But though the verses he recited were highly poetic, the extravagant affectation of his manner soon neutralized their effect upon De Blenau; and passing on down a broad flight of steps, De Blenau found himself in the gardens of the Palace. These, as well as the whole front of the building, were illuminated in every direction. Bands of musicians were dispersed in the different walks, and a multitude of servants were busily engaged in laying out tables for supper with all the choicest viands of the season, and in trimming the various lamps and tapers which hung from the branches of the trees or were displayed on fanciful frames of wood, so placed as to give the fullest light to the banquets which were situated near them.
Scattered about in various parts of the garden, but more especially near the Palace, were different groups of gentlemen, all speaking of plays, assemblies, or fêtes, and all taking care to make their conversation perfectly audible, lest the jealous suspicion ever attendant on usurped power, should attribute to them schemes which, it is probable, fear alone prevented them from attempting.
Nevertheless, the gardens, as we have said, containing several acres of ground, there were many parts comparatively deserted. It was towards these more secluded spots that De Blenau directed his steps, wishing himself many a league away from the Palais Cardinal and all its splendour. Just as he had reached a part where few persons were to be seen, some one struck him slightly on the arm, and turning round, he perceived a man who concealed the lower part of his face with his cloak, and tendered him what seemed to be a billet.
At the first glance De Blenau thought he recognised the Count de Coligni, a reputed lover of Mademoiselle de Bourbon, and imagined that the little piece of gallantry he had shown that lady on his first entrance, might have called upon him the wrath of the jealous Coligni. But no sooner had he taken the piece of paper, than the other darted away amongst the trees, giving him no time to observe more, either of his person or his dress.
Approaching a spot where the number of lamps gave him sufficient light to read, De Blenau opened the note, which contained merely these words. “Beware of Chavigni;—they will seek to draw something from you which may criminate you hereafter.”
As he read, De Blenau heard a light step advancing, and hastily concealing the note, turned to see who approached. The only person near was a lady, who had thrown a thick veil over her head, which not only covered her face, but the upper part of her figure. She passed close by him, but without turning her head, or by any other motion seeming to notice him; but as she did so, De Blenau heard a low voice from under the veil, desiring him to follow. Gliding on, without pausing for a moment, the lady led the way to the very extreme of the garden. De Blenau followed quick upon her steps, and as he did so, endeavoured to call to mind where he had seen that graceful and dignified figure before. At length the lady stopped, looked round for a moment, and raising her veil, discovered the lovely countenance of Mademoiselle de Bourbon.
“Monsieur de Blenau,” said the Princess, “I have but one moment to tell you, that the Cardinal and Chavigni are plotting the ruin of the Queen; and they wish to force or persuade you to betray her. After you had left the Cardinal, by chance I heard it proposed to arrest you even to-night; but Chavigni said, that he had given his word that you should return to St. Germain’s to-morrow. Take care, therefore, of your conduct while here, and if you have any cause to fear, escape the moment you are at liberty. Fly to Flanders, and place yourself under the protection of Don Francisco de Mello.”
“I have to return your Highness a thousand thanks,” replied De Blenau; “but as far as innocence can give security, I have no reason to fear.”
“Innocence is nothing here,” rejoined the lady. “But you are the best judge, Monsieur de Blenau. I sent Coligni to warn you, and taking an opportunity of escaping from the supper-table, came to request that you will offer my humble duty to the Queen, and assure her that Marie de Bourbon is ever hers. But here is some one coming—Good God, it is Chavigni!”
As she spoke, Chavigni came rapidly upon them. Mademoiselle de Bourbon drew down her veil, and De Blenau placed himself between her and the Statesman, who, affecting an excess of gaiety, totally foreign to his natural character, began to rally the Count upon what he termed his gallantry. “So, Monsieur de Blenau,” cried he, “already paying your devoirs to our Parisian dames. Nay, I must offer my compliments to your fair lady on her conquest;” and he endeavoured to pass the Count towards Mademoiselle de Bourbon.
De Blenau drew his sword. “Stand off, Sir,” exclaimed he, “or by Heaven you are a dead man!” And the point came flashing so near Chavigni’s breast, that he was fain to start back a step or two. The lady seized the opportunity to pass him, for the palisade of the garden had prevented her escaping the other way. Chavigni attempted to follow, but De Blenau caught his arm, and held him with a grasp of iron.
“Not one step, Sir!” cried he. “Monsieur de Chavigni, you have strangely forgot yourself. How is it you presume, Sir, to interrupt my conversation with any one? And let me ask, what affair it is of yours, if a lady chose to give me five minutes of her company even here! You have slackened your gallantry not a little.”
“But was the Cardinal’s garden a place fitted for such love stories?” demanded Chavigni, feeling, at the same time, very sure that the conversation he had interrupted had not been of love; for in those days politics and faction divided the heart of a Frenchwoman with gallantry, and, instead of quarrelling for the empire of her breast, these apparently opposite passions went hand in hand together; and exempt from the more serious dangers incurred by the other sex in similar enterprises, women were often the most active agents and zealous partisans in the factions and conspiracies of the times.
It had been Chavigni’s determination, on accompanying De Blenau to the Palais Cardinal, not to lose sight of his companion for a moment, in order that no communication might take place between him and any of the Queen’s party till such time as the Cardinal had personally interrogated him concerning the correspondence which they supposed that Anne of Austria carried on with her brother, Philip of Spain. Chavigni, however, had been stopped, as we have seen, by the Cardinal himself, and detained for some time in conversation, the principal object of which was, the Count de Blenau himself, and the means of either persuading him by favour, or of driving him by fear, not only to abandon, but to betray the party he had espoused. The Cardinal thought ambition would do all; Chavigni said that it would not move De Blenau; and thus the discussion was considerably prolonged.
As soon as Chavigni could liberate himself, he had hastened after the Count, and found him as we have described. To have ascertained who was his companion, Chavigni would have risked his life; but now that she had escaped him, the matter was past recall; and willing again to throw De Blenau off his guard, he made some excuses for his intrusion, saying he had thought that the lady was not unknown to him.
