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ONE IN A THOUSAND ; 
 
 THE DAYS OF HENRY QUATRE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OP 
 
 THE GIPSY," "MARY OF BURGUNDW 
 
 &c. &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES, 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LO:.JON: 
 
 PRINTED "OH 
 LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, GRE*"" & LONGMAN, 
 PATERNOSTER- Ri 
 
 1835. 
 
?£3 
 
 c o p. a. 
 
 HIS MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY, 
 
 WILLIAM THE FOURTH 
 
 Sire, 
 To be a Father to his people, to seek 
 their good, and to strive for their hap- 
 piness, was the noblest aspiration, and 
 ^affords the best eulogium, of one of the 
 
 personages who plays a prominent part 
 c 
 in the following pages — a monarch who 
 
 was loved and honoured in his own 
 
 country and his own times, and whose 
 
 memory is revered throughout all Europe 
 -3 
 
VJ 
 
 to the present day : I mean Henry the 
 Fourth of France. Your Majesty's love 
 for your people, your anxiety for their 
 welfare, and your efforts to render them 
 happy, are too well known to require 
 that I should point the parallel. Were 
 I to continue it farther, which might 
 easily be done, by showing how he, like 
 you, long served in arms the state which 
 he was afterwards called to govern, and 
 gallantly fought for that country in war, 
 which he afterwards ruled nobly in 
 peace, I should have to mark this happy 
 difference — that he was forced by painful 
 circumstances to fight against his coun- 
 trymen and future subjects, while your 
 Majesty has never drawn your sword 
 against any but the enemies of your 
 native land. 
 
Vll 
 
 But such prolonged historical com- 
 parisons would perhaps not be well suited 
 to the dedication of a work of imagin- 
 ation; and therefore, availing myself of 
 your Majesty's gracious permission, I 
 have only humbly to lay before you the 
 following pages, and to assure your Ma- 
 jesty of my deep feeling of gratitude and 
 respect. 
 
 I have the honour to be 
 Your Majesty's 
 
 Most faithful subject 
 
 and devoted servant, 
 
 George Payne Rainsford James. 
 
THE DAYS 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY QUATRE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 On the confines of the two beautiful provinces 
 of Maine and Touraine, lies one of the sweetest 
 valleys that the foot of man ever trod. The 
 hills by which it is formed are covered on one 
 hand by a wood of venerable oaks, while the 
 other side offers a green slope only broken 
 occasionally by rocky banks ; and on the summit 
 of every eminence stands out, in bold relief, a 
 group of two or three young trees, casting their 
 deep, soft shadows on the velvet turf below. 
 
 The eye of a traveller, placed at the north- 
 ern extremity of the valley, may trace its course 
 winding on in varied beauty for nearly a league 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
to the southward ; till at length the hills, by the 
 acclivities of which it is composed, seem to end 
 abruptly in that direction, but still without 
 meeting; the one side terminating in a high 
 rugged rock, cutting clear and distinct upon the 
 sky, and the other fringed by the branches and 
 foliage of the trees. Far away beyond, enframed, 
 as it were, by the opening of the valley, lies a 
 rich, splendid landscape, showing bright Tou- 
 raine, with its plains, and woods, and dells fading 
 off in long misty lines of light and shade, till 
 earth and heaven blend in the blue obscurity 
 of distance. 
 
 "Washing the roots of the trees on one side, 
 and edged with a bank of soft green moss on 
 the other, a small limpid stream runs swiftly 
 along over a shallow bed of rocks and pebbles, 
 and, like some spoiled child of fortune, winds ra- 
 pidly on amidst a thousand sweets and beauties, 
 still hurrying forward, careless of all the bright 
 things that surround its path. 
 
 Down the steep, rugged bridle-road, which, 
 descending sharply from the brow of the more 
 
exposed hill, crossed the course of the valley 
 and the stream at nearly a right angle, and 
 then, mounting the opposite slope, made its 
 way through the forest ; — down that road, 
 somewhere near the end of April 1589, a very 
 handsome boy, seemingly about sixteen years 
 of age, took his path on foot. He was just at 
 the time of life when childhood and manhood 
 meet — when sports, and pastimes, and sweet 
 innocence are cast away like faded flowers, and 
 when we first set the naked foot of inexperience 
 on that burning and arid path through the fiery 
 desert of desire and disappointment, which each 
 man must tread, ere he reach the night's rest- 
 ing place of the tomb. Not a shade of down 
 yet tinged his upper lip with the budding of 
 the long-coveted mustachio, and his face was 
 smooth and soft ; but there was a flash and a 
 fire in his splendid dark eye, which told that 
 the strong and busy passions that beset man's 
 prime had already taken possession of his heart. 
 He was dressed in a vest of dark murrey- 
 coloured cloth, bound with a light edging of 
 b 2 
 
gold, and in large trunk breeches descending to 
 his knee, made of the same stuff, and orna- 
 mented in the same manner. His cloak, which 
 was more ample than was usual in those days, 
 or than the time of year required, was fastened 
 by a buckle to the right shoulder, and, being 
 brought round under his left arm in the Italian 
 mode, was wrapped across his chest, without 
 opposing any obstacle to the free passage of his 
 hand towards the hilt of his dagger or his 
 sword. He was, if any thing, below the middle 
 height, and slightly made ; but in his counte- 
 nance there were all those signs and features 
 from which we are accustomed to argue the 
 presence of high and daring courage : and, per- 
 haps, it might have been a safer task to attack 
 many a man of greater personal strength, and 
 much more warlike appearance, than that slight 
 boy, with his light active limbs, and quick re- 
 marking eye. 
 
 On the summit of the hill he paused for a 
 moment, and gazed over the country which he 
 had left behind, as if looking anxiously for 
 
5 
 
 some expected sight; and then, muttering the 
 words " negligent varlets ! " he resumed his path 
 down the side of the hill. After wandering for 
 a short space along the margin of the shallow 
 stream, seeking for a place where he might cross 
 its fretful waters, without wetting the light 
 buskins that covered his feet, he sat down upon 
 the mossy bank under the shade of a clump of 
 oaks, seemingly wearied with his walk ; and, 
 pulling off his boots and stockings, dipped his 
 feet in the rivulet to cool and refresh them. 
 Laying his broad-plumed hat by his side, he 
 leaned back against the broken bank, from 
 which sprang the oaks that shaded him ; and, 
 with the water still rippling over his feet, and 
 the chequered light and shade of the green 
 leaves above playing on his broad fair brow, he 
 seemed to give himself up to one of those fan- 
 ciful dreams ever so busy with the brain of 
 youth. 
 
 It was certainly a spot and an hour to dream 
 in. It was the noon of a bright spring day. 
 Every bird of the season was singing its sweetest 
 b 3 
 
6 
 
 song in the forest opposite, or the trees above 
 his head ; and his seat was carpeted with the 
 meek-eyed wood anemony, the soft blue peri- 
 winkle, the daisy, the primrose, and the violet, 
 together with a thousand other flowers, the 
 sweetest children of the early year, whose very 
 birth and being are one of the brightest themes 
 that nature offers to imagination. And yet the 
 youth's meditations did not appear to be pleasant 
 ones. Whatever was the chain of thought that 
 bound his mind, there was upon his countenance 
 an expression of sad and painful gloom, which 
 gradually changed, like the hues of a red and 
 stormy sunset, to the deeper signs of wrath 
 and indignation. Sometimes he gazed heavily 
 upon the stream, with an eye all unconscious of 
 the flashing waters before it ; and then again, 
 as some sterner feeling seemed to take pos- 
 session of his heart, his brow would knit, his 
 lip would quiver, and his eye would flash like 
 that of a young tiger in its spring. Soon, 
 however, the thoughts — whatever they were — 
 which gave rise to such emotions, passed away ; 
 
and, hanging down his head, sadder sensations 
 seemed, in turn, to occupy his breast. A bright 
 drop rose and glittered in his eye, and the quick 
 blood mounted hastily into his cheek, as if 
 ashamed of the passion he had shown, though 
 he knew not that any one was near to witness 
 its expression. 
 
 Whether the passing emotions by which he had 
 been agitated were marked or not, his progress 
 from the top of the hill to the spot where he sat 
 had not been unobserved ; and the next moment 
 a rustling sound, proceeding from the bushes 
 on the opposite side of the stream, startled him 
 from his reverie. Bounding up like a frightened 
 fawn, he fixed his eyes upon the trees in the 
 direction from which the noise had proceeded ; 
 but the thick foliage concealed for the time the 
 object which alarmed him; though, by the 
 continuance of the sound, and the waving of 
 the boughs, it was evident that some large body 
 was making its way towards the side of the 
 river. The next instant the figure of a man 
 emerged from the wood, and then that of a 
 b 4 
 
8 
 
 horse, whose bridle, cast over the stranger's 
 arm, afforded the means of leading it forward 
 along the narrow footpath which they had been 
 treading. The leisurely pace at which both 
 man and horse proceeded gave no signs of 
 intentions actively hostile towards any one ; and 
 although those were days in which dangers were 
 to be found in every field and in every road, yet 
 a moment's thought seemed to have made the 
 youth ashamed of the timid start which the 
 stranger's approach had occasioned. Colouring 
 highly, he sat down again upon the bank, and 
 applied himself busily to replace his boots and 
 stockings, without vouchsafing a look towards 
 the other side of the stream. 
 
 " When you have done, my fair youth," said 
 the stranger, after gazing at him for a minute 
 from the opposite bank, " will you answer me a 
 question ? " 
 
 " If it suit me, and if I can," replied the 
 youth, looking up into the stranger's face for 
 the first time. 
 
 That face was not one to be seen without 
 
 
9 
 
 exciting in those who beheld it more, and more 
 agreeable, sensations than are usually called 
 up by the blank countenances of the great 
 mass of mankind, — too often unlettered books, 
 where mind and feeling have scarcely written a 
 trace. The features on which the lad now 
 gazed were strongly marked, but handsome ; and 
 the broad expanse of the high, clear forehead, 
 the open unbent brow, the bright speaking eye, 
 and the full arching lips, conveyed at once to 
 the untaught physiognomist which watches and 
 reasons at the bottom of every man's heart, the 
 idea of a candid and generous mind. There 
 was much intelligence, too, in that countenance 
 — intelligence without the least touch of cun- 
 ning, — all bright, and clear, and bold. 
 
 The stranger was about the middle height, 
 and, apparently, had seen four or five and thirty 
 summers : they might be less or more ; for cir- 
 cumstances, so much more than time, stamp 
 the trace of age upon the externa Yorm, as well 
 as upon the heart and feelings, that it is often 
 difficult to judge whether the wrinkles and fur- 
 b 5 
 
10 
 
 rows, which seem to have been the slow work 
 of years, are not, in reality, the marks of rapid 
 cares or withering passions. In his face were 
 several lines which might well have borne either 
 interpretation ; but, still, neither his dark brown 
 hair, nor his thick glossy beard, offered the least 
 evidence of time's whitening hand. His dress 
 was a simple riding suit, the green hue of which 
 appeared to bespeak, either for profit or amuse- 
 ment, a devotion to the chase. The same calling 
 seemed denoted by a small hunting horn, which 
 hung by his side ; and his offensive arms were no 
 more than such sport required. He wore, how- 
 ever, a hat and high white plume, instead of the 
 close unadorned bonnet generally used in the 
 chase ; and his horse, too, a deep bay barb, had 
 less the air of a hunter than of a battle charger. 
 
 " My question is a very simple one, good 
 youth," he said, while a slight smile curled his 
 lip, excited by a certain degree of pettish flip- 
 pancy which the boy displayed in replying to 
 his first address : — " Did you meet a troop of 
 reitres just now, as you came over the hill ? and 
 which way did they take ? " 
 
11 
 
 " I did meet a troop of Dutch vagabonds," 
 replied the boy, boldly : " villains that foolish 
 Frenchmen hire to cut foolish Frenchmen's 
 throats! and as to the way they took, God 
 V mercy ! I watched them not." 
 
 "But from yon hill you must have seen 
 which road they went," replied the stranger. 
 " I am one of those foolish Frenchmen whom 
 you mention, and an inoffensive person to boot, 
 whose throat would have but small security 
 under the gripe of these worthy foreigners. 
 One of them I might deal with — ay, two — or 
 three, perchance ; but when they ride by scores, 
 and I alone, I see not why the green wood 
 should not cover me, as well as many a brave 
 boar or a stout stag. I pray thee, therefore, good 
 youth, if thou sawest the way they took, let 
 me know it, for courtesy's sake ; and if thou 
 sawest it not, why, fare thee well ! I must take 
 my chance." 
 
 For a moment or two the boy made no reply, 
 but measured the stranger from head to foot 
 with his eye; somewhat knitting his brow, as he 
 b 6 
 
12 
 
 did so, with a look of sore abstraction, as if his 
 mind were too busy with what he saw to 
 heed the incivility of his long-protracted stare. 
 " Yes," said he, at length, speaking apparently 
 to himself, "yes:" and then, addressing the 
 stranger, he demanded abruptly, " whither go 
 
 you?" 
 
 " Nay, good youth! nay!" replied his com- 
 panion ; " These are not times — nor France the 
 country — nor this the spot of all France — in 
 which a man would choose to trust the first per- 
 son he meets, with where he goes or what he 
 goes for. I ask you not your road — ask me 
 not mine. If you can answer my question, 
 whether the band of reitres took the path to 
 Tours, or wound under the hill towards La 
 Fleche, do so, and I will thank you ; if not, once 
 more farewell ! " — and, without putting foot in 
 stirrup, he sprang upon his horse's back. 
 
 " Answer your question I cannot," replied 
 the boy, with a degree of calm earnestness that 
 seemed to speak greater interest in the stranger 
 than he had at first evinced; "but I can do 
 
13 
 
 more for you," he proceeded. " Where the 
 reitres went I did not see, for I hid myself 
 behind the rocks till they were past ; but I can 
 show you paths where no reiters will ever 
 come. Often have I flown my hawk across 
 those plains," he added, in an explanatory 
 tone, as if he wished to recommend his guidance 
 to the stranger by showing how his acquaintance 
 with the country had been acquired ; — " often 
 have I followed my hound through these valleys, 
 in other days long gone ; and I know their 
 every turning better than my father's house. " 
 
 " In other days!" said the stranger; " why 
 thou art now but a boy I " 
 
 " True," replied the youth ; " yet I may have 
 known other days, and happier ones : — but to 
 my purpose. What I offer you, I offer know- 
 ing what I am doing : " and he fixed his eyes 
 upon the stranger's face with a meaning, but 
 not a disrespectful, glance, and then proceeded : 
 " Tell me whither you would go. I will con- 
 du u you thither in safety, and will not betray 
 y hi, upon my honour ! " 
 
14 
 
 sc In faith, I believe I must even trust you," 
 replied the stranger. " There are many who 5 
 with wise saws and cautious counsels, would 
 fain persuade me to be as prudent, and as 
 careful of my life, as a great grandmother of 
 eighty years and upwards. But life, at best, is 
 but as gold, a precious thing given to be spent. 
 Whip me all misers, whether of their purse or 
 of their safety, say I ; and, therefore, boy, you 
 shall be my guide, though you should give me 
 over to all the reitres that ever the factious 
 house of Lorraine brought to back the treason 
 which they call piety." 
 
 " I will give you over to no reitres," replied 
 the boy ; " so be your mind at ease." 
 
 " Odds life ! it is seldom otherwise than at 
 ease," rejoined the other: * my heart is a light 
 one, and will not be heavy now, as I ride on 
 beside thee; though I may have caught thy 
 tongue tripping, my fair boy. Thou art no 
 Frenchman, or thine accent sorely belies thee.'" 
 " Now do you think me both a German and 
 a reitre, I warrant ! " replied the youth, with a 
 
15 
 
 playful smile, and a toss back of his dark hair. 
 " But cannot your ear distinguish between the 
 hoggish twang of the Teutonic gutturals, and 
 the soft music of the Italian liquids ? " 
 
 " Me thinks it can," replied the stranger ; 
 " but, whether German or Italian, Switzer, or 
 even Spaniard, thou shalt be my guide. Knowest 
 thou the chateau of the Marquis of St. Real?" 
 
 The youth started. "Do I know it!" said 
 he, " do I know it!" then suddenly seeming to 
 check, in full career, some powerful feelings 
 that were in the very act of bursting from his 
 heart to his lips, he added, more calmly, " I 
 know it well ! I know it well ! Willingly will 
 I show you your road thither, and, perhaps, may 
 name my guerdon by the way ; but it is too far 
 a journey for me on foot in one day." 
 
 * We will buy thee a horse, my fair boy," re- 
 plied the stranger : I must be at St. Real this 
 night, and at Tours ere noon to-morrow; so 
 we will buy thee a horse at the first village 
 where we can find one." 
 
 " An ass will serve my turn as well as the 
 
16 
 
 best Barbary steed," said the youth; " and the 
 one will be more easily found than the other ; 
 for, what between the League and the Huguenots, 
 there are more asses in France than any other 
 kind of beast ; — so now let us on our way." 
 
 Returning into the road from which he had 
 strayed to wash his feet, the boy stepped lightly, 
 from stone to stone, across the stream, and soon 
 stood on the same side with the traveller. He, 
 on his part, as if unwilling to save himself 
 fatigue by continuing to ride while the youth 
 walked by his side on foot, once more dis- 
 mounted ; and they then turned their steps up 
 the broad way which led through the forest to 
 the top of the hill, descanting, as they went, on 
 the fineness of the day, the beauty of the scene, 
 and all the ordinary topics which furnish con- 
 versation to those who have few subjects in 
 common ; but each avoiding, as if by mutual 
 consent, any allusion to the purpose or station 
 of his companion. 
 
 It was, as we have said, as fair and sun- 
 shiny an April day as ever woke since first the 
 
17 
 
 beautifying will of the Almighty robed the hills 
 with verdure, and spread out loveliness as a 
 garment over earth. The trees that, springing 
 from the high broken banks on either side, 
 canopied the road with their green boughs, 
 were living and tuneful with all the birds of 
 spring. There is not a cheerful feeling in the 
 heart of man that might not there have found 
 some sweet note to wake it into harmony. The 
 air was balm itself — soft, yet inspiring like 
 the breath of hope ; and the dancing light and 
 shade, that chequered the long perspective up 
 the hill, had something in it gay and sportive, 
 which — joined with the song of the birds, and 
 the sparkling glee of a small fountain that, 
 bursting from the midst of the road, rushed in 
 a little diamond rivulet down to the stream 
 below — addressed itself to all the purer sources 
 of happiness in the human breast, and spoke of 
 peace and joy. Both the journey ers, however, 
 were grave ; although the one was in the early 
 spring of youth — that bright season of man's 
 life where every pulse is light; and although 
 
18 
 
 each line in the countenance of his companion 
 spoke that constitutional cheerfulness which is 
 the most blessed auxiliary that this world can 
 afford to aid man in maintaining his eternal 
 warfare against time and circumstance. 
 
 At the top of the ascent, a wide and magnifi- 
 cent scene lay stretched beneath their eyes. The 
 hill was not sufficiently high, indeed, to afford 
 one of those map-like views in which we see all 
 the objects spread out over a vast extent in harsh 
 and unshadowed distinctness, like the prospect 
 of life and of the world which we take when, 
 in mature age, after having passed through the 
 illusions of youth and the passions of manhood, 
 we gaze upon the past and the present, and 
 see the hard, cold, naked realities of existence 
 without a softening shade or an enlivening hue. 
 Still the elevation was sufficient to let the 
 eye roam wide over scenes where line after line, 
 in sweet variety, presented a continual change 
 of beautiful forms, softening in tint, in depth of 
 colour, and in distinctness of outline as the ob- 
 jects became more remote, and forming a view 
 
19 
 
 such as that which is offered to the eye of youth 
 when, after having climbed over the light ascent 
 of boyhood, the joys of existence, grouped to- 
 gether without its cares, are first presented to 
 the sight, one beyond another, to the very verge 
 of being, all lighted up by hope, and coloured 
 by imagination. 
 
 " Run your eye," said the youth, " over that 
 ocean of green boughs which lies waving below 
 us, to that tree-covered mound which starts high 
 above the rest. In a straight line beyond you 
 catch the spire of Beaumont en Maine, at the 
 distance of nearly four leagues ; and a little 
 farther to the right, upon a woody hill, you 
 may see the dark towers of the chateau of 
 St. Real." 
 
 His companion gazed on in the direction 
 which he pointed out, and then replied, " I once 
 knew this land well, and could have marked out 
 in it many a fair field either for the chase or 
 the battle ; but other scenes have made me for- 
 get it. Our memory is but like a French crown- 
 piece, since so many kings have been called, one 
 
20 
 
 after another, to rule this unhappy land. First, 
 one figure is strong upon it ; then it goes to the 
 mint, and a new king's head drives out the 
 other, and keeps its place, till something fresh 
 is stamped upon it again ; while, all the time, 
 traces of former impression may be seen below, 
 but indistinct and meaningless. Ay ! there is 
 Beaumont en Maine, and there the chateau of 
 St. Real ; I remember them now : but what is 
 that massive building, with that large square 
 keep, still farther to the right ? " 
 
 The youth fixed his eyes upon it, and remain- 
 ed silent for more than a minute : he then replied, 
 abruptly, " That chateau belongs to the Count 
 d* Aubin : let us on ! " 
 
21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Memory is like moonlight, the reflection of 
 brighter rays emanating originally from an object 
 no longer seen; and all our retrospects towards 
 the past times, as well as our individual remem- 
 brances, partake in some degree of the softening 
 splendour which covers small faults and imper- 
 fections by grand masses of shade, and brings 
 out picturesque beauties and points of interest 
 with apparently brighter effulgence than even 
 when the full sunshine of the present beaming 
 upon them, suffers at the same time the eye to 
 be distracted, and the mind otherwise engaged 
 by a thousand minor particulars. Nothing gains 
 more, perhaps, from the impossibility of close 
 inspection than the manners, the customs, and 
 the things of the past ; and, in some instances, 
 even Nature herself, and Time, that enemy of 
 man's works in general so remorseless, seem to 
 
22 
 
 take a fanciful pleasure in assisting the illusion. 
 That which was in itself harsh and rude in 
 form, acquires as it decays, a picturesque beauty 
 which it never knew in its prime ; and the rough 
 hold of the feudal robber, which afforded but 
 small pleasure to behold, and little convenience 
 to its inmates, is now seen and painted with 
 delight, fringed with wild flowers scattered from 
 Nature's bountiful hand and softened with the 
 green covering of the ivy. 
 
 The old chateau of St. Real, to which the two 
 travellers we have just left were bending their 
 steps, and to which, for a moment, we must now 
 shift the scene, was one of those antique build- 
 ings, few of which have outlasted the first French 
 revolution ; — buildings which, however we may 
 love to look upon any that do remain, from the 
 magical illusion regarding former days to which 
 I have just alluded, were, nevertheless, much 
 better suited to the times in which they were 
 built, than to the more luxurious present. 
 
 Tumults, feuds, insurrections, civil wars, ren- 
 dered every man's house his castle in no meta- 
 
23 
 
 phorical sense ; and thus the old chateau of 
 St. Real, which had been originally built more 
 than 400 years before the opening of this his- 
 tory, and had been repaired and improved at least 
 a hundred times during the intervening ages of 
 strife and bloodshed, was naturally, in almost 
 all respects, much better calculated for defence 
 against assault than for comfortable habitation. 
 The woody chase, which swept for many a mile 
 round the base of the little hill on which it 
 stood, was cleared and opened in the immediate 
 vicinity of the chateau ; and the various avenues 
 were defended with all the accuracy to which the 
 art of war had arrived in those times. The very 
 garden was a regular fortification ; the chateau 
 itself a citadel. From the reign of Louis VI., in 
 which its walls had first been raised from the 
 ground, to the reign of Henry III., with which 
 this tale begins, although repairs and improve- 
 ments had, as we have said, been often made, 
 they were solely military, and nothing had in 
 the slightest degree been permitted which could 
 change the antique aspect of the place. Indeed, 
 
24 
 
 its proprietors, the Marquises of St. Real, 
 springing from the most ancient race of French 
 nobility, clung to the antiquity of their dwelling 
 as if it formed a part and parcel of the antiquity 
 of their family. Their habits, their manners, their 
 characters, smacked all of the ancient day ; and 
 it was ever with pain that they suffered any of 
 their old customs to be wrenched from them by 
 the innovating hand of improvement. 
 
 At their gate, even in the times I speak of, 
 hung, for the purpose of summoning the war- 
 der to the wicket, the last horn which, perhaps, 
 was ever used on such occasions in France ; and, 
 though the mouthpiece had been renewed, and 
 the chain frequently mended, the horn itself was 
 averred to be the very same which had been 
 hung there in the days of Philip Augustus. But 
 if the lords of St. Real still maintained some 
 tinge of the rudeness of their ancestors, it must 
 by no means be forgotten that it was to the 
 nobler and brighter qualities of former times 
 that they adhered most strongly. They were 
 a proud but a chivalrous race, bold, hospitable, 
 
25 
 
 courteous, generous, unswerving in faith and in 
 honour. Their talents, which were by no means 
 inconsiderable, had been principally displayed 
 in the field ; and some of the sneerers of the 
 court had not scrupled to call them the Simple 
 St. Heals : but, notwithstanding a degree of 
 simplicity, which certainly did characterise 
 them, they had ever been distinguished, from 
 father to son, by that discriminating discern- 
 ment of right and wrong which is worth all the 
 wit in the world. Never had their word been 
 pledged without being redeemed ; never had 
 their voice sanctioned a bad action ; never had 
 their sword supported an evil cause. 
 
 The present Marquis of St. Real, who was 
 an old man that had long borne arms under 
 Francis I., had during the whole of the wars 
 of the League remained obstinately neuter. He 
 had declared, at the commencement of these 
 unhappy wars, that he would never unsheathe 
 his sword against his lawful sovereign, though 
 friendly to the King of Navarre, and allied re- 
 motely to the house of Bourbon ; but at the 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
26 
 
 same time he added, that nothing should ever 
 induce him to join in an unjust and cruel war 
 against a portion of his countrymen, who were 
 but defending one of the dearest and most una- 
 lienable rights of mankind — their religious li- 
 berty. 
 
 Too powerful for either party to entertain 
 the hope of forcing him from his neutrality 
 by any violent measures, both the League and 
 the Huguenots spared no means of conciliation, 
 which either wisdom or cunning could suggest, 
 to win him to their side ; for vast domains, in 
 which the feudal customs of former times re- 
 mained in full force, rendered his alliance a 
 thing to be coveted even by the strongest. He 
 remained unmoved, however ; and neither a 
 strong personal friendship which existed between 
 himself and the Duke of Mayenne, nor the in- 
 stigations and artifices of his confessor, could 
 induce him to join the League, any more 
 than gratitude to the King of Navarre for several 
 personal favours, horror at the crimes of Saint 
 Bartholomew, or even a strong belief that the 
 
27 
 
 Protestants were right in their warfare, if not 
 in their religion, could bring him over to the 
 party of the Huguenots. 
 
 To avoid wearisome solicitation, he had en- 
 tirely abandoned the capital, and remained in 
 the solitude of his paternal estates, wholly oc- 
 cupied in the education of his son, into whose 
 mind, as principles, he endeavoured to instil, 
 not knowledge of the world, or of courts, but all 
 the firm and noble feelings of his own heart. 
 He succeeded ; the Chevalier de St. Real grew 
 up to manhood every thing that his father's 
 fondest hopes could have anticipated, — bold as a 
 lion, skilled in all warlike exercises, and full of 
 every sentiment that does honour to human 
 nature. But yet, in many things, he was as 
 simple as a child. Cut oif from the general 
 society of Paris, he wanted entirely that know- 
 ledge of the world which was never more neces- 
 sary than in the days in which he lived. 
 
 On one occasion, indeed, when the infamous 
 Catherine de Medicis, and her beautiful but li- 
 centious train, had visited the chateau, of St. 
 c 2 
 
Real for the purpose of winning its lord to the 
 party she espoused, more than one of her fair sy- 
 rens had striven, by various arts, to initiate the 
 handsome Chevalier of St. Real into the libertine 
 mysteries of that debauched court ; but he met 
 them uniformly with that perfect simplicity 
 which, though joined with much natural good 
 sense, raised many a secret laugh at his expense, 
 and yet guarded him effectually from their 
 worst artifices. 
 
 The general current of his time flowed on 
 in the various amusements of the country, as 
 they existed in that age. The chase of the 
 boar, the stag, and the wolf afforded active ex- 
 ercise for the body, while the large and ancient 
 library of the chateau — a rare treasure in those 
 days — yielded occupation to a quick imagination 
 and an energetic mind, in poring over many a 
 printed tome and many an illuminated manu- 
 script. Besides these employments, however, 
 both the old lord of St. Real and his son felt a 
 keen interest in pursuits seldom much attended 
 to by the feudal nobility of France. They not 
 only lived in the country, and amongst their 
 
29 
 
 peasantry, but they also loved the country and 
 their peasantry, and delighted in watching and 
 superintending all those agricultural operations 
 which formed the daily relaxation of many of 
 the noblest Romans, but which were, in general, 
 looked upon with indifference, if not contempt, 
 by the new class of chieftains who sprung from 
 the elite of their barbarous conquerors. The 
 lords of St. Real delighted in all : they held 
 to the full the opinion of the old orator, when 
 he exclaimed — " Nee vero segetibus solum et 
 pratis, et vineis, et arbustis, res rusticse laetse 
 sunt, sed etiam hortis et pomariis, turn pecudum 
 pastu, apium examinibus, florum omnium va- 
 rietate ;" and, though they followed not pre- 
 cisely all the directions of Liebaut in his Maison 
 Rustique, the garden that lay within the flanking 
 walls of the castle, the orchard which extended 
 from the outer balium to the barbacan, and the 
 trellised avenue of vines which ran to what was 
 called the lady's bower, showed taste as well as 
 skill in those who had designed and executed 
 them. 
 
 c 3 
 
so 
 
 During several years previous to the precise 
 epoch at which we have commenced our tale, 
 the old lord of St. Real had seldom, if ever, 
 slept a night without the walls of his own 
 dwelling. His son, however, when either busi- 
 ness, or that innocent love of a temporary 
 change, which every man may well feel with- 
 out meriting the charge of being versatile, 
 afforded a motive for his absence from home, 
 would often spend a day or two in the great 
 city of Tours, or at the castles of the neigh- 
 bouring nobility. Some communication with 
 the external world was thus kept up ; but the 
 chief companionship of the Chevalier de St. 
 Real was with his cousin-german the Count 
 d'Aubin, who, though attached to the court, 
 and very different in mind and character from 
 his relations, often retired for a while from the 
 gay and busy scenes in which he mingled, to 
 enjoy the comparative solitude of his estates 
 in Maine, and the calm refreshing society of 
 his more simple cousin. 
 
 The character of Philip Count d'Aubin was 
 
31 
 
 one that we meet with every day. Endowed 
 with passions and talents naturally strong, his 
 passions had been pampered, and his talents 
 misdirected, by an over-indulgent parent. A 
 doubt had been at one time entertained of the 
 legitimacy of his birth, but no one had con- 
 tested his title ; and the early possession of 
 wealth, power, and influence, with the unre- 
 strained disposal of himself and of the property 
 which the death of his father left in his hands, 
 had certainly tended in no degree to curb his 
 desires or extinguish his vanity. His heart had, 
 perhaps, been originally too feeling; but the 
 constant indulgence of every wish and fancy had 
 dulled the former brightness of its sensations ; and 
 it was only at times that the yet unextinguished 
 light shone clearly up to guide him through a 
 maze of errors. His very talents and shrewd- 
 ness often led him onwards in the wrong : for, 
 possessing from education few fixed principles 
 of action, the energies of his mind were gene- 
 rally turned to the gratification of his passions ; 
 and it was only when original rectitude of 
 c 4 
 
32 
 
 heart suggested what was good, that reason 
 too joined her voice to urge him on the road 
 of virtue. He was, in fact, the creature of 
 impulse ; but, as he had unfailing gaiety and 
 wit at will, and as a sudden turn of feeling 
 would often lead him to some noble or brilliant 
 action, a sort of false, but dazzling, lustre hung 
 about his whole conduct in the eyes of the 
 world : his powers were overrated, and his 
 weaknesses forgotten. He was the idol and 
 admiration of the young and unthinking, and 
 even the old and grave often suffered the blaze 
 of some few splendid traits to veil the many 
 spots and blemishes of his character. 
 
 On the night following that particular day at 
 which it has appeared necessary to commence 
 this history, the two cousins spent some time 
 together pacing up and down the great hall of the 
 chateau of St. Real. The Count d'Aubin had 
 come hastily from Paris, on receiving tidings 
 of the severe illness of his uncle ; and their con- 
 versation was of a wandering and discursive 
 nature, originating in the increasing sickness of 
 
33 
 
 the old Marquis, who was then, for the first 
 time during many days, enjoying a few hours' 
 repose. 
 
 " Faith, Huon, thy father is ill," said D'Aubin, 
 as they descended the stairs to the hall, " far 
 worse than I deemed him till I saw him." 
 
 " He has, indeed, much fallen in strength 
 during the day," replied the Chevalier de St. 
 Real ; " yet I hope that this slumber which has 
 come upon him may bring a change for the 
 better." 
 
 The Count shook his head. " I know not, " 
 said he ; " but yet I doubt it. Your father, 
 Huon, is an old man, and old men must die ! " 
 His cousin bent his eyes upon the ground, and 
 slightly contracted his brow; but he did not 
 slacken his pace, and the Count d'Aubin went 
 on : " Yes, Huon, however we may love them, 
 however we may wish that they could live to 
 govern their own vassals and enjoy their own 
 wealth, till patriarchal longevity were no longer 
 a wonder;— and I know," he added, pausing, 
 and laying his hand upon his cousin's arm, — 
 c 5 
 
34 
 
 " and I know, that if the best blood in your 
 noble heart could add to your father's life, you 
 would pour it forth like useless water ; — still, 
 whatever ties may bind them to us, still they 
 are, as the old men amongst the ancients did 
 not scruple to call themselves, pabulum acheron- 
 fis — but food for the tomb : and none can tell 
 when Death may claim his own. I say this 
 because I would have you prepared in mind 
 for an event which I see approaching ; and I 
 would also have you prepared to take some 
 quick and immediate part in the great struggle 
 which every day is bringing towards its climax 
 in this land. Your father's neutrality has lasted 
 long enough — nay, too long; for it is surely a 
 shame that you, as brave a youth as ever drew 
 a sword, should have lived to five and twenty 
 years without ever having led his followers to 
 any nobler strife than the extermination of 
 those miserable Gaultiers who came to ravage 
 our fair plains. True, they were ten times your 
 number, — true that you defeated them like a 
 very Orlando ; but that is only another reason 
 
35 
 
 why your valour and your skill should not lie 
 rusting in inactivity. Should your father die, 
 give sorrow its due ; then call your vassals to 
 your standard, and boldly take one part or 
 another. Faith, I care not which it he — Harry 
 of Navarre and his Huguenots, Harry of France 
 and his chevaliers, or Mayenne's brave Duke 
 and the factious League : but for Heaven's sake, 
 Huon, should fate make you Marquis of St, 
 Real, cast off this idle, sluggardly neutrality." 
 
 Huon de St. Real had listened attentively to 
 his cousin, though every now and then the flash 
 of some painful emotion broke across his coun- 
 tenance, as if what he heard contained in each 
 word something bitter and ungrateful to all his 
 feelings. "Philip! Philip!" said he, pausing 
 in his quick progress through the hall, as soon 
 as the other had ceased speaking, " I know that 
 you wish me well, and that all which you say 
 proceeds from that wish ; but let us drop this 
 subject entirely. My father is ill, — I feel too 
 bitterly that he is in danger ; but the bare 
 thought of what I would do with his vassals, in 
 c 6 
 
case of his death, has something in it revolting 
 to every feeling of my heart. Let us change 
 the topic. Whatever misfortune Heaven may 
 send me, I will endeavour to bear like a man, 
 and whenever I am called to act, I will endea- 
 vour to act rightly. When that time comes, I 
 will most willingly seek your advice ; but I 
 trust it will be long, very, very long, before I 
 shall need the counsel of any other than of him 
 who has heretofore guided and c cted me." 
 
 The lip of the Count d'Aubin sh fc tly curled 
 at this reply ; and, glancing his eye over the 
 tall, graceful form of his cousin, while he com- 
 pared the simple mind and habits of St. Real 
 with his own worldly wisdom, and wild erratic 
 course, he mentally termed him an overgrown 
 baby. Nevertheless, although he was often 
 thus tempted to a passing scoff or an ill-con- 
 cealed sneer, yet there was a sort of innate dig- 
 nity in the very simplicity of the Chevalier de 
 St. Real, which had its weight even with his 
 world-read cousin; and, whenever temporary 
 disappointment, or disgust, or satiety weaned 
 
37 
 
 D'Aubin awhile from the loose society in which 
 he mingled, gave time for quiet thought, and 
 re-awakened better feelings, leading him to 
 seek, in the advice of any one, support against 
 the treacherous warfare of his own passions, 
 it was to none of his gay companions of the 
 capital, nor to monk, nor priest, nor con- 
 fessor, that he would apply for counsel ; but 
 rather to his simple, frank-hearted, unsophis- 
 ticated cousin, St. Real. 
 
 " Well, well," said he, " let us change our 
 theme ;" and then, after taking two or three 
 more turns in the hall, he went on; though 
 there was mingled in his manner a certain na- 
 tural hesitation with an affected frankness, 
 which might have shown to any very close 
 observer of human nature that the Count 
 d'Aubin was touching upon matter in regard 
 to which, desire was in opposition to some 
 better principle, and that he feared to hear 
 even the opinion which he courted. " I spoke 
 but now," he continued, " of Mayenne and 
 the League ; and you will think it strange 
 
38 
 
 when I tell you, that I, — I, who have ever 
 been as staunch a royalist as Epernon, Longue- 
 ville, or La Noue, — would now give a chateau 
 and a pint of wine, as the vulgar have it, to 
 change my party and go over to the League, 
 did not honour forbid it." 
 
