and impressively, and Guise listened to him with more attention. "Speak, Schomberg, he said; speak; you may speak clearly before them. But sit, good friend; pray thee sit. Standing there before me, with your sad aspect and warning voice, you look like a spectre."
"Well, my Lord," said Schomberg, seating himself, "I have certain information that there are evil designs against you, ripe, or almost ripe, for execution. Your life is in danger. Guise; I tell you truly, I tell you sincerely, and I beseech you to hear me. Your life is in danger, and you have no time to lose if you would place it in safety."
"Why, what would you have me to do, Schomberg?" said the Duke in a tone not exactly indifferent, but still showing no great interest in the subject.
"I would have you mount your horse this night," replied Schomberg, "or at day-break tomorrow. I would have you gather your train together, take these two young people with you, and retiring to Paris, inform the King that you had proof your life was not safe at Blois."
The Duke of Guise meditated for a moment, and then replied, "Schomberg, I cannot grasp this fear. Brought up to arms from my youth, cradled in the tented field, with death surrounding me at every hour of life, I cannot feel as other men might feel in moments of peril to myself. Neither will I ever have it said of me, that I willingly fled from my post under the apprehension of any personal danger."
"By our old friendship. Guise," replied Schomberg, "by our companionship in the fields of other days, I beseech you to consider and to judge wisely. Remember, if the vengeance of a monarch, or the instigation of villanous courtiers, were to have success, and you were to fall beneath the blow of an assassin, what would become of your children, all yet in their youth? what would become of your relations and your friends, placed, as you have placed them, on a high pinnacle, to be aimed at by a crowd of idle minions with their bird-bolts? What would become of your son?"
"Joinville must make his own fame," replied the Duke, "and guard his own rights with his own sword. I was left earlier than he is without a parent's care; with a host of enemies around me; with my father's name, giving me a heritage of envy and hatred; and with no support but my own sword. With that sword I have bowed those enemies to the dust, and Joinville must show himself worthy to bear it too."
He paused, and meditated for a moment or two, and then added, "After all, Schomberg, I do not see that there can be much danger. Here, in the castle, I am as strong or stronger than the King. When I go forth, I am so well accompanied, that it would be difficult to surprise me, if they attacked me with numbers. A single assassin might dog my steps, it is true; but I do not know that man upon the face of the earth, who, hand to hand with me, would not have more than an equal share of fear and danger. However, I will think of what you have said, and will take good care to be more upon my guard than ever. At the same time, Schomberg, I thank you most sincerely, and look upon your regard as one of the best possessions that I have."
"Guise," said Schomberg, rising and approaching the door, "I have failed with you. But I yield not my point yet. I will send those to you who may have more influence."
"Stay, Schomberg, stay!" cried the Duke; but his friend passed through the door and would not return.
Charles of Montsoreau then raised his voice in the same cause as Schomberg, and Marie de Clairvaut entreated anxiously that he would yield to what had been proposed. But at them the Duke only laughed.
"Hush, hush!" he said. "Logères, you do not know what you say. There, kiss her and be gone. To-morrow she shall be yours, no more to part. Say no more, silly girl; say no more. You, a child of a Guise, talk to me of fear! Call thy maidens, get thee to thy bed, and rise to-morrow with bright eyes and blooming cheeks. Fare thee well, sweet one. I long to be quit of thy guardianship."
Remonstrance was useless, and they parted; and the Duke of Guise sitting down for a moment, gave himself up to thought. His eyes were fixed upon the dark tapestry opposite, where was depicted a woody scene, the particulars of which could not be well distinguished by the dim light of the lamp.
After he had gazed for a moment or two, however, his eyes assumed a peculiar expression, a fixed, intense, and somewhat bewildered stare. He passed his hand twice before them, as if he felt them dim or dazzled; then clasped his hands together and gazed, still muttering to himself, "Strange, very strange! It is there still!" And starting up from the table, he seized the lamp, and advanced directly towards the side of the room on which his eyes had been fixed, still gazing stedfastly on the same spot. At length, as he approached close to the wall, his features relaxed, and he said with a smile, "It is gone! These delusions of the sight are wonderful!"
He had not yet returned to his seat, when the door on his right hand opened gently, and the form of a woman glided in. It was that of the beautiful being with whom he had parted in some anger at the King's ball, and she gazed at him, evidently surprised to see him standing with the lamp in his hand close to the wall, on a side where there was no exit.
"In the name of Heaven, Guise! what is the matter?" she said. "I heard you speaking as I came in. You are pale; your lip quivers!"
"It is nothing; it is nothing," replied the Duke, putting down the lamp, and taking her hand. "This is, indeed, dear and kind of you, Charlotte. I trusted, I was sure, that your anger for a light offence would not last long."
"It would have lasted long, Guise," she said, "or at least its effects would not have passed away, had it not been for the warning that I have received concerning you. Guise, you would not have seen me now--you would never have seen me in these rooms again----"
"Nay, nay," interrupted the Duke, "traduce not so your own nature. Say not that a few unthinking words would render her so harsh, who is so gentle."
"They were not unthinking words, Henry of Guise," replied the Lady. "They were words of deep meaning, to be read and understood at once. Think you that I could misunderstand them? Think you that I could not read that Guise would not suffer the pure to dwell with the impure? However," she added quickly, seeing that the Duke was going to interrupt her, "let me speak of other things. I was about to say that you would not have seen me this night, you would never have seen me in these chambers again, had I not learned that your life was in danger; and then my fears for you showed me that my love was unchanged, and I came, at all risks, to warn you, and to beseech you to be gone."
