CHAPTER XXXIII.

IN WHICH I BECOME AN ABBÉ.

Next morning we were seated at breakfast in the secret boudoir—that charming little room in which I had first seen the Marquis de Gordon; the Countess was brilliantly attired as usual, and the richness of her dress greatly enhanced the beauty of her fair and ample person. Her eyes shone with unusual lustre, for she had just bathed them in perfumed water; her cheeks had the slightest tinge of rouge; and I thought that I had never seen a finer or a lovelier woman. But she had cost me seven months in the Bastille; and though full of bitterness against Louis XIII., and irresistibly attracted towards Clara, I resolved that nothing more should delay my departure for the army; and on my mentioning this, Madame, notwithstanding all the love-making that had passed between us, offered so little objection, that I felt piqued, and soon discovered that while I was fighting in Lorraine, she had cast her bright roguish eyes on some one else; and this some one I eventually discovered to be the gallant Comte de Treville, captain of the king's musketeers. However, Clara was very cautious not to give me the slightest reason for suspecting this, though I heard from her all the gossip of Paris during breakfast, and all the court news, of both of which important branches of knowledge I was as ignorant as if I had just arrived from the realms of Prester John.

'To rejoin the army, my dear Arthur,' said the Countess, caressing my curly head with patronising kindness, 'you will, of course, require money?'

'Peste! my dear Countess, I should think so.'

'Of course, every one requires money, and you cannot be singular in that respect. Here is a purse full enough for your purpose. These are louis d'ors and rose-nobles.'

'The best nobles at the court of France.'

'Decidedly!'

'Ah! madame, you overwhelm me with kindness. How can I repay you for these many favours?'

'By carefully obeying me, and fulfilling the tasks assigned you by the King and myself.'

'Speak, madame.'

'From the King, you will convey to M. le Chevalier Hepburn, Marechal de Camp of the Scottish troops, this letter and this case, both sealed with the royal arms of France. These you will place in his hands, before Elsace-Zaberne, which he is now besieging, and which my old friend, Colonel Mulheim, a Lorrainer, is sure to defend until you reach the banks of the Sarre. These from Louis XIII.'

'And what from yourself, dearest Countess?' said I, taking her soft hands in mine and gazing earnestly, perhaps tenderly, into her fair hazel eyes.

'You know my attendant, Nicola?'

'Yes.'

'Well; as a Lorrainer, the poor girl is no longer safe in Paris; for the same edict by which Cardinal Richelieu is about to enrol fifty-two thousand men for the recapture of La Chapelle, Bohain, and Corbie, which the Spaniards have stormed from those dolts the Picards, orders the immediate arrest of all Lorrainers and Alsatians in Paris. Now poor Mademoiselle Nicola is from Nanci—which is her misfortune, but not her fault.'

'And how about yourself—your own safety?'

'Though Louis is ill—all but bedridden at present—my position is secure. Nicola is but a waiting-maid.'

'But dangerously beautiful.'

The expressive eyes of the Countess became severe and disdainful.

'She is faithful and attached to me, poor little creature; yet I can evade the Cardinal's edict no longer. She is a woman, a girl rather, without a legitimate protector, and you are a gallant chevalier. To conduct her to her parents at Nanci must be your task.'

'Mine!' I exclaimed, with growing astonishment.

'Yours. So I trust, not to your love for me (that I have ceased to believe in) but to your honour, that you will convey her in safety to the gates of Nanci, which you will pass en route for Elsace-Zaberne—and that you will there leave her, without question or query. You promise?' she demanded, fixing her bright and piercing eyes keenly upon me.

'On my honour, Countess,' said I, laying a hand on my breast; 'impatient as I am to leave Paris, to rejoin the Scottish Guard, and to deliver to Sir John Hepburn his despatches, and the baton he has earned so well, I shall not think of playing the lover or the loiterer on the road.'

'C'est bon! I trust Nicola entirely to your honour and to her own discretion. Horses are provided—I have sent for your old nag Dagobert, and you will leave this in an hour.'

'So soon!' said I, kissing Clara's hand, and feeling something of my old love for her reviving.

'Yes—so soon. Moreover, if you execute faithfully and honourably the trust I repose in you, namely, to see this poor girl to the gates of Nanci, my favours will not cease with our separation. I have written to my dear old friend, Monseigneur le Duc de Lennox, who is now at his castle of Tarbolton, and Cardinal Richelieu by the King's command—a command issued at my request—has written to the Scottish minister at Edinburgh, Sir Archibald Acheson of Glencairn, also in your favour; and thus if you obey me with fidelity, your estate of Blanerne and all your father's offices of Bailiewick and Captainrie shall be fully restored to you, and you will be free to return home, unless,' she added, with one of her old coy glances, 'you find attractions greater in France.'

'Madame, I have no words to thank you! but will the Cardinal be successful?'

'Can you doubt it? Mon Dieu! it is but a small request to make of this sieur Acheson, and the Scottish government, after the late release of all their ships, when those of England were detained and sold at Havre, Brest, and Calais.'

The arrival of a visitor, whose gilded carriage preceded by two liveried valets, powdered, armed and mounted, halted under the porte cochère, cut short the reply I was about to make, and the Countess, after permitting me to give her a farewell kiss, consigned me to the care of Antoine, bidding me adieu with a kindness which showed that though she meant to discard, she had no intention of forgetting me entirely.

Antoine brought me the dress of an abbé—the usual costume of a gentleman when travelling at that time; and under the cassock I placed my belt, with a pair of loaded pistols and a good dagger; while a pair of petronels were to be slung at my saddle-bow.

'Mademoiselle Nicola,' said Antoine, introducing the Countess's attendant, whom in her new costume I had some difficulty in recognising. She wore a dark religious dress, with a little hood and wimple, a long veil, and a large cross. The demureness of her appearance contrasted forcibly with the youth and exceeding beauty of her face, and the luxuriance of her bright golden hair. Her complexion was pure; her lips a divine coral hue, and her features were cast in the purest mould of form. Her loose sleeves revealed the whiteness of her arms, and gave her hands a smallness almost infantine as she approached, and with great frankness held both out to me, while her upward glance was timid and earnest, but confiding.

'Welcome, Nicola,' said I, closing the last button of my long and sombre cassock; 'it seems, my dear little daughter, that we are about to set out on our travels together, as a nun and an abbé.'

'Yes, monsieur,' said she, with a slight blush, as her long brown eyelashes drooped; 'and I trust we shall conduct ourselves with due religious gravity and—propriety.'

'Do not doubt it. I am an abbé of some place unknown; but you, I presume, have some order to claim?'

