I love not to see any one depart, for the sad magic of fancy is sure to conjure up a host of phantasm danger, and sorrows, to fill the space between the instant present, and that far distant one, when the same form shall again stand before us. We are sure, too, that Time must work his bitter commission,--that he must impair, or cast down, or destroy; and I know hardly any pitch of human misery so great, that when we see a beloved form leave us, we may justly hope, on our next meeting, to find all circumstances of a brighter aspect. Make up our accounts how we will with Fate, Time is always in the balance against us.
The last sight of Isadore of the Mount called up in the breast of Guy de Coucy as sombre a train of thoughts as ever invaded the heart of man since the fall. When might he see her again? he asked himself, and what might intervene? Would she not forget him? would she indeed be his till death? Would not the slow flowing of hour after hour, with all the obliterating circumstance of time's current, efface his image from her memory? and even if her heart still retained the traces that young affection had there imprinted, what but misery would it bring to both? He had spoken hopes to her ear, that he did not feel himself; and, when he looked up at the large, dark mass of towers and battlements before him, as he turned back from the barbican, it struck his eye with the cold, dead, unhopeful aspect of a tomb. He entered it, however, and, proceeding direct to the inner court, approached the foot of the watch-tower, the small, narrow door of which opened there, without communicating with any other building.
De Coucy paced up its manifold steps, and, stationing himself at the opening, fixed his eyes upon the skirt of the forest, where the road emerged, waiting for one more glance of her he loved, though the distance made the sight but a mere slave of Fancy. In about a quarter of an hour, the train of Sir Julian appeared, issuing from the forest; and De Coucy gazed, and gazed, upon the woman's form that rode beside the chief of the horsemen, till the whole became an indistinct mass of dark spots, as they wound onward towards Vernon.
Feeling, he knew not why, an abhorrence to his own solitary hall, the young knight remained leaning his arms upon the slight balustrade of the beffroy-tower, which, open on all sides, was only carried up farther by four small pillars supporting the roof, where hung the heavy bell call the bancloche. As he thus continued meditating on all that was gloomy in his situation, his eyes still strayed heedlessly over the prospect; sometimes turning in the direction of Paris, as he thought of seeking fortune and honour in arms; sometimes looking again towards Vernon though the object of his love was no longer visible.
On the road from Paris, however, two objects were to be seen, which he had not remarked before. The first was the figure of a man on foot, at about half a mile's distance from the castle, to which it was slowly approaching: the other was still so far off, that De Coucy could not distinguish at first whether it was a horseman, or some wayfarer on foot; but the rapidity with which it passed the various rises and falls of the road, soon showed him that whoever it was, was not only mounted, but proceeding at the full speed of a quick horse.
For a moment or two, from old habits of observation as a soldier, De Coucy watched its approach; but then again really careless about every thing that did not refer to his more absorbing feelings, he turned from the view, and slowly descended the steps of the tower.
His feet turned once more mechanically to the drawbridge, and placing himself under the arch of the barbican, he leaned his tall, graceful figure against one of the enormous door-posts, revolving a thousand vague schemes for his future existence. The strong swimmer Hope, still struggled up through the waves that Reflection poured continually on his head; and De Coucy's dreams were still of how he might win high fortune and Isadora of the Mount.
Should he, in the first place, he asked himself, defy Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, and make him yield his claim? But no;--he remembered the serious vow of the old count; and he saw, that by so doing he should but cast another obstacle on the pile already heaped up between him and his purpose. Sir Julian had said, too, that Isadore's hand was not to be given away till the coming wars were over. Those wars might be long, De Coucy thought, and uncertain,--and hope lives upon reprieves. He must trust to accident, and, in the mean time, strive manfully to repair the wrong that Fortune had done him. But how? was the question. Tournaments, wars,--all required some equipment, and his shrunk purse contained not a single besant.
"Oh! 'tis a steep and rugged ascent!" thought De Coucy, "that same hill of Fortune; and the man must labour hard that would climb it, like yon old man, toiling up the steep path that leads hither."
Such was the only notice that the young knight at first took of the weary foot-traveller he had seen from above; but gradually the figure, dressed in its long brown robe, with the white beard streaming down to the girdle, appeared more familiar to him; and a few steps more, as the old man advanced, called fully to his remembrance the hermit whose skill had so speedily brought about the cure of his bruises in Auvergne, and whom we have since had more than one occasion to bring upon the scene.
De Coucy had, by nature, that true spirit of chivalrous gallantry, even the madness of which has been rendered beautiful by the great Spaniard. No sooner did he recognise the old man than he advanced to meet him, and aided him as carefully up the steep ascent as a son might aid a parent.
"Welcome, good father hermit!" said he. "Come you here by accident, or come you to rest for a while at the hold of so poor a knight as myself?"
"I came to see whether thou wert alive or dead," replied the hermit. "I knew not whether some new folly might not have taken thee from the land of the living."
"Not yet," replied De Coucy with a smile: "my fate is yet an unsealed one. But, in faith, good father, I am glad to see thee; for, when thou hast broken thy fast in my hall, I would fain ask thee for some few words of good counsel."
"To follow your own, after you have asked mine?" replied the hermit. "Such is the way with man, at least.--But first, as you say, my son, I will break my fast. Bid some of the lazy herd that of course feed on you, seek me some cresses from the brook, and give me a draught of water."
"Must such be your sole food, good hermit?" demanded De Coucy. "Will not your vow admit of some more nourishing repast, after so long a journey too?"