 He spoke slowly and meditatively, fixing his 
 eyes upon the ground, without once looking in 
 his cousin's face ; yet walking with a firm, strong 
 step, and with somewhat of a sneer upon his 
 lip, as if he scoffed at himself for the repre- 
 hension which — while he acknowledged wishes 
 that he felt to be wrong — • his proud spirit suf- 
 fered by comparison with the calm, upright 
 integrity of the Chevalier. 
 
 " I do not see that any thing could justify 
 such a step," replied St. Real, far more mildly 
 than the other had expected. " However 
 wrongly the King may have acted, however un- 
 warrantable the manner in which he has put 
 to death the Duke of Guise, yet « " 
 
 " Pshaw!" interrupted his cousin: "Guise 
 was a traitor — a great, brave, noble, ambitious, 
 
39 
 
 unscrupulous traitor ! And though the mode of 
 his death was somewhat unceremonious, it little 
 matters whether it was an axe or a dagger 
 which did the work of justice : he was born for 
 such a fate. I thought not of him ; it was of 
 Eugenie de Menancourt I thought." 
 
 " Ha!" exclaimed St. Real, with a start; 
 "no one has injured her?" 
 
 " Injured her ! no, i' faith ! " replied the 
 Count. " Why, my good cousin, by your grim 
 look, one would deem you her promised hus- 
 band, and not me. No, no ; had she been 
 injured, her injury had been well avenged by 
 this time. However, she is in the hands of the 
 League. Her father, as you know, was wounded 
 on the day of the barricades, and died soon 
 after the flight of the court. His daughter, 
 of course, would not leave him while he lived, 
 and, at his death, the Duchess of Montpensier 
 would fain have had her at the Hotel de Guise ; 
 and, though Eugenie wisely stayed in her fa- 
 ther's own house, they would not suffer her to 
 quit Paris, where she still remains, — treated 
 
40 
 
 with all honour and courtesy, mark you, but 
 still a sort of honourable prisoner." 
 
 His cousin paused in thought for a moment, 
 and then replied, " But, surely, if you were 
 to demand her from the Duke of Mayenne, 
 informing him of the engagement between her 
 father and yourself, she would be given up to 
 you at once." 
 
 " I have done more," replied the Count : 
 " whenever I heard of her situation, I required, 
 of course, that she should be placed in the 
 hands of the King, as her lawful guardian, till 
 such time as her marriage with myself could be 
 celebrated. After many an evasion and delay, 
 the Duke replied to my application, that the 
 throne of France was vacant, by a decree both 
 of the Sorbonne and the Parliament of Paris ; 
 that, by the same authority, he himself was Lieu- 
 tenant-General of the kingdom till such time as 
 a meeting of the three estates should regulate 
 the government; and that, therefore, none other 
 was for the time the lawful guardian of Eugenie 
 de Menancourt. In the same letter he informed 
 
41 
 
 me, that the recent death of the young lady's 
 father would prevent her from thinking of mar- 
 riage for some time." 
 
 D'Aubin paused, shutting his teeth and draw- 
 ing in his lips, evidently unwilling to show the 
 full mortification and anger which these remem- 
 brances awoke; and, yet, apparently leaving 
 his tale unfinished. 
 
 " In regard to the latter part of the Duke of 
 Mayenne's reply, it seems to me reasonable 
 enough," answered the Chevalier de St. Real ; 
 " the loss of such a father is not to be forgotten 
 in a day." 
 
 " Tut, man ! " exclaimed his cousin, impa- 
 tiently. " Wilt thou never understand a little of 
 this world's ways ? Huon, Huon ! shut up in 
 these old walls, thou art as ignorant of the pre- 
 sent day as if thou hadst been born in the 
 times of the first crusade. Nothing modern 
 dare blow that rusty horn at thy gate, — far less 
 walk into the hall. Know, then, my most ex- 
 cellent, simple cousin, that since the ninth cen- 
 tury a great quarrel has taken place between 
 
42 
 
 words and realities, and that they have se- 
 parated, never to meet again ; that now-a-days 
 promises are of air, honour is a name, virtue a 
 bubble, religion a mask ; and while falsehood, 
 hypocrisy, and folly walk about in comely 
 dresses, and make bows to each other in every 
 street, Truth lies snug in the bottom of her well, 
 secure in the narrowness of her dwelling, and 
 the depth that covers her. The first thing that 
 every one thinks of now is his own interest ; 
 and, sure that if he secures that, the world 
 will give him credit for all high qualities, he 
 works straight for that one object. Interest, 
 interest, interest, is his waking thought and 
 his sleeping dream. Mark me, Huon! Ma- 
 demoiselle de Menancourt is an heiress — one 
 of the most wealthy in France ; young, beau- 
 tiful ! — you know how beautiful, Huon ; for, by 
 my faith, I could once have been almost jealous 
 of you. " 
 
 " Of me!" exclaimed the other, stopping 
 suddenly, and looking full in his cousin's face, 
 while a flush of surprise and indignation, all 
 
43 
 
 unmixed with shame, spread scarlet over his 
 cheek and brow. " Of me ! Philip, you do me 
 great injustice ! By my honour, if my hand or 
 my word could advance your marriage by a 
 single day, you would find both ready for your 
 service. Tell me, when did I ever give you a 
 moment's cause for jealousy?" 
 
 " Nay, nay! you are too quick!" replied the 
 Count; " I said not that I was jealous of you; 
 I merely said I could have been so, had I not 
 known you better. I speak of the time when 
 our late excellent and easy-virtued queen was 
 here with her ladies. Many a bright eye was 
 bent upon you, and many a sweet lip was ready 
 to direct you through the tangled but flowery 
 ways of love, without seeking to plunge you into 
 the mire of matrimony ; yet, in all our rides, 
 there were you, always at Eugenie's bridle rein." 
 
 " Because she was the only pure thing pre- 
 sent," interrupted St. Real, quickly ; " and be- 
 cause, Philip, — if you will press me, — I thought 
 that she might feel hurt that her promised hus- 
 band should make love before her face to one 
 
44 
 
 of an infamous queen's infamous followers. 
 Ay, even so, Philip ! Frown not on me, good 
 cousin ; for such was the only interpretation that 
 even I, who am not apt to see actions in their 
 worst light, could place upon your conduct to 
 Beatrice of Ferrara." 
 
 " Beatrice of Ferrara," replied the Count 
 d'Aubin, with a degree of vehemence which 
 might have made some of his loose companions 
 smile to hear him use it in the vindication of 
 any woman's virtue under the sun, " Beatrice 
 of Ferrara was no infamous follower of an in- 
 famous queen ; she was, I believe from my soul, 
 as pure as snow, notwithstanding all the im- 
 purity that surrounded her. I knew not that I 
 had shown her any such marked attention as 
 you tell me ; but let all that pass," he added, 
 musing, " let all that pass : what were we 
 speaking of before ? O ! I remember. To re- 
 turn, then, to my tale : Eugenie de Menancourt 
 is an heiress, with a dowry of beauty and sweet- 
 ness far beyond even her wealth ; and wily 
 Mayenne well knows that her hand is a prize 
 
45 
 
 for the first man in France. Now, think you, 
 my good Huon," he continued, growing more 
 and more eager, while the bright flashing of his 
 eye told that he was moved by some stronger 
 passion than the mere scorn with which he at- 
 tempted to clothe his lips, — " now, think you, 
 my good Huon, though he talks so loudly about 
 religion and zeal, and the state's welfare, that 
 Mayenne has one other wish, one other object, 
 than to vault into an empty throne, or play 
 maire du palais to the old idiotic Cardinal de 
 Bourbon ! Ambition — 'tis all-snatching ambi- 
 tion, Huon ! that is the idol he worships ; and 
 whoever serves him in his schemes shall have 
 the hand of Eugenie de Menancourt, notwith- 
 standing her father's plighted word to me." 
 
 " But Eugenie will never consent," replied 
 St. Real, calmly. " Doubt it not Philip ! I 
 have known her from her childhood, as well 
 as you ; and I have often remarked, that, not- 
 withstanding her gaiety — notwithstanding her 
 seeming lightness of feeling, there was, when 
 she knew herself to be right, an unchangeable 
 
46 
 
 determination in all her resolves, even in her 
 childhood, that nothing could shake." 
 
 " Fie! yon know nothing of human nature," 
 
 — replied D'Aubin, with a scoff; " or rather, 
 I should say, of woman's nature. They are light 
 
 — light, Huon, as a dry leaf borne about upon 
 the breath of every wind that blows. The best 
 of them, believe me, is firm in nothing but her 
 caprices. Mark me, Huon ! " he added, laying 
 his hand upon his cousin's arm, and speaking 
 with bitter emphasis, " within these ten days 
 I have seen Mademoiselle de Menancourt. I 
 demanded a pass from Mayenne ; he granted it 
 without a scruple, and free speech also of his 
 fair ward, as he called her. He was sure of the 
 impression he had made, and, therefore, kept 
 up all fair seeming. I saw Eugenie ; and she 
 calmly and coldly refused to ratify the promise 
 that her father had made me. Do you hear ! 
 She refused me ! She rejected me ! She told 
 me she did not, she could not love me ! " And, 
 giving way to a violent burst of passion, totally 
 opposed to the calm and contemptuous tone in 
 
47 
 
 which he had before been speaking, he dashed 
 his glove angrily down upon the floor, as if it 
 were the object that offended him. 
 
 His cousin looked down in silence. He 
 imagined, and not without probability, that 
 Mademoiselle de Menancourt must have seen 
 the licentious manner in which D'Aubin had 
 trifled with the ladies of Catherine's libertine 
 court, and that she had resented it accordingly. 
 But, however culpably he might deem that his 
 cousin had acted, he would not have pressed it 
 ©n him then for the world ; and, besides, there 
 were sensations in his own bosom, at that mo- 
 ment, which forcibly called upon his attention, 
 and both surprised and alarmed him. 
 
 It is a strange thing the human heart ; and, 
 amidst the multitude of its inconsistencies and 
 its weaknesses, there is none stranger than that 
 principle which, as a French wit has remarked, 
 is always ready to point out to us, in the sor- 
 rows and misfortunes of our friends, some topic 
 of consolation for ourselves. Good, noble, ge- 
 nerous, with chivalrous ideas of honour and 
 
48 
 
 virtue, the Chevalier de St. Real would sooner 
 have laid his head upon the block than enter- 
 tained a thought of doing any thing to his 
 cousin's detriment ; and yet there was a degree 
 of vague, undefined satisfaction in his feelings, 
 when he heard the declaration made by Eugenie 
 de Menancourt, that she did not and could not 
 love the Count d' Aubin, — satisfaction of which 
 he himself felt thoroughly ashamed. " Good 
 God! was it for him," he thought, " to rejoice 
 in his cousin's mortification ? What matter for 
 pleasure ought he to find in the pain of a person 
 he loved ? None, surely none ! "What is it, then, 
 I feel?" he asked himself; "is it the triumph 
 of having foreseen that Eugenie de Menancourt 
 would resent the slight put upon her ? Oh, no ! 
 Such a vanity can surely afford no gratification 
 to any reasonable being." Such was the inter- 
 rogation which St. Real rapidly addressed to 
 his heart; but an instinctive apprehension of 
 finding unknown and dangerous matter at the 
 bottom of his own sensations prevented him 
 from going deep enough. 
 
49 
 
 Whatever it was that he felt, the blood 
 rushed into his face as if he were committing 
 some evil action ; and he remained silent* The 
 keen, suspicious eyes of the Count d'Aubin fixed 
 upon him, in surprise at emotions that he did 
 not comprehend; but he said nothing; and just 
 as St. Real was struggling to speak, the whole 
 place echoed with two such blasts upon the old 
 horn at the gate, as had not rung amongst those 
 halls for many a year. 
 
 " By heavens ! that must be some drunken 
 huntsman, St. Real," exclaimed the Count, 
 " blowing the horn at the gate, as if he was 
 sounding for his dogs." 
 
 " No, no! it is the ill-favoured dwarf you 
 gave me," replied his cousin. " He heeds no 
 decencies, and, I verily believe, would blow a 
 flourish if we were all dying. Many a time 
 have I thought to fell him with my gauntlet 
 for his insolence ; but he is so small, that it 
 would seem a cruelty to crush such an insect." 
 
 " Nay, nay ; crush him not, I beseech thee," 
 replied the Count d'Aubin. "Remember, Huon, 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 
 
 it was agreed between us, that when he seeks 
 to quit thee, or thou growest tired of him, he 
 comes to me again." 
 
 " I believe, in truth, the creature loves me," 
 answered St. Real ; " and, were it not for his 
 stupid insolence, I might love him too, for there 
 are traits of good about him which would re- 
 deem many a dark spot. " 
 
 The Count's lip curled; but he replied, " Call 
 it not stupid insolence, good cousin ; call it, 
 rather, clever insolence, for, on my soul, he was 
 occasionally too clever for such a service as 
 mine, and such a place as Paris. I know not 
 well how it happened, but many a deep secret 
 of my bosom seemed somewhat too familiar to 
 his high ugliness ; and so I gave him to you, 
 who had no secrets to trust or to conceal." 
 
 "Thank God for that, at least !" answered 
 St. Real, " for they are ever a heavy burden. 
 But here comes the incubus ! " and, as he spoke, 
 the low door of the hall was opened by a per- 
 sonage of whom it may be necessary to speak 
 more fully. 
 
51 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The personage concerning whom the last sen- 
 tences were spoken, and who now entered the 
 hall, was not more than three feet six inches in 
 height*, but perfectly well formed in every 
 respect, except that the head, as is very usual 
 with persons of his unfortunate description, was 
 somewhat too large for the size of the body it 
 surmounted. His former lord had spoken of his 
 ugliness ; but although his face was, certainly, 
 by no means handsome, yet there was nothing 
 in it approaching deformity. Between " the 
 human face divine" and that of the monkey, 
 our great original, there are a thousand shades 
 
 * The passion for dwarfs as attendants in great houses was 
 so universal in France at this time, that the most extravagant 
 sums were given for them. Henry III. is reported to hav*» 
 had no less than nine at one time ; and at his court there was a 
 regular tailleur and valet des nains. 
 
 D 2 
 
 r 
 
 ■r ILL Lift 
 
52 
 
 and varieties of feature ; and the countenance 
 of the dwarf, it must be admitted, was at the 
 very far extreme of the chain, and at the end 
 nearest the ape. A pair of sparkling black eyes, 
 and two rows of very fine white teeth, however, 
 rendered the rest of his features less disagree- 
 able, but by no means diminished his resem- 
 blance to the animal. "Whether from a con- 
 sciousness of this likeness, and a desire to hide 
 it as far as possible, or from a sort of conceited 
 foppery not uncommon, the dress of this small 
 man was as scrupulously elegant as the taste 
 of that day would admit. His beard and 
 mustachios, which were soft and silky, were 
 most accurately trimmed. His hair, thrust 
 back from his face, exposed his large and some- 
 what protuberant forehead ; while his pourpoint, 
 composed of deep blue cloth, was slashed with 
 primrose silk, to favour a somewhat dingy com- 
 plexion. Sword and dagger he wore at his 
 girdle ; and all the chronicles of those days bear 
 witness that he well knew how to use — and to 
 use fearlessly — the weapons intrusted to his 
 small hands. 
 
53 
 
 His whole appearance produced a strange and 
 not pleasant effect upon those who saw him. 
 The want of harmony between his size and his 
 form was constantly forcing itself upon attention. 
 Could one have magnified him, he would have 
 appeared a very well-dressed cavalier, according 
 to the fashions of the times ; and, had there not 
 been something in his whole form and air that 
 bespoke manhood, one might have looked upon 
 him as a smart child : but, as it was, one felt 
 inclined to smile as soon as the eye fell upon 
 him, though there was in his demeanour but 
 few of those absurdities by which many of his 
 class of beings render themselves ridiculous. 
 He had neither strut nor swagger, smirk or 
 simper ; and the only thing which in any degree 
 tended to render his aspect peculiar, besides 
 the fact of his diminutive form, was a certain 
 cynical smile which ever hung more or less about 
 his lips, as if, from a consciousness of superior 
 talent or superior cunning, he scorned the race 
 which, for their superior corporeal qualities, 
 he hated; or rather, perhaps, as if he were 
 d 3 
 
54 
 
 ever prepared to encounter their contempt for 
 his inferior size by contempt for their inferior 
 acuteness. 
 
 He entered the hall with ease, if not with 
 grace ; but, perhaps, with more of what may be 
 termed boldness than either. To St. Real, as 
 his actual master, he bowed low, and to the 
 Count d'Aubin still lower, accompanying the 
 inclinations of his head, in this instance, with 
 a keen and significant glance, which, had the 
 Chevalier de St. Real been of a suspicious na- 
 ture, might have made him place but little 
 confidence in an attendant of his cousin's re- 
 commending. But he himself had nothing to 
 conceal, and, as yet, feared not that any one 
 should see his inmost thoughts ; for he was one 
 of those few men who know no other use for 
 words than to express their feelings. 
 
 " Why did you blow the horn so loud, Bar- 
 tholo?" demanded St. Real, " when you well 
 knew that my father lies so ill ? " 
 
 " I did it, noble sir," replied the dwarf, (i lest 
 the cooks, and the pages, and the concierge at 
 
55 
 
 the door, should lose a jest and fit of laughter — 
 rare things in the castle of St. Real. I knew 
 full well that some one would cry out, ' Hear 
 what a great sound can be made by a little 
 body!' and it would be unjust to disappoint 
 the poor fools in the offices, for fear of disturb- 
 ing the rich — gallants in the hall. But, by 
 my faith, I had another reason, too, which is 
 worth looking to. There was a traveller came 
 with me, and an ass, and an ass's burden." 
 
 " Was it the surgeon for whom I sent you?" 
 asked St. Real, eagerly ; " the new surgeon 
 from Tours?" 
 
 " Seeing that my eyes and the surgeon are 
 innocent of all intercourse," replied the other, 
 " I cannot tell you, noble sir, whether it be he 
 or not. The man was not in his dwelling when 
 I reached it, so I left my message, and rode 
 further ; and, as I came back, what should I see, 
 half a mile hence, but the white feather of this 
 man's hat waving in the dark night, and not 
 knowing its way to the chateau of St. Real. I 
 asked him what party he was of, whither he was 
 d 4 
 
56 
 
 going, and if lie had passport or safe conduct. 
 He answered, short enough, that he belonged 
 to his own party, had no passport but his sword 
 and his right hand, and was coming hither. So, 
 whether he were surgeon or not, let those judge 
 that are wise ! I asked no further, but brought 
 him hither, and left him in the green arras room, 
 as he wished to see either the Marquis or the 
 Marquis's son in private." 
 
 "It is either a reitre seeking service, or a 
 quack salver seeking the sick," cried the Count 
 d'Aubin. " Go to him — go to him quick, 
 Huon ! He will whip you the gold lace off the 
 hangings, either for his pocket or his crucible. 
 So go to him, and leave me the dwarf to jest 
 withal." 
 
 With the quick and impatient step which 
 anxiety produces in the young and active, St. 
 Real bent his steps towards the chamber to 
 which he had been directed by the dwarf, 
 hoping, notwithstanding the description which 
 had been given of the person who awaited him, 
 that he might prove the surgeon who had 
 
57 
 
 been called in aid of the ordinary medical assist- 
 ance attending upon his father. 
 
 The room which he now entered was a small 
 one, hung with arras of a dark-green hue, that 
 served to absorb the greater part of the light 
 afforded by a single lamp. The stranger had 
 cast himself into a large chair at the farther 
 end of the chamber, and, in the half obscurity, 
 his person and features were but faintly seen ; 
 but nearer, and in the full light, sat the youth 
 whom we first found washing his feet in one 
 of the neighbouring streams. He seemed fa- 
 tigued with journeying, and leaning listlessly 
 against a small table under the lamp, suffered 
 his head to rest upon his hand, showing a pro- 
 fusion of jetty curls falling thick round his 
 brow, while the cap and feather which he had 
 worn without was now thrown upon the ground 
 beside him. The person whom he had accom- 
 panied, however, still retained his hat and high 
 white plume, and made no movement to rise as 
 St. Real entered. 
 
 The eyes of the young noble first rested upon 
 d 5 
 
58 
 
 the boy ; but immediately turning towards the 
 elder of his two visitors, he advanced towards 
 him, without noticing the apparent incivility of 
 his demeanour. When he had taken two steps 
 forward, however, St. Real paused; and then, 
 with an exclamation of surprise, was again ad- 
 vancing, when the stranger rose, saying, " Ha, 
 Monsieur St. Real ! I did not know you at first. 
 Ventre Saint Gris! I had forgot that ten 
 years makes a boy a man." 
 
 " If I am not mistaken, I see his Majesty of 
 Navarre," said the Chevalier ; " and only grieve 
 that my father is not capable of bidding him 
 welcome, with all the goodwill that we enter- 
 tain towards himself and his royal house." 
 
 "Henry of Navarre, indeed!" replied the 
 monarch; " as poor a king as lives, St. Real, 
 but one who grieves sincerely at your father's 
 illness. I trust that it is not dangerous, how- 
 ever, and that I shall yet see him ere I depart; 
 for to that purpose I have been forced to steal 
 me a path, amidst bands, through which I 
 should have found it hard to cut me a way, 
 
59 
 
 and to do that singly which I dared not attempt 
 with many a stout soldier at my back." 
 
 "My father sleeps, my lord," replied St. 
 Real ; " 'tis the first sleep that he has known 
 for many a day, and I would fain " 
 
 "Wake him not! wake him not for me!" 
 interrupted the King. " To-morrow I must hie 
 me back to Tours ; but in the meanwhile I can 
 well wait his waking, and will crave some re- 
 freshment for myself and this good youth, who 
 has guided me hither, and who seems less able 
 to bear hunger and long riding than Henry of 
 Navarre." 
 
 " I will order such poor fare as our house 
 affords to be placed before your Majesty di- 
 rectly," replied St. Real, " though I fear me 
 much that the two surgeons and a priest, to- 
 gether with a gentilliomme serjent from La 
 Fleche, are even now busy in despatching all 
 that is already prepared." 
 
 " Let us join them ! let us join them by all 
 means ! " cried the King; "by my faith I would 
 never choose to dine where better cheer is 
 d 6 
 
usually to be found, than in company with 
 surgeons and with priests. The first are too 
 much accustomed to the care of other people's 
 bodies to neglect their own; and the others, 
 though they limit their special vocation to the 
 preparation of souls for the other world, are not 
 without care for the preservation of the corpo- 
 real part in this. But our horses, St. Real, — 
 they stand in the court-yard : that is to say, 
 my horse, and this good youth's more humble 
 charger in the shape of an ass." 
 
 St. Ileal turned his eyes upon the youth 
 while the king spoke ; and after having replied 
 that he would give instant orders for Henry's 
 equipage of all kinds to be attended to, added, 
 still looking at the boy, "Your Majesty's page, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 " If so, but the page of a day," replied the 
 King; "but, nevertheless, though of so short an 
 acquaintance, I can say that he seems as good 
 a boy as ever lived, has guided me here through 
 many dangers, with more wit and more courage 
 too than most would have shown, and is by far 
 too wise to prefer the service of a poor king to 
 
61 
 
 that of a rich lord. In short, St. Real, it seems 
 that he was coming here when I met with him ; 
 and as his sole guerdon for the pains he has 
 taken, he required me to advocate his cause 
 with your father, to have him received as a page 
 in your household." 
 
 " My father," said St. Real, in reply, « has 
 a mortal aversion to pages, ever since the queen 
 was here with more than half a score, and will 
 only suffer two in his household — his own 
 stirrup page, and mine, a dwarf given me by 
 my cousin Philip." 
 
 " Nay, nay, you must not refuse my first 
 request, St. Real," said the king ; " for I have 
 many another to make ere I have done, and if 
 I halt at the first step, I shall never be able to 
 walk through the rest of the list." 
 
 " Oh! I never dreamed of refusing your Ma- 
 jesty so trifling a thing," replied the other, 
 "but we must give him some other name than 
 page. What will you be, my boy ? You are 
 too young and too gay-looking for a valet in 
 such a dull house as this." 
 
62 
 
 " And too noble," added the youth, " or too 
 proud, if you will. I seek not, sir, to take 
 wages of any man ; but I seek to pass a time 
 in some house where the hearts are as noble 
 as the blood they contain, where old feelings 
 are not forgot in new follies ; and I would 
 fain that that house were the chateau of St. 
 Real." 
 
 " You speak well, good youth, and more like 
 a man than a boy; but somewhat too haughtily 
 too," replied St. Real. 
 
 " I will speak more humbly when I am your 
 follower," answered the youth, colouring a good 
 deal ; " to those who would raise me up, I can 
 be as humble as the dust, and to those who 
 would cast me down, as proud as a diamond. I 
 sought to be your father's page, my lord," he 
 added, in a softer tone; "because I heard much 
 of him, and because all that I did hear showed 
 him as a man blending so equally in his nature 
 goodness and nobility, that love and reverence 
 must be his followers wherever he bend his 
 steps." 
 
GS 
 
 Something very like a tear rose in St. Real's 
 fine clear eye, and the youth proceeded : — "I 
 am grieved that aught should have grieved you, 
 sir, on his account; but still let me beseech 
 you to take me into his service. You know not," 
 he added, eagerly, "how kindly I can tend 
 those I love; how I can amuse the weary 
 hours of sickness, and while away the moments 
 of pain. I can read him stories from ancient 
 lore, and from many a language that few pages 
 know. I can tell him tales of other lands, and 
 describe places, and things, and nations that he 
 has never seen. I can sing to him sweet songs 
 in tongues that are all music, and play to him 
 on the lute as none in this land can play." 
 
 " Enough ! enough ! " cried Henry ; "by my 
 life, St. Real, if you do not conclude your 
 bargain with the boy quickly, I will step in 
 and try to outbid you in your offers ; for if he 
 but perform his undertaking with you as well 
 as he has done with me, you will have a page 
 such as never was since this world began." 
 
 " He was ours, my lord, from the first mo- 
 
64 
 
 ment that your Majesty expressed a wish that he 
 should be so," replied St. Real. " There is my 
 hand, good youth, and it shall ever give you 
 aid and protection at your need. But tell me, 
 what is your name ? for although, as in the old 
 times, we let our guests come and go in the 
 chateau without question ; yet, of course, I must 
 know what I am to call you." 
 
 "Leonard," answered the youth ; "Leonardo, 
 in my own land ; but here in France, men call 
 me Leonard de Monte." 
 
 " I thought I heard a slight Italian accent on 
 your lips," said St. Real ; " but tell me, have I 
 not seen you as one of the pages of Queen 
 Catherine's court? — a court," he added, almost 
 regretting that he had yielded to the King's re- 
 quest, " a court, not the best school for " 
 
 But there again he paused, unwilling to hurt the 
 feelings of any one, and seeing a flush come 
 over the boy's face, as if he already anticipated 
 the bitter censure that court so well deserved. 
 The youth's answer made him glad that he had 
 paused, • 
 
65 
 
 " I know what are in your thoughts, sir," 
 he replied ; " hut I beseech you speak no evil 
 of a mistress who is now dead, and who was 
 ever kind to me. Let her faults lie in the grave 
 where she lies, and let men forget them as soon 
 as they forget virtues. As for myself, I may 
 have faults too ; but they have never been those 
 of the persons amongst whom I mingled; I 
 have neither learned to lie, nor to flatter, nor 
 to cheat, nor to run evil messages, nor give 
 sweet hints. If, then, I have lived amidst cor- 
 ruption and come out pure " 
 
 "You are gold tried in the fire," rejoined 
 St. Real, laying his hand upon his shoulder ; 
 " and I will trust you, my good youth, as much 
 convinced by the tenderness of your speech to- 
 wards her who is no more, as by your defence of 
 
 yourself . But this matter has kept your 
 
 Majesty too long," he added, " and by your 
 permission I will now conduct you to the lesser 
 hall, where these four persons are at supper ; 
 though I cannot but think that you had better 
 suffer me to order you refreshments here." 
 
66 
 
 " Nay, nay, I will sup with chirurgeons by 
 all means," replied Henry, laughing, " and we 
 will forget that there is such a thing as a king, if 
 you please, St. Real ; for I would not have it 
 blazed abroad that I am wandering about with- 
 out an escort, or I might soon find myself in 
 the castle of Amboise. Call me Maitre Jacques, 
 if you please, for the present time, and let us 
 make haste ; for if I am to gauge the appetite of 
 those worthy doctors by my own, they will have 
 devoured the supper ere we reach the hall." 
 
 " Permit me, then, to show the way," replied 
 St. Real ; " Seek out my dwarf Bartholo, good 
 youth," he added, turning to the page, " and 
 bid him find you lodging and refreshment, as he 
 values my favour. But I will see more to your 
 comfort myself shortly ; for the villain is some- 
 times insolent, and may be spiteful too, like 
 most of his race, though I never have marked 
 it." 
 
 The youth bowed his head without other 
 reply, and St. Real proceeded to conduct Henry 
 of Navarre, afterwards so well known as the 
 
67 
 
 frank and gallant "Henri Quatre," along the 
 many long and dimly lighted passages of the 
 chateau of St. Real, towards a small hall in 
 one of the farthest parts of the building. 
 
 " Maitre Jacques ! remember I am Maitre 
 Jacques ! " said Henry, as the young noble laid 
 his hand upon the lock ; " and you must not 
 only make your words call me so, but your 
 demeanour also, St. Real." 
 
 " Fear not ! fear not !" answered St. Real in 
 a low tone ; " I will be as disrespectful as you 
 can desire, sire." 
 
 Thus saying, he opened the door, exposing 
 to view the interior of what was called the little 
 hall, which presented a scene whereon we may 
 dwell for a single instant ; for, though the pic- 
 ture which it displayed of the callous indiffer- 
 ence of human nature to the griefs and suffer- 
 ings of others, is not an agreeable one, it was 
 not new enough even then to excite wonder, and 
 is not old enough now to be omitted. The master 
 of the house was dying, and his family full of sor- 
 row at the approaching loss of one who had been 
 
a father to all who surrounded him ; but there, 
 in the little hall, was collected, in the persons of 
 the surgeons, the priest, and the lawyer, at- 
 tendant upon the dying man, as merry a party 
 as it had ever contained. The hall, though it 
 was called little, was only so comparatively ; for 
 its size was sufficient to make the table at which 
 the feasters sat look like a speck in the midst. 
 Nevertheless, it was well lighted ; and St. Real 
 and his royal companion, as they entered, could 
 plainly see the man of law holding up a brim- 
 ming Venice glass of rich wine to one of his two 
 shrewd eyes, while the hall was echoing to some 
 potent jest that he had just cast forth amongst 
 his companions. Even the carver at the buffet, 
 and the serving man who was filling up the wine 
 for the rest, were shaking their well-covered 
 sides at the joke; and the priest, though re- 
 pressing as far as possible the outward signs of 
 merriment, was palating the bon mot with a 
 sly smile, and perhaps a covert intention of using 
 it himself second-hand, whenever he could find 
 occasion. For a minute or two the party at 
 
69 
 
 the table did not perceive the entrance of any 
 other persons, or concluded that those who did 
 enter were servants ; and their conversation went 
 on in the same light tone which had evidently 
 predominated up to that moment. 
 
 As soon, however, as St. Real and his guest 
 appeared, matters assumed a different aspect ; 
 and solemn ceremony and respect took the 
 place of merriment. Seats were soon placed; 
 and Henry, while engaged in satisfying the 
 hunger that a long day's journey had occa- 
 sioned, failed not by some gay and sportive 
 observations to bring back a degree of cheer- 
 fulness : but the natural frank liveliness of the 
 King's heart was controlled, or rather oppressed, 
 by many an anxious thought for himself, and 
 by feelings of kindly and sincere sympathy 
 with the young noble who sat beside him. St. 
 Real, on his part, did not affect to feel aught 
 but deep anxiety; and, after their entrance, 
 the merriment of the party in the hall was 
 very much sobered down from its previous ele- 
 vated tone, giving way, indeed, in the breasts 
 
70 
 
 of the lawyer and the surgeons to many a 
 shrewd conjecture in regard to the profession 
 and object of their new comrade Maitre Jacques. 
 
 In the meantime the page stood where St. 
 Real and theKing had left him, supporting him- 
 self against the table in an attitude of much 
 grace, but one which spoke deep and somewhat 
 melancholy thought. His head leaned upon 
 his bosom, his hand fell listlessly by his side, 
 his eyes strained with the deep and intense gaze 
 of anxious meditation upon one unmeaning spot 
 of the marble floor; and thus, without the 
 slightest motion, he continued so long in the 
 same position, that he might have been taken 
 for some fanciful statue tricked out in the gay 
 dress of that time, had not every now and then 
 a deep sigh broke from his bosom, and evinced 
 the conscious presence of life and all its ills. 
 
 Near a quarter of an hour elapsed without 
 his taking the slightest notice of the lapse of 
 time. The steps of his new master and the 
 prince had long ceased to sound through the 
 passages, other noises had made themselves 
 
71 
 
 heard and died away again ; but the youth re- 
 mained apparently unconscious of every thing 
 but some peculiar and absorbing facts in his own 
 situation. His reverie was, however, at length 
 disturbed, but apparently not unexpectedly, 
 though the stealthy step and silent motions 
 with which the dwarf Bartholo advanced into 
 the room in which the youth stood, had brought 
 him near before the other was aware of his pre- 
 sence. For a moment after their eyes had met 
 neither spoke, though there was much meaning 
 in the glance of each ; and at length the youth 
 made a silent motion of his hand towards the 
 door. The sign was obeyed at once ; and the 
 dwarf, closing the door cautiously, returned with 
 a quick step, suddenly bent one knee to the 
 ground, and kissed the hand the boy extended 
 towards him. 
 
 " So, Bartholo," he said, receiving this some- 
 what extraordinary greeting as a thing of course, 
 — " So ! you see that I am here at length !" 
 
 " T do," replied the dwarf, rising ; " but for 
 what object you are come I cannot conceive." 
 
72 
 
 " For many objects," answered the youth ; 
 " but one sufficient to myself is, that I am near 
 those that I wish to be near ; and can watch 
 their actions — perhaps see into their thoughts. 
 If I could but make myself sure that St. Real 
 really loves the girl! that were worth all the 
 trouble." 
 
 "But the risk! the risk!*' exclaimed the 
 dwarf. 
 
 " The risk is nothing, if my people are faith- 
 ful to me," answered the youth sharply ; " and 
 woe be to them if they are not ! Why came 
 you not as I commanded, but left me to wait 
 and wander in the neighbourhood of Beau- 
 mont, and nearly be taken by a party of reitres, 
 in the pay of Mayenne 1 " 
 
 " I could not come," answered the dwarf; 
 " for I was sent to seek a chirurgeon from 
 Tours for the old man, who lies at the point of 
 death. I made what haste I could ; but missed 
 you, and could not overtake you till you had 
 nearly reached the chateau." 
 
 " And is the old Marquis, then, so near the 
 
73 
 
 end of a long good life?" asked the youth. 
 " There are some men whose deeds are so full 
 of immortality, that we can scarce fancy even 
 their bodies shall become food for worms. But 
 so it must be with the best as well as with the 
 worst of us." 
 
 " Even so ! " answered the dwarf ; " but as to 
 this old man, I have not seen him with my own 
 eyes for this many a day ; but the report runs 
 in the castle that he cannot long survive." 
 
 " His death would come most inopportune 
 for all my plans," replied the youth ; ' ' it would 
 place me in strange circumstances : and yet I 
 would dare them, for I have passed through still 
 stranger without fear. I feel my own heart 
 strong — ay, even in its weakness; and I will 
 not fear. Nevertheless, see you obey my orders 
 better. You should have sent some other on 
 your errand, and not have left me to the mercy 
 of a troop of reitres." 
 
 " Crying your mercy," said the dwarf with a 
 significant grin, " I should have thought, that 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 
 
 your late companion might have proved as 
 dangerous." 
 
 " Dare you be insolent to me, sir?" cried the 
 youth, fixing his full dark eye sternly on the 
 dwarf. "But, no ; I know you dare not, and you 
 know me too well to dare. But you are wrong. 
 Whatever may be the faults of Harry of Navarre, 
 all reprobate heretic as he is, nevertheless he is 
 free from every ungenerous feeling; and al- 
 though I might think I saw a glance of recog- 
 nition in his eyes, yet I harbour not a fear that 
 he will betray me or make any ill use of his 
 knowledge, even if he have remembered me." 
 
 i( Are you aware, however," asked the dwarf, 
 lowering his voice and dropping his eyes, — 
 "are you aware that the Count d'Aubin is 
 here?" 
 
 " No, no !" cried the youth, starting. " No, 
 no! Where — where do you mean? I know 
 that he is in Maine, but surely not here." 
 
 " In this very house," answered the dwarf — 
 " in the great hall, not a hundred yards from 
 the spot where we now stand." 
 
75 
 
 ''Indeed!" said the other, musing. " In- 
 deed ! I knew that he was near, and that we 
 should soon meet ; but I did not think to find 
 him here. Look at me, Bartholo ! look at me 
 well ! Think you that he would recognise me ? 
 Gold, and embroidery, and courtly fashions, are 
 all laid aside ; and I might be taken for the son 
 of a mechanic, or, at best, for the child of some 
 inferior burgher." 
 
 " I knew you at once!" answered the page 
 emphatically. 
 
 " Yes, yes; but that is different," replied he, 
 whom we shall take the liberty of calling by the 
 name he had given himself, although that name, 
 it need scarcely be said, was assumed ; — " but 
 that is different," replied Leonard de Monte. 
 " You were prepared to know me ; but I think 
 that I am secure with all others. Why, when 
 I look in the mirror, I hardly know myself." 
 
 The dwarf gazed over the person of him who 
 
 was evidently his real master, however he might, 
 
 for some unexplained purposes, affect to be in 
 
 the service of others — and, after a moment, he 
 
 e 2 
 
76 
 
 replied, with a shrug of the shoulders, " It may 
 be so indeed. Dusty, and travel-soiled, and 
 changed, perhaps he would not know you ; and 
 were you to put on a high fraise, instead of that 
 falling collar, it would make a greater difference 
 still in your appearance." 
 