'Oh yes, M. Blane. This is the dress of the Hôpital des Soeurs de la Charité, for the relief of the sick and poor, founded by Father Vincent de Paule, a priest whose life has been one succession of good deeds, for he has everywhere founded hospitals for the sick, the aged, and the poor; and King Louis, by letters patent, has just instituted his new priory of the Lazarites. Father Vincent has collected, among the pious of Paris, one hundred and sixty thousand livres, and sent them into Alsace and Lorraine, to lessen the misery of those peasantry who are afflicted by the war, and the presence of—'

'Such fellows as I, mademoiselle.'

'Everywhere he is worshipped as a saint, though not yet canonised, and my dress of his order will protect me, if the circumstance of my being his favourite god-daughter will not.'

'But, my dear little Nicola, your beautiful voice will be quite spoiled by the hideous accent of Alsace, where they say Sdrazpurg for Strasbourg, and so on.'

'M. Blane,' said she, looking me full in the face, while her clear bright eyes filled with emotion, 'if you propose to continue this spirit of gallantry or banter during our journey, I shall leave you at the first gate of Paris, and pursue my way alone.'

'Nicola, you are quick as gunpowder; but in what character do we travel? Father and daughter?'

'No, brother and sister.'

'By Jove! a dearer relationship would save trouble immensely. Oh, pardon—pardon me, Nicola,' I added, as her cheek reddened and her eyes sparkled with anger; 'on my honour I will offend you no more.'

Antoine now announced that our nags were waiting at the postern, and in half an hour after this we had passed through Paris together, Nicola mounted on a stout and plainly-trapped little horse, and I on Dagobert. About mid-day we passed the last barrier, and took the road to Meaux, furnished duly with passports addressed to the various lieutenants du roi, or deputy-governors, of which every fortified town in France had one.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

MY PRETTY PENITENT.

'This is passing strange!' thought I, as we trotted along the highway towards Meaux, the cathedral spire of which rose above the mosses of the ville on the right bank of the Marne; 'here am I, Blane of that Ilk and Blanerne, a Chevalier of the Garde du Corps Ecossais, and so forth, acting gentleman usher to a French waiting-maid—a squire o' the stirrup to a wandering damsel, and that damsel a soubrette!'

And yet, as these irritating and ungenerous thoughts occurred to me while peeping at my companion from time to time, I became impressed by the grace with which she managed her horse, by her youth, her beauty, and loveliness; and, above all, by a purity of thought and choice of language in her conversation which convinced me that Nicola was somewhat better than she seemed; and from some remarks she let fall, I discovered that her father was a reputable citizen of Nanci, whom the fortune of war had forced into the ranks of Duke Charles IV.; that her mother was dead, and her stepmother, to whom she was returning, disliked and ill used her.

I have said again and again that Nicola was lovely; but as the hours of our companionship were prolonged, and as we rode side by sicle between the long green hedgerows, the blooming orchards and graperies that bordered the banks of the Marne, and were ripening as the spring grew into summer, I began to discover new and dangerous graces and attractions—a lofty bearing, an enchanting purity, that would have graced even the vaunted Marie Louise of Lorraine, of whose far-famed beauty Nicola seemed very proud, and of whom she spoke a hundred times during our pleasant journey, often ridiculing, I remember, the manner and character of Wolfgang the young Count Pappenheim, to whom Charles IV. meant to marry her. Thus I began to forget the waiting-maid, in the little sister of the hospital, and daily took more care of my toilet, pointing up my moustache, curling my hair, &c., &c., striving to appear to the best advantage in her eyes, with what end I scarcely knew.

We passed Meaux, of which the illustrious Bossuet was then bishop, and rode on, chatting and laughing, and quite forgetting to visit, in our characters of an abbé and soeur de la charité, the famous shrine of St. Fiacre. Ouf! the very name recals to me the image of Martin Omelette, and that devilish old historical chamber in the Bastille, from which he was so loth to release me! We lodged at a quiet little inn in the marche, where Nicola's costume, as a follower of Father Vincent of Paule, won her every respect and attention from our host, while my moustache and sword obtained the same from madame the buxom hostess, who soon 'detected the man-at-arms under my cassock,' as she told me with a smile.

A ride of twenty-three miles next day brought us to Château Thierri, an old town of the eighth century, having a castle of Charles Martel on a hill overhanging it, and in this direction we progressed, as I chose a route pretty far to the left of the main road to Lorraine, being—for various reasons—desirous of avoiding the line of march formerly taken by our army.

Here we put up at an auberge, opposite to the house in which the celebrated De la Fontaine was born. The people being old Huguenots, who remembered the wars of the League, were somewhat crusty, and loth to admit two passengers attired as Nicola and I were; but a twist of my moustache, and a display of that which is the most convincing argument in the modern world and in practical philosophy, money, silenced all their scruples, and we were immediately accommodated with apartments.

Epernay, where Marechal Biron was killed by a cannon-ball, was our next halting-place; and there at our inn we saw a picture of Guilleriz, the famous robber, who built a castle in the wood of Gralla in Brittany, where, after being besieged by five thousand men, he was taken prisoner, and broken alive upon the wheel in 1608. Now, as Epernay lies only fourteen miles south of Rheims, I began to perceive that we were travelling a little too fast, and that the time when I must part from my delightful companion drew nearer by every hour and mile.

CHAPTER XXXV.

IN LOVE WITH A SOUBRETTE.

'Neither virtue nor vice consists in passive sentiment—but in action.' I remembered this maxim of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, and resolved to be actively good, and to thrust the Countess from my heart for the future; never considering, at the time I applied this trite saying of M. Marcus to myself, it was merely the image of Mademoiselle Nicola which was gradually effacing that of Madame d'Amboise.

Propinquity, no doubt, had much to do with this new fancy which hourly grew upon me; besides, the young heart is decidedly opposed to existing in a state of vacuum, and loves novelty and variety; hence, the moment one bright image passes away, another occupies it; thus as the distance between the Countess and me increased, the greater grew my interest in Nicola—but then, Nicola was only a soubrette!

Now as all that lovers say—but here as yet the love seemed all on my side—is deemed very prolix, vapid, and foolish, by the wise and matter-of-fact people of this world, I will not attempt to rehearse the various little conversations by which Nicola and I beguiled the way. One or two I may insert, as I know that such conferences are not without interest to the fairer portion of mankind; and with them I have the honour to agree in all things.

'Mademoiselle,' said I, after a long silence, as we approached Chalons, 'I am so happy to be with you!'