"Nay, nay," replied the Duke. "How can I be gone when you are here, Charlotte? And, besides, there is no real danger. It is Schomberg has frightened you, I know. He came here with the same tale; but I showed him there was no danger."
"It was not from Schomberg!" said Madame de Noirmontier vehemently. "I have never seen Schomberg since I have been here. It was from the Queen; it was from Catherine herself that I heard it. She told me to tell you; she told me to warn you. Her son, she said, had not divulged to her his scheme; but from her knowledge of the man, and from the words he used, she was certain that he would attempt your life within three days."
"Then his attempt will fail, dear Charlotte," said the Duke, holding her hand tenderly in his. "Fear not for me; I am fully upon my guard; and in this château, and this town, am stronger than the King himself."
"Oh Guise, Guise, you are deceiving yourself," she said, bursting into tears. "Twice I have been at your door this night, but the page told me there was some one with you; and now I have come determined not to leave you, till I see you making preparations to depart. Let me entreat you, let me beseech you," she continued, as Guise wiped away her tears. "Nay, Guise, nay; in this I will take no refusal. If not for your own sake, for my love you shall fly. You shall treat me ill, as you did before, again and again. You shall make a servant of me--a slave. You will not surely refuse me, when you see me kneeling at your feet." And she sunk upon her knees before him, and clasped her fair hands in entreaty. The Duke was raising her tenderly, when the page's knock was heard at the door; and before he could well give the command to enter, the boy was in the room.
"My Lord," he said, "there is Monsieur Chapelle Marteau, and several other gentlemen, desiring earnestly to speak with you."
Madame de Noirmontier looked wildly round the room, and seemed about to pass through the door by which the page had entered. "Be not alarmed," said the Duke, "you cannot pass there, Charlotte. These men will not be with me above a few minutes. Pass into that room, and wait till they are gone. I have a thousand things to say to you, and will dismiss them soon."
After a moment's hesitation she did as he directed, and turning to the page, the Duke bade him admit the party who were waiting without. It consisted of Chapelle Marteau, the President de Neuilli, a gentleman of the name of Mandreville, the Duke's brother the Cardinal de Guise, and the Archbishop of Lyons.
The Duke received them with that winning grace for which he was famous, and soon learned from them that their visit was owing to the information received from the Count de Schomberg. Every one then present, but the Archbishop of Lyons, urged him strongly to quit Blois immediately. They had come in a body, they said, in hopes that their remonstrances might have the greater effect. Each had heard in the course of the evening those rumours which generally announce great events; some had been told that the Duke was arrested; some that he had been absolutely assassinated in the gardens of the château; and some that the act was to be performed that night by a number of soldiers, who had been privately introduced into the castle.
Guise listened silently and with great attention, displaying in demeanour every sort of deference and respect for the opinions of those who showed such an interest in his fate. He replied, however, that he trusted and hoped that both the rumours they had heard, and the intelligence given by Schomberg, originated in nothing but mistaken words, or in those idle and unfounded reports which always multiply themselves in moments of great political agitation and excitement. Besides this, he said, even if the King were disposed to attempt his life, the execution of such an act would be very difficult, if not impossible; and that, considering before all things his duty to his country, the very fact of the King seeking such a thing ought to be the strongest reason for his stay, inasmuch as the Monarch's animosity could only be excited towards him out of enmity to the Catholic Church, and a disposition to repress and tyrannise over the States.
"If such be his feelings," continued the Duke, "we must consider ourselves as two armies in presence of each other, and the one that retreats of course awards the victory to his adversary."
The Archbishop of Lyons, perhaps, was the person who decided the fate of the Duke of Guise; for had the party which came to him been unanimous and urgent in their remonstrance, there is a probability that he would have yielded; but the Archbishop seemed doubtful and undecided. He said that he thought, indeed, it might be well the Duke should go; at least for a time. But they had to consider, also, the probabilities of the King making any attempt upon the Duke. Though weak, timid, and indolent, Henry was shrewd and farseeing, he said. The only result that could follow an attempt upon a person so beloved by the whole nation, and especially by the States, as the Duke of Guise, would be to arm the people of France in an instant against the sovereign authority. This the King must well know, he continued; and that consideration made him less eager upon the subject, though he thought it might be as well that his Highness should retire for a time.
His speech more than counterbalanced the exhortations of all the rest; and from that moment the resolution of the Duke became immovable. His dauntless mind, which might have yielded had he stood absolutely alone in opinion, came instantly to the conclusion, that if there were a single individual who doubted whether he should fly or not, he himself ought to decide upon remaining. He made no answer to the Archbishop's speech, but suffered Mandreville to combat his arguments without interruption. That gentleman replied that Henry, far from being the person represented, though cunning, was any thing but prudent. Had they ever seen, he demanded, the cunning of the King, even in the least degree, restrain or control him? Had the self-evident risk of his throne, of his life, and of the welfare of his people, ever made him pause in the commission of one frantic, vicious, or criminal act? He was no better, the deputy said, than a cunning madman, such as was frequently seen, who, having determined upon any act, however absurd or evil might be the consequences, even to the destruction of his own self, would arrive at it by some means, and go directly to his purpose, in despite of all obstacles. He contended that they had good reason to know that the King devised evil against the Duke; and they might depend upon it that no consideration of policy, right, or religion, would prevent him from executing his purpose by some means.
He spoke truly, and with more thorough insight into the character of the King than any one previously had done; but the resolution of the Duke of Guise, as we have said before, was already taken.