 " Quick ! get me one then," cried the youth ; 
 " I will pass before him for an instant this very 
 night, that his eye may become accustomed to 
 the sight, and memory be lulled to sleep. See, 
 too, that all be prepared for me to lodge as you 
 know I would." 
 
 " I have already marked out a chamber," an- 
 swered the dwarf, " and have curried favour 
 with the major-domo, so that he will readily 
 grant it to the new page at my request." 
 
 "Where is it?" — demanded the youth. 
 f< You know I am familiar with the house." 
 
 " It is," replied the dwarf: " one of the 
 small chambers, with a little antechamber in 
 the garden tower." 
 
 " Quick, then ! Haste and ask it for me," 
 exclaimed Leonard de Monte. " The young 
 
77 
 
 lord bade me apply to you for what I needed ; 
 so you can plead his order to the master of the 
 chambers. Then bring me the fraise speedily, 
 ere I have time to think twice, and to waver in 
 my resolutions." 
 
 With almost supernatural speed the dwarf 
 did his errand, and returned, bearing with him 
 one of those stiff frills extended upon whalebone 
 which are to be seen in all the portraits of those 
 days. The youth instantly took it from his 
 hand ; and, concealing the falling collar of lace, 
 which was for a short period the height of the 
 fashion at the court of Henry III., and which 
 certainly did not well accord with the simplicity 
 of the rest of his apparel, he tied the fraise 
 round his neck, and advanced to a small mirror 
 in a silver frame that hung against the arras — 
 " Yes, that does better," he exclaimed, " that 
 does better. Now, what say you, Bartholo V 
 
 " That you are safe," answered the page, — 
 " that I should not know you myself, did I not 
 hear your voice." 
 
 " Well, then, lead on through the hall, 
 e 3 
 
78 
 
 if Philip of Aubinbe there," replied the youth; 
 " and when I am in my chamber, bring me a 
 wafer and a cup of wine ; for I am weary, and 
 must seek rest." 
 
 The dwarf opened the door, and led the way, 
 conducting his young companion across the 
 great hall, up and down which the Count d'Au- 
 bin was pacing slowly and thoughtfully. 
 
 i ' Who have you there, Bartholo ? " demanded 
 the young noble as they passed. 
 
 " Only a page, my lord," replied the dwarf; 
 and they walked on. The Count looked at the 
 page attentively ; but not the slightest sign of 
 recognition appeared on his face ; and, though 
 the youth's steps faltered a little with the ap- 
 prehension of discovery, he quitted the hall, 
 satisfied that his disguise was not seen through. 
 As soon as they reached the door of the small 
 chamber, which was to be thenceforth his abode, 
 Bartholo left him, to bring the refreshment he 
 had ordered ; and as the dwarf passed by the 
 door of the hall once more, and heard the steps 
 of the Count pacing up and down, he paused 
 
79 
 
 an instant, as if undecided. — "Shall I tell 
 him V he muttered between his teeth — " shall 
 I tell him, and blow the whole scheme to 
 pieces ? But no, no, no ; I should lose all, and 
 with him it might have quite the contrary effect. 
 I must find another way ; " and he walked on. 
 
 e 4 
 
80 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The Chevalier de St. Real, according to the 
 ideas of hospitality entertained in those days, 
 pressed the King of Navarre to his food, and 
 urged the wine upon him; but scarcely had 
 Henry's glass been filled twice, ere the sound of 
 steps hurrying hither and thither was heard in 
 the hall, and the young noble cast many an 
 anxious look towards the door. It opened at 
 length, and an old servant entered, who, ap- 
 proaching the chair of his young lord, whis- 
 pered a few words in his ear. 
 
 " Indeed!" said St. Real ; " I had hoped his 
 sleep would have lasted longer. How seems 
 he now, Duverdier? — is he refreshed by this 
 short repose ? " 
 
 " I cannot say I think it, sir/' replied the 
 servant ; " but he asks anxiously for you, and 
 we could not find you in the hall." 
 
81 
 
 "I come," answered St. Real; and then 
 turning to the King, he added, " My father's 
 short rest is at an end, and I will now tell him 
 of your visit, sir. Doubtless he will gladly 
 see you, as there is none he respects more 
 deeply." 
 
 " Go ! go ! " cried Henry ; w I will wait you 
 here, with these good gentlemen. Let me be 
 no restraint upon you. Yet tell your father, 
 my good lord, that my business is such as 
 presses a man's visits on his friends, even at 
 hours unseasonable, else would I not ask to see 
 him when he is ill and suffering." 
 
 The young lord of St. Real bowed his head 
 and quitted the apartment; while Henry re- 
 mained with the other guests, whose wonder 
 was not a little increased in regard to who this 
 Maitre Jacques could be, by the great reverence 
 which seemed paid to him. They had soon an 
 opportunity of expressing their curiosity to 
 each other, in the absence of its object; for in a 
 very few minutes the Chevalier de St. Real 
 returned, and besought Henry to " honour his 
 E 5 
 
82 
 
 father's chamber with his presence." The King 
 followed with a smile ; and, when the door of 
 the little hall was closed behind them, laid his 
 hand upon St. Real's arm, saying, "You are 
 no good actor, my young friend." 
 
 " I am afraid not," replied St. Real, in a tone 
 from which he could not banish the sadness 
 occasioned by his father's illness ; " yet I trust 
 what I said may in no degree betray your 
 Majesty." 
 
 " No, no," answered Henry, " I dare say not ; 
 and should you see any suspicions, St. Real, you 
 must either — in penance for having shown too 
 much reverence for a king, in an age when kings 
 are out of all respect — you must either keep 
 these gentry close prisoners here till I have 
 reached Tours, and thence made a two-days' 
 journey Paris-ward, or you must give me a 
 guard of fifty men to push my way through as 
 far as Chartres." 
 
 " It shall be which your Majesty pleases," 
 replied St. Real: "but here is my father's 
 chamber." 
 
83 
 
 The spot where they stood was situated half 
 way up a long passage traversing the central 
 part of the chateau of St. Real, narrow, low, 
 and unlighted during the day by any thing but 
 two small windows, one at each extreme. At 
 present two or three lamps served to show 
 the way to the apartments of the sick man, at 
 the small low-framed doorway of which stood 
 an attendant, as if stationed for the purpose of 
 giving or refusing admittance to those who came 
 to visit the suffering noble. The servant in- 
 stantly threw back the plain oaken board which 
 served as a door, and the next moment Henry 
 found himself in the antechamber of the sick 
 man's room. The interior of the apartment into 
 which he was now admitted was much superior 
 in point of comfort to that which one might have 
 expected from the sight of such an entrance. 
 The antechamber was spacious, hung with rich 
 though gloomy arras, and carpeted with mats of 
 fine rushes. One or two beds were laid upon 
 the ground for the old lord's attendants ; and 
 on many a peg, thrust through the arras, hung 
 e 6 
 
8* 
 
 trophies of war or of the chase, together with 
 several lamps and sconces which cast a con- 
 siderable light into the room. The chamber 
 beyond was kept in a greater degree of ob- 
 scurity, though the light was still sufficient to 
 show the King, as he passed through the inter- 
 mediate doorway, the faded form o fthe old 
 Marquis of St. Real, lying in a large antique 
 bed of green velvet, with one thin and feeble 
 hand stretched out upon the bed-clothes. At 
 the bolster was placed one of those old-fashioned 
 double-seated chairs which are now so seldom 
 seen, even as objects of antiquarian research ; 
 and, from one of the two places which it afford- 
 ed, an attendant of the sick rose up as Henry 
 entered, and glided away into the anteroom. 
 St. Real paused and closed the door between 
 the two chambers; and Henry, advancing, took 
 the vacant seat, and kindly laid his hand upon 
 that of his sick friend. 
 
 " Why how now, lord Marquis?" he said, in 
 a feeling but cheerful tone ; " how now? this is 
 not the state in which I hoped to find you. 
 
85 
 
 But, faith, I must have you better soon, for I 
 would fain see you once more at the head of 
 your followers." 
 
 The Marquis of St. Real shook his head, 
 with a look which had neither melancholy nor 
 fear in its expression, but which plainly con- 
 veyed his conviction that he was never destined 
 to lead followers to the field again, or rise from 
 the bed on which he was then stretched. Nor, 
 indeed, — although the young monarch spoke 
 cheerful hopes, — did he entertain any expect- 
 ations equal to his words. The Marquis of St. 
 Real was more than eighty years of age ; and 
 though his frame had been one of great power, 
 and in his eyes there was still beaming the light 
 of a fine heart and active mind, yet time had 
 bowed him long before, and many a past labour 
 and former hardship in the Italian wars had 
 broken the staff of his strength, and left him to 
 fall before the first stroke of illness. Sickness 
 had come at length, and now all the powers of life 
 were evidently failing fast. The features of his 
 face had grown thin and sharp ; his temples 
 
86 
 
 seemed to have fallen in ; and over his whole 
 countenance — which in his green old age had 
 been covered with the ruddy hue of health — 
 was now spreading fast the grey ashy colour 
 of the grave. 
 
 " Your Majesty is welcome! " he said, in a low 
 faint voice, which obliged Henry to bend his 
 head in order to catch the sounds ; " but T must 
 not hope, either for your Majesty or any one 
 else, to set lance in the rest again. I doubt 
 not," he continued, after a momentary pause, — 
 " I doubt not that you have thought me some- 
 what cold-hearted and ungrateful, after many 
 favours received at your hands, and at those of 
 your late noble mother, that I have not long 
 before this espoused the cause of those whom I 
 think unjustly persecuted. But I trust that 
 you have not come to reproach me with what I 
 have not done, but rather to show me now how 
 I can serve you in my dying hour ; without, 
 however, even then forgetting the allegiance I 
 owe to the crown of France, and my duty to 
 her monarch." 
 
87 
 
 " To reproach you I certainly have not come, 
 my noble friend," answered Henry ; " for I have 
 ever respected your scruples, though I may have 
 thought them unfounded. Nevertheless, what 
 I have now to tell you will put those scruples 
 to an end at once and for ever. The cause 
 of Henry of Navarre and of Henry III. of 
 France are now about to be united. My 
 good brother-in-law, the King, has written to 
 me for aid " 
 
 "To you! — to you!" exclaimed the Mar- 
 quis, raising his head feebly, and speaking 
 with a tone of much surprise. 
 
 " Ay, even to me," answered Henry. " He 
 found that he had misused a friend too long, 
 that too long he had courted enemies; and, 
 wise at length, he is determined to call around 
 him those who really wish well to him and to 
 our country, and to use against his foes that 
 sword they have so long mocked in safety. I 
 am now on my way to join him with all speed, 
 while my friends and the army follow more 
 slowly. As I advanced, I could not resist the 
 
88 
 
 hope that enticed me hither — the hope that, 
 when justice, and friendship, and loyalty are 
 all united upon our side, the Marquis of St. 
 ReaJ, to whom justice, and friendship, and 
 loyalty were always dear, will no longer hesi- 
 tate to give us that great support which his 
 fortune, his rank, his renown, and his retainers 
 enable him so well to afford." 
 
 " When Henry of Navarre lends his sword 
 to Henry of France, how should I dream of 
 refusing my poor aid to both ? " answered the 
 Marquis. " When you refuse not to serve 
 an enemy, sir, how should I refuse to serve 
 a friend ? But my own services are over. 
 This world and I, like two old friends at the 
 end of a long journey, are just shaking hands 
 before we part; but I leave behind me one 
 that may well supply my place. Huon, my 
 dear son, are you there ? " 
 
 "I am here, sir," said the young lord, ad- 
 vancing : " what is your will, my father ?" 
 
 " My son, I am leaving you," replied the 
 Marquis : "I shall never quit this bed ; an- 
 
89 
 
 other sun will never rise and set for me. I 
 leave you in troublous times, Huon, in times of 
 difficulty and of sorrow ; but that which now 
 smooths my pillow at my dying hour, and 
 makes the last moments of life happy, is the 
 fearless certainty that, come what may, my son 
 will live and die worthy of the name that he 
 inherits; and will find difficulty and danger 
 but steps to honour and renown. So long as 
 injustice stained the royal cause, and cruelty 
 and tyranny drove many a noble heart to re- 
 volt, I would take no part in the dissensions 
 that have torn our unhappy land ; though God 
 knows I have often longed to draw the sword 
 in behalf of the oppressed ; but now that the 
 crown calls to its aid those it once persecuted, 
 in order to put an end to faction and strife, my 
 scruples are gone, and, were not life gone too, 
 none would sooner put his foot in the stirrup 
 than I. But those days are past ; and on you, 
 my son, must devolve the task. A few hours 
 now, and I shall be no more ; yet I will not 
 seek to command you how to act when I am 
 
90 
 
 gone. Your own heart has ever been a good 
 and faithful monitor. Let me, however, counsel 
 you to seek the Duke of Mayenne ere you 
 draw the sword against him. Show him your 
 purposes and your motives ; and tell him that 
 he may be sure those who have been neutral 
 will now become his enemies, — those who have 
 been his friends will daily fall from him, unless 
 he follow the dictates of loyalty and honour." 
 
 The old man paused, and a slight smile curled 
 the lip of Henry of Navarre. His nature, 
 however, was too frank to let any thing which 
 might pass for a sneer remain unexplained; and 
 he said, " You know not these factious Guises 
 well enough, my friend. They strike for do- 
 minion ; and that game must be a hopeless one 
 indeed, which they would not play to gratify 
 their ambition. But let your son seek Mayenne ! 
 — More ! If he will, let him not decide whose 
 cause he will espouse till he have heard all the 
 arguments which faction can bring forth to 
 colour treason. I fear not. Strong in the 
 frank uprightness of a good cause, and confident 
 
91 
 
 both of his honesty and clear good sense, I will 
 trust to his own judgment, when he has heard 
 all with his own ears. Let him call together 
 what followers he can; let him march them 
 upon Paris ; and, under a safe conduct from the 
 Duke and from the King, visit both camps 
 alike. True, that with Henry of Valois he will 
 find much to raise disgust and contempt; but 
 there, too, he will find the only King of France, 
 and with him all that is loyal in the land. 
 With Mayenne, and his demagogues of the 
 Sixteen, he will find faction, ambition, injustice, 
 and fanaticism : and I well know which a St. 
 Real must choose." 
 
 " Frank, noble, and confiding, ever, sire ! " 
 said the Marquis ; " nor with us will your 
 reliance prove vain. Oh, that we had a King 
 like you ! How few hearts then could, by any 
 arts, be estranged from the throne ! " 
 
 " Nay, nay," said Henry, smiling, " you for- 
 get that I am a heretic, my good lord — a Hu- 
 guenot — a maheutre ! They would soon find 
 means to corrupt the base, and to persuade the 
 
weak against me, were I king of France to- 
 morrow; — which God forefend ! — and, by my 
 faith, were I a great valuer of that strange 
 thing, life, I should look for poison in my cup, 
 or a dagger in my bosom at every hour." 
 
 " And yet, my lord, you are going to trust 
 yourself where daggers have lately been some- 
 what too rife," said the Chevalier de St. Real ; 
 " and that, too — if I understood you rightly — 
 with but a small escort." 
 
 " As small as may be," answered the King, 
 " consisting, indeed, of but this one faithful 
 friend, who has never yet proved untrue ; " 
 and he laid his finger on the hilt of his 
 sword, adding, gaily, " but no fear, no fear : 
 my cousin brother-in-law could have no earthly 
 motive in killing me but to make Mayenne 
 King of France, which, by my faith, he seeks 
 not to do. He knows me too well, also, to 
 think that I would injure him, even if I could ; 
 and, perhaps, finds now, that by making head 
 against the Guises, and their accursed League, 
 I have been serving him ever, though against 
 his will." 
 
 
93 
 
 " Would it not be better, my lord," asked 
 the old man, in a feeble voice, — " would it not 
 be better to wait till you are accompanied by 
 your own troops ? " 
 
 " No, no, " replied Henry ; " Mayenne 
 presses him hard. He is himself dispirited, his 
 troops are more. Still more of the Spanish 
 catholicon — I mean Spanish mercenaries — are 
 likely to be added to the forces of the League ; 
 and I fear that, if some means be not taken to 
 keep up his courage, more speedily than could 
 be accomplished by the march of my forces, he 
 may cast himself upon the mercy of the enemy, 
 and France be lost for ever." 
 
 " The Duke of Guise went as confidently to 
 Blois as your Majesty to Tours," said the Che- 
 valier ; " and the Duke of Guise was called a 
 friend: you have long been looked on as an 
 enemy." 
 
 ct But Guise was a traitor," answered Henry, 
 M and met with treachery, as a traitor may ^ Tr jll 
 expect. He went confiding alone in his own 
 courage, but knowing that his own designs 
 
94 
 
 were evil. I go, confiding both in myself and 
 in my honesty ; and well knowing, that in all 
 France there is not one man who has just cause 
 to wish that Henry of Navarre were dead." 
 
 " He has violated his safe conduct more than 
 once," said the Marquis, " and may violate it 
 again." 
 
 " It will not be in my person, then," an- 
 swered the King; " for safe conduct have I none, 
 but his own letter, calling for my aid in time of 
 need. Two drops of my blood, I do believe, 
 spilled on that letter, would raise a flame there- 
 with in every noble bosom that would set half 
 the land a fire. But I fear not : kings have no 
 right to fear. My honesty is my breastplate, 
 my good friend ; and the steel must be sharp 
 indeed that will not turn its edge on that." 
 
 " And the hand must be backward indeed," 
 said the Marquis, ' ' that would refuse its aid to 
 such a heart. However, my lord, I give you 
 my promise, and I am sure that my son will 
 give you his, that the followers of St. Real shall 
 be in the field within a month from this very 
 
95 
 
 night. "Willingly, too, would we promise that 
 they should join the royal cause ; but, it is 
 better, perhaps, as you have offered, that he 
 who leads them should go free, till he shall 
 have spoken his feelings freely to the leaders of 
 the League." 
 
 " So be it ! so be it, then!" answered Henry. 
 " I apprehend no change of feeling towards 
 me. My cause is that of justice, of loyalty, and 
 of France. So long as I opposed your king 
 in arms, I could hardly hope that a St. Real 
 would join me, however great the private 
 friendship might be between us ; but, now that 
 his cause is mine, and that the sword once 
 drawn to withstand his injustice is drawn to 
 uphold his throne, I know I shall meet no re- 
 fusal. But I weary you, Lord Marquis," he 
 continued, rising ; " and, good faith, I owe you 
 no small apology for troubling you with such 
 matters at such a time. Yet, I will trust," he 
 added, laying his hand once more on that sick 
 man, — "yet I will trust that this is not our 
 last meeting by very many, and that I shall 
 soon hear of you in better health.'' 
 
96 
 
 The Marquis shook his head. " My lord," he 
 said, " I am a dying man ; and though, perhaps, 
 were the choice left to us, I would rather have died 
 on the battle-field, serving with the last drops of 
 my old blood some noble cause : yet, I fear not 
 death, even here in my bed ; where, to most 
 men, he is more terrible. I have lived, I trust, 
 well enough not to dread death ; and I have, 
 certainly, lived long enough to be weary of life. 
 For the last ten years, — though they have, cer- 
 tainly, been years of such health and strength 
 as few old men ever know, — yet, I have daily 
 found some fine faculty of this wonderful ma- 
 chine in which we live yielding to the force of 
 time. The ear has grown heavy and the eye 
 grown dim, my lord ;' the sinews are weak and 
 the joints are stiff. Thank Heaven ! the great 
 destroyer has left the mind untouched : but it 
 is time that it should be separated from the 
 earth to which it is joined, and go back to God, 
 who sent it forth. Fare you well, sir; and 
 Heaven protect you! The times are evil in 
 which your lot is cast ; but if ever I saw a man 
 
97 
 
 who was fitted to bring evil times to good, it is 
 yourself." 
 
 " Fare you well ! fare you well, my good 
 old friend !" answered Henry, grasping his hand; 
 " and though I be a Huguenot, doubt not, 
 St. Real, that we shall meet again." 
 
 " I doubt it not, my lord," replied the old 
 man, " I doubt it not ; and, till then, God pro- 
 tect your Majesty ! " 
 
 Henry echoed the prayer, and quitted the sick 
 man's chamber, followed by the young lord of 
 St. Real. He suffered not his attendance long, 
 however; but, retiring at once to rest, drank the 
 sleeping cup with his young friend, and sent 
 him back to the chamber of his father. He 
 had judged, and had judged rightly, that the end 
 of the old Marquis of St. Real was nearer than 
 his son anticipated. After the King had left 
 his chamber, he was visited by the surgeon and 
 the priest, and then again slept for several 
 hours. When he awoke there was no one but 
 his son by his bed-side, and he gazed upon him 
 with a smile, which made the young lord be- 
 lieve that he felt better. 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 
 
 " Are you more at ease, my father ?" asked 
 the young man, with reviving hopes. 
 
 (( I am quite at ease," my dear Huon," re- 
 plied his father. " I had hoped that in that 
 sleep I should have passed away ; but, by my 
 faith, I will turn round and try again, for I am 
 drowsy still." Thus saying, he turned, and 
 once more closing his eyes, remained about an 
 hour in sweet and tranquil slumber. At the 
 end of that time, his son, who watched him 
 anxiously, heard a slight rustle of the bed- 
 clothes. He looked nearer, but all was quiet, 
 and his father seemed still asleep. There was 
 no change either in feature or in hue ; but still 
 there was an indescribable something in the as- 
 pect of his parent that made the young man's 
 heart beat painfully. He gazed upon the quiet 
 form before him — he listened for the light whis- 
 per of the breath ; but all was still — the throb- 
 bing of the heart was over, the light of life had 
 gone out ! St. Real was glad that he was alone ; 
 for, had any other eye than that of Heaven been 
 upon him, he might not have given way to those 
 
99 
 
 feelings which would have been painful to re- 
 strain. As it was, he wept for some time in 
 solitude and silence ; and then, calling the at- 
 tendants, proceeded to fulfil all those painful 
 offices towards the deceased which in those 
 days were sadly multiplied. When these were 
 finished, the morning light was shining into the 
 dull chamber of the dead ; and St. Real, retir- 
 ing to his own apartments, sent to announce 
 his loss to his cousin and to the King of Na- 
 varre. The first instantly joined him, and of- 
 fered such consolation as he thought most likely 
 to soothe his cousin's mind. Henry of Navarre, 
 however, was not in his chamber ; and, on fur- 
 ther inquiry, it was found that he had taken his 
 departure with the first ray of the morning 
 light. 
 
 f 2 
 
100 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A month and some days succeeded — full of 
 events important to France, it is true, but con- 
 taining nothing calculated to affect materially 
 the course of this history ; and I shall, there- 
 fore, pass over in my narrative that lapse of 
 time without comment, changing the scene also 
 without excuse. 
 
 There is in France a forest, in the heart of 
 which I have spent many a happy hour, — which, 
 approaching the banks of ' the small river 
 Iton, spreads itself out over a large track of 
 varied and beautiful ground between Evreux 
 and Dreux, sweeping round that habitation of 
 melancholy memories called Navarre, filled with 
 the recollections of Turennes and Beauharnois. 
 Over a much greater extent of ground, how- 
 ever, than the forest, properly so called, now oc- 
 cupies, large masses of thicket and wood, with, 
 
101 
 
 occasionally, much more splendid remnants of 
 the primeval covering of earth, show how wide 
 the forest of Evreux must have spread in former 
 years ; and, in fact, the records of the times of 
 which I write compute the extreme length 
 thereof at thirty-five French leagues ; while the 
 breadth seems to have varied at different 
 points from five to ten miles. 
 
 In the Sjjace thus occupied, was comprised 
 almost every description of scenery which a 
 forest can display ; hill and dell, rock and 
 river, with sometimes even a meadow or a corn- 
 field presenting itself in different parts of the 
 wood, which was also traversed by two high 
 roads — - the one leading from Touraine, and the 
 other from Alencon, Caen, and the northern 
 parts of Normandy. These high roads, how- 
 ever, were, from the very circumstances of time, 
 but little frequented; for the eloquent words of 
 Alexis Monteil, in describing the state of 
 France in the days of the League, afford no 
 exaggerated picture : — " France, covered with 
 fortified towns, with houses, with castles, with 
 F S 
 
102 
 
 monasteries enclosed with walls within which 
 no one entered, and from which no one issued 
 forth, resembled a great body mailed, armed, 
 and stretched lifeless on the earth." 
 
 Nevertheless, interest and necessity either 
 lead or compel men to all things ; and along the 
 line of the two high roads already mentioned 
 were scattered one or two villages and hamlets 
 — the inhabitants of which had little to lose — 
 and a number of detached houses, the pro- 
 prietors of which were willing to risk a little in 
 the hopes of gaining much. The fronts of these 
 houses, by the various signs and inscriptions 
 which they bore, gave notice to the wayfaring 
 traveller, sometimes that man and horse could be 
 accommodated equally well within those walls ; 
 sometimes that the human race could there find 
 rest and food, if unaccompanied by the four- 
 footed companion whose greater corporeal powers 
 we have made subservient to our greater cun- 
 ning. According to the strict letter of the 
 existing laws, we find that the auberge for foot 
 passengers was forbidden to lodge the eques- 
 
103 
 
 trian, and that the auberge for cavaliors had no 
 right to receive the traveller on foot. But these 
 laws, like all other foolish ones, were neglected 
 or evaded in many instances ; and he who could 
 pay well for his entertainment was, of course, 
 very willingly admitted to the mercenary hos- 
 pitality of either the one or other class of inns, 
 whether he made use of the two identical feet 
 with which nature had provided him, or borrowed 
 four more for either speed or convenience. 
 
 Notwithstanding the turbulent elements which 
 rendered every state of life perilous in those 
 days, the landlord of the auberge, however 
 isolated was his dwelling, did not, in fact, run 
 so much risk as may be supposed ; for by a sort 
 of common consent, proceeding from a general 
 conviction of the great utility of his existence, 
 and the comfort which all parties had at various 
 times derived from his ever-ready welcome, the 
 innkeeper's dwelling was almost universally 
 exempt from pillage, except, indeed, in those 
 cases where the party spirit of the day had got 
 the better of that interested moderation in 
 f 4 
 
104 
 
 politics which is such a distinguishing feature 
 of the class, and had led him to espouse one of 
 the fierce factions of the times with somewhat 
 imprudent vehemence. Nevertheless, it need 
 hardly be said, that between the several villages, 
 and the several detached houses which chequered 
 the forest of Evreux, large spaces were left 
 without any thing like a human habitation ; and 
 the traveller on either of the two highways, or 
 on any of the multifarious cross roads which 
 wandered through the woods, might walk on 
 for many a long and weary mile, without seeing 
 any thing in the likeness of mankind. Perhaps, 
 indeed, he might think himself lucky if he did 
 find it so; for — as there then existed three 
 or four belligerent parties in France, besides 
 various bodies who took advantage of the dis- 
 crepancy of other people's opinions upon most 
 subjects, to assert their own ideas of property 
 at the point of the sword — there was every 
 chance that, in any accidental rencontre, the 
 traveller would find the first person he met a 
 great deal more attached to the sword than to 
 the olive branch. 
 
105 
 
 A little more than a month, then, after the 
 funeral of the old Marquis of St. Real, in a part 
 of the forest where a few years before the axe 
 had been busy amongst the taller trees, there 
 appeared a group of several persons, two of 
 whom have already been introduced to the 
 notice of the reader. The spot in which they 
 were seated was a small dry grassy strip of 
 meadow by the side of a clear little stream, 
 which at a hundred yards distance crossed the 
 high road from Touraine. From the bank of 
 the stream the ground rose very gradually for 
 some way, leaving a space of perhaps fifty yards 
 in breadth free of underwood or bush. It then 
 took a bolder sweep, and became varied with 
 manifold trees and shrubs ; and then, breaking 
 into rock as it swelled upwards, it towered into 
 a high and craggy hill, diversified with clumps of 
 the fine tall beeches which the axe had spared, 
 and clothed thickly, wherever the soil admitted 
 it, with rich underwood, springing up from the 
 roots of larger trees long felled. On the other 
 side again, the ground sloped away so consider- 
 f 5 
 
106 
 
 ably, that had the stream flowed straight on, it 
 would have formed a cataract ; and as the eye 
 rested on the clear water, winding in a thousand 
 turns within a very short distance of the edge 
 of the descent, and seeming to seek a way over 
 without being able to find it, one felt as we do 
 in gazing upon a child in a meadow looking for 
 something it has lost, which we ourselves see 
 full well, yet cannot resolve to point out, lest 
 the little seeker should desist from all the 
 graceful vagaries of his search. Various bends 
 and knolls, however, confined the rivulet to the 
 course it had taken; but still the whole ground 
 on that side was low, and at one point sunk 
 much beneath the spot where the travellers 
 before mentioned were seated, affording — over 
 the green-tree tops — a beautiful view of a long 
 expanse of varied ground, lying sweet in the 
 misty light of summer, with many a wide and 
 undulating sweep, fainter and more faint, till 
 some grey spires marked the position of a dis- 
 tant town, and cut the line of the horizon. 
 The party here assembled consisted of five 
 
107 
 
 persons ; the first of whom was the page already 
 described under the name of Leonard de Monte, 
 and who, now stretched upon the ground, seemed 
 making a light repast, while the dwarf Bar tholo, 
 standing beside him, filled a small horn cup with 
 wine from a gourd he carried, and presented it 
 to the young Italian with a low inclination of 
 the head. The other three personages who made 
 up the group were evidently servants. The 
 colours of their dress, however, were very dif- 
 ferent from those of the Marquis of St. Real, 
 and they were also armed up to the teeth, 
 though their garb bespoke them the followers 
 of some private individual, and not soldiers be- 
 longing to any of the parties which then divided 
 the land. Besides the human denizens of the 
 scene, five horses were browsing the forest grass 
 at a little distance. Three of these were equipped 
 with saddles ; while two still bore about them 
 the rough harness, if harness it could be called, 
 by means of which they had been attached to a 
 small vehicle, somewhat between a carriage and 
 a car, which, with its leathern curtains and its 
 f6 
 
108 
 
 wicker frame, might be seen peeping out from 
 amongst the bushes hard by. 
 
 "While the page concluded his repast, two of 
 the servants — the other seemed the driver of 
 the carriage — stood behind him with their arms 
 folded on their bosoms, but still in an attitude so 
 common in those times of trouble as to have 
 found its way into most of the pictures which 
 have come down from that epoch to the present. 
 The same movement which crossed the right'and 
 left arms over the chest had easily brought the 
 hilt of the sword, and the part of the broad 
 belt in which it hung, up from the haunch to 
 the breast, where the weapon was supported 
 by the pressure of the left arm and the right 
 hand, and was ever ready for service at a mo- 
 ment's notice. The youth, however, who was 
 the principal person of the party, and the 
 dwarf, who seemed to ape his demeanour, wore 
 their swords differently, following the extrava- 
 gant court fashion of the day, and throwing the 
 weapon which, in those times, might be needed 
 at every instant, so far behind them, that the 
 
109 
 
 hilt was concealed by the short cloak then worn, 
 and would have been out of the reach of any 
 but a very dexterous hand. 
 
 "When the page had concluded his repast, he 
 wiped his dagger on the grass, and returned it 
 to the sheath ; and then, making the dwarf 
 mingle some water from the stream with the 
 wine he offered, he asked ere he drank, " Are 
 you sure, Bartholo, right sure, that we have 
 passed them ? " 
 
 " Certain ! quite certain ! " answered the 
 dwarf; " unless, noble " 
 
 " Hush ! " cried the youth, holding up his 
 hand impetuously ; ' ' have I not told thee to 
 forget, even when we are alone, that I am any 
 other than Leonard the page. Some day thou 
 wilt betray me ; and, by my troth, thou shalt 
 repent it if thou dost. Go on ! go on ! What 
 wert thou saying ? " 
 
 " Nothing, then, Signor Leonard," answered 
 the dwarf, with his usual sardonic grin ; " but 
 that I am certain we have passed them, quite 
 certain : for I saw each day's march laid down 
 
no 
 
 before they set out ; and though we were two 
 days behind them, and had to take a round of 
 ten leagues to avoid their route, yet we have 
 done five leagues more than they each day that 
 we have travelled." 
 
 " Well, then, well! " said the youth; " dine, 
 and make these varlets dine. If I am in Paris 
 three days before them, it is enough. Yet lose 
 no time ; for I would fain be on far enough to- 
 night to be beyond their utmost fourriers ere I 
 stay to rest. I go up yon hill to look over this 
 woody world. When all is ready, whistle, and 
 I will come." Thus saying, he turned away 
 with a slow step, and, climbing the banks, was 
 quickly lost amongst the trees and underwood. 
 
 As soon as he was gone, the dwarf beckoned 
 to the servants ; and, making them sit down be- 
 side him on the grass, did the honours of the 
 feast, but still taking care to maintain that air of 
 superiority with which a master might be sup- 
 posed to portion out their meal to his domestics, 
 on some of those accidental expeditions which 
 level, for the time, many of the distinctions of 
 
Ill 
 
 rank. The servants, too, submitted to this sort 
 of assumption as a matter of course ; and though 
 the eye of each might be caught running over 
 the diminutive limbs of the dwarf with a glance 
 in which the contempt of big things for little 
 Was scarcely kept down by habitual deference, 
 yet, in their general demeanour, they preserved 
 every sort of respect for their small companion, 
 keeping a profound silence in his presence, and 
 treating him with every mark of reverence. 
 
 Scarcely had they concluded their meal, how- 
 ever, and were in the act of yawning at the 
 horses they were about to harness, when the 
 rustling of the bushes on the hill side, and the 
 fall of a few stones, gave notice of the approach 
 of some living being. The moment after, the 
 light and graceful form of their young master 
 appeared, bounding down the slope like a scared 
 deer, with his cheek flushed, and all the flashing 
 eagerness of haste and surprise sparkling in his 
 dark eye. "Quick!" he cried, as he came 
 up, " quick as lightning! Draw the carriage into 
 that brake, and lead the horses in amongst the 
 
112 
 
 bushes. Scatter as far as possible, and come 
 not hither again till you hear my horn." 
 
 " But the carriage ! " cried the dwarf, looking 
 towards the spot to which the page pointed — 
 w the brake is deep and uneven." 
 
 " We must get it out afterwards as best we 
 may," replied the youth; "do as you are bid, 
 and make haste ! They are not half a mile 
 from us, when I thought they were leagues. 
 I saw them coming up, on the other side of the 
 hill, and they will be here in five minutes. 
 Quick ! quick as lightning, Bartholo ! " 
 
 The dwarf and his companions obeyed at 
 once, and in a few moments the carriage was 
 drawn into a woody brake that completely 
 concealed it from view; the horses were led 
 into the forest; Bartholo betook himself one 
 way, and the attendants another ; and their 
 young lord, climbing the hill, sought himself 
 out a place amongst the shrubs and larger trees, 
 where he could see all that passed upon the 
 high road, without running any risk of being 
 seen himself. A quick and impatient spirit, 
 
113 
 
 however, gauging all things by its own activity, 
 had, as is often the case, deceived him as to the 
 movements of others ; and instead of five mi- 
 nutes, which was the utmost space that his 
 imagination had allowed for the arrival of the 
 persons he had beheld, full half an hour had 
 elapsed ere any one appeared. 
 
 At length, however, the trampling of horses 
 sounded along the road ; and the moment after, 
 winding round from the other side of the hill, 
 was seen a party of six horsemen, each bearing 
 in his hand a short matchlock, with a lighted 
 match, while three other weapons of the same 
 kind hung round at the different corners of the 
 steel saddle with which every horse was furnished. 
 After a short interval, another small party ap- 
 peared ; and, succeeding them again, might be 
 seen, first moving along above the interposing 
 shoulder of the hill, and then upon the open 
 road, the dancing plumes of a large body of offi- 
 cers and gentlemen, in the midst of whom rode 
 the young Marquis of St. Real, and his cousin, 
 the Count d'Aubin. The eyes of Leonard de 
 
114 
 
 Monte fixed eagerly upon that party, and fol- 
 lowed its movements for many a minute, till a 
 new bend of the road concealed it from his sight ; 
 and he turned to gaze upon the strong body of 
 troops that then appeared. Two companies of 
 infantry, each consisting of two hundred men, 
 came next ; and a gay and pleasant sight it was 
 to see them pass along with their shining steel 
 morions, and tall plumes, and rich apparel, in 
 firm array and regular order, but all gay and 
 cheerful, and singing as they went. Amongst 
 them, but in separate bands, appeared the va- 
 rious sorts of foot soldiers then common in 
 France ; the musketeer with his long gun upon 
 his shoulder, and the steel-pointed fork, or rest, 
 used to assist his aim in discharging his piece, 
 while, together with the broad leathern belt 
 which supported his long and heavy sword, 
 hung the innumerable small rolls of leather, in 
 which the charges for his musket were deposited. 
 The ancient pikeman, too, was there, with his 
 long pike rising over the weapons of the other 
 soldiers, and one or two bodies of arquebusiers, 
 
115 
 
 armed with a lighter and less cumbersome, but 
 even more antique kind of musket, here and 
 there chequered the ranks. A troop of cavalry, 
 still stronger in point of numbers, succeeded, 
 consisting of two companies of men-at-arms, 
 which old privileges permitted the two houses of 
 St. Real and D'Aubin to raise for the service 
 of the crown, and of about four hundred of more 
 lightly armed horse of that description which, 
 from having been first introduced from Germany 
 and Flanders, had acquired the name of retires, 
 even when the regiment was composed entirely 
 of Frenchmen. The first body contained none 
 but men of noble birth, and consisted principally 
 of young gentlemen attached to the two great 
 houses who raised it. Each carried his lance, 
 to which weapon the men-at-arms of that day 
 clung with peculiar tenacity, as a vestige of that 
 ancient chivalry which people felt was rapidly 
 passing away before improved science, but from 
 which they did not like to part. Each also was 
 splendidly armed ; and gold and polished steel 
 made their horses shine in the sunbeams. 
 