'I am equally glad that Monsieur is pleased.'

'How can we ever part, Nicola? When the time comes, I shall be the most wretched man in Lorraine.'

'A gallant man would have said "in the world,"' she replied, with a waggish smile; 'but will not M. l'Abbé have his prayers to attend to?

'By Jove! my dear girl, then I shall have to pray in my helmet and boots, like a bishop of Cahors.'

I observed, however, that unless my remarks savoured of the merest commonplace, of the scenery, the towns we passed through, or of the war which had cast us so oddly together, she was usually silent; and whenever I attempted to become tender or complimentary (and then only with a timidity for which I could not account), she betrayed a mixture of cloudy reserve, or quick irritation, which, if not very artful in a soubrette, were decidedly perplexing to me.

She was a singularly seductive girl; and with all my growing love for her, I began to fear—I knew not why—that she might be playing some deep game with me; and at one time this idea was strong in me—the more so when I remembered the peculiarly artful and intriguing character of the person who had confided her to me—the Countess, her late mistress. Yet when I gazed upon her pure, pale brow, and into her quiet, deep, and trusting eyes, thoughts that were gentler, kinder, and more loving filled my heart. Poor little Nicola!

In my attentions to her, as I became more delicate, or pointed, which you will, the more reserved did she seem, and the more anxious to hasten on her journey. This only served to pique me, to whet my interest and curiosity, and to render me more perplexed as to her real objects and character; and I observed at Meaux, Château Thierri, Epernay, and other places, when we put up at an inn or hostelry, she studiously secluded herself from me in her own apartment, and pleading fatigue, whether falsely or truly I knew not, rarely took even a meal with me; and never appeared until our horses were again at the door, bridled and saddled for us to resume our journey.

I observed, that whenever I spoke of the Countess, her cheeks were wont to flush, and her usually gentle blue eyes to sparkle with an anger which she was at little pains to conceal—thus betraying an impatience and irritation very remarkable in one generally so soft in manner, and gentle in disposition.

'Now what may all this mean?' thought I; 'is my little soubrette in love with me herself, and jealous of the Countess? Courage, Arthur Blane, and probe this other mystery.'

On the road towards Chalons, while traversing one of those broad and beautiful valleys which intersect Champagne, I spoke with such unreasonable admiration of Clara d'Amboise, that tears actually stood in the fine eyes of my companion.

'This Countess—,' I faltered, beginning to deprecate, but not knowing what to say.

'Countess—silence!' said Nicola, with beautiful scorn; 'speak no more of her, and let me endeavour to forget the hated companionship and collusion which I had with her—circumstances in which the force of political events involved me.'

'Do you speak thus of your old mistress?'

Nicola laughed, and then grew angry again. 'My mistress!' she reiterated; 'my poor M. Blane, you are a very good kind of creature——'

'Mademoiselle,' said I, with a sombre bow, 'I thank you for your patronage.'

'But you know not whom you address, whom you speak of, or what you say.'

'Such a spoiled child it is! we have become suddenly quite angry on one side, and quite stupid on the other it appears. But this Countess d'Amboise seems to be quite your bête noir, Nicola.'

'Silence!' said she, becoming angry again, and with her riding switch giving me a smart tap over the bridle hand—so smart indeed that had not my thick military glove protected me, I must have dropped both curb and snaffle reins. 'Silence, and say no more of this.'

'Of what?—you quite puzzle me!'

'Thank Heaven, yonder are the spires of Chalons!'

'You early warned me to beware of the Countess, dear Nicola.'

'Well.'

'One night at a gate of the Louvre when I was a sentinel, opposite the Hotel de Bourbon.'

'Do you remember what I said?'

'Could I forget anything in which Nicola bore a part? Well—I took your advice—I saw her no more.'

'Many thanks for such condescending acquiescence; but M. Blane will please to remember that he marched from Paris, as I foretold, next day. How far are we from Chalons?'

'About six miles.'

'Thank Heaven!'

'Why this thankfulness again?'

'Because this hateful—odious journey will soon be at an end.'

'Hateful?' said I, anxiously.

'Yes—exceedingly so!'

'You are weary of me, dearest Nicola,' said I, attempting to take her whip hand.

'Weary of your conversation, at least,' said she, giving a second switch over the fingers; 'and unless you can find a more entertaining subject than the beauty, wit, et cetera, of the French king's avowed mistress, please to speak no more.'

I began to fear that I had gone too far; but whence all this pique? Did this charming enigma—this beautiful girl—really love me, and feel her little heart swell at the thought of rivalry? I could neither answer this question, nor account for the strange timidity with which her manner infected me.

'Pardon me, mademoiselle,' said I, urging Dagobert close to her side, and venturing to kiss her hand—and this time the switch was not raised—'I will not say more until you address me.'

'Then, you shall be silent long enough, I promise you.'

She was evidently in a furious pet; thus we rode in silence into Chalons, and were then one hundred and three miles from Paris. I stole a glance from time to time at Nicola, and to my great perplexity perceived that she was in tears; but amid the bustle of Chalons, the examination of our papers by the suspicious guard at the gate, and my anxiety to find, in a strange city, a suitable hotel, I could not refer to our past and peculiar conversation, or to the delightful inferences I drew from it.

Chalons lies between two spacious meadows on the river Marne, which divides it into three parts—the town, the isle, and suburb; and high over all its mansions towered the spire of St. Stephen. The streets were wide and bordered by trees; the ramparts were strong; the ditches deep and broad. Sir Andrew Gray, of Broxmouth in Lothian, a veteran Scottish soldier of fortune, was governor, and his garrison consisted of two fine battalions of the regiment de Normandie.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

OUR JOURNEY TOGETHER.

We put up at a quiet auberge in the suburbs—such a place as I usually chose. It was kept by a reverend-looking old man, who told me that he had been a soldier in the wars of the League, and was the comrade of Nicholas Poussin in the regiment of the Vicomte de Tavannes. The moment we entered this auberge, Nicola, as usual, retired to her chamber, and on this occasion without even bestowing on me the sweet smile and farewell bow, or waving to me a kiss with her pretty hand, according to her usual wont when we separated for the long hours that must intervene until the morrow; and this pained me more than I could have believed the coldness or slight of any girl would do—especially a girl in her position.

That night I was very sleepless and miserable.

Love should be pure, true, and humble; for true love, as the Scripture saith of charity, seeketh not its own; and such, I hope, was mine for this French girl. I watched the chamber where Nicola slept, and listened to her soft breathing through the door, which was slightly ajar. I saw the shadow of her curtained bed thrown by the night lamp across the floor, and I would have given the world (as the phrase is) to peep in and see her dear little face as she slept; but if discovered, the intrusion would have been deemed an unpardonable offence by one so proud, so pure, and modest as Nicola; so I lingered without—listening, watching, and hoping I scarcely knew what.

