n 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
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HENRY OF GUISE: 
 
 OR 
 
 THE STATES OF BLOIS. 
 
 G. P. R. JAMES, Esq. 
 
 AUTHOR OK 
 
 THE GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL, 
 " THE ROBBER," ETC., ETC. 
 
 PARIS, 
 
 BAUDRY'S EUROPEAN LIBRARY, 
 
 3, QUAI MALAQUAIS, NEAR THE PONT DES ARTS; 
 
 AND g, RUE I)U COQ , MEAR THE LOUVRE. 
 
 SOLD ALSO DY AMYOT, RUE DE LA TAIX ; TRUCilY, BOULEVARD DES IT ALIENS! 
 
 G1RARD FRERES, RUE RICHELIEU; AND BY ALL THE PRINCIPAL 
 
 BOOKSELLERS ON THE CONTINENT. 
 
 1840. 
 
DEDICATION. J '£<? 
 n e>\ 
 
 TO 
 
 THE HONOURABLE 
 
 FRANCIS SCOTT. 
 
 My dear Scott, 
 
 In dedicating to you the following work as the tribute of old 
 friendship, and of sincere and well founded esteem, allow me to 
 add a few words in explanation of the course I have pursued in 
 the composition. I do this, it is true, more for the public than 
 for yourself, as you were with me while it was in progress, and 
 by your good judgment confirmed my opinion of the mode in 
 which the subject ought to be treated. 
 
 The character of every person who plays a prominent part on 
 the great stage of the world is of course lauded by friends and 
 decried by adversaries at the time, and the mingled report comes 
 down to after ages. But the mists of prejudice are wafted away 
 by the breath of years. The character of the historian is consi- 
 dered in connexion with those of the personages he has depicted ; 
 and allowances are made for errors and wrong views on all sides : 
 the greater facts remain, in general, clear and distinct; and from 
 these, together with those small traits which are rather let fall 
 accidentally than recorded, by contemporaries, the estimate of 
 history is formed. 
 
 There are some characters, however, which from various causes 
 remain obscure and doubtful through all time ; and many which 
 have points in them that are never satisfactorily explained; pro- 
 ducing acts which cannot be accounted for; like those waters 
 which have never been fathomed, though we know not whether 
 it be some under current that we see not, or the profound depth 
 itself,*which prevents the plumbed line from reaching the bot- 
 tom. Amongst the many acts recorded in the annals of the world, ^ 
 the motives for which have never been ascertained, one of the 
 most extraordinary is, that of Henry Duke of Guise, when, on the 
 
 o *? a i 
 
ij DEDICATION. 
 
 12th of May, 1588, the famous day of the barricades, he had the 
 crown of France within his grasp, and did not close his hand. 
 Some have called it weakness, some virtue, some moderation, 
 some indecision; and in fact, whatever view we take of it, there 
 are points in which it is opposed to the general character of the 
 Duke. 
 
 In the account of this transaction, which I have given in the 
 following pages, I have rather attempted to narrate how the event 
 took place, than to put forth a theory regarding the motives. My 
 own opinion is, indeed, fixed, after diligent examination of every 
 contemporary account, that the motives were mixed. I do not be- 
 lieve that the Duke's moderation proceeded from indecision, for 
 I imagine that he had decided from the first not to dethrone the 
 King ; but I do believe that he might be, and was, much tempted 
 to usurp the throne, as the events of the day proceeded. Oppor- 
 tunity could not be without its temptation to a bold and ambi- 
 tious heart like his. Whether he would have remained master 
 of his own conduct, whether he would have been able to struggle 
 against his own desires and the wishes of the people, whether he 
 would have maintained his resolution to the end of that day, had 
 the Ring not escaped from Paris, is another question. Suffice it 
 that he resisted the temptation as long as the temptation existed; 
 and that he did so deliberately is proved, by his strictly prohibit- 
 ing the people from surrounding the royal residence, " lest it 
 should commit him too far." Upon this view of the case have I 
 
 based my narration 
 
 In regard to the death of the Duke of Guise, I had but little 
 difficulty ; for the event is so amply and minutely detailed by con- 
 temporaries, that no doubt can exist in regard to any of the facts. 
 In the treatment of the story, however, I had to choose between 
 two courses. A French writer, or writer of the French school, 
 in order to concentrate the interest upon the Guise, would most 
 likely have brought into a prominent point of view his criminal 
 passion for Madame de Noirmoutier, and would have wrought it 
 up with sentiment till the feelings of the reader were enlisted in 
 favour of herself and the Duke. 
 
 I did not do this for two reasons. In the first place, it would 
 have been a violation of history to represent Madame de Noir- 
 moutier as any thing but a mere abandoned woman, as her 
 amours with Henry IV. and others clearly show. In the next 
 place, I consider it an insult to virtue to endeavour to excite in- 
 terest for vice. It was necessary, indeed, to introduce Madame de 
 
DEDICATION. iij 
 
 Noirmoutier, on account of the famous warning which she gave 
 to Guise on the night before his death ; but I have done so as/ 
 briefly as possible for the reasons I have just stated. 
 
 I have only farther to say, that I know there is a French work 
 bearing the same title, or very nearly the same title, as this. I 
 have never seen that work, nor read any review of it, nor heard 
 any part of its contents, and therefore have no idea whatsoever of 
 how the story is there conducted. Doubtless very differently, and, 
 perhaps, much better than in the following pages ; but, never- 
 theless, I trust that the public will extend to them the same in- 
 dulgence which has been granted to my other works, and for 
 which I am most sincerely grateful. 
 
 To you, my dear Scott, I am also very grateful, for many a 
 happy hour, and many a pleasant day, and for many a trait which, 
 in our mutual intercourse, has given me the best view of human 
 nature, and added one to the few whom in this life we find to 
 love and to respect. Accept, then, this very slight testimony of 
 such feelings, and believe me ever, 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 G. P. R. James. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE; 
 
 OH, 
 
 THE STATES OF BLOTS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was as dark and sombre a morning, the sky was as gloomy, 
 the earth as dry and parched, as earth, sky, and morning ever 
 appear in the most northern climates. A dull grey expanse of 
 leaden cloud shut out the blue heaven, a hard black frost pinched 
 up the ground, the blades of grass stood stiff and rugged on 
 the frozen soil, and vague grey mists lay in all the hollows of 
 the ground. The forests, the manifold forests that then spread 
 over the fair land of France, showed nothing but bare branches, 
 except where here and there the yoke-elm or tenacious beech 
 retained in patches its red and withered leaves, while beneath 
 the trees again, the ground was thickly carpeted with the fallen 
 honours of the past summer, mingled with hoar frost and thin 
 snow. A chilliness more piercing than mere frost pervaded the 
 air ; and the aspect of the whole scene was cheerless and me- 
 lancholy. 
 
 Such was the aspect of the day, though the scene was in 
 the south of France, at a spot which we shall leave for the 
 present nameless, when at about seven o'clock in the morning 
 — an hour in which, at that period of the year, the sun's rays 
 are weak and powerless — a tall, strong, florid man of about 
 four-and-thirty years of age was seen upon the edge of a wide 
 wood walking along cautiously step by step, carefully bending 
 down his eyes upon the withered leaves that strewed his path, 
 as if he had dropped something of value which he sought to 
 find. 
 
 The wood, as we have said, was extensive, covering several 
 miles of undulating ground, broken by rocks and dingles, and 
 interspersed by more than one piece of water. It contained 
 various kinds of tree, as well as various sorts of soil ; but at 
 the spot of which we now speak the wood was low and thin, 
 gradually increasing in volume as it rose along the slope of the 
 
6 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 adjacent bill, till it grew into a tangled thicket, from which 
 rose a number of tall trees, waving their grey branches sadly 
 in the wintry air. On a distant eminence, rising far above the 
 wood itself, might be seen towers and turrets, and pinnacles, 
 the abode of some of the lords of the land ; and at the end of a 
 long glade, up which the man we have just mentioned was 
 cautiously stealing, as we have described, appeared a little cot- 
 tage with one or two curious outbuildings, not usually found 
 attached to the abodes of the agricultural population. 
 
 The features of this early wanderer in the woods were good, 
 the expression of his countenance frank; and though poring so 
 intently upon the ground as he passed, there was nevertheless 
 an air of habitual cheerfulness in his countenance, which broke 
 out in the frequent smile, either at something passing in his 
 own thoughts, or at something he observed amongst the wither- 
 ed leaves. He was dressed in a plain suit of dark brownish 
 grey, with a cap and feather on his head, a sword by his side, 
 and an immense winding horn slung under his left arm ; and 
 though at the present moment he was without either horses or 
 dogs, his whole dress and appearance bespoke him one of the 
 huntsmen of some neighbouring lord. 
 
 After having walked on for about three or four hundred 
 yards, he suddenly stopped at some traces on the ground, 
 turned into the wood, which in a particular line seemed dis- 
 turbed and broken, and following the marks, which denoted 
 that some large object of the chase had passed that way, he 
 reached the thicker part of the wood, where, to use his own 
 expression, he felt sure that the boar was lodged. 
 
 It would be useless and tedious to accompany him in all the 
 perquisitions that he made round the thicket, in order to as- 
 certain that the animal had not again issued forth from its 
 woody covert. He satisfied himself, however, completely, that 
 such was not the case, and then paused, musing for a moment 
 or two, till he was roused from his reverie by the distant sounds 
 of human voices and of horses' feet, coming from the side of 
 the glade in which we have first displayed him to the reader's 
 eyes. He now hurried back as rapidly as possible, and in a 
 minute or two after stood uncovered in the midst of a gay 
 and glittering party, on which we must pause for a few mi- 
 nutes, ere we proceed to describe the events of that morning. 
 
 There were about twenty persons present, but the greater 
 number consisted of various attendants attached to the house- 
 hold of all French noblemen of that period, under the names 
 of grooms, piqueurs, valets de chiens, chefs de relais, etc. 
 Three out of the group, however, are worthy of greater atten- 
 tion, not alone because they were higher in rank, but because 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 7 
 
 with them we shall have to deal throughout the course of this 
 tale, while most of the others may well he forgotten. The eldest 
 of the three, bore the robe of an ecclesiastic, though in his 
 deportment, as he sat a spirited, and somewhat fretful horse, 
 he seemed fully as well suited to play the part of a gay cavalier 
 as that of a sober churchman. 
 
 His features were fine, though not strongly marked; the nose 
 straight and well cut; the chin rounded; the brow broad and 
 high, and the mouth well formed. But with all these traits of 
 beauty, there were one or two drawbacks, both in feature and 
 expression, which rendered his aspect by no means so prepos- 
 sessing as it otherwise might have been. The eyes, which were 
 remarkably fine, large, dark, and powerful, were sunk deep 
 under the sharp cut, overhanging brow, looking keenly out 
 from below their long fringed lids, as if in ambush for each 
 unguarded glance or geslure of those with whom he conversed. 
 The lips, though, as we have said, well formed, closed tight 
 over the teeth, which were as white as snow, never suffering 
 them to appear, except when actually speaking. Even then 
 those lips parted but little, and gave one the idea of their being, 
 as it were, the gates of imprisoned thoughts, which opened no 
 farther than was necessary to give egress to those which they 
 were forced to set at liberty. The nostril, though it was finely 
 shaped, was even stiller and more motionless than the lips. No 
 moment of eagerness, no excited passion of the bosom, made 
 that nostril expand, and if it ever moved at all, it was but 
 when a slight irrepressible sneer upon the lip drew it up with 
 a scornful elevation, not the less cutting because it was but 
 slight. 
 
 The age of this personage at the time we speak of might be 
 about forty-five ; and if one might judge by the clear paleness 
 of his complexion, a considerable portion of his life had been 
 spent in intense study. The marks of his age were visible, too, 
 in his heard and mustachios, which had once been of the deepest 
 black, but were now thickly grizzled with grey. No sign, how- 
 ever, of any loss of strength or vigour was apparent ; and though 
 still and quiet in his demeanour, he seemed not at all disinclined 
 to show, by an occasional exercise of strength or agility, that 
 stillness and quietude were with him matters of choice and not 
 of necessity. He kept his horse a very small -pace behind those 
 of his two younger companions; but he so contrived it that this 
 very act of deference should not have the slightest appearance 
 of humility in it, but should rather seem an expression of what 
 he owed to his own age and character rather than to their su- 
 perior rank. 
 
 The other two were both young men in the very early outset 
 
8 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 of life, anil were so nearly of the same age, that it was difficult 
 to say which was the elder. Both were extremely handsome, 
 both were very powerfully and gracefully formed ; and the most 
 extraordinary similarity of features and of frame existed between 
 them, so that it would have been difficult to distinguish the one 
 from the other, had it not been that their complexions were en- 
 tirely different. The one was dark, the other fair : in one the 
 hair curled over the brow in large masses, as glossy as the wing 
 of the raven ; in the other, the same profuse and shining hair 
 existed, but of a nut brown, with every here and there a gleam 
 as if the sun shone upon it. The eyes of the one were dark, but 
 flashing and lustrous ; the eyes of the other of a deep hazel, and 
 in them there mingled, with the bright bold glances of fearless 
 courage, an occasional expression of depth and tenderness of 
 feeling, which rendered the character of his countenance as dif- 
 ferent from that of his brother as was his complexion. 
 
 Notwithstanding the great similarity that existed between 
 them, they were not, as may have been supposed, twins, the 
 fairer of the two being a year younger than his brother. They 
 were both, indeed, as we have said, in their early youth, but 
 their youth was manly ; and though neither had yet seen three- 
 and-twenty years, the form of each was powerful and fully deve- 
 loped, and the slight pointed beard and sweeping mustachio 
 w r ere as completely marked as the custom of the day admitted. 
 
 On the characters of the two we shall not pause in this place, 
 as they will show themselves hereafter ; and it is sufficient to 
 say that there was scarcely a little word, or action, or gesture, 
 which did not more or less display a strong and remarkable dif- 
 ference between the hearts and minds of the two. During their 
 whole life, hitherto, notwithstanding this difference, they had 
 lived in the utmost friendship and regard, without even any of 
 those occasional quarrels which too often disturb the harmony 
 of families. Perhaps the secret of this might be that the elder 
 brother had less opportunity of domineering over the younger 
 than generally existed in the noble families of France, for their 
 mother had been an heiress of great possessions, and according 
 to the tenour of her contract of marriage with their father, her 
 feofs and riches fell on her death to her second son, leaving him, 
 if any thing, more powerful and wealthy than his elder brother. 
 
 The fortune of neither, how T ever, though each was large, was 
 of such great extent as to place them amongst the few high and 
 powerful families who at that time struggled for domination 
 in the land of their birth. The territory of each could bring two 
 or three hundred soldiers into the field in case of need : the 
 wealth of each sufficed to place them in the next rank to the 
 governor of the province which they inhabited; but still their 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 9 
 
 names stood not on the same list with those of Epcrnon,.loyeuse, 
 Montmorency, Guise, or Nemours ; and, contented hitherto with 
 the station which they enjoyed, neither they themselves, nor 
 any of their ancestors, had striven to obtain for their house a 
 distinction which, in those times, was, perhaps, more perilous 
 than either desirable or honourable. Neither of them, indeed, 
 was without ambition, though that ambition was, of course, 
 modified by their several characters; but it had been controlled 
 hitherto, perhaps, less by the powers of their own reason than 
 by the influence of the personage who now accompanied them, 
 and whom we have before described. 
 
 Not distantly connected with them by the ties of blood, the 
 Abbe de Boisguerin had been called from Italy, where he had 
 long resided, to superintend their education shortly after their 
 mother's death. His own income, though not so small as that of 
 many another scion of a noble house in France, had, never- 
 theless, proved insufficient through life to satisfy a man of ex- 
 pensive, though not very ostentatious, tastes and habits ; and 
 the large emoluments, offered to him. together with the pro- 
 spects of advancement which the station proposed held out, in- 
 duced him without hesitation to quit his residence in Rome, 
 and revisit a country, the troublous state of which gave the pro- 
 spect of advancement to every daring and unscrupulous spirit. 
 
 It may seem strange to say, as we have said, that the influence 
 of an ambitious man had been directed to check their ambition : 
 but he was ambitious only for the attainment of certain ends. 
 lie valued not power merely as power, but for that which power 
 might command. Personal gratification was his object, though 
 the pursuit of that gratification, as far as the objects of sense 
 went, was also restrained, like his ambition, by other qualities 
 and feelings. Thus, as an ambitious man, at the time we speak 
 of, he was neither fierce nor grasping ; as an epicurean, he was 
 not coarse nor insatiable ; and yet with all this apparent — nay, 
 real, moderation — there lay within his breast, unexcited and 
 undeveloped, passions as strong and fierce, desires as eager 
 and as fiery, as ever burned within the heart of man. He con- 
 trolled them by skill and habit, he covered them, as it were, 
 with the dust and ashes of his profession, but it needed only an 
 accidental breath to blow them into a flame, which, in turn, 
 would have given fire to every other aspiration and effort of 
 his mind. 
 
 He had found it in no degree difficult to obtain a complete 
 ascendency over the minds of the two young men he was called 
 upon to govern. Their father had plunged deeply, after his 
 wife's death, into the wars and troubles of the times, and be left 
 his two sons entirely to the care and direction of the Abbe de 
 
10 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Boisguerin. Thus he had every opportunity that he could de- 
 sire : and he brought to the task most extensive learning, which 
 enabled him to direct in every thing the inferior teachers. His 
 manners were graceful, polished, and captivating, his temper 
 calm and unruffled : hiding his own thoughts and feelings under 
 an impenetrable veil, never alluding to his past life or his fu- 
 ture purposes, he skilfully, nay, almost imperceptibly, made 
 himself master of the confidence of others, and gained every 
 treasured secret of the hearts around him, without giving any 
 thing in exchange. His learning, his wisdom, his acuteness, his 
 impenetrability, won respect and reverence, and almost awe, 
 from the two youths yet in their boyhood : his courtesy, his 
 kindness, his consideration for the errors and the desises of 
 their youth, gained greatly upon their regard ; and their admi- 
 ration and love was increased by some events which took place 
 towards their seventeenth and sixteenth years. 
 