"I seek nought better," replied the hermit, as De Coucy led him into the hall. "I am not one of those who hold, that man was formed to gnaw the flesh of all harmless beasts, as if he were indeed but a more cowardly sort of tiger. Let your men give me what I ask,--somewhat that never felt the throb of life, or the sting of death,--those wholesome herbs that God gave to be food to all that live, to bless the sight with their beauty, and the smell with their odour, and the palate with their grateful freshness. Give me no tiger's food. But thou lookest sad, my son," he added, gazing in De Coucy's face, from which much of the sparkling expression of undimmed gaiety of heart that used once to shine out in every feature had now passed away.
"I am sad, good hermit," replied the young knight. "Time holds two cups, I have heard say, both of which each man must drink in the course of his life;--either now the sweet, and then the bitter; or the bitter first, and the sweet after; or else, mingling them both together, taste the mixed beverage through existence. Now, I have known much careless happiness in the days past, and I am beginning to quaff off the bitter bowl, sir hermit."
"There is but one resource," said the hermit, "there is but one resource, my son!"
"And what is that?" demanded De Coucy. "Do you mean death?"
"Nay," replied the old man; "I meant Christ's cross. There is the hope, and the succour, and the reward for all evils suffered in this life! Mark me as I sit here before thee:--didst thou ever see a thing more withered--broken--worn? And yet I was once full of green strength, and flourishing--as proud a thing as ever trampled on his mother-earth: rich, honoured, renowned: I was a very giant in my vanity! My sway stretched over wide, wide lands. My lance was always in the vanward of the battle; my voice was heard in courts, and my council was listened to by kings. I held in my arms the first young love of my heart; and, strange to say! that love increased, and grew to such absorbing passion, that, as years rolled on, I quitted all for it--ambition, strife, pride, friendship,--all!"
"Methinks, surely," said De Coucy, with all his feelings for Isadore fresh on his heart's surface, "such were the way to be happy!"
"As much as the way for a gambler to win is to stake all his wealth upon one cast," replied the hermit. "But, mark me! she died, and left me childless--hopeless--alone! And I went out into the world to search for something that might refill the void her loss had left, not in my heart, for that was as a sepulchre to my dead love, never to be opened again;--no, but to fill the void in my thoughts--to give me something to think of--to care for. I went amongst men of my own age (for I was then unbroken), but I found them feelingless or brutal, sensual and voluptuous; either plunderers of their neighbours, or mere eaters and drinkers of fifty. I then went amongst the old; but I found them querulous and tetchy; brimful of their own miseries, and as selfish in their particular pains, as the others in their particular pleasures. I went amongst the young, and there I found generous feelings and unworn thoughts; and free and noble hearts, from which the accursed chisel of time had never hewn out the finer and more exquisite touches of Nature's perfecting hand: but then, I found the wild, ungovernable struggling of the war-horse for the battle-plain; the light, thoughtless impatience of the flower-changing butterfly, and I gave it all up as a hopeless search, and sunk back into my loneliness again. My soul withered; my mind got twisted and awry, like the black stumps of the acacia on the sterile plains of the desert; and I lived on in murmuring grief and misanthropy, till came a blessed light upon my mind, and I found that peace at the foot of Christ's cross, which the world and its things could never give. Then it was I quitted the habitations of men, in whose commune I had found no consolation, and gave myself up to the brighter hopes that opened to me from the world beyond!"
De Coucy was listening with interest, when the sound of the warder's horn from one of the towers announced that something was in sight, of sufficient importance to call for immediate attention.
"Where is Hugo de Barre, exclaimed the knight, starting up; and, excusing this incivility to the hermit, he proceeded to ascertain the cause of the interruption.
"Hugo de Barre is in the tower himself, beau sire," replied old Onfroy the seneschal, whom De Coucy crossed at the hall door, just as he was carrying in a platter full of herbs to the hermit, with no small symptoms of respect. "I see not why he puts himself up there, to blow his horn, as soon as he comes back! He was never created warder, I trow!"
Without staying to notice the old man's stickling for prerogative, De Coucy hastened to demand of the squire wherefore he had sounded the great warder horn, which hung in the watch-tower.
"One of the king's serjeants-at-arms," cried Hugo from the top of the tower, "is but now riding up the hill to the castle, as fast as he can come, beau sire."
"Shut the gates," exclaimed De Coucy. "Up with the bridge!"
These orders were just obeyed, when the king's serjeant, whom Hugo had seen from above, rode up and blew his horn before the gates. De Coucy had by this time mounted the outer wall, and, looking down upon the royal officer, demanded, "Whence come ye, sir serjeant, and whom seek ye?"
"I come from Philip king of France," replied the serjeant, "and seek Sir Guy de Coucy, châtelain of De Coucy Magny."
"If you seek for no homage or man-service, in the king's name, for these my free lands of Magny," replied De Coucy, "my gates shall open and my bridge shall fall; but, if you come to seek liege homage, return to our beau sire, the king, and tell him, that of my own hand I hold these lands; that for them I am not his man; but that they were given as free share, by Clovis, to their first possessor, from whom to me, through father and child, they have by right descended."
"I come with no claim, beau sire," replied the royal messenger, "but simply bear you a loving letter from my liege lord. Sir[19] Philip the king, with hearty greetings on his part."
"Open the gates, then," cried De Coucy, still, however, taking the precaution to add, in a loud voice,--"Mark, all men, that this is not in sign or token of homage or service; but merely as a courtesy to the messenger of the lord king!" So unsettled and insecure was the right of property in those days, and such were the precautions necessary to guard every act that might be construed into vassalage!
De Coucy descended to receive the messenger; and, on entering the hall, found the old seneschal still busy in serving the hermit, and apparently bestowing on him a full, true, and particular account of the family of the De Coucys, as well as of his young lord's virtues, exploits, and adventures, with the profound and inexhaustible garrulity of an old and favoured servant. At the knight's approach, however, he withdrew; and the king's serjeant-at-arms was ushered into the hall.