I counted the miles, the days, and hours of our journey, past and those to come; and reckoned the time at which she must leave me—when we would separate, and, too probably, never to meet again. This approaching fate greatly enhanced the delight I felt in the society of Nicola, and I returned to bed, full of strange thoughts.

'Either I am of a singularly inflammable nature,' said I, while turning restlessly on my pillow, 'or by what magic or miracle, other than her beauty, does this girl so fascinate me?'

I had asked myself this question a hundred times before.

Then there was that proud reserve and occasional constraint of manner, which in a soubrette—and especially the soubrette of so gay a beauty as the Countess d'Amboise—were so difficult of analysis; and for which, even the peculiarity of our positions—a young man and a beautiful young woman, unwedded and unrelated, travelling thus together, and apart from all the world, could not entirely account.

Why did I not fall in love with this girl in Paris, when I had a thousand favourable opportunities for entangling her in one of those countless intrigues which make the sum of human life there? Simply, because I had never thought of it when there—and our positions were then altogether different.

Besides propinquity, which causes half or perhaps nearly all the love affairs in the world, daily companionship, and the country, are all peculiarly adapted to develope and foster the tender passion. Isolate any two young persons of opposite sexes together in the country for a short season, and if they are passably handsome, and their hearts previously unoccupied, some mysterious principle of animal magnetism will infallibly draw them nearer to each other, and a very decided flirtation, if not an actual passion, will be the result. Thus, in the country, when wandering with a young and pretty companion, she will become all the more interesting, because we see her face and hear her voice alone, without being contrasted with the faces, voices, or manners of others; and surrounded by the blue sky, the bright sunshine, the green fields, or the shady woods, a thousand new charms and graces that were unheeded before will develope themselves. Away from the bustle of towns, camps, and garrisons—away from the glitter, gloss, and buzz of life, our thoughts will run, as it were, all to one focus; imagination gets fuller and freer play, all the impulses of the heart are more joyous and pure; and thus a girl on whom we might scarcely have bestowed a thought had we met her in the bustle of the world, may become a very divinity, enshrined by a halo of such beauty as the eye or fancy of a lover alone can see.

But Nicola was charming enough to have attracted attention even amid the court beauties of Louis XIII.; thus it was very natural to expect that I, in whose protection she confided, and on whose friendship and honour she relied, should feel a dangerous interest in her, during our solitary journey through Champagne and Lorraine to the frontiers of France. Alas! I could neither know nor foresee all the bitterness this growing passion, which I so heedlessly fostered, would yet cost my heart.

At breakfast, next morning, my attention was attracted by a silver medal which the maitre d'hôtel wore suspended from his neck by a little steel chain. It proved to be one of those struck at Rome by order of Pope Gregory XIII., to eternise the infamous massacre of St. Bartholomew; and as the existence of such a memorial is but little known in my native country, I may as well describe it.

It bore the destroying angel, his right hand armed with a sword; his left arm bearing a cross; below him were several figures with their throats cut, and around was this motto:

'Hugonetorwn strages, 1572.'

'Were you engaged in that scene of blood?' I asked, with a lowering brow.

'Yes, monsieur, in some manner, I was.'

'But that was sixty-three years ago.'

'Well, M. l'Abbé, I am just sixty-three years old.'

'And you were engaged in a massacre when a year old—what a blood thirsty young imp you must have been!'

'Monsieur, I was born on the very day of the massacre. Listen to me. There was a fleuriste in the Rue de l'Arbre Sec: does Monsieur happen to know the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, at Paris?'

'Perfectly.'

'Ah—there are always pretty girls there.'

'Well—about your fleuriste?'

'In that street, there was one named Jeanette Lavardin, very pretty and very much admired by all the gallants of Paris, who frequented her little shop and bought kisses and flowers; for in those days every cavalier carried a nosegay; but unfortunately poor Jeanette was a Huguenot; and on the day of the massacre, after the King's Guards, led by Monsieur d'O, their colonel, had so barbarously slain the Comte de la Rochefoucault, who was grand huntsman and hereditary master of the royal wardrobe, the Marquise de Renel, Francourt the Chancellor of Navarre, and more than two hundred other gentlemen, who had sought shelter in the Louvre, all smeared with blood, and panting for fresh slaughter, they issued into the Rue de l'Arbre Sec, and murdered Jeanette, though she sank on her knees, and implored them to save her life, saying that she was not in a fit state to die. One mousquetaire made her promise to be a good Catholic, which she accordingly promised, and was instantly stabbed by swords and poignards, to prevent her, as the destroyers said, relapsing into heresy; and then they departed to seek new victims.

'Next day, when the Catholics were throwing all the bodies into the Seine, they found that the murdered Jeanette in her death throes had given birth to an infant. Many persons were deeply moved by beholding a birth under circumstances so appalling; others were for throwing "the Huguenot's brat" into the river with its dead mother; and for that fell purpose the poor naked youngling was seized by one of Colonel d'O's soldiers, but was saved by a gentleman of the Scottish Guard of Charles IX., who threw his velvet mantle over it—so this child lived to be a man, and has now the honour of addressing you.'

'A strange and terrible story!' said I: 'and this gentleman of the Scottish Guard—'

'Was the bosom friend of the King of Navarre—the Chevalier Blane.'

'My father!' I exclaimed with joy.

'Yours, Monsieur l'Abbé!' exclaimed the maitre d'hôtel, almost embracing me: 'your father! tell me, then, is this brave chevalier alive?'

'Alas, no! he was slain last year in cold blood; but I shall yet avenge him, if ever I tread on Scottish ground again!'

CHAPTER XXXVII.

A HAUNTED FOREST.

Beyond Chalons we rode for several miles in silence, for Nicola seemed to be still displeased with me, and I felt a sadness and irresolution for which I could not account, for this girl exercised a strange and powerful fascination over me; but now, a storm which came on suddenly was the fortunate means of bringing us to a satisfactory explanation, somewhat after the fashion of the regal lovers in the Æneid, save that we conducted ourselves with much more propriety than Dido and her demigod.