 It happened that about that time their master of arms was 
 teaching them some of the exercises of the day in the tilt-yard 
 of the castle; while their governor, with his arms folded on his 
 breast, stood looking on. He usually, under such circum- 
 stances, refrained from making any observations; but, thrown 
 for a moment off his guard on the present occasion, by what 
 appeared to him an awkwardness on the part of the master in 
 teaching some evolution, he said courteously enough, that he 
 thought it might be executed better in another manner. 
 
 Conceited and rash, the master of arms replied with a show 
 of contempt. The Abbe then persisted ; and the other, with a 
 sneer, begged that he might be experimentally shown the new 
 method of the governor. The churchman smiled slightly, threw 
 off his gown, mounted one of the horses w T ith calm and quiet 
 grace, and with scarcely a change of feature, or any other ap- 
 pearance of unusual exertion, displayed his own superiority in 
 military exercises, and foiled the master of arms with his own 
 weapons. Ever after that, from time to time, he mingled in the 
 sports and pastimes of the young men, never losing sight of his 
 own dignity, but showing sufficient skill, address, and boldness 
 to make them look up to him in the new course to which their 
 attention was now directed by the customs of the age. 
 
 The Abbe de Boisguerin, however, did not suffer their whole 
 attention to be occupied by those military exercises, which 
 formed the chief subject of study with the young nobility of the 
 day. He had caused them at an earlier period to be instructed 
 deeply in the more elegant and graceful studies : he had en- 
 deavoured to implant in their minds a fondness for letters, for 
 poetry, for music. Drawing, too, and painting, then rising into 
 splendour from the darkness which had long covered them, wore 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 1 1 
 
 pointed out to their attention, as objects of admiration and in- 
 terest for every fine and elevated mind ; and while no manly 
 sport or science was omitted, the many moments of unfilled time 
 that then hung heavy on the hands of other youths in France 
 were by them filled up with occupations calculated to polish, to 
 expand, and to dignify their minds. 
 
 As far as this had gone, every thing that the Abbe de Bois- 
 guerin had done was calculated to raise him in the esteem of his 
 pupils; and when, on the death of their father, they found that 
 their preceptor had been appointed to remain with them till the 
 law placed their conduct in their own hands, they both rejoiced 
 equally and sincerely. 
 
 It may be asked, however, whether, of the two brothers, the 
 Abbe had himself a favourite, and whether he was better beloved 
 by the one than by the other? Still wise and cautious in all his 
 proceedings, his demeanour displayed no great predilection to 
 either. No ordinary eye could see : they themselves could not 
 detect, by any outward sign, that one possessed a particle more 
 of his regard than the other, and both were towards him equally 
 attentive, affectionate, and respectful. But there was one pecu- 
 liarity in his method of dealing with them, and in the effect that it 
 produced upon either, which showed to himself, and unwittingly 
 showed to one, which was the character best calculated to as- 
 similate with his own. 
 
 It more than once happened, nay, indeed, it often happened, 
 that in order to induce them to arrive at the same conclusion 
 with himself, or to lead them to do that which their passions, 
 prejudices, or weaknesses made them unwilling to do, he would 
 address himself, not directly to their reason or to their heart, 
 but to their vanity, their pride, their prejudices : he would poli- 
 ticly combat one error with another : he would not exactly 
 assail what he knew to be wrong, but would undermine it ; and 
 when he had conquered, and they were satisfied that he was 
 right in the result, he would then point, with a degree of smiling 
 and good-humoured triumph, to the subtle means which he had 
 employed to lead them to his purpose. 
 
 The elder brother would sometimes be angry at having been 
 so led ; but yet he took a certain pleasure in the skill with which 
 it was done, and more than once endeavoured to give the Abbe 
 back art for art. He strove to lead his younger brother by the 
 same means, and more than once succeeded. The younger, 
 however, on his part, showed no anger at having been led, if 
 he were fully convinced that the object was right. He never 
 attempted, however, to practise the same-, and as he grew up, 
 when any act of the kind was particularly remarkable in the 
 Abbe, or in his brother, it threw him into musings more serious 
 
12 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 than those which he usually indulged in. If it diminished his 
 regard for either, he did not suffer that result to appear 5 and 
 when he reached the period at which his mothers estates were 
 given into his own hands, he eagerly besought the preceptor to 
 remain with them, and insured to him an income far beyond 
 that which any thing but deep affection and regard required 
 him to bestow. 
 
 The interest of their father had before his death obtained for 
 the Abbe de Boisguerin the office of a. bishopric; but the Abbe 
 had declined it — perhaps, as many another man has done, 
 with more ambition than moderation in the refusal — and he 
 had continued to remain with his pupils, increasing and extend- 
 ing his influence over them, up to the moment at which we 
 have placed them before the reader. He had carefully withheld 
 them, however, from mingling in that world of which they as 
 yet knew little or nothing, and in which his influence was 
 likely to be lost, looking forward to that period at which the 
 circumstances of the times should— as he saw they were likely 
 to do — render the support of the two young noblemen so in- 
 dispensable to some one of the great parties then struggling for 
 supreme power, that they might command any thing which 
 he chose to dictate as the price of adhesion. 
 
 Such was their state at the period which we have chosen for 
 opening this tale. But there was another point in their state 
 which it may be necessary to mark. They were not themselves 
 at all aware of their own characters and dispositions 5 nor was 
 any one else, except the clear-sighted and penetrating man who 
 had dwelt so long with them 5 and he could only guess, for all 
 the world of passions within the bosoms of each had as yet 
 slumbered in their youthful idleness, like Samson in the lap of 
 Delilah ; but they were speedily to be roused. 
 
 The dress of each requires but little comment, as it was the 
 ordinary hunting dress of the period, and was only remarkable 
 for a good deal of ornament, denoting, perhaps, a little taste for 
 finery, which might be passed over in youth. Of the two, per- 
 haps the younger brother displayed less gold and embroidery 
 upon his green doublet and riding coat. His boots, too, made, 
 as usual, of untanned leather, displayed no gold tassels at the 
 sides; though his moderation in these respects might be in some 
 degree atoned by the length of the tall single leather in his 
 riding cap. 
 
 Such were the principal persons of the group which rode into 
 the green alley or glade that we have described in the wood ; 
 and the rest, amounting to some twenty in number, comprised 
 attendants of all sorts in the glittering and many-coloured ap- 
 parel of that time. 
 
I1ENRV OF GUISE. 13 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 Did all Ihat are hunted in this world — whether the chase be 
 carried on hy care, or villany, or sorrow, by our own passions, 
 or by the malevolence of our fellow-men — did all that are 
 hunted in this world obtain as loud and clear an intimation 
 that the pursuit is up and stirring, as the wild boar which had 
 been tracked to its covert then had, we might have a better 
 chance than this world generally affords us of making our es- 
 cape in time, or, at least, of preparing for defence. 
 
 Much was the noise, great the gingling and the tramp, the 
 whining of impatient dogs, the chiding of surly foresters, the 
 loud laugh and gay jest of their masters, in the glen of the wood 
 within three or four hundred yards of the thicket in which the 
 boar lay sleeping. He woke not with the sounds, however, or, 
 at all events, he noticed them not, while the preparations went 
 on for putting his easy life in the brown forest to a close. 
 
 "Well, Gondrin," exclaimed the elder of the two brothers, 
 Caspar, Marquis of Montsoreau — " Well, Gondrin, have you 
 made sure of our beast ? is he lodged safely ? " 
 
 " As safe as an ox in his stall," replied the huntsman, whom 
 we have seen tracking the steps of the wild boar over the crisp 
 frost-covered leaves of winter. " He has his lair in the thicket 
 there, my Lord, and, as near as I can guess, he is but a hundred 
 yards in. If you go round by the back of the cottage, and sta- 
 tion two relays, one on the hill of Dufay, and the other on the 
 bank of the river by the bridge of Neufbourg, you will have a 
 glorious chase; for he can take no other way but down the glen, 
 and then crossing the high road by the river, must run all the 
 way up the valley, and stand at bay amongst the rocks at the 
 end." 
 
 "Beautifully arranged, Gondrin, beautifully arranged," cried 
 the younger brother, Charles of Montsoreau, Count oi'Logeres; 
 but his elder brother instantly interrupted him, exclaiming, 
 " But have you not netted the thicket, Gondrin ?" 
 
 " No, my Lord," replied the huntsman ; " Count Charles said 
 the other day he loved to give the beasts a chance, and lodged 
 as the boar is, you would miss the run, for then he must turn 
 at bay in the thicket and be killed immediately." 
 
 " It matters not, it matters not," replied Caspar de Montso- 
 reau. " If Charles like it, so let it be-, and yet 1 love to sec the 
 huge beast darting from side to side, and floundering in the nets 
 
14 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 he did not think of. There is a pleasure in so circumventing 
 him." 
 
 " It is not too late yet," said the fine rich musical voice of the 
 Abbe de Boisguerin. "The nets can be speedily brought, and 
 the thicket enclosed." 
 
 " Oh no," cried both brothers at once : "we have no such 
 patience, you know, good friend. Send down the relays, Gon- 
 drin, and let us begin the sport at once." 
 
 " I will go round to the left of the thicket with my men," con- 
 tinued the younger brother, " and will keep the hill-side as well 
 as if there were all the nets in the world. You, Gaspar, keep this 
 side and the little lane behind the cottage." 
 
 " And what shall I do?" demanded the Abbe with a smile. 
 " I must not show myself backward in your sports, Charles, 
 so I will go with Gondrin here, and some of the piqueurs, and 
 force the grizzly monarch of the forest in his hold." 
 
 The matter being thus determined, the relays were sent down, 
 and the parties separated for their several stations, Gondrin 
 saying to his younger lord as they went round, " If I sound one 
 mot on my horn, Sir, the boar is making his rush towards you 5 
 if I sound two, he is taking towards the Marquis ; but if I sound 
 three, be sure that he is going down the valley, as I said, and 
 must take to the rocks, for he has no chance any other way 
 but by the ford, which he won't take, unless hard pressed." 
 
 " I will go straight round by the ford and turn him," replied 
 his young lord. " Then we make sure of him altogether Gon- 
 drin." 
 
 Thus saying, he rode quickly on and took his station on the 
 hill, where an open space gave him room to plant his men 
 around so as to meet the boar at any point of the ascent, in 
 case the beast turned in that direction and endeavoured to plunge 
 into the depths of the forest. 
 
 Some time was allowed to elapse, in order to give the relays 
 time to reach their stations, and then, from the western side of 
 the thicket, were heard the cries and halloos of the huntsmen, 
 as they themselves plunged into the wood, and encouraged the 
 dogs to attack the boar in his lair. For a short space, the hounds 
 themselves were mute ; but, in about five minutes, they seemed 
 to have got upon the boar's scent, who had moved onward, 
 roused by the cries of the hunters, and a loud long opening 
 burst announced that they had come upon his track. A minute 
 afterwards, a single note was heard from the horn of the hunts- 
 man, and the grey form of the boar glanced for a moment past 
 one of the gaps in the wood where the younger of the brothers 
 had stationed himself; but the beast plunged in again immedi- 
 ately, and a piercing yell from one of the dogs seemed to show 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 15 
 
 that lie had passed through the midst of the hounds, taking 
 vengeance upon them as he went for disturbing his quiet. Shortly 
 after, the horn of Gondrin gave the signal that the boar was 
 rushing down the valley. Charles of Montsoreau paused to be 
 quite sure, but the three notes were sounded again after a mo- 
 ment's silence, and, setting spurs to his horse, he galloped on 
 like lightning to interrupt the boar, and turn him at the ford. 
 The loud cries of the dogs in full chase were sullicienl to show 
 him that he was right in the direction he had taken till he issued 
 forth from the wood, and after that he could see with his own 
 eyes the whole scene of the boar's flight, and the pursuit through 
 the open country into which the beast was now driven. 
 
 Galloping on with all the eagerness and impetuosity of youth, 
 he made at once for the ford ; now catching wide views of the 
 landscape as lie passed over the side of some open hill, now lo- 
 sing the whole again as he plunged amidst the leafless vineyards 
 or woods. The country around was thus hidden from his sight, 
 and he could see nothing but the dull dry stems of the vines, in a 
 low sloping hollow through which he passed, or a few mottled 
 patches of darker cloud upon the dull grey sky overhead— when 
 suddenly his ear caught the sound of distant fire-arms, and he 
 drew up his horse in no small surprise. 
 
 The situation of the country, indeed — the wars that were 
 taking place in almost every part of France — the general disor- 
 ganisation of society, which throughout almost the whole land 
 changed the peasant into the soldier, either for the purposes of 
 plunder or self-defence' — might be supposed to have rendered 
 such sounds not at all unfamiliar to his ear ; and, in truth, two 
 years before he would have shown no sign of astonishment to 
 have heard a whole park of artillery roaring in the direction from 
 which he now heard the sound of a few scattered shots. Since 
 then, however, the tide of warfare had been turned in another 
 direction. In the secluded spot in which he dwelt, few visits 
 from occasional marauders were to be apprehended : the peasan- 
 try had returned to their labours, and no news of any kind from 
 the distant provinces had given reason to suppose that the 
 scourge of civil war was again likely to afflict that part of the 
 country. Some precautions, indeed, had been necessary to keep 
 down petty feuds and plundering excursions amongst some of 
 the inferior gentry and partisans in the neighbourhood: and the 
 two young noblemen had been called upon to practise some of 
 the most important duties of their station, in maintaining, as far 
 as possible, peace and tranquillity around them. 
 
 After pausing, then, for a moment, to listen, Charles of 
 Montsoreau, judging that the sounds he heard proceeded from 
 some new infraction of the law, rode on, determined, as soon 
 
16 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 as he had finished the all-important business of the chase, to 
 investigate the matter more thoroughly, and to punish the 
 aggressors. All these fine resolutions, however, were changed 
 in a moment; for almost as soon as they were formed he emerged 
 from the vineyard through which he had been passing, entered 
 upon the open side of the hill, and a scene was presented to his 
 eyes which excited other and somewhat more painful feelings in 
 his bosom. 
 
 Although the point on which he stood was not particularly 
 high, the view was extensive and uninterrupted by any very 
 near object. The valley through which the stream wound was 
 about a mile and a half in breadth, and five or six miles in 
 length ; along the whole extent of which the high road was vi- 
 sible, with the exception of a few hundred yards here and 
 there, where a rock, or a peasant's house, or a water-mill by 
 the side of the stream, interrupted the view. At the distance of 
 somewhat more than half a mile lay the bridge over the stream, 
 and halfway between it and the spot where the young gentleman 
 stood, appeared one of the large, heavy, wide-topped carriages 
 of the day, drawn by six horses, and driving along at a furious 
 rate, as if in full flight. The driver was lashing his horses with 
 furious eagerness 5 but ever and anon he turned his head to look 
 behind towards the bridge, where a scene appeared, which 
 showed his anxiety to quicken his pace to be not at all unna- 
 tural. 
 
 Half upon the bridge and half upon the road, on the nearer 
 side of the stream, appeared a very small body of horsemen, 
 apparently not more than seven or eight in number, contending 
 fiercely with a larger body, as if to give time for the persons in 
 the carriage to escape; and from that spot, rolling up in white 
 wreaths amongst the yeilow banks and cold green wintry slopes 
 of scanty herbage, curled the white smoke, occasioned by the 
 discharge of fire-arms. At the distance of about a mile and a 
 half beyond, again, was seen coming up, with headlong speed, 
 a still larger body of cavalry; and it was evident, that at the 
 rate with which the latter were advancing, the carriage and its 
 denizens, if such were the object of their pursuit, would not be 
 very long before they were overtaken. 
 
 It is a pleasant weakness in young and generous minds to 
 seek in all strifes the defence of the weaker, even when we do 
 not know whether the cause that we thus espouse be or be not 
 the just one. Charles of Montsoreau paused but for a moment, 
 and then rode down towards the carriage as fast as possible, 
 followed by his attendants. The coachman showed great un- 
 willingness to stop ; but he had no power of resisting the com- 
 mand which he received to do so, and accordingly, as soon as it 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 17 
 
 was repeated, obeyed. But, at the same moment, the head of 
 an elderly lady, apparently of some rank, was thrust forth from 
 between the curtains of the vehicle, uttering various not very 
 coherent sentences, and displaying in every line and feature in- 
 dubitable marks of great fear and.trepidation. 
 
 Brought up in the habit of chivalrous courtesy, the young no- 
 bleman instantly raised his cap, and bowing low, asked if he 
 could render her any service. His words were few and simple, 
 but there was great encouragement in his air; and the lady re- 
 plied, " Oh! for Heaven's sake, do not stop us, young gentle- 
 man. We have been basely betrayed by one of our servants into 
 an ambush of the King of Navarre's reiters, who seek to make 
 us prisoners, and Heaven only knows what may become of us if 
 they succeed." 
 
 " If the reiters be those that are following you," said the 
 young nobleman, " there is no earthly possibility of your escap- 
 ing them, madam, except by taking refuge in the chateau of 
 Montsoreau hard by. I will give your coachman directions, and 
 then go down and help to disentangle your attendants, who 
 .seem to be contending gallantly with superior numbers on the 
 bridge." 
 
 " A thousand and a thousand thanks, young gentleman," re- 
 plied the lady. ' ; But how," she added, with a look of uncer- 
 tainty, " but how can we tell that we shall be kindly received 
 at Montsoreau, and shall not, perhaps, be treated as prisoners 
 there also ? " 
 
 " By my promise, madam," replied the young gentleman 
 with a smile, " I am Charles of Montsoreau, the Marquis's 
 brother : will you trust yourself to my w T ord?" 
 
 " Most willingly," she said ; and turning to the coachman, 
 the young gentleman added, " Drive on with all speed till the 
 road divides, then take the left-hand road up the hill and through 
 the wood; demand admittance, in my name, at the castle, if I 
 should not have come up in time. But I shall have overtaken 
 you before then. Now, speed on, and spare not your beasts, for 
 the way is not long, if you be diligent." 
 
 Thus saying, he again bowed low and rode on, and in a very 
 few minutes had reached the spot where the contention was 
 taking place between the party of light-armed servants attending 
 upon the carriage and the heavy armed reiters. 
 