"My good friends," he said in conclusion, "I thank you most sincerely, and I shall ever feel grateful for the interest that you have taken in me, and for your anxiety regarding me on the present occasion. But my resolution is taken, and must be unalterable. I cannot but acknowledge that the view of Monsieur de Mandreville may have much truth in it; but, nevertheless, matters are now at such a point, that if I were to see death coming in at that window, I would not seek the door."
Against a determination so forcibly expressed, there was, of course, no possibility of holding further argument; and after a word or two more on different subjects of less interest--the Duke of Guise replying as briefly as possible to every thing that was said--the party took their leave and retired.
There was at that time a large open space round the church of St. Sauveur, in Blois, where the people from the country used occasionally to exhibit their fruits and flowers for sale; and exactly opposite the great door of the church stood a large and splendid mansion, with an internal court-yard, part of which had been let to some of the deputies for the States-General. The principal floor, however, consisting of sixteen rooms, and several large passages and corridors, had been left untenanted, in consequence of the proprietor asking an exorbitant rent, till two or three days before the period of which we speak. Then, however, the apartment was taken suddenly, a number of attendants in new and splendid dresses appeared therein; and, as we have seen from the account of Villequier to the King, the Abbé de Boisguerin arrived in Blois, with a splendid train of attendants, and took up his abode as the master of that dwelling.
About the same time that the conversations which we have detailed in the last chapter were going on in the cabinet of the Duke of Guise, the Abbé was seated in one of the rooms, which he had fixed upon for his own peculiar saloon. It was very customary in those days, and in France, for every chamber, except a great hall of reception, to be used also as a bed-room. But that was not the case in this instance; for the chamber, which was small, though very lofty, had been used by the former occupants as a cabinet, and had been chosen by the Abbé probably on account of its being so completely detached from every other chamber, that no sound of what was done or said therein could be overheard by any one.
He sat in a large arm-chair, with his feet towards the fire, and with his right elbow resting on a table covered with various sorts of delicacies. Those delicacies, however, were not the productions of the land in which he then lived, but rather such as he had been accustomed to in other days, and which recalled former habits of life. There were fine dried fruits from the Levant, tunny and other fish from the Mediterranean; and the wines, though inferior to those of France, were from foreign vineyards.
Before him was standing a man whom we have had occasion to mention more than once--that Italian vagabond named Orbi, from whom, it may be remembered, Charles of Montsoreau delivered the boy Ignati. He was now dressed in a very different guise, however, from that which he had borne while wandering as a mere stroller from house to house. His shaggy black hair was trimmed and smooth; his beard was partially shaved and reduced to fair proportions, with a sleek mustachio, well turned and oiled, gracing his upper lip; his face, too, was clean; and a suit somewhat sombre in colour, but of good materials, displaying in the ruff and at the sleeves a great quantity of fine white linen and rich lace, left scarcely a vestige of the fierce Italian vagabond, half bravo, half minstrel, which he had appeared not a year before.
The conversation which was going on between him and the master he now served, was evidently one of great interest. The Abbé's wine remained half finished in the glass; the preserved fruits upon his plate were scarcely tasted; and he exclaimed, "So, so! Villequier sends me no answer to my letter! A bare message, by word of mouth, that the Duke of Guise wills it to be so; and that the Duke's will is all powerful at the Court of France! The King sets at nought his own royal word, does he?"
"He said something, sir," said the Italian, "about his knowing, and the King also, that they must pay a penalty; but that no sum was to be grudged, rather than offend the Duke at this time."
"Sum!" cried the Abbé de Boisguerin, starting up and pushing the chair vehemently from him. "What is any sum to me?" And with flashing eyes, and a countenance all inflamed, he strode up and down the chamber for a moment or two, with his heart swelling with bitterness and disappointed passion. "A curse upon this bungling hand," he cried, striking it upon the table, "that it should fail me at such a moment as that! I thought the young viper had been swept from my way for ever!--My aim was steady and true, too! His heart must be in some other place than other men's."
"Ha! my Lord," joined in the Italian in the tone of a connoisseur, "the arquebus is a pretty weapon, I dare say, in a general battle, but it is desperate uncertain in private affairs like that. You can never tell, to an inch or two, where the ball will hit. But, with a dagger, you can make sure to a button-hole; and even if there should be a struggle, it is always quite easy so to salve the point of your blade, that you make sure of your friend, even if you give him but a scratch. Now the attempt to poison a ball is all nonsense, for the fire destroys the venom."
"At what hour said you, Orbi?" demanded the Abbé, without attending to his dissertation.
"Half an hour before high mass," replied the man, "the marriage is to take place."
Again the Abbé de Boisguerin burst into a vehement fit of passion, and strode up and down the room cursing and blaspheming, till accidentally his eyes fell upon a small Venetian mirror, and the aspect of his own countenance, ordinarily so calm and unmoved, now distorted by rage and disappointment, made him start. A smile of scorn, even at himself, curled his lip; and calming his countenance by a great effort, he again seated himself, and mused for a moment.
"This must not, and shall not be," he said at length. "Orbi, you are an experienced hand, and doubtless dexterous. Will you stop this going forward?"
The man smiled, stroked back his mustachios, and replied, "I thought you would be obliged to take my way at last. Well, Monseigneur, I have no objection; but the time is short. I told you what I expected for such an affair when I offered to do it in Paris."
"You shall have it! you shall have it!" replied the Abbé. "But if you do it, so that no suspicion ever falls on me, you shall have as much again this day two years; for nothing but the lives of these two young men stands between me and immense wealth."