116 
 
 The reitres, however, were more simply 
 clothed, and were composed of such persons 
 from the wealthier part of the classe bourgeoise 
 as the love of arms, the distinctions generally 
 affixed to military life, or feudal attachment to 
 any particular house, brought from the very 
 insecure tranquillity then afforded by their pa- 
 ternal dwellings, to the open struggle of the 
 field. This corps, however, was not distin- 
 guished by the lance : a long and heavy sword, 
 which did terrible execution in the succeeding 
 wars, together with a number of pistols, each 
 furnished with a rude flint lock, composed the 
 offensive arms of the reitre. His armour, too, 
 and his horse were both somewhat lighter than 
 those of the man-at-arms ; but his movements 
 were, in consequence, more easy, and his march 
 less encumbered. 
 
 The whole body wound slowly on with very 
 little disarry or confusion, till, one by one, the 
 several bands turned the angle of the wood, 
 and disappeared in the distant forest. A few 
 scattered parties followed; then a few stragglers, 
 
117 
 
 and then all was left to solitude, while nothing 
 but a cloudy line of dust, rising up above the 
 green covering of the trees, and two or three 
 notes of the trumpet, told that such a force was 
 near, or marked the road it took. Leonard de 
 Monte gazed from the place of his concealment 
 upon each party as it passed, and then waited 
 for several minutes, listening with attentive ear 
 till the trumpet sounded so faintly that it was 
 evident his own small hunting-horn might be 
 winded unheard by the retiring squadrons. He 
 descended, however, in the first instance, to the 
 bank of the stream where he had been pre- 
 viously sitting, and then gave breath to a few 
 low notes, as of a huntsman recalling his dogs. 
 The sounds were heard by his attendants, and 
 instantly obeyed. The horses were led forth 
 from the wood ; and, while the two servants be- 
 stirred themselves to draw out the carriage from 
 the brake in which it had been concealed, the 
 youth beckoned the dwarf towards him, de- 
 manding, " Now, Bartholo ! now ! what think 
 you of this?" 
 
118 
 
 " Why, I think it a very silly trick, sir," re- 
 plied the dwarf: " I could forgive a raw youth 
 like the Marquis for leading his men through 
 such a wood as this ; but how an experienced 
 soldier, like my good lord the Count, could let 
 him do it, I cannot fancy. Why, the League 
 might have taken them all like quails in a fall- 
 ing net." 
 
 " You are wrong," said the youth; "you are 
 wrong, Bartholo. He knows full well that the 
 League, close cooped in Paris, have not men to 
 spare, and that Longueville and La Noue keep 
 Aumale in check near Compeigne. St. Real is 
 no bad soldier. — At least, so I have heard. But 
 it was not of that I spoke. What are we to do 
 now ? You told me that they were a day be- 
 hind, and now they are right on the road before 
 us. They must have changed their route. What 
 must we do ? " 
 
 " Why, we must turn back," answered the 
 dwarf, calmly ; " and then at Dreux seek out 
 the maitre des postes, leave these slow brutes 
 behind us, and on to Paris with all the speed 
 we can." 
 
119 
 
 " But should there be no horses ?" said the 
 youth, ( ' as was the case at La Fleche ; what 
 must we do then ? " 
 
 " Oh, beyond all doubt, we shall find horses 
 there," the dwarf replied ; " and if the post be 
 broken up, we can but apply to the master of 
 relais, whose horses will take us on for fifteen 
 leagues, while these tired brutes will scarce 
 carry us to Dreux : better go with beasts that 
 have dragged a cart, than halt half way on the 
 road." * 
 
 The youth paused and pondered; and though 
 his attention was at first directed to the exer- 
 tions of the servants with the carriage, yet the 
 moment after his glance began to stray abstract- 
 edly over the forest ; and it is more than pro- 
 bable that his thoughts wandered much farther 
 than the mere trifling embarrassment in which 
 he found himself; for his brow became clouded 
 and melancholy, his Hp quivered, and his eye, 
 
 * This speech of the dwarf applies to various modes of tra- 
 velling, then known in France, which it might be tedious to 
 explain more fully in this place. 
 
120 
 
 which was now again straining vacantly upon 
 the -grass, seemed as if it would willingly have 
 harboured a tear. The dwarf gazed at him 
 earnestly with his quick black eyes, while the 
 habitual sneer upon his lip seemed mingled 
 with other feelings, which somewhat changed its 
 character, but rendered it not less dark and 
 keen. Whatever were his own thoughts, how- 
 ever, he seemed perfectly to comprehend that 
 his young lord's mind had run beyond the situ- 
 ation of the moment. " You are sorry you 
 undertook it at all ! " he said, keeping his eyes 
 still fixed upon the face of the other. 
 
 " Out, knave ! " cried Leonard de Monte, 
 turning sharply upon him. " Out! Did you ever 
 know me hesitate in a pursuit that I had once 
 determined, or regret a deed when once it was 
 done ? Firm in myself, I am firm to myself, and, 
 whether good or ill happens, I never regret. 
 No, no ; think you that I am such a fool or such 
 a child as to start from the first trifling obstacle ? 
 to whimper, because I am forced to lie on a 
 hard bed, or fly off indignant because some 
 
121 
 
 saucy serving man breaks his jest upon the 
 page ? No, no ! I was thinking of my father's 
 house, and of a picture there which some skilful 
 hand had painted of just such a scene as this. 
 There was the little sparkling stream, and there 
 a sweet and tranquil grassy bank like that, with 
 the bright sunshine — even as it does now — 
 streaming through the bushes, and touching the 
 rounded turf with gold. Often, very often, have 
 I stood and gazed upon that landscape, and my 
 fancy has rendered the dull canvass instinct with 
 life. I have dreamed that I could see through 
 those groves, or climb the hill, and wander 
 amongst the rocks ; and in infancy — that time 
 of happy hearts — imagination, as I stood and 
 looked, has shaped me out a little paradise in 
 such a scene as that. The palace and its cold 
 splendour has faded away around me, and I 
 have fancied myself wandering in the midst of 
 Nature's beauties, with beings as bright and as 
 ideal as my dream : and now, Bartholo — and 
 now — what are all those visions now ? " 
 
 The dwarf cast his eyes to the ground, and for 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 
 
 a moment, a single moment, the cynical smile 
 past away from his lip. " You," he said, "You 
 have made your fate ! You have sought the bitter 
 well from which you are forced to drink. You 
 have chosen sorrow, and the way to sorrow ; for 
 the love of any human thing is but the high road 
 thither, and you must tread it to the end." 
 
 " How now, sir !" cried the youth, proudly 
 tossing back his head, " school'st thou me ? " 
 
 " Nay, I school you not," answered the dwarf, 
 " and less than all sought to offend you. I 
 would have given you consolation. I would 
 have said that you, for a great prize, had played 
 a stake as weighty : — I mean that knowingly, wil- 
 lingly, you had risked happiness for love ; and, 
 seemingly having lost, are sorrowful ; but still 
 you have the satisfaction of knowing that your 
 fate has been your own deliberate act." 
 
 "Would not that make it all the more pain- 
 ful, thou bitter medicine ? " asked the youth. 
 
 "Not so!" answered the dwarf, " not so! 
 Think, what must be his feelings who is born to 
 disappointment and to scorn ; whose heart may 
 
123 
 
 be as fine as that which beats in the bosom of the 
 lordliest warrior in the land, and yet whose birth- 
 right is contempt, and degradation, and slight ; 
 whose mind may be as bright as that of prelate, 
 or of lawgiver, and yet whose doom is to be 
 despised and neglected? Think what must 
 be his feelings, who has no refuge from disap- 
 pointment, but in the hardness of despair ; who 
 has no warfare to wage against insult, but by 
 hurling back contempt and defiance. " 
 
 " I am sorry for thee, from my heart," an- 
 swered the youth, " Indeed, I am sorry for thee." 
 
 " Your pity I can bear," replied the dwarf, 
 "because I believe it is of a nobler kind; but 
 the pity of this base degraded world is poison 
 to every wound in my heart. No more of 
 myself, however," he added, resuming at once 
 his usual look ; " I have spoken too long about 
 myself already. I cannot change my state, were 
 I to reason on it till the sun grew old and 
 weary of shining; but you can do much to 
 change yours ; and, in honesty, it were better 
 to try a new plan, for this is a bad one." 
 g 2 
 
124 
 
 " Care not thou for that/' replied the other ; 
 "its wisdom or its folly rests upon me. Thou 
 canst not say that there is either sin or crime 
 therein ; and till then, be silent." 
 
 " You spoke of your father's house," still 
 persevered the dwarf. " Why not return thither, 
 where now, since your uncle's death, peace, and 
 repose, and a princely fortune await you ? " 
 
 " Return thither !" replied the youth, with a 
 sigh. " Return thither ! and for what? to find 
 the voices I used to love silent ; the forms that 
 used to cheer it gone ; to see in every chamber 
 a memorial of the dead, and in each well-known 
 object a new source for tears. Oh, no ! I loved 
 that place once with love far beyond that which 
 we give in general to inanimate things ; but it 
 was because the living, and the good, and the 
 kind, were mingled up with every scene and 
 every object ; but now they are gone : the fairy 
 spell is broken ; the rich gold turned dross ; and 
 no place of all the earth is so painful in my sight 
 as that — my father's house." 
 
 " Nevertheless," urged the dwarf somewhat 
 
125 
 
 anxiously ; but the other went on : " But that is 
 not allj Bartholo," he said, "that is not all ; though 
 that were fully enough. No, when I last saw 
 my father's halls my bosom was as light as air, 
 and all the thoughts that filled it were as the 
 summer dreams of some sunny, happy child. 
 Since then how many a bitter lesson have I 
 learned; how changed is the aspect of life, and 
 fate, and the world ! — No, no ! The sunshine 
 that shone in my father's halls is gone for ever — 
 the sunshine of a happy heart ; and I will carry 
 back with me a new star to light them, or never 
 see them more." 
 
 "Nevertheless," repeated the dwarf, "never- 
 theless " 
 
 " No more in that tone ! " interrupted the 
 youth, "let me hear no more ! My resolu- 
 tions are fixed beyond change. My fate is upon 
 the die in my hand, and I will cast it boldly, let 
 the chance be what it will. Say no more ! for 
 no more will I hear ! Quick, hasten those lag- 
 gards with the horses, and let us begone : each 
 g 3 
 
126 
 
 word of opposition but makes me the more 
 eager to run my course to the end." 
 
 The dwarf's lip curled into a more bitter 
 smile than ever; but he made no reply; and 
 proceeded to obey the orders he had re- 
 ceived to hasten the preparations for departure. 
 Those preparations were soon concluded; for 
 while the conversation detailed above had been 
 proceeding, the servants, with the aid of the 
 horses, had dragged the carriage out of the 
 brake. With some difficulty, and some danger 
 of overturning it, it was at length brought to 
 the high road. Leonard de Monte entered; and, 
 wrapping himself in a large cloak, cast himself 
 back with an air of gloomy thought. The rest 
 mounted their horses, and, as fast as the nature 
 of the rude vehicle, and, the state of the roads 
 would permit, the little cavalcade wound away 
 towards Dreux, leaving the forest once more to 
 silence and solitude. 
 
127 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 In one of the old houses between the Louvre 
 and the Place Royale, is still preserved in its 
 original state a fine antique saloon of the times 
 of Henry II. No gorgeous hall, no spacious 
 vestibule, impresses you at once with the gran- 
 deur of the mansion ; but, winding up a narrow 
 and incommodious stair, you find yourself upon 
 a small landing-place, whence two steps — each 
 the segment of a circle, and both turning con- 
 siderably, as if they had once formed part of 
 a spiral staircase — conduct you, through a deep 
 but narrow passage in the wall, to a door of 
 black oak. On opening this, you find yourself 
 at the threshold of a room some two and thirty 
 feet square, panelled with dark and richly 
 carved wood, and possessing a ceiling of the 
 same. At the farther end of the saloon, oppo- 
 site to the door, is a deep recess, or, rather, a 
 sort of bay, at the entrance of which the floor 
 g 4 
 
128 
 
 rises with a high step, forming a sort of little 
 platform capable of receiving a table and two or 
 three chairs. From the distance of about three 
 feet and a half above the ground up to the ceil- 
 ing, the greater part of this recess or bay is of 
 glass, with only just so much Gothic stone and 
 wood-work as serves to support the large case- 
 ments, which afford the sole light of the room. 
 The form which this projection takes on the out- 
 side of the house presents three sides of a regular 
 octagon, and, in ornament and lightness, is not 
 unlike one of the windows of the new part of 
 St. John's, Cambridge, though certainly not 
 near so beautiful as any part of that exquisite 
 specimen of Gothic architecture. 
 
 Though, as I have said, from this window is 
 derived the sole light which the room possesses ; 
 nevertheless, that light is enough, especially as 
 the sunshine seems to regard that casement with 
 particular favour, and never fails to linger about 
 it when the bright beams visit earth. 
 
 At the time to which we must now go back, 
 the floors were not so dingy, the oak was not 
 
129 
 
 so black, as they are at present ; but the full 
 summer sunshine was pouring through the large 
 oriel, checquering the wood-work of the raised 
 flooring with the golden light of the rays and 
 the dark shadows of the leaden frames in which 
 the glass was set. A stand for embroidery ap- 
 peared on the little platform ; and before it sat 
 a lady plying the busy needle and the shining 
 silks ; while a maid, seated near, read to her from 
 abook — the Gothic characters of which were fast 
 merging into the round letters of the present 
 day — and another female attendant, a little far- 
 ther off, followed the industrious example of 
 her mistress, and busied herself at her frame. 
 The principal person of the group was habited 
 in deep mourning, which, in the fashion of that 
 day, was, perhaps, the most unbecoming dress 
 that the vanity of man ever permitted. The 
 sombre hue of the garment was relieved by 
 nothing that could give lightness or grace ; and 
 the heavy black veil, hanging from the head, 
 seemed designed purposely to cast a gloomy, 
 unsoftened shadow over the face. But that lady 
 g 5 
 
130 
 
 was one of those whom we see sometimes, and 
 dream of often, so lovely by the gift of nature, 
 that art can do nothing either to add to the 
 beauty or diminish it ; and she looked as trans- 
 cendency lovely in the dark wimple and the 
 sable stole, as if she had been clad in jewels and 
 in lace. She was as fair as the morning star, 
 with eyes of the deep, deep blue of the evening 
 sky, full and soft, and overhung with a long 
 fringe of jetty eyelashes, which sometimes made 
 the eyes themselves seem black. Her cheek 
 bore the rosy hue of health, though the colour 
 was by no means deep, and was so softly dif- 
 fused over her face, that it was scarce possible 
 to say where the warm tint of the cheek ended, 
 and the brilliant fairness of the forehead and 
 temples began. The features, too, were as lovely 
 as if the brightest fancy and the most skilful 
 hand had combined to personify beauty ; but 
 they had nothing of the cold, still harshness of 
 the statue, and one looked long in admiration 
 ere one could pause to trace the graceful lines 
 that went to form so fair a whole. The form 
 
131 
 
 was in no way unworthy of the face ; and even 
 the stiff, heavy folds of the mourning robe were 
 forced into graceful falls by the symmetry of 
 the limbs they covered. All, however, was calm 
 and easy, and every part of the figure was con- 
 cealed, as far as possible, except the tip of one 
 small foot, and the soft rounded delicate hands, 
 which, with a thousand graceful movements, 
 urged the needle through the embroidery. 
 
 Such was Eugenie de Menancourt, whom her 
 father's death in Paris had left one of the richest 
 heiresses of France, and had cast into the hands 
 of the faction called the League, which then 
 ruled in the capital, while the King waged war 
 against it in the field. The possession of Eu- 
 genie de Menancourt, indeed, was no slight 
 advantage to that party, for those who have 
 much to bestow will always be followed ; and 
 the reward of her hand, and all the wealth that 
 accompanied it, was one well calculated to lure 
 many an aspiring noble to the faction who had 
 the power of awarding it. This the Duke of 
 Mayenne felt fully, and made, indeed, no slight 
 g 6 
 
use of his advantage : not that he held out the 
 hope of obtaining her to any one directly, ex- 
 cept to the Count d'Aubin, to whom she had 
 been promised by her father, and whom Ma- 
 yenne was most anxious to gain over from the 
 royal cause; but, nevertheless, he took good care 
 that, when any of his agents busied themselves 
 to bring over an opposite, or confirm a wavering, 
 partisan, the list of the good things which the 
 League could bestow should not be left unmen- 
 tioned, and amongst the first was the hand of 
 Eugenie de Menancourt, the heiress of near 
 one half of Maine. There was many another 
 poor girl in the same condition ; but as, in those 
 days, inclination was the last thing consulted by 
 parents in the marriage of their daughters, there 
 was but little difference between their fate in 
 the hands of the League, and in the hands of 
 their more legitimate guardians. Nevertheless, 
 the circumstances by which she was surrounded, 
 her isolated situation in the house wherein her 
 father had died, and which had been assigned 
 to her by the League as her abode during the 
 
133 
 
 time of her honourable captivity in Paris, and 
 the prospect of being forced to wed a man she 
 did not love, all contributed to heighten the 
 gloom which her parent's recent death had cast 
 over her, and to make melancholy the tempo- 
 rary expression of a countenance which seemed 
 by nature born for smiles. 
 
 One only consideration tended to make her 
 situation feel more light : the Count d'Aubin 
 was deeply engaged on the side of the king ; 
 and, on his late journey to Maine, had even 
 been intrusted with the high task of keeping in 
 check that province, and some of the neigh- 
 bouring districts. So long as he adhered to the 
 king, Eugenie well knew that Mayenne would 
 never consent to his marriage with herself; and 
 though she sometimes doubted the steadiness 
 of D'Aubin's loyalty, she trusted the artful 
 game which she knew that the Duke was play- 
 ing, in order to detach him from the royal 
 cause, would insure her not being pressed to 
 give her hand to any one else. She hoped, 
 therefore, for a degree of peace till such time, 
 
134 
 
 at least, as some change in the political affairs 
 of France delivered her from the chance of 
 force being employed to compel her obedience 
 to a choice made by others. 
 
 On such facts and such speculations her 
 mind was often forced to dwell ; but Eugenie 
 de Menancourt was too wise to yield full way 
 to painful remembrances or anticipations that 
 could produce no change ; and she studiously 
 strove to occupy her thoughts with other things: 
 either reading herself during all the many hours 
 she spent alone, or making one of her maids 
 read to her, when she was employed with any 
 of those occupations, which engage the hand 
 without absorbing the attention. 
 
 Thus, then, was she employed plying her 
 needle in the sunshine, and listening to some 
 of the poetry of Du Bartas, while, though she 
 attended, and she heard, some melancholy feel- 
 ing or some gloomy thought, springing from the 
 depths of her own heart, would mingle insens- 
 ibly with the other matter which engaged her 
 mind, and make all she heard associate itself 
 
135 
 
 with the painful circumstances of her situation. 
 In the midst of the reading, however, the door 
 of the saloon opened, and a person entered, of 
 whom we must pause to give almost as full a de- 
 scription, as we have been beguiled into writ- 
 ing in regard to Eugenie de Menancourt herself. 
 The figure that appeared was that of a lady 
 as beautiful as it is possible to conceive, but in 
 a style of loveliness as different from that of her 
 she came to visit as the ruby is different from 
 the sapphire. She might be three or four and 
 twenty years of age, but certainly was not more ; 
 and the full rounded contour of womanhood 
 was exquisitely united in her figure to the light 
 and easy graces of youth. Her hair was as jetty 
 as a raven's wing, and her full bright eyes also 
 were as dark. Her skin was fair, however, and 
 her teeth, of dazzling whiteness, were just seen 
 through the full half-open lips of her small 
 beautiful mouth. The soft-arched eyebrow, 
 the chiseled nose, the rounded chin, the gentle 
 oval of the face, the small white ear, and the 
 broad clear forehead, made up a countenance 
 
136 
 
 such as is seldom seen and never forgotten; 
 and to that face and form she might well have 
 trusted to command admiration, had such been 
 her object, without calling in " the foreign aid 
 of ornament." Dress, however, and splendour 
 had not been neglected, though her rich garments 
 sat so easily upon her, that they seemed but the 
 natural accompaniment of so much beauty, worn 
 rather to harmonise with, than to heighten the 
 splendid loveliness of her face and person. Her 
 whole apparel, except the mantle and the sleeves, 
 was of the lightest kind of gold tissue, consist- 
 ing of a small stripe of pink, and a still smaller 
 one of gold. The boddice, or stays, was laced 
 with gold; and the body, or corps de robe, 
 shaped not at all unlike those in use at present, 
 came much higher over the bosom than was 
 customary at a libertine court, and in a libertine 
 age. The sleeves, which were large on the 
 shoulders, and suddenly contracted till they 
 fitted close to the round and beautiful arms, 
 were of white satin, as was also the mantle, 
 which round the edge was richly embroidered 
 
137 
 
 with pink and gold. Her girdle was of gold 
 filigree worked upon white velvet ; and through 
 it was passed a chaplet of large pearls, with 
 every now and then a sapphire or an emerald, 
 to mark some particular prayer. Jewels were 
 in her ears too, and on the bosom of her dress, 
 though it was but mid-day ; and in her hand 
 she held one of the small black velvet masks, 
 which the fair dames of those days very gene- 
 rally wore when in the streets, even in their 
 carriages, under the pretence of guarding their 
 complexions from the sun and wind, but, in 
 fact, more for the sake of fashion than from 
 over-tenderness, and often with views and pur- 
 poses which might well shun the day. 
 
 The lady, however, who now entered, bore 
 no appearance of one likely to yield to the 
 luxurious softness, or the weak vices of the day. 
 There was a light and a soul in her dark eyes, 
 a play and a spirit about her ever varying lip, a 
 firmness and determination on her fine clear brow, 
 that might perhaps speak of passion intense and 
 strong, but could hardly admit the idea of 
 
138 
 
 weakness. As soon as Eugenie de Menancourt 
 beheld her, she started up with a look of joy ; 
 and, advancing to meet her, pressed her kindly 
 in her arms, exclaiming, "Dear, dear Beatrice I 
 are you better at length ? Why would you not 
 let me see you ?" 
 
 " Well ! quite well now, Eugenie," replied 
 the other, returning her embrace as warmly as 
 it was given ; " but my illness, they said, was 
 contagious ; and why should I have suffered you 
 to risk your valued and most precious life for 
 such a one as I am V 
 
 "Oh! and your life is precious too, Beatrice," 
 replied her friend : " most precious to those 
 who know you as well as I do." 
 
 "But how few do that, dearest friend! " replied 
 Beatrice de Ferara; for, strange as it may seem, 
 it was she whose name has once before been men- 
 tioned in this work, who now stood beside Eu- 
 genie de Menancourt, on terms of the dearest 
 intimacy and affection : " How few do that ! Do 
 you know, Eugenie, that I regard as one of the 
 greatest and the sweetest triumphs of my life, 
 
139 
 
 the having conquered all your prejudices against 
 me; having won your love and your esteem, 
 and taught you to know me as I am." 
 
 " But indeed, indeed, as I have often told 
 you," replied Eugenie, M I had no prejudices 
 against you." 
 
 " Nay, nay," replied the other, with a smile; 
 "you beheld me surrounded by the profligate 
 and the base ; you beheld me mingling with the 
 idle and the vain ; you beheld the seducers and 
 the seduced of a corrupt court worshipping this 
 pretty painted idol that you see before you ; 
 and, doubtless, thought in your own secret heart 
 that it was with pleasure that I bore it all." 
 
 " No, no, indeed," replied Eugenie, " quite 
 the reverse! Wherever I went I heard you 
 mentioned as the exception. The malicious and 
 the scandalous were silent at your name ; and 
 not even the braggart idlers, whose vanity is fed 
 by their own lies against our sex, ventured to 
 say you smiled upon them." 
 
 "They dared not, Eugenie !" said Beatrice, 
 her dark eye flashing as she spoke ; " they dared 
 
140 
 
 not ! There is not a minion in all France who 
 would dare to cast a spot upon my name ! Not 
 because they fear to speak falsehood, be it as 
 gross and glaring as the sun ; but because they 
 know I hold, that where the honour of Beatrice 
 of Ferara is assailed, she has as much right as 
 any punctilious man in all the land to avenge 
 herself as best she may. Nay, start not, dear 
 friend! but send away your women, and let 
 us have a few calm moments together, if the 
 idle world will let us." 
 
 The women, who had been in attendance 
 upon Eugenie de Menancourt, required no 
 farther commands; but, the one laying down 
 her book, and the other covering up her em- 
 broidery-frame, left the room. 
 
 " You started but now, Eugenie," continued 
 Beatrice, advancing towards the little platform 
 in the bay window, and seating herself beside 
 her friend ; " you started but now, when I said 
 that women have as much right to avenge them- 
 selves, when their honour is assailed, as men; but 
 I say so still, — ay, and even more right. I have 
 
141 
 
 long thought so, and shall ever think so, Eu- 
 genie ; though Heaven only knows how I should 
 act, were such a case to happen. I might be as 
 weak as women generally are, and let the traitor 
 escape out of pure fear : — but I think not, 
 Eugenie, — I think not. I believe that I would 
 rather die the next minute after having avenged 
 myself, than live on in the same world with one 
 who had slandered that fair fame which, in spite 
 of circumstances, and my own wild thoughtless- 
 ness, I have maintained unstained in the midst 
 of this foul court." 
 
 " Nay, but consider, Beatrice,'' cried Eugenie, 
 earnestly, " this world is not all." 
 
 " I know it well, sweet friend," replied Bea- 
 trice ; " but I think, if there be pardon in 
 heaven for any offence, it would be for that. 
 Men claim the right, and die without a fear ; 
 and why should not we have the same privilege ? 
 They, when their honour is assailed, could clear 
 themselves without revenge; they could call their 
 comrades to judge of their conduct : but, with 
 us, the very whisper is destruction ; and no proof 
 
14* 
 
 of innocence ever gives as back that pure, un- 
 
 tarnished name which is OUT only honour: we 
 can have no exculpation, we can have no redress, 
 and vengeance is all that is left us." 
 
 Eugenie was silent, and Beatrice gaied upon 
 her, for a moment or two, with a smile, adding, 
 at last, " But no — no, Eugenie, such thoughts 
 
 and such feelings are nOt for you. Your nation, 
 your education, your country, will not Let you 
 feel as 1 feci, or think as 1 think: and yet, Eu- 
 genie, WO love each other." She added, twining 
 her graceful arm through that of her fair friend, 
 
 "And yet we Love each other — is it not so?" 
 " Indeed, it is I " replied Eugenie de Me- 
 
 nancourt, turning towards her with a warm 
 smile. " Your company, yonr atl'eetion, your 
 sympathy, dear Beatrice, have been my only 
 Consolations since 1 came within the walls of 
 this hateful city : and all 1 wish is, that 1 could 
 on some points make you think as 1 do. I wish 
 it selfishly, and yet for your sake, Beatrice; for, 
 if I could succeed, I should not tremble every 
 moment for your happiness and for your peace, 
 as I do now." 
 
143 
 
 " Thank you, thank you for the wish, dear 
 friend! , ' replied Beatrice, with more melancholy 
 than mirth in her smile ; " thank you, most sin- 
 cerely, for the wish ! but still it is in vain. You 
 can never, with all your kind eloquence, make a 
 wild, ardent, passionate Italian girl, a calm, 
 gentle, yielding being like yourself, all charity 
 and half Huguenot. It is in vain, it is in vain. 
 But you speak of happiness Eugenie, as if I 
 knew what happiness is. Now listen to me, 
 and you shall hear more of Beatrice of Ferara 
 than ever you have yet done. There is a sub- 
 ject, I know, on which we have both thought 
 often, and on which we have wished often to 
 speak — I know it, Eugenie ! I know it ! I have 
 heard it in half-spoken words ; I have read it 
 in your manner and in your tone ; I have seen it 
 in your eyes, — that, often, often, when we have 
 talked of other scenes and other days, you have 
 longed to ask what is Beatrice de Ferara to 
 Philip d'Aubin, and what is he to her? — Nay, 
 I dream not that you love him, Eugenie; I 
 know better — I know that you love him not ; 
 
144 
 
 and I feel that Philip d' Aubin, with all his splen- 
 did qualities, with all his energies of mind, and 
 graces of person, is the last man on earth that 
 Eugenie de Menancourt could love." 
 
 She paused a moment, gazed thoughtfully in 
 her friend's face, and then, leaning her head 
 upon Eugenie's shoulder, while she took her 
 hand in her's, she added, in a low tone and with 
 a deep sigh, — " But it is not so with Beatrice 
 of Ferara ! " 
 
 A bright blush rushed over her cheek, as 
 she spoke the words which gave to her friend 
 the full assurance of a fact that she had long 
 suspected, perhaps we might say had long 
 known ; and she closed her dark bright eyes, as 
 if to avoid seeing whatever expression that 
 confession might call into the countenance of 
 Eugenie. The moment after, however, she 
 started up, exclaiming eagerly, " But mistake 
 me not ! mistake me not ! I have not loved 
 unsought ; I have not called upon my head the 
 well-deserved shame of being despised for court- 
 ing him who loved me not. No, Eugenie, no ! 
 
145 
 
 although the blood that flows in these veins 
 may be all fire, yet in my heart there is a well 
 of icy pride, — at least, so he has often called 
 it, — which would cool the warm current of my 
 love, — ay, till it froze in death ! — ere the name 
 I bear should be stained even by such a pitiful 
 weakness as that. No ! he sought me, he 
 courted me, he lived at my feet, till the proud 
 heart was won. Yes, Eugenie, he lived at my 
 feet, he seemed to feed upon my smiles, till, at 
 length, ambition and interest opened wider 
 views, and vanity was piqued to think that 
 Eugenie de Menancourt could be dull to such 
 
 high merits as his own " 
 
 " If ambition and interest swayed him," 
 said Eugenie ; — but her friend interrupted 
 her ere she could finish. "Hear me out!" she 
 cried, " hear me out, Eugenie ! Ambition and 
 interest had much to do therewith. When I and 
 my young brother first sought this court to find 
 protection against the injustice of my father's 
 brother, I possessed little but a small inherit- 
 ance in France, the dowry of my mother. This 
 vol. I. h 
 
146 
 
 lie well knew; and though, if there be any 
 truth on earth, he loved me, yet, with men, 
 Eugenie, there are passions that make even love 
 subservient; — ambition, interest, vanity, Eu- 
 genie, are men's gods I" 
 
 " But is it possible, Beatrice,'' cried Made- 
 moiselle de Menancourt, " that, thinking thus 
 of all men, and of him in particular, you can 
 either esteem or love him, or any of his race V 9 
 
 " Oh, yes, Eugenie ! oh, yes ! " she replied. 
 "Love is a tyrant — not a slave: we cannot 
 bind him to the chariot wheels of reason ; we can- 
 not make him bow his neck beneath the yoke 
 of judgment. On the contrary, we can but 
 yield and obey. There is but one power on 
 earth that can restrain him, Eugenie, — 
 Virtue! but every thing else is vain. And, oh ! 
 how many ways have we of deceiving ourselves ! 
 The sun will cease to rise, Eugenie, — summer 
 and winter, night and day, forget their course, 
 ere love, in the heart of woman, wants a wile to 
 cheat her belief to what she wishes. *, Even 
 now, Eugenie, even now, I believe and hope ; 
 
147 
 
 and I fancy, often, that, though misled by things 
 whose emptiness he will soon discover, the time 
 will come when Love will re-assert his empire in 
 a heart that is naturally noble. It may be all 
 in vain ! " she added, with a deep sigh ; "it 
 may be all in vain! yet, who would willingly 
 put out the last faint, lingering flame that 
 flickers on Hope's altar?" 
 
 " Not I !" said Eugenie, echoing her friend's 
 sigh; " not I, indeed ! — Would that he were 
 worthy of you, Beatrice ! would that he were 
 worthy of you ! " she added, after a momen- 
 tary pause ; during which, perhaps, her mind was 
 struggling back to the real subject of their con- 
 versation from some path of association, into 
 which it had been led by her companion's last 
 words. "Would that he were worthy of you! 
 but if his fickle and wayward nature could never 
 be endured by me, who can bear much, how 
 much less would it suit you, Beatrice, who, I 
 am afraid, are calculated to bear but little ! " 
 
 " You know not how much I have already 
 borne, Eugenie, " replied Beatrice; "you know 
 h 2 
 
148 
 
 not how much love can bear: — though, yes, 
 perhaps you do," she added, in a lighter tone; 
 " at least, there are those who know well how 
 much — how very much — they could bear for 
 love of Eugenie de Menancourt." 
 
 The warm blood spread red and glowing 
 over Eugenie's fair face. " I know not whom 
 you mean, Beatrice," she said, gravely: "I 
 know none that love me ; and few that are 
 capable of loving at all — if you speak of men." 
 
 " Nay, ask me not his name!" said Beatrice, 
 the gaiety of her tone increasing, as she marked, 
 or thought she marked, a greater degree of con- 
 fusion in her friend's countenance than the 
 subject would have produced in other persons 
 brought up regularly in the sweet and pleasant 
 pastime of deceit. " Nay, ask me not his name ! 
 I am no maker of fair matches, nor half so 
 politic, as this world goes, to endeavour to 
 marry my friend to the first person that pre- 
 sents himself, solely to rid myself of the presence 
 of her beauty." 
 
 "Nay, but dear Beatrice," replied Mademoi- 
 
149 
 
 selle de Menancourt, u I know no one who has 
 even seen that beauty, if so it must be called, 
 for many a month : so indeed, you are mistaken." 
 
 " Nay, nay, not so," answered Beatrice, 
 smiling; " a few hours, a few minutes, a single 
 instant, are enough, you know, Eugenie : and for 
 the rest, indeed I am not mistaken. I would 
 stake my life, from what I have seen, — from 
 signs infallible, — that you are loved deeply, 
 truly, with all the ardour of a first passion in 
 a young — a very young heart." 
 
 " Pray God, it be not so ! " cried Eugenie ; 
 " for it were but unhappiness to himself and to 
 me." 
 
 " Are you so cold, then, Eugenie, that you 
 cannot love?" asked Beatrice, with a smile; 
 " or is that sweet heart occupied already by 
 some one who fills it all ? " 
 
 Eugenie smiled, too, and shook her head ; 
 but there was once more a deep blush spread 
 over her face ; and though it might be but the 
 generous flush of native modesty, Beatrice read 
 in it a contradiction of her words, as she re- 
 H 3 
 
150 
 
 plied, " No, no, not so, indeed ! Perhaps I 
 may be cold ; as yet I cannot tell, for no one 
 has ever yet spoken to me of love whose love I 
 could return. But, even could I do so, Beatrice, 
 would it not be grief to both, as here I remain 
 in the hands of others, unable to dispose of my- 
 self but as they please ?" 
 
 " Out upon it, Eugenie!" cried Beatrice; 
 " 'tis your own fault if you are not your own 
 mistress in an hour. Never was there a time 
 in France when woman — the universal slave — 
 was half so free." 
 
 " But what would you have me do?" de- 
 manded Eugenie. " "With a thousand eyes con- 
 stantly upon me, I see not how I could obtain 
 more freedom, or dispose of myself, were I 
 so inclined." 
 
 " As easy as sit here and sew," cried Beatrice. 
 " Here is the King claims the disposal of your 
 hand, and the League claims it too ; and, 
 between them both, you can give it to whom 
 you will. Fly from Paris ! Betake yourself 
 where you will, but not to the court of Henry ; 
 
151 
 
 for his tyranny might be greater than even that 
 of the League. Then, make your choice. 
 Give your hand to him you love ; and be quite 
 sure, that the party that your good lord shall 
 join will sanction your marriage with all accus- 
 tomed forms." 
 
 " But if I love no one?" said Eugenie, with 
 a smile. 
 
 " Why, then, live in single simplicity till 
 you do," replied Beatrice, with an incredulous 
 shake of the head. " But, at all events, fly 
 from the yoke they now put upon you." 
 
 " Fly, Beatrice ?" answered Eugenie; "fly, 
 and how? How am I to fly, with a city be- 
 leaguered on all sides ; a watchful Argus in the 
 League, with its thousand eyes all round me : 
 having none to guide me, and not knowing 
 where to go ; — how am I to fly ? " 
 
 " By a thousand ways," answered her friend, 
 laughing at her embarrassment. " Change your 
 dress, in the first place : put on a petticoat of 
 crimson satin embroidered with green, together 
 with a black velvet body and sleeves, cut in 
 h 4 
 
152 
 
 the fashion of the Duchess of Valentinois, of 
 blessed memory ! — a cloak of straw-coloured 
 silk, a capuche of light blue cloth broidered 
 with gold, a mass of grey hair under a black 
 cap, and a vertugadin of four feet square. 
 Dress yourself thus, and call yourself Madame 
 la Presidente de Noailles ; and, by my word, 
 the guards will let you pass all the gates, and 
 thank God to get rid of you ! Or, if that does 
 not suit you, take the gown and bonnet of a 
 young advocate," she continued in the same gay 
 tone ; " hide those pretty lips and that rounded 
 chin under a false beard from Armandi's ; and 
 be very sure the guards would as soon think of 
 stopping you as they would of stopping the 
 prince of darkness, who, after all, is the real 
 governor of this great city. Nothing keeps 
 you here but fear, my Eugenie ! Why, I will 
 undertake to go in and out twenty times a day, 
 if I please." 
 
 " Ay, but you have a bolder heart than I 
 have," answered Eugenie de Menancourt; (i and 
 I know full well, Beatrice, that a thing which, 
 
153 
 
 executed with a good courage, is done with 
 ease, miscarries at the first step when it is 
 attempted by timidity and fear. The very 
 thought of wandering through the gates of 
 Paris alone, makes me shrink." 
 
 " But I will go with you, Eugenie," replied 
 Beatrice, " and will answer for success when- 
 ever you like to make the attempt." 
 
 Eugenie paused, and thought for several 
 moments, fixing her fine eyes upon vacancy 
 with a faint smile and a longing look, as if she 
 would fain have taken advantage of her friend's 
 proposal, yet dared not make the attempt. 
 " Not yet, dear Beatrice, not yet ! " she an- 
 swered : "I dare not, indeed, unless some 
 sharp necessity happens to give me temporary 
 courage. As long as they refrain from urging 
 me to wed one I can never love, and from press- 
 ing on me any other in his room, so long will I 
 stay where I am." 
 