"I was commanded to wait no answer, beau sire," said the man, delivering the packet into the châtelain's hand. "The king, trusting to the known loyalty and valour of the Sire de Coucy, deemed that there would be but one reply, when he was called to high deeds and a good cause."
"By my faith!" exclaimed the knight, "I hope some one has dared to touch the glove I hung up in the queen's good quarrel! I will drive my lance through his heart, if it be defended with triple iron! But I see thou art in haste, good friend. Drain one cup of wine, and thou shalt depart."
De Coucy cut not the silk that tied the packet till the messenger was gone. Then, however, he opened it eagerly, and read:--
"To our faithful and well-beloved Sir Guy de Coucy, these. Having undertaken and pledged our kingly word to Arthur Plantagenet duke of Brittany, our well-beloved cousin and godson in arms, to aid him and assist him, to the utmost of our power, in his just and righteous war against John of Anjou, calling himself king of England: and he, Arthur, our cousin, as aforesaid, having desired us to use our best entreaty and endeavour to prevail on you. Sir Guy de Coucy, renowned in arms, to aid with your body and friends in his aforesaid just wars; we therefore, thus moved, do beg, as a king may beg, that you will instantly, on the reading hereof, call together your vassals and followers, knights, squires, and servants of arms, together with all persons of good heart and prowess in war, volunteers or mercenaries, as the case may be, to join the aforesaid Arthur at our court of the city of Paris, within ten days from the date hereof, for the purposes hereinbefore specified. Honour in arms, fair favour of your lady, and the king's thanks, shall be your reward: and, for the payment of such Brabançois or other mercenaries as you can collect to serve under your banner in the said wars, not to exceed five hundred men, this letter shall be your warrant on the treasurer of our royal domaines; at the average hire and pay, mensual and diurnal, given by us during the last war. Given at our court of Paris, this Wednesday, the eve of the nativity of the blessed Virgin, Queen of Heaven, to whom we commend thee in all love.
"The King."
A radiant flush of joy broke over De Coucy's countenance as he read; but before his eye had reached the end of the letter, importunate memory raked up the forgotten bankruptcy of his means, and cast it in his teeth. The hand which held the letter before his eyes dropped to his side; and with the fingers of the other he wandered thoughtfully over his brow, while he considered and reconsidered every expedient for raising sums sufficient to furnish him worthily forth for the expedition to which he was called. In the mean while, the hermit sat beside him, marking his every action, with a glance that might perhaps have suited Diogenes, had not a certain pensive shake of the head, as he gazed on the working of human passions in the noble form before him, showed a somewhat milder feeling than the cynic of the tub was ever touched withal.
"Oh, that foul creditor, Poverty!" muttered De Coucy. "He chains the mind and the heart, as well as the limbs; and pinions down great desires and noble actions, to the dungeon floor of this sordid world. Here, with a career of glory before me, that might lead to riches, to fame, to love! I have not a besant to equip my train, all tattered from the wars in Palestine. As for the Brabançois, too, that the king bids me bring, they must ever have some money to equip, before they are fit for service. He should have known that, at least; but he forgot he wrote to a beggar, who could not advance a crown were it to save his nearest from starvation!"
"You are vexed, my son," said the hermit, "and speak aloud, though you know it not. What is it moves thee thus?"
"I am moved, good hermit," replied the knight sadly, "that now--at the very moment when all the dearest hopes of my heart call on me to push forward to the highest goal of honour, and when the way is clear before me--that the emptiness of my purse--the perfect beggary of my fortunes, casts a bar in my way that I cannot overleap. Read that letter, and then know, that, instead of a baron's train, I can but bring ten mounted men to serve prince Arthur; nor are these armed or equipped so that I can look on them without shame. My lodging must be in the field, my food gathered from the earth, till the day of battle; nor dare I join the prince till then, for the expenses of the city suit not those whose purses are so famished as mine."
"Nay, my son," replied the hermit calmly, "think better of thy fortunes. To win much, one must often lose somewhat: and by a small expense, though you may not ruffle it amongst the proudest of the prince's train, you may fit yourself to grace it decently, till such time as in the battle-field you can show how little akin is courage to wealth. This may be surely done at a very small expense of gold."
"A small expense of gold!" exclaimed the young knight impatiently. "I tell thee, good father, I have none! None--no, not a besant!"
"Nay, then," replied the hermit, "something you must sell, to produce more hereafter. That rare carbuncle in your thumb-ring will bring you doubtless gold enough to shine as brightly as the best."
"Nay," said De Coucy, "I part not with that. I would rather cut off the hand it hangs upon, and coin that into gold."
"Some woman's trinket," said the hermit with a frown; for men attached to the church, by whatever ties, were not very favourable to the idolatrous devotion of that age to the fairer sex--a devotion which they might think somewhat trenched upon their rights. "Some woman's trinket, on my life!" said the hermit. "Thou wouldst guard no holy relic so, young man."
"Faith, hermit, you do me wrong," replied De Coucy, without flinching. "Though my love to my lady be next to my duty to my God, yet this is not, as you say, a woman's trinket. 'Twas the gift of a good and noble knight, the Count de Tankerville, to me, then young and going to the Holy Land, put on my finger with many a wise and noble counsel, by which I have striven to guide me since. Death, as thou hast heard, good hermit, has since placed his cold bar between us; but I would not part with this for worlds of ore. I am like the wild Arab of the desert," he added with a smile, "in this sort somewhat superstitious; and I hold this ring, together with the memory of the good man who gave it, as a sort of talisman to guard me from evil spirits."
"Well! if thou wilt not part with it, I cannot help thee," replied the hermit. "Yet I know a certain jeweller would give huge sums of silver for such a stone as that."