"The worst of it all is," said the Italian, "that there is so short a time. It is to take place in the castle chapel; so there will be no going through the streets. To find him alone will be a matter of difficulty; and though I went over the passages, thinking it might come to this, yet I saw no one place, but at the door of the room called the revestry, where one could strike easily."
"I have seen the place," said the Abbé, "long ago; but I do not remember it so perfectly as to give you any aid. I know that the window of the room you mention looks into the court and gardens, and under the garden wall shall be a swift horse to bear you away. That is all I can do for you."
"I must do the rest for myself," replied the man, "and will find some means, depend upon it. Perhaps he may not wait for the other if he be eager, but may come first by himself, and then it will be easily done. However, I will now go and get the dagger ready, and I can undertake that the least scratch shall not leave an hour's life in him."
The Abbé de Boisguerin nodded his head and smiled as the other departed. "They know not," he said to himself, "they know not the man they have to deal with. These mighty men, these haughty Guises, may find that every man of strong determination and unflinching courage may thwart, if he cannot master, them; may destroy their plans, if he cannot accomplish his own. But there is another still to be dealt with. There is this proud, unfeeling, contemptuous girl; she who has been rejoicing in the reappearance of this crafty fair-faced boy.--There is now no going back; and why should I not risk life to win her too, and gratify both my love and my revenge?--Yet that seems scarcely possible," he continued. "Closely watched within the castle, never going out but strongly accompanied, she is put, it would seem, entirely out of my power, now that Villequier has fallen off from me.--And yet," he continued meditating, "and yet, there is nothing impossible to the dauntless and the daring.--Could I not bring her to the postern gate of the garden an hour before this marriage is to take place, and then, with swift horses and a carriage ready, convey her once more far away?--We have done as bold and difficult a feat before; and methinks, if I could tell her that I have news to give her concerning her uncle's safety--for rumours of his danger must have reached her ears--she will not fail to come, and come alone.--Oh! if I once more get her in my power, she shall find no means to fly again, till, on the contrary, she shall be more inclined to kneel at my feet, and beseech that I would wed her.--So it shall be! I will write to her that, if at ten o'clock she will be alone at the postern gate of the castle, she will hear news that may save her uncle's life. Then, with the swiftest horses we can find, a few hours will take us far from pursuit!--I will carry her into Spain! Epernon is with me and the way open!--It shall be done!" he said aloud; "it shall be done! But, then, this boy's death is scarcely needful! Why should I mind his living?--It will be but the greater torture to him to know that she is mine!--And yet, it were better he should die. All the tidings, and the rumours, and the bustle of his violent death in the castle will too much occupy the minds of men to let them notice our flight; so that we shall gain an hour or two. There is an eager and a daring spirit, also, within him--a keen and active mind--which might frustrate me once more in the very moment of hope. He must die! I have set my own life upon the chance; and what matters it whether one or two others are swept away before me? He must die! and then, without protection, she is mine. Once into Tourraine, and I am safe!--Ha! you are back again quickly, my good friend Orbi. Is all ready?"
"Everything, sir," replied the man; "and if I could but get into the château, and stumble upon the youth alone, I might be able to accomplish the matter to-night. Could you not furnish me with a billet to this Villequier, or some one? It matters not what; any empty words, just to make them admit me at the gates."
"Not to Villequier," said the Abbé; "not to Villequier. But I will write a few words to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut herself."
"That will do well! that will do well!" replied the man. "I am more likely to find him hanging about her apartments than any where else; and then one slight blow does the deed."
"Bring me paper and pens from the next room," cried the Abbé. "It shall be done this moment." And as soon as implements for writing were procured, he wrote a subtle epistle to Marie de Clairvaut, beseeching her to speak for a moment, at the postern gate of the château gardens early on the following day, to a person who would communicate something to her, which might save the life of her guardian the Duke of Guise. It was written in a feigned hand, and under the character of an utter stranger to her. Some mistakes too were made in the orthography of her name, and in regard to other circumstances, for the purpose of rendering the deception complete. When this was concluded and sealed, he placed it in the hands of Orbi, and after a few more words they parted.
While the Abbé busied himself in causing a carriage to be bought for the proposed enterprise of the following day, and in ordering the swiftest horses that could be found, to be obtained--not from the royal post, by which his course might have been tracked, but from one of the keepers of relais, as the irregular posting houses were called, which were then tolerated in France; the Italian proceeded on his task, with feelings in his heart which might well have been received as a reason for abating the price of the deed he was about to perform.
To tell the truth it might be considered fully as much his own act as that of the Abbé, for the same malevolent feelings were in the hearts of each; and he went not there merely as the common hired assassin, to do the work of his trade, as a matter of course; but he went also to avenge a long remembered blow, which still rankled in his heart, with the same bitterness that he had felt at the moment that it was received.
He met with some difficulty in obtaining entrance to the château at so late an hour of the night; but the letter addressed to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut enabled him to effect that object at length, and he was directed towards the suite of apartments assigned to the Duke of Guise and his family. When he had once passed the two first gates, he met with no obstruction, but wandered through the long dimly lighted corridors, scarcely encountering a waking being on his way, and certainly none who seemed inclined to speak to him.
When he had reached that part of the building to which he had been directed, he looked round for some one to give him farther information, not absolutely intending to seek the apartments of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and deliver the note, but merely to obtain a general knowledge of how the different chambers were allotted. After passing on some way, without meeting any one or hearing a sound, he saw a door half open, with the light streaming out, and quietly approaching he looked in.