 " But see that your decision come not too 
 late, Eugenie," answered her friend. " They 
 may soon begin to press you on the subject; 
 h 5 
 
154 
 
 and, when once they find you reluctant, they 
 may take measures to prevent your flight." 
 
 " I do not think they will press me," an- 
 swered Eugenie. " First, in regard to Philip 
 d'Aubin, they will never favour him, as he is 
 of the party of the King; and, in regard to any 
 other, they know full well that I could, if I 
 would, urge my father's promise to him." 
 
 " But you would not do it!" exclaimed 
 Beatrice. 
 
 " No, Beatrice, no ! " answered Eugenie, 
 laying her hand kindly upon hers ; " no, I 
 would rather die ! " 
 
 " But hear me," said Beatrice, somewhat 
 eagerly ; " think of all that may happen. A 
 thousand things may tempt D'Aubin to quit the 
 royal party. He may come over to the League — 
 he may urge your father's promise — he may 
 obtain the sanction of Mayenne : — what will 
 you do then?" 
 
 "Fly to the farthest corner of the earth," 
 replied Eugenie, " sooner than fulfil a promise 
 that was none of mine, and against which my 
 
155 
 
 whole heart revolts on every account. Listen, 
 Beatrice ; I do believe that, in the moment of 
 need, I shall not want courage, and certainly shall 
 not want resolution. Should I have any reason 
 to fear compulsion, but too often used of late, I 
 will take counsel with none but you ; you shall 
 guide me as you think fit, and I will fly any 
 where, rather than give my hand to one I can- 
 not love." 
 
 " Write me but five words," replied Beatrice, 
 " write me, ' Come to me with speed,' and send 
 it by a page when you want assistance, and doubt 
 not but I will find means to deliver you, were 
 you at the very altar. But, hark ! I hear steps 
 upon the staircase, and horses before the house ; 
 and I must resume all my bold and haughty 
 bearing, and put on the mask, which I have laid 
 aside to Eugenie de Menancourt alone." 
 
 As she spoke, she drew her chair a little 
 further from that of her friend ; and, placing it 
 in the exact position which the ceremonious 
 intercourse of that day pointed out, she re- 
 mained with the glove drawn off from one fair 
 H 6 
 
156 
 
 hand, which, dropping gracefully over the arm 
 of the fauteuil, continued to hold her small 
 black mask, twirling it as listlessly round and 
 round as ever the fair hand of fashionable dame 
 in our own days played with a glove, to show 
 her skin's whiteness or her brilliant rings. 
 Eugenie de Menancourt's eyes sought the door 
 with an expression of anxiety ; but Beatrice, 
 on the contrary, gazed vacantly through the 
 window towards the buildings on the opposite 
 side of the river ; and the visiters had entered 
 the room, and were already speaking to her 
 friend, before she appeared to be conscious of 
 their presence, or condescended to notice them. 
 Turning her head at length, she fixed her eyes 
 upon a square-built, powerful man, with a 
 somewhat heavy, but not unpleasing, counte- 
 nance; who, richly dressed, and followed by two 
 or three gentlemen, in a more gay and smart, 
 but not more magnificent, costume, was speak- 
 ing to Mademoiselle de Menancourt, with all 
 that courteous respect which chivalrous times, 
 then just passing away, had left behind them. 
 
157 
 
 " Good morrow, my lord Duke!" said 
 Beatrice, as the visiter turned towards her: " I 
 anticipated not the pleasure of seeing your 
 Highness here to day. Good faith ! have you 
 so much ease in a beleaguered city, as to exer- 
 cise your horses in visiting ladies before noon ? 
 On my honour, I will be a soldier, for 'tis the 
 idlest life I know, and only fit for a woman." 
 
 " I came but to ask briefly after your fair 
 friend's health," replied the Duke ; " and knew 
 not that I should have to risk with you, gay 
 lady, one of our old encounters of sharp words. 
 I trust, however, your health is better." 
 
 " Did you ever see me look more beautiful, 
 Duke of Mayenne?" asked Beatrice, with a 
 gay toss of her head ; " and can you ask if I 
 am ill ? But as to my friend's health, if you 
 would that she should be well, ar.d keep well, 
 let her go out of Paris, home to her own dwell- 
 ing ; and keep her not here, where one is sur- 
 rounded, night and day, with the sound of cannon 
 and arquebuses. Do you intend that it should 
 be said, in future, that carrying on the war 
 
158 
 
 against women and children was first intro- 
 duced into modern Europe by the Duke of 
 Mayenne and the Catholic League, that you 
 keep a lady here a close prisoner in your be- 
 leaguered capital?" 
 
 " Not as a prisoner, fair lady," answered the 
 Duke of Mayenne ; " God forbid that either I 
 or she should look upon her situation as one of 
 imprisonment ; but, being Lieutenant-General of 
 the kingdom, and, consequently, her lawful guar- 
 dian and protector, till marriage gives her a 
 better, I should be wanting both in duty and 
 in courtesy, were I to leave her in a distant and 
 distracted province, in a time of unfortunate 
 civil war." 
 
 " Well explained and justified, my good lord 
 Duke!" cried Beatrice, who, both in right of 
 rank and beauty, treated the ambitious leader 
 of the League as equal to equal. " And yet, after 
 all, my lord, has not that same marriage that 
 you mention some small share in your tenacious 
 kindness? Did you ever hear, my lord, of a 
 rat-catcher giving the rats the bait out of his 
 
159 
 
 trap, from pure affection for the heretic ver- 
 
 min 
 
 The Duke of Mayenne first reddened, and 
 then smiled ; either more amused than angry at 
 the gay flippancy of his fair opponent, or judg- 
 ing it best, at least, to appear so. " Your simi- 
 lies savour of a profession that I know not, fair 
 lady," he replied ; " but if you mean, Lady 
 Beatrice, that hereafter I may dispose of your 
 fair friend's hand in such a manner as seems to 
 me most conducive towards her happiness — if 
 you mean that," he repeated, in a marked tone, 
 " I deny not that you are right. Yet I would 
 fain know who has a better right to do so than 
 the Lieutenant-General of the kingdom ? " 
 
 " Oh! no one, surely !" answered Beatrice, in 
 the same tone of mingled pride and gaiety ; " no 
 one, surely, my lord, except the King of that 
 kingdom, or the poor frightened girl herself." 
 
 " Come, come, fair lady," cried Mayenne, 
 laughing; "you carry your jest so far, that I 
 will bid you take care what you say farther, lest 
 I should dispose of your hand for you, too, for 
 
160 
 
 the purpose of showing you — to use your own 
 figure — that I have more baits than one to my 
 rat*trap." 
 
 " Indeed, lord Duke, you count wrongly, if 
 yoix reckon that I am one," replied Beatrice. 
 (i You know too well that the task .would 
 neither be a very safe or very easy one, to try 
 to wed me to any one against my will. You may 
 be Lieutenant-General of the kingdom, and I, 
 for one — being not of this kingdom, and think- 
 ing much better of you than of the crowned 
 Vice at St. Cloud — will not deny your right ; 
 but you are not lieutenant-general of Beatrice 
 de Ferara, and you might find it more diffi- 
 cult to govern her than half the realm of 
 France ; and so, good morrow ! Love me, 
 Eugenie ; and do not let these men persuade 
 you that they are half such powerful and ter- 
 rible things as they would make themselves 
 appear. Fare you well ! " 
 
 Each of the gentlemen in the prince's suite 
 stepped forward to offer his hand to the gay, 
 proud beauty, whose tone of light defiance had 
 
161 
 
 something in it more attractive to the general 
 youth of those excited times, than all the retir- 
 ing graces and gentle modesty of Eugenie de 
 Menancourt. Beatrice scarcely noticed them 
 while her friend took leave of her ; but, as 
 soon as the embrace was over, she ran her eye 
 over the three or four cavaliers who stood 
 round, and, singling out one, gave him her 
 hand, saying, " My lord of Aumale, I believe 
 you are the only one here present, except my 
 lord Duke, who never whispered that you loved 
 me ; and therefore I doubt not that you do love 
 me enough to — hand me to my carriage." 
 
 The young noble, to whom she addressed 
 herself, answered with all those professions 
 which the formal gallantry of the day not only 
 permitted, but required, and led her down to 
 the rudely formed, but richly decorated, vehicle, 
 which was the carriage of those days. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Eugenie de Menancourt 
 remained waiting in some suspense, to hear the 
 real object of the visit paid her by the Duke of 
 Mayenne, the purport of which she could not 
 
162 
 
 conceive was merely to inquire after her health. 
 Whether, however, the great leader of the 
 League judged that his conversation with Be- 
 atrice of Ferara was not the most favourable 
 prelude to any thing he had to say to the young 
 heiress, or whether he really came but to trifle 
 away a few minutes in a visit of ceremony, it is 
 certain that he said nothing which could induce 
 Eugenie to imagine that he had any immediate 
 view of pressing her to a marriage with any 
 one. After spending about ten minutes in 
 ordinary conversation, upon general and unin- 
 teresting subjects, and expressing many a wish 
 for the comfort and welfare of his fair ward, as 
 he did not fail to style Mademoiselle de Menan- 
 court, Mayenne rose, and left her to the enjoy- 
 ment of solitude and her own reflections, which, 
 for the time, were sweetened by the hope, that 
 the evils to which her situation might ulti- 
 mately give rise were yet remote. 
 
163 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The carriage which contained Beatrice of 
 Ferara rolled on with slow and measured pace 
 through the narrow and tortuous streets of old 
 Paris, till at length, as it was performing the 
 difficult manoeuvre of turning a sharp angle, it 
 was encountered by a small party of horsemen, 
 in the simple garments of peace, which, at that 
 warlike period, was a less common occurrence 
 than to see every one who could bear them clad 
 in grim arms. The right of staring into car- 
 riages, when the velvet curtains were withdrawn, 
 was already established in Paris ; and it needed 
 but a brief glance to make the principal cavalier 
 of the group draw in his bridle rein, beckon the 
 coachman to stop, and, springing to the ground, 
 approach the portiere of the vehicle wherein 
 Beatrice was placed. As usual in those days, 
 
164 
 
 she was not alone ; but, while a number of 
 lackeys graced the outside of her carriage, two 
 or three female attendants were seated in the 
 interior of the machine, leaving still a space 
 within its ample bulk for many another, had it 
 been necessary. More than one pair of eyes 
 were thus upon her ; and yet Beatrice, though 
 brought up in a court—where feelings themselves 
 were nearly reckoned contraband, and all expres- 
 sion of them prohibited altogether — could not 
 repress the very evident signs of agitation which 
 the approach of that cavalier occasioned. Her 
 cheek reddened, her breathing became short, 
 and she sank back upon the embroidered 
 cushions of the carriage, as if she would fain 
 have avoided the meeting. The agitation 
 lasted but a moment, however ; and as soon as 
 he spoke, she was herself again : perhaps gain- 
 ing courage from seeing that his own cheek 
 was flushed, and that his own voice trembled as 
 he addressed her. 
 
 " A thousand, thousand pardons, lady!" he 
 said, standing bareheaded by the door, "for 
 
165 
 
 stopping your carriage in the streets ; but these 
 unfortunate wars have rendered it so long since 
 we have met, that most anxious am I " 
 
 " My lord Count d'Aubin," replied Beatrice, 
 raising her head proudly, " the time of your 
 absence from Paris has not seemed to me so long 
 as to make me rejoice that it is at an end!" 
 
 " I have no right to expect another answer," 
 replied D'Aubin, in a low voice ; " and yet, 
 Beatrice, perhaps I could say something in my 
 own defence." 
 
 " Which I should be most unwilling to hear," 
 replied the lady, coldly. " I doubt not, sir 
 Count, that you can say much in your own 
 defence : I never yet knew man that could not, 
 but a plain idiot, or one born dumb. But what 
 is your defence to me ? I am neither your 
 judge nor your accuser. If your own heart 
 charges you with ambition, or avarice, or false- 
 hood, plead your cause with it, and, doubtless, 
 you will meet with a most lenient judge. "Will 
 you bid the coachman drive on, sir? this is a 
 foolish interruption, and a narrow street." 
 
166 
 
 Oh, Beatrice ! " exclaimed the Count d' Aubin, 
 piqued by her coldness, " at least delay one 
 moment, till you tell me you are well and 
 happy : I have just heard that you have been 
 iU__very ill." 
 
 " I have, sir," she replied ; " I caught the 
 fever that was prevalent here ; but I am well 
 again, as you see, and should be perfectly 
 happy, if I did not hear King Henry's artillery 
 above once a week, and if people would not 
 stop my carriage in the streets." 
 
 " And is that all you will say to me, Be- 
 atrice ? " asked the Count, in the same low tone 
 which he had hitherto used ; " is that all you 
 will say, after all that has passed ? " 
 
 " I know nothing, sir, that has passed be- 
 tween us," replied Beatrice aloud, " except that 
 once or twice, in a fit of wine or folly, you 
 vowed that you loved Beatrice of Ferara better 
 than life, or wealth, or rank, or station ; and that 
 she received those vows as she has done a thou- 
 sand others, from a thousand brighter persons 
 than Philip Count d'Aubin, namely, as idle 
 
167 
 
 words, which foolish men will speak to foolish 
 women, for want of better wit and more plea- 
 sant conversation; as words which you had 
 probably spoken to a hundred others, before 
 you spoke them to me, and which you will yet, 
 in all probability, speak to a hundred more, 
 who will believe them just as much as I did, 
 and forget them quite as soon. Once more, 
 sir, then, will you order the coachman to drive 
 on, or let me do so, and retire from the wheel, 
 lest it strike you, and the Catholic League lose 
 a valiant convert by an ignoble death ? " 
 
 " Nay, there at least you do me wrong!" 
 replied the Count d'Aubin : " the Catholic 
 League has no convert in me ; I am here, under 
 a safe conduct, on matters of no slight import- 
 ance to my good cousin St. Real : but to his 
 Majesty will I adhere, so long as he and I 
 both live!" 
 
 " Indeed! " cried Beatrice, with a light laugh. 
 " Is there any thing in which the fickle Count 
 d'Aubin will not be fickle ? Nay, nay, make no 
 rash vows ; remember, you have not yet heard 
 
168 
 
 all the golden arguments which his Highness, 
 the Lieutenant-General of the kingdom and the 
 League can hold out. Suppose he offer you 
 the hand of some rich heiress ; could you resist, 
 sir Count ? could you resist ? " 
 
 D'Aubin coloured, perhaps because Beatrice 
 had gone deeper into the secrets of his inmost 
 thoughts than he felt agreeable. He answered, 
 however, boldly, " I could resist any thing 
 against my honour." 
 
 "Honour!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a 
 scoff: " honour ! Marguerite, tell the coach- 
 man to drive on. Honour ! " 
 
 D'Aubin drew back, with an air at once of 
 pain and anger, made a silent sign to the coach- 
 man to proceed, and, springing on his horse, 
 galloped down the street, followed by his at- 
 tendants, at a pace which risked their own 
 necks upon the unequal causeway of the town, 
 and which certainly showed but little con- 
 sideration for the safety of the passengers. 
 The emotions of Philip d'Aubin, however, 
 were such as did not permit of consideration 
 
169 
 
 for himself or others. He felt himself con- 
 demned, and he believed himself despised, by 
 the only woman that, perhaps, he had ever truly 
 loved. The better feelings of his heart, too, 
 rose against him: he knew that his conduct 
 was ungenerous ; and he felt that, had the time 
 been one when faith and honour towards woman 
 were aught but mere names, his behaviour 
 would have been dishonourable in the eyes of 
 mankind, as well as in the stern code of ab- 
 stract right and wrong: and unhappy is the 
 man who has no other means of justifying him- 
 self to his own heart but by pleading the follies 
 and vices of his age. D'Aubin did plead those 
 follies and vices, however, and he pleaded them 
 successfully, so far as in soon banishing re- 
 flection went ; but there was a sting left behind, 
 which was the more bitter, perhaps, as mortified 
 vanity had no small share in the pain that he 
 suffered. He had believed that he could not so 
 soon be treated with scorn and indifference ; he 
 had fancied that his hold on the heart of 
 Beatrice de Ferara was too strong to be shaken 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 
 
 off so easily ; and though he had no definite 
 object in retaining that hold, though other 
 passions had for the time triumphed over affec- 
 tion, and placed a barrier between himself 
 and her which he was not willing to overleap, 
 yet still the lingering love that would not be 
 banished was wounded by her bitter tone ; and, 
 joined to humbled pride and offended vanity, 
 made his feelings aught but pleasing. 
 
 In the meantime, the carriage of Beatrice 
 of Ferara bore her on with a heart in which 
 sensations as bitter were thronging ; though, as 
 we have seen in her conversation with Eugenie 
 de Menancourt, her feelings towards her lover 
 were less keen and scornful than her words 
 might lead him to believe. On the state of her 
 bosom, however, there is no necessity to dwell 
 here, as many an occasion will present itself for 
 explaining it in her own words ; and it may be 
 better, also, to let her thus speak for herself, 
 because in endeavouring to depict abstractedly, 
 by means of cold descriptions, that varying and 
 chamelion-like thing, the human heart, one is 
 
171 
 
 often led into seeming contradictions, from the 
 infinite variety of hues which it takes, accord- 
 ing to the things which surround it. 
 
 The carriage rolled on and entered the court- 
 yard of the splendid mansion in which she dwelt. 
 Here Beatrice alighted ; but she did not go into 
 the house, for a hand-litter, or chair, — one of 
 the most ancient of French conveyances, — 
 waited under the archway, as if prepared by 
 her previous order, with its two bearers, and a 
 single, armed attendant; and this new con- 
 veyance received her as soon as she set foot 
 out of the other. The door was immediately 
 closed, and the blinds, filled with their small 
 squares of painted glass, were drawn up, 
 Beatrice merely saying to the attendant who 
 stood beside her as she shut out the gaze of 
 the passers by, " To Armandi's !" 
 
 The bearers instantly lifted their burden, 
 and began their course at the same peculiar 
 trot which has probably been the pace of chair- 
 men in all ages ; nor from this did they cease 
 or pause till they reached one of the most 
 i 2 
 
172 
 
 showy, if not one of the richest, shops in the 
 city. Standing forth from the building, under 
 a little projecting penthouse, to secure the 
 wares against both sun and rain, was a long 
 range of glass cases, containing every sort of 
 cosmetic then in vogue, from the plain essence 
 of violets, wherewith the simple burgher's wife 
 perfumed her robe of ceremony, to the rich 
 ointment compounded from a thousand rare in- 
 gredients, wherewith the King himself masked 
 his own effeminate countenance against the 
 night air whilst he slept. Behind these cases 
 was the shop itself, hanging in which might be 
 seen a crowd of various objects for the gratifi- 
 cation of vanity and luxury,— -the black velvet 
 mask, or loupe, the embroidered and many- 
 coloured gloves, the splendid hair pins and 
 enamelled clasps, the girdles of gold and silver 
 filigree and precious stones, together with many 
 another part of dress or ornament, some full of 
 grace and taste, some fantastic and absurd, and 
 some scarcely within the bounds of common 
 decency. Beyond the shop, again, but separ- 
 
173 
 
 ated from it by a partition of glass, covered in 
 the inside with curtains of crimson silk, was 
 the inner shop, or most private receptacle for 
 all those peculiarly rich or fragile wares which 
 Armandi, the famous perfumer of that day, did 
 not choose to expose, to tempt cupidity, or 
 lose their freshness, in the more exposed parts 
 of his dwelling. Here, too, report whispered, 
 were concealed those drugs and secret prepara- 
 tions, his skill in compounding which, it was 
 said, had been much more the cause of his great 
 favour with Catherine de Medicis than his art as 
 a perfumer, which was the ostensible motive of 
 her calling him from Italy to take up his abode 
 in her husband's capital. However this might 
 be, certain it is that, after the sudden death of 
 the Queen of Navarre, the suspicions of the 
 Huguenots turned strangely against Armandi, to 
 whose diabolical skill they very generally attri- 
 buted the loss of their beloved princess : and it 
 is more than probable that he would have fallen 
 a victim to their indignation, whether just or 
 unjust, had not the horrors of St. Bartholomew 
 i 3 
 
174 
 
 shortly after delivered him from the presence 
 of his adversaries in Paris. 
 
 Nevertheless, although suspicion might be 
 strong, and the man's character as infamous as 
 such suspicions could render it, yet the shop of 
 Armandi was not less the resort of the beautiful 
 and the fair, and even of the gentle and good : 
 for it is most extraordinary how far female 
 charity will extend towards those who contri- 
 bute to the gratification of vanity and satisfy the 
 thirst for novelty. The newest fashions, the 
 most beautiful objects of art and luxury, the 
 freshest and most costly rarities were no where 
 to be found but at his shop ; and no one chose 
 to believe that Armandi dealt in poisons — but 
 those who wanted them. 
 
 Thither, then, the chair, or litiere encaissee, as 
 it was called, of Beatrice de Ferara, was borne 
 at an hour when the greater part of the gay 
 Parisians were busy with that employment 
 which few people love better, namely, that of 
 eating the good things which their own gas- 
 tronimic art produces. The bearers halted 
 
175 
 
 not at the steps which led into the shop, but 
 proceeded till the chair was brought parallel to 
 a door in the partition, between the outer and 
 the inner chamber, so that she could pass at 
 once from the one into the other. Her coun- 
 tenance, however, bore but little the expression 
 of one going to buy trinkets, or to amuse one- 
 self by turning over the light frivolities of such 
 a place as that in which she stood. The usual 
 fire of her eye was somewhat quelled, and a 
 degree of melancholy, perhaps of anxiety, had, 
 since her meeting with the Count d'Aubin, per- 
 vaded her whole countenance, unusual with her 
 at any time. The doors of the partition and that 
 of the chair had been both thrown open as soon 
 as the gilded lions' feet of the latter touched 
 the floor, and there stood the Signor Armandi, 
 dressed in silks and velvets of rose colour and 
 sky blue, with his mustachio turning up almost 
 to his eyes, and a small jewelled dagger occupy- 
 ing the place of the sword, which his calling did 
 not permit him to wear in Paris. His face was 
 dressed in sweet complacent smiles ; and, as he 
 i 4 
 
176 
 
 bowed three times to the very ground before 
 his lovely visiter, his head was certainly "drop- 
 ping odours;" for no one held his own perfumes 
 in higher veneration than he did himself." 
 
 " Enchanted and honoured are my eyes to 
 see you once again, lady most fair and chaste ! " 
 said he, in high-flown Italian. " I heard that 
 you had been upon that sad couch, where the 
 head is propped by the thorns of sickness, rather 
 than by the roses of love." 
 
 w .Hush, hush, Armandi ! " cried Beatrice, with 
 an impatient waive of the hand ; " you should 
 know me better than to speak such trash to me. 
 I neither use your cosmetics, nor will hear your 
 nonsense, I have come upon more weighty 
 matters." 
 
 "For whatever you have come, most beautiful 
 of the beautiful," replied the other, affecting to 
 subdue his exalted tone; "you have come to 
 command, and I am here to obey. Speak! 
 your words are law to Armandi." 
 
 " When followed by the necessary seal of 
 gold, I know they are," answered Beatrice, 
 
177 
 
 gravely. " Now hear me, then. I wish 1 
 
 wish " she paused and hesitated, and the 
 
 perfumer, accustomed to receive communications 
 of too delicate a nature to bear the coarse 
 vehicle of language, hastened to aid her. 
 
 " You wish, perhaps," he said, in a soft voice, 
 " to see some friend, and require the magical 
 influence of Armandi to bring him to your pre- 
 sence " 
 
 " Out, villain!" cried Beatrice, her eyes flash- 
 ing fire. " For whom do you take me, pitiful 
 slave? Do you fancy yourself speaking to 
 Clara de Villefranche, or Marguerite de Tours en 
 Brie, or, higher still in rank and infamy, Mar- 
 guerite de Valois ? Out, I say ! Talk not to 
 me of such things ; — I wish — I wish " 
 
 " Perhaps you wish to see some friend no 
 more," said the soft voice of the perfumer, ap- 
 parently not in the least offended by the hard 
 terms she had given him, and equally disposed 
 to do her good and uncompromising service of 
 any kind. " Perhaps you wish the magical 
 influence of Armandi to remove from your 
 i 5 
 
178 
 
 sight some one who has been in it too long, 
 and troubles you ? " 
 
 A bitter and painful smile played round the 
 beautiful lips of Beatrice de Ferara, while, 
 bowing her head slowly, she replied, after a 
 moment's thought, " Perhaps I do." 
 
 " Then, I am right at last," said Armandi 
 softly, rubbing his hands together. "I am 
 right at last; and you have nothing to do, 
 fair lady, but to name the person, and the time, 
 and the manner, and it shall be done to your 
 full satisfaction ; though I must hint that all the 
 preparations for rendering disagreeable people 
 invisible are somewhat expensive ; and the 
 amount depends greatly upon the mode. Would 
 you have it slow and quietly, that he or she 
 should disappear ? That is the best and easiest 
 plan, and also the least expensive — for there 
 is the less risk." 
 
 " No ! " replied Beatrice firmly, " I would have 
 it act at once — in a moment, and so potently, 
 that no physician on the earth can find skill suf- 
 ficient to undo that which has been done." 
 
179 
 
 " Of the latter be quite sure," replied the 
 perfumer. " But with regard to the former, it 
 is much more dangerous, as a sudden cata- 
 strophe leads instantly to examination. Now, a 
 few drops of sweet aqua tophana has its calm 
 and tranquillising effects so gradually, that no 
 doubt or suspicion is awakened ; and you can 
 surely wait patiently for a month, or a fortnight, 
 to give it time to act ? " 
 
 " You mistake," replied Beatrice thought- 
 fully ; " you mistake : yet say, how are such 
 things managed? Let me hear, that I may 
 judge." 
 
 " Why, lady," replied Armandi, with a mys- 
 terious smile, " there are secrets in all things on 
 this earth, from the fine composition of a lady's 
 heart, to the simples of poor Armandi. Never- 
 theless, although the mysteries of the art must 
 remain hidden in my own bosom, as I enjoy the 
 blessing of having been born in the same land 
 with one so beautiful, and as I know that you 
 were deeply beloved by my late royal and 
 honoured mistress, though somewhat frowning 
 i 6 
 
180 
 
 dn the soft pleasures of her court, I wil], with- 
 out reserve, reveal to you how your purpose 
 may be best effected." 
 
 Thus saying, he took a small silver key from 
 his pocket, and opened a Venetian cabinet, that 
 stood near. " See here!" he said, producing 
 a small gilded phial, containing, apparently, a 
 quantity of a perfectly limpid fluid; " see here! 
 the water that Adam found in the first foun- 
 tain he met in Eden was not more clear than 
 this ; and yet the fruit of the tree that stood 
 near it was not more certain death. No odour 
 is to be discerned therein : to the eye it has no 
 colour ; to the lip no taste ; and yet, like many 
 another thing, with all this seeming simplicity, 
 it is the most potent of all things, having power 
 unlimited over life and death. Three drops of 
 this, in the simplest beverage, will ensure that 
 slow and gradual decay, which, at the end of a 
 year, shall leave him who drinks it a clod in his 
 mother earth. A larger dose will shorten the 
 time by one half ; and a larger still will reduce 
 the time to a few weeks or days. The only 
 
181 
 
 difficulty is how to give it : but that I will find 
 means for when I know the person." 
 
 " It will not do !" replied Beatrice ; " it will 
 not do ! it is not quick enough. Have you no 
 other means ? " 
 
 " Many, lady! many!" replied the perfumer, 
 smiling ; " but, in good sooth, you are as impa- 
 tient as a young lover. All our art has been 
 tasked to render the means at once slow and 
 secure, so as, in cases of necessity, to effect our 
 deliverance from enemies without calling sus- 
 picion on ourselves. See here ! this artificial 
 rose, so like the natural flower, that the eye 
 must be keen indeed which, at the distance of 
 half a yard, could detect the difference. The 
 scent, too, is the same " 
 
 " But why do you keep it under that glass 
 ball ? " demanded Beatrice, interrupting the long 
 description with which he was proceeding. 
 
 " Because, lady," replied the Italian, " that 
 rose, placed in as fair a bosom as your own, 
 and worn there for but one half hour, would 
 lose its scent, and the wearer health and life 
 
182 
 
 within a week. Its odour, therefore, is too 
 valuable to trust to the common air." 
 
 " And those gloves ? " asked Beatrice ; 
 " those gloves, so beautifully embroidered, for 
 what purpose are they designed ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid that I should see them on 
 your hands!" replied Armandi; "though I 
 have heard that they were once worn by a 
 queen — who is since dead. But you spoke of 
 quicker means. Here is this small box of 
 powder, containing a certain salt that, in the 
 twinkling of an eye, extinguishes the fire of the 
 heart, and the light of the mind, and leaves 
 nothing but the ashes behind. We often use 
 it, diluted with other things, for other purposes; 
 but I would not administer one dose of that, to 
 any one of note, for a less sum than ten thou- 
 sand golden Henrys, though the whole box is 
 scarcely worth a hundred crowns. But so quick 
 is its effect, and so marked the traces that it 
 leaves behind, that the chirurgeon were a fool 
 who did not at once pronounce the cause of 
 death in him who took it." 
 
183 
 
 " Give me yon bonbonniere" said Beatrice, 
 pointing to a painted trifle on one of the tables. 
 " And now/' she continued, as the man gave it 
 her, " is that enough for one dose?" and, as she 
 spoke, she emptied part of the powder from the 
 box which contained it into the bonbonniere ; — 
 " Is that enough for one dose ?" 
 
 " It is enough to kill the King's army ! " re- 
 plied the man. " But what mean you, lady ? 
 "What do you intend to do ?" 
 
 " The person for whom I mean this drug," re- 
 plied Beatrice, " shall receive it from no hands 
 but my own. You shall risk nothing. There is 
 a jewel, worth one half your shop," she added, 
 drawing a ring from her finger, and casting it 
 upon the table ; " and the powder is mine." 
 
 " But, lady ! lady ! " cried the perfumer, re- 
 garding the diamond with eager and experienced 
 eyes, and yet trembling for the consequences 
 which his fair visiter's strong passions might 
 bring upon himself; " but, lady, if you should 
 be discovered ! You are young and inexpe- 
 rienced in such matters. They must be per- 
 
184 
 
 formed with a calm hand, and a steady eye, and 
 an unquivering lip : and if you should be dis- 
 covered, and put to the torture, you would 
 betray me." 
 
 " However I may contemn thee, man," an- 
 swered Beatrice, " there is no power on earth 
 that could make me betray thee. But rest 
 satisfied ; I take the powder from thee, whether 
 thou wilt or not ; — but I will make thee easy, 
 and tell thee, that if one grain thereof ever 
 passes any human lip, that lip will be my own. 
 It is well to be prepared for all things — to have 
 ever at hand a ready remedy for all the ills of 
 life — to possess the means of snatching our- 
 selves from the grasp of circumstance : and, in 
 the path which I may be called to tread, the 
 time may well come when I shall wish to change 
 this world for another. I leave to better moral- 
 ists to decide whether it be right or not, cou- 
 rageous or cowardly, to shake off a life that we 
 are tired of. For my part, I will bear it to the 
 utmost ; and, when I can endure it no longer, 
 then will I try another path." 
 
185 
 
 " If such be your purpose, lady," answered 
 the perfumer, with a sweet smile, and a low 
 inclination, " far be it from me to oppose you. 
 Every one, as you say, should be prepared for 
 all things ; and I hold that man not half pre- 
 pared who does not possess the means of limit- 
 ing the power his enemies have over him to 
 simple death, a fate that all must undergo. 
 Men think far too much of death : it is but cut- 
 ting off a few short hours from a long race of 
 pain and anxiety : far oftener is it a mercy than 
 a wrong. Men think too much of death !" 
 
 " You think little enough of it in others, at 
 least," answered Beatrice, looking upon him 
 with curiosity and hate, not unmingled with 
 that peculiar kind and degree of admiration, 
 which wonder always more or less produces. 
 " Have I not heard that you were busy amongst 
 the busiest on the night of St. Bartholomew?" 
 
 " Not I, lady! not I!" exclaimed the per- 
 fumer, with a look of disgust and horror at the 
 very name of that fearful massacre. " Not I, 
 indeed ! not for the world would I have borne a 
 
186 
 
 part, either in that shameful affair, or in the 
 late brutal murder of the great Duke and the 
 Cardinal de Guise." 
 
 " Why, how now !" cried Beatrice. " Would 
 you, who hold life so lightly, and take it so 
 carelessly from others ; would you affect scru- 
 ples at slaying those you consider heretics, or 
 at putting away ambitious tyrants ? " 
 
 " Lady, you mistake it altogether," answered 
 the dealer in poisons, with a grim smile. The 
 Huguenots are heretics, and damnable heretics, 
 since such is your good pleasure and the 
 Pope's : but in that capacity I have nought 
 to do with them. The Guises were tyrants 
 if you will; though Heaven forbid that any 
 ears but yours should hear me say so ! But 
 they tyrannised not over me. What I ob- 
 jected to, was the manner of the thing ; 
 and it is the manner that, in this world, 
 makes the only difference between crime and 
 virtue. What is murder in one manner, is war 
 and glory in another ; what is fraud in a mer- 
 chant, is skill in a minister ; what is base when 
 
187 
 
 done in a burgher's coat and with a simpering 
 smile, is noble when done in royal robes and 
 with a kingly frown. Now, what could be 
 more beastly, or brutal, or indecent, than to 
 cut the throats of some hundreds of men in 
 their beds, stain all their pillows with blood, 
 and throw the old admiral himself, half naked, 
 out of a window ? What could be more cruel 
 than to put them for hours in mortal terror ; 
 inflict upon them excruciating wounds, and, in 
 some instances, leave them half dead half living, 
 when the whole might have been effected with- 
 out pain, without fear, -without bloodshed, in 
 the midst of some gay banquet, or some plea- 
 sant carouse : where they would all have died 
 as if they were going to sleep ! Nay, nay, 
 lady ! our late royal mistress made there a great 
 and a cruel mistake ; and as for the Guises, — 
 Pho ! was ever any thing so stupid and so filthy 
 as to swim the King's own closet with gore, and 
 have a man reeling and tumbling about in the 
 midst, under the strokes of half a dozen dag- 
 gers ! I cannot conceive how the King, who is 
 
188 
 
 as delicate a gentleman as any in all France, 
 could consent to such an indecency ! " 
 
 Beatrice of Ferara listened, but she thought 
 deeply too ; for there was something in the 
 character of the man who spoke — such a blend- 
 ing of frivolity and foppery with cold-blooded 
 villainy, that it led her thoughts far on into 
 the wilds of speculation ; and was not without 
 its moral for herself. She saw, from his ex- 
 ample, how easy it is for any one to persuade 
 oneself of any thing on earth, however much 
 opposed to reason, or to virtue. She saw that 
 there are no bounds to self-deceit, that it is 
 illimitable, and that there was never yet a 
 crime so base, so horrible, so revolting, for 
 which it will not find a pleasant mask and a gay 
 robe : — she saw it, and she began to doubt 
 whether all her own reasonings in regard to self- 
 destruction had not derived their strength from 
 the same source. She resolved that, ere she ever 
 thought again of attempting such an act, she 
 would consider well, and scrutinise her own 
 feelings minutely; but still, with the usual 
 
189 
 
 weakness of human nature, she would not lose 
 her hold upon the means of doing that which 
 she more than half believed to be wrong. 
 Without replying to the perfumer's dissertation, 
 she turned thoughtfully towards the door ; but, 
 as she did so, she took the poison which she 
 had purchased from the table, and concealed it 
 in her bosom. 
 
 Armandi hastened to open the door between 
 the inner and the outer shop, and, with low 
 reverence, presented the tips of his delicate 
 fingers to lead the lady to her chair ; but at 
 that very moment the clatter of many horses' 
 feet, and the rush and murmur of a passing 
 crowd, made them both pause, and turn their 
 eyes towards the street. The matter did not 
 remain long unexplained. A considerable 
 body of those mercenary soldiers, who, from 
 their blackened arms, were called the black 
 reitres, were passing along before the house : 
 but their march through the streets of Paris was 
 so common an occurrence, that it would have 
 attracted no crowd to gaze, in the present in- 
 
190 
 
 stance, had not some additional circumstance 
 given another kind of interest to their appear- 
 ance on this occasion. In the midst of them, 
 however, well mounted, but disarmed, appeared 
 a handsome and noble-looking young man, — 
 no other than the Marquis of St. Real, — fol- 
 lowed by about twenty retainers, also disarmed, 
 and bearing those black scarfs which were, at 
 that time, symbols of military mourning. There 
 was nothing either depressed or anxious in the 
 countenance of St. Real ; and he gazed about 
 at the many interesting objects which the streets 
 of the capital presented, with the calm and in- 
 quiring glance of a person mentally at ease : 
 but, at the same time, on either side of the file 
 in which he and his followers rode, appeared 
 a body of the reitres, with their short match- 
 locks rested on their knee, their hands upon 
 the triggers, and their matches lighted; evi- 
 dently showing, that those they guarded were 
 brought into Paris in the condition of pri- 
 soners. 
 
 The moment this spectacle met her eyes, 
 
191 
 
 Beatrice de Ferara called to the armed attend- 
 ant who had accompanied her chair, and who, 
 like his mistress, had now turned. to gaze upon 
 the cavalcade as it passed by. "Quick! "she 
 cried, " follow them quick, Bertrand I follow 
 them quick, and leave them not till you see 
 their prisoner safely lodged. Make sure of the 
 place, and then bring all the tidings you can 
 gather to me." 
 
 The servant, accustomed to comprehend and 
 to obey at once the orders of a mistress whose 
 mind was itself as rapid as the lightning, sprang 
 from the door, without a word, and, mingling in 
 the crowd, followed the reitres on their way. 
 Beatrice remained in silence till the last had 
 passed, and then, entering her chair, was borne 
 back to her own dwelling. 
 