 The young nobleman was not unwilling to signalise himself 
 by any deed of arms that might fall in his way ; but on the pre- 
 sent occasion no great opportunity was afforded him, for the 
 numbers he brought to the assistance of the servants appeared 
 so formidable in the eyes of the other party who were already 
 engaged in the fray, that they hastened to draw back for the 
 
 9 
 
18 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 purpose of waiting in security the arrival of their comrades; 
 and the only event which took place worth noting was the action 
 of the commander of the reiters then present, who turned deli- 
 berately as he retreated, and fired his pistol at the head of 
 the young nobleman with so -true an aim as to send the bullet 
 through his hunting cap, within an inch of his head. 
 
 Under any other circumstances, Charles of Montsoreau would 
 not have failed to repay this sort of courtesy with something of 
 the same kind 5 but recollecting the situation of the persons in 
 the carriage, he showed more cool prudence than might have 
 been expected from his years ; and telling an elderly man, who 
 seemed the principal attendant present, that the carriage was 
 proceeding as fast as possible to the shelter of the chateau of 
 Montsoreau, he bade him ride after it with all speed. 
 
 " You, Martin," he said, turning to one of his own followers, 
 " gallop up to the ford, cross it, seek out the hunt, which I can 
 see no longer in the field, and tell my brother what has happened, 
 asking him to hasten back to the castle with all speed. I shall 
 wait here for a time, to watch the movements of the reiters, and 
 see that they do not pursue you — so lose no time, but spur on 
 speedily." 
 
 The man did as he was bid, and for about five minutes Charles 
 of Montsoreau kept his position upon the bridge, supported by 
 nothing but his own attendants. The servant whom he had de- 
 spatched to his brother reached the ford and crossed it, without 
 any attempt on the part of the reiters to interrupt him. He then 
 galloped on in the direction of the rocks, at full speed ; and 
 Charles of Montsoreau having seen him, as far as he could judge, 
 in safety, turned his horse, and rode after the carriage and its 
 followers. 
 
 In the mean time, while these events were taking place, on 
 one side of the valley the boar, following the plan that the hunts- 
 man Gondrin had laid out for him, pursued the course of the 
 stream, and though chased by the dogs in full cry, paused not, 
 and turned not, till at the water-mill a fierce watch-dog rushed 
 out upon him, and received in return a wound from one of the 
 beast's sharp tusks, which laid him dying upon the road. This 
 little incident did not stop the fierce animal for an instant ; but 
 it seemed to confuse him, and made him turn from the direct 
 course he was pursuing sooner than he otherwise would have 
 done. He doubled once before the hounds almost like a hare, 
 and then darting up one of the narrow passes to the right, led 
 hounds and huntsmen a considerable distance from the spot 
 where the chase first commenced, before he was finally driven 
 into the valley of rocks, from which there was no outlet, and 
 where he was, consequently, obliged to stand at bay. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 19 
 
 The way that he took led the main body of the huntsmen, 
 with the young lord of Montsoreau and the Abbe of Hois- 
 guerin, into a track, from which the other side of the valley was 
 not visible ; and their own eagerness, the cries of the numerous 
 dogs, and the shouts and halloos of the huntsmen, prevented 
 them from hearing those sounds which had attracted the atten- 
 tion of Charles of Montsoreau. When the Abbe and the Marquis 
 arrived, they found the noble boar already brought to bay by 
 the dogs, and defending himself stoutly against his enemy. Two 
 of the hounds were already sprawling in their blood beneath 
 his feet, and the Marquis sprang to the ground to put an end 
 to the strife as soon as possible. 
 
 Nothing extraordinary occurred to mark the event of the 
 chase. The boar, like one of those unfortunate men that we 
 sometimes see in the world, upon whom every sort of mis- 
 fortune falls one after another, torn by the dogs, assailed by the 
 huntsmen, confused by the clamour, was soon killed amongst 
 them ; and Gaspar, whose hand had performed the actual deed, 
 executed all the usual offices of the hunter upon that occasion, 
 and stepping out the boar's length, declared that it was one of 
 the finest brutes that he had ever slain. 
 
 " I wonder where Charles is," he exclaimed, as scon as the 
 whole was completed. " He must have missed us at the turn by 
 the water-mill." 
 
 And thus saying, he gazed down the valley of rocks, through 
 the opening of which might be seen a part of the other valley, 
 with the wood from which the boar had been forced, and the 
 grey towers of the chateau of Montsoreau rising upon the hill 
 beyond. A single horseman appeared coming up the valley, at 
 the distance of about half a mile •, but as the young marquis gazed 
 in the direction of the castle, his eye was suddenly attracted by 
 a quick flash which seemed to dart from one of the embrasures, 
 and almost at the same instant a white cloud of smoke enve- 
 loped the top of the principal tower. After a short interval, the 
 loud booming report of a cannon made itself heard, and another, 
 and another flash issued forth from the embrasures on the side 
 which commanded the road, while the cloud of smoke around 
 the castle grew deeper and more extensive ; and the repeated 
 roar of the cannon gave notice to the country round that war 
 had returned to disturb the peace which had reigned in those 
 valleys for the last two years. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ?" exclaimed the Marquis, turn- 
 ing towards the Abbe—" What can be the meaning of all this ? " 
 
 " Why, simply," replied the Abbe, "I suppose some unex- 
 pected attack upon the castle, and that your brother Charles 
 has thrown himself into it, and is firing upon the enemy. But, 
 
20 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 if I mistake not, this man coming up at such speed is his piqueur 
 Martin. ..He rides to us with news, depend upon it." 
 
 The man soon conveyed to them his own tale, and added the 
 information, that, as far as he could judge from the backward 
 looks that he had cast as he rode along, the body of reiters 
 who had followed in pursuit of the carriage amounted at least 
 to the number of two hundred. The situation of the Marquis 
 and his companions was now in some degree embarrassing; for 
 their party was far too small to afford a hope of forcing their way 
 into the chateau at once, if opposed by the superior force which 
 the man described. Measures were, therefore, immediately taken, 
 for calling the peasantry around to arms ; and such was the 
 military and enterprising spirit of the day, that you would have 
 thought from the alacrity with which the pike was grasped, and 
 the steel-cap put on, that some joyful occasion called the good 
 countrymen forth from their homes, and not a matter of peril 
 and strife. 
 
 In the course of about two hours, more than forty men had 
 collected in the valley of rocks 5 and with this small force, 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau prepared to force his way into the cha- 
 teau, though the Abbe de Boisguerin still remonstrated with him 
 on the smallness of the number, and advised him to wait for 
 further support. As they were discussing the matter, however, 
 the huntsman Gondrin stepped forward, and, with a low incli- 
 nation of the head, addressed his lord. 
 
 " I think, Sir," he said, " if you would let me guide you, I 
 could bring you through the wood to the postern under the 
 rock, without these German vagabonds catching the least sight 
 of your march; and at that postern, you know, defended by the 
 guns of the chateau, you could defy the whole world till the 
 postern is opened." 
 
 "How do you propose to do it, Gondrin?" demanded the 
 Abbe, scarcely giving the young lord time to reply. 
 
 " Why, I mean," replied the man, " to go round under the 
 hill to the road between the deep banks, which would cover 
 a whole troop of men at arms, much less a small body, such as 
 we have here. That leads us straight into the wood behind 
 my house ; and then there is the path which I always follow 
 myself in coming up to the chateau. It never leaves the covert 
 of the wood till it reaches the postern, or at least the little green 
 that opens before it." 
 
 " Oh, Gondrin is right, Gondrin is right," exclaimed the 
 young marquis. "He is always sure of his way. Lead on, 
 Gondrin : keep about twenty yards in front, and we will follow 
 as orderly as we can. But some one bring along the hoar I we 
 must not leave the boar behind ! " 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 21 
 
 The march was then commenced , and the only farther obser- 
 vation that was made upon the proposed course proceeded 
 from the Abbe de Boisguerin, who said in a low voice to the 
 young nobleman, " My only reason for questioning Gondrin so 
 closely was, that he has always shown a much greater fond- 
 ness for your brother than yourself, as you must often have 
 observed ; and I thought he might lead us all into greater peril 
 than needful, in his zealous eagerness to succour Charles." 
 
 The Marquis did not reply, but rode on thoughtfully •, and 
 yet, upon words as light as those, have often been built up 
 in this world rancours and jealousies never afterwards extin- 
 guished. In the present instance, indeed, and at the present 
 moment, the effect went no further than to make Gaspar of 
 Montsoreau ask himself, " I wonder why Gondrin should love 
 my brother better than myself? and yet I have remarked he 
 does so." 
 
 As they marched on, the sound of the cannon was still heard 
 from time to time; but at length, as they entered the wood; 
 it ceased, and was heard no more. After threading the narrow 
 path by which Gondrin led them, they issued forth upon a 
 green slope beneath an angle of the rock on which the cha- 
 teau stood. The chief road leading to the castle was visible 
 from that point; but no body of reiters was now to be seen 
 there ; and the moment that they were perceived and recognised 
 from the battlements, glad shouts and gestures from the re- 
 tainers on the walls gave them to understand that the enemy 
 had thought fit to abandon their object, and retreat. Perhaps 
 Gaspar of Montsoreau was not quite satisfied that the defence 
 should have been made and the enemy frustrated by his younger 
 brother-, but his heart was still sufficiently pure and upright to 
 make him angry with himself on detecting such sensations in 
 his bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Those who have never lived amongst strange and stirring 
 events, those who have never been accustomed to hourly danger, 
 and to continual change, form no idea of the ease with which 
 the human mind reconciles itself to the various rapid alterna- 
 tions of our fate, and how soon the habit of enterprise, ex- 
 citement and hazard, produces an appetite for the very things 
 that would seem abhorrent to our nature. 
 
 The incident of the appearance of the reiters in that parr 
 
22 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 of the country, of their attack upon the chateau of Montsoreau, 
 and of the absence of its lord at the moment, might have ended 
 by the capture and burning of the castle, and by the massacre 
 of all within its walls. But the moment that it was over, the 
 Marquis and his train rode in, and springing from his horse, he 
 entered the hall, laughing gaily at the perilous events just past. 
 Finding no one there but some servants, he next proceeded to 
 a part of the building which was called the Lady's Bower, 
 where he was informed his brother now was, with the guests 
 who had so unexpectedly taken refuge in the chateau. He 
 was followed thither by the Abbe de Boisguerin, and on entering 
 they found a scene which— though of no very stirring character 
 — we must attempt to paint for the reader's eye. 
 
 The lady's bower was a large, lightsome chamber in one of 
 those towers of the chateau which was least likely to be exposed 
 to the fire of artillery in case of attack — for we must remember 
 that every nobleman's house in that day was built chiefly with a 
 view to defence, and was in fact a regular fortress, as far as the 
 science of the time could render it so. The windows of the 
 bower looked over the most abrupt part of the hill on which 
 the castle stood, and, beyond that, upon the wide woods, that, 
 sweeping away down into the valley, covered an extent of 
 many miles of low and gently undulating ground, which afforded 
 no eminence whatsoever, within cannon shot, that was not 
 completely commanded by the castle itself. The bower had 
 also the advantage of being on the sunny side of the building, 
 turned away from the cold north, and from the east, and 
 looking to the land of summer, and to the point where the 
 splendid sun went down after his daily course. On the day that 
 we have mentioned, indeed, the great light-giver vouchsafed 
 but few of his beams to the world below ; but in the huge fire- 
 place of the lady's bower, which was furnished with its com- 
 fortable seats all round, blazed up a pile of logs, giving heat 
 sufficient to the whole room, to compensate for the absence of 
 the sun. 
 
 At a little distance from the fire was collected a group of per- 
 sons, of which the graceful and dignified form of Charles of Mont- 
 soreau was the first that caught the eye. He was standing with 
 his hunting cap in his hand — the long plume of which swept the 
 floor — and was bending in an attitude of much grace to speak 
 with a lady who was seated in a large arm-chair, and who, look- 
 ing up in his face, was listening with apparently great interest 
 to all that he was saying. That lady, however, was not the one 
 who had spoken to him from the carriage. She, indeed, sat 
 near, while three or four female attendants, who had come with 
 her in the vehicle, stood behind. But the lady to whom Charles 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 23 
 
 of Montsoreau was speaking was altogether ol a different age, 
 and of a different appearance. 
 
 She was apparently not above nineteen or twenty years of 
 age, and certainly very beautiful, although her beauty was not 
 altogether of that sparkling and brilliant kind which attracts 
 altention at once. The features, it is true, were all good; the 
 skin fair, soft, and delicate; the figure exquisitely formed, and 
 full of grace ; but there were none of those brilliant contrasts of 
 colouring that are remarkable even at a distance. There was no 
 Hashing black eye, full of fire and light; the colour on the cheek, 
 though that cheek was not pale, was pure and delicate; the 
 hair was of a light glossy silken brown, and the soft liquid hazel 
 eyes, screened by their long lashes, and fine cut eyelids, required 
 to be seen near, and to be marked well, before all the beautiful 
 depth and fervour of their expression could be fully perceived. 
 There was one thing, however, which was seen at once, which 
 was the great loveliness of the mouth and lips, every line of 
 which spoke sweetness and gentleness, but not without firmness 
 — tenderness, in short, gaining rather than losing from resolu- 
 tion. Those lips were altogether peculiar to the race and family 
 to which she was — not very remotely — related ; and it was to 
 their peculiar form and expression, that was owing that inef- 
 fable smile which is said to have borne no slight part in the 
 charm that rendered her nearest male relative at that moment 
 all-powerful over the hearts of men, made him, Henry of Guise, 
 more a king in France than the sovereign of the land — at least 
 as far as the affections of the people went — and which had ad- 
 ded the crowning grace to the beauty of the unfortunate Mary 
 Stuart. 
 
 The dress in which this fair girl was clothed was that in which 
 she had been travelling, and consequently there was but little 
 ornament of any kind about it ; and yet the blood of the prince- 
 ly Guises spoke out in every movement and in every attitude, 
 too plainly for any one to have mistaken h^r for aught but what 
 she was, had she been dressed even in the garb of a peasant. 
 
 The elder lady, clothed altogether in black, with her grey 
 hair drawn back from the point of the black velvet curch with 
 which her head was covered, and an eager, somewhat restless, 
 eye, presented no points either of great interest or attraction, 
 and appeared what, in fact, she really was, a poor and distant 
 relation of the young lady whom she accompanied, willing to 
 derive competence, importance, and dignity from acting the 
 part of companion to one above herself in worldly advantages. 
 
 It frequently and naturally happens, that persons in such a 
 situation lose all native dignity of character, and become at 
 once subservient to those above them, and domineering to those 
 
24 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 below. This, indeed, is not always the case ; and when it is not. 
 the great trial of the human heart, which such circumstances 
 inflict, but leaves the character of those who endure it well, 
 more bright and noble than they otherwise would have ap- 
 peared. But in the present instance, the result was the more 
 common one,, and the old Marquise de Saulny, though possess- 
 ing several good qualities, presented, in general, a character 
 but little estimable. Talkative till she was repressed ; loving to 
 rule and direct the household of the young lady to whom she 
 was attached; excitable, and somewhat tyrannical by nature, 
 but subservient by habit and by policy, she was often inclined to 
 affect a degree of power and authority over her fair companion, 
 which the sweet girl herself but rarely thought it worth while 
 to oppose, but which, as soon as she did oppose it, sunk into 
 the most perfect submission and humility. Often, too, she would 
 make an effort to engross the whole conversation, and in or- 
 dinary instances did so without any fear of rivalry from her less 
 loquacious companion ; but whenever the young lady herself 
 showed an inclination to speak, Madame de Saulny was silent, 
 or only conversed with the inferior persons round about her in 
 a low tone. 
 
 As we have said, it was by the side of the younger lady that 
 Charles of Montsoreau was now standing, giving her apparently 
 an account of the events that had just passed, while she, with 
 her soft eyes turned eagerly towards his face, listened to every 
 word he uttered with deep interest, and asked him manifold 
 questions as he went on. 
 
 It would seem that Charles of Montsoreau had not been 
 aware of the return of his brother, for he started slightly at his 
 appearance, and the young lady turned her eyes towards the 
 door with an inquiring look, as the Marquis and the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin entered. 
 
 " This is my brother, madam," said Charles of Montso- 
 reau, taking a step forward. " Caspar, I have been acting as 
 your lieutenant here during your absence. The man I sent to 
 you doubtless told you what had then occurred; and although 
 I knew not, when I offered these ladies in your name the pro- 
 tection of your chateau, whom it was I had an opportunity of 
 thus slightly serving, I was quite sure that I only did what you 
 would have done if you had been present." 
 
 " Undoubtedly, my gallant brother," replied the Marquis— 
 " you did all that was right, and all that was chivalrous. For 
 my own sake, I must regret my absence at the moment when 
 these events took place-, but for these ladies' sake I cannot regret 
 it, for I know none who would welcome them more warmly, or 
 defend them more gallantly, than you, Charles.— And so you 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 25 
 
 have stood a siege and won a battle during my absence, while I 
 have only had the luck to kill a huge boar. — I hope," he added, 
 advancing towards the younger lady, " I hope that you have 
 neither suffered great fear nor great inconvenience ; and though 
 it is possible that these reiters will linger about in this neigh- 
 bourhood for some time to come, being now upon our guard, 
 we shall soon have men enough under arms to protect you 
 against any further violence." 
 
 While he had been speaking the young lady had regarded 
 him attentively, but with a very different glance from that which 
 she had been giving to his brother. It seemed as if the events 
 which had taken place had rendered her familiar with the one, 
 even in the short space of time which their acquaintance had 
 yet lasted, and she looked upon him as a friend, while she gazed 
 upon the other as a stranger. She replied courteously, however, 
 thanking him for the hospitality which had been shown to them, 
 and assuring him, that though she had certainly been very much 
 frightened while they were flying from the pursuit of the reiters, 
 yet she had lost all fear as soon as they were within the walls of 
 Montsoreau. 
 
 " You have forgot one thing, Charles," said the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin, advancing, " which is to present your brother and 
 myself formally to these ladies ; for we, who were unfortunate 
 enough to be absent on a less pleasing occupation than that of 
 giving them assistance, do not yet know to whom you have 
 been fortunate enough to afford protection." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau coloured slightly, as he was reminded 
 of his omission, and then presented his brother and the Abbe 
 to the Marquise de Saulny and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. 
 
 At the name of the latter, the brow of the Abbe de Boisguerin, 
 which had been somewhat contracted, expanded in a moment, 
 and his lip lighted up with a bright smile. 
 
 " If I am not mistaken," he said, bowing low to the younger 
 lady, " Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is niece of that most noble 
 prince the Duke of Guise." 
 