"It cannot be!" answered De Coucy. "But now thou mind'st me; I have a bright smaragd, that, in my young days of careless prosperity, I bought of a rich Jew at Ascalon. If it were worth the value that he gave it, 'twere now a fortune to me. I pray thee, gentle hermit, take it with thee to the city. Give it to the jeweller thou speakest of; and bid him, as an honest and true man, send me with all speed what sum he may."
The hermit undertook the charge; and De Coucy instantly sent his page to the chamber, where he had left the emerald, which, being brought down, he committed to the hands of the old man, praying him to make no delay. The hermit, however, still seemed to hanker after the large carbuncle on De Coucy's hand, (which was also, be it remarked, engraved with his signet,) and it was not till the young knight had once and again repeated his refusal, that he rose to depart.
De Coucy conducted him to the outer gate, followed by his page, who, when the old man had given his blessing, and begun to descend the hill, shook his head with a meaning look, exclaiming, "Ah, beau sire! he has got the emerald; and, I fear, you will never hear more of it: but he has not got the carbuncle, which was what he wanted. When first he saw you, at the time you were hurt in Auvergne, he looked at nothing but that; and would have had it off your hand, too, if Hugo and I had not kept our eyes on him all the while."
"Nonsense, nonsense, boy!" cried De Coucy; "send me the new servant of arms, Jodelle!"
The coterel was not long in obeying the summons. "You told me," said De Coucy, as he approached, "not many days ago, that you had once been followed by a band of two hundred Brabançois, who were now, you heard, roaming about, seeking service with some baron or suzerain who would give them employment. Have you any means of communicating with them, should you wish it?"
"Why, you know, beau sire," replied Jodelle, "and there is no use of denying it, that we are oftentimes obliged to separate when the wars are over, and go hither and thither to seek food as we best may; but we take good care not to do so without leaving some chance of our meeting again, when we desire it. The ways we manage that, are part of our mystery, which I am in no manner bound to divulge; but I doubt not I could soon discover, at least, where my ancient companions are."
"I seek none of your secrets, sir Brabançois," said De Coucy. "If you can find your companions, do; and tell them for me, that the king calls upon me to aid the prince Arthur Plantagenet against bad John of Anjou, giving me commission, at the same time, to raise a body of five hundred free spears, to serve under my leading; for whose pay, at the rate of the last war, Philip makes himself responsible. If your companions will take service with me, therefore, they may; but each man must have served before, must be well trained to arms, disciplined, and obedient; for De Coucy is no marauder, to pass over military faults, because ye be free companions."
The coterel readily undertook a task that chimed so well with what he already purposed; bounding his promises, however, to endeavours; and striving to wring from De Coucy some offer of present supply to equip his troop, whom he well knew to be in a very indifferent condition, as far as arms and habiliments went.
Finding this to be out of the young knight's power, he left him, and proceeded, as rapidly as possible, to seek out the hiding-place of the wild band, with whom we have already seen him in contact. His farther motions for the next two days were not of sufficient interest to be here put down; but on the third morning he presented himself at the young knight's chamber-door, as he was rising, bringing him news that he had discovered his band, and that they willingly agreed to follow so renowned a knight. He added, moreover, that at mid-day precisely, they would present themselves for monstre, as it was called, or review, in the great carrefour of the forest. In the mean time, he swore faith, true service, and obedience to the young knight in their name, for so long as the war should last.
The time of De Coucy and his followers had been employed in polishing and preparing all the old arms, offensive and defensive, that the castle contained; and of the former, indeed, no small quantity had been collected; so that in the great hall lay many a sheaf of arrows and a pile of spears, with swords, daggers, maces, and bows not a few; some scores of battle-axes and partisans, together with various anomalous weapons, such as bills, hooks, long knives, iron stars, and cutting pikes. But of defensive armour the supply was wofully small.
At the appointed hour of mid-day, the knight, followed by his squire and servants, now armed more completely than on their return from Palestine, proceeded to the great carrefour of the forest, where, as they approached, they beheld the body of Brabançois already arrived on the ground, and drawn up in so regular and soldierlike a manner, that even the experienced eye of De Coucy was deceived at first, and he fancied them as well-armed a body of cavalry as ever he had seen.
When he came into the centre of the carrefour, however, a very different sight struck his eye; and he could not help striking his gauntleted hand upon his thigh till the armour rang again, with pure mortification at seeing the hopeless state of rust and raggedness of his new recruits.
Nor was this all: not two of the party presented the same appearance. One was in a steel corselet,--another in a haubert,--another had neither one nor the other. Some had brassards,--some had cuissards,--some had splints,--some had none at all. In short, it seemed as if they had murdered half-a-dozen men-at-arms, and divided their armour between two hundred; so that when De Coucy thought of presenting himself, thus followed, at the court of Philip Augustus, he was first like to give himself up to despair, and then burst into a loud fit of laughter.
A very slight circumstance, however, changed the face of affairs. As he stood gazing on his ragged troop, with a half-rueful, half-laughing countenance, an ass, apparently loaded with sand, and a man driving it, were seen slowly approaching, as if intending to proceed to the castle.
"By the Lord!" cried the young knight, "this is a Godsend--for, on my word, we shall want sand enough to scrub our armour. What hast thou there, good man?" he added, as the ass and his driver came near.
"Sand for the châtelain de Coucy," replied the man. "Be you he?"
"Yes," answered the knight.--"Sand for me!--What mean you, good friend? You must mistake."
"Not so, beau sire!" replied the driver, approaching and speaking low--"'tis a thousand marks of silver!"
"Ha!--Who from?"
"The price of a ring," replied the man, sent by the holy "Bernard of St. Mandé by me, his humble penitent, to the Sire de Coucy."
"That alters the matter!" cried the knight.--"That alters the matter! Take thy sand to the castle, good friend.--Hugo, ride with all speed to Vernon. Bring me all the armourers of the town, with all the arms they have ready. Send a serf to Gisors on the same errand. A thousand marks of silver! By the Lord that lives! I will equip an army!"