192 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 We must now turn to trace the proceedings of 
 Philip Count d'Aubin, who, riding on at full 
 speed, drew not his bridle rein till he reached 
 the magnificent Hotel de Guise; where, pushing 
 through the mingled crowd of attendants and 
 petitioners, that swarmed around the porte 
 cochere of the dwelling, in which, for the time, 
 resided all the power of Paris, if not of France, 
 he advanced, with hasty steps and abstracted 
 look, to the foot of the great staircase. He 
 had even proceeded some way up the stairs ere 
 he noticed, or even seemed to hear, the reiter- 
 ated inquiries regarding his name and business, 
 which were addressed to him by the various 
 grooms and porters in his progress. When, at 
 length — called for a moment from his fit of ab- 
 sence — he did condescend to speak, he merely 
 
193 
 
 mentioned his name, without indicating in any 
 manner which of the many persons that the 
 house contained was the object of his present 
 visit. 
 
 Although unacquainted with his person, the 
 valet, who had at length obtained an answer, 
 happening to recal some of the court scandal of 
 former times, instantly, by an association not 
 unnatural, connected the coming of the Count 
 d'Aubin with the presence of the Duchess de 
 Montpensier, the sister of the Duke de May- 
 enne, in the house at that moment ; and he 
 proceeded forthwith to show the Count to her 
 apartments. D'Aubin entered the splendid 
 saloon in which the Duchess was sitting 
 with the same thoughtful and abstracted air 
 which had been left behind by the strong and 
 turbulent passions, that had just been excited 
 in his bosom by his interview with Beatrice 
 of Ferara. Madame de Montpensier, sur- 
 rounded by a group of the gay idlers of the 
 capital, who even at that time mingled in their 
 character that degree of levity and ferocity 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 
 
 which marked with such dreadful traits the 
 first French revolution, was engaged in the 
 seemingly puerile employment of cutting out a 
 paper crown with a huge pair of scissors, the 
 sheath of which, black, coarse, and disfigur- 
 ing, was passed through the silken girdle that 
 spanned her beautiful waist. 
 
 Shouts of laughter were ringing through the 
 hall, when the valet opened the door, and an- 
 nounced the Count d'Aubin. The Duchess 
 instantly looked up, with a smile of pleasure ; 
 but, remarking the ruffled aspect of the Count, 
 she instantly exclaimed, u Why, how now, 
 D'Aubin ! how now ! After so long an absence, 
 do you come back to our feet, not like a peni- 
 tent suing for pardon, but rather like a harsh 
 husband, full of scoldings and tempests?" 
 
 The cause of those gloomy looks, which she 
 remarked, was not one which Philip d'Aubin 
 would willingly have communicated to the gay, 
 satirical Duchess de Montpensier, who, to the 
 libertine freedom common to the whole court, 
 added many a wily art, and many a vindictive 
 
195 
 
 passion, derived from trie angr y political factions 
 of the time. The immediate cause of his visit 
 to Paris, however, afforded him a ready motive 
 to assign for his dark brow and agitated look. 
 " Well may I be disturbed, madam," he replied, 
 after a hasty word of salutation, " when my 
 noble cousin, St. Real, confiding in an authentic 
 pass, from the hands of your Highness's brother, 
 has been entrapped in the neighbourhood of 
 Senlis, and is now, as I am well informed, a 
 prisoner in Paris ! " 
 
 * Nay, but why bear such a countenance into 
 our presence, Count d'Aubin?" rejoined the 
 Duchess ; " I am guiltless of entrapping your 
 cousin, or of even trying to entrap yourself; 
 though, once upon a time ;" she added, in a 
 low tone, " I may have seen the Count d'Aubin 
 a tassel not unwilling to be lured ;" and she 
 looked up at him with a glance in which re- 
 proach was so skilfully mingled with playfulness 
 and tenderness, that D'Aubin, although he 
 knew that full two thirds of the pageant, which 
 daily played its part on her countenance, was 
 k 2 
 
196 
 
 mere artifice, could not refrain from smiling in 
 his turn. 
 
 " Ever willing to be lured, dear lady, where 
 the lure is fair ! " he replied ; " and though I 
 certainly came to speak reproaches, they were 
 not to you. I know not why your blockhead 
 groom," he added, " brought me hither, unless 
 he divined, indeed, how much the sight of your 
 Highness softens all wrath. My business was 
 with your brother, the Duke of Mayenne." 
 
 The Duchess muttered to herself, " That will 
 never do ! If he see Mayenne, he will spoil the 
 whole ! — I appeal to you, fair ladies and gen- 
 tlemen all," she exclaimed aloud, with one of 
 those quick and happy turns of artifice, which no 
 one knew better how to employ, " if this is not 
 a high crime and misdemeanour in the court of 
 love and gallantry, to tell a lady, whom he dare 
 not deny to be fair, that he came for any other 
 purpose on earth than to see herself? " 
 
 " Blasphemy! blasphemy! utter blasphemy!" 
 cried half a dozen voices. " Judge him, fair 
 lady, for his great demerits ! " 
 
197 
 
 " Philip d'Aubin!" exclaimed the Duchess, 
 putting on a theatrical air, " you are condemned 
 by your peers ; but, under consideration of your 
 having been thoroughly brutalised, by a two 
 months' residence at the distance of a hundred 
 leagues from Paris, we are inclined to show you 
 lenity : kneel down here, then ! humbly, at our 
 feet, confess your crime ! and swear upon this 
 paper crown, which we have cut expressly for 
 the royal Henry's head, never to commit the 
 like iniquity again ! " 
 
 D'Aubin had entered the apartment, not very 
 well disposed to jest ; but yet the feelings which 
 had oppressed him were of such a nature, that he 
 was quite willing to forget them ; and the smiles 
 of the Duchess de Montpensier, as well as the 
 tone of tenderness she assumed towards him, 
 together with the remembrance of many gay 
 moments, spent in her society long before, made 
 him gladly enough take up the part that she 
 assigned him. Bending his knee gracefully 
 before her, then, he made confession of his 
 crime, declared his penitence, and, vowing, in 
 K 3 
 
198 
 
 the terms she had dictated, never to offend again, 
 he stooped his head to kiss the paper crown 
 which she held upon her knee. At the same 
 moment the Duchess bent forward, as if to 
 receive his vow, and, as she did so, she whispered, 
 rapidly, " Stay with me, D'Aubin, and I will 
 soon send these fools away." 
 
 The Count replied nothing, but rose ; and, 
 still holding the paper crown playfully in his 
 hand, demanded, in his ordinary tone, what was 
 the real intent and purpose of that fragile 
 mockery of the royal symbol. 
 
 The Duchess saw that he had heard, under- 
 stood, and was prepared to obey her whisper; 
 and she replied, " 'Tis exactly as I have told 
 you, most incredulous of men. When, by the 
 fate of war, or by the blessing of God, Henry, 
 calling himself the Third, shall be brought in 
 chains into Paris, it might be expected that the 
 sister of the murdered Guise," — and, as she spoke, 
 her eye flashed for a moment with all the fiery 
 spirit of her race; — " it might be supposed that 
 the sister of the murdered Guise should not 
 
199 
 
 bound her wishes for revenge, till she saw the 
 assassin's blood flow like water in the kennel. 
 But she is more charitable, or, rather, he is too 
 pitiful a thing to be worthy of severe punish- 
 ment. With these scissors shall be cut off 
 his royal locks, ere he quits the courtly world 
 for the world of the cloister ; and on his head 
 shall he bear this crown, from the door of Notre 
 Dame to the abbey of St. Denis, when he 
 goes to take the vows that exclude him for ever 
 from the world." 
 
 D'Aubin laughed. " So, this crown is for 
 king Henry ?" he exclaimed : " and have you 
 never thought, madam, of cutting out another, 
 from some different materials, for your noble 
 brother of Mayenne ? " 
 
 " It must be an iron crown, then," replied 
 the Duchess, tossing her head proudly; "and 
 he must hew it out for himself, with his good 
 sword." 
 
 " Rather a Cyclopean labour ! " answered 
 D'Aubin, " rather a Cyclopean labour I sus- 
 pect ! especially since Harry of Valois, to whom 
 k 4 
 
200 
 
 you deny the crown, has chosen to turn up his 
 hat with a Huguenot button." 
 
 "We shall see, we shall see!" replied the 
 Duchess : " I know, sir Count, you laugh at all 
 parties ; so I understand not why you should 
 cling so fondly to the rabble of accursed mur- 
 derers and heretics, who lie out there at St. 
 Cloud, like vipers in a garden." 
 
 D'Aubin laughed outright at the Duchess's 
 vehemence, and reminded her that some of her 
 near relations were amongst the rabble she so 
 qualified. 
 
 " They are none the less vipers for that," she 
 replied: and the conversation taking a turn 
 neither very wise nor very decent, may as well 
 be omitted in this place. It lingered on, how- 
 ever, from minute to minute, without the 
 Duchess making any apparent effort to fulfil the 
 promise she had made to D'Aubin, and send 
 away the idlers by whom she was surrounded. 
 Too long accustomed to the intriguing society 
 of Paris, and too well acquainted with the cha- 
 racter of the wily woman with whom he had 
 
201 
 
 now to deal, not to be armed at all points 
 against every art and deception, D'Aubin began 
 to suspect that the Duchess was trifling with 
 him for some particular purpose, and was seek- 
 ing to occupy him with other matters, till some 
 moment of importance, to himself or his cousin, 
 was irretrievably lost. 
 
 "Hark!" he exclaimed, as this thought 
 crossed his mind; " there is the clock of St. 
 Gervais striking one, and I must really seek 
 my lord the Duke." 
 
 " I hear no clock," replied the Duchess — nor 
 could she, for none had struck ; — "I hear no 
 clock ! But not yet, D'Aubin, not yet ; I am 
 not yet going to slip the jesses of my faucon 
 gentil, after having just recovered him from so 
 long a flight. Stay you with me, D'Aubin, and 
 I will send and see if my brother be within. 
 You go, Mont-Augier," she added, turning to 
 one of the young cavaliers, who instantly sprang 
 to obey her : but, ere he reached the door, the 
 Duchess, by a sudden movement, placed herself 
 near him ; and, while D'Aubin was for a mo- 
 k 5 
 
202 
 
 ment occupied by some other person present, 
 she said, in a low voice, " Do not return, do not 
 return: we must keep the Count away from 
 Mayenne, or they will together spoil some of 
 our best schemes." 
 
 D'Aubin's eye turned upon her; and his 
 quick suspicions might have gone far to coun- 
 teract her purposes, had not Madame de Mont- 
 pensier, almost as soon as Mont-Augier's back 
 was turned, contrived, on various pretences, to 
 dismiss the rest of her little court. Left thus 
 alone with a fascinating and beautiful woman, 
 who condescended to court his society, D'Aubin 
 could not resist the temptation to trifle away 
 with her half an hour of invaluable time, though 
 he knew all her arts, and even suspected that, 
 on the present occasion, they were employed 
 against him for insidious purposes. He was on 
 the watch, however, and, ere long, the clatter of 
 many horses' feet in the court-yard caught his 
 attention, and led him instantly to conclude that 
 the Duke of Mayenne was about to go forth, 
 without having seen him. It was now all in 
 
203 
 
 vain that Madame de Montpensier,who likewise 
 heard the sounds, and attributed them to the 
 same cause, endeavoured to occupy his attention 
 by every little art of coquetry. D'Aubin started 
 up, and, in gay, but resolute terms, expressed 
 his determination of seeing the Duke ere he left 
 the house. 
 
 To what evasion Madame de Montpensier 
 would have had recourse, is difficult to say; but, 
 ere she could reply, the door opened, and a 
 lady entered, whom we will not pause here to 
 describe. Suffice it, that she was the widow of 
 the murdered Duke of Guise, and that, though 
 her person wore the weeds, her face betrayed 
 few of the sorrows, of widowhood. 
 
 " Catherine ! Catherine ! " she exclaimed, en- 
 tering ; " there is our slow brother of Mayenne 
 just returned, and calling for you so quickly that 
 one would think he were himself as nimble as 
 Harry of Navarre." 
 
 " Returned! I knew not that he was absent I" 
 replied the Duchess de Montpensier, with an 
 air of irrepressible mortification, on finding that 
 k 6 
 
204 
 
 all her arts had been thrown away, and, instead 
 of preventing D'Aubin from seeing her brother 
 ere he went forth, had only tended to keep 
 the Count there till he returned. A meaning 
 smile, too, on the lip of D'Aubin, served to in- 
 crease her chagrin; and she exclaimed, with a 
 slight touch of pettish impatience in her tone, 
 " "Well, well, I go to him ; and you, my fair 
 sister, had better stay and console this tiresome 
 man, till my return." 
 
 The Duchess of Guise saw that something 
 had gone wrong : but D'Aubin laughed, and 
 replied, as Madame de Montpensier turned to- 
 wards the door, " May I request you to tell his 
 Highness that the tiresome man waits an au- 
 dience ; and, as his business will be explained 
 in few words, he will not detain the Duke so 
 long as he has detained Madame de Montpensier, 
 ■ — or as, perhaps, I might say, more truly, 
 Madame de Montpensier has detained him,- — 
 probably under a mistake ;" and he made her a 
 low and significant bow, to which she only 
 replied by shaking her finger at him as she 
 passed through the doorway. 
 
205 
 
 "Where is the Duke?" she demanded eagerly 
 of the pages in the corridor, who started up at 
 her approach ; and then, scarcely listening to 
 their answer, she hurried on to the room in 
 which she expected to find him, and opened 
 the door without ceremony. 
 
 The Duke was seated at a table, hastily seal- 
 ing some letters, while a courier, booted, spurred, 
 and armed, stood by his side, ready to bear them 
 to their destinations as soon as the packets were 
 complete. 
 
 " Why, how now, Catherine !" he exclaimed, 
 turning towards her as she entered, and, in so 
 doing, spilling the boiling wax over his broad 
 hand, without suffering the pain to produce the 
 slightest change of expression on his heavy, 
 determined countenance ; "why, how now, Ca- 
 therine ! you have been tampering, I find, with 
 things wherein you have no right to meddle. 
 What is this business about the young Marquis 
 of St. Real? Is it not bad enough that that rash 
 boy, Aumale, should lose me a battle beneath 
 the walls of Senlis, without my sister losing me 
 my honour?" 
 
206 
 
 " Tush, nonsense, Duke of Mayenne ! " re- 
 plied his sister ; " Nonsense, I tell you ! If you 
 intend that packet for Senlis, you may spare 
 the wax, and your trouble, and your fingers, for 
 it shall never go!" 
 
 " Indeed! " said the Duke, pressing firm upon 
 it the broad seal of his arms ; " indeed ! and 
 why not? Do you not know me better than 
 that, my fair sister ? Do you not know that my 
 word, or my safe-conduct, was never in life vio- 
 lated by myself, and never shall be violated by 
 any one else with impunity ? " 
 
 " All very true ! all very true, Charles of 
 Mayenne ! " she replied ; " but, in the first place, 
 I tell you that your safe-conduct cannot be said 
 to be violated, because some friends of mine 
 choose to help this young St. Real to pursue 
 his journey on the very road for which the safe- 
 conduct was given ; and, in the second place, 
 there is no use of sending to Mortfontaine or 
 Nanteuil either, for within an hour St. Real 
 will be, I trust, in Paris. 
 
 " Then within an hour he shall be set at li- 
 
207 
 
 berty!" replied the Duke; "for I shall suffer 
 no quibbling with my honour: he shall be free 
 to come and free to go, till the term of the safe- 
 conduct expires." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, Charles ! " replied the 
 Duchess ; "do not talk like the man in the 
 mystery. Send this fellow away, and let me 
 speak with you calmly ; for here is the Count 
 d' Aubin already in the house ; and, if you go on 
 vapouring in this way, you may miss a golden 
 opportunity of gaining more than the battle of 
 Senlis has lost." 
 
 The Duke made a sign for the courier to 
 withdraw. "I know your skill well, Kate!" 
 he said, as the man left the room, " and am far 
 from wishing to counteract your views; but 
 neither must you meddle with my schemes, nor 
 affect my honour. Now let me hear what it is 
 you have done, and what you propose to do." 
 
 "For the done first, then," replied Madame 
 de Montpensier: " what I have done is simply 
 this : — Hearing from good authority that this 
 St. Real had left his troops under the command 
 
208 
 
 of his Lieutenant, and, while his cousin D'Aubin 
 went to join Longueville at Chantilly, had shown 
 a strong inclination to seek the camp of the 
 Henrys before he came to Paris, I thought it 
 much better to change his destination, and bring 
 him hither, well knowing that the first step is 
 all. So much for the past! and now for the 
 future. Leave him but in my hands two 
 days ; and if, in that time, I do not find a 
 way, by one means or another, to make him 
 put his hand to the union, and draw his sword 
 for Mayenne, why, set him free, in God's name ! 
 and then talk of your honour and your safe- 
 conducts as much as you like. He shall be well 
 and kindly treated, upon my word ! " 
 
 The Duke smiled. " I doubt not that, Ca- 
 therine," he said ; " you and your fair sister of 
 Guise, who, I suppose, has some hand in the 
 affair, are not such hard-hearted dames, I know, 
 as to use harsh measures, when tender ones 
 will do." 
 
 " Well, well, Mayenne," she answered, " if 
 we bestow our smiles to promote your interest, 
 
209 
 
 you, at least, have no occasion to complain, 
 good brother : but you consent, is it not so V 1 
 
 "On condition that no harshness is used — 
 that I know not where he is — that I see him 
 not — and, that he finds no means for applying 
 for liberation to me : for on the instant I set 
 him free 1 " 
 
 " Manifold conditions!" replied his sister; 
 " but they shall be all complied with. And now 
 for the Count d'Aubin. If we can but win 
 St. Real, I will promise you D'Aubin ; for I 
 know one or two of the good Count's secrets, 
 which give me some tie upon him." 
 
 " I hold him by a stronger bond," replied the 
 Duke ; " the bond of interest, Catherine ; for, 
 by my faith, if he quit not soon him whom 
 Beatrice of Ferara calls the crowned Vice at 
 St. Cloud, I will give the hand of Eugenie de 
 Menancourt to some better friend of the League. 
 I am glad he is come, for I may give him a 
 gentle notice to decide more speedily. 
 
 At the name of Beatrice de Ferara, the cheek 
 of Madame de Montpensier reddened, and her 
 brow contracted ; and, without noticing the con- 
 
210 
 
 eluding words of her brother, she replied, " I 
 hate that woman, that Beatrice of Ferara !" and, 
 as she spoke, she moved absently towards the 
 door. The Duke marked her with a smile, and 
 followed, saying, " Well, well, where is this 
 Count d'Aubin?" 
 
 The Duchess led the way to the apartment 
 in which he had been left with the Duchess de 
 Guise, and where she still found him, bandy- 
 ing repartees with the fair widow, and with 
 the Chevalier d'Aumale, who had lately been 
 added to the party. The entrance of the Duke 
 of Mayenne, however, at once put a stop to the 
 light jests which were flying thick and fast; 
 and the Duke, without preface, entered upon 
 the subject of D'Aubin's journey to Paris. 
 
 " Good morrow ! Monsieur le Comte," said 
 he, with an air of unconsciousness, which his 
 somewhat inexpressive countenance enabled 
 him easily to assume. " Right glad was I of 
 your application for a safe-conduct last night, 
 doubting not that, by this time, you are heartily 
 tired of consorting with the effeminate rabble 
 
211 
 
 of painted minions and Huguenot boors gathered 
 together at St. Cloud, and are come to support 
 the Catholic faith, with a sharp sword, that 
 has been somewhat too long employed against 
 her." 
 
 " Your Highness's compliment to the sharp- 
 ness of my sword," replied D'Aubin, " does not, 
 I am afraid, extend to the sharpness of my wit ; 
 for the occurrences which have taken place 
 within the last five days are, surely, not calcu- 
 lated to bring over a cousin of the Marquis of 
 St. Real to the party of the Catholic League, 
 or to raise very high the character of dealers in 
 Spanish Catholicon." 
 
 The Duke of Mayenne turned a sharp and 
 somewhat angry glance upon Madame de Mont- 
 pensier; but to D'Aubin he replied, coldly, 
 " You seem angry, Monsieur le Comte d'Aubin; 
 and as it is far from my wish to give just cause 
 for anger to a French nobleman, whose good 
 sense, I am sure, will, sooner or later, detach him 
 from a party composed of all that is either infa- 
 mous or heretical, if you will explain the subject 
 
212 
 
 of your wrath, I will do all that is in my power 
 to satisfy you, if I shall find your complaints 
 just and reasonable." 
 
 " My complaint is simply this, my lord 
 Duke," replied D'Aubin, smiling at the air of 
 unconsciousness which Mayenne assumed: — " If 
 my imagination have not deceived me, some- 
 what less than a month ago, Charles Duke of 
 Mayenne vouchsafed, under the title of Lieu- 
 tenant-General of the kingdom, to grant a re- 
 gular safe-conduct to a noble gentleman called 
 the Marquis of St. Real, in order that the said 
 Marquis might visit, in safety, the capital of this 
 country, as well as the court of King Henry, in 
 order to judge between the factions which 
 strangle this unhappy land, and take his part 
 accordingly." 
 
 " True," said the Duke of Mayenne, bowing 
 his head, " true, we did so." 
 
 " Well, then, my lord," continued D'Aubin, 
 " is it not equally true that, when my cousin, 
 St. Real, thought fit to leave his forces at a 
 sufficient distance from either army to give him 
 
213 
 
 an opportunity of joining which he pleased 
 hereafter, and was advancing calmly to confer 
 with the King, he was entrapped by false in- 
 formation, surrounded by a party wearing the 
 green scarfs of the League, and carried off, in 
 direct contravention of the safe -conduct you 
 had given him ? " 
 
 " I will not affect to deny, Monsieur d'Aubin," 
 replied the Duke, — and Madame de Montpensier 
 looked in no small anxiety while he spoke ; — 
 " I will not affect to deny, that the rumour of 
 some such skirmish as you speak of has reached 
 me " 
 
 " Skirmish, my lord Duke!" exclaimed 
 D'Aubin; "there has been no skirmish in 
 the business ; the simple facts are these : — 
 My cousin, with only twenty gentlemen in his 
 train, was surrounded by a party of two hun- 
 dred men ; and, of course, offered no resistance. 
 He produced your safe-conduct, however; but 
 it was set at nought ; and the leaders of the 
 band gave him very sufficiently to understand, 
 that they had your own authority for what they 
 
214 
 
 did. Such, at least, is the account brought to 
 me by one of my cousin's attendants, who con- 
 trived to effect his escape : and I now make 
 the charge boldly and straightforwardly, in 
 order that you may have the opportunity of 
 clearing yourself at once ; or, that the spot of 
 darkness, which such a transaction must affix to 
 the character of the Duke of Mayenne, may be 
 stamped upon it in characters which no after- 
 time can efface." 
 
 The Duke reddened, and bit his lip. " You 
 make me angry, sir! he said, — you make me 
 angry ! " 
 
 "No cause for anger, my lord Duke," replied 
 D'Aubin, if you be clear of this transaction. It 
 is I who am a friend to the character of the 
 Duke of Mayenne, by giving him an instant 
 opportunity of clearing it ; — and let me say, my 
 lord, if you be not free from share in this bu- 
 siness," he added, sternly and boldly, " you 
 may find that you are not the only one who is 
 made angry : for, putting aside all respect to 
 your high rank, and to the station which you 
 
215 
 
 hold, I shall urge the matter against you as 
 noble to noble, and gentleman to gentleman." 
 
 " Was ever the like heard ? " exclaimed Ma- 
 dame de Montpensier. " Heed him not, Bro- 
 ther of Mayenne ! heed him not ; the man is 
 mad, raving mad ! " 
 
 " Not so mad, nor so foolish, lady," replied 
 D'Aubin," his lip bending into a slight smile, 
 " as to be turned from my purpose, either by 
 sweet words, or angry ones. My lord Duke," 
 he continued, approaching nearer to the Duke 
 of Mayenne, who had taken a hasty turn in 
 the room, as if to give his passion vent before 
 he spoke ; " my lord Duke, I mean not to 
 offend you ; but my cousin has suffered wrong, 
 and that wrong must be redressed." 
 
 " You have spoken too boldly, Count 
 d'Aubin," replied Mayenne, to whom the con- 
 siderations of policy had by this time restored 
 the calmness of which personal anger had 
 deprived him : " but I must make excuses for 
 the warmth of affection which you seem to 
 bear your cousin ; and, in reply to your charge, 
 
216 
 
 I have merely to say, that the first correct 
 information respecting this event" — and he 
 turned a somewhat reproachful glance upon 
 Madame de Montpensier — " has been received 
 from yourself; that the capture of your cousin 
 was unauthorised by, and unknown to, me ; 
 that I know not precisely in whose hands he is; 
 and, that I promise you, upon my honour, he 
 shall be set free as soon as ever I meet with 
 him. Farther still, I pledge myself to find 
 him and liberate him before three days have 
 expired, and to punish, most severely, those 
 who are concerned, in case he have met with 
 any ill-treatment whatever." 
 
 " Your promise goes farther than even I 
 could expect, my lord Duke," replied D'Aubin, 
 in a softened tone ; " and I most sincerely thank 
 you for having met so candidly a charge which 
 I may, perhaps, have urged too boldly, as 
 your Highness says. Forgive my hastiness, 
 my lord ; for, on my honour, in these times 
 of indifference, it is sometimes necessary to give 
 way to a little rashness, in order to show that 
 we have some heart and feeling left." 
 
217 
 
 " We esteem you all the more highly for it," 
 answered the Duke, and only regret, Monsieur 
 d'Aubin, that one who can so well feel what is 
 right and noble, in some points, should attach 
 himself to a party stained with murder, trea- 
 chery, falsehood, and many a vice that I will 
 not number ; while sense, and wisdom, and 
 good feeling should all induce him to take the 
 more patriotic part that we are in arms to 
 maintain." 
 
 " And, let me add, his own interest also," 
 said Madame de Montpensier, " should lead 
 him to join us here." 
 
 " Wisely reserving the best argument for the 
 last ! " joined in the Chevalier d'Aumale. " The 
 great God Interest, first cousin to the little God 
 Mammon, is powerful both with Catholic and 
 Huguenot, Leaguer and Royalist ; and, doubt- 
 less, beautiful priestess, if you can show that the 
 Deity favours the League more than its op- 
 ponents, you will soon bring over Monsieur 
 d'Aubin to worship at his shrine." 
 " That can be easily shown," rejoined the Duke 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 
 
 of Mayenne, following the idea of the Che- 
 valier d'Aumale, half in jest and half in earnest: 
 " Has not the god already put at our disposal 
 sundry Huguenot lands and lordships, purses 
 well stuffed with gold, and, above all, the hand 
 
 of more than one fair heiress ? On my word I 
 
 Monsieur d'Aubin," he added, assuming a more 
 serious and feeling tone, "far would it be 
 from me to hold out to you views of interest, 
 in order to bring you over to the party of the 
 Faith, did not those views of interest coincide 
 entirely with your honour, your reputation, 
 and your duty." 
 
 D'Aubin mused for a moment, and then an- 
 swered laughing, " I never yet did hear, my 
 lord, that interest did not bring a long train of 
 seeming virtues, to give greater strength to 
 her own persuasions : and yet, I do not see 
 how my honour could be raised by abandoning 
 my king at a moment of his greatest need ; 
 how my reputation could be increased by quit- 
 ting a party which I have long served ; or how 
 my duty is to be done by breaking my oath 
 of allegiance to my legitimate sovereign." 
 
219 
 
 " Thus, Monsieur d'Aubin," replied the 
 Duke: — " if you are a man of honour, — and 
 most truly do I hold you to be such, — you will 
 flee the society of those who have none ; if you 
 have a fair reputation, you will quit a court 
 whose very breath is infamy ; and, if you hold 
 sincerely to the Catholic faith, you cannot re- 
 fuse to turn your sword against its most invete- 
 rate enemies." 
 
 " No, no, my lord !" replied D'Aubin ; 
 " King Henry holds the Catholic faith as 
 well as yourself; and, indeed, loves monks 
 and priests rather better than either you or I 
 do. To him, also, have I sworn fidelity and 
 attachment, as my lawful sovereign; and I 
 will neither break my oath, nor forget my alle- 
 giance." 
 
 " Thank God, that the thread of a tyrant's 
 life is spun of very perishable materials ! " said 
 Madame de Montpensier, with a significant 
 glance at the Duchess de Guise ; ( ' and were 
 this Henry dead, we might well count upon 
 you, D'Aubin : is it not so ?" 
 L 2 
 
220 
 
 D' Aubin replied not for a moment ; and the 
 soft sleepy-eyed Duchess of Guise could not 
 refrain from pursuing the subject jestingly; 
 although her sister-in-law endeavoured, by a 
 chiding look, to stay her, till D' Aubin had an- 
 swered. " Perhaps the noble Count may be a 
 Huguenot himself,"she exclaimed: "who knows, 
 in these strange changeable times " 
 
 " Or, perhaps, this dearly beloved cousin of 
 his may have been one these twenty years," 
 said the Chevalier d'Aumale ; " for, shut up in 
 that old castle of theirs, these St. Reals may 
 have been Turks and infidels, for any thing 
 that we can tell." 
 
 " I wish there was as good a Catholic pre- 
 sent as St. Real," replied D' Aubin ; " and as 
 for myself, though not very learned in all its 
 mysteries, I hold the faith of my fathers, and 
 will not abandon it. My lord of Mayenne, I 
 would fain speak with you for one moment, in 
 this oriel here," he added. 
 
 The Duke of Mayenne instantly complied ; 
 and, advancing with the Count into the deep 
 
221 
 
 recess of one of the windows at the farther end 
 of the room, he listened to what D'Aubin had 
 to say, and then replied gravely. The Count 
 rejoined ; and, though the subject which they 
 discussed seemed to interest them highly, it 
 might be inferred, from the laughter which 
 occasionally mingled with their discourse, that 
 their conversation had taken a turn towards 
 some topic less unpleasant than that which 
 had been broached at the beginning of their 
 first interview. 
 
 In the meantime, however, a new personage 
 had been added to the party at the other end of 
 the room. He was a tall gaunt man, of about 
 five and forty ; with aquiline features, a keen 
 kite-like eye, fine teeth, and curly hair and 
 beard : in short, he was one of those men who 
 are called handsome by people in whose com- 
 putation of beauty the expression of mind, and 
 soul, and feeling make no part of the account. 
 His dress was not only military, but of such a 
 character as to show that his most recent occu- 
 pation had been the exercise of his profession. 
 L 3 
 
The steel cuirass was still upon his shoulders, 
 the heavy boots upon his legs ; and, though 
 some attempt had been made to brush away the 
 dust of a journey, a number of long brown 
 streaks, on various parts of his apparel, evinced, 
 that whatever toilet he had made had been 
 hasty and incomplete. 
 
 As soon as Madame de Montpensier caught 
 the first glance of his person entering the 
 saloon, she made him an eager sign not to 
 come in ; but he either did not perceive, or was 
 unwilling to obey the signal, and proceeded, 
 with an air of perfect assurance, till the Duchess, 
 starting up, advanced to meet him ; trusting, 
 apparently, that the eager conversation which 
 was going on between D'Aubin and the Duke 
 would prevent either of them from remarking 
 her manoeuvres at the other end of the room. 
 
 " What, in misfortune's name, brought you 
 here ? " she said, giving a hasty glance towards 
 the oriel, and perceiving at once that she 
 must make the best of what had occurred, for 
 that D'Aubin's eye had already marked the 
 
entrance of the stranger; "what, in misfor- 
 tune's name, brought you here just now ? Here 
 is D'Aubin himself inquiring furiously after 
 this young kestril, that we have taken such 
 pains to catch ; and Mayenne, like a fool, 
 standing on his honour, has promised to set 
 him free as soon as ever he finds him. So, 
 you know nothing about the matter : pretend 
 utter ignorance ; and swear you have never seen 
 the young Marquis." 
 
 That I can well swear," replied the other, 
 in the same low tone, but with a slight Teutonic 
 accent ; " that I can well swear, most beautiful 
 and charming of princesses ! for I took especial 
 care to keep out of the way while the poor 
 bird was being limed; and have ridden on 
 before to tell you that, by this time, he must 
 be safe in my house, in the rue St. Jacques." 
 
 " Keep him close and sure, then," replied 
 Madame de Montpensier, " at least till his 
 shrewd cousin is out of the city ; for Mayenne 
 will let us keep him but two days ; and we must 
 work him to our purpose before that time 
 L 4 
 
2H 
 
 expires." She had just time to finish her 
 sentence, ere Mayenne and D'Aubin quitted 
 the recess of the oriel window; and the lat- 
 ter, advancing towards the place where she 
 stood, addressed her companion as an old ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 " Ha! Sir Albert of Wolfstrom," he said, 
 with an ironical smile, " faithful and gallant 
 ever! Receiving the soft commands of this 
 beautiful lady with the same devotion as in 
 days of yore, I see ! But T have reason to 
 believe that you are lately become acquainted 
 with one of my cousins, and have laid him under 
 some obligations." 
 
 " No, no ;" replied Wolfstrom, with a grin 
 which showed his white teeth to the back; 
 " no, no : if you mean Monsieur de Rus, we 
 have been very intimate ever since that night 
 when we three played together at Vincennes, 
 and when I won from you ten thousand livres, 
 Monsieur d'Aubin." 
 
 " Well, well, I will win them back again," 
 replied D'Aubin, " the first truce that comes." 
 
225 
 
 " I don't know that," rejoined the German ; 
 " you are always unlucky with the dice, 
 D'Aubin : you should be more careful, or, by 
 my faith, the Jews will have all your fine estates 
 in pawn." 
 
 D'Aubin coloured deeply; for, as Wolfstrom 
 well knew, the hint that he threw out of exces- 
 sive expenses, and consequent embarrassments, 
 went home. Mayenne, however, who by those 
 words gained a new insight into the situation of 
 the Count, smiled, well satisfied ; assured, from 
 that moment, that those who had it in their 
 power to grant or to withhold the hand of 
 the rich heiress of Menancourt would not 
 be long without the support of Philip of 
 Aubin. 
 
 The Count recovered himself in a moment ; 
 and, turning the matter off with a pointed jest, 
 which hit the German nearly as hard, he pre- 
 pared to take his leave before any thing more 
 unpleasant could be said. 
 
 u I shall look for the performance of your 
 l 5 
 
226 
 
 promise, my lord Duke/' he said, as he turned 
 to depart; " and three days hence shall hope 
 to hear that my cousin has been liberated." 
 
 " Come, to make sure of it, yourself," replied 
 Madame de Montpensier, holding out to him 
 her hand, which he raised with gallant reverence 
 to his lips ; " come, to make sure of it, your- 
 self. Come and sup with me at Rene Ar- 
 mandi's, our dearly beloved perfumer, who has a 
 right, choice, and tasteful cook ; and, though 
 the profane rabble insist upon it that he used to 
 aid our godmother, of blessed memory, Cathe- 
 rine, mother of many bad kings, in sending to 
 heaven, or the other abode, various persons, to 
 prepare a place for her, we will ask him, on 
 this occasion, to give us dainties, and not 
 poisons." 
 
 ' ' You must send me a safe-conduct, how- 
 ever," replied D'Aubin, laughing, " and I will 
 come with all my heart." 
 
 (t A safe-conduct you shall have," answered 
 Mayenne, " and as many as you like. But, 
 remember, I do not make myself responsible 
 
227 
 
 for Armandi no, nor Catherine, either," he 
 
 added, with a smile. 
 
 " Oh ! I will trust her Highness/' replied 
 D'Aubin: " the only thing I fear are her 
 eyes ; " and, with a low bow, and a glance which 
 left it difficult to determine whether the gallant 
 part of his speech was jest or earnest, he took 
 his leave, and, mounting his horse, rode away 
 towards the gates of Paris. 
 
 " He teazes me, that Count d'Aubin," said 
 Madame de Montpensier : " I don't know whe- 
 ther to love him, or to hate him." 
 
 " Oh ! if he teazes you, you will love him, of 
 course," replied the Chevalier d'Aumale. 
 
 " I think you may love him, Kate," replied, 
 the Duke. "At all events, one thing is very 
 certain, that Philip Count d'Aubin is varying 
 fast towards the League ; and if you, Catherine, 
 by some of your wild schemes, do not spoil 
 my more sober ones, we shall soon have him 
 as one of our most strenuous and thorough- 
 going partisans : for you know, Wolfstrom," he 
 added, laying his broad hand significantly upon 
 l 6 
 
the iron-covered shoulder of the German, who, 
 together with three thousand lansquenets, had 
 deserted from the party of Henry the Third, on 
 the pretence of wanting pay ; " for you know, 
 Wolfstrom, there is no one so zealous as a re- 
 negade!" 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 Those were busy days in Paris ! So manifold 
 were the intrigues, so frequent the changes, so 
 rapid the events, of that time, that it would have 
 required almost more than mortal strength and 
 activity, in those who played any prominent 
 part amongst the factions of the day, to accom- 
 plish the incessant business of every succeeding 
 hour, had not that levity, for which the Pari- 
 sians have been famous in every age of history, 
 stood them in better stead than philosophy 
 could have done, and taught them to consider 
 the fierce turmoil of party, the eager anxiety of 
 intrigue, and even the appalling scenes of strife 
 and bloodshed in which they lived, rather as 
 playthings and as pageants, than as fearful 
 realities. 
 
 No sooner had the conference terminated, of 
 which we have given an outline in the last 
 
230 
 
 chapter, than Madame de Montpensier, leaving 
 her brother of Mayenne to break his somewhat 
 bitter jest upon the leader of the lansquenets, 
 hurried from the room ; but, ere the con- 
 versation which succeeded was over, though it 
 lasted but a very brief space, she reappeared, 
 covered with what was then called a penitent's 
 cloak, and holding her mask in her hand, as if 
 prepared to go forth. 
 
 Beckoning "Wolfstrom towards her, she spoke 
 with him for a few moments, in an under tone ; 
 and then, concluding with, " Well, be as quick 
 as possible, and bring me some certain tidings," 
 she again quitted the apartment, without making 
 Mayenne, who was conversing upon lighter mat- 
 ters with the Duchess de Guise and the Chevalier 
 d'Aumale, a sharer in her plans and purposes. 
 