 " My mother was his niece," replied the young lady ; " but I 
 may boast that his affection is not less for me than it' I were my- 
 self his niece — I may say his daughter." 
 
 " Well may any one be proud of his regard," replied the 
 Abbe, " and well, I feel sure, may the Duke of Guise also feel 
 deep regard for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. But I trust that this 
 young gentleman has already taken care you should have some 
 better entertainment, than the report of cannon. You have, 1 
 hope, had some refreshment." 
 
 " No," replied the young lady, with a smile, as she saw the 
 colour again come up into the cheek of Charles of Montsoreau 
 
26 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 at the implied reproach ; " no he has been sufficiently occupied, 
 till within the last half hour, in defending us from the enemy, 
 who seemed at one time, I understand, resolved to storm the 
 chateau; and since then, I have kept him giving me answers to 
 many foolish questions; so that he has had no time to think 
 of offering refreshment to any one — though I know, my good 
 Madame de Saulny, that fear always makes you hungry." 
 
 " Not such fear as we have had to-day, dear Marie," replied 
 Madame de Saulny. " It has been quite enough to-day to take 
 away my appetite altogether, till I heard that we were quite 
 safe, and those hateful reiters gone from before the gates. How 
 I shall ever gain courage to set out again I do not know." 
 
 " I only trust, dear madam," said Caspar de Montsoreau, 
 " I only trust that your terror may last a long while, so that we 
 may keep our two fair prisoners within our chateau till such time 
 as all the roads are in perfect safety." 
 
 The colour came a little more deeply into the cheek of Marie 
 de Clairvaut. 
 
 " I think, indeed," she said, " that we ought to set off again 
 as soon as possible. We owe you many, many thanks, gentle- 
 men, for the protection you have already afforded, and the 
 hospitality you are willing to show. But as I am hastening by 
 my uncle's direction to my estates near Dreux, where I expect 
 to meet him, I fear I must not linger by the way. Some of our 
 poor attendants, I understand, are wounded; these we must 
 leave to your kind care. But I hope it will be found possible for 
 us to proceed on our way before nightfall." 
 
 " You will pardon me, madam," said the Abb6 de Boisguerin, 
 " and my young friends here will pardon me for taking the 
 matter in some degree out of their hands ; but believe me, what 
 you propose is perfectly impossible. It would be madness to 
 attempt it. I should hold myself, as an ecclesiastic, deeply 
 criminal, were I not at once to remonstrate against such a pro- 
 ceeding. The whole country, between this and Dreux, a space 
 of more than two hundred miles, is filled with the bands of the 
 Ring of Navarre, especially the Germans, and other heretics in 
 his service. I take it for granted, that you have got a passport 
 and safe-conduct from some of his chief officers; but the conduct 
 of the reiters towards you this day must have shown you 
 how little such safe-conducts are respected by those bands of 
 ruffians." 
 
 " Indeed," said Madame de Saulny, " you give us credit, Sir, 
 for more prudence than we possess. We have neither passport 
 nor safe-conduct from any of the heretic leaders ; for this young 
 lady was so anxious to obey the directions of her uncle at once, 
 that she would stay for no remonstrauce." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 27 
 
 " Now that we have her here, however, she must submit to 
 be more strictly ruled," said Charles of Montsoreau with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Ay, but we have your promise that we should come and 
 go in safety, and without opposition," said Marie de Clairvaut 
 in the same tone, and likewise with a smile. " You surely will 
 not shut the castle gates against my departure." 
 
 " No, we will not do that," said his brother; " but we will 
 reverse the usual course, if you prove refractory, and turn you 
 over fromthe secular arm to the power of the church, fair lady. 
 Our excellent friend, the Abbe here, shall decide upon your 
 fate, and I feel sure that his decision will be ratified and con- 
 firmed by your princely uncle." 
 
 "My judgment is soon pronounced," said the Abbe. "In 
 the first place, before you can or ought to stir a step from 
 beyond these walls, you must absolutely procure a safe-con- 
 duct from Henry of Navarre, or some of his principal leaders. 
 We will send off a messenger to obtain it-, and in the mean 
 while a courier shall be also sent to his Highness the Duke of 
 Guise, to give him notice of where you are, and to have his 
 good will and pleasure in regard to your farther proceedings." 
 
 The young lady turned an inquiring glance upon her compa- 
 nion. It was a look of much doubt and hesitation ; but whatever 
 might be her own wishes upon the occasion — whether inclina- 
 tion led her to stay, or feelings of propriety prompted her to go 
 —her appealing eyes were certainly turned to a personage 
 whose mind was already made up as to what was expedient to 
 be done. Madame de Saulny loved not reiters at all ; the sound 
 of their galloping hoofs in pursuit of the carriage, the report of 
 fire arms upon the bridge, the roaring of the cannon from the 
 castle, were all still ringing in her ears, and persuading her, in 
 a very loud and imperative voice, that on such a cold day, and 
 in such perilous circumstances, a warm comfortable mansion, 
 good food, good lodging, and good attendance, with the society 
 of two handsome young men, and an agreeable ecclesiastic, 
 formed a whole infinitely preferable to a dull high road in frosty 
 weather, coarse lodging, bad inns, dangerous driving, and fears 
 at every turning. 
 
 " Now, my dear Mary," exclaimed Madame de Saulny, " you 
 see that all my opinions are fully confirmed by authority, which 
 I trust you will pay a little more attention to. This excellent 
 gentleman has only said what I said before, and if you persist in 
 going, the consequences be upon your head." 
 
 " My only fear;" replied the young lady, "is that the duke 
 should not approve of my staying. Rut when the opinion ot 
 every one is against me, of course I must yield." 
 
28 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 '• Do not be the least alarmed in regard to your uncle," re- 
 plied the Abbe ; " be shall be fully informed that you were very 
 desirous of falling into the hands of the reiters ; but that we 
 would not permit you to have your own way, and detained you 
 here by force against your own will." 
 
 "Under those circumstances, of course, I have no choice," 
 said the young lady, " but I will beg that no time may be lost in 
 despatching the messengers, so that 1 may not have to reproach 
 myself with unnecessary delay of any kind." 
 
 The Abbe and his two young friends assured her that no 
 delay should be used 5 and it now being settled, according to 
 the wishes of all parties but herself, that Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut and her companions were to remain at the castle of 
 Montsoreau for some days, her two young hosts, placed in a 
 new but not unpleasant situation, busied themselves eagerly to 
 provide for her comfort, and to make her hours fly as happily 
 as possible. The first thing to be done was to give her and her 
 companions some refreshment. The best apartments of the 
 castle were allotted for her use ; and although she could not 
 help feeling that her situation was somewhat strange 5 though it 
 occasionally made her heart beat with the apprehension of not 
 doing what was right, and caused the colour to come more 
 deeply into her fair cheek when she thought of it ; yet Marie de 
 Clairvaut, somewhat like a bird escaped from a cage, felt in the 
 midst of timidity and apprehension, a joy in her little day of li- 
 berty, and prepared to make herself as happy as she could. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 The prudent plans and purposes of the most prudent and 
 politic people in this world are almost all contingent— contin- 
 gent, in the first place, upon circumstances, the great rulers of 
 all earthly things, and, in the second place, not less than the 
 first, upon the characters, thoughts, and feelings of the very 
 persons who frame them. Many a one may be tempted to tell 
 us, that it must be a prudent man to form prudent resolutions, 
 and that such a prudent man will keep them ; but now the re- 
 verse of this common-place reasoning is directly the case, and 
 the most prudent determinations are but too often taken by the 
 most imprudent people, and violated without the slightest cere- 
 mony or contrition. This is, indeed, almost universally the case; 
 for really prudent people have no need to make resolutions at 
 all, and those who make them have almost always some in- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 29 
 
 timalion in (heir own mind that there is a likelihood of their 
 being broken. 
 
 The case of Marie de Clairvaut was not exactly that of a 
 person either wanting in prudence or in firmness. She often 
 considered thoughtfully and long, regarding proprieties and im- 
 proprieties before she determined on any course of action, and, 
 in the present instance, as she sat by her solitary toilet-table in 
 her own chamber, she revolved in her mind her situation — the 
 guest of two young and wealthy nobles ; and although she felt 
 perfectly confident, both from their whole demeanour and from 
 the redoubted power and influence of her uncle, that she would 
 be treated with the most perfect courtesy, hospitality, and kind- 
 ness, she saw that she would have in some degree a difficult 
 task to perform, both in regard to them and to herself. 
 
 Though younger than either of them, Marie de Clairvaut had 
 seen a great deal more of the world ; and from her own cir- 
 cumstances, and those of her family, she had been called upon 
 to consider subjects and to deal with events, which rarely fall 
 within the scope of a young, a very young woman's reflections. 
 We have said in the end of the last chapter, that Marie de 
 Clairvaut prepared to make herself as happy as she could ; and 
 it was the feeling that she had given way somewhat incautiously 
 to such a design, during the first day that she had spent within 
 the walls of the chateau of Montsoreau that made her — as she 
 sat preparing to retire to rest' — think seriously over her situation, 
 and, as we have said, frame her resolutions according to the 
 result of her reflections. 
 
 Some time was likely to elapse before she could hear from her 
 uncle •, and in the mean while two great perils menaced her in 
 her present situation, as great and as probable, perhaps, as any 
 that fancy painted in regard to her falling into the hands of the 
 reiters, though certainly of a very different character. The first 
 of these perils was, that either of her two gay and gallant hosts 
 should fall in love with her. The days of chivalry were not then 
 over— men did occasionally fall in love with a lady and not with 
 her wealth ; and there had been observable more than once, on 
 the countenances of the two brothers, various looks and expres- 
 sions so strongly indicative of admiration, that Marie, without 
 any particular vanity, might well suppose that warmer feelings 
 still, might spring up in the track of those which had risen al- 
 ready so rapidly. 
 
 The next great danger was one of a still more terrible cha- 
 racter — it was, that she herself might fall in love with one or 
 other of the brothers. Now there were various things which 
 rendered this probable, as well as various things which rendered 
 it improbable. In the first place, though of a gentle and alTec- 
 
30 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 tionate disposition, she had never yet seen any one whom she 
 could really love ; and though she had mingled with courts and 
 moved in scenes where those startling changes were constantly 
 taking place which try and ultimately use and wear away the 
 finer feelings of the human heart, yet her bosom had been ori- 
 ginally richly stored by God with warm, and kind, and generous 
 sensations 5 and all that she had seen of the world and its world- 
 liness had but tended to make her not only hate and detest it, 
 but cling to any thing that savoured of a fresher nature. She 
 had lived enough in courts and crowds to make her abhor them, 
 but not enough to forget her abhorrence ; and she was now cast 
 entirely into the society of two beings as little like those courts 
 and crowds as it was possible to conceive : she was dependent 
 upon them for amusement, support, protection; and withal 
 there was that touching knowledge that she was admired and 
 liked-, which, to a generous and a feeling mind, is fully as 
 powerful — though acting in a different way> — as to a vain and 
 a selfish one. 
 
 Had there been, in the simplicity and the want of knowledge 
 of the world which characterised the two brothers, any thing in 
 the least degree laughable or extravagant, there might have 
 been no occasion for fear; but such was not the case: their 
 manners and their tone were in the highest degree cour- 
 teous, nay, courtly. They felt within themselves the station 
 in which they were born, the high education which they had 
 received, the superiority of their mental and corporeal powers 
 over most of those with whom they had ever been brought in 
 contact-, and that feeling added a dignified and somewhat com- 
 manding ease to the grace which nature had bestowed and edu- 
 cation improved. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut then considered all these things calmly and 
 deliberately, wisely making use of her own dispassionate judg- 
 ment, so long as she knew that judgment to be cool and un- 
 biassed. The reader, skilful in the human heart, perhaps may 
 be inclined to ask, whether there was or was not really some 
 little indication, in her own heart, of a liking and admiration 
 for one of the two brothers, which caused her to be thus cir- 
 cumspect and careful? All that we can answer is, that she 
 herself did not think so; but merely feeling that, placed in an 
 unusual situation, she was responsible to herself, and to them, 
 and to her uncle, for her conduct, she took the very first oppor- 
 tunity of contemplating all the circumstances that surrounded 
 her, in order to shape her conduct by the dictates of reason. 
 She took a strong resolution, indeed, but that was the only in- 
 dication of weakness that she discovered. 
 
 In the first place, then, she resolved, on her own part, not 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. $1 
 
 to be betrayed by any circumstances whatever into falling in 
 love with either the elder or the younger brother; and, in tlw 
 next place, she resolved to do all in her power, without acting 
 insincerely in any degree, or discourteously, to prevent either 
 of them from falling in love with her. Such a resolution implied 
 that she was not to allow herself to be so happy as she had at 
 first hoped and expected to be; but, nevertheless, she framed 
 her purposes accordingly, and determined that only so much 
 of her time should be given to the two brothers as kindness 
 and lady-ljke courtesy required. She would not attempt to as- 
 sume a false character, for such a thing was quite contrary to 
 the frankness and sincerity of her nature. While she was with 
 them she would appear what she really was, but she would 
 avoid, as far as possible, all those occasions of intimacy and 
 constant communication, which her residence in their mansion, 
 during troublous times, might naturally produce. 
 
 Now, all this was very wise and very prudent and we have 
 endeavoured to show, that Marie de Clairvaut was not one of 
 those people whose prudent resolutions are taken from a con- 
 sciousness, secret or avowed, that prudence itself is wanting. 
 Nevertheless, Marie de Clairvaut was a girl of less than nine- 
 teen years of age, and no more mistress, either of events, or 
 of her own conduct and resolutions, under particular circum- 
 stances, than if she had been fifty. She began her plan, indeed, 
 on the following morning, by pleading occupations of various 
 kinds as an excuse for remaining the greater part of the day 
 in her own apartments. But, alas ! there were two enemies in 
 her own camp. 
 
 One was Madame de Saulny, who thought herself bound to 
 remain with her fair cousin, and yet had a very strong incli- 
 nation for the more extended society which the chateau af- 
 forded. The other was a still more dangerous foe, namely, 
 herself, who, to say sooth, found the time pass uncommonly 
 heavily, having with her on her journey neither books, nor any 
 other of those sources of occupation which might have helped 
 to while away the hours in the solitude of her own chamber. 
 Having but a fretful companion in the good marquise, and 
 none of any interest amongst her inferior followers, the first 
 day wore away tediously, and, if we may say the truth, the 
 hours that she gave up in solitude had the evil effect of making 
 those that she spent with three intelligent and highminded men 
 appear far more delightful than they might otherwise have 
 done. 
 
 She found, also, that all three possessed accomplishments 
 very rare amongst the high nobility of that day 5 that the whole 
 world of art and nature, as far as it was then known, had been 
 
32 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 opened to their inquiries : and not only did music, and song, 
 and poetry, aid to make the day pass pleasantly, but they also 
 rendered the conversation that occupied another portion of the 
 time refined, and bright, and comprehensive. They were not 
 driven to talk of nothing but horses, or armour, or the battle- 
 held, or the chase, though such matters were not altogether 
 excluded 5 but, as must ever be the case, every subject spoken 
 of received a peculiar colour, a tone, a shade from the mind 
 and habitual feelings of the speaker. If Charles of Montsoreau 
 spoke of a horse, it was not in the terms of a horse-dealer, 
 but it was either as the sculptor, the painter, the poet, or the 
 soldier : he dwelt upon the beauty of its form, the docility of 
 its nature, the fiery energies which render it the most poetical 
 object in the whole inferior creation. If he talked of the chase, 
 it was not alone of the slaughter of stout boars, or the tearing 
 down the antlered quarry, but it was of the eager excitement 
 of the scene; the rapid motion through fair woods and bright 
 prospect-, the music of echo and the hounds; the expectation, 
 the strife, the slight portion of danger; of all, in short, which 
 makes the real difference between the hunter and the butcher. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut was not so much of a recluse the second 
 day as the first ; and with music, and song, and conversation, 
 such as we have described, it passed as pleasantly as might be ; 
 but there were several other little incidents which from time to 
 time took place to vary any monotony that might have been 
 felt. A report of reiters having been seen at a small distance 
 reached the castle in the morning, and some horsemen were 
 sent out to ascertain the fact. Preparations of different kinds 
 were made for offering indomitable resistance in case of any- 
 fresh attack by a larger force. The armoury was explored ; and 
 while every sort of weapon needful for arming the peasantry 
 was brought forth, pikes, and arquebuses, and morions, Charles 
 of Montsoreau pointed out to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut many 
 a curious old relic of other days, to each of which some legend 
 was attached — the casque and hauberk of the crusader, the 
 arms of some noble ancestor slain on the bloody field of Poitiers, 
 or still older and less certain, the gigantic gauntlets of a fol- 
 lower of Hugh Capet, and the mighty sword and horn of one 
 of the paladins of the Great Charles. 
 
 Then came in the youthful peasantry to be enrolled— some 
 called upon as of right by their young lords, but many Hocking 
 with voluntary readiness to the chateau at the first sound of 
 war ; then a tour of the battlements was to be made, and Marie 
 de Clairvaut, accompanied her two young hosts round the tow- 
 ers and the walls, gazing from breastwork and embrasure over 
 as bright, but as curious, a scene, as it was possible to con- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 33 
 
 ceive. The light misi which we have mentioned as occupying 
 the lower parts of the ground on the day before, had been 
 dispelled during the night by the severity of the frost; but it 
 had settled down upon all the branches and stems of the bare 
 trees in glittering crystals of white, which now reflected with 
 dazzling brilliancy the rays of the clear unclouded sun. 
 
 Perched, as was usually the custom at that time, upon one 
 of the highest points of the country round, even the windows 
 of the castle commanded a very extensive view : but from the 
 tops of the higher towers on which Marie de Clairvaut now 
 stood, miles beyond miles were extended beneath her eye on 
 every side; and the whole shone bright and clear in the sun's 
 light, displaying a varied landscape of forest and field, and hill 
 and plain, all covered with the same glistening frostwork, and 
 only varied in hue by the deep shadows cast by the low winter 
 sun, and by the blue tints of the far distance, where the dis- 
 tinction between field and forest was lost, and some high hills 
 bounded the prospect. 
 