“Well, well, let it drop,” replied De Blenau, fully more desirous of avoiding farther inquiries than Chavigni was of relinquishing them. “But the next time you come across me on such an occasion, beware of your heart’s blood, Monsieur de Chavigni.” And thus saying, he thrust back his sword into the scabbard.
Chavigni, however, was resolved not to lose sight of him again, and passing his arm through that of the Count, “You are still too hot, Monsieur de Blenau,” said he; “but nevertheless let us be friends again.”
“As far as we ever were friends, Sir,” replied De Blenau. “The open difference of our principles in every respect, must always prevent our greatly assimilating.”
Chavigni, however, kept to his purpose, and did not withdraw his arm from that of De Blenau, nor quit him again during the whole evening.
Whether the Statesman suspected Mademoiselle de Bourbon or not, matters little; but on entering the banquet-room, where the principal guests were preparing to take their seats, they passed that lady with her brother and the Count de Coligni, and the eye of Chavigni glanced from the countenance of De Blenau to hers. But they were both upon their guard, and not a look betrayed that they had met since De Blenau’s spur had been entangled in her train.
At that moment the Master of the ceremonies exclaimed with a loud voice, “Place au Comte de Blenau,” and was conducting him to a seat higher than his rank entitled him to take, when his eye fell upon the old Marquis de Brion; and with the deference due not only to his station but to his high military renown, De Blenau drew back to give him precedence.
“Go on, go on, mon cher De Blenau,” said the old soldier; and lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, “honest men like you and I are all out of place here; so go on, and never mind. If it were in the field, we would strive which should be first; but here there is no knowing which end of the table is most honourable.”
“Wherever it were, I should always be happy to follow Monsieur de Brion,” replied De Blenau; “but as you will have it, so let it be.” And following the Master of the ceremonies, he was soon placed amongst the most distinguished guests, and within four or five seats of the Cardinal. Like the spot before a heathen altar, it was always the place either of honour or sacrifice; and De Blenau scarcely knew which was to be his fate. At all events, the distinction which he met with, was by no means pleasing to him, and he remained in silence during greater part of the banquet.
Every thing in the vast hall where they sat was magnificent beyond description. It was like one of those scenes in fairy romance, where supernatural powers lend their aid to dignify some human festival. All the apartment was as fully illuminated as if the broad sun had shone into it in his fullest splendour; yet not a single light was to be seen. Soft sounds of music also occasionally floated through the air, but never so loud as to interrupt the conversation.
At the table all was glitter, and splendour, and luxury; and from the higher end at which De Blenau sat, the long perspective of the hall, decked out with all a mighty kingdom’s wealth and crowded with the gay, the bright, and the fair, offered an interminable view of beauty and magnificence.
I might describe the passing of the banquet, and the bright smiles that were given, and the bright things that were said. I might enlarge upon the crowd of domestics, the activity of the seneschals and officers, and tell of the splendour of the decorations. I might even introduce the famous court fool, L’Angeli, who stood behind the chair of his young lord the Duke d’Enghien. But no—a master’s hand has given to the world so many splendid pictures of such scenes, that mine would seem but a feeble imitation. Let such things rest with Scott, whose magic wand has had power to call up the spirit of the past with as much truth, as if it were again substantially in being.
To pursue our theme, however. The Cardinal de Richelieu, who held in his hand the fate of all who sat around him, yielded to his guests the most marked attention, treating them with the profound humility of great pride; trying to quell the fire of his eye, till it should become nothing but affability; and to soften the deep tones of his voice, from the accent of command to an expression of gentle courtesy; but notwithstanding all his efforts, a degree of that haughtiness with which the long habit of despotic rule had tinged his manners, would occasionally appear, and still show that it was the lord entertaining his vassals. His demeanour towards De Blenau, however, was all suavity and kindness. He addressed him several times in the most marked manner during the course of the banquet, and listened to his reply with one of those approving smiles, so sweet upon the lips of power.
De Blenau was not to be deceived, it is true. Yet though he knew that kindness to be assumed on purpose to betray, and the smile to be as false as Hell, there was a fascination in the distinction shown him, against which he could not wholly guard his heart. His brow unbent of its frown, and he entered into the gay conversation which was going on around; but at that moment he observed the Cardinal glance his eye towards Chavigni with a meaning smile.
De Blenau marked it. “So,” thought he, “my Lord Cardinal, you deem me your own.” And as the guests rose, De Blenau took his leave, and returned with Chavigni to the Place Royale.
Containing a Conference, which ends much as it began.
THE music of the Cardinal’s fête rang in De Blenau’s ears all night, and the lights danced in his eyes, and the various guests flitted before his imagination, like the figures in some great phantasmagoria. One time he seemed wandering in the gardens with Pauline de Beaumont, and offering up all the dearest treasures of his heart, when suddenly the lady raised her veil, and it was Mademoiselle de Bourbon. Then again he was seated on the Cardinal’s right hand, who poured out for him a cup of wine: he raised it to his lips, and was about to drink, when some one dashed it from his hand, exclaiming, “It is poison!” then, turning round to see who had thus interposed, he beheld a figure without a head, and the overthrown cup poured forth a stream of blood. The next moment it was all the Cardinal’s funeral, and the fool L’Angeli appeared as chief mourner. At length, however, towards the approach of morning, the uneasy visions died away, and left him in deep sleep, from which he rose refreshed, and prepared to encounter the events of a new day.
Alas! that man should still rise to sorrow and to danger, and that the kindest gift of Heaven should be the temporary forgetfulness of existence. Sorrow! how is it that thy coarse thread is so intimately mingled with the web of life, that he who would tear thee out must rend the whole fabric? Oh life, thou long sad dream! when shall we rise from all thy phantom agonies to that bright waking which we fondly hope?
De Blenau prepared his mind, as a man arming for a battle; and sent to notify to Chavigni, that he was about to visit the Cardinal. In a few minutes after, the Statesman himself appeared, and courteously conducted the young Count to his horse, but did not offer to accompany him to the Minister. “Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, “it is better you should go alone. After your audience, you will doubtless be in haste to return to St. Germain’s; but if you will remain to take your noon meal at my poor table, I shall esteem myself honoured.”