 "We shall not follow the progress of her chair 
 through the long, tortuous, busy streets of 
 Paris; nor record how her attendants cleared 
 the way through many a crowd, gathered toge- 
 ther round the stall of some great bookseller, or 
 before the stage on which some itinerant friar, 
 
231 
 
 like a mountebank of modern times, sold his 
 treasure of relics, or chaplets, or authentic pic- 
 tures of saints and martyrs, or the still-valued 
 indulgence, which the church of Rome did not 
 fail to grant to those who had money and folly 
 enough to purchase either the right of eating 
 flesh, while others were doomed to fish, or the 
 gratification of any other little carnal inclina- 
 tion, not held amongst irremissible sins. Suf- 
 fice it that — amidst stinks, and shouts, and 
 bawb'ngs, mingled now and then with the 
 " shrill squeaking of the wry-necked fife," and 
 various savoury odours wafted from the kitchens 
 in which cooks, and traiteurs, and aubergistes 
 prepared all sorts of viands, from the fat quail, 
 and luscious ortolan, to good stout horse-flesh 
 and delicate cat — the Princess's vehicle bore 
 her on, till wide at her approach flew open the 
 gates of the Dominican convent, in the rue 
 St. Jacques, and, entering the first court, the 
 Duchess was set down, under the archway, on 
 the left-hand side. 
 
 After whispering a word to the frere por- 
 
232 
 
 tier, the errant daughter of the noble house 
 of Guise was led through the long and narrow 
 passages of the building, not to the parlour 
 which usually formed the place of reception by 
 the priors of the convent, but to a small room, 
 which had but one door for entrance, and but 
 one narrow window to admit the needful light. 
 The furniture was as simple as it could be, con- 
 sisting of five or six long-backed ebony chairs, 
 a table, a crucifix, a missal, and a human skull, 
 not, as usual, nicely cleaned and polished, so as 
 to take away all idea of corruption from the 
 round, smooth, meaningless ball of shining bone, 
 but rough and foul as it came from the earth, 
 with the black dirt sticking in the hollows 
 where once had shone the light of life, and the 
 green mould of the grave spreading faint and 
 sickly over the fleshless chaps. 
 
 Standing before the table, with his arms 
 crossed upon his breast, and his dark gleaming 
 eye fixed upon the memento of the tomb, stood 
 a tall pale man, habited in the black robe of a 
 prior of the order of St. Dominick, with the 
 
233 
 
 white under-garment of the Dominicans still 
 apparent. He raised his eyes as the Duchess 
 entered, but fixed them again immediately upon 
 the skull ; and, ere he proceeded to notice in 
 words the approach of his visitant, he muttered 
 what appeared to be a brief prayer, and bowed 
 towards the cross. 
 
 " Welcome, madam !" he said, at length; " I 
 have been eagerly expecting you ; for it will not 
 be long ere vespers, and we have much to con- 
 sider." 
 
 " I have been forced to delay," replied the 
 
 Duchess, "in order to save some of our very 
 best schemes from going wrong. But is not 
 
 Armandi come ? He should have been here an 
 
 hour ago." 
 
 " He is here, though he has not been here so 
 
 long," replied the Prior. " I made them keep 
 
 him without till you came ; for I love not his 
 
 neighbourhood." 
 
 " I ought to pray your forgiveness, father, 
 
 for bringing him here at all," replied the 
 
 Duchess ; " but, in truth " 
 
234 
 
 " Make no excuse, lady, make no excuse ! " 
 replied the Prior. " We labour for the holy- 
 church, — we labour for the faith; and there is no 
 weapon put within our reach by God, but we 
 have law and licence to use it against the rank 
 and corrupted enemies of the church militant 
 upon earth. Did not the blessed St. Domini ck 
 himself say, ' Let the sword do its work, and let 
 the fire do its work, till the threshing-floor of 
 the house of God be thoroughly purged and 
 purified of the husks and the chaff which pollute 
 it?' Did not he himself lead the way in the 
 extirpation of the heretics of old, till the rivers 
 of Languedoc, from their source even to the 
 ocean, flowed red with the foul blood of the 
 enemies of the faith ? And shall we, his poor 
 followers, halt like fastidious girls at any means 
 of pursuing the same great object, of obtaining 
 the same holy end ? As I hope to reach the 
 heaven that has long received our sainted 
 founder, if this Armandi can find means of ac- 
 complishing our mighty purpose, I will embrace 
 him as a brother, and pronounce with my own 
 
235 
 
 lips his absolution from all the many sins of his 
 life, on account of that worthy act in defence of 
 the Catholic faith. — Shall I call him in?" 
 
 "By all means!" said the Duchess, seating 
 herself near the table ; " by all means ! let us 
 hear what he has devised." 
 
 The Prior of the Dominican, or rather, as it 
 was called in Paris, the Jacobine, convent, pro- 
 ceeded to the door, and made a sign to some 
 one, who, standing at the end of the long pas- 
 sage, seemed to wait his commands ; and, after 
 a momentary pause, an inferior brother of the 
 order appeared, introducing the perfumer, 
 habited in the same silks and velvets wherewith 
 we have seen him clothed when visited by 
 Beatrice of Ferara, about an hour before. With 
 a courtly sliding step, inclined head, and rounded 
 shoulders, Armandi advanced towards the spot 
 where the Duchess was seated ; and, after laying 
 his hand upon his breast, and bowing low and 
 reverently, drew back a step beside her chair, 
 as if waiting her commands, with a look of deep 
 humility. The Prior of the Jacobines seated 
 
2S6 
 
 himself at the same time, and looked towards 
 the Duchess, as if unwilling himself to begin the 
 conversation with the worthy coadjutor who had 
 just joined them. Madame de Montpensier, 
 whose acquaintance with Armandi was of no 
 recent date, had not the same delicacy on the 
 subject, but at once began, in the familiar and 
 jocular tone which the light dames of Paris 
 were but too much accustomed to use, towards 
 the smooth minister of evil that stood before 
 her : " Well, pink of perfumers," she said, 
 " let us hear what means your ingenious brain 
 has devised for accomplishing the little object 
 I mentioned to you some days ago." 
 
 " Beautiful as excellent, and bright as 
 noble ! " replied Armandi, in his sweetest tone ; 
 " adorable princess, whose charms the lowest 
 of her slaves may reverently worship, sorry I 
 am to say, that the enterprise which you have 
 been graciously pleased to propose to me, I ! — 
 luckless I ! — am unable to undertake." 
 
 The Duchess heard all his rhodomontade 
 upon her charms — although the very broadness 
 
237 
 
 of Armandi's flattery savoured somewhat of 
 mockery — with more complaisance than had 
 been evinced towards him by Beatrice of 
 Ferara ; but the Prior listened with impatience 
 to his waste of words, and seemed to hear his 
 concluding declaration with disappointment and 
 indignation. 
 
 " How is this?" cried he, "how is this? 
 Surely thou, unscrupulous in every thing, 
 affectest no vain qualms in regard to the ty- 
 rant at St. Cloud ! If thou holdest dear the 
 Catholic faith," — and the keen eyes of the Prior 
 fixed searching upon the soft smiling counte- 
 nance of the poisoner; — " if thou art not infidel, 
 or atheist, or Huguenot, thou wilt clear away 
 thy many sins, by exercising a trade, hellish in 
 other circumstances, in the only instance where 
 it is not only justifiable and praiseworthy, but 
 where, by the great deliverance of the church, 
 it may merit you hereafter a crown of glory. 
 Or is it, perchance," he added, " that thou fear- 
 est because this tyrant is a king, and the son of 
 thy former patroness ? I tell thee, that were he 
 
238 
 
 thine own brother, as a good Catholic, thou 
 shouldest not hesitate." 
 
 Armandi listened to the vehement declama- 
 tion of the monk with his usual composed air, 
 and half subdued smile, and at the end replied, 
 with every apparent reverence, " No, holy Father 
 Bourgoin; you mistake entirely your humble 
 and devoted servant. I am not so presump- 
 tuous as to think, that what such a holy man as 
 you tells me to do can be against either right 
 or religion ; and, besides, I would humbly be- 
 seech you to give me absolution for any thing I 
 might do at your command; so that, being a 
 sincere and devoted Catholic, my conscience 
 would be quite at ease." There was the 
 slightest possible curl on Armandi's lip as he 
 spoke, which in the eyes of the Dominican 
 looked not unlike a sneer ; but his manner, as 
 well as his words, was in every other point 
 respectful, and he went on in the same tone : — 
 " Neither is it, reverend father, that the royal 
 object of the ministry which you wish me to prac- 
 tise, has had more than one crown put upon his 
 
289 
 
 head, which makes me halt ; for I never yet could 
 discover that the holy oil with which he is 
 anointed has the least resemblance to that elixir 
 of life which forbids the approach of death ; or 
 that in the golden circlet with which his brows 
 are bound lies any antidote for certain drugs that 
 I possess. Nor am I moved by considering that 
 his most Christian Majesty is the son of my dear 
 and lamented mistress ; for, taking into account 
 the troublous world in which we live, and the 
 many difficulties, dangers, and disasters which 
 surround Henry at this moment, truly it would 
 be no uncharitable act to give him a safe and 
 easy passport to another world." 
 
 " Then why, why," demanded the Duchess, 
 " why do you hesitate to do so ?" 
 
 " Sweet lady ! it is because I cannot," an- 
 swered Armandi : " the King's precautions put 
 all my arts at fault. Not a dish is set upon his 
 table, but a portion of it is tasted two hours 
 before ; his gloves themselves are made within 
 the circle of the court; his own apothecary pre- 
 pares the perfumes for his toilet ; and the cos- 
 
240 
 
 metic mask which, he wears in bed, to keep his 
 countenance from the chill night air, is manu- 
 factured by his own royal hands." 
 
 Madame de Montpensier and the Prior looked 
 at each other with somewhat sullen and disap- 
 pointed looks ; and Armandi added, " Unless 
 you can get me admitted to his household, I 
 fear my skill can be of no avail.'' 
 
 " We have no such interest with the effe- 
 minate tyrant," replied Madame de Montpen- 
 sier, " and so this scheme is hopeless," she 
 added. " But I fear me, Armandi, that, from 
 some love to this tyrant, or to his minions, your 
 will is less disposed to find the means than the 
 means difficult to be found." 
 
 "No, as I live, beautiful princess!" an- 
 swered the poisoner, with more eagerness than 
 he often displayed. " No, as I live ! I had 
 once a daughter, lady, as beautiful as you are; 
 and it was her father's pride that she should be 
 wise and chaste : when, one mid-day, in the 
 open streets of Paris, my child was met by the 
 base minion, Saint Maigrin, hot with pride, and 
 
241 
 
 vice, and wine. He treated her as if she had 
 been an idle courtesan ; and how far he would 
 have carried his brutality, none but the dead 
 can tell, had not a gentleman, whose name I 
 know not, rescued her from his hands : although 
 so hurt and terrified, that, ere long, she died. I 
 called loudly for justice, lady — I called with 
 the voice of a father and a man ; but I was 
 heard by this Henry, who has never been a 
 father, and is but half a man. He mocked 
 me openly: but the house of Guise, in re- 
 venging their own wrongs, revenged mine ; 
 and you may judge whether I would not 
 willingly aid you to remove from the earth 
 one who has cumbered it too long." 
 
 " Then you absolutely cannot do it?" de- 
 manded the priest. 
 
 " I cannot," answered Armandi ; " but, if I 
 may say so, reverend father, I think you can." 
 
 " Ay, and how so?" demanded the Prior 
 eagerly : " if it rests with me, it is done ; for, 
 so help me Heaven ! if this right hand could 
 plant a dagger in his heart, I would not 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
242 
 
 pause between the conception and the act : 
 no, not the twinkling of an eye ! — no, not the 
 breathing of a 'prayer ! so sure am I that, by 
 so doing, f should better serve the Catholic 
 faith, than had I the eloquence of St. Paul 
 to preach it to the world. How can I do it?" 
 " Very simply, I think," replied the poi- 
 soner. " I have often remarked, standing by 
 the gate of your convent, or kneeling at the 
 shrines at Notre Dame, a dull, heavy-looking 
 man, pale in the face, strong in the body, and 
 having but little meaning in his eye, except, when 
 before some relic, or the image of some favourite 
 saint, a wild and uncertain fire is seen to beam 
 up but for a moment, and go out again as soon. 
 He seems about twenty years of age ; and I met 
 him now just going forth as I came hither." 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I know him well," replied the 
 Prior : " you mean poor Brother Clement ; a 
 simple, dull, enthusiastic youth, whose strong 
 animal passions now, most happily for him- 
 self, all centre in devotion." 
 
 A dark and bitter smile curled the lips of 
 
243 
 
 Rene Armandi as he listened to the Priori 
 account of the person on whom he himself had 
 fixed as a fit instrument for the foul and bloody 
 schemes that were agitated so tranquilly in 
 their strange conclave. "Yes," he said; " yes, 
 stupid he is ; wild, visionary, and enthusiastic, 
 he seems to be ; and the same animal passions, 
 which once plunged him in brutal lusts and 
 foul debauchery, may now act as a stimulus to 
 drive home the dagger in the cause of the Ca- 
 tholic faith ! " 
 
 The gleaming eyes of the Prior fixed sternly 
 upon the countenance of the poisoner while he 
 spoke ; and it seemed that no very Christian 
 feelings were excited in the bosom of the 
 monk by the bitter and sneering tone which 
 the Italian employed. The suggestion, how- 
 ever, which his words had implied, rather than 
 expressed, instantly caught his attention, and 
 diverted his mind towards more important 
 matter. Ha !" he exclaimed ; " ha ! think you 
 he could be prevailed upon ? " 
 
 " I have often remarked, reverend father," 
 M 2 
 
244 
 
 replied Armandi, who had caught the tran- 
 sitory look of wrath as it had passed over the 
 monk's countenance, and who, being but little 
 disposed to make an enemy of one both power- 
 ful and unscrupulous, now spoke in a milder 
 and more deferential tone ; "I have often re- 
 marked, reverend father, that there are men 
 in whose souls the animal part seems to be so 
 much stronger than the intellectual, that mere 
 appetite drives them on to coarse extremes in 
 every thing, however opposite and apparently 
 incompatible. Thus, do we not see," he asked, 
 lowering his tone, as if he suspected that the 
 case he was about to put might be that of his 
 auditor ; "do we not see that men, who, in 
 their youth, have given themselves up some- 
 what too freely to gallantry, and to those fair 
 sins which the church condemns in vain, in after- 
 years wear the bare stones with their bended 
 knees, and tire all the saints in the calendar 
 with penitence and prayer ? " 
 
 " Thou speakest profanely," said the Prior: 
 " is it not natural and just that men, who have 
 
245 
 
 great sins to atone for, should do the deeper 
 penance when their conscience is awakened 
 to repentance ? But what if it were even as 
 thou wouldst sneeringly imply ? How does 
 this affect our Brother Clement ?" 
 
 " If I reason wrongly," replied Armandi, " my 
 reasoning affects him not; but, if my view is 
 right, it matters much. I doubt, good father, 
 that it is always true repentance which brings 
 the libertine to the altar. My conviction is, 
 that it is but one appetite gone, and another 
 risen up in its place ; and amongst such men, 
 had I some good and reasonable cause, — some 
 powerful motive to stir them up to action, — it is 
 amongst such men, I say, that I should seek 
 for one to undertake fearlessly, and execute 
 resolutely, such a deed as that which has been 
 proposed to me : and let me say too," he con- 
 tinued, a natural tendency to sneer at his com- 
 panions getting the better of the moderation 
 he had assumed ; " and let me say, too, that 
 I would seek for one whose reasoning powers, 
 in the nice balance of the brain, would kick 
 m 3 
 
246 
 
 the beam when the opposite scale were loaded 
 with animal passion and vagrant imagination. 
 Do you understand me ? " 
 
 The Prior made no reply ; but, starting up 
 from his seat, walked up and down the room 
 with his hands clasped, his head bent, and his 
 lips muttering. In the meanwhile, Madame 
 de Montpensier beckoned Armandi towards 
 her, and held with him a brief conversation in 
 an under tone. His communication with her, 
 however, seemed to be much more free and 
 unrestrained than it had been with the monk ; 
 for jest and laughter appeared to take the place 
 of shrewd and somewhat bitter discussion ; 
 and, though looks of intelligence and significant 
 gestures made up fully one half of what passed, 
 the lady and the poisoner seemed to under- 
 stand each other perfectly. Their convers- 
 ation ended by Madame de Montpensier ex- 
 claiming aloud, " Oh, never fear, never fear ! 
 To attain that object I will act the angel my- 
 self, and go any lengths in that capacity." 
 
 " Reverend father," continued the Princess, 
 
247 
 
 u this scheme is a hopeful one, easily exe- 
 cuted, and involving no great risk." 
 
 The Prior paused, and turned to listen to 
 the Duchess, who knew much better how to 
 treat him than Armandi. "What is the scheme, 
 lady?" he demanded: " as yet I have heard 
 of none, except vague hints regarding a brother 
 of the order, mingled with sneers at religion 
 and religious men, which, in better days, would 
 have had their reward." 
 
 " No, no, good father," replied the Duchess ; 
 " poor Armandi means no evil. Answer me 
 one or two questions : think you not that 
 Henry, — the excommunicated tyrant, the sa- 
 scrilegious murderer of one of the prelates of 
 the holy church, the friend of heretics, who 
 is at this moment doing all that he can to 
 spread heresy and destroy the Catholic faith in 
 France ; — think you not that he is without the 
 pale of law, and that any means are justifiable 
 to stop him in his damnable course, and save 
 the holy church and the Catholic population in 
 this country ? " 
 
 m 4 
 
248 
 
 " Not only do I think so," replied the Prior 
 vehemently, " but I think that he who does 
 stop him in his course will gain a crown of 
 glory, and would obtain, should death befal 
 him in the act, the still more glorious crown of 
 martyrdom." 
 
 " That is enough, that is enough ! " replied 
 the Duchess ; " I will explain to you the whole 
 scheme when we are alone. You, Armandi, 
 go and prepare every thing that you spoke 
 of, — the rose-coloured fire, and the dress, and 
 the wings, and come to me to-night, that we 
 may arrange all the rest." 
 
 With profound and repeated bows, the per- 
 fumer was in the act of taking his departure 
 from the apartment, where this somewhat ini- 
 quitous conference had taken place, when three 
 soft taps on the door arrested his progress, and 
 the next moment the same monk who had 
 ushered him thither on the arrival of the 
 Duchess announced that a noble gentleman, 
 without, craved to speak with Madame de 
 Montpensier, according to her own appoint- 
 ment. 
 
249 
 
 " Give him admittance, father ! give him 
 admittance!" cried the Princess; "it is our 
 faithful friend Wolfstrom, who brings me news 
 of other feats accomplished in the same good 
 cause that occupies us here." 
 
 The order for his admission was immediately 
 given by the Prior ; and as Armandi passed 
 out, the leader of the lansquenets entered, 
 exchanging glances of recognition with the 
 poisoner, the circle of whose acquaintances had 
 extended itself, by one means or another, to 
 almost every one possessing any degree of rank, 
 wealth, or influence in Paris. 
 
 " Well, lady!" said the soldier of fortune, 
 after a formal bow to the Prior, " the stag is 
 safely housed, and we wait but your commands 
 to follow up the sport." 
 
 " But have you learned any particulars of his 
 mind and character?" demanded the Duchess 
 eagerly ; " have you discovered which way we 
 best may lead or drive him to the point ? Re- 
 member, our time is but short, and much 
 remains to be done in those brief three days." 
 m 5 
 
250 
 
 " Good faith! there seems but little to be 
 learned, lady," replied the soldier. " As I 
 promised, I took care that he should have 
 companionship with none but those who would 
 take up every light word, to let us see into the 
 dark nooks of his heart, and report all truly 
 that they learned ; but, by the Lord ! it seems 
 that there are no dark nooks to be found out ! 
 All is open and clear ! he seems simple as the 
 day, religious in the true Catholic faith, Sir 
 Prior ; bold and calm, but having little to take 
 hold of, if it be not his devotion." 
 
 ' * Of whom speak you? " demanded the Prior, 
 while Madame de Montpensier fixed her fine 
 dark eyes thoughtfully on the ground ; " is it 
 of the young St. Real, of whom our noble lady, 
 here, spoke some days since ? " 
 
 Albert of Wolfstrom nodded ; and the Prior 
 also fell into a fit of meditation, seeming to 
 revolve, like the Duchess, the means of dealing 
 with one of those characters, whose right sim- 
 plicity of nature renders them much more 
 difficult to manage than even the wily, the 
 worldly, and the shrewd. 
 
251 
 
 94 We must think of this matter, Sir Albert," 
 said the priest, " we must think of this matter. 
 Is he in safety at your house, do you think ? " 
 
 99 Why, by my honour, that is doubtful," 
 answered the German. " My lansquenets have 
 active duty to perform ; people are coming in 
 and out at all hours ; and I never know when 
 his Highness the Lieutenant- General himself 
 may not make his appearance there. 
 
 "That will never do!" said the Duchess; 
 99 that will never do ! we must send him to 
 the Bastile. Mayenne will never venture 
 there ; for he knows very well that within 
 those walls he would meet many a sight which 
 his fine notions of honour and justice would 
 compel him to inquire into, to the mortification 
 of his policy, and the destruction of his pros- 
 pects. We must have him to the Bastile." 
 
 " Your pardon there, madame," said the 
 soldier, somewhat uncourteously ; " my prisoner 
 goes not to the Bastile, wherever he goes ! That 
 foul burgher demagogue Bussy le Clerc shall 
 hold at his good pleasure no prisoner of mine." 
 m 6 
 
252 
 
 Madame de Montpensier's dark eye flashed, 
 and her cheek reddened as she listened to the 
 hold tone of the mercenary leader ; hut all the 
 tangled and complicated political intrigues in 
 which his services were necessary, and perhaps 
 some more private considerations also, rendered 
 her unwilling to break with one whose faith 
 and integrity were somewhat more than doubt- 
 ful. She smothered her anger, therefore, and, 
 after a few moments' thought, replied, " I have 
 it, I have it ! He shall be brought here. 
 You say, Sir Albert of Wolfs trom, that, not- 
 withstanding the intimacy of his father with 
 the Huguenots, he seems to hold fast by the 
 Catholic faith. You, reverend father, shall try 
 your oratory upon him ; and, if possible, we 
 must make him benefit by all that we do to 
 lead on Brother Clement to the point we de- 
 sire. You object not to this plan ; do you, Sir 
 Albert?" 
 
 "It is more hopeful than the Bastile," re- 
 plied the soldier ; " and I will bring him here 
 with all my heart: but yet," he continued, 
 
253 
 
 with a doubtful shake of the head: "but yet 
 — though I cannot well tell why — but yet I 
 have some fears that you will not find this 
 young roebuck so easy to manage as you 
 imagine. There is something about him, I 
 don't know what, that makes me doubt the 
 result." 
 
 " Oh ! but we have means that you know 
 not of," replied the Duchess, " which, if he be 
 in faith and truth a son of the holy church, 
 must bring him over to the Union for her 
 defence." 
 
 "Well, well, I will bring him here," said 
 the mercenary leader ; " and you, fair lady and 
 reverend father, must do the rest." 
 
 " Away, then, quick ! and you will find me 
 here at your return," replied the Duchess; 
 " but take care that you meet not with 
 Mayenne by the way, for he will set him 
 free to a certainty ; and then all that we 
 have done will only tend to drive him over to 
 the other party, instead of gaining a powerful 
 adherent for the League." 
 
254 
 
 " No fear, no fear ! " replied Wolfstrom. 
 " The distance is but a hundred yards ; and I 
 will post scouts at the end of the street before 
 we set out." So saying, the leader of the 
 lansquenets took his departure, leaving Ma- 
 dame de Montpensier with the Prior of the 
 Jacobine convent, with whom an eager and 
 interesting conversation instantly took place, 
 the consequences of which we may have to 
 detail hereafter. 
 
255 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 "We must now turn once more to the young 
 Marquis of St. Real ; and, although the events 
 which had befallen him since the death of his 
 father may have been gathered by the reader 
 from what has passed in the chapters imme- 
 diately preceding, it may not be unnecessary 
 to recapitulate here, as briefly as possible, the 
 occurrences which had placed him a prisoner in 
 the midst of Paris. 
 
 According to the promise which Henry of 
 Navarre had obtained from the old Marquis 
 of St. Real on his death-bed, that nobleman's 
 son, as soon as possible after the last rites had 
 been paid to his father's memory, had prepared 
 to take the field in behalf of one of the great 
 contending parties which then struggled for 
 mastery in France. He had applied for and 
 obtained, both from King Henry the Third, on 
 
256 
 
 the one part, and from the Duke of Mayenne 
 on behalf of the League, a safe-conduct to 
 visit the camp and the capital, accompanied by 
 twenty retainers. The rest of his forces, it 
 was expressly stipulated, were to remain at the 
 distance of fifteen leagues from the Royalist 
 army ; and the position of the two Kings, as 
 they advanced to lay siege to Paris, had com- 
 pelled him, in compliance with this stipulation, 
 to deviate from his direct road to Paris, and 
 accompany, for a short way, his cousin, who 
 was advancing to reinforce the troops of Lon- 
 gueville and La Noue. Although strongly 
 pressed by messengers from those two generals 
 to decide at once in favour of the royal cause, 
 and join the partisan force which they com- 
 manded, St. Real steadily refused to do so, 
 till, according to the determination he had 
 expressed, and in consideration of which he 
 had obtained a safe-conduct from Mayenne, he 
 should have visited the head-quarters of the 
 King and of the League. 
 
 As soon as he had obtained such a position 
 
257 
 
 for his forces as enabled him to leave them in 
 perfect security, he set out with his small train, 
 purposing to proceed first to the camp of the 
 two Henrys, as the nearest at the moment, 
 and then to visit Paris. He had scarcely 
 advanced, however, half a day's march on his 
 way, when he was suddenly surrounded by 
 an immensely superior body of reitres and 
 lansquenets, who had been sent forth from 
 Paris for the express purpose of obtaining 
 possession of his person. Plow Madame de 
 Montpensier had gained such accurate intel- 
 ligence of all his movements, was a matter 
 of surprise even to her own immediate con- 
 fidants ; but it was very well understood that 
 the orders, in consequence of which this bold 
 stroke was executed, emanated from her; 
 and the leaders of the mercenaries, who cap- 
 tured St. Real, were not only furnished with 
 the exact details of his line of march, but also 
 with a ready answer to the indignant appeal 
 which he instantly made, on his arrest, to 
 the safe-conduct he possessed under the Duke 
 
258 
 
 of Mayenne's own hand. That safe-conduct, 
 they replied, had been given him in order to 
 facilitate a peaceful visit to Paris ; while he, on 
 the contrary, had not only led his troops into 
 such a position as to enable him to give strong 
 support to the Duke of Longueville, but had 
 even detached a body to aid that nobleman in 
 the battle of Senlis. 
 
 It was in vain St. Real explained to his cap- 
 tors, that the troops which had left him were 
 the immediate retainers of his cousin, the Count 
 d'Aubin, over whom he had no authority, and 
 that he himself had positively refused to take 
 part with the Duke of Longueville. His re- 
 monstrance was without effect; and, although 
 he well knew his own innocence, he could not 
 but admit that the reasoning against him was 
 specious. In reply to all his explanations, the 
 Captain of the lansquenets simply urged that he 
 had no power to release him, and that his justi- 
 fication must be made to the Duke of Mayenne 
 himself. To submit, therefore, was a matter of 
 necessity ; and, as he was in every respect well 
 
259 
 
 treated, the young Marquis did submit without 
 any very angry feelings, concluding that he might 
 as well reverse the order of his proceedings, and 
 first visit Paris instead of the royal camp. 
 
 On his arrival in the capital, he demanded 
 to be carried instantly to the presence of the 
 Duke of Mayenne ; but this application was 
 evaded, it being boldly asserted by those who 
 held him in their hands that the Duke was 
 absent from the city. Hitherto his attendants 
 had been permitted to bear him company ; and, 
 as he had ridden through the crowded streets 
 of the city, he had felt less as a prisoner than 
 as a voluntary visiter of the great metropolis ; 
 but when, after having been detained for some 
 time at the house of Albert of Wolfstrom, he 
 was told that he must accompany his captor to 
 the convent of the Dominicans, whither only 
 one servant could be permitted to attend him, 
 he began to suspect that the bonds of his im- 
 prisonment were being straitened ; and he 
 remonstrated with calm but firm language, 
 reiterating his demand to be brought before 
 
260 
 
 the Duke of Mayenne, and expressing his 
 determination to hold the name of that noble- 
 man up to the reprobation of all honourable 
 men, if he suffered any of his adherents to 
 violate the safe-conduct from his hand with 
 impunity. 
 
 Wolfstrom, however, who on more than one 
 occasion had shown himself but little tender 
 of his own fair fame, could not be expected to 
 feel much solicitude for that of another ; and, 
 although he held the potent Duke in some 
 degree of awe, he had become hardened by the 
 impunity which every sort of falsehuod enjoyed 
 in the good easy times of civil war, and doubted 
 not that, in the end, he should find means of 
 extricating himself from the consequences of 
 the present intrigue, as he had done in regard 
 to many which had preceded, namely, by the 
 unlimited command of impudence, shrewdness, 
 and three thousand mercenaries. 
 
 He turned a deaf ear, therefore, to the com- 
 plaints of St. Real ; and the young Marquis was 
 conducted to the convent of the Jacobins, in the 
 
261 
 
 midst of precautions which he did not fail to 
 mark, and from which he augured little good in 
 regard to the intentions of his gaolers. 
 
 The distance from the dwelling of the mer- 
 cenary leader to the convent was but short ; 
 and the people of Paris were well accustomed 
 to see parties of soldiers pass through their 
 streets: but the indescribable pleasure of staring, 
 in this instance, as in all others, collected a 
 little crowd round the centre of bustle ; and 
 the gates of the Jacobins, as they opened to 
 receive St. Real, were surrounded by between 
 twenty and thirty persons of different conditions. 
 To those who have eaten sufficiently of the 
 tree of good and evil in a great capital to 
 know that they are naked, the presence of a 
 gaping mob to witness the fact of their being 
 dragged along like culprits by a party of rude 
 soldiers, would be a subject of annoyance. St. 
 Real felt injured, but not ashamed or afraid ; 
 and, fixing his eye upon the most respectable 
 personage of the crowd, he suddenly stopped 
 where he stood, and, ere any one could prevent 
 
262 
 
 him, exclaimed, in a loud and distinct voice, 
 " My friend, if the Duke of Mayenne be in 
 Paris, you will serve both him and me by 
 telling him that the Marquis of St. Real is 
 here detained, contrary to the Duke's safe- 
 conduct and his honour." 
 
 " You will tell him no such thing, as you 
 value your ears ! " shouted Albert of Wolf- 
 strom, fixing his eyes upon the Parisian with 
 a marking glance, which seemed to intimate 
 that he would not be easily forgotten by the 
 wrath of the German leader in case of disobe- 
 dience. The Parisian drew back, determined 
 from the very first to practise that sort of 
 wisdom which those long resident in great 
 cities, and much habituated to scenes of con- 
 tention and intrigue, do not fail to acquire ; 
 namely, to meddle with nothing that does not 
 personally concern them. There was another 
 person present, however, whose diminutive sta- 
 ture, and the simplicity of garb which he had as- 
 sumed, combined to conceal him from the notice 
 of either St. Real or the mercenary leader ; 
 
263 
 
 no other, indeed, than the young Marquis's 
 dwarf page, Bartholo ; who, peeping through 
 the open spaces between the other personages 
 that formed the little crowd, saw and heard all 
 that passed without attracting notice himself. 
 Slipping out at once from amongst the rest, he 
 made his way down the street, holding one of his 
 usual muttered consultations with himself. 
 
 " Now, shall I tell Mayenne," he said, " that 
 the great baby is caught, and shut up here in 
 the Jacobins, like a young imprudent rat, in 
 a politic rat-trap ; or shall I let him lie there 
 for his pains, till that spoilt boy, D'Aubin, has 
 married the other fair-haired baby, and that 
 matter is irrevocable ? " 
 
 He paused for a moment at the end of the 
 street, revolving the question he had put to 
 himself in silence. " No, no," he added, at 
 length; "no, no, there I might outwit myself! 
 these Leaguers are too cunning for that. If 
 they can't get St. Real on any other terms, 
 they may marry him to this Eugenie de Me- 
 nancourt, and spoil all my schemes at once. If 
 
264 
 
 Mayenne hears publicly where he is, he must 
 set him free, for his honour's sake. Then will 
 he go off, in the heat of his anger, to the people 
 at St. Cloud ; D'Aubin will come over to the 
 League, marry the girl, and all will be safe. 
 Yes, yes, to Mayenne ! I will to Mayenne ! " 
 
 In consequence of this determination, he 
 proceeded as quickly, but as quietly as possible, 
 to the Hotel de Guise, and demanded to speak 
 with the Duke of Mayenne, — a privilege which 
 every one in Paris claimed in regard to that 
 leader, whose power was principally based 
 upon his popularity. The Duke, however, had 
 by this time set out to watch the progress 
 of the skirmishes which were taking place 
 almost hourly in the Pre aux Clercs, and the 
 dwarf, not choosing that the tidings he had 
 to communicate should be given in any other 
 than a public manner, refused to intrust them 
 to Mayenne's retainers, and retired, resolving 
 to repeat his visit early the next morning. 
 
 In the meantime St. Real was hurried into 
 the convent, the gates were shut, and, preceded 
 
265 
 
 by two or three of the Dominicans, he was led 
 along the dark and gloomy passages of the 
 building, towards the apartment in which the 
 Prior and Madame de Montpensier were still 
 in conference. Here, however, he was stopped 
 at the door ; and Albert of Wolfstrom, entering 
 alone, held a brief but rapid conversation with 
 the Prior. It ended in St. Real being led back 
 again across the great court to a distant part 
 of the monastery, where, after climbing two 
 flights of steps, he was ushered into a corridor 
 extremely narrow, but of considerable length. 
 In the whole extent of wall, however, which 
 this corridor presented, there only appeared 
 three doors, besides the low arch by which he 
 entered. Two of these opened on the left, and 
 were close together ; the other was at the fur- 
 ther end of the passage. 
 
 Albert of Wolfstrom and his soldiers paused 
 at the entrance ; but the monks led St. Real 
 on, and, in a moment after, the Prior himself 
 followed. He seemed to regard the young 
 stranger with some degree of interest, and 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 
 
 addressed him with mildness and urbanity. 
 "lam told, my son," he said, " that it is ne- 
 cessary, for reasons into which I have no 
 authority to inquire, to hold you as a prisoner 
 till the decision of the Lieutenant-General of 
 the kingdom is known in regard to your destin- 
 ation ; but at the same time the members of 
 the holy Catholic Union, whose object is solely 
 to maintain the faith and liberties of the people, 
 and to oppose the progress of tyranny and 
 heresy, desire that you should not be treated 
 as a common prisoner of war, but rather should 
 have every comfort and convenience till your 
 fate is otherwise decided. For this purpose, 
 they have consigned you to our care rather 
 than to the rude durance of the Bastille ; and, 
 instead of assigning you one of the common 
 cells of the brotherhood, I have directed that 
 you should be placed here, where you can have 
 more space and convenience. Yonder door, at 
 the farther end of the corridor, belongs to a cell 
 fitted for your attendant ; this first door on the 
 left leads to an apartment which we shall assign 
 
267 
 
 to one of our brethren of St. Dominick, through 
 whom you can communicate with the convent 
 and the world without. This is your own 
 
 apartment " 
 
 As he spoke, he opened the second of the 
 two doors, which stood close together on the 
 left, and led St. Real into a spacious and well- 
 furnished chamber. It was airy, but somewhat 
 dim, as it derived its only light from a window, 
 which appeared, by its great height and Gothic 
 shape, to have once formed part of some church 
 or chapel. At the present moment, such ar- 
 rangements had been made — amongst the va- 
 rious alterations which the old building must 
 have undergone — that this single window, which 
 reached from the ceiling to the floor, served to 
 give light both to the room in which St. Real 
 stood, and to the other immediately by its side, 
 which together must have once formed but one 
 large chamber. The thin partition of wood- 
 work which separated the one room from the 
 other, was supported, from the floor to the roof, 
 by the strorg stone pillar that divided the 
 n 2 
 
268 
 
 Gothic window into two parts ; and thus, though 
 the two chambers were completely distinct, 
 they both had an equal share of light. 
 
 " This chamber is somewhat obscure," con- 
 tinued the Prior ; *' but, in the alterations which 
 were made in this building, some twenty years 
 ago, we could not arrange things better. What 
 are now sleeping rooms were then part of the 
 old chapel, and this high window looked out to 
 the Prior's dwelling." So saying, he advanced 
 and opened the casement, a great part of which, 
 swinging back on its creaking and clattering 
 hinges, gave admittance to the free air of sum- 
 mer from without, and showed to St. Real the 
 heavy walls of another body of the building 
 rising up before the window, at the distance of 
 scarcely five feet. Running along upon the 
 same level as the chamber in which he stood, 
 might be seen one of those Gothic passages of 
 fretted stone-work, which, in churches, are 
 called monks' galleries ; while, at the distance 
 of about twenty feet below, appeared between 
 the two buildings the narrow paved alley which 
 
269 
 
 united the inner to the outer court of the Do- 
 minican convent. 
 
 The Prior proceeded with some more excuses 
 for the dimness of the chamber ; but as soon as 
 he had concluded, St. Real, who had listened 
 calmly, replied, " I complain not of the apart- 
 ment, father, I have slept in worse ; but I 
 complain of imprisonment, when my safety and 
 freedom were guaranteed to me by the Duke 
 of Mayenne himself. However, let me warn 
 you, that I am aware, from some circumstances 
 which occurred at the gate of the convent, that 
 his Highness of Mayenne is purposely held in 
 ignorance of my imprisonment. I acquit him, 
 therefore, of all dishonourable conduct : but 
 how you, and others, will answer to him for 
 bringing his honour and good faith in question, 
 you must yourself consider." 
 