 Though somewhat monotonous, there was much to admire; 
 and Marie, and those who accompanied her, stopped often to 
 gaze and to comment on the scene. It must be acknowledged, 
 that Charles of Montsoreau kept not far from her side as she 
 walked on, and that, though his brother was near her on the 
 other hand, it was towards the younger that she generally 
 turned, either to hear what he said, or to make some observa- 
 tions on the objects beneath her eyes. Throughout the course 
 of that day, indeed, she gave him much of her attention, per- 
 haps a greater share than his brother thought quite equitable ; 
 and certainly had Marie been asked, when she retired to rest 
 that night, which of the two brothers was the most graceful, 
 which sang, or spoke, or acted most pleasingly, she would un- 
 doubtedly have fixed upon Charles. 
 
 Perhaps she might ask herself some questions on the subject; 
 but her heart was sufficiently free and at ease, to make her be- 
 lieve that there could be no earthly harm in preferring the society 
 of one in a slight degree to that of the other, and of rendering 
 justice, as she considered it, to both. If there was, indeed, in 
 her own mind the slightest idea that any particular feeling of 
 preference was growing up in her bosom for Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, the only effect that it had was, to make her think it was 
 very natural such a thing shouid be the case, as he had been 
 the first to give her assistance and protection, and to peril his 
 life in her behalf. Though the elder was very courteous, she- 
 thought, and very kind, and graceful, and agreeable, it could not 
 be expected that she should like him as well as the person who 
 had been actively interested in her defence; and thus she slept 
 
 3 
 
34 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 at ease, imagining that both brothers were but mere common 
 acquaintances, who might never be thought of three times after 
 she left them ; though, in comparing the one with the other, she 
 was inclined to like the younger better than the elder brother. 
 While the two young noblemen had been carried, by the most 
 natural feelings in the world, to bestow the chief share of their 
 attention upon the beautiful and interesting girl who had so 
 suddenly and strangely become an inmate of their dwelling, the 
 Abbe de" Boisguerin had held more than one long and apparently 
 interesting conversation with the Marquise de Saulny. In those 
 conversations— whether they took place in the halls, or the ar- 
 moury, or on the battlements while the Marquise, with two of 
 Marie's women, followed the young lady over the chateau— the 
 Abbe, as we have said, seemed to take considerable interest : 
 but still, from time to time, his eyes fixed upon the graceful and 
 beautiful form of Marie de Clairvaut, or gazed earnestly upon 
 the fair face as, beaming with the radiance of the heart, it turned 
 from one brother to the other at every interesting point of the 
 conversation. In the expression of his eyes, fine, intelligent, and 
 speaking as they were, there was something, perhaps, not al- 
 together pleasing — a look of admiration, indeed, but a look 
 mingled with or taking its meaning from, feelings, perhaps, not 
 the most pure and holy. It was more like the gratified admira- 
 tion of a critic, than the ordinary impression produced by beauty 
 upon a fine mind. 
 
 However that might be, Madame de Saulny soon became 
 aware, though she was a woman and a French woman, that the 
 Abbe de Boisguerin, in the attentions which he paid her, was 
 not actuated by any admiration of her own personal charms; 
 and as she was fond of such attentions, and not very scrupulous 
 as to any innocent means of attracting or holding them, she made 
 Marie de Clairvaut, her personal beauty, and the high qualities 
 of her mind and heart, one of the chief topics of her conversa- 
 tion with a person whom she saw was already, in a great degree, 
 occupied with such subjects. 
 
 It may be asked, what were the real feelings of the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin himself? It will be fully time to dwell upon those 
 feelings hereafter ; for at the time we speak of, if there were any 
 feelings in his bosom at all different from those which ordinarily 
 occupied it, they were yet but as seeds in which the first green 
 bursting forth of the germ was scarcely apparent, even to the 
 closest inspection. It is true that he sat up for more than two 
 hours after the young lady herself and her two noble hosts had 
 all retired to rest. It is true that, with his arms crossed upon his 
 chest, he walked up and down the hall, in which he was now 
 left solitary, musing beneath the light of the untrimmed lamps, 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 35 
 
 and revolving many a strange fancy and shadowy imagination 
 in his own powerful mind. He felt that they were hut fancies; 
 but ho told himself that it is often from the storehouses of ima- 
 gination that strong minds draw the rich ore from which they 
 manufacture splendid realities. Amhilion finds there her mate- 
 rials ; love his gayesl rohes ; passion gains thence many a device 
 for his own ends; and even science and philosophy have often 
 to thank imagination for many a grand discovery, for many a 
 bright thought and happy suggestion. 
 
 As he paced up and down that hall in silence and solitude, 
 communing with his own heart and his own mind, the con- 
 sciousness of vast powers, great courage, and mighty scope of 
 intellect, became more distinct, and clear, and potent in his own 
 bosom. He asked himself, what, with such a mind, he might 
 not be, if, looking on the troublous times in which he lived as a 
 mere scene for his ambition, he were to plunge at once into the 
 contentions of the day, and, with the sole object of his own 
 aggrandisement in view, employ upon all things round him the 
 mastery of superior intellect. He asked himself this; and with 
 that thought, there might come up before his mind the thought 
 of love likewise, the thought of passions, which have so fre- 
 quently gone hand in hand with ambition, and of gratifications 
 to be obtained by the obtainment of power. 
 
 As he thought, he paused, casting down his eyes, and they 
 accidentally fell upon the sort of half clerical garments that he 
 wore. He gazed for a moment at his own dress, and then he 
 murmured to himself, with a meaning smile, " Thank Heaven ! 
 [ have taken no vows but such as can be thrown off as easily as 
 this garment." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The luxury of the present age has perhaps made no greater 
 progress than in the cultivation of flowers, and in nothing, per- 
 haps, has it produced its usual effect, of depriving men of the 
 sweet zest of simplicity, more than in our enjoyment of those 
 sweetest of the earth's children. Heaven forbid that we should 
 lose any of the many bright and beautiful blossoms which have 
 been added so abundantly to our stock within the last few years : 
 having possessed them, we cannot lose them without pain -, and, 
 perhaps, in the very variety we receive a compensation for the 
 something that is lost. But yet there can be no doubt that in the 
 present day we do not feel the same keen pleasure and enjoy- 
 
36 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ment in our gardens thronging with ten thousand flowers which 
 men did in those old days, when few but the native plants of the 
 soil had yet received cultivation. 
 
 At the time that we are now speaking of, the attention of men 
 in general was first strongly turned in France to the cultivation 
 of their gardens ; and Du Bellay, Bishop of Mans, was about that 
 very period importing from foreign countries multitudes of 
 those plants which are in general supposed to be indigenous to 
 the country. One of the first efforts in the art of gardening had 
 been to multiply those shrubs, which, though not, as generally 
 supposed, indeciduous, retain their leaves and their colouring 
 through the colder parts of the year, and cover the frozen limbs 
 of winter with the green garmenture of the spring. Amongst the 
 next efforts that took place, were those directed to the produc- 
 tion of flowers and fruits at seasons of the year when they are 
 denied to us by the common course of nature ; and any little mi- 
 racles of this sort, which from day to day were achieved, gave 
 a greater degree of pleasure than we can probably conceive at 
 this time, when such things are of daily occurrence. 
 
 In passing round the battlements of the castle, as we have de- 
 scribed in the last chapter, Marie de Clairvaut had remarked a 
 considerable garden within the walls of the chateau itself. She 
 had seen the rows of the neatly clipped yew, and the green holly, 
 and she had thought that she could discover here and there a 
 flower, even in the midst of that ungenial season of the year. 
 How r it happened, or why, matters not, but upon the third morn- 
 ing of her stay, she woke at a far earlier hour than usual, and 
 rising, after a vain effort to sleep again, she dressed herself with- 
 out assistance-, and believing that she should have no other com- 
 panion but the morning sun, she proceeded to seek her way to 
 the garden, with a feeling of pleasant expectation, which may 
 seem strange to us in the present day, but was then quite na- 
 tural to one of her disposition and habits. The garden was easily 
 found, many of the servants of the chateau were up and about-, 
 and one of them with haste and care proceeded to open the 
 gates, and unlock the doors, for the fair lady, and usher her on 
 her way. 
 
 It were needless to enter into any description of the garden ; 
 for few, scanty, and poor were the flowers that it contained, 
 even in its brightest moments, compared with those now pro- 
 duced in the garden of a cottage in England. At that season, 
 too, every thing was frozen up, and the more severe frost of the 
 preceding nights had killed even those hardy blossoms that seem- 
 ed to dare the touch of their great enemy, the winter. 
 
 It was enough, however, for Marie de Clairvaut, that the plen- 
 tiful rows of evergreens refreshed her eye ; and she walked along 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 37 
 
 the straight alleys with a feeling of joyous refreshment, while 
 the hoar-frost upon the grass crackled under her feet, or, catch- 
 ing the morning light upon the yews and hollies, melted into 
 golden drops in the cheerful sunshine. 
 
 She hoped for half an hour of that sort of solitude, when, 
 though there is no one near us, the heart is not solitary •, when 
 we hold companionship with nature, and in a humble, though 
 rejoicing spirit, converse with God in his great works. 
 
 At such moments, dear, indeed, must be the person, sweet to 
 our heart must be our ordinary commune with them, harmo- 
 nious must be their sensations with every feeling of our bosom, 
 if we find not their coming upon us an interruption ; if we can 
 turn from the bright face of nature to the dear aspect of human 
 love, and feel the scene, and the companionship, and ourselves, 
 all attuned together. 
 
 Such we cannot say was the case with Marie de Clairvaut, 
 when, on hearing a step behind her, she turned and saw the 
 young Marquis de Montsoreau. She felt disappointed of her so- 
 litude 5 but, nevertheless, she was far too courteous in her nature 
 to suffer such sensations to appear for a moment, and she re- 
 turned his greeting with a kindly smile, and listened to his words 
 with that degree of pleasure which the intention of being pleased 
 is sure to carry with it. Gaspar de Montsoreau talked to her of 
 many things, and spoke on every subject so gracefully, so clearly, 
 and so pleasingly, that when memory brought back the conver- 
 sation which she was accustomed to hear in courts and cities, it 
 seemed to her a sort of miracle, that wit and talent, such as 
 those two brothers possessed, should have grown up like a beau- 
 tiful flower in a desert, so far removed from any ordinary means 
 of cultivation. She felt, too, that, on her return to Paris, a com- 
 parison of the sort of communion which she now held in the 
 country, with the only kind of society which the capital could 
 afford, would be very, very detrimental to the latter. 
 
 The young marquis, after the first salutation of the morning, 
 commented on her early rising, and told her that both he and 
 his brother had been up even before sunrise. 
 
 " Some of our people roused us," he said, " with tidings of a 
 large body of armed men having encamped on the preceding 
 night at the distance of about seven leagues from Montsoreau." 
 And he added, that his brother had found it necessary to go forth 
 with a small party of horse to reconnoitre this force, and ascer- 
 tain its purposes and destination. He did not say, however — 
 which he might have said — that other tidings, regarding the 
 movements of this body of men, had rendered it scarcely neces- 
 sary to pay any particular attention to them, and that it was only 
 in consequence of his pressing request that Charles of Montso- 
 
38 HEIVRY OF GUISE. 
 
 reau had set out upon a distant expedition, which must keep 
 him absent during the greater part of the day from the side of 
 Marie de Clairvaut. 
 
 On their farther conversation we must not dwell, for we wish 
 to hurry forward as rapidly as possible towards more stirring 
 events. Suffice it to say, that it passed pleasantly enough to the 
 fair girl herself, and far more pleasantly, though also more dan- 
 gerously, to Gaspar de Montsoreau. He sat by her side, too, 
 during the morning meal, while the Abbe de Boisguerin occu- 
 pied the chair on the other side, between herself and Madame 
 deSaulny. The Abbe spoke little during breakfast, and left the 
 conversation principally to the young marquis ; but when he 
 did speak there was a depth, and a power, and a profoundness 
 in his words and thoughts that struck Mademoiselle de Clairvaut 
 much, commanded her attention, and excited some feelings of 
 admiration. Hut it often happens, and happened in this case, 
 that admiration is excited without much pleasure, and also with- 
 out much respect. 
 
 The mind of a pure and high-souled woman is the most ter- 
 rible touchstone which the conversation of any man can meet 
 with. If there be baser matter in it, however strong and spe- 
 cious may be the gilding, that test is sure to discover it. We 
 mistake greatly, I am sure, when we think that the simplicity of 
 innocence deprives us of the power of detecting evil. We may 
 know its existence, though we do not know its particular nature, 
 and our own purity, like Iihuriel's spear, detect the demon 
 under whatever shape he lurks. 
 
 Thus, while Marie de Clairvaut turned from time to time, 
 struck and surprised, towards the Abbe de Boisguerin, when he 
 broke forth for a moment with some sudden burst of eloquence, 
 there came every now and then upon her mind a doubt as to the 
 sincerity of all he said — a doubt of its being wholly true. That 
 the great part was as true as it was beautifully expressed, she 
 did not doubt ; but it seemed to her as if there was frequently 
 some small portion of what was doubtful, if not of what was 
 absolutely wrong, in what he said. She tried to detect where it 
 was, but in vain. It became a phantom as soon as ever she strove 
 to grasp it-, and though at times she seemed to shrink from him 
 with doubts of his character, which she could not define nor 
 account for, at other times she reproached herself for such feel- 
 ings j and thinking of the two noble and high-spirited young 
 men, whose education he had conducted with so much skill, 
 wisdom, and integrity, she felt it difficult to believe that his own 
 nature was any thing but upright, noble, and just. She knew 
 not, or recollected not, that the children of darkness are, in 
 their generation, wiser than the children of light, and saw not 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 39 
 
 that it had been the policy and first interest of the Abbe de Bois- 
 guerin to acquit himself of the task he had undertaken in the 
 most careful and upright manner. 
 
 The greater part of the day passed over much as the preced- 
 ing one had done, with merely this difference, that the Mar- 
 quis, aided by the Abbe, persuaded his fair guest to wander forth 
 for a short time beyond the immediate walls of the chateau ; as- 
 suring her, that as his brother was out scouring the country, 
 and the peasantry all round prepared to bring intelligence to 
 the castle rapidly, no danger could approach without full time 
 for escape and defence. The Marquis and the Abbe accom- 
 panied her on either side, and a considerable train of servants 
 followed, so that Marie de Clairvaut felt herself in perfect security. 
 
 Nevertheless, the ramble did not seem so pleasing to her as it 
 might have been. Neither, to say the truth, did it appear to 
 afford the young nobleman himself the pleasure which he had 
 anticipated. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, the society 
 and the conversation of the Abbe de Boisguerin irritated and 
 made him impatient. He himself became often silent and moody ; 
 and after a time the Abbe seemed to note his impatience, and 
 divine the cause, for with one of his own peculiar slight smiles, 
 he betook himself to the side of the Marquise de Saulny, and 
 left Caspar de Montsoreau to entertain his fair guest without 
 listeners or interruption. 
 
 The young lord's equanimity, however, had been overthrown ; 
 it was some time ere he could regain it 5 and just as he was so 
 doing, and the conversation was becoming both more animated 
 and more pleasing between him and Marie de Clairvaut, his 
 brother Charles was seen coming rapidly over the hill, at the 
 head of his gallant troop of horsemen, with grace, and ease, 
 and power in every line of his figure, the light of high spirit 
 and of chivalry breathing from every feature of his face, and 
 every movement of his person. 
 
 His keen eye instantly caught the party from the chateau, and 
 turning his horse that way, he sprang to the ground by Made- 
 moiselle de Clairvaut's side, and gave her the good morrow with 
 frank and manly courtesy. He said little of his expedition, 
 except to laugh at the unnecessary trouble he had taken, the 
 band of men whom he had gone out to reconnoitre proving to 
 be a troop of Catholic soldiers, in the service of the King of 
 France. He showed no ill humour, however, towards his bro- 
 ther, for having pressed him to undertake a useless enterprise, 
 when, undoubtedly, he would have preferred being by the side 
 of Marie de Clairvaut. But the smiles with which she received 
 him proved a sufficient recompense ; and he now applied himself 
 to make up for lost time, by enjoying her conversation as much 
 
40 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 as possible during the rest of the evening, without observing 
 that his brother appeared to be out of humour, and not very 
 well satisfied with the attentions that he paid her. 
 
 The first thing that at all roused him from this sort of un- 
 consciousness, was a sudden exclamation of the Marquis towards 
 the close of the evening, when he was performing some little act 
 of ceremonious courtesy towards their fair guest. 
 
 " Why, Charles," he exclaimed, " one would think that you 
 were the Lord of Montsoreau, you do the honours of the place 
 so habitually." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau had never heard such words from his 
 brother's lips before. He started, turned pale, and gazed with a 
 silent glance of inquiry in his brother's face. But he made no 
 reply, and fell into a fit of deep thought, which lasted till the 
 party separated, and they retired to rest. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut had remarked those words also, and she 
 felt pained and grieved. She was not a person to believe, on the 
 slightest indication of her society being agreeable to any man 
 she met with, that he must be necessarily in the high road to 
 become her lover. She knew, she felt, that it was perfectly pos- 
 sible to be much pleased with, to be fond of, to seek companion- 
 ship with, a person of the other sex, without one other feeling, 
 without one other wish than those comprised within the simple 
 name of friendship. She, therefore, did not know, and would 
 not fancy, that there was any thing like love towards herself 
 springing up so soon in the bosom of Gaspar de Montsoreau. 
 Rut she did see, and saw evidently, that he sought to monopolise 
 her conversation and her society, and was displeased when any 
 one shared them with him. It made her uneasy to see this, for, 
 to say the truth, the conversation, the manners, the coun- 
 tenance, of his younger brother, were all more pleasing to her 
 — not that she felt the slightest inclination to fall in love with 
 Charles of Montsoreau, or ever dreamt of such a thing. But, as 
 we have before said, if she had a preference, it was for him. 
 
 Nor was that preference a little increased by the manner in 
 which he bore his brother's conduct. He became more silent 
 and thoughtful : there was an air of melancholy; if not of 
 sadness, came upon him from the very moment Gaspar spoke 
 those words, which struck Marie de Clairvaut very much. He 
 showed not, indeed, the slightest ill humour, the sligiitest change 
 of affection towards his brother. He seemed mortified and 
 grieved, but not in the least angry, and during the ensuing 
 days bore with a kindly dignity many a little mark of irritation, 
 on his brother's part, which evidently gave him pain. 
 