De Blenau thanked him for his courtesy, but declined, stating that he was anxious to return home before night, if he were permitted to do so at all. “My word is passed for your safety,” replied Chavigni; “so have no doubt on that head. But take my counsel, Monsieur le Comte: moderate your proud bearing towards the Cardinal. Those who play with a lion, must take good care not to irritate him.”
On arriving at the Palais Cardinal, De Blenau left his attendants in the outer court, and following an officer of the household, proceeded through a long suite of apartments to a large saloon, where he found several others waiting the leisure of the Minister, who was at that moment engaged in conference with the Ambassador from Sweden.
De Blenau’s own feelings were not of the most comfortable nature; but on looking round the room, he guessed, from the faces of all those with whom it was tenanted, that such sensations were but too common there. One had placed himself at a window, and gazed upon the stones of the court-yard with as much earnestness as if they had inspired him with the deepest interest. Another walked up and down his own corner with irregular steps and downcast look. Another leaned back in his seat, with his chin resting on his breast, and regarded intently a door in the other side of the saloon. And another sat bending his hat into so many shapes, that he left it, in the end, of no shape at all. But all were marked, by the knitted brow and anxious eye, for men whose fate was hanging on the breath of another.
There was nothing consolatory in their looks, and De Blenau turned to the portraits which covered the walls of the saloon. The first that his eye fell upon was that of the famous Montmorency. He was represented as armed in steel, with the head uncovered; and from his apparent age it seemed that the picture had not been painted long before the unfortunate conspiracy, which, by its failure, brought him to the scaffold. There was also an expression of grave sadness in the countenance, as if he had presaged his approaching fate. De Blenau turned to another; but it so happened that each picture in the room represented some one of the many whom Richelieu’s unsparing vengeance had overtaken. Whether they were placed in that waiting-room in order to overawe those whom the Minister wished to intimidate; or whether it was that the famous gallery, which the Cardinal had filled with portraits of all the principal historical characters of France, would contain no more, and that in consequence the pictures of the later dates had been placed in this saloon, without any deeper intent, matters not; but at all events they offered no very pleasant subject of contemplation.
De Blenau, however, was not long kept in suspense; for, in a few minutes, the door on the other side of the room opened, and the Swedish Ambassador passed out. The door shut behind him, but in a moment after an attendant entered, and although several others had been waiting before him, De Blenau was the first summoned to the presence of the Cardinal.
He could not help feeling as if he wronged those he left still in doubt as to their fate: but following the officer through an ante-room, he entered the audience closet, and immediately perceived Richelieu seated at a table, over which were strewed a multitude of papers of different dimensions, some of which he was busily engaged in examining;—reading them he was not, for his eye glanced so rapidly over their contents, that his knowledge of each could be but general. He paused for a moment as De Blenau entered, bowed his head, pointed to a seat, and resumed his employment. When he had done, he signed the papers, and gave them to a dull-looking personage, in a black silk pourpoint, who stood behind his chair.
“Take these three death-warrants,” said he, “to Monsieur Lafemas, and then these others to Poterie at the Bastille. But no—stop,” he continued after a moment’s thought; “you had better go to the Bastille first, for Poterie can put Caply to the torture, while you are gone to Lafemas; and you can bring me back his confession as you return.”
De Blenau shuddered at the sang froid with which the Minister commanded those things that make one’s blood curdle even to imagine. But the attendant was practised in such commissions; and taking the packets, as a mere matter of course, he bowed in silence, and disappearing by a door on the other side, left De Blenau alone with the Cardinal.
“Well, Monsieur de Blenau,” said Richelieu, looking up with a frank smile, “your pardon for having detained you. There are many things upon which I have long wished to speak to you, and this caused me to desire your company. But I have no doubt that we shall part perfectly satisfied with each other.”
The Cardinal paused, as if for a reply. “I hope so too, my Lord,” said De Blenau. “I can, of course, have no cause to be dissatisfied with your Eminence; and for my own part, I feel my bosom to be clear.”
“I doubt it not, Monsieur le Comte,” replied the Minister, with a gracious inclination of the head—“I doubt it not; I know your spirit to be too frank and noble to mingle in petty faction and treasonable cabal. No one more admires your brave and independent bearing than myself. You must remember that I have marked you from your youth. You have been educated, as it were, under my own eye; and were it now necessary to trust the welfare of the State to the honour of any one man, I would confide it to the honour of De Blenau.”
“To what, in the name of Heaven, can this lead?” thought De Blenau; but he bowed without reply, and the Cardinal proceeded.
“I have, for some time past,” he continued, “been thinking of placing you in one of those high stations, to which your rank and consideration entitle you to aspire. At present, none are vacant; but as a forerunner to such advancement, I propose to call you to the Council, and to give you the government of Poitou.”
De Blenau was now, indeed, astonished. The Cardinal was not a man to jest: and yet what he proposed, as a mere preliminary, was an offer that the first noble in France might have accepted with gladness. The Count was about to speak. But Richelieu paused only for a moment, to observe the effect of what he said upon his auditor; and perhaps over-rating the ambition of De Blenau, he proceeded more boldly.
“I do not pretend to say, notwithstanding my sense of your high merit, and my almost parental feelings towards you, that I am wholly moved to this by my individual regard; but the truth is, that the State requires, at this moment, the services of one, who joins to high talents a thorough knowledge of the affairs of Spain.”
“So!” thought De Blenau, “I have it now. The government of Poitou, and a seat at the Council, provided I betray the Queen and sell my own honour.” Richelieu seemed to wait an answer, and De Blenau replied: “If your Eminence means to attribute such knowledge to me, some one must have greatly misled you. I possess no information on the affairs of Spain whatever, except from the common reports and journals of the time.”