The night was dark and gloomy. A thousand black clouds were flitting over the sky, borne by a quick rough breeze, which ever and anon, with wild caprice, would scatter them abroad, leaving the yellow moonlight to shine bright upon their white edges, and pour a flood of mellow radiance on the world below, and then again would whirl some deep shadowy mass up from the profound verge of the horizon, and once more overwhelm all in gloom and obscurity.
Amidst such occasional glimpses of moonlight, struggled on from the village of Vincennes, through the great forest of St. Mandé, a stout, short man, wrapped in an immense cloak, and preceded by a boy holding a torch, which the high wind threatened every moment to extinguish.
"Art thou sure thou knowest the way, urchin?" cried the man, in a wearied and panting tone, which argued plainly enough that his corpulency loved not deeply the species of stumbling locomotion, to which his legs subjected his paunch, amidst the roots and stones of the forest path.--"Art thou sure that thou knowest the road?--Jesu preserve me! I would not lose my way here, to be called to the conclave!"
"Oh, I know the way well!" replied the boy, in a shrill treble. "I come here every day to ask the prayers of the holy hermit for my grandmother, who is ninety years of age, and sick of a hydropsy."
"Better pray God to take her, rather than to leave her!" replied his companion. "'Tis a foolish errand mine,--'tis a foolish errand!" he continued, speaking peevishly to himself, as he struggled to shake off a pertinacious branch of withered thorn which, detached from its parent bush, clung fondly to the tail of his robe, and trailed solemnly on behind him. "Not the errand itself, which is holy, just, and expedient; but the coming at night.--Take care, urchin! The wind will blow it out, if you flaunt it after such a fashion. The coming at night! Yet what could I do? The canon of St. Berthe's said true--that if I came in the day, folks would say I could not govern my diocese myself. I told you so, foolish child! I told you so! Now, what are we to do?" continued he, raising his voice to the very highest pitch of dismay and crossness, as a sharp gust of wind, up one of the long glades, extinguished completely the flame of the torch, which had for some time been wavering with a very undecided sort of flicker:--"now, what are we to do?"
"Oh, I know the way, as well without the light as with," replied the same childish voice: "I'll lead you right, beau sire."
"Ay, ay, child," said the other; "but I love not forests in the dark:--this one has a bad name too--'tis said more sorts of evil spirits than one haunt it. The Lord be merciful unto us! The devil is powerful in these hours of darkness! And besides, there are other dangers--" Here he stumbled over one of the large roots of an elm, shot across the path, and would doubtless have fallen at full length, had not his little guide's shoulder come opportunely in the way of his hand, as it sprawled forth in the act of descent, and thus afforded him some stay!--"Cursed be the root!" cried he;--"cursed be it, above the earth and under the earth!--cursed be it in this life, and to all eternity! Amen.--Lord have mercy upon me! Sinner that I am! I am repeating the anathema. It will never go out of my head, that anathema--cursed be it!--Boy, is it far off still?--Did not you hear a noise?" he added suddenly.
"I hear the rustling of the wind," replied the child, "but nothing more. You folks that do not live near the forests do not know what sounds it makes sometimes."
"Evil spirits, boy!--evil spirits!" cried the man. "Evil spirits, I tell thee, screaming in their malice; but I vow I hear a rushing, as if there were some wild beasts.--Hark! hark!" and he grasped the boy's arm, looking round and round in the darkness, which his fancy filled with all the wild creation of fear.
"Ne in furore tuo arguas me, Domine, neque in irâ tuâ corripias me. Miserere mei, Domine, quoniam infirmus sum!" cried the frightened traveller; when suddenly the clouds rolled white away from the face of the moon, and her beams for a moment, streaming down clear upon them, showed the wide open glade of the wood, untenanted by any one but themselves, with the old ruined tomb in the forest, and the rude hut of Bernard the hermit, "Kyrie eleïson! Christe eleïson!" cried the traveller, at the sight of these blessed rays; and running forward to reach the dwelling of the hermit, before the clouds again brought darkness over the face of the earth, he arrived, all breathless and panting, and struck hard with his fist against the closed door. "Open, open! brother Bernard! and let me in," he cried loudly. "Let me in, before the moon goes behind the cloud again."
"Who art thou, who breakest through my prayers?" cried the voice of the hermit. "And why fearest thou the going of the moon? Thou wilt not be one jot wiser when she is gone?"
"Nay! 'tis I, brother Bernard," replied the traveller, fretting with impatience to get in. "'Tis I, I tell thee, man! Thy friend and fellow-labourer in this poor vineyard of France!"
"I have no friend but the Lord, and his holy saints," said the hermit, opening the door.--"But how is this, lord bishop?
"Hush! hush!" cried the other, holding up his hand. "Do not let the boy hear thee!--I come in secret, upon matters of deep import."
"Does not the text say, 'That which thou doest in secret shall be proclaimed openly?'" demanded the hermit.--"But what dost thou mean to do with the boy?" continued he, laying his hand on the child's head. "If he be as terrified as thou seemest to be, he will not love to stay till thine errand with me is done."
"Oh, I fear not, father," said the youth. "I am forest bred; and nothing evil would come within sight of thy dwelling."
"Well, poor lad!" said the hermit. "Sit there by the door; and if aught scares thee, push it open, and come in."
The boy accordingly seated himself by the door, which was shut upon him; and the hermit pointed to a place on his bed of straw and moss for the bishop's seat. If it had any distinction, 'twas solely that of being situated beneath the crucifix, under which a small lamp was burning, giving the only light which the cell possessed.