There was a boy in the dress of a page, sitting before a large Christmas fire reading a book; but though he walked stealthily, the first step which the Italian took in the room caught the youth's quick ear, and starting up he showed the Italian the face of his former bondman, Ignatius Marone. The man started when he saw him; but recovering himself instantly, he went up and endeavoured to soothe the boy with fair and flattering words.
"Ah, my little Ignati," he said, "here thou art then, and doubtless well off with this young Lord of thine."
"I am well off, Signor Orbi," was the boy's brief reply; and seeing that the man paused and kept gazing round him, the boy added, "But what is your business here?"
"I am only looking about me," replied the man in somewhat of a contemptuous tone, which he could not smother, although it was his full intention to cajole the boy into giving him all the information he wanted, and perhaps even to induce him unconsciously to aid his purpose.
"Come, come, Signor Orbi," replied the boy, "I know you well, remember; and I know, that though you may have changed your doublet, you cannot have changed what is within it. If you do not say immediately what you want, I will call those who will make you." And he approached one of the other doors which the room displayed, and raised his hand towards the latch.
"Hist, hist, Ignati!" cried the Italian. "By Heavens! if you do, you shall never hear what I have got to tell you,--something that would make your heart beat with joy if you knew it."
"And what is that?" said the boy, still standing near the door, and looking at his fellow-countryman with a face of scorn and doubt.
"Come hither, and I will tell you," said the Italian; but the boy shook his head, and Orbi added in a low tone, "You know who your mother was, Ignati; but do you know your father?"
The boy gazed at him bitterly and in silence, without making any further answer; and the man added, "He is now in Blois."
Ignati instantly sprang forward towards him, exclaiming, "Where? Where? Where can I find him? I have still the letter from my dead mother. I have still all the proofs given me by the Marone. Where is he? where is he?"
"Come, let us sit down by the fire," said the man, "and I will tell thee more;" and finding the boy now quite willing to do what he wished, the man sat down by the fire with him, calculating the various results of particular lines of conduct open before him, but without suffering any one good principle or feeling to mingle at all with his considerations.
He had spoken the words which had called Ignati to him simply as a matter of impulse, and the first question he asked himself was, whether he should tell the boy more of the truth or not. Various considerations, however, induced him to go on, for he had a little scheme in his head which rendered it expedient for him to embarrass the proceedings of the Abbé de Boisguerin, on the following morning after the deed proposed was done, as much as possible.
"You know, Ignati," he said, "that I always loved you, my good youth."
"You gave me bitter proofs of it," replied Ignati.
"Nay, nay; it was my way," replied the Italian. "If you had been my own son, it would have been the same."
"I dare say," replied Ignati, "you would have murdered your own son almost as readily as you tried to murder me."
"Nay, boy, I tried not to murder thee," rejoined the man. "I was not such a fool; that would never have answered my purpose."
"You did it by halves," said the boy. "But come, Master Orbi, tell me more about this matter you spoke of; and tell me too what brings you here? Where is my father to be found, if, as you say, he is here?"
"He is to be found," said Orbi, "in the great house by the church of St. Sauveur. I remember him well, for when your mother fled out of Rome before you were born, and was glad to get what assistance she could, she sent me three times back into the city to speak with the Abbé of Laurans, as he was then called."
"And what is he called now?" exclaimed Ignati eagerly. "What is he called now?"
"He is called the Abbé de Boisguerin," replied the man, "or the Seigneur de Boisguerin, as it now is."
"Then I have seen him," cried Ignati. "Then I have seen him; and he called her----" But the boy suddenly checked himself, "And now, what is it you want here?" he said.
"No harm, Master Ignati," replied the man, with a look half sneering, half dogged. "You seem as grateful as any one else, and as soon as you get all you want, you turn upon one. I suppose you are waiting for your young master coming back from some gay revel, for the whole place seems as silent as if every body were gone to bed but you."
"Oh, no," answered Ignati. "There are six of the Duke's men sitting up in the next room; and all I fear is, that the gentlemen who are with the Duke himself should come out and find you here."
"Then, I suppose, your master is with them," said the Italian.
The boy smiled. "My master is with them," he said, "for my master is the Duke of Guise; but if you mean the young Count who took me from you, he has been gone to bed an hour ago. Ay, Master Orbi, and has two stout men sleeping across his door. I hav'n't forgot that he struck you a blow one day; nor you either, it seems."
"You are out there, Sharp-wits," said the Italian. "I bear the boy no grudge. I got his money, if he gave me a blow into the bargain; so we are quits."
"I doubt you," muttered Ignati to himself; but the man went on without attending to him, saying, "No, no; what I came for really, if you want to know, was to give a letter to a young lady here, from an old gentleman at the other side of the castle. Here it is! Ma'mselle de Clairvaut is the name."
"Ay, she is gone to bed long ago too," replied the page. "Let me look at the letter."
"It is of no great consequence, I believe," replied the Italian, who fancied the letter a mere pretext. "It is of no great consequence; all about a Persian cat, I believe. So you may take it and give it her to-morrow, if she is gone to bed now. There it is. But how is it you are not with the young Count now? The Duke of Guise!--Page to the Duke of Guise! Why, that is a step, indeed!"
"Hush!" cried Ignati, hearing the door of the Duke's cabinet open behind the arras. "Hush! get you gone with all speed! They are coming out; and if they find you here, I would not answer for your ears, or my own either."