This reply did not seem to affect Richelieu’s intentions. “Well, well, Monsieur de Blenau,” said he, with a smile, “you will take your seat at the Council, and will, of course, as a good subject and an honourable man, communicate to us whatever information you possess, on those points which concern the good of the State. We do not expect all at once; and every thing shall be done to smooth your way, and facilitate your views. Then, perhaps, if Richelieu live to execute the plans he has formed, you, Monsieur de Blenau, following his path, and sharing his confidence, may be ready to take his place, when death shall at length call him from it.”
The Cardinal counted somewhat too much on De Blenau’s ambition, and not sufficiently on his knowledge of the world; and imagining that he had, the evening before, discovered the weak point in the character of the young Count, he thought to lead him to any thing, by holding out to him extravagant prospects of future greatness. The dish, however, was somewhat too highly flavoured; and De Blenau replied, with a smile,—
“Your Eminence is exceeding good to think at all of me, in the vast and more important projects which occupy your mind. But, alas! my Lord, De Blenau would prove but a poor successor to Richelieu.—No, my Lord Cardinal,” he continued, “I have no ambition; that is a passion which should be reserved for such great and comprehensive minds as yours. I am contented as I am. High stations are always stations of danger.”
“I had heard that the Count de Blenau was no way fearful,” said Richelieu, fixing on him a keen and almost scornful glance. “Was the report a mistake? or is it lately he has become afraid of danger?”
De Blenau was piqued, and lost temper. “Of personal danger, my Lord, I am never afraid,” replied he. “But when along with risk to myself is involved danger to my friends, danger to my country, danger to my honour, and danger to my soul,” and he returned the Cardinal’s glance full as proudly as it had been given, “then, my Lord Cardinal, I would say, it were no cowardice, but true courage to fly from such peril—unless,” he added, remembering the folly of opposing the irritable and unscrupulous Minister, and thinking that his words had, perhaps, been already too warm—“unless, indeed, one felt within one’s breast the mind of a Richelieu.”
While De Blenau spoke, the Cardinal’s brow knitted into a frown. A flush too came over his cheek; and untying the ribbon which served as a fastening, he took off the velvet cap he generally wore, as if to give himself air. He heard him, however, to the end, and then answered drily, “You speak well, Monsieur de Blenau, and, I doubt not, feel what you say. But am I to understand you, that you refuse to aid us at the Council with your information and advice?”
“So far, your Eminence is right,” replied the Count, who saw that the storm was now about to break upon his head; “I must, indeed, decline the honours which you offer with so bountiful a hand. But do not suppose that I do so from unwillingness to yield you any information; for, truly, I have none to give. I have never meddled with politics. I have never turned my attention to State affairs; and therefore still less could I yield you any advice. Your Eminence would be woefully disappointed, when you expected to find a man well acquainted with the arts of government, and deep read in the designs of foreign states, to meet with one, whose best knowledge is to range a battalion, or to pierce a boar; a soldier, and not a diplomatist; a hunter, and not a statesman. And as to the government of Poitou, my Lord, its only good would be the emolument, and already my revenues are far more than adequate to my wants.”
“You refuse my kindness, Sir,” replied the Cardinal, with an air of deep determined haughtiness, very different from the urbanity with which he had at first received De Blenau; “I must now speak to you in another tone. And let me warn you to beware of what you say; for be assured, that I already possess sufficient information to confound you if you should prevaricate.”
“My Lord Cardinal,” replied De Blenau, somewhat hastily, “I am not accustomed to prevaricate. Ask any questions you please, and, so long as my honour and my duty go with them, I will answer you.”
“Then there are questions,” said the Cardinal, “that you would think against your duty to answer?”
“I said not so, your Eminence,” replied De Blenau. “In the examination I find I am to undergo, give my words their full meaning, if you please, but no more than their meaning.”
“Well then, Sir, answer me as a man of honour and a French noble,” said the Cardinal—“Are you not aware of a correspondence that has been, and is now, carried on between Anne of Austria and Don Francisco de Mello, Governor of the Low Countries?”
“I know not whom you mean, Sir, by Anne of Austria,” replied De Blenau. “If it be her Majesty, your Queen and mine, that you so designate, I reply at once that I know of no such correspondence, nor do I believe that it exists.”
“Do you mean to say, Monsieur de Blenau,” demanded the Cardinal, fixing his keen sunken eyes upon the young Count with that basilisk glance for which he was famous—“Do you mean to say, that you yourself have not forwarded letters from the Queen to Madame de Chevreuse, and Don Francisco de Mello, by a private channel?—Pause, Monsieur de Blenau, before you answer, and be well assured that I am acquainted with every particular of your conduct.”
“Your Eminence is, no doubt, acquainted with much more intricate subjects than any of my actions,” replied the Count. “With regard to Madame de Chevreuse, her Majesty has no need to conceal a correspondence with her, which has been fully permitted and sanctioned, both by your Eminence and the still higher authority of the King; and I may add, that to my certain knowledge, letters have gone to that lady by your own courier. On the other point, I have answered already; and have only to say once more, that I know of no such correspondence, nor would I, assuredly, lend myself to any such measures, which I should conceive to be treasonable.”
“I have always hitherto supposed you to be a man of honour,” said the Cardinal coolly; “but what must I conceive now, Monsieur le Comte, when I tell you that I have those very letters in my possession?”
“You may conceive what you please, Sir,” replied De Blenau, giving way to his indignation; “but I will dare any man to lay before me a letter from her Majesty to the person you mention, which has passed through the hands of De Blenau.”
The Cardinal did not reply, but opening an ebony cabinet, which stood on his right hand, he took from one of the compartments a small bundle of papers, from which he selected one, and laid it on the table before the Count, who had hitherto looked on with no small wonder and expectation. “Do you know that writing, Sir?” demanded the Cardinal, still keeping his hand upon the paper, in such a manner as to allow only a word or two to be visible.
De Blenau examined the line which the Cardinal suffered to appear, and replied—“From what little I can see, I should imagine it to be the hand-writing of her Majesty. But that does not show that I have any thing to do with it.”