The good prelate--for such he was--cast himself upon the moss, and stretching forth his hands on his broad fat knees, employed no inconsiderable space of time in cooling himself, and recovering his breath, after the bodily fear and exertion he had undergone. The hermit seated himself also; and waited, in grave silence, the communication, whatever it was, that brought so respectable a dignitary of the church as the bishop of Paris to his cell at so unsuitable an hour.
"The Lord be merciful unto me!" cried the bishop, after a long pause. "What perils and dangers have I not run this very night, for the service of the church, and the poor Christian souls of the French people, who are now crying for the rites and ceremonies of the church, as the tribes of Israel cried for flesh in the desert!"
"But if report speaks right," replied the hermit, "thy flock has no need to cry; as the interdict has not yet been enforced within thy diocese, father bishop."
"True! unhappily too true!" cried the prelate, imagining that the hermit imputed blame to him for the delay. "But what could I do, brother Bernard? God knows--praised be his name!--that I have the most holy and devout fear of the authority of the blessed church of Rome;--but how can I bear to tear the food of salvation from the mouths of the poor hungry people?--Besides, when I did but mention it to the king, he cried out, in his rude and furious way:--'By the joyeuse of St. Charlemagne! bishop, take care what you do! As long as you eat of the fat, and drink of the strong, you prelates of France mind nothing; but let me hear no more of this interdict, or I will smite you hip and thigh! I will drive you forth from your benefices! I will deprive you of your feofs, and I will strip you of your wealth!--and then you may get rosy wines and rich meats where you can!"
A sort of cynical smile gathered round the hermit's lip, as if in his heart he thought Philip's estimate of the clergy of his day was not a bad one: and indeed their scandalous luxury was but too fertile a theme of censure to all the severer moralists of those times. He contented himself, however, with demanding what the prelate intended to do.
"Nay, on that subject, I came to consult you, brother Bernard," replied the bishop. "You have ever shown yourself a wise and prudent man, since you came into this place, some seven years ago; and all you have recommended has prospered.--Now, in truth, I know not what to do. The king is furious. His love for this Agnes--(if God would but please to take her to himself, what a blessing!)--is growing more and more. He has already cast out half the bishops of France for enforcing the interdict, and seized on the lands of many of the barons who have permitted or encouraged it.--What can I do? If I enforce it, he will cast me out too; and the people will be no better. If I do not enforce it, I fall under the heavy censure of our holy father the pope!"
"You know your duty, father bishop, far better than I can tell it to you," replied the hermit, with what might almost be called a malicious determination to give no assistance whatever to the poor prelate, who, between his fears of Rome and his dread of losing his diocese, laboured like a ship in a stormy sea. "Your duty must be done."
"But hearken, brother Bernard," said the bishop. "You know John of Arville, the canon of St. Berthe's--a keen, keen man, though he be so quiet and calm, and one that knows every thing which passes in the world, though he be so devout and strict in his religious exercises."
"I know him well," said the hermit sternly, as if the qualities of the worthy canon stood not high in his esteem.--"What of him?"
"Why, you know that, now William of Albert is dead, this John is head of the canons of St. Berthe," replied the bishop. "Now, you must know still farther, that a few days ago, the young count d'Auvergne, with his train, came to Paris, and was hospitably received by the canons of St. Berthe, in whose church his father had been a great founder. As the interdict is strictly kept in his own part of the country, the Count could not confess himself there; but, wisely and religiously, seeing that years might elapse before he could again receive the comforts of the church if the interdict lasted, and not knowing what might happen in the mean time--for life is frail, you know, brother Bernard--he resolved to confess himself to John of Arville, the canon; which he did. So, then, you see, John of Arville came away to me, and told me that he had a great secret, which might heal all the wounds of the state."
"How!" exclaimed the hermit, starting up. "Did he betray the secrets of confession?"
"No, no! You mistake, brother Bernard," cried the bishop peevishly. "No, no! He did not betray the secrets of confession; but, in his conversations afterwards with the young count, he drew from him that he loved this Agnes de Meranie, and that she had been promised to him by her brother as he went to the Holy Land; and that her brother being killed there, and her father knowing nothing of the promise, gave her to the king Philip. But now, hearing that the marriage is not lawful, he--her father, the duke of Istria--has charged this young Count d'Auvergne, as a knight, and one who was her dead brother's dear friend, secretly to command her, in his name, to quit the court of France, and return to his protection: and the count has thereon staked life and fortune, that if she will consent, he will find means to bring her back to Istria, in despite of the whole world. This is what he communicated to the reverend canon, not, as you say, in confession, but in sundry conversations after confession."
Bernard the hermit gave no thought to what, in our eyes, may appear a strange commission for a parent like the duke of Istria to confide to so young a man as the Count d'Auvergne. But in those days, we must remember, such things were nothing strange; for knightly honour had as yet been so rarely violated, that to doubt it for an instant, under such a mark of confidence, would have then been considered as a proof of a base and dishonourable heart. The hermit's mind, therefore, turned alone to the conduct of the priest.
"I understand," replied he, drawing his brows together, even more sternly than he had heretofore done. "The reverend canon of St. Berthe's claims kindred in an equal degree with the fox and the wolf. He has taken care that the count's secrets, first communicated to him in confession, should be afterwards repeated to him without such a seal. Thinks he, I wonder, to juggle Heaven, as well as man, with the letter instead of the spirit? And doubtless, now, he would gladly give the Count d'Auvergne all easy access to persuade this unhappy girl to return; so that he, the canon of St. Berthe's, may but save his diocesan from the unwieldly burden of the interdict, at the expense of a civil war between the powerful Count d'Auvergne and his liege lord Philip. 'Tis a goodly scheme, good father bishop; but 'twill not succeed. Agnes loves Philip--looks on him as her husband--refuses to part from him--has the spirit of a hero in a woman's bosom, and may as soon be moved by such futile plans, as the north star by the singing of the nightingale."