About dusk we found ourselves somewhere on the borders of Lower Champagne, near a large forest, amid the dingles of which we had lost the right path; and now the darkening clouds, with the oppression of the atmosphere, forewarned us of what was approaching. No house or village appeared in sight; every way the forest tracks seemed to be lost in a wilderness of trees. On a rock overhanging the forest stood an old castle, at which we expected to find shelter or a guide; but it proved to be a roofless ruin, destroyed probably in the wars of the League: and two or three men, whom we had seen lurking near it, disappeared on our approach, and accorded no response to my shouts. This suggested the unpleasant idea of robbers; and my hitherto brave little companion grew pale as the darkness increased, and I carefully examined the pistols in my girdle and the petronels at my saddle-bow.

In her anxiety Nicola forgot her displeasure, and prattled and spoke to me again, keeping her horse close to my stirrup; for every minute my hand was required to catch her bridle, as the brambles and stones rendered the animal restive and liable to stumble.

Once a wolf bayed near us, and she uttered a faint scream. The French forests were full of those animals. De Mezeray tells us that, in 1437, wolves occasionally darted through the city barriers, and devoured children in the Rue St. Antoine at Paris; and all the world knows of 'the terrible wild beast' which appeared in the forest of Fontainebleau and ate one hundred and forty persons alive, before it was killed by M. de Brissac and twelve of the king's musketeers.*

* So lately as 1765, the forest of Soissons was full of wolves. A ordinance of Henry III. directed the lords of manors to have a general hunt every third month.

'Do not be alarmed, dear Nicola,' said I, 'for I have four bullets and my dagger at your service.'

'These will avail you little, M. Blane, against a herd of wolves.'

'Well—a herd might, perhaps, prove rather troublesome!'

'Or a band of robbers—like those of Guillirez!'

'The devil! My dear mademoiselle, do not think of such things: yet I would rather face the robbers than the wolves.'

'Indeed! do you hold your life a thing of little price?'

'Nay; I hold it, dear Nicola, exactly at the value your interest in me gives it.'

'A very pretty compliment, M. Blane; but do not press my hand so, pray: and ah, my heaven! there is lightning coming to increase our annoyances! Moreover, this forest is haunted!'

'By what?'

'A spectre.'

'The deuce, mademoiselle! a real spectre?'

'Yes.'

'Come now, Nicola!'

'A tall, lean, ghastly man with a dreadful visage.'

'With wolves, robbers, and spectres for companions—a dark forest, rain, thunder, and wind—we shall pass a pleasant night! now the torrent begins to patter on the leaves! my poor little Nicola, you will be quite drenched.'

'Mon Dieu! it was in this forest that Charles VIII. of France was warned of his approaching death,' whispered Nicola, shuddering.

'Warned—by what?'

'The spectre—the demon who haunts it.'

'Ouf! we are to have a demon too! How came it to pass?'

'Charles VIII. was marching home from the conquest of Naples, and was passing through this wood, accompanied by Anne of Brittany his queen, and the Lady Beaujeu his sister, when suddenly a tall and ghastly form like a skeleton, having a long white beard and enormous red eyes, started from among the bushes, and grasped the royal bridle, exclaiming with a shrill voice, like the whistling wind—

'"Stop! O King, whence go you?"

'"To Paris!" answered Charles, boldly; "but why?"

'"Because you are betrayed—beware of the orange-tree!" replied the spectre, and vanished, for no trace of him could be found by the King or his company. Charles therefore became alarmed, and tarried till all the Scottish Guard, under the Lord Bernard Stuart d'Aubigne came up, and with these he passed through the forest in safety; but the terrible visage of the spectre was ever before him; so that he lost his senses soon after, and died of a poisoned orange.'

Nicola also told me that, in the local superstition of the peasantry, the forest was the haunt of a malevolent female spirit known as La Bête Havette, who lived in wells and springs (like that watery spirit which haunted our friend St. Fiacre), and was wont suddenly to pour its fury upon children, drowning them, as the kelpies are said to do in Scotland. Here, too, was heard St. Hubert's hunt, when the yelling of fiendish dogs, the clank of hell-forged fetters, and mournful cries swept at midnight over the tree tops, and died away in distance, as the demons bore off the souls of the damned to punishment; for such the terrified peasantry believed the passing flocks of wild geese to be; but at last, as the darkness increased, Nicola became terrified by her own legends; she ceased to speak, and kept close to my side.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

WHAT HAPPENED THERE.

The darkness of the sky and the denseness of the interwoven foliage overhead, made our whereabouts so obscure, that our horses stumbled at every step, till dismounting, I led them by the bridle. There was a strange stillness in the air; the rain fell in large warm drops which plashed heavily on the broad leaves of the summer forest; the green, ghastly lightning at times lit up the long dark vistas, glancing for an instant on the old gnarled trunks, imparting to them a freakish and grotesque aspect that terrified Nicola, who began to consider herself rather rash in having rehearsed that very far from lively historiette or episode in the life of his Majesty Charles VIII. in such an alarming locality; and as the thunder rolled and hurtled above us, every moment nearer and more near, she was all palpitating with terror like a little bird, when I wrapped my cloak round her, as an additional protection from the fast falling rain.

I now became seriously anxious to find a place of shelter for her. A night in the forest, exposed to all the discomfort of a storm, and to the real and imaginary terrors of such a place, might prove, I feared, too much for the constitution of a girl so delicate by nature, and so tenderly nurtured as Nicola had been.

While I was in this state of perplexity, we discovered a cavern, or deep fissure in a mass of ivy-covered rock close by us—the same rock on which the old castle stood. The bridle of Dagobert, whose equanimity (never very great at any time) was rather ruffled by the thunder, I buckled to the branch of a tree. Entering, I examined the place by firing my pistol among some dry leaves, and thus creating a momentary light, found it to be a complete alcove in the rocks, full of the withered spoils of the last autumn. I led in Nicola, placed her in a comfortable nook, and after securing the horses close by, in such a manner that to break loose or escape would be, for them, impossible, I rejoined her; and there we sat, hand in hand, in that dark rocky chamber, listening to the wild storm that bellowed without, and watching the gleams of lightning that flashed and glared on the stems of the summer forest.

I had my pistols at hand, prepared for any emergency; and making for Nicola a bed composed of dry leaves and our mantles, I besought her to be composed, and to endeavour to sleep; but she pressed my hand gently, and declared herself to be too much alarmed and too excited to think of sleeping; and there we were alone, at night, in that old haunted forest on the borders of Champagne.

I pressed her dear and tiny hand from time to time, and occasionally there was a response, which sent a thrill of happiness to my heart; then she crept closer to my side, for the darkness was intense, and the uproar of the elements without was somewhat appalling.