The man started up, and ran out of the door by which he had entered, as fast as possible. But he had scarcely made his escape, when the tapestry which covered the doorway into the Duke's cabinet was drawn aside, and the Cardinal de Guise, with the Archbishop of Lyons, and the rest of Leaguers, came forth from their conference with the Duke.
It is now necessary to turn to other apartments in the château of Blois: namely, a suite inhabited by the King himself. It comprised--besides several others both above and below--the King's bed-room, into which opened four doors--one communicating with the Monarch's private staircase, which we have already spoken of--one to the right entering into a small dressing-room--one to the left, which gave admittance to a chamber called the old cabinet--and one communicating by a short and narrow passage with the large chamber, which, during the residence of the King at Blois, was employed as a council-room. The walls of the council-room were bare; but those of the King's chamber and the two cabinets were lined throughout with rich old tapestry.
Before five o'clock on the morning of the 23d of December, Henry had risen from his bed and dressed himself in haste, and as soon as his toilet was completed, one of his valets was dispatched with all speed to bear a message, which had already been entrusted to him. The King then passed out of his dressing-room into his bed-chamber, holding a light in his hand, and approached the door which led to the private staircase. There was eagerness and much anxiety in his countenance, and his eyes were fixed upon the top of the stairs with an intense gaze, which seemed to strain them from their orbits.
At length a heavy foot was heard ascending, and then several more, and in a moment after the head and shoulders of an armed man, carrying a light, appeared at the mouth of the staircase.
"Ah, Laugnac, this is well!" cried the King, as soon as he saw him. "You are punctual and prepared, I see. Whom have you with you?"
"Nine of my most determined fellows, Sire," replied Laugnac. "There is not one, indeed, of the Forty-five that would not shed his life's blood for your Majesty. But these gentlemen I know well for men who would kill the devil himself, I believe, if you were to bid them."
As he spoke, half a dozen steps behind him appeared, man after man, nine of the Gascon band, called the "Quarante-cinq," in whose countenances might be read that sort of remorseless determination, which was suited to the moment and the deed, and whose frames displayed the strength requisite to execute whatever violent act was entrusted to them.
"This is well; this is well," said the King, as they entered. "But where is Larchant, Laugnac?"
"He remained behind, Sire," replied the other, "as it will be necessary to secure the doors of the council-chamber. Whenever the enemy has entered, he will come round and join your Majesty."
"I should like to have some one with me in the cabinet," said the King. "Run and tell Ornano, Bonnivet, and la Grange, to come to me," he continued, speaking to a valet. "Bring them by the back staircase."
The valet went away with a pale countenance, feeling all the agitation which such events might well produce; and while he was gone, the King, after asking Laugnac if he had explained to his companions what was the task in which they were about to be employed, addressed them all in a short speech, not without eloquence and fire.
When he had concluded, he made Laugnac open one of the large chests which formed the window-seats of his bed-room, and taking thence a number of long, sharp, and well-pointed knives, he gave them with his own hands to the assassins, saying, "Here, gentlemen, are the avengers of your liberty and mine! and I command and authorise you to use them for the punishment of the greatest criminal in my kingdom. Every law, divine and human, requires his death; and where power prevents the ordinary course of justice from taking place, it is a right and a privilege of the sovereign to execute judgment by any means that present themselves! Now, follow me, gentlemen!" And leading them on to the other side of the chamber, he posted them himself,--the principal part of them in the old cabinet, and the rest behind the arras round the door of the bed-room itself. Most of those even who were in the cabinet were concealed also behind the arras near the entrance, and the door was left open.
By the time this had been arranged a page had entered the King's bed-room, and now informed him that the gentlemen he had sent for had arrived, adding, "Monsieur de Nambu is there also, Sire, saying you told him last night to come at this hour."
"I did, I did," said the King. "Bid them all come up;" and greeting the others briefly, he took Nambu by the arm and led him into the passage which conducted to the council-chamber. Through the door which led thither voices were heard speaking beyond.
"Stay there, Nambu," he said in a whisper, "and let no one pass without my especial order. The council cannot have begun its sitting yet, for it is still dark, I see."
"As I passed by I saw into the room," said Nambu, "and there were none but ushers and such people: but I heard that the Duke had been sent for according to the commands your Majesty gave last night."
The King then left him, and returned into his room, where he found Laugnac and the rest of the gentlemen, whom he led towards the door of his dressing-room.
"I have taken off my head-piece and cuirass, Sire," said Laugnac, "as I intend to remain here at the door of your Majesty's dressing-room till the matter is settled, and the sight of arms might scare the prey."
"Right, right, Laugnac!" replied the King. "Bid the page send for Revol by the back staircase. We shall want him to fetch the Duke." And, this said, he retired into his cabinet.
The page ran round at once to the door of the council-chamber, where he found Revol just about to enter; and whispering a word to him, the Secretary of State gave the bag of papers which he had in his hand to one of the ushers, bidding him hold it till he returned, and followed the King's domestic, forbidding the servants, who had accompanied him thither, to go any farther. The spot where they remained was the large open space at the top of the great staircase, and a number of other persons were there collected, while the company of the King's guard might be seen at the foot of the staircase, not, indeed, under arms, or drawn up in regular order, but waiting apparently for the arrival of some one to give them directions.
After the departure of Revol, the statesmen who had been summoned to the council arrived rapidly one after the other. The Cardinal of Vendôme was amongst the first, and then followed the Marshals de Retz and d'Aumont. Some other members of the council came next, and then the Archbishop of Lyons. But still neither the Cardinal de Guise nor the Duke had made their appearance. Time was now wearing on, and occasionally a page, or valet-de-chambre, known to belong to the King, was seen to come and speak with some of the people at the top of the staircase, and then return suddenly.