 " It is a sad thing to be a younger brother," thought Marie 
 de Clairvaut — " perhaps left entirely dependent upon the elder." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 4l 
 
 But that very night it happened that Madame de Saulny in- 
 formed her that Charles of Montsoreau was, in his own right, 
 Count of Logeres, and considerahly superior to his brother, both 
 in power and wealth. It need hardly be said that her esteem 
 for himself, and her admiration of his conduct, rose from a 
 knowledge of the circumstances under which it was displayed; 
 and she could not help, by her manner and demeanour towards 
 him, marking how much she was pleased and interested. She 
 gave him no cause to believe, indeed, that the interest which 
 she did feel went beyond the point of simple friendship. But a 
 very slight change in her demeanour was sufficient to mark 
 her feelings distinctly; for her character and her habits of 
 thought and feeling at that time were peculiar, and affected, or 
 we may say regulated, her whole behaviour in society. 
 
 As yet, she knew not in the slightest degree what love is; and 
 though, in her heart, there were all the materials for strong, 
 deep, passionate attachment of the warmest and the most ardent 
 kind, still those materials had never been touched by any fire, 
 and they lay cold and inactive, so that she believed herself 
 utterly incapable of so loving any being upon earth, as man 
 must be loved for happiness. From a very early age she had 
 made up her mind, when permitted, to enter a convent; and 
 though neither of her uncles would consent to her so doing, yet 
 she adhered to her resolution, and only delayed its execution. 
 She knew that at that time, and she believed it would ever be 
 so, that all her hopes and affections were turned towards a 
 higher Being; and these feelings in some degree against her 
 will, gave a degree of shrinking coldness to her demeanour 
 when in the society of men, which made the slightest warmth of 
 manner remarkable. The exquisite lines of Andrew Marvell 
 upon the drop of dew might well have been applied to her 
 general demeanour in the world : — 
 
 " See how the orient dew, 
 Shed from the bosom of the morn 
 Into the blowing roses, 
 Yet careless of its mansion new 
 
 For the clear region where 'twas born, 
 It in itself encloses, 
 And in its little globe's extent 
 Frames as it can its native element. 
 How it the purple flower does slight ! 
 
 Scarce touching where it lies, 
 
 But, gazing back upon the skies, 
 Shines with a mournful light, 
 
 Like their own tear, 
 
 Because so long divided from the sphere. 
 
42 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Restless it rolls and insecure, 
 Trembling lest it grow impure, 
 Till the warm sun pities its pain, 
 And to the skies exhales it back again." 
 
 Notwithstanding the words of his brother, and the impatience 
 which Gaspar more than once displayed, Charles of Montsoreau 
 changed his conduct not in the slightest degree towards Marie de 
 Clairvaut. He was kind, attentive, courteous, evidently fond of 
 her conversation and society ; and more than once, when he 
 was seated at some distance, while she was talking with others, 
 she accidentally caught his eyes fixed upon her with a calm, 
 intense, and melancholy gaze, which interested and even con- 
 fused her. 
 
 The conduct of the elder brother, however, gave her some 
 degree of pain. He was always perfectly courteous and kind, 
 indeed, but there was a warmth and an eagerness in his manner 
 which alarmed her. She was afraid of fancying herself beloved 
 when she was not ; she was afraid of having to reproach herself 
 with vanity and idle conceit, and yet a thousand times a day she 
 wished she had not stayed at the chateau of Montsoreau ; for she 
 saw evidently that she had been the cause of pain, and she 
 feared that she might be the cause of more. In one thing, how- 
 ever, she could not well be mistaken, which was, that the Mar- 
 quis found frequent pretexts, and not the most ingenuous ones 
 either, for inducing his brother to absent himself from the cha- 
 teau. Charles yielded readily ; but Marie de Clairvaut saw that it 
 was not willingly ; and once, when he consented to go to a town 
 at some distance, which was proposed to him with scarcely any 
 reasonable cause, she saw a slight smile come upon his lips, but 
 so sad, so melancholy, that it made her heart ache. 
 
 In the mean while the weather had turned finer; the frost had 
 disappeared ; some of the bright days which occasionally cheer 
 the end of February had come in 5 the country immediately 
 around was ascertained to be in a state of perfect tranquillity ; 
 and Marie readily consented to ride and walk daily through the 
 environs, knowing that on these excursions, accompanied by 
 her woman and Madame deSaulny, she was thrown less into the 
 society of Gaspar of Montsoreau than while sitting alone at the 
 chateau. On one occasion of this kind, when the morning was 
 peculiarly bright, and the day happy and genial, it had been pro- 
 posed to bring forth the falcons, who had not stirred their wings 
 for many a day, as several herons had been heard of by the river 
 since the thaw had come on. 
 
 An hour or two before the appointed time, however, intelli- 
 gence was brought to the castle, which proved afterwards to be 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 43 
 
 fabricated, that a neighbouring baron of small importance had 
 gone over to the party of the King of Navarre. 
 
 Gaspar of Montsoreau seized the pretext, and endeavoured to 
 persuade his brother to visit that part of the country, and ascer- 
 tain the facts. But, for once, Charles of Montsoreau positively 
 refused, and his air was so grave and stern, that his brother did 
 not press it farther. 
 
 Gaspar was out of temper, however, and he showed it; and 
 finding that Charles kept close to the bridle rein of Marie de 
 Clairvaut,, he affected to ride at a distance, with a discontented 
 air, giving directions to the falconers, and venting his impatience 
 in harsh and angry words when any little accident or mistake 
 took place. No heron was found for nearly an hour ; and he was 
 in the act of declaring that it was useless to try any farther, and 
 they had better go back, when a bird was started from the long 
 reeds, and the jesses of the falcons were slipped. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut had been conversing throughout the 
 morning with Charles of Montsoreau — conversing on subjects 
 and in a manner which drew the ties of friendship and intimacy 
 nearer round the heart — and it so happened that the moment 
 before the heron rose, she remarked, in a low tone, " Your bro- 
 ther seems angry this morning; something seems to have dis- 
 pleased him." 
 
 "Oh, dear lady," replied the young nobleman, " I pray you 
 do not judge of Gaspar by what you have seen within these last 
 few days. I fear that he is either ill, or more deeply grieved 
 about something than he suffers me to know. He is of a kindly, 
 affectionate, and gentle disposition, lady, and from childhood 
 up to manhood, I can most solemnly assure you, I never yet 
 saw his temper ruffled as it seems now." 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut raised her eyes to his face with a look full 
 of sweet approbation 5 and she said, "I wish you would just 
 ride up to him, and try to calm him. Why should he not come 
 near us, and behave as usual ? " • 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau turned instantly to obey, merely 
 saying, " Keep a tight rein on your horse, dear lady, till I come 
 back, for he is somewhat fiery." 
 
 He had just reached his brother's side when the heron took 
 wing ; and Gaspar de Montsoreau glad of an opportunity of 
 marking his discontent towards his brother, spurred on his 
 horse with an angry "Pshaw !" and galloped after the falcons 
 as fast as possible. 
 
 In an instant every bridle was let loose, every face turned 
 towards the sky, every horse at full speed. We must except, 
 indeed; Charles of Montsoreau, for his first thought was of 
 Marie de Clairvaut His mind had been greatly depressed dur- 
 
44 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ing the morning : he had thought much of her ; he had felt a 
 vague impression that some accident would happen to her 5 and 
 though he had endeavoured to laugh at himself for giving way 
 to such a feeling, yet the feeling had remained so strongly as to 
 make him refuse to go upon the expedition which his brother 
 had proposed to him. He turned then his horse rapidly to the 
 spot where he had left her; but she was no longer there. 
 
 " The lady has gone on at full speed, Count Charles," cried 
 the voice of Gondrin, the huntsman : "That way, Sir, that 
 way, to the right. It seems as if she knew the country well, 
 and was sure the heron would take back again to the river." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau spurred on at full speed in the direc- 
 tion pointed out; but, from the woody nature of the ground, it 
 was some time before he caught even a glance of the horse that 
 bore the lady. That glance was intercepted immediately by fresh 
 trees and low bushes of osiers, and all that he could see was, 
 that there was nobody with her, and that her horse was at full 
 speed. The country was difficult, the road dangerous from nu- 
 merous breaks and cuts. To set off at such a pace and alone, 
 seemed to him unlike the calm, sweet character of Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut ; and he heard, or fancied he heard, sounding 
 as from the path before him, a cry lost in the whoops and 
 halloos of those who were following the flight of the birds along 
 the stream. 
 
 The sport was forgotten in a moment : he spurred vehemently 
 on upon the road which Marie de Clairvaut had taken, while 
 almost all the rest of the people in the field crossed the stream 
 by a bridge to the left, and pursued the flight of the birds 
 across a meadow round which the river circled before it took a 
 sharp turn to the right. All the more eagerly did the young no- 
 bleman spur forward, knowing that about a quarter of a mile in 
 advance the path which he followed separated into two, and that 
 he might lose sight of the fair girl altogether if he did not 
 overtake her before she reached the point of separation. 
 
 When he arrived at it, however, she was not to be seen ; but 
 one glance at the ground showed him the deep footmarks of the 
 jennet following the road to the right, which led far away from 
 the point towards which the heron seemed to have directed its 
 flight, and to a dangerous part of the river about a mile beyond. 
 He now urged his horse on vehemently — furiously. 
 
 The road wound in and out round the lower projections of 
 the hill, and through the thinner part of the forest that skirted 
 its base ; but though he, who was generally tender and kind to 
 every thing that fell beneath his care, now dyed the rowels of 
 his spurs in blood from his horse's sides, he came not up with 
 the swift jennet which carried Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. lie 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 45 
 
 gradually caught the sound of its feet, indeed 5 and the sound 
 became more and more distinct, showing that he gained upon it. 
 
 But this slight success in the headlong race which he was 
 pursuing was not enough to calm the mind of the young cava- 
 lier. It was now evident that the horse, frightened by the whoop 
 and halloo of the falconers, had run away with its fair burden ; 
 and every step that they advanced brought the horses and their 
 riders nearer to a part of the river which was only to be passed 
 in the hottest and driest days of summer, and then with difficulty. 
 
 Oh, how the heart of Charles of Montsoreau beat when, at 
 the distance of about a hundred yards from the brink of the 
 river, the trees began to break away, and left the ground some- 
 what more open. But before he could see any thing distinctly 
 but a figure passing like lightning across the distant bolls of the 
 trees, he heard a loud scream, and a sudden plunge into the 
 water, and then another loud shriek. 
 
 He galloped to the very brink, so that his horse's feet dashed 
 the stones from the top of the high bank into the water, and 
 then he gazed with a glance of agony upon the stream. The 
 sleeve of a velvet robe and a hawking-glove rose to the surface 
 of the water. 
 
 He cast down the rein — he sprang from his horse — he plunged 
 at once from the bank into the stream — he dived at the spot 
 where he had seen the glove, and, in a moment, his arms were 
 round the object of his search. At that instant he would have 
 given rank, and station, and all his wide domains, to have felt 
 her clasp him with that convulsive grasp which sometimes proves 
 fatal to both under such circumstances. 
 
 But she remained still and calm ; and bearing her rapidly to 
 the surface, and then to the lower part of the bank, he laid her 
 down upon the turf, and gazed for an instant on her fair face. 
 Oh, how deep, and terrible, and indescribable was the pain that 
 he felt at that moment. Sensations that he knew not to be in his 
 heart — that he did not— that he would not before believe to 
 exist therein — now rushed upon him, to fill up the cup of agony 
 and sorrow to the brim ; and, kneeling beside the form of the 
 beautiful girl he had just borne from the dark tomb of the 
 waters, he unclasped her garments, he chafed her hands, he 
 raised her head, he did all that he could think of to recall her 
 to animation ; and then, pressing her wildly to his bosom, while 
 unwonted tears came rapidly into his eyes, he called her by 
 every tender and endearing name, adding still, " She is dead! 
 she is dead ! " 
 
 As he did so, as she was pressed most closely and most fondly 
 to his heart, as her hand was clasped in his, as her head leaned 
 upon his shoulder, he thought he felt that hand press slightly 
 
46 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 on his own 5 he thought he felt the pulse of life beat in her 
 temples. He lifted his head for a moment— her eyes were open 
 and fixed upon him. The colour was coming back into her 
 cheek. She spoke not, she made no effort to escape from the 
 embrace in which he held her : but it was evident that she 
 marked his actions, and heard his words ; and if any thing had 
 been wanting to tell her how dear she was to his heart, it would 
 have been the joy, the almost frantic joy, with which he beheld 
 the signs of returning consciousness. Eagerly, actively, how- 
 ever, he ceased not to give her whatever assistance he could, 
 and then bent over her again to lift her in his arms, saying, 
 " Forgive me, forgive me ! But I will carry you to a cottage not 
 far off, where you can have better tending." 
 
 She raised her arm, however, and took his hand kindly in 
 hers, making him a sign to bend down his head. 
 
 " A thousand thanks," she said in a low voice ; " but I am 
 not so ill as you suppose. I foolishly fainted with terror when 
 the horse plunged over, and 1 remember nothing from that mo- 
 ment till just now. But I feel I shall soon be better." 
 
 It was not a moment in which Charles of Montsoreau could 
 put much restraint upon himself, for joy succeeding terror had 
 already displayed so much of the real feelings of his heart, that 
 any attempt at concealment must have been vain. He gave not 
 way, indeed, to the same ebullitions of feeling which he had 
 before suffered to appear, while he thought her dead ; but every 
 word and every action told the same tale. He gazed eagerly, 
 tenderly, joyfully in her eyes; he chafed the small hands in 
 his own 5 he wrung out the water from the beautiful hair ; he 
 smoothed it back from the fair forehead ; and he did it all with 
 words of tenderness and affection, that could not be mistaken. 
 Thus kneeling by her side, he again besought her to let him 
 carry her to the nearest cottage ; but she pointed to the small 
 hunting horn which hung at his side, asking, ' ; Will not that 
 bring some one?" 
 
 He was not called upon to use it, however, for before he 
 could raise it to his lips, the sound of a horse's feet was heard 
 coming from the same path which they themselves had pursued; 
 and in a moment after, the good forester Gondrin emerged 
 from the wood, with no slight anxiety on his frank and honest 
 countenance. His young lord supporting Marie de Clairvaut as 
 she lay partly stretched upon the ground, partly resting on his 
 arm, with the count's horse cropping the herbage close by, in- 
 stantly caught his attention, and riding up with prompt and 
 unquestioning alacrity, he gave every assistance in his power, 
 seeming to comprehend the whole without any explanation. 
 His own cloak and doublet were instantly stripped off, to wrap 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 47 
 
 the chilled limbs of the fair girl who lay before him, and scarce- 
 ly five words were spoken between him and his master. They 
 were : " Bourgeios' cottage is close by, my Lord : shall we carry 
 her there?" — "Is it nearer than Henriot's?" — "Oh, by a 
 quarter of a mile." — " There, then, there." 
 
 But without suffering the forester to give him any assistance 
 in carrying her, the young lord raised Marie de Clairvaut in his 
 arms, and bore her on into the wood, looking down in her face 
 from time to time, with a smile, as if to tell her how easy and 
 how joyful was the task. 
 
 Gondrin -followed, leading the horses ; but as he came on, he 
 asked, in a low voice, " Where is the jennet, Sir?" 
 
 " Drowned, 1 fancy," replied Charles of Montsoreau — 
 " drowned, and no great loss, after such doings as to-day." 
 
 The cottage was soon gained, and there every assistance was 
 procured for Marie de Clairvaut, which was necessary to restore 
 fully the diminished powers of life. A sort of hand litter was 
 speedily formed; some of the peasantry procured as bearers-, 
 and, stretched thereon, dressed in the coarse, but warm and 
 dry habiliments of a country girl ; the beautiful child of the 
 lordly house of Guise was borne back towards the chateau of 
 Montsoreau with him who had rescued her from a watery grave, 
 gazing down upon her, and thinking that she looked even 
 more lovely in that humble attire than in the garb of her own 
 station. 
 
 As they approached the chateau, horns, and whoops, and 
 shouts made themselves heard ; and it was evident that the ab- 
 sence of the young lord and the fair guest had at length been 
 remarked by other than the careful eye of Gondrin. Horseman 
 alter horseman came up one by one, and at length Caspar him- 
 self appeared with Madame de Saulny and one of Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut's women, who had followed her mistress to the 
 field ; but, as was common with women of all classes in those 
 days, had forgotten every thing but the falcons and their quarry, 
 the moment that the birds took wing ', 
 
 A multitude of questions and exclamations now took place; 
 and without suffering the bearers of the litter to stop, Charles 
 explained in few words what had occurred, dwelling upon the 
 peril which their fair guest had been in, and merely adding, 
 
 ' So extraordinary and remarkable was the passion for falconry amongst the women of 
 that day, that Catherine de Medici herself, engaged as she was in all the wiles of policy 
 during her whole life, found time to pursue this sport day after day, and had courage 
 enough to follow it after having not only received several severe falls, but after having 
 once broken her leg and once fractured her skull, by the imprudent habit of galloping at 
 full speed after the birds, with the eyes fixed upon them, and inattentive to every thing 
 else. The moment that the falcons were flown, every thing on earth was forgotten, and 
 the most serious accidents were of daily occurrence. 
 
48 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 that he had been fortunate enough to arrive in time to rescue 
 her from the water. 
 
 The brow of Caspar de Montsoreau grew as dark as night, 
 and forgetting that, in his ill humour, he had voluntarily quitted 
 her side, he muttered to himself, " There seems a fate in it, that 
 he should render her every service, and I none." 
 
 He sprang off from his horse, however, and walked forward 
 on the other side of the litter, addressing all sorts of courteous 
 speeches to Marie de Clairvaut, who was now well enough to 
 reply. Madame de Saulny, however, had no great difficulty in 
 persuading her to retire at once to bed ; not that she felt any 
 corporeal disability to sit up through the rest of the day 5 but her 
 mind had many matters for contemplation, and she insisted upon 
 being left quite alone, with no farther attendance than that of 
 one of her women stationed in the ante-room. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The windows were half closed, the room was silent, no sound 
 reached the ear of Marie de Clairvaut, but the sweet wintry 
 song of a robin perched upon the castle wall. Her first thoughts 
 were of gratitude to Heaven for her escape from death, her 
 next, of gratitude to him who had risked his life to save her. 
 But after that came somewhat anxious and troublous thoughts. 
 