“But there is that in it which does,” answered Richelieu, folding down a line or two of the letter, and pointing out to the Count a sentence which said, “This will be conveyed to you by the Count de Blenau, who you know never fails.”
“Now, Sir!” continued the Cardinal, “once more let me advise you to give me all you possess upon this subject. From a feeling of personal regard, I have had too much patience with you already.”
“All I can reply to your Eminence,” answered the Count, not a little embarrassed, “is, that no letter whatever has been conveyed by me, knowingly, to the Governor of the Low Countries.”
De Blenau’s eyes naturally fixed on the paper, which still lay on the table, and from which the Cardinal had by this time withdrawn his hand; and feeling that both life and honour depended upon that document, he resolved to ascertain its authenticity, of which he entertained some doubt.
“Stop,” said he hastily, “let me look at the superscription,” and before Richelieu could reply, he had raised it from the table and turned to the address. One glance was enough to satisfy him, and he returned it to the Cardinal with a cool and meaning smile, repeating the words—“To Madame de Chevreuse.”
At first the Cardinal had instinctively stretched out his hand to stop De Blenau in his purpose, but he instantly recovered himself, nor did his countenance betray the least change of feeling. “Well, Sir,” replied he, “you said that you would dare any one to lay before you a letter from the Queen to the person I mentioned. Did I not mention Madame de Chevreuse, and is not there the letter?”
“Your Eminence has mistaken me,” replied De Blenau, bowing his head, and smiling at the Minister’s art; “I meant, Don Francisco de Mello. I had answered what you said in regard to Madame de Chevreuse, before.”
“I did mistake you then, Sir,” said the Cardinal; “but it was from the ambiguity of your own words. However, passing over your boldness, in raising that letter without my permission; I will show you that I know more of your proceedings than you suspect. I will tell you the very terms of the message you sent to the Queen, after you were wounded in the wood of Mantes, conveying to her, that you had not lost the packet with which you were charged. Did not Seguin tell her, on your part, that though the wound was in your side, your heart was not injured?”
“I dare say he did, my Lord,” replied De Blenau, coolly; “and the event has proved that he was quite right, for your Eminence must perceive that I am quite recovered, which, of course, could not have been the case, had any vital part been hurt. But I hope, your Eminence, that there is no offence, in your eyes, either in having sent the Queen, my mistress, an account of my health, or in having escaped the attack of assassins.”
A slight flush passed over Richelieu’s cheek. “You may chance to fall into less scrupulous hands than even their’s,” replied he. “I am certainly informed, Sir, that you, on the part of the Queen, have been carrying on a treasonable intercourse with Spain—a country at war with France, to whose crown you are a born subject and vassal; and I have to tell you, that the punishment of such a crime is death. Yes, Sir, you may knit your brow. But no consideration shall stay me from visiting, with the full severity of the law, such as do so offend; and though the information I want be but small, depend upon it, I shall not hesitate to employ the most powerful means to wring it from you.”
De Blenau had no difficulty in comprehending the nature of those means, to which the Cardinal alluded; but his mind was made up to suffer the worst. “My Lord Cardinal,” replied he, “what your intentions are, I know not; but be sure, that to whatever extremes you may go, you can wring nothing from me but what you have already heard. I once more assure you, that I know of no treasonable correspondence whatsoever; and firm in my own innocence, I equally despise all attempts to bribe or to intimidate me.”
“Sir, you are insolent!” replied the Cardinal rising: “Use no such language to me!—Are you not an insect I can sweep from my path in an instant? Ho, a guard there without! We shall soon see, whether you know aught of Philip of Spain.”
Had the Cardinal’s glance been directed towards De Blenau, he would have seen, that at the name of Philip of Spain, a degree of paleness came over his cheek; but another object had caught Richelieu’s eye, and he did not observe it. It was the entrance of the attendant whom he had despatched with the death-warrants, which now drew his notice; and well pleased to show De Blenau the dreadful means he so unscrupulously employed to extort confession from those he suspected, he eagerly demanded, “What news?”
“May it please your Eminence,” said the attendant, “Caply died under the torture. In truth, it was soon over with him, for he did not bear it above ten minutes.”
“But the confession, the confession!” exclaimed Richelieu. “Where is the procès verbal?”
“He made no confession, Sir,” replied the man. “He protested, to the last, his innocence, and that he knew nothing.”
“Pshaw!” said Richelieu; “they let him die too soon; they should have given him wine to keep him up. Foolish idiot,” he continued, as if meditating over the death of his victim; “had he but told what he was commanded, he would have saved himself from a death of horror. Such is the meed of obstinacy.”
“Such,” thought De Blenau, “is, unhappily, often the reward of firmness and integrity. But such a death is honourable in itself.”
No one could better read in the face what was passing in the mind than Richelieu, and it is probable that he easily saw in the countenance of De Blenau, the feelings excited by what had just passed. He remembered also the promise given by Chavigni; and if, when he called the Guard, he had ever seriously proposed to arrest De Blenau, he abandoned his intention for the moment. Not that the high tone of the young Count’s language was either unfelt, or forgiven, for Richelieu never pardoned; but it was as easy to arrest De Blenau at St. Germain’s as in Paris; and the wily Minister calculated, that by giving him a little liberty, and throwing him off his guard, he might be tempted to do those things which would put him more completely in the power of the government, and give the means of punishing him for his pride and obstinacy, as it was internally termed by a man long unaccustomed to any opposition.
De Blenau was principally obnoxious to the Cardinal, as the confidant of the Queen, and from being the chief of her adherents both by his rank, wealth, and reputation. Anne of Austria having now become the only apparent object which could cloud the sky of Richelieu’s political power, he had resolved either to destroy her, by driving her to some criminal act, or so to entangle her in his snares, as to reduce her to become a mere instrument in his hands and for his purposes. To arrest De Blenau would put the Queen upon her guard; and therefore, the Minister, without hesitation, resolved to dissemble his resentment, and allow the Count to depart in peace; reserving for another time the vengeance he had determined should overtake him at last. Nor was his dissembling of that weak nature which those employ, who have all the will to deceive, without the art of deceiving.