"See what it is to be a wise man!" said the bishop, unable to restrain a little triumphant chuckle, at having got the hermit at fault.--"See what it is to be a wise man, and not hear a simple story out! Besides, good brother Bernard, you speak but uncharitably of the reverend canon of St. Berthe's, who is a holy and religious man; though, like you yourself, somewhat too proud of worldly wisdom--a-hem!"
"A-hem!" echoed something near; at least, so it seemed to the quick and timorous ears of the worthy prelate, who started up and listened. "Did you not hear something, brother Bernard?" demanded he in a low voice. "Did you not hear a noise? Cursed be it upon the earth! and--God forgive me----"
"I heard the roaring of the wind, and the creaking of the wood, but nothing else," replied the hermit calmly, "But what wert thou about to say, father bishop? If I have taken thee up wrongly, I am ready to acknowledge my folly. All men are but as fools, and I not amongst the least. If I have wronged the canon of St. Berthe's, I am ready to acknowledge the fault. All men are sinners, and I not amongst the least. But how have I been mistaken at present?
"Why, altogether!" replied the prelate, after having re-assured himself by listening several moments without hearing any farther sound,--"altogether, brother Bernard, the canon of St. Berthe's aims at nothing you have mentioned. No one knows better than he the queen's mind as he is her confessor; and he sees well, that till the king shows some sign of willingness to part with her, she will remain fixed to him, as if she were part of himself: but he knows, too, that if Philip does but evince the least coldness--the least slackening of the bonds that bind him to her, she will think he wearies of his constancy, or fears the consequences of his opposition to the holy church; and will herself demand to quit him. His scheme therefore is, to let the king grow jealous of the Count d'Auvergne to such a point, as to show some chilliness to the queen. Agnes herself will think that he repents of his opposition to our blessed father the pope, and will propose to depart. Philip's jealousy will prevent him from saying nay; and the reverend canon himself, as her confessor, will conduct her with a sufficient escort to the court of Istria: where, please God! he may be rewarded as he deserves, for the signal service he renders France!"
"Hoo! hoo! hoo!" cried a voice from without; which sounded through the unglazed window, as if it was in the very hut.
"Miserere mei, Domine, secundum multitudinem miserationem tuarum!" exclaimed the bishop; the rosy hue of his cheek, which had returned, in the security of the hermit's cell, to much the colour of the field pimpernel, now fading away to the hue of the same flower in an ancient herbal.
"'Tis but an owl!--'tis but an owl!" cried the hermit; and, fixing his eyes on the ground, he meditated deeply for several minutes, regardless of the still unsubdued terror of the bishop, who, drawing a chaplet from beneath his robe, filled up the pause with paters and aves, strangely mixed with various ungodly curses from the never-forgotten anathema, which in his fright, like prisoners in a popular tumult, rushed forth against his will the moment fear unbarred the door of his lips.
"It is a cruel scheme!" said the hermit at length, "and the man who framed it is a cruel man; who, for his own base ambition of gaining bishoprics in Germany and credit at Rome, scruples not to tear asunder the dearest ties of the heart;--but for you or me, father bishop," he added, turning more immediately to the prelate, "for you and me, who have no other interest in this thing, than the general welfare of our country, to prevent civil war and general rebellion of the king's vassals, which will inevitably ensue if the interdict lasts, especially while he bears so hard a hand upon them,--for us, I say, it is to consider whether by the sorrow inflicted in this instance, infinite, infinite misery may not be spared through the whole nation. If you come then, father bishop, to ask me my opinion, I think the scheme which this canon of St. Berthe's proposed may be made use of--as an evil indeed--but as the least, infinitely the least, of two great ones. I think, then, that it may conscientiously be made use of; but, at the same time, I think the worse of the man that framed it--ay! and he knew I should think the worse of him.
"Why, indeed, and in truth, I believe he did," answered the bishop, who had somewhat recovered his composure by the non-repetition of the sounds, "I believe he did, for he mightily opposed my consulting you on the matter; saying that--though all the world knows, brother Bernard, you are a wise man, and a holy one too; for, indeed, none but a holy man dare inhabit such a wild place, amidst all sorts of evil spirits--cursed be they above the earth and under the earth!--but saying--as I was going to observe--that if I were seen coming here, people would think I knew not how to govern my own diocese, but must needs have your help. So I came here at night, God forgive me and protect me! for, if ever the sin of pride and false shame was punished, and repented of with fear and trembling, it has been this night."
So frank a confession changed the cynical smile that was gathering round the anchorite's lips into one of a blander character. "Your coming in the day, good father bishop," replied he, "would have honoured me, without disgracing you. The world would but have said, that the holy bishop of Paris visited the poor hermit of Vincennes, to consult with him for the people's good.--But let us to the question. If you will follow my counsel, good father, you will lay this scheme before that honoured and noble knight and reverend bishop, Guerin; for, believe me, it will be necessary to keep a careful guard over Philip, and to watch him well, lest, his passions being raised to a dangerous degree, it become necessary to tell him suddenly the whole truth. I am absent from him; you are busied with the cares of your flock; and the canon of St. Berthe's must not be trusted. But Guerin is always near him; and, with your holy zeal and his prudent watching, this scheme, though it may tear the heart of the king and of the fair unfortunate girl, Agnes his wife, may also save bloodshed, rebellion, and civil war, and raise the interdict from this ill-fated kingdom."
A loud scream, like that of some ravenous bird, but prolonged so that it seemed as if no mortal breath could have given it utterance, thrilled through the air as the hermit spoke, and vibrated round and round the hut. The bishop sank on his knees, and his little guide pushed open the door and ran in. "I dare stay out there no longer!" cried the boy: "there is something in the tree!--there is something in the tree!"