 " For my actions," replied the Prior, some- 
 what sternly, "I am prepared, my son, not 
 only to answer to him, but to God. Those of 
 others I have nought to do with. It suffices 
 for me, that I have authority from those who 
 n 3 
 
270 
 
 have a right to give it, to detain you here till I 
 am assured that the Lieutenant-General thinks 
 it fit that you should be set at liberty. You 
 are ungrateful, my son, for kindness felt and 
 shown: you might have undergone harsher 
 treatment, had you been consigned to the 
 Bastille." 
 
 " Father, I am not ungrateful," replied St. 
 Real, whose simple good sense was no unequal 
 match for even monkish shrewdness ; " but 
 when an act of injustice is committed, it is 
 somewhat hard to require that the suiFerer 
 should be well pleased that that act of injustice 
 is not greater than it is. To confine me here 
 is wrong — to confine me in the Bastille were 
 worse ; but, surely, I cannot be expected to feel 
 grateful to the thief who cuts my purse, simply 
 because he does not cut my throat also ! " 
 
 " Your language is hard," replied the Prior, 
 " and your similes are indecent towards a 
 minister of the religion you profess to hold; 
 I shall, therefore, waste no more words upon 
 you, young sir ! your conduct, however, makes 
 
271 
 
 no change in my purposes. The treatment 
 you receive shall be as gentle and as good as 
 if you were grateful for kindness, and courteous 
 towards those whom you should respect. You 
 will one time know me better ; and you may 
 be sure, even now, that I have no purposes to 
 serve by your detention; as you will find by 
 our intercourse, be it long, be it short, that 
 I shall strive for nothing but, if possible, to 
 lead you in that course in which your honour, 
 your happiness, and your best interests, here 
 and hereafter, are alone to be found." 
 
 St Real made no reply ; and the Dominican, 
 bowing his head with an air of conscious dig- 
 nity, withdrew from the apartment, and, pro- 
 ceeding through the doorway by which he had 
 entered, left the young Marquis and his attend- 
 ant alone. The sound of turning keys and 
 drawing bolts succeeded, and St. Real for the 
 first time found himself a prisoner indeed. 
 Now, the soul, secure in its existence, may 
 smile at the drawn dagger, and defy its point ; 
 yet there are many things which may happen 
 n 4 
 
272 
 
 to the body, that defy the soul to preserve her 
 equanimity, although they be much less evils, 
 in comparison, than that irretrievable separation 
 of matter and spirit, which we are accustomed 
 to look upon with more indifference. For a 
 moment or two, St. Real lost his calmness, and, 
 striding up and down the room with his arms 
 folded on his breast, gave way to that bitterness 
 of spirit, which every noble heart must feel 
 on the loss of the great, the incomparable, 
 the inestimable blessing of liberty. His more 
 philosophical attendant, who had been selected 
 in haste from among the rest of his followers, 
 without any great attention to his mental 
 qualities, consoled himself, under the privation 
 whi^h so painfully affected his master, by ex- 
 amining every hole and corner in the apart- 
 ments to which they were consigned ; and com- 
 forted himself not a little, under all their woes 
 and disasters, by the sight of soft and downy 
 beds, rich arras, and velvet hangings. Before 
 his perquisitions were well complete, however, 
 and just as his master was reasoning himself 
 
273 
 
 into calmer endurance of an event he could not 
 avoid, the door once more opened, and admitted 
 a brother of the order, on whose appearance and 
 demeanour we must pause for a moment. 
 
 He was younger than any of the friars that 
 St. Real had yet seen, — pale in countenance, 
 heavy in expression, with a certain degree of 
 sadness, if not wildness, in his eye, and that 
 close shutting of the teeth and compression of 
 the lips, which, in general, argues a determined 
 disposition. A little above the middle height, 
 he was powerful in limb and muscle ; but the 
 appearance of strength and activity, which his 
 form would otherwise have displayed, was con- 
 tradicted by a certain slouching stoop, which 
 deprived his demeanour of all grace ; while the 
 habit of gazing, as it were, furtively from under 
 the bent brows which almost concealed his 
 eyes, gave his dull countenance a sinister ex- 
 pression, not at all prepossessing. 
 
 " Benedicite ! " said the friar, as he advanced 
 towards St. Real ; " benedicite ! " 
 
 St. Real made some ordinary answer in 
 n 5 
 
m 
 
 Latin ; but the dull unreplying countenance of 
 the monk showed that his stock of Latinity did 
 not extend even to the common phrases in use 
 amongst persons of his profession ; and the 
 young Marquis proceeded in French : " You 
 are, I presume, the brother appointed to keep 
 watch over us in our confinement ? " 
 
 " The Prior has given me, for a penance," 
 replied the monk, " the task of lying in a down 
 bed, and waiting your will in communicating 
 with the parlour and the refectory, till to-mor- 
 row morning. I am commanded to ask you if 
 you will have supper : it grows late." 
 
 "lam here, father," replied St. Real, with a 
 smile, "asa bird in a cage ; and you must feed 
 me at what hours you please : it matters but 
 little to me." 
 
 The monk gazed on him, for a moment, in 
 sullen silence, as if he hardly attended to his 
 reply, or hardly understood its meaning ; and 
 then, as his slow comprehension did its work, 
 he turned away with a few muttered, half in- 
 telligible words, and left the apartment, going 
 
275 
 
 apparently to command the meal of which he 
 had spoken. It was soon after brought in; and, 
 during its course, the Dominican sat by, turn- 
 ing over the leaves of his breviary in silence, 
 from time to time reading a few sentences, and 
 filling up the intervals in gazing vacantly upon 
 the pages, seemingly occupied in dull and 
 gloomy dreams. 
 
 The meal did not occupy much time ; and 
 after it was concluded, St. Real, anxious to 
 hear something more precise concerning the 
 state of the capital, and to obtain some in- 
 formation in regard to his own situation, en- 
 deavoured to enter into conversation with the 
 monk; but the course of all their thoughts 
 lay in such different lines, that he soon per- 
 ceived the attempt would be in vain. The 
 Dominican sat and listened, and replied either 
 by monosyllables, or by long fanatical tirades, 
 in general totally irrelevant to the topic which 
 called them forth ; and, as twilight began to 
 grow upon the world, the young Marquis 
 abandoned the endeavour, and intimated, by his 
 n 6 
 
276 
 
 silence, a desire to be left alone. It was long 
 before the other gratified his inclination in this 
 respect, however, but sat mute and absent, still 
 turning over the leaves of his breviary, and 
 gazing, from time to time, upon the face of his 
 companion. Nor was it till St. Real expressed 
 his desire to have a lamp, and to be left to his 
 own thoughts, that the monk deemed it ad- 
 viseable to retire. 
 
 Fatigued in body and mind by the events of 
 the day, St. Real soon cast himself down to 
 rest ; and sleep was not long in visiting his eye- 
 lids. His slumber was profound also ; and he 
 awoke not till various sounds in the immediate 
 vicinity of his chamber disturbed his repose 
 somewhat rudely. 
 
 The nature of the first noises that roused 
 him he could not very well distinguish, for 
 slumber, though in flight, still held, in some 
 degree, possession of his senses. They seemed, 
 however, as far as he could remember after- 
 wards, to have proceeded from some smart 
 blows of a hammer upon a wooden scaffolding ; 
 
277 
 
 but, before he was well awake, those sounds 
 had ceased, and a buzzing hum, like that of 
 a turner's wheel, or a quickly moved saw, had 
 succeeded. St. Real listened attentively ; and, 
 having convinced himself that the noises, by 
 whatever they were occasioned, were not pro- 
 duced by any thing in his own chamber, but 
 rather seemed to proceed from some part of the 
 building opposite to his window, he addressed 
 himself to sleep again, and not without 
 success. 
 
 But his repose was not so full and tranquil 
 as before. His former slumbers had been pro- 
 found, forming one of those dreamless, feeling- 
 less, lapses of existence, which seem given us to 
 show how the soul, even while dwelling in the 
 body, can pause with all her powers suspended, 
 unconscious of her own being, till called again 
 into activity by some extraneous cause. The 
 sleep which succeeded, however, was very dif- 
 ferent : dreams came thick and fast ; some of 
 them were confused and wild, and indistinct, 
 but some were of that class of visions in which 
 
278 
 
 all the objects are as clear and definite as during 
 our waking moments, — in which our thoughts 
 are as active, our mind is as much at work, 
 our passions are as vehemently excited, as in 
 the strife and turmoil of living aspiration and 
 endeavour ; — dreams which seem given to show 
 us how intensely the soul can act, and feel, and 
 live, while the corporeal faculties, which are 
 her earthly servants, are as dead and useless as 
 if the grave's corruption had resolved them into 
 nothing. 
 
 At one moment it seemed that he was in 
 the battle-field, amidst the shout and the 
 cry, and the clang of arms, and the rush of 
 charging squadrons ; and then he was in the 
 flight of the defeated army, and he knew 
 all the bitter indignation of reverse, and all 
 the burning thirst to retrieve the day, and 
 he felt all the vain effort to rally the flying, 
 and the hopeless and daring effort to repel 
 the victor ; and then, again, when all was 
 lost, and not the faint shadow of a despairing 
 hope remained, he was hurrying his rapid 
 
279 
 
 course across some dark and midnight moor J 
 and, while he spurred on his own weary horse, 
 he held in his hand the bridle rein of another, 
 who bore one for whom he felt a thousand fears 
 which he knew not for himself; and ever and 
 anon, as he turned to look, the soft sweet eyes 
 of Eugenie de Menancourt would gaze upon 
 him with imploring earnestness. Then, sud- 
 denly, the figure changed, the rein dropped 
 from his hand, and, armed all in steel, with 
 lance couched and visor up, as if galloping 
 to attack him, appeared his cousin, Philip of 
 Aubin ; and, with a feeling of horror and a 
 sudden start, St. Real woke. 
 
 The sounds that he now heard — for as yet 
 the night had by no means assumed her at- 
 tribute of quietness — were certainly not cal- 
 culated to produce the painful sensations that 
 he had just undergone. There was music on 
 the air — soft and delicate music, — not gay, and 
 yet not sad, but with a certain wild solemnity 
 of tone, that well accorded with the hour, and 
 seemed calculated to raise the thoughts to high 
 
280 
 
 and unearthly aspirations. At first, the music 
 was solely instrumental ; but, in a moment or 
 two afterwards, two sweet voices were heard, 
 singing, with a peculiarly thrilling softness of 
 tone, that seemed to have something super- 
 natural in its clear melody. St. Real listened ; 
 and, though the sounds must have proceeded 
 from some distance, yet the words were pro- 
 nounced so distinctly, that he lost not a syllable 
 of the song they poured upon the night. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 First Voice. Blessed ! blessed ! art thou 
 
 Amongst the sons of men ! 
 For angels are wreathing for thy brow 
 Flowers that fade not again ! 
 
 Second Voice. A crown, a crown of glory for the brave ! 
 
 First Voice. Blessed ! blessed ! are those 
 
 That sleep the sleep of the good ! 
 Blessed is he whose bosom glows 
 To shed the tyrant's blood ! 
 
 Second Voice. Glory to him whom the Church shall save ! 
 
 First Voice. Amongst the saints in Paradise, 
 In glory he shall dwell ! 
 And angels shall greet him to the skies, 
 When to earth he bids farewell ! 
 
281 
 
 Second Voice. Joy, joy, joy to the champion of the Lord ! 
 
 First Voice. His arm is now endued with might, 
 The foes of the Faith to destroy ! 
 To sweep the tyrant from God's sight, 
 To crush the worm in his joy ! 
 
 Second Voice. Death, death, death to the tyrant abhorred ! 
 
 Both Voices. Blessed ! blessed ! blessed art thou 
 Amongst the sons of men ! 
 For angels are wreathing for thy brow 
 Flowers that fade not again ! 
 
 It was no longer doubtful whence these 
 sounds proceeded ; for, in consequence of the 
 closeness of a hot August night, St. Real had 
 left his window open; and he now distinctly 
 perceived that the music issued from a spot 
 in the monk's gallery, very nearly opposite. 
 Springing out of bed as soon as the sounds 
 had ceased, he advanced to the window, and 
 looked out ; but he could perceive nothing. 
 The night was somewhat obscure, the moon 
 by this time was down, and it was with diffi- 
 culty that he distinguished the fretted stone- 
 work of the gallery from the rest of the dark 
 mass that rose before him. He paused for a 
 moment, to consider what all this could mean. 
 
282 
 
 Though a sincere Catholic, and habituated to 
 make a marked distinction between the doc- 
 trines of the religion he professed and the 
 absurdities, superstitions, and corruptions with 
 which knaves and fools had endeavoured to dis- 
 guise it, still the Reformation had disclosed too 
 much, and the young noble was of too inquiring 
 a disposition, for him to be unaware of the 
 multitude of tricks, intrigues, and deceptions, 
 which some of the more bigoted members of the 
 Roman church thought themselves justified in 
 practising for the attainment of an end desired. 
 The sounds he had just heard, therefore, he 
 attributed at once to their right cause, looking 
 upon them as part of some piece of monkish 
 jugglery. Almost as rapidly joining this con- 
 clusion in his mind to his own arrest with- 
 out the knowledge of Mayenne, to his detention 
 in the Dominican convent, to his separation from 
 the rest of the community, and to the peculiar 
 position of the apartments assigned to him, he 
 was led to believe — though wrongly — that he 
 himself was the object of the somewhat absurd 
 stratagem which he had just witnessed. 
 
" These monks must surely deem me a very 
 great fool indeed ! " he thought, as he stood 
 and gazed out upon the building opposite, 
 longing to give the persons who had been sing- 
 ing an intimation of his consciousness of their 
 arts, and of the contempt in which he held 
 them. But, while considering whether it 
 would not be more dignified to let the matter 
 pass over in silence, a new trick was played 
 off. A sudden light burst through the aper- 
 tures of the stone-work, and was poured, as it 
 were, in a full stream upon the window at 
 which he stood, but not on the part contained 
 in his own chamber, being directed entirely 
 upon that portion of the casement which was 
 beyond the partition, and which gave light to 
 the chamber assigned to the young monk who 
 had been given him as an attendant. The first 
 ray of light that St. Real perceived was of the 
 ordinary hue, though of a dazzling brightness ; 
 but the next moment it assumed a bright rose- 
 colour, and proceeded to pour on, changing to 
 a thousand varied and beautiful tints, which the 
 young noble thought certainly very admirable, 
 
281 
 
 but not at all supernatural. The next moment, 
 however, he heard through the partition the 
 murmuring of voices in the neighbouring cham- 
 ber ; and, thinking that the jugglery had been 
 carried quite far enough, he determined, if 
 possible, to put an end to it. Throwing his 
 cloak round him, therefore, he approached the 
 door, intending to enter the chamber of the 
 young Dominican, and tell him in plain lan- 
 guage, that he was not to be deceived; but, 
 when he attempted to draw the lock, he found 
 that the key had been turned upon him from 
 without ; and, with a curling lip, he cast 
 himself again upon his bed, and soon forgot, in 
 tranquil slumber, events which had excited in 
 his mind no other feeling than contempt. 
 
285 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 It was late in the morning when St. Real 
 woke ; and so profound had been his slumbers 
 during the latter hours of their com*se, that 
 the door of his chamber had been opened with- 
 out his knowing it ; and, on looking round, he 
 found the young Dominican sitting at the 
 farther end of the room, employed, as usual, 
 in turning over busily the leaves of his breviary. 
 In his eye there was more wild and gloomy fire 
 than St. Real had remarked on the preceding 
 evening ; and the young noble, who could not 
 help connecting the monk with the trick that 
 had been played off upon him during the 
 night, resolved to speak upon the subject at 
 once, in the hope of discovering what was the 
 real object of the friars. 
 
 i( Good morrow, father!" he said, as their 
 
286 
 
 eyes first met ; " I trust you have slept more 
 soundly than I have." 
 
 " Why should you sleep unsoundly?" de- 
 manded the Dominican in return. " You have 
 no mighty thoughts ! you have no heavenly 
 calling ! you have no glorious revelations to 
 keep you waking ! Why should you sleep un- 
 soundly?" 
 
 " Simply, because foolish people took the 
 trouble to disturb me," replied St. Real. 
 " Heard you not the singing, and saw you not 
 the light?" 
 
 " Foolish people !" cried the friar, with his 
 grey eyes gleaming : " call you the angels of 
 Heaven foolish people? Yes, profane man, I 
 saw the light, and I heard the singing; and 
 that you heard and saw it too, shows me that 
 it was no dream, but a blessed reality ! But 
 you saw not what I saw ! you heard not what 
 T heard! You saw not the winged angel of the 
 Lord that entered my cell, bearing the sword 
 of the vengeance of God ! you heard not the 
 message of Heaven to poor Jacques Clement, 
 
287 
 
 bidding him go forth in the power of faith, 
 and smite the Holofernes at St. Cloud, — the 
 oppressor of the people of the Lord, the enemy 
 and contemner of the will of the Highest ! " 
 
 "No, indeed!" answered St. Real, "I 
 neither heard nor saw any of these things ; 
 but I now perceive, father, that the vision was 
 addressed to you, not to me, as at first I be- 
 lieved it to be. But tell me, good father, you 
 surely are not simple enough to take all this 
 that you have seen for " 
 
 Ere St. Real could conclude his sentence, 
 the door, which the Dominican had left ajar, 
 was thrown wide open, and the Prior of the 
 convent entered the room, and approached the 
 bed where the 3 r oung gentleman had remained 
 resting on his arm while he maintained this 
 brief conversation with Father Clement. " Good 
 morrow, my son!" said the Prior. " What ! still 
 abed ! Brother Clement, thou may'st with- 
 draw." 
 
 The friar immediately obeyed ; and the su- 
 perior went on : "I bring you tidings, my son, 
 
which you will be glad to hear. The Lieu- 
 tenant-General of the kingdom has been in- 
 formed of your arrest ; and, notwithstanding 
 some circumstances of a suspicious kind which 
 justified that measure, trusts so much to your 
 good faith and honour, that he has ordered 
 your liberation, and recognises the validity of 
 your safe-conduct. Some of his officers wait 
 below ; your own attendants are now collected 
 in the court ; and all is prepared in order that 
 you may immediately visit him. In the mean- 
 time, however, while you rise and dress your- 
 self, I would fain speak a few words of warning 
 and advice." 
 
 " Willingly will I attend, reverend father," 
 replied St. Real, who was disposed to show 
 every sort of respect to the teachers of his 
 religion, although he could not but believe 
 that there was a good deal of doubledealing, 
 even in the very speech by which the Prior 
 announced the tidings of his liberation. 
 l( Happy am I to hear that the Duke of 
 Mayenne, however he may have learned my 
 
289 
 
 detention, is more awake to a sense of his own 
 honour, than that detention itself seemed to 
 imply. But let me hear : what is it you would 
 say, good father ? " 
 
 " As a vowed teacher of the true faith, and 
 a preacher of the holy Gospel," replied the 
 Dominican, " I would warn you, my son, 
 against any hesitation in those particulars where 
 your eternal salvation is concerned. In matters 
 of faith, as in matters of virtue, there can be 
 but one right and wrong : there is no middle 
 course in religion ; and, if you are a true 
 Catholic, holding the doctrines of the apostolic 
 church, and reverencing that authority which 
 the Saviour of mankind transferred to blessed 
 St. Peter and his successors, you must hold 
 the enemies of that church, who oppose its 
 doctrines, and strive for its overthrow, as blas- 
 phemous and sacrilegious heretics, whose exist- 
 ence is an ulcer in the state, whose very 
 neighbourhood is dangerous, and whose com- 
 panionship is a pest. You must hold those 
 who, pretending to be apostolic Catholics, 
 
 VOL. I. O 
 
290 
 
 support, maintain, and consort with the ene- 
 mies of that religion, as even worse than those 
 enemies themselves, inasmuch as they add 
 hypocrisy and falsehood to heresy and sacri- 
 lege ; and when you perceive that every vice 
 which can degrade human nature characterises 
 those who are thus apostates to the church, and 
 protectors of heresy, you will see the natural 
 consequences which fall upon such as disobey 
 the injunctions of the church they acknowledge, 
 and the punishment that will attend all those 
 who uphold a foul and evil cause, — disgrace, 
 dishonour, loss of their own esteem, crimes 
 that they once regarded with horror ; in this 
 life infamy, misfortune, and reverse ; speedy 
 death ; and then eternal condemnation." 
 
 In the same strain the Prior proceeded for 
 some time, enlarging, and not without elo- 
 quence, upon all the common topics with which 
 the preachers of the League were accustomed to 
 stir up the fanatical spirit of their auditors. He 
 touched also upon St. Real's own situation, his 
 power of choosing, at that moment, between 
 
291 
 
 good and bad : he spoke of the unquestionable 
 honour and high repute of many of the leaders 
 of his faction ; he painted in the most dark and 
 terrible colours the vices and the crimes that 
 stained the court of Henry the Third ; and he 
 artfully glossed over, or passed in silence, all that 
 could be detrimental to his own party in the 
 opinion of an honourable and an upright gentle- 
 man. He said nothing of the ambition, the 
 rapacity, the debauchery, the prostitution of 
 feeling, honour, virtue, patriotism, to the basest 
 party purposes and the most sordid self-interests, 
 which disgraced the faction of the League. 
 
 While he proceeded, St. Real went on with 
 the occupations of his toilet, and, somewhat to 
 the annoyance of the Dominican, heard his 
 oration in favour of the League with a degree of 
 calmness that set all his powers of penetration 
 at defiance. He expressed neither assent nor 
 dissent; neither wonder at all the charges which 
 the Prior brought against the King and his mi- 
 nions, nor admiration of the characters which 
 he attributed to the leaders of the League. He 
 o 2 
 
292 
 
 listened, but lie did not even take advantage of 
 any pause to answer; and, when the Prior had 
 completely concluded, he merely said, " Well, 
 father, I shall soon see all these things with my 
 own eyes, and shall then determine." 
 
 Somewhat piqued to find that all his oratory 
 had produced so small an effect, the Prior rose, 
 and, with an air of stern dignity, moved towards 
 the door. As he approached it, he turned, drew 
 up his tall figure to its full height, and, lifting 
 as right hand, with the two first fingers raised, 
 be said, in an impressive tone, while he fixed his 
 keen eyes upon the figure of the young Marquis, 
 "Remember, my son, what Christ, your Saviour, 
 himself has said : ' He that is not for me, is 
 against me ; ' " and, without waiting for a reply, 
 he turned and quitted the room. 
 
 Unmoved by what he considered, rightly, a 
 piece of stage effect, St, Real soon followed, 
 and found the door of the corridor left open ; 
 while the servant, who had been suffered to ac- 
 company him to the convent, was seen in the 
 little anteroom beyond, speaking with some 
 
293 
 
 persons in rich military dresses, with whose 
 faces St. Real was unacquainted. The moment 
 he approached, however, one stepped forth from 
 the rest, and addressed him by his name. 
 
 " I am commanded, Monsieur de St. Real, 
 to greet you on the part of his Highness the 
 Duke of Mayenne, Lieutenant-General of the 
 kingdom, and to inform you that the arrest 
 under which you have suffered, took place 
 without either his knowledge or consent, by a 
 mistake on the part of a body of reitres, who 
 seem to have confounded you in some way with 
 the troops attached to Monsieur de Longueville. 
 I am further directed to conduct you to the 
 presence of his Highness, who will explain to 
 you more at large how these events have oc- 
 curred. Your own attendants and horses are 
 already prepared below : and, if it suits your 
 convenience, we will instantly set out." 
 
 " At once, if it so please you, sir," replied St. 
 Real : "lam so little used to imprisonment, 
 that every minute of it is tedious to me." 
 
 Proceeding, therefore, to the door of the ante- 
 o 3 
 
294 
 
 chamber, at which stood one of the Dominican 
 friars, St. Real and his companions were led 
 clown to the court, and there mounted their 
 horses. As he was turning his rein towards the 
 gate, however, his eye fell upon the form of the 
 Prior, standing at an oriel window above ; and, 
 raising his hat, he bowed with all becoming re- 
 verence. The Prior spread his hands, and gave 
 his blessing in return, adding, " May God bless 
 thee, my son, and give thee light to see thy way 
 aright!" 
 
 On the present occasion, there appeared to be 
 not only dignity, but even sincerity, in his tone. 
 Nor, indeed, did St. Real doubt the purity of 
 his intentions throughout ; but, in the wars and 
 factions that had preceded the time of which 
 we now speak, the young noble had, as we 
 have said, acted the part of a looker-on ; and 
 thus he had learned many a lesson in the art 
 of appreciating the character of such men as 
 Prior Edme Bourgoine, — men who, devotedly 
 sincere themselves in their attachment to the 
 party they espouse, and convinced by pas- 
 
295 
 
 sionY' eloquent voice of the justice of their 
 cause, think every means justifiable to attain 
 its objects, or to bring over converts to its 
 tenets. St. Real felt sure that the Prior en- 
 tertained not a doubt of the rectitude of his 
 own motives, and the propriety of every thing 
 he did in behalf of the League ; but he felt 
 equally sure, that the Dominican would think 
 right and just a thousand means and stratagems, 
 to obtain his purposes, which he, St. Real, 
 would look upon as base, dishonourable, and 
 even impious. Whatever end, therefore, had 
 been sought by confining him in the Jacobin 
 convent, the effect had been anything rather than 
 increased affection for the League ; and y as he 
 rode away from its gates towards the Hotel de 
 Guise, his only reflection was, " Well, if such 
 be the means by which the League is sup- 
 ported, and such the stratagems by which its 
 adherents are gained, I, at least, will not be 
 one of the crowd of fools whereof its followers 
 must be composed." 
 
 At the Hotel de Guise a different scene 
 o 4 
 
296 
 
 awaited him, and different means of attraction 
 were played off in order to win him to the 
 faction. All that had passed at the Jacobins had 
 apparently been minutely reported to Madame 
 de Montpensier ; and, with a profound know- 
 ledge of human nature, and a perfect command 
 of art, she at once read the principal points of 
 St. Real's character, and adapted her own 
 behaviour to suit it. The mistakes which she 
 committed, as we shall presently see, were not 
 from misapprehending the traits of his dis- 
 position, but from not perceiving their depth. 
 
 On alighting from their horses, the young 
 officers who had conducted St. Real from the 
 Dominican convent, led him at once towards 
 the audience chamber of the Duke of Ma- 
 yen ne. At the door, however, they were 
 informed by an attendant that the Duke was 
 busy on matters of some deep importance, but 
 that he would be at leisure in a few minutes. 
 Another attendant then stepped forth to usher 
 him to some waiting-room; and, ere he was 
 aware of it, St. Real was in the presence of 
 
297 
 
 two beautiful women, — the Duchess of Guise, 
 and the Duchess of Montpensier, — who ap- 
 peared busy with the ordinary morning occu- 
 pations of ladies of that day, and seemed 
 surprised at the intrusion ; though it need 
 scarcely be said, that the whole manoeuvre had 
 been conducted upon their own positive orders. 
 The attendant, who led the young cavalier 
 thither, seemed also surprised to find that 
 chamber engaged ; and, begging St. Real to 
 follow him again, was retiring, with many pro- 
 found reverences and apologies to the two 
 ladies, when Madame de Montpensier demanded 
 the gentleman's name ; and, glancing her eye 
 over his person, with a smile not at all unna- 
 tural, added, before the man could answ T er, that, 
 as all the other chambers were occupied, the 
 stranger might, if he so pleased, remain there till 
 her brother was disengaged, as he did not seem 
 so ferocious a person as to make war upon a 
 bevy of women, though Henry of Valois had 
 shown that even the sacred robe of the church 
 was sometimes no protection. 
 
298 
 
 St. Real's name was then given by the at- 
 tendant ; who, without further question, retired, 
 leaving the young cavalier to play his part with 
 the two artful women in whose society he was 
 placed, as best he might. The Marquis, how- 
 ever, did not play that part ill. Graceful by 
 nature and by education, his manners were 
 embarrassed by no kind of bashfulness ; for 
 although his acquaintance with society was 
 but limited, yet there were two feelings in his 
 bosom which gave him ever perfect self-pos- 
 session without presumption. The first of 
 these feelings was a slight touch of the pride 
 of birth, which taught him, when in company 
 with the high or the proud, never to forget 
 that he was himself sprung from the noblest 
 of the land ; the second, was the consciousness 
 of perfect rectitude in every thought, feeling, 
 and purpose. Besides all this, the St. Reals 
 had been, as I have said, from age to age, 
 a chivalrous race ; and their representative 
 had strong in his own bosom that species of 
 chivalrous gallantry, which made him look 
 
299 
 
 upon woman's weakness as a constant, un- 
 deniable claim to deference, to courtesy, and 
 to those small attentions, which give greater 
 pleasure very often than even greater services. 
 
 Madame de Montpensier was surprised and 
 pleased ; and the Duchess de Guise, perhaps, 
 inwardly determined to add St. Real to her 
 train of admirers. At all events, both bent 
 their efforts, in the first place, to gain him for 
 the League ; and the sister of the haughty 
 house of Lorraine pursued her plan with the 
 calm and steady purpose of a great diplomatist. 
 In her communion with the young Marquis, 
 she scrupulously avoided aught of coquetry — 
 she suffered not a touch even of levity to be 
 apparent in her manner — she put a guard 
 upon her tongue and upon her eyes, and suf- 
 fered not even an idle jest to pass those lips 
 with which such things were so familiar. At 
 first, affecting even a degree of distant cold- 
 ness, she suffered the softer and more bland- 
 ishing manners of the Duchess of Guise to 
 smooth away all the difficulties of an accidental 
 
300 
 
 introduction ; and then, as the conversation 
 proceeded, she affected to become more in- 
 terested, spoke wisely and cautiously, and as- 
 sumed the tone of virtue and deep feeling, 
 which she knew would harmonise with his prin- 
 ciples ; though, if all tales be true, that tone 
 was the most difficult for her to affect. 
 
 She soon contrived to discover a fact, of 
 which she seemed to be ignorant till St. Real 
 told her; namely, that he was the cousin of 
 the Count d'Aubin ; and then, acting upon 
 one of those vague intuitions, which women 
 are occasionally gifted with in regard to mat- 
 ters of the heart, she turned the conversation 
 suddenly and abruptly to Mademoiselle de 
 Menancourt, and the subject of her detention 
 in Paris. St. Real was taken by surprise : 
 there had been some warring in his bosom too, 
 of late, in regard to the fair girl, who had been 
 the companion of his early youth : it was the 
 only point on which his thoughts were not as 
 free and light as the sunshine on the waters ; 
 and, at the name of Eugenie de Menancourt, 
 
301 
 
 so suddenly pronounced, the blood mounted for 
 a moment into his cheek, and glowed upon his 
 brow. 
 
 Madame de Montpensier saw, without seem- 
 ing to see ; and instantly understood the 
 whole : but she fancied even more than she 
 understood. Even though the purity of St. 
 Real's nature forced itself upon her conviction, 
 the evil and subtilty of her own character af- 
 fected the impression which his left upon her 
 mind, and changed it from its natural appear- 
 ance. It was like a beautiful face seen in a bad 
 mirror — the traits the same, and yet the aspect 
 changed. She fancied that she saw in the feel- 
 ings of St. Real towards Eugenie de Menan- 
 court the secret of his hesitation between the 
 League and the Royalists : not, indeed, that she 
 believed that he wished to bargain for his serv- 
 ices, as so many had done, or that he designed 
 io attempt to deprive his cousin of the hand of 
 her he loved ; but she imagined that secret, and 
 oerhaps unconscious, hopes of some fortuitous 
 
 ircumstance, proving favourable to his wishes, 
 
302 
 
 might be the cause of a lingering tendency 
 towards the party who could bestow the hand 
 of Eugenie de Menancourt, when his political 
 feelings led him to support the royal cause. 
 Upon these suppositions she shaped her plans, 
 and proceeded to speak of the young heiress 
 with all the tenderness and consideration of a 
 sister. She commiserated her situation, she 
 said, — promised by her father, to a man that 
 she could not love, and then left an orphan in 
 the midst of such troublous times. It was 
 happy, indeed, she added, that the young 
 lady had fallen into the hands of one in every 
 respect so noble and considerate as the Duke 
 of Mayenne ; for Monsieur d'Aubin must, by 
 this time, have learned, that the Lieutenant- 
 General, endeavouring to exercise his power 
 for the happiness of all, would not suffer any 
 restraint to be put upon the inclination of 
 Mademoiselle de Menancourt, but would bestow 
 her hand upon any one that she could really 
 love, provided his rank and station presented 
 no invincible obstacles. 
 
303 
 
 St. Real was, for a moment, silent ; but he at 
 length replied, that he could not conceive upon 
 what ground Mademoiselle de Menancourt's 
 present objections to a union with the Count 
 d'Aubin could be founded. During her father's 
 lifetime, he said, she had not, apparently, op- 
 posed the alliance ; and, as far as he had heard, 
 D'Aubin had given her no new cause of offence. 
 
 The subject was one on which St. Real 
 found it difficult to speak, not from any feelings 
 he might experience towards Eugenie de Me- 
 nancourt, — for, by a strong sense of honour, 
 and a great command over his own mind, he 
 crushed all sensations of the kind as soon as 
 he found them rising in his breast, — but his 
 difficulty proceeded from a consciousness that 
 D'Aubin was to blame, and from a wish to say 
 as much as possible in favour of his cousin, 
 without deviating from that rigid adherence 
 to truth, which was the constant principle of 
 his heart. What he said was true, indeed, 
 Eugenie de Menancourt had evinced no stre- 
 nuous opposition to the proposed alliance, so 
 
304 
 
 long as her father had lived; and yet it was 
 during his lifetime that St. Real had prin- 
 cipally remarked those errors in the conduct of 
 his cousin which he thought most calculated to 
 give offence to that cousin's future bride. He 
 did, therefore, wonder what new motive had given 
 such sudden and strong determination to one 
 whom he had always remarked as gentle and 
 complying; and, although he doubted not he 
 should find Eugenie in the right, he did long 
 to hear from her own lips the reasons upon 
 which her conduct was founded. 
 
 Madame de Montpensier remarked the re- 
 straint under which he spoke, but attributed 
 it to wrong motives, and shaped her answer 
 accordingly. " Perhaps," she said, with a sig- 
 nificant smile, " Mademoiselle de Menancourt 
 may have perceived that there are other peo- 
 ple, more worthy of her heart; and, as soon as 
 she finds that her duty to her father no longer 
 requires obedience, she may yield to her own 
 inclinations, especially where she finds they 
 are supported by reason." 
 
305 
 
 M I do not think that, madam," replied St. 
 Re^l. " I do not think Eugenie de Menan- 
 court is one to love easily ; though, where she 
 did love, she would love deeply." 
 
 There was a degree of simplicity and un- 
 consciousness in this reply, that somewhat puz- 
 zled Madame de Montpensier, and put her 
 calculations at fault. She did not choose to 
 let the subject drop, however ; and she replied, 
 " You seem to know this young lady well, 
 Monsieur de St. Real: have you been long 
 acquainted ? " 
 
 " I know her as if she were my own sister," 
 replied St. Real. H We have been acquainted 
 since our infancy ; and, indeed, we are distantly 
 related to each other." 
 
 " Not within the forbidden degrees, I hope ?" 
 said the Duchess de Guise, with a smile. 
 
 " She will scare the bird from the trap with 
 her broad jests!" thought the more cautious 
 Catherine of Montpensier, as she saw the colour 
 come up again to St. Real's cheek : but he re- 
 plied, with his usual straightforward simplicity, 
 
 vol. i. p 
 
306 
 
 " I really do not know, madam : I never con- 
 sidered the matter ; but the relationship is, I 
 trust, sufficiently near to justify me in asking 
 his Highness of Mayenne to grant me an inter- 
 view with Mademoiselle de Menancourt, as I 
 wish to see whether I cannot remove any false 
 impression she may have formed of my cousin, 
 and induce her to fulfil an engagement on 
 which his happiness depends." 
 
 Madame de Montpensier gave a sharp eager 
 glance towards the Duchess de Guise, to pre- 
 vent her from pressing St. Real too hard ; and 
 she herself replied, " My brother will doubtless 
 grant you the interview, Monsieur de St. Real; 
 but I am afraid you will be unsuccessful. One 
 thing, however, you may be sure of, that Ma- 
 yenne himself will in no degree press Made- 
 moiselle de Menancourt to such a union, for 
 he is fully convinced that her objections are but 
 too well founded ; and although, perhaps, the 
 party that we espouse might be benefited by 
 holding out to your cousin the prospect of our 
 support in this matter, yet it can be in no 
 
307 
 
 degree granted, unless some great change takes 
 place in the feelings of Mademoiselle de Me- 
 nancourt herself." 
 
 As St. Real was about to reply, an attend- 
 ant again appeared, and announced that Ma- 
 yenne was, for a few moments, free from those 
 weighty affairs with which the situation of his 
 party overwhelmed him. The young Marquis 
 rose to obey the summons : but Madame de 
 Montpensier was not at all inclined to abandon 
 her un concluded schemes to the chances of a 
 private interview between her more candid 
 brother and the object of her wiles. That 
 which had at first been the mere desire of gain- 
 ing a powerful acquisition to her party, and of 
 depriving the Royalists of a strong support, had 
 now become, under the opposition and diffi- 
 culties she had met with, the eager struggle of 
 compromised vanity. Her reputation for skill 
 and policy were even dearer to her, at that 
 moment, than her reputation for beauty and 
 wit had ever been ; and, at the mere apprehen- 
 sion of missing her stroke in a matter where 
 
308 
 
 she had risked so much, and employed such 
 means, she called up before the eyes of imagin- 
 ation the calm half-sneering smile with which 
 Mayenne would mark her failure, and the gall- 
 ing compassion with which all her dear friends 
 and favourite counsellors would commiserate 
 her disappointment. 
 
 " I have a petition too to present to my all- 
 powerful brother," she said, rising at the same 
 time ; " and, therefore, with your good leave, 
 Monsieur de St. Real, I will accompany you 
 to his high and mighty presence." St. Real, 
 perhaps, would have preferred to see Mayenne 
 alone, but no choice was left him ; and, offering 
 his hand, he led her through the long galleries 
 and corridors of the Hotel, de Guise to the 
 audience-chamber of the Lieutenant-General. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME, 
 
 London: 
 
 Trintcd by A. SfottiswoouKj 
 
 New-Strect-Sjuare. 
 

 
 

 
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