Richelieu walked rapidly up and down the closet for a moment, as if striving to repress some strong emotion, then stopped, and turning to De Blenau with some frankness of manner, “Monsieur le Comte,” said he, “I will own that you have heated me,—perhaps I have given way to it too much. But you ought to be more careful of your words, Sir, and remember that with men whose power you cannot resist, it is sometimes dangerous even to be in the right, much more to make them feel it rudely. However, it is all past, and I will now detain you no longer; trusting to your word, that the information which I have received, is without foundation. Let me only add, that you might have raised yourself this day to a height which few men in France would not struggle to attain. But that is past also, and may, perhaps, never return.”
“I am most grateful, believe me,” replied De Blenau, “for all the favours your Eminence intended me; and I have no doubt, that you will soon find some other person, on whom to bestow them, much more worthy of them than myself.”
Richelieu bowed low, and fixed his eyes upon the Count without reply—a signal that the audience was over, which was not lost upon De Blenau, who very gladly took his leave of the Minister, hoping most devoutly never to see his face again. The ambiguity of his last sentence, however, had not escaped the Cardinal.
“So, Monsieur de Blenau!” said he, as soon as the Count had left him, “you can make speeches with a double meaning also! Can you so? You may rue it though, for I will find means to bend your proud spirit, or to break it; and that before three days be over. Is every thing prepared for my passage to Chantilly?” he continued, turning to the attendant.
“All is prepared, please your Eminence,” replied the man; “and as I passed, I saw Monsieur de Chavigni getting into his chaise to set out.”
“We will let him be an hour or two in advance,” said the Cardinal. “Send in the Marquis de Goumont;” and he again applied himself to other affairs.
“An entire new comedy, with new scenery, dresses, and decorations.”
THE little village of Mesnil St. Loup, all insignificant as it is, was at the time of my tale a place of even less consequence than it appears now-a-days, when nine people out of ten have scarcely ever heard of its existence.
It was, nevertheless, a pretty-looking place; and had its little auberge, on the same scale and in the same style as the village to which it belonged,—small, neat, and picturesque, with its high pole before the door, crowned with a gay garland of flowers, which served both for sign and inscription to the inn; being fully as comprehensible an intimation to the peasantry of the day, that “Bon vin et bonne chère” were to be obtained within, as the most artful flourish of a modern sign-painter.
True it is, that the little cabaret of Mesnil St. Loup was seldom troubled with the presence of a traveller; but there the country people would congregate after the labours of the day, and enjoy their simple sports with a relish that luxury knows not. The high road from Paris to Troyes passed quite in another direction; and a stranger in Mesnil St. Loup was a far greater stranger than he could possibly have been anywhere else, except perhaps in newly discovered America. For there was nothing to excite either interest or curiosity; except it were the little church, which had seen many a century pass over its primitive walls, remaining still unaltered, while five or six old trees, which had been its companions for time out of mind, began to show strong signs of decay, in their rifted bark and falling branches, but still formed a picturesque group, with a great stone cross and fountain underneath them, and a seat for the weary traveller to rest himself in their shade.
Thus, Mesnil St. Loup was little known to strangers, for its simplicity had no attractions for the many. Nevertheless, on one fine evening, somewhere about the beginning of September, the phenomenon of a new face showed itself at Mesnil St. Loup. The personage to whom it appertained, was a horseman of small mean appearance, who, having passed by the church, rode through the village to the auberge, and having raised his eyes to the garland over the door, he divined from it, that he himself would find there good Champagne wine, and his horse would meet with entertainment equally adapted to his peculiar taste. Thereupon, the stranger alighted and entered the place of public reception, without making any of that bustle about himself, which the landlord seemed well inclined to do for him; but on the contrary sat himself down in the most shady corner, ordered his bottle of wine, and inquired what means the house afforded of satisfying his hunger, in a low quiet tone of voice, which reached no farther than the person he addressed.
“As for wine,” the host replied, “Monsieur should have such wine that the first merchant of Epernay might prick his ears at it; and in regard to eatables, what could be better than stewed eels, out of the river hard by, and a civet de lievre?—Monsieur need not be afraid,” he added; “it was a real hare he had snared that morning himself, in the forest under the hill. Some dishonourable innkeepers,” he observed—“innkeepers unworthy of the name, would dress up cats and rats, and such animals, in the form of hares and rabbits; even as the Devil had been known to assume the appearance of an Angel of light; but he scorned such practices, and could not only show his hare’s skin, but his hare in the skin. Farther, he would give Monsieur an ortolan in a vine leaf, and a dish of stewed sorrel.”
The stranger underwent the innkeeper’s oration with most exemplary patience, signified his approbation of the proposed dinner, without attacking the hare’s reputation; and when at length it was placed before him, he ate his meal and drank his wine, in profound silence, without a word of praise or blame to either one or the other. The landlord, with all his sturdy loquacity, failed in more than one attempt to draw him into conversation; and the hostess, though none of the oldest or ugliest, could scarce win a syllable from his lips, even by asking if he were pleased with his fare. The taciturn stranger merely bowed his head, and seemed little inclined to exert his oratorical powers, more than by the simple demand of what he wanted; so that both mine host and hostess gave him up in despair—the one concluding that he was “an odd one,” and the other declaring that he was as stupid as he was ugly.
This lasted some time, till one villager after another, having exhausted every excuse for staying to hear whether the stranger would open his lips, dropped away in his turn, and left the apartment vacant. It was then, and not till then, that mine host was somewhat surprised, by hearing the silent traveller pronounce in a most audible and imperative manner, “Gaultier, come here.” The first cause of astonishment was to hear him speak at all; and the next to find his own proper name of Gaultier so familiar to the stranger, forgetting that it had been vociferated at least one hundred times that night in his presence. However, Gaultier obeyed the summons with all speed, and approaching the stranger with a low reverence, begged to know his good will and pleasure.