 She recollected the moment when she woke to consciousness, 
 and found herself clasped in his arms, with his heart beating 
 against her bosom, with his cheek touching hers; she recol- 
 lected that he had unclasped the collar round her neck ; that he 
 had chafed and warmed her hands in his ; that he had dried 
 her hair-, that he had braided it back from her forehead; that 
 he had borne her in his arms close to his heart : she recollected 
 that her own hand, from the impulse of her heart, had pressed 
 his; and that she herself had felt happy while resting on his 
 bosom. 
 
 As she thought of all these things, so different from any 
 of the ideas that usually filled her mind, the warm blood rose 
 in her cheek, though no one could see her; and turning round, 
 she buried her eyes in the pillow with feelings of ingenuous 
 shame ; and yet even then the image of Charles of Montso- 
 reau rose before her. She saw him, as she had beheld him 
 when first they met, galloping down to aid her attendants in 
 her defence; she saw him pointing the cannon of the castle 
 against her pursuers ; she saw him bearing with calm dignity 
 the ill humour of his brother; she saw him, with passionate 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 49 
 
 tenderness and grief, bending over her, and weeping when he 
 thought her dead. She saw all this, and a consciousness came 
 over her that there was no other being on all the earth on 
 whose bosom she could rest with such happiness as on his. 
 
 Nor did love want the advocates of nature and reason to 
 support his cause. First came the thought of gratitude : she 
 was grateful to God as the great cause of her deliverance •, 
 but ought she not to be grateful to him also, she asked herself, 
 who was indeed — as every other human being is— an agent in 
 the hand of the Almighty, but who was carried forward to that 
 agency by' every kindly, noble, and generous feeling, the con- 
 tempt of danger and of death, and all those sensations and im- 
 pulses which show most clearly the divinity that stirs within us? 
 
 In being grateful to him, she felt that she was grateful to 
 God 5 and it was easy for Marie de Clairvaut to believe that 
 such gratitude should only be bounded by the vast extent of 
 the service rendered. 
 
 She did not exactly, in clear and distinct terms, ask herself 
 whether she could refuse to devote to him the life that he had 
 saved ; but her heart answered the same question indirectly, 
 and she thought that she could have no right to refuse him 
 any thing that he might choose to ask as the recompense of the 
 great benefit which he had conferred. 
 
 What might he not ask? was her next question-, and then 
 came back the memory of every look which she had seen, 
 of every word which she had heard, at the moment when she 
 was just recovering ; and those memories at once told her what 
 he might and would seek as his guerdon. Was it painful for 
 her to think that he might even crave herself as the boon ? — 
 Oh no! A week before, indeed, she would have shrunk from 
 the very idea with pain. The only alternative she could have 
 seen would have been to be miserable herself, or to make him 
 miserable. 
 
 Now such feelings were all changed and gone ; and Marie de 
 Clairvaut — having entertained those feelings sincerely, can- 
 didly, and without the slightest affectation — might feel sur- 
 prised, and, perhaps, a little alarmed, at the change within 
 herself-, but she was by no means one to cling with any degree 
 of pride or vanity to thoughts and purposes that were changed. 
 
 It is true that those thoughts and purposes had been changing 
 gradually towards Charles of Montsoreau. But it was the events 
 of that day which suddenly and strangely had completed the 
 alteration. The near approach of death — the plunge, as it were, 
 into the jaws of the grave, from which she had been rescued as 
 by a miracle— had seemed to waken in her new sensations 
 towards all the warm relationships of life, a clinging to her 
 
 4 
 
50 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 kindred beings of the world, a tenderer, a nearer affection 
 for the thrilling ties of human life. 
 
 Then again, as regarded her young deliverer, and that near 
 familiarity, from which the habit of her thoughts and the cold- 
 ness of a heart unenlightened by love, had made her hitherto 
 shrink with something more than maiden modesty :— in regard 
 to these, her feelings had been suddenly and entirely changed 
 by the circumstances in which she had been placed. It seemed 
 as if to him, and for him, the first of all those icy barriers had 
 been broken down, and was cast away for ever. She had been 
 clasped in his arms — she had been pressed to his bosom — 
 the warmth of his breath seemed still to play upon her cheek — 
 her hand seemed still grasped in his ; and when her mind re- 
 turned to those ideas, after more than an hour of solitary thought, 
 the memories— which at first had called the blood into her 
 cheek, and made her hide her eyes for shame— were sweet and 
 consoling. She thought that it was well to be thus — 'that it was 
 well, as she could not but consent out of mere gratitude, to be 
 the wife of Charles of Montsoreau if he sought her hand, that 
 he should be the only man she could have ever made up her 
 mind to wed ; and that she could wed him with happiness. 
 
 Such was the character of the thoughts that occupied her 
 during the rest of the day. Her mind might, indeed, turn from 
 time to time to her relations of the lordly house of Guise, and 
 she might inquire what would be their opinion in regard to 
 her marriage with the young Count of Logeres. The first time 
 that she thus questioned herself, she was somewhat startled 
 to find that she entertained some apprehensions of opposition, 
 for those apprehensions showed her, more than aught else had 
 done before, how entirely changed her feelings were towards 
 Charles of Montsoreau. They made her feel that it was no 
 longer a mere cold consent she had to give to her marriage 
 with him ; but that it was a hope and expectation which would 
 be painful to lose. 
 
 The apprehensions themselves soon died away : she remem- 
 bered the anxiety of both the Duke of Guise and the Duke of 
 Mayenne that she should give her hand to some one, and she 
 remembered, also, the half angry, half jesting remonstrances of 
 both on her declaring her intention of entering a convent. She 
 called to mind how they had urged her, some eight months 
 before, to make a choice, representing to her that it was needful 
 for their family to strengthen itself by every possible tie, and 
 promising in no degree to thwart her inclinations if she chose 
 one who would attach himself to them. 
 
 From the words of admiration and respect which she had 
 more than once heard Charles of Montsoreau employ in speak- 
 
HKNKY OF GUISE. 51 
 
 mg of her uncles, she doubted not that the only condition which 
 they had made, would ho easily fulfilled in his case ; and thus 
 she lay in calm thought, her fancy more husy than ever it had 
 been before, and new but happy feelings in her heart, agitating 
 her, certainly, but gently and sweetly. Glad visions, growing 
 up one by one as she grew more familiar with such contem- 
 plations, came up to gild the future days — visions of peace, and 
 home, and happiness— while the blessed blindness of our mor- 
 tal being shut out from her sight the pangs, the cares, the 
 horrors, the sorrows into which she was about to plunge. 
 
 She was'like some traveller bewildered in a mountain mist, 
 fancying that he sees before him the clear road to bright and 
 smiling lands, when his footsteps are on the edge of the pre- 
 cipice that is to swallow him up. 
 
 When she rose and left her chamber on the following morn- 
 ing, Marie de Clairvaut was greeted with glad smiles from every 
 one. Perhaps her fair cheek was a little paler than ordinary, 
 perhaps her bright eye was softer and less lustrous : but the 
 change proceeded not from the consequences of either the fear 
 or the danger she had undergone the day before. The slight 
 paleness of the cheek, the slight languor of the eye, and the 
 night without sleep, which gave rise to both, had a sweeter 
 cause in bright and happy thoughts which had shaken the soft 
 burden of slumber from her eyelids. 
 
 All present gazed upon her with interest. Madame de Saulny 
 was loud in her gratulations 5 Gaspar de Montsoreau himself 
 showed a brow without a cloud, and his brother smiled brightly 
 with scarcely a shadow of melancholy left upon his countenance. 
 Her first act was to repeat the thanks which she had given to 
 the latter on the preceding day — to repeat them warmly, ten- 
 derly, and enthusiastically; and Gaspar de Montsoreau, who 
 loved not to hear such words, or see such looks upon her 
 countenance, turned towards one of the windows, and spoke 
 eagerly with the Abbe de Boisguerin, while wise Madame de 
 Saulny drew a few steps back, and gave some orders to one 
 of Marie's attendants. 
 
 " Do not thank me, sweet Marie," said Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, as soon as he saw that he could speak unnoticed by 
 any other ears but her own : " I have not an opportunity of 
 answering you now, as I ought to answer you. After my re- 
 turn this evening I shall seek to be heard for a few moments, 
 for I have matter for your private ear " 
 
 He saw the warm blood coming up into her cheek, and her 
 eyes cast down, and he added, " I have to excuse part of my 
 conduct yesterday— I have to see if you will forgive me." 
 " Forgive you ! " she exclaimed, raising her bright eyes to 
 
M HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 bis, and speaking eagerly, though low, " Oh, there is nothing 
 in any part of your conduct to forgive— every thing to be grate- 
 ful for ; whether your devotion and courage in saving me from 
 death— or your care and tenderness," she added in a still lower 
 voice, "after you had saved me." 
 
 The eyes of Gaspar de Montsoreau were upon them both ; 
 he marked the downcast look, the rising colour in Marie de 
 Clairvauts cheek ; he marked the sudden raising of her eyes, 
 and the tender light with which they looked in the face of her 
 young deliverer. He marked the beaming expression of joy 
 and gratitude that came over his brother's countenance, and 
 it was scarcely possible for him to restrain the fiery feelings 
 in his own bosom, and prevent himself from rushing like a 
 madman between them. Two or three low deep-toned words 
 from the Abbe, however, recalled him to himself, and advancing 
 with a graceful, though a somewhat agitated air, he offered 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut his hand to conduct her to the hall 
 where the morning meal was prepared. 
 
 " We are somewhat earlier than usual this morning," he 
 said, " because my fair brother, with our noble and excellent 
 friend the Abbe here, have a long ride before them, to visit a 
 relation who we hear is sick." 
 
 " And do you not go yourself, my Lord ?" demanded Marie. 
 " Pray let not my being in the chateau act as any restraint upon 
 you." 
 
 " Oh no," replied the Marquis ; " it is as well that one of us 
 should remain here in these troublous times; and this relation, 
 this Count de Morly, is an old man in his eightieth year, who 
 may well expect that health should fail, ay, and life too." 
 
 " Ay," said Marie; " but I should think that at that period, 
 when life itself is fleeting away from us, and almost all the bright 
 things of this existence are gone, any signs of human friendship, 
 and tenderness, and affection, must be a thousand fold more 
 dear and cheering, more valuable in every way, than when the 
 energetic powers of life are at their full. Then we want few 
 companionships, for we are sufficient to ourselves : but in the 
 winter of our age, close by the icy tomb, the warmth of human 
 affection is all that we have to cheer us ; the voice of friend- 
 ship, like the song of a spring bird in the chill months of the 
 early year, must seem prophetic of a brighter season, when the 
 cold days of earth are passed, and all glad sounds and happy 
 sights shall be renewed in a fresh summer. Oh, the tongue of 
 youth and health, speaking friendly sounds to the ear of sickness 
 and age, must be the last, the brightest, the sweetest of all things 
 which can smooth the soul's passage to eternity ! " 
 
 There was an implied reproof in the words of Marie de Clair- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. T)3 
 
 vaut, which was not pleasant to the ear of Gaspar de Mont- 
 soreau ; hut it did not in any degree alter his purpose ; and 
 merely saying that, if possible, he would go on the following 
 day, he led his fair guest on to the hall, and gladly saw the meal 
 concluded, and his brother quit the tahle with the Abbe to pro- 
 ceed upon their way. 
 
 As soon as they were gone, a hurdcn seemed off his mind ; he 
 became gay, and bright, and pleasing-, and his conversation 
 resumed its usual tone. The stores of his mind once put forth, 
 and there were sufficient indications of kind and generous feelings 
 to give his society that charm without which all other attractions 
 are poor — the charm of the heart. Towards Marie de Clairvaut 
 his manner assumed a warmth and a tenderness which alarmed 
 and pained her; and with the new insight into her own heart, 
 which she had obtained, she was enabled at once to decide upon 
 her conduct towards him. She remained in conversation, indeed, 
 for some time after breakfast, and though grave and serious, was 
 by no means repulsive; but anxious to avoid any private com- 
 munication whatsoever with the young Marquis, no sooner did 
 she see Madame de Saulny make some movement as if about to 
 quit the room, than putting her arm through that of her rela- 
 tion, she said, " Come, ma bonne de Saulny, I want to have a 
 long conversation with you, and after that 1 think I shall lie 
 down and rest for an hour or two, for I am much fatigued." 
 
 Madame de Saulny accompanied her to her apartments, 
 leaving the young Marquis of Montsoreau standing in moody 
 silence in the midst of the hall; and when, some hours after- 
 wards, he sent up to inquire if Mademoiselle de Clairvaut would 
 not go forth to see some game taken in the nets, the reply given 
 by one of her maids in the anteroom was, that finding herself 
 somewhat indisposed, she had lain down to rest, and was asleep. 
 At this answer he broke away with an expression of bitter anger, 
 and mounting his horse, rode out with a furious pace. 
 
 He had been gone about an hour and a half, when Marie 
 came down into the room which we have described as the lady's 
 bower, accompanied by Madame de Saulny, and employed her- 
 self in somewhat listless mood with the various occupations of a 
 lady of that day. For a short space she plied the busy needle at 
 the embroidery frame, and then took up the lute and played and 
 sang ; but the music was broken, and came but by fits and starts ; 
 and it was evident that impatient expectation marred the power 
 of present enjoyment or occupation. At length the clattering of 
 horses' feet was heard below, and fain would she have looked 
 forth from the window to ascertain which of the two brothers 
 it was that had returned. At length, however, there was a step 
 upon the stairs, and her beating heart decided the matter in a 
 
54 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 moment. It was Charles of Montsoreau that entered : but he 
 was deadly pale, and that apparently from no temporary cause; 
 for though he spoke calmly and tranquilly to Marie de Clairvaut 
 and Madame de Saulny, the colour did not return into his cheek. 
 
 Marie, on her part, was anxious and agitated; she spoke low, 
 for she feared that her voice might tremble if she used a louder 
 tone. Her eye fell beneath that of her lover, and the colour came 
 and went in her cheek like light quivering on the wings of a 
 bird ; and yet she was the first to propose that they should go 
 forth together. 
 
 " Your brother is absent," she said, " and I understand sent 
 up some time ago, while I was asleep, to ask if I would go out 
 to see some game taken in the nets. Would it please you to go 
 and join him ?" 
 
 " Much," replied the young nobleman. " He is not far; I 
 know where the nets were to be laid." 
 
 " Then we will walk thither," she said : " I fear I shall be afraid 
 of horses for many a long day. Madame de Saulny, you will come 
 with us, will you not?" 
 
 But Madame de Saulny declined ; and Charles of Montsoreau 
 and Marie de Clairvaut went forth, followed by two of her maids, 
 and some other attendants, at a respectful distance. The hearts 
 of both beat even painfully ; and for some steps from the castle 
 gates they proceeded in silence, till at length she inquired how 
 he had found the friend he went to visit. The young nobleman 
 replied that he feared he was dying ; and, after a few words 
 more on that subject, the conversation again dropped. 
 
 At length, as they descended the side of the hill, Charles of 
 Montsoreau lifted his eyes to the face of his fair companion, 
 saying in a low tone, " I told you this morning, Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut, that I should ask a few minutes' audience of you. 
 Let me offer you my arm— nay, be not agitated, I have nothing 
 to say which should move you. I have to apologise, as I told 
 you, for some parts of my conduct yesterday, and to ask you to 
 forgive me." 
 
 " Oh, I told you," she replied, " and I tell you again, that 
 there is nothing to apologise for, nothing that I have to forgive ; 
 every thing that I have to be grateful for, every thing that will 
 make me thankful to you through my whole life." 
 
 " Would that I could believe it were so ! " replied Charles of 
 Montsoreau. " But I remember that in the first agony of think- 
 ing you lost for ever, of thinking that bright spirit gone, that 
 gentle heart cold, that beautiful form inanimate for ever, I gave 
 way to transports of grief and sorrow, I spoke words, I used 
 actions, that I neither would have dared to speak or use towards 
 you, if I had known that you were then living and conscious. 
 
HEMIY OF GUISE. 55 
 
 And yet 1 am sure, quite sure, that you knew, and saw, and 
 heard those words and actions •, and 1 fear that they may have 
 offended you." 
 
 " Oh no, no, indeed ! " replied Marie de Clairvaut, with her 
 eyes bent down, her hand trembling upon his arm, and the co- 
 lour glowing bright in her cheek — " Oh no, no, indeed! I did 
 see, I did hear ; but " 
 
 In the course of that bright and beautiful thing called Love, 
 very often between two beings in every respect worthy of each 
 other there comes a moment when the very slightest, touch of 
 that pardonable hypocrisy in woman, which, from a combina- 
 tion of many bright and beautiful feelings, teaches her in some 
 degree to veil or hide the passion of her heart — when the slightest 
 touch of that hypocrisy, 1 say, at a moment when it should be all 
 cast away together, and the bosom of love laid bare to the eye of 
 love — when the slightest touch of that hypocrisy seals the misery 
 of both for ever. 
 
 It was such a moment then with Charles of Montsoreau and 
 Marie de Clairvaut. She knew not all that was in his heart at 
 that moment, she could not know it ; but she knew herself 
 beloved, and might well have acknowledged her love in return. 
 Had she done so, had she acknowledged that her own feelings 
 towards him had rendered the caresses which he bestowed upon 
 what he thought her dead form easily pardonable, the passionate 
 grief for her death deeply touching to her heart — had she done 
 this, their course might have gone on in brightness. But she 
 knew not all that was in his heart at that moment, she could not 
 know it-, and the first impulse was to give way to woman's 
 habitual hypocrisy, to cast a veil over the true feelings of her 
 heart, and to hide the timid love of her bosom till it was drawn 
 forth by him. 
 
 " Oh no, no, indeed ! " she said ; " I did see, I did hear; but 
 — I thought it was but natural grief for one under your charge 
 and protection that you thought lost in so terrible a manner — " 
 
 She hesitated to go on ; she feared that she spoke coldly ; and 
 she thought of adding some word or two more which might take 
 from the chilliness of such an answer, and let her real feelings 
 more truly appear. Before she could collect herself to do so, 
 however, Charles of Montsoreau answered, with a deep sigh, 
 "You thought it was but natural, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; 
 you thought it was but natural 5 and so, indeed " 
 
 But as he spoke, his brother turned the angle of the little 
 wood through which they were proceeding down the bill, and 
 came towards them, followed by several of the huntsmen. There 
 was a frown upon his brow, a fire in his dark eye, which Charles 
 of Montsoreau saw and understood full well But he met his 
 
56 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 brother calmly and steadfastly — with deep and bitter grief in his 
 heart, it is true, but with grief which he had power over himself 
 to conceal. 
 