As we sat there, the deep, hoarse, solemn murmur of the wind, as it rose and fell, had in it something very impressive. At times it wailed like the mingled voices of a vast multitude; then it chafed among the tossing branches like the waves of a distant sea, in fierce and sudden gusts; anon it would die away, and we heard only the hiss of the rain that poured so ceaselessly down on the leaves of the drenched forest. At times strange sounds seemed to mingle with the passing wind. I deemed these to be the cries of affrighted wolves; and often sat pistol in hand, lest some of those dreadful denizens of the wild should find our place of shelter, and rush headlong in.

The lightning that came in brilliant and quivering flashes revealed the rugged outline of the cavern-mouth, and the wet dingles which stretched away in vague and dark perspective; and the whole scene, with all its concomitants, was so terrible, that Nicola drew her hood over her eyes, and at times drooped her forehead on my shoulder. She was faint with fear, and weary by fatigue; and, being a good little Catholic, I heard her muttering her prayers from time to time. Moreover, she made a vow, if she escaped all the terrors of the night, to visit the most renowned shrine in Lorraine, that of St. Lucy the Scot at St. Michel.

Then she uttered a feint cry, and clutched my arm!

A thunderbolt—a blazing ball of fire—which seemed to fall with a startling roar, and by its own specific weight, struck at the mouth of the cavern, a large tree, a strong and ancient oak, that had stood perhaps for a hundred years, and clashed it to pieces, cleaving it, like a mighty wedge of flame, to the roots in a moment. For a time the sulphureous odour was stifling; but it subsided at last, and with it the terror of my trembling companion.

'We are quite safe, Nicola,' said I, placing an arm gently round her.

'Safe—you think so? Ah! M. Blane, make a sign of the cross, just once—to please me.'

'Mademoiselle, in me it were a mockery,' said I; 'for my forefathers were the first to follow the precepts of the Lollards of Kyle.'

'Then their descendants should make amends, by being the first to follow mine. You deem it, as they did, Popish likely? What matter how you name it, or they named it; for, be assured, it is the sign of Heaven: and I shall make three over you,' said she, waving her pretty hand thrice, in the dark, across my eyes and brow.

'Dearest Nicola!'

'If you press my hand thus, I shall take the liberty of withdrawing it. St. Ephrem says, Look at the little birds, when they stretch out their winglets cross-wise—lo! they straight ascend towards heaven; but when they fold them, they fall panting and breathless down to—where?'

'The earth, I presume.'

'Yes—then think of these things.'

'Dear Nicola, I can think only of you.'

'When you have seen Marie Louise of Lorraine, you will think of me no more.'

'Peste! my dear Nicola, I have no desire to see your Mademoiselle Marie Louise; nor shall I trust myself near the dangerous vicinity of her or her people, at least until I exchange the costume of an abbé for the iron trappings of the Garde du Corps Ecossais.'

'And we shall have parted at the gates of Nanci?' said she, in a low voice.

'Ah, Nicola,' I replied, 'you know not how the anticipation of that parting wrings my heart!'

I sighed, and drew her close and closer still to my breast: she made no resistance; but I was conscious that she wept bitterly, and this secret emotion moved me deeply, and brought my passion to a height.

'Nicola,' said I, abruptly; 'will you marry me, dear Nicola? Oh, you do not know how much—how tenderly, I love you!'

'Marry me—a poor soubrette—you, a chevalier of the King's Guard—one of the proud noblesse of the Guard du Corps Ecossais!'

'Yes—I, Nicola.'

'Oh, monsieur, you must not speak in this way, or think of such a thing; I am only a poor girl!'

'Why?'

'What would the army—what would all Paris, say?'

'I will marry you with joy, Nicola, and take you home to my own dear country. The Countess—'

'Countess again!'

'Pardon me, dearest, I am not about to praise her, but merely to say that she has promised that through the powerful interference of Richelieu and King Louis, the cruel act which proscribes me shall be rescinded; and I know she will keep that promise. At home, I have lands, broad acres of corn and meadow, that lie by the banks of the Dee; I have fell and forest, a tower and hall, where your merry laugh shall make the echoes joyous again; and all that I have, with my heart and love, will I share with you, Nicola,' said I, borne away by the honest ardour of my passion, and the impulses of youth.

I felt her tremble still more, and her tears fell fast upon my cheek.

'Were I to admit that I loved you, would you be more devoted to me?'

'Impossible! I could not be more devoted than I now am.'

'Oh, silly M. Blane! I heard you once say nearly the same thing to that woman d'Amboise.'

'No more of these memories, dearest Nicola, or I shall sink with shame!'

'Then let us be silent!'

'Nay, nay; say that you love me—that you will marry me,' said I, in a whisper; 'speak, Nicola, speak! for this suspense and silence are torture!'

'It may not, cannot be; our ranks in life are unequal, and our paths lie far apart.'

'Love, marriage will make them one.'

'Never!' she replied, in a broken voice; 'our paths in life must, I repeat, lie far, far apart.'

'Nicola!'

'I am but a poor little soubrette, a penniless girl of humble origin; and how would your proud Scottish kinswomen, with all their crests and quarterings, receive me, if they knew of this?'

'It can never be known, Nicola; and as the wife of my heart, the lady of Blanerne, I can find strong hands and steel blades enough in Glenkens to force the proudest peer in Scotland to vail his bonnet to you!'

'Force him! and this is one item of the happiness you would offer me. That I love you, monsieur,' said she, weeping,' let these hot tears attest, but cease to speak more of love or of marriage to me. Such visions can never be realized; I could never brook the humiliation you would prepare for me; for I have much of pride and hauteur in my heart—albeit, you deem me so timid, meek, and gentle. I will strive to be your friend; but this love I shall conquer, crush, forget perhaps.'

'When?'

'When we separate;—alas! I cannot hope to achieve this fatal end while I remain with you.'

'No—no, Nicola!' said I, pressing her to my heart, as the tenderness and ingenuity of this admission, with the plaintive softness of her voice, touched me inexpressibly; 'you shall never succeed in being so cruel as to forget the pleasant days of our companionship, and the love we have avowed.'

'It may be so.'

Then there ensued a long pause, and we continued to sit in darkness and silence, hand-in-hand, our hearts and lips united as our thoughts; until at last, overcome by agitation and fatigue, Nicola feel asleep—asleep upon my breast!

Such a strange thing it is, this love.

I had met Nicola, and left her; met her again and again, to leave her, without other thought than that she was beautiful; she had been nothing to me then; but from the time that love began to spread its halo round her, she seemed as necessary to me as the air or the sunshine, yea, as life itself. We seemed now to have but one existence, and the marvel to me became, how had I lived, and breathed, and spent so many years without her; and without discovering that her place in the world of my heart had been vacant. It is very mysterious all this; but every lover has the same idea, or he is no lover at all.