“Your wine is good, Gaultier,” said the stranger, raising his clear grey eyes to the rosy round of Gaultier’s physiognomy. Even an innkeeper is susceptible of flattery; and Gaultier bent his head down towards the ground, as if he were going to do kou-tou.
“Gaultier, bring me another bottle,” said the stranger. This phrase was better than the former; that sort of substantial flattery that goes straight to an innkeeper’s heart. Truly, it is a pity that innkeepers are such selfish beings. And yet it is natural too;—so rapidly does mankind pass by them, that theirs can be, at best, but a stage-coach sort of affection for their fellow-creatures—The coachman shuts the door—Drive on!—and it is all over. Thus, my dear Sir, the gaieties, the care, and the bustle in which you and I live, render our hearts but as an inn, where many a traveller stays for an hour, pays his score, and is forgotten.—I am resolved to let mine upon lease.——
The bottle of wine was not long in making its appearance; and as Gaultier set it on the table before the stranger, he asked if he could serve him farther.
“Can you show me the way to the old Chateau of St. Loup?” demanded the stranger.
“Surely, I can, Sir,” replied the innkeeper; “that is to say, as far as knowing where it is. But I hope Monsieur does not mean to-night.”
“Indeed do I,” answered the stranger; “and pray why not? The night is the same as the day to an honest man.”
“No doubt, no doubt!” exclaimed Gaultier, with the greatest doubt in the world in his own mind.—“No doubt! But, Holy Virgin! Jesu preserve us!”—and he signed the cross most devoutly—“we all know that there are spirits, and demons, and astrologers, and the Devil, and all those sort of things; and I would not go through the Grove where old Père Le Rouge, the sorcerer, was burnt alive, not to be prime minister, or the Cardinal de Richelieu, or any other great man,—that is to say, after nightfall. In the day I would go anywhere, or do any thing,—I am no coward, Sir,—I dare do any thing. My father served in the blessed League against the cursed Huguenots—so I am no coward;—but bless you, Sir, I will tell you how it happened, and then you will see—”
“I know all about it,” replied the stranger, in a voice that made the innkeeper start, and look over his left shoulder; “I know all about it; but sit down and drink with me, to keep your spirits up, for you must show me the way this very night. Père Le Rouge was a dear friend of mine, and before he was burnt for a sorcerer, we had made a solemn compact to meet once every ten years. Now, if you remember aright, it is just ten years, this very day, since he was executed; and there is no bond in Hell fast enough to hold him from meeting me to-night at the old chateau. So sit you down and drink!”—And he poured out a full cup of wine for the innkeeper, who looked aghast at the portentous compact between the stranger and Père Le Rouge. However, whether it was that Gaultier was too much afraid to refuse, or had too much esprit de corps not to drink with any one who would drink with him, can hardly be determined now; but so it was, that sitting down, according to the stranger’s desire, he poured the whole goblet of wine over his throat at one draught, and, as he afterwards averred, could not help thinking that the stranger must have enchanted the liquor, for no sooner had he swallowed it, than all his fears of Père Le Rouge began to die away, like morning dreams. However, when the goblet was drained, Gaultier began more justly to estimate the danger of drinking with a sorcerer; and that the stranger was such, a Champenois aubergiste of 1642 could never be supposed to doubt, after the diabolical compact so unscrupulously confessed. Under this impression, he continued rolling his empty cup about upon the table, revolving at the same time his own critical situation, and endeavouring to determine what might be his duty to his King and Country under such perilous circumstances. Rolling the cup to the right—he resolved instantly to denounce this malignant enchanter to the proper authorities, and have him forthwith burnt alive, and sent to join Père Le Rouge in the other world, by virtue of the humane and charitable laws in that case especially made and provided. Then rolling the cup to the other side—his eye glanced towards the stranger’s bottle, and resting upon the vacuum which their united thirst had therein occasioned, his heart over-flowed with the milk of human kindness, and he pitied from his soul that perverted taste which could lead any human being from good liquor, comfortable lodging, and the society of an innkeeper, to a dark wood and a ruined castle, an old roasted sorcerer, and the Devil perhaps into the bargain.
“Would you choose another bottle, Sir?” demanded Gaultier; and as his companion nodded his head in token of assent, was about to proceed on this errand—with the laudable intention also of sharing all his newly arisen doubts and fears with his gentle help-mate, who, for her part, was busily engaged in the soft domestic duties of scolding the stable-boy and boxing the maid’s ears. But the stranger stopped him, perhaps divining, and not very much approving, the aforesaid communication. He exclaimed, “La Bourgeoise!” in a tone of voice which overpowered all other noises: the abuse of the dame herself—the tears of the maid—the exculpation of the stable-boy—the cackle of the cocks and hens, which were on a visit in the parlour—and the barking of a prick-eared cur included. The fresh bottle soon stood upon the table; and while the hostess returned to her former tender avocations, the stranger, whose clear grey eye seemed reading deeply into Gaultier’s heart, continued to drink from the scanty remains of his own bottle, leaving mine host to fill from that which was hitherto uncontaminated by any other touch than his own. This Gaultier did not fail to do, till such time as the last rays of the sun, which had continued to linger fondly amidst a flight of light feathery clouds overhead, had entirely left the sky, and all was grey.
At that moment the stranger drew forth his purse, let it fall upon the table with a heavy sort of clinking sound, showing that the louis-d’ors within had hardly room to jostle against each other. It was a sound of comfortable plenty, which had something in it irresistibly attractive to the ears of Gaultier; and as he stood watching while the stranger insinuated his finger and thumb into the little leathern bag, drawing forth first one broad piece and then another, so splendid did the stranger’s traffic with the Devil begin to appear in the eyes of the innkeeper, that he almost began to wish that he had been brought up a sorcerer also.
The stranger quietly pushed the two pieces of gold across the table till they got within the innkeeper’s sphere of attraction, when they became suddenly hurried towards him, with irresistible velocity, and were plunged into the abyss of a large pocket on his left side, close upon his heart.
The stranger looked on with philosophic composure, as if considering some natural phenomenon, till such time as the operation was complete. “Now, Gaultier,” cried he, “put on your beaver, and lead to the beginning of the Grove. I will find my way through it alone. But hark ye, say no word to your wife.”