"Where?" cried the hermit, striding towards the door, his worn and emaciated figure erecting itself, and seeming to swell out with new-born energy. "Where is this sight? Were it the prince of evil himself, I defy him!"--and with a firm step, he advanced into the moonlight, between the threshold of the hut and the ancient tomb, casting his eyes up into the shattered oak, whose remaining branches stretched wide and strong over the path.
To his surprise, however, he beheld seated on one of the large boughs, in the attitude of an ape, a dark figure, like that of a man; who no sooner cast his eyes on the hermit, than he began to pour forth more strange and detestable sounds than ever were uttered by a human tongue, moving backwards along the branches at the same time with superhuman agility.
"Avoid thee, Satan! In the name of Jesus thy conqueror! avoid thee!" cried the hermit, holding up the crucifix attached to his rosary.
"Ha, ha! oh rare! The interdict, the interdict!" shouted the vision gliding along amongst the branches. "Oh rare! oh rare!" And then burst forth a wild scream of unnatural laughter, which for a moment rang round and round, as if echoed by a thousand voices; then died away fainter and fainter, and at last was lost entirely; while the dark figure, from which it seemed to proceed, disappeared amidst the gloom of the thick boughs and leaves.
"Rise, rise, father bishop!" cried the hermit, entering the hut. "The fiend is gone; and verily his coming, where he has never dared to come before, seemed to show that he is fearful of your design, and would fain scare us from endeavouring to raise the interdict:--rise, good father, I say, and be not frightened from your endeavour!" So saying, the hermit stooped and aided his reverend visiter; whom at his return he had found stretched flat on his face, at the foot of the cross, before which the anchorite's lamp was burning.
"Now, Jesu preserve us! this is very dreadful, brother Bernard!" cried the poor bishop, his teeth chattering in his head. "How you can endure it, and go on living here, exposed to such attacks, I know not; but I do know that one week of such residence would wear all the flesh off my bones."
The hermit glanced his eye, with somewhat of a cold smile, from the round, well-covered limbs of the prelate, to his own meagre and sinewy form. He made not, however, the comment that sprang to his lips, but simply replied, "I am not often subject to such visitations, and, as you see, the enemy flies from me when I appear."
"But, for all that," answered the bishop, "I tell thee, good brother Bernard, I dare as much go home through that forest alone with this urchin, as I dare jump off the tower of the Louvre!"
"Fear not: I will go with thee," replied the anchorite. "The boy, too, has a torch, I see. The night is now clear, and the wind somewhat gone down, so that the way will be soon trodden."
Company of any kind, under such circumstances, would have been received as a blessing by the good bishop; but that of so holy a man as the hermit was reputed to be, was doubly a security. Clinging to him, therefore, somewhat closer than bespoke much valour, the prelate suffered himself to be led out into the forest; while the boy, with his torch now lighted again, accompanied them, a little indeed in advance, but not sufficiently so as to prevent him also from holding tight by the anchorite's frock.
Thus, then, they proceeded through the winding paths of the wood, now in light, and now in shade, till the dark roofs of the village near Vincennes, sleeping quietly in the moonshine, met once more the delighted eyes of the bishop of Paris. Here the anchorite bade God speed him, and, turning his steps back again, took the way to his hut.
Did we say that the hermit, Bernard, did not every now and then give a glance to the wood on either side as he passed, or that he did not hold his crucifix in his hand, and, from time to time, murmur a prayer to Heaven or his guardian angel, we should say what was false; but still he walked on with a firm step, and a far more erect carriage than usual, prepared to encounter the enemy of mankind, should he appear in bodily shape, with all the courage of a Christian and the zeal of an enthusiast.
When he had reached his hut, however, and fastened the door, he cast himself on his knees before the cross, and, folding his arms devoutly on his bosom, he exclaimed:--"O, blessed Saviour! pardon if J have sinned in the counsel I have this night given. Let not weakness of understanding be attributed to me for wickedness of heart; but, as thou seest that my whole desire is to serve Thee, and do good unto my fellow-christians, grant, O Lord! pardon and remittance unto the faults of my judgment! Nevertheless, if my counsel be evil, and thou hast permitted thy conquered enemy to show himself unto me visibly, as a sign of thy wrath, let me beseech thee. Lord! to turn that counsel aside that it have no effect, and that the sorrow of my brethren lay. not heavy on my head!"
To this extempore prayer the good hermit added one or two from the regular ritual of the church; and then, casting himself on his bed of moss, with a calmed mind, he fell into a profound sleep.
In the mean while, day broke upon the glades of the forest; and at about the distance of a mile from the dwelling of the hermit, dropped down from one of the old oaks, with the first ray of the sun, no less a person than our friend Gallon the fool.
"Ha, ha!" cried he, "Ha, ha, haw! My lord ordered me to be shut out, if I came not home by dusk; and now, by my shutting out, I have heard a secret he would give his ears to hear.--Ha, haw! Ha, haw!--I've ninety-nine minds not to tell him--but it wants the hundredth. So I will tell him. Then he'll break their plot, or give news of it to the king and the Auvergne;--and then, they'll all be hanged up like acorns.--Haw, haw! and we shall keep the sweet interdict--the dear interdict--the beloved interdict. I saw five dead men lying unburied in the convent field.--Haw, haw, haw! Haw, haw! I love the interdict--I do! 'Tis like my nose: it mars the face of the country, which otherwise were a fair face.--Ha, haw! I love interdicts. My nose is my interdict.--Haw, haw, haw! But I must find other means to spite the De Coucy, for shutting me out! I spited him finely, by sending down the old fool Julian into the glade, where he was cajoling his daughter!--Haw, haw, haw! Ha, haw!" So saying, he bounded forward, and ran as hard as he could towards the distant city.