My whole being seemed now inspired by a new joy; and I no longer remembered how time had passed with me before this fountain of passion had welled up within our souls with the first kiss we exchanged in that dark cavern, which, with all its attendant terrors, had so suddenly brought our emotions to a crisis: and so passed our night in the old haunted forest of king Charles VIII.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

WHAT HAPPENED AFTER.

With night and darkness the storm passed away, and, when morning broke, no trace of it remained but the torn and twisted branches, the thunder-riven oak, and the diamond-like dew, that dropped from every leaf, and bowed the laden grass. Nicola awoke refreshed, but I was pale, weary, and excited: the livelong night I had not slept, having sat by the side of my companion, watching and half-supporting her, full of happiness, and of many thoughts, some of which made me anxious enough at times. But I kissed the sleeping eyes of Nicola, and forgetting all but that she loved me, I proceeded to groom and re-saddle our poor nags, which had borne the terrors and discomfort of the past night with all the equanimity of old troop-horses.

Flocks of those little birds of the woodcock species, known in France as chevaliers aux pied verts, were fluttering about in the misty swamps and little tarns formed by the torrents of rain that had fallen overnight; the startled hares and rabbits bounded from among the wet leaves, and fled before us as we mounted and set forth from our comfortless billet; and steering through the forest by the direction of the sunbeams, sought once more the way which led towards Lorraine.

We soon found it, and passing into that hostile province, left behind us the fertile plains of beautiful Champagne. Our first halt was at Vaubecourt, on the left bank of the Aisne: it is a fief of the princes of Lillebonne, who are a branch of the house of Lorraine. Nicola gazed wistfully at the gilded spires of the quaint château, saying she had friends there, who would gladly receive her.

'But I promised to see you as far as Nanci?' said I, with a tone of disappointment and anxiety.

'True,' she replied, with tears in her eyes; and we rode on in silence and sadness, oppressed by our own thoughts; for we were now approaching the place and the day of our final separation.

My heart was perplexed by its mingled joy and sorrow. How delightful it was to be convinced of the entire love of this gentle creature, and hear her sweet and winning voice give me timid assurance of it again and again; but how bitter was the knowledge that a day was at hand when I should hear that voice and those assurances no more!

In her manner there was a soft tenderness which a lover alone could detect, and it filled me with delight. She had so fully avowed a reciprocity of regard that now I had nothing more to urge on that point; save, that we should not separate at Nanci—for to that parting I looked forward with a sincere and acute sorrow. I strove vainly to forget that it overhung me, and for a time to be happy; for when gazing upon Nicola, the delightful consciousness of proprietary in that charming form, and community of sentiment in her affectionate heart, filled me with exalted and joyous emotions.

This love for Nicola, which in me had sprung up so suddenly, strengthening with intimacy, and the length of our journey, was the first true passion of my heart, which hitherto had never known aught of an emotion so absorbing.

Never before had the thought of a woman—of a mere girl—come between me and the great desire of my soul—honour and fame in the French army; but now I thought only of Nicola, and of spending my life with her, and for her alone.

I strove to study, to estimate my real emotion for her, and the probable duration of it. Was this love misplaced? Reason said it was. Cold Reason! Yet I loved her, and love levels everything; but this passion ran full butt against a thousand old social (or anti-social) prejudices which had formed the leading principles, the life, the second religion as it were, of my family for centuries—never to wed one of a blood, or name, or race inferior to their own!

Nicola was but a waiting-woman—the soubrette of the French king's dissipated mistress—and yet I loved her with all the heedless ardour of a boy.

Rank and name, pride, prejudice, and pedigree, with all their old heraldic quarterings and mummery, what were they to me, but something to lay at the feet of this charming French girl when I said that I loved her?

For some miles of the way Nicola had been very sad; but something in the spirit of the above paragraph, which I had infused into my conversation, raised her spirit, and she rallied as we approached St. Michel.

'Dear Arthur,' said she, patting my bridle-hand, while a beautiful smile lit up her loving blue eyes, 'you have a princely heart! I would that I were a countess—yea, even mademoiselle of Lorraine for your sake.'

'The beautiful Marie-Louise?'

'Yes—even the beautiful Marie-Louise—she who is deemed so proud, so artful, and intriguing.'

'Wherefore?'

'Because you could not say or sacrifice more for me, a poor girl, than I would then do for you, a simple gentleman.'

'Listen to me, Nicola. Lovely as this princess, the bride of Count Pappenheim, is famed to be, high though her race, and splendid her fortune, I would not give one golden hair of your beautiful head, Nicola, for Louise with all her rank and splendour.'

'Dear, kind, and loving Arthur!' said she, smiling through her tears; 'but I ought not to love you.'

'Nicola?'

'It is very true—but too true.'

'And why?'

'For many reasons more than I dare to say. One I may mention——'

'Name it. But already you have named so many.'

'You are a Huguenot—I a Catholic.'

'Well, and what of that?'

''Tis an error in faith my doing so; but I fear that we poor women are all pagans in the question of duty when it jars with love.'

'Then kiss me, my beautiful heathen.'

We were now close to the gate of St. Michel, and, alas! consequently only thirty miles from Nanci, and we felt more triste than ever.

CHAPTER XL.

THE DAUGHTER OF MACBETH.

The old town of St. Michel, the capital of a bailiewick of the same name, now rose before us on an eminence. The banner with the three fleur-de-lis waved above its ramparts, showing that French troops occupied it, and they proved to be a squadron of Roger de St. Lacy's dragoons. Louis XIII. had first taken this little barrier town, the seat of the Parliament of Lorraine during the war of 1632, but restored it again by the treaty of Livourdin. It was now chiefly noted for a splendid Benedictine monastery, where the reliques of St. Lucy the Scot were brought for preservation from the church of Mount St. Lucy, which stood near the Rhine, some miles distant.

The silvery mist was rising from wood and hollow as we approached the town. The green leaves glistened in the sun, and the long, graceful willows waved in wind, which rustled the chestnut foliage.

We breakfasted at a hamlet situated in a dell near the Meuse; and after showing our credentials at the gate as an abbé and daughter of Father Vincent de Paule, we rode straight to the Benedictine abbey, at the outer porch of which we dismounted; and then, leaving me with the horses, Nicola, with a sweet smile, a graceful nod of her pretty head, and a promise not 'to tarry long,' entered the magnificent old Gothic church of St. Bennet. Having buckled the bridles of our horses to iron rings in the walls, I sat for some time on the stone bench of the portal, lost in reverie, before I became aware that an old priest, in the usual dress of a French ecclesiastic, with a little black silk calotte cap drawn over his white hairs, had seated himself at my side, and was regarding me with attention.