While this was going on, a boy, bearing the habiliments of a page of the Duke of Guise, passed along at the foot of the staircase; and, seeing a number of archers of the guard collected there, he ran lightly up the steps and mingled with the various persons collected. He passed rapidly along from one to another, as if he was looking for some person, spoke to two or three of those whose faces he knew, and then hurrying away down the stairs, passed with a step of light to the apartments of the Duke of Guise. He found that Prince just quitting his cabinet and entering the antechamber. A number of gentlemen and officers followed him, but the boy advanced straight towards him with a degree of familiarity, neither insolent nor ungraceful, and kissing his hand said, with his slight Italian accent, "May so humble a being as I am detain your Highness for one moment?"
"What is it, Ignati? Speak!" said the Duke of Guise, "I am already late for the council, my good boy."
"Your Highness promised to grant me any favour I asked," replied the boy, "and as the greatest at this moment, I ask to speak with your Highness alone."
"What is it?" said the Duke somewhat impatiently; "what is it?" And he drew him a little on one side, motioning the rest to remain.
"My Lord," said Ignati, "there is danger going forward, I am sure. All the archers of the guard are at the foot of the staircase; there are many strange faces, not usually seen at the door of the council-chamber. Twice I saw a servant of the King's come and speak to Henville, and hearing you had not arrived, go round again, as if by the back staircase, to the King's apartments. I am sure, sir, there is something wrong."
The Duke smiled, but it was somewhat thoughtfully. "Thank you, my good boy," he said. "I know rumours often precede the act; but I cannot pause to consider such things now."
"Oh, sir, think!" the boy ventured to exclaim; "think how the welfare of the State and the welfare of a thousand individuals depend entirely upon your safety. What would become of me? What would become of the young Count and his bride, if----"
"Ay, well bethought," replied the Duke. "Bring me here paper and the ink-horn;" and when the boy brought them, Guise bent down over a large coffer that stood near, and wrote a few lines.
"Take that to the Count," he said, as soon as he had finished writing. "Quick, Ignati: but, after all, these warnings are but nonsense. There is nobody in France dares do it. Look, I have delayed too long. Here comes a messenger from the King."
"As I find your Highness coming," said the usher, approaching the Duke, "it is needless, perhaps, to deliver the King's message: but I was directed to say to your Highness that the council waited, and that His Majesty was extremely anxious that the business of the day should go on, as he wished to proceed to Clery in time for dinner. If your Highness were not well, he said, perhaps you would not object to the council being held without you."
"You see!" said the Duke in a low voice, turning towards Ignati with a smile, "you see!" And following the usher, he walked on upon his way towards the council-chamber.
At the bottom of the staircase he found Larchant and the whole body of archers of the guard, who now pressed round him somewhat closely.
"What is it, Larchant? what is it, my good friend?" said the Duke. "Your presence here is unusual, I think."
"We are here, your Highness," replied Larchant, "to solicit in a body your mediation with the King. You promised me yesterday, my Lord, that you would present our petition to his Majesty, and advocate our cause in the council. These poor fellows have not received any pay for months; I might almost say years."
"I did advocate your cause, yesterday," said the Duke, "and his Majesty graciously sent an order upon the treasurer by one of the ushers."
"But the treasurer ungraciously told us, sir, that there was not a sous in his coffers," replied Larchant; and the Duke taking the paper out of his hand, began to mount the stairs, saying, "I will see to it, Larchant; I will see to it."
Larchant and the archers followed him up the steps, still pressing close upon him; and he heard a low deep voice say from the midst of them, "Look to yourself, my Lord Duke, there are bad men abroad!"
The Duke passed on, however, without notice and entered the hall of the council, the ushers drawing back with low bows as he appeared, and throwing open the doors for him to go in. The moment after those fatal doors had closed behind him, the archers drew up across them at the head of the stairs. Larchant hurried away towards the chamber of the King, and Villequier, passing rapidly by, said in a low voice to one of the attendants, "Go down to Monsieur de Crillon, at the Corps de Garde; tell him to shut and guard the gates, as the Duke has gone in."
Though he spoke low, he seemed little to heed who listened to the words; and they were heard by the boy Ignati, who, with the painful conviction that some great evil was about to befall the Duke, had followed him step by step to the council-chamber. The boy put his hand to his brow with a look of painful anxiety, and darted away once more towards the apartments of the Duke of Guise. The first person he met with there was Pericard, the Duke's secretary; and grasping his arm, he exclaimed, "They will murder him! they will murder him! They are closing the gates of the castle and guarding them!"
Pericard rushed to one of the windows that looked out into the court. "Too true, indeed!" he exclaimed. "Too true, indeed! It may be yet time to save him though. Run quick, Ignati, and get one of the Duke's handkerchiefs while I write." And with a rapid hand he wrote down,--"My Lord, your death is resolved. They are barring and guarding the gates. I beseech you come out from the hall of the council to your own apartments. We can make them good against all the world, till the town rises to protect you."
Before he had done, the boy was back again with the handkerchief; and enveloping the note therein, Pericard gave it to him, exclaiming, "Fly, fly with that to the door of the council-chamber, Ignati. The ushers will let you in, surely, to give it to the Duke, if you say that he has forgotten his handkerchief."
"They have let me in before," said Ignati; "but I doubt it now. I will try and make my way at all events."