Gaultier was all complaisance, and having placed his hat on his head, he opened the door of the auberge, and brought forth the stranger’s horse, fancying that what with a bottle of wine, and two pieces of gold, he could meet Beelzebub himself, or any other of those gentlemen of the lower house, with whom the Curé used to frighten the little boys and girls when they went to their first communion. However, the stranger had scarcely passed the horse’s bridle over his arm, and led him a step or two on the way, when the cool air and reflection made the innkeeper begin to think differently of the Devil, and be more inclined to keep at a respectful distance from so grave and antique a gentleman. A few steps more made him as frightened as ever; and before they had got to the end of the village, Gaultier fell hard to work, crossing himself most laboriously, and trembling every time he remembered that he was conducting one sorcerer to meet another, long dead and delivered over in form, with fire and fagot, into the hands of Satan.
It is probable that he would have run, but the stranger was close behind, and cut off his retreat.
At about a mile and a half from the little village of Mesnil, stood the old Chateau of St. Loup, situated upon an abrupt eminence, commanding a view of almost all the country round. The valley at its foot, and the slope of the hill up to its very walls, were covered with thick wood, through which passed the narrow deserted road from Mesnil, winding in and out with a thousand turns and divarications, and twice completely encircling the hill itself, before it reached the castle gate, which once, in the hospitable pride of former days, had rested constantly open for the reception equally of the friend and the stranger, but which now only gave entrance to the winds and tempests—rude guests, that contributed, even more than Time himself, the great destroyer, to bring ruin and desolation on the deserted mansion. Hard by, in a little cemetery, attached to the Chapel, lay many of the gay hearts that had once beat there, now quiet in the still cold earth. There, mouldering like the walls that overshadowed them, were the last sons of the brave and noble race of Mesnil, without one scion left to dwell in the halls of their forefathers, or to grieve over the desolation of their heritage. There, too, lay the vassals, bowed to the will of a sterner Lord, and held in the surer bondage of the tomb; and yet perhaps, in life, they had passed on, happier than their chief, without his proud anxiety and splendid cares; and now, in death, his bed was surely made as low, and the equal wind that whispered over the grave of the one, offered no greater flattery to the monument of the other. But, beyond all these, and removed without the precincts of consecrated ground, was a heap of shards and flints—the Sorcerer’s grave! Above it, some pious hand had raised the symbol of salvation—a deed of charity, truly, in those days, when eternal mercy was farmed by the Church, like a turnpike on the high road, and none could pass but such as paid toll. But, however, there it rose,—a tall white cross, standing, as that symbol should always stand, high above every surrounding object, and full in view of all who sought it.
As the aubergiste and his companion climbed the hill, which, leading from the village of Mesnil, commanded a full prospect of the rich woody valley below, and overhung that spot which, since the tragedy of poor Père Le Rouge, had acquired the name of the Sorcerer’s Grove, it was this tall white cross that first caught their attention. It stood upon the opposite eminence, distinctly marked on the back-ground of the evening sky, catching every ray of light that remained, while behind it, pile upon pile, lay the thick clouds of a coming storm.
“There, Monsieur,” cried Gaultier, “there is the cross upon the Sorcerer’s grave!” And the fear which agitated him while he spoke, made the stranger’s lip curl into a smile of bitter contempt. But as they turned the side of the hill, which had hitherto concealed the castle itself from their sight, the teeth of Gaultier actually chattered in his head, when he beheld a bright light shining from several windows of the deserted building.
“There!” exclaimed the stranger, “there, you see how well Père Le Rouge keeps his appointment. I am waited for, and want you no farther. I can now find my way alone. I would not expose you, my friend, to the dangers of that Grove.”
The innkeeper’s heart melted at the stranger’s words, and he was filled with compassionate zeal upon the occasion. “Pray don’t go,” cried Gaultier, almost blubbering betwixt fear and tender-heartedness; “pray don’t go! Have pity upon your precious soul! You’ll go to the Devil, indeed you will!—or at least to purgatory for a hundred thousand years, and be burnt up like an overdone rabbit. You are committing murder, and conspiracy, and treason,”—the stranger started, but Gaultier went on—“and heresy, and pleurisy, and sorcery, and you will go to the Devil, indeed you will—and then you’ll remember what I told you.”
“What is fated, is fated!” replied the stranger, in a solemn voice, though Gaultier’s speech had produced that sort of tremulous tone, excited by an inclination either to laugh or to cry. “I have promised, and I must go. But let me warn you,” he continued, sternly, “never to mention one word of what has passed to-night, if you would live till I come again. For if you reveal one word, even to your wife, the ninth night after you have done so, Père Le Rouge will stand on one side of your bed, and I on the other, and Satan at your feet, and we will carry you away body and soul, so that you shall never be heard of again.”
When he had concluded, the stranger waited for no reply, but sprang upon his horse, and galloped down into the wood.
In the mean time, the landlord climbed to a point of the hill, from whence he could see both his own village, and the ruins of the castle. There, the sight of the church steeple gave him courage, and he paused to examine the extraordinary light which proceeded from the ruin. In a few minutes, he saw several figures flit across the windows, and cast a momentary obscurity over the red glare which was streaming forth from them upon the darkness of the night. “There they are!” cried he, “Père Le Rouge, and his pot companion!—and surely the Devil must be with them, for I see more than two, and one of them has certainly a tail—Lord have mercy upon us!”
As he spoke, a vivid flash of lightning burst from the clouds, followed instantly by a tremendous peal of thunder. The terrified innkeeper startled at the sound, and more than ever convinced that man’s enemy was on earth, took to his heels, nor ceased running till he reached his own door, and met his better angel of a wife, who boxed his ears for his absence, and vowed he had been gallanting.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY S. AND R. BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
| Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: |
|---|
| shas ent to inquire=> has sent to inquire {pg 115} |
| Frontrailles=> Fontrailles {pg 163} |
| Gualtier=> Gaultier {pg 283} |