I bade him good morning, for the day was yet young.

'Bon jour, M. l'Abbé,' said he, 'but by your bearing I do not take you to be an ecclesiastic.'

'Indeed!'

'Monsieur will excuse me, but such is the case.'

'How?'

'Abbés do not sit with one leg over the other, or play with their moustaches, neither do they usually wear a sword, for such are not conventual customs.'

'But I am travelling, and find a warlike aspect advantageous at hotels and barrier-gates; and then we all know that Monseigneur the present Archbishop of Paris was the best swordsman in France.'

'Except the Chevalier Hepburn.'

'Yes.'

'Ah! of course; except our countryman, the Chevalier Hepburn.'

'How! our countryman?' I asked.

'I detected the Scot as well as the soldier, sir,' said the old man, smiling and pressing my hands. 'I presume you belong to the French army?'

'Perhaps I do; but you are very inquisitive.'

'Do not be alarmed; though I live in the territories of Duke Charles, I am Father Allan Colville, a priest of the Scottish college founded by Gregory XIII. at Pontamoussin, some miles from this, in the bailiewick of St. Michel, and have no interest in the quarrels of kings and dukes, though the young Prince of Vaudemont, who has a fancy for me, made me custodier of the reliques of St. Lucy, before which your companion is now at prayer. The sister of Vincent de Paule is your wife, I presume, in disguise?'

'No,' said I, colouring to the temples.

'Your sister, perhaps?'

'No,' I repeated, with increasing vexation; 'the exigencies of war force us to travel together, though we are neither kith nor kin.'

'Pardon me,' said the padre, adding (to change the conversation), 'perhaps you know that St. Lucy was a country-woman of our own?'

'Like St. Fiacre, I suppose; but you must excuse my ignorance, for I never heard of the good lady until to-day,' I replied, with a smile.

'She was the daughter of a king.'

'I am rather sceptical on these points, father,' said I, smiling again, 'for in France all the ancient saints are sons or daughters of kings, counts, and emperors. Sanctity in those days was increased by rank.'

'You will find in Camerarius and in the French Breviary that she was the daughter of a Scottish king, of Macbeth the Usurper; who, to atone for the crimes of her father, after escaping from the castle of Dunsinnane, retired in 1160 to serve God in obscurity. Wandering from our native land she reached the banks of yonder river, the Meuse, and choosing a solitary place, a wooded mountain in the diocese of Verdun, there built unto herself a cell, where she died, in 1190, in all the odour of sanctity, and was enrolled among the saints by the Bishop of Verdun, Henry of Blois, otherwise called of Winchester, brother of Stephen king of England. Great pilgrimages have been made to her reliques, which in the summer season are kept in the church of Mont St. Lucy, erected in her honour in 1625 by a prince of the house of Guise, who espoused a sister of the present Duke Charles IV.'

'This is a curious story,' said I; 'but I suppose these reliques are only a few bones.'

'Heaven pity thee!' exclaimed the old priest; 'bones, quotha! I would that you were one of the ancient faith to see the saint as we see her—to see her as if she died but yesterday.'

'Indeed!'

'Her body is completely enclosed in a transparent coffin of the purest Venetian crystal, and therein she lies, robed in white, looking lovely in her virgin purity, for in death her features resumed all the bloom of youth. Her tresses are of the brightest gold; her features are soft and placid; the long lashes of her eyes are closed, imparting a charming expression of modesty and repose to her sleeping face, and a virgin crown encircles her brows. Her hands, small and delicate, are crossed upon her breast; one retains a golden chalice, the other her crucifix; and when prayers of more than ordinary purity are raised to heaven at her shrine, her lips have been seen to smile, and a shining brightness to spread over her face and robes—a light that filled the beholders with extasy and awe. Moreover, through the pores of that crystal coffin there cometh at times a fragrance—a delightful perfume, like that emitted of old by the body of Polycarp, the early martyr.'

'And she was a daughter of Macbeth! By my soul, I would give a louis to see all this.'

The priest shook his head.

'And her body is quite undecayed, you say.'

'Less so than yours or mine,' retorted the priest.

'And yet she died—'

'More than five hundred years ago.'

'Excuse me, Father Colville, but really—'

'You think this strange; but does not Volterranus tell us of the body of a young girl—fair, delicate, and beautiful—being found in a Roman sepulchre during the pontificate of Alexander VI.?'

'Very likely; but I do not believe in Volterranus.'

'He says, that she was enclosed in a marble chest: her loveliness dazzled all; her hair, which was long and flaxen, was gathered upon her head by a tiara of shining gold. At her feet stood a burning lamp, the light of which was extinguished by the atmosphere on the vault being opened. And, by an inscription on her tomb, this fair young girl proved to be "Tulliola, the best-beloved daughter of Cicero;" but because she was an unbaptized pagan, Pope Alexander ordered her body, so wonderfully preserved, to be cast into the Tiber, which was done accordingly. But to return: our shrine of St. Lucy was visited, in 1609, by the Duchess of Lorraine—a lady of the house of Mantua.'

'The mother of the present Prince of Vaudemont.'

'No; the mother of his half-sister, the famous Mademoiselle Marie Louise, who is now in Paris. It was also visited with great solemnity by his present majesty Louis XIII., when he was besieging St. Michel four years ago; and on that occasion his favourite, Madame d'Amboise, laid all her rings and bracelets on the shrine. It is to be visited by Mademoiselle of Lorraine, after her marriage with Count Pappenheim—an event to which I look forward with a somewhat selfish interest.'

'Why?'

'Because the wedding-dress of the bride is to be my gift, as keeper of the reliques.'

From this musty garrulity and monastic gossip, of which—with a mind so preoccupied—I felt heartily weary, I was relieved on Father Colville being summoned by an old Benedictine; and just as he retired, my attention was attracted by a handsome and well-appointed cavalier, who, with two valets, like himself well mounted and armed, rode hastily up to a large tree which stood before La Pomms d'Eve, an auberge opposite the abbey. Imperiously summoning the landlord, he called for wine, but without dismounting.

Something in the air of this young spark, and in the cock of his feather, seemed familiar to me; and, on approaching, I recognised the young Marquis de Toneins, camp-master of the Regiment de Normandie, and son and heir of the Marechal Duc de la Force.