Again he flew to the top of the staircase, and, as if a matter of course, pushed up towards the door, endeavouring to force his way through the archers.
"Stand back, saucy spright," cried one of the men; "you cannot pass here."
"But I must pass," cried the boy, turning upon him with a fierce air of authority. "I am the Duke of Guise's page, and bring him his handkerchief, which he forgot. Make way, saucy archer, or I will teach you to whom you speak."
"Listen to the insolence of these Guisards," said the man. "But their day is over. Stand back, fool, or I'll knock you down with my partisan."
The boy laid his hand upon his dagger, still striving to push forward; and the man, without further words, struck him a blow over the head with the staff of his halbert, which laid him prostrate upon the ground. For a moment he seemed stunned, but then, starting up, he turned away, and went down the stairs, bursting into tears ere he reached the bottom, not with the pain of the blow he had received, but with the bitter conviction that the last effort had failed, and the fate of Guise was sealed.
In the meantime the Duke of Guise entered the council-room, carrying in his hand the petition of the guards. Every one rose at his approach; and as the greater part of those present were personally friendly towards him, he went round and spoke to them with his usual grace and suavity, and then laying the petition on the table, approached the fire, saying, "It is awfully cold this morning! Has not his Majesty yet appeared?"
"Not yet," replied the Cardinal de Guise, "though we expected him before, for he sent down to hasten our coming. But what is the matter with your Highness? there is blood trickling over your mustachio."
"The cold has made my nose bleed twice this morning," replied the Duke, and putting his hand in his pocket he said, "My people have been negligent; they have forgotten to give me a handkerchief. St Prix," he continued, turning his head to one of the King's valets-de-chambre, who stood on the inside of the door communicating with the King's apartments. "I wish you would send to my rooms for a handkerchief. You will find some of my people at the door."
"There are plenty, my Lord, belonging to the King," replied St. Prix, "in this little cabinet:" and crossing the hall of the council, he took one out and gave it to the Duke, who thanked him graciously, and still sitting by the fire fell into a deep fit of thought. Suddenly, however, he turned pale; his eyes assumed the same expression as they had done the night before, when he had fancied he saw a figure in the room with him, and taking a small silver bonbonnière from his pocket, he opened it, as if seeking for something that it usually contained, saying at the same time, "I feel very faint!--My people have neglected every thing," he added, "this morning."
Several members of the council gathered round him, and St. Prix, the valet, brought him from the cabinet where the handkerchief had been found, some of the dried plums of Brignolles, which were then held as a restorative. The Duke took one of them and ate it, and placed the others in the bonbonnière. After a little, his colour returned, and he said, "I am better now. How strange these attacks are, and how fortunate that one never feels them on occasions of battle or danger!"
A moment or two after, he took a turn or two up and down the room, and seemed perfectly recovered; and as he was about to resume his seat, the door of the passage leading to the King's chamber was opened, and the Secretary of State, Revol, entered, saying, "Monseigneur, his Majesty wishes to speak a word with your Highness before the business of the council commences. You will find him in the old cabinet to the left."
Revol was as pale as death. But the Duke of Guise took not the slightest notice; and, passing through the door, which St. Prix held open for him and closed after him, he advanced towards the chamber of the King.
On entering it he saw Laugnac seated upon the coffer at the farther end of the room; and he remarked, with an angry frown, that the King's attendant did not rise when he entered. He said nothing, however, but turned towards the door of the old cabinet, which was too low to suffer him to pass without bowing his head. He accordingly stooped for the purpose; and, raising the tapestry with his left hand, while he held his hat in the right, he passed on.
He had scarcely taken a step into the cabinet, however, when he at once saw several men in arms standing round. At the same moment there was a sound close to him; and, springing from behind the arras, a fierce and powerful man, named St. Malines, rushed upon him.
The Duke dropped his hat, and moved his hand towards his sword; but at the same moment some one seized the hilt with both hands, and St. Malines struck him a blow with a knife over the left shoulder, burying the weapon in his bosom.
Another and another blow succeeded from the hands of those around him: the blood rushed up into his mouth and throat; but still, with prodigious power, he seized two of those who were assailing him, and dashed them headlong to the ground, exclaiming at the same time, "Ah, traitors!"
Rushing towards the door, he dragged another along with him into the chamber of the King; and seeing Laugnac still there, and marking him as the instigator of his murder, with a brow awful in the struggle of the strong spirit against the power of death, with hands clenched, and teeth set, he darted towards him.
Ere he had taken two steps, however, his brain reeled, his eyes lost their sight, and Laugnac starting up saw, by the fearful swimming of those visionless orbs, that the terrible deed was fully accomplished, that the life of Guise was at an end; and though the Duke still rushed forward upon him with the convulsive impulse of his last sensation, the Captain of the Quarante-cinq did not even unsheath his sword, but merely struck him a light blow with the weapon in the scabbard, and Guise fell headlong on the carpet by the King's bedside.
The sound of that deep heavy fall was enough, and Henry, coming forth from his cabinet, gazed for several minutes earnestly upon the dead man, while the dark blood rushed forth, and formed a pool round the Monarch's feet.
The countenance of every one there present, lips and cheek alike, were as white as parchment; and for two or three minutes not a word was spoken, till at length the King exclaimed, "What a height he was! He seems to me taller even dead than living!"
Then setting his foot upon the dead man's neck, he cruelly repeated the cruel words which Guise himself had used at the death of Coligny, "Venomous beast, thou shalt spit forth no more poison!"