 The angry feelings of the heart of Gaspar de Montsoreau 
 were not so easily repressed, and he spoke in a tone and manner 
 well calculated to produce angry words between himself and his 
 brother. 
 
 "Why, how now, Charles!" he exclaimed; "are you back 
 so soon? Where is the Abbe? Montsoreau seems to possess 
 greater attractions for you than Morly." 
 
 "Of course," replied Charles of Montsoreau, calmly; " but 
 even if it did not, I should have returned in haste. The Abb6 I 
 left behind at Morly, as he has no other occupation here." 
 
 " And you have pleasant occupation," rejoined his brother, 
 with a tone in which assumed courtesy but covered ill the in- 
 tended sneer — " and you have pleasant occupation as squire to 
 this fairest of all fair ladies." 
 
 " It is, indeed, so sweet to attend upon her," replied Charles, 
 " that I grieve I must lose the task so soon. In consideration of 
 various circumstances, my dear Gaspar, I find that it will be 
 absolutely necessary for me to proceed to Logeres immediately. 
 I have lingered too long here already. My people will think that 
 I neglect them ; and I have determined to set off by dawn to- 
 morrow morning." 
 
 The first expression that came upon the countenance of Gas- 
 par de Montsoreau was undoubtedly that of satisfaction ; but, 
 with the pause of a single instant, better feelings sprang up, and 
 he grasped his brother's hand with a look of real anxiety, ex- 
 claiming, " Good God,. Charles, at this season of the year ! In 
 this disturbed state of the country ! Remember, Logeres is more 
 than a hundred and fifty leagues distant ! " 
 
 " If this fair lady undertook as long a journey," replied 
 Charles of Montsoreau with a melancholy smile, " in still severer 
 weather, merely for the sake of doing what she thought was 
 right, should I hesitate, Gaspar? Fie; she will think us all a 
 household of priests and friars, who go not forth but when the 
 sun shines, and think an easterly wind excuse sufficient for not 
 visiting the neighbouring village. 1 will not diminish your gar- 
 rison, either, very much, my dear brother. You must give me 
 Gondrin with me, as he comes originally from Logeres ; but, 
 besides him, I shall only take my own ordinary attendants, and 
 I will find means to fight my way through, depend upon it." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau was easily reconciled to this arrange- 
 ment. He still raised some objections, indeed ; but, when he 
 looked at Marie de Clairvaut, those objections became more and 
 more faint in their tone, and he could scarcely refrain from « 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 57 
 
 gaiety so different from the gloom of the morning, as to mark 
 painfully how little he wished for his brother's stay. Marie do 
 Clairvaut returned to the chateau in sadness and grief. She knew 
 not, indeed, to the full extent, how much the departure of 
 Charles of Montsoreau was attributable to her own words; but 
 she felt that it was so, in some degree. She blamed herself more 
 bitterly than she even deserved; and, hastening to her own room, 
 she locked the door, and wept long and bitterly. 
 
 After some time, she was visited by Madame de Saulny, who 
 pressed so, eagerly for admittance, that she could not refuse 
 her. Tears were still in her eyes, and traces of those she had 
 shed fresh upon her cheeks ; but Marie would give no expla- 
 nation ; and it was not till about an hour after, when the good 
 Marquise heard of Charles of Montsorau's intended departure 
 for Logeres, that she divined the cause of her young relation's 
 grief. 
 
 When she did so, Madame de Saulny felt that, in some de- 
 gree, she herself might have been instrumental in producing it. 
 But it was one good trait in the character of that lady, that, if 
 she committed an error, she was sorry for it with her whole 
 heart, and sought to remedy it. She loved Marie de Clairvaut 
 deeply and truly ; she grieved much to see her grieve; but she 
 hoped that there was no such great cause for grief, and that 
 the matter might be easily remedied. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The conduct which, as we have seen, was pursued by Charles 
 of Montsoreau, had not been framed alone upon the supposition 
 that his love for Marie de Clairvaut was without return. That 
 belief, indeed, ultimately decided his determination ; but a 
 thousand other considerations had previously led him up to a 
 point, where it wanted but one word to change the balance in 
 either direction. 
 
 He had set out that morning for Morly full of hope and joy. 
 He was not, indeed, confident that he was beloved ; but he was 
 confident that Marie de Clairvaut herself saw his affection, and 
 had done nothing to check it. From all that he knew of her 
 himself — from all that he had heard of her — from the casual 
 conversation of Madame de Saulny, he was very, very sure, 
 that the conduct of Marie de Clairvaut would have been quite 
 different, if she had not felt a sufficient degree of regard for 
 him, to know that love might follow if he sought it. This was 
 
58 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 quite enough to give him hope and happiness. He had, indeed, 
 remarked his brother's ill humour upon many occasions, and 
 he had attributed it justly to the disappointment of a desire to 
 engross all their fair guest's conversation ; but he had not the 
 slightest idea of the eager and fiery passions that were rising 
 up in the breast of Gaspar of Montsoreau. 
 
 When he mounted his horse, then, to visit the old Count 
 de Morly — one who, though only distantly related to his fa- 
 mily, had been his father's dearest friend and wisest counsellor 
 — Charles of Montsoreau looked forward to his return in the 
 evening, and to the audience he had craved of Marie de Clair- 
 vaut, with a heart full of joyful emotions, and with fear bearing 
 a very small proportion to hope. There was much happiness 
 in his whole air; but it was thoughtful happiness, and for two 
 or three miles he rode on in silence. 
 
 His companion, the Abbe de Boisguerin, was silent too, and 
 thoughtful, and from time to time, as they rode along, he gazed 
 upon his former pupil with a look of contemplative earnestness, 
 a slight frown upon his calm, cold brow, and the thin nostril 
 raised with something between triumph and scorn in the expres- 
 sion. He said not a single word till he saw that Charles of 
 Montsoreau himself began to feel his own silence strange, and 
 looked round as if about to commence some conversation. Then, 
 however, the Abbe spoke. 
 
 " If you are awake, Charles," he said, " I should wish some 
 conference with you ; if you are dreaming, dream on : Heaven 
 forbid that I should disturb you, for your visions seem pleasant 
 ones." 
 
 "They were, dear friend," replied Charles, with a smile-, 
 " but I can give them up for a time, in the hopes of their being 
 realised." 
 
 " Visions are often realised," replied the Abbe. 
 
 "Indeed!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau; "you surely 
 are jesting, my sage friend. I thought to hear you reprove such 
 idle fancies, and tell me that visions, however specious, were 
 seldom, if ever, realised." 
 
 " No, far from it," replied the Abbe : " the visions of a strong, 
 sensible, and reasoning mind like yours, Charles, are, on the 
 contrary, very often realised; for they are seldom formed but 
 upon some sufficient basis. But still I must have my lesson ; and 
 I will tell you, my dear Charles, that the visions which we have 
 formed upon the best grounds, and which are consequently often 
 realised in all their parts, are not unfrequently those productive 
 of the utmost misery to ourselves, even when we thought them 
 the most hopeful, the most happy. It is, Charles, that a thousand 
 other things mingle with the realisation of our dreams, which in 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 59 
 
 our dreams we dreamt not of, turning as with a fairy's wand the 
 pure gold to dross, rendering the sweetness hitter, and changing 
 wholesome food to poison. Look at that distant hill — the Peak 
 of Geran — how soft, and hlue, and smooth, and beautiful it 
 looks, and yet you and I know that the small sharp stones with 
 which it is covered will cut, till they bleed, the feet of the per- 
 son who attempts to climb it. That soft blue mountain in the 
 distance, Charles, is as the vision of an eager mind, and the 
 rough impracticable stony side, as the realisation of the dream 
 itself. I would always ask every one who indulges in a vision — 
 Have you calculated beyond all question of doubt what may be 
 the concomitant pangs, sorrows, and evils that even probably 
 will accompany the realisation of that which you desire ? — 1 
 would ask every one this question, Charles; and I now ask 
 you." 
 
 "I should think, my dear friend," replied Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, " that it would be utterly impossible for any one to 
 answer such a question in the affirmative. The very fallibility of 
 our human nature would prevent our doing so with truth. 
 Good and evil must, of course, be always mingled in this world ; 
 and all that we can do is to think calmly, and endeavour to 
 judge rationally, of that which is the best for our ultimate hap- 
 piness. We must prepare ourselves to take the consequences, 
 be they what they may. If you ask me the question you have 
 mentioned, I should at once reply— No, I have not calculated 
 all even of the probable evils which might attend the realisation 
 of the visions with which I was occupied, because my mind is 
 not capable of discovering one half of the chances attending any 
 future event." 
 
 Charles spoke somewhat warmly ; for there is always a degree 
 of bitterness to the confident mind of youth in any words that 
 tend to shadow the bright promises of hope, and to teach us by 
 doctrine that which we can only learn by experience, the fal- 
 lacy of expectations, the mingled nature of our best pleasures, 
 the dust and ashes of human enjoyment. The Abbe gazed upon 
 his face for a moment ere he replied ; but then said, " I would 
 put my question closer to you, Charles of Montsoreau, and I 
 will put it seriously. Have you calculated all the self-evident 
 evds that would attend the realisation of the visions which you 
 were pondering?" 
 
 "Why, my dear Abbe," replied Charles with a smile, "it 
 would seem by your serious aspect, that to-day you had turned 
 prophet as well as preacher, could divine my thoughts, and see 
 their results." 
 
 " I can divine your thoughts, Charles, and do," replied the 
 Abbe; " and as it is a subject on which, however unwillingly. I 
 
60 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 must speak, I will tell you at once what these thoughts were. 
 The results are in the hand of God, and in the hand of God 
 alone. But I can and will show you some of the prohable 
 results." 
 
 "Nay, then," replied Charles, seeing that the Abbe spoke 
 quite seriously, " such being the case, my dear Abbe, I need 
 not tell you, that if you speak to me with warning, as your 
 words imply, I will listen to you with every sort of deference. 
 Speak, I beg you, and speak freely. Though no longer your 
 pupil in name, I will gladly be so in reality. So now let me hear 
 entirely what you have to say." 
 
 " Well, then, Charles," replied the Abbe, " what I have to 
 say is this, and simply this. Your visions were of Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut You fancied that by the various services which you 
 have rendered her you have obtained a strong hold upon her 
 regard, a claim even upon her hand ; that she showed a fondness 
 for your society, a degree of affection for your person, which 
 promised you fair in every respect 5 and, in fact, believing — and 
 with some degree of justice — that you yourself love her deeply, 
 you saw every prospect of that love being gratified by obtaining 
 hers, and ultimately, perhaps, her hand. JNow, Charles, was 
 this, or was this not, the matter in your thoughts? was this the 
 vision upon which your mind was bent? were not these the 
 prospects which you contemplated just now?" 
 
 "They were," replied Charles of Montsoreau 5 "I do not 
 deny it." 
 
 " Well, then," replied the Abbe, " I will not now dwell for 
 even a single moment upon difficulties, obstacles, obstructions, 
 upon the pride of the race of Guise, upon the views of self- 
 interest and ambition, upon the probability of their treating your 
 love for their niece with contempt, and rejecting your proffered 
 alliance with scorn. I will not pause for a moment on such 
 things-, but I will speak of the matter with which we began; 
 namely, of the probable, the self-evident evils which must attend 
 the realisation of your hopes and wishes. Charles of Montso- 
 reau, have you thought of your brother?" 
 
 The blood came somewhat warmly up into Charles's coun- 
 tenance. " I have thought of him," he replied, " most assuredly; 
 but I have merely thought, my excellent friend, that though he 
 might have some degree of admiration for Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut, yet he has neither had the opportunities, nor the oc- 
 casion, if 1 may use the term, of feeling towards her as I do. 
 Fate has willed it that I should be the person to aid her upon 
 all occasions 5 fate has established between us links of connec- 
 tion which do not exist between her and Caspar. " 
 " But fate has not willed it," replied the Abbe sternly, " that 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. Gl 
 
 you should love her a bit hotter than he does. On the eontrary, 
 Charles, fate has willed that he should love her deeply, pas- 
 sionately, strongly, with the whole intensity of feeling of which 
 he is capahle. This has heen the will of fate, Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, and let not the selfishness of passion blind you. In your 
 pursuit of Marie de Clairvaut, you are the rival of your hrother." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau cast down his eyes as they rode along, 
 and for several minutes remained in deep silence. " You mean 
 to say," he replied at length, " that my brother is my rival, for I 
 first loved her, I first won her regard : he strives to snatch her 
 from me, not I from him, and why should I hesitate at the con- 
 sequences? He must learn to overcome his passion, a passion 
 which is evidently not returned. I go on with hope-, and in love, 
 thank God, at least, there is no elder brother's right to bar us 
 from success." 
 
 " If such be your thoughts and feelings, Charles," replied the 
 Abbe, in a slow and solemn manner, " I see no hope but strife, 
 contention, misery — perhaps bloodshed! between two brothers, 
 who were born to love, to succour, to support each other. And 
 now they will draw their swords upon each other for a woman's 
 smile." 
 
 " Heaven forbid!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau. " Fear 
 not that, Abbe! My sword shall never be drawn against my 
 brother, were he to urge me to the utmost. But you view this 
 matter too gravely, you deceive yourself, I am sure. In the first 
 place, though angry, and mortified, and somewhat jealous, 
 perhaps, that I have had opportunities of serving Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut, which he has not obtained — though somewhat 
 charmed with her beauty, and captivated with her graces — I 
 do not, I cannot, believe that Gaspar feels that love towards her 
 which cannot easily be conquered. He feels not, Abbe, as I feel 
 — he cannot feel as I feel towards her." 
 
 " Charles, you deceive yourself," replied the Abbe, " nay 
 more, you deceive yourself wilfully. Last night in the great hall, 
 after you had retired to rest, your brother walked up and down 
 with me in a state almost of frenzy. He told me how deeply, 
 how passionately, he loved her-, he poured forth into the bosom 
 which has been accustomed to receive all his thoughts, his grief, 
 his agony, his madness itself— for I can call it nothing but 
 madness. He spoke of you — of you, the brother of his love, 
 the being who has gone on nurtured with him from infancy till 
 now without one harsh word or angry feeling between you — 
 he spoke of you, I say, with hatred and abhorrence ; he longed 
 to imbrue his hands in your blood •, he called you the destroyer 
 of his peace, the obstacle of his happiness, the being who had 
 driven him to wretchedness and despair." 
 
62 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau dropped the bridle on his horse's neck, 
 and covered his eyes with his hands. " This is very terrible!" 
 he said — " this is very terrible ! " 
 
 " It is terrible," replied the Abbe — " it is very terrible, Charles; 
 but it is no less true. Your brother so mild, so kind-hearted as 
 he was, is now changed by his rivalry with you, is now full of 
 the feelings of a murderer, is now ready to become a second 
 Cain, and slay his brother, because his offering lias not found 
 favour in the sight of the being he worships, as yours has done! 
 Of all this you knew not, and therefore you could not judge-, 
 but when I said you were deceiving yourself wilfully, Charles, 
 I said not so without cause. Think of what your brother was, 
 one bare fornight ago — all gay, all cheerful, all good-humoured, 
 bearing contradiction with a smile, laughing at the thought of 
 care, putting you always in the first place before himself. See 
 what he is now, Charles, even when restrained by the eyes of 
 many upon him — moody, irritable, passionate, evidently abhor- 
 ring the brother he so lately loved. Can this entire change have 
 come over a man's nature, I ask you, this sad, this terrible, this 
 blighting change, without some strong and overpowering pas- 
 sion? and will you tell me you do not see he loves, loves with 
 all the intensity of an eager, a warm, a fiery heart, loves pas- 
 sionately, loves to madness? " 
 
 Again Charles of Montsoreau bent his eyes down upon the 
 ground, again he remained silent for a considerable space of 
 time ; and in that space, terrible was the conflict which went on 
 within him. At length he raised his eyes gravely, even sternly, 
 to the face of the Abbe de Boisguerin, and demanded, " Abbe, 
 what would you have me do?" 
 
 " It is not for me to dictate, Charles," said the Abbe, in a sad 
 and solemn tone. " You are your own master, you are lord of 
 princely lands and great wealth, you are lord also of yourself. 
 It is not for me to say what you shall do. But I can tell you, 
 Charles of Montsoreau, what you would do if you were the same 
 generous, noble, kind-hearted, self-denying youth that was 
 once under my charge. You would labour zealously, constantly, 
 firmly, to overcome a passion which can produce nothing but 
 misery." 
 
 " What!" exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, " and see the 
 woman I love become the bride of my brother ! What ! witness 
 their union, when she loves me rather than him! Why is this 
 to be put upon me, Abbe? — why, when there is every right 
 on my side, and none on his? Why am I to be the sacrifice 
 rather than Caspar? Why do you address these words of exhor- 
 tation to me rather than to him?" 
 
 " In the first place," replied the Abbe, " what you fear— what 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 63 
 
 you seem most to fear, what it would be almost too much to 
 demand from you — never will, never can take place. Marie do 
 Clairvaut will never be your brother's bride. She loves him not; 
 she rather dislikes him : that is evident. You cannot suppose, 
 Charles, that she will ever be his. So I remove that from all con- 
 sideration. You next ask me why 1 put the hard task on you 
 rather than him; why I exhort you rather than him. I will tell 
 you, Charles 5 because with you I believe exhortation will have 
 effect; with him it will have none. 1 have told you before, this 
 passion with him is a madness. He is more violent, he is less 
 generous, in his nature than you are, Charles ; and if you would 
 know more, know that I have already exhorted him, and found 
 my exhortations vain. If you persist in your passion, if you, 
 too, do not make a great effort to conquer it, misery, agony, 
 and bloodshed will be the consequence. The despair, the death 
 of him who hung at the same bosom with yourself will lie heavy 
 on your head. You, you will be more to blame than he is ; for 
 you are acting with determinate reason and forethought, when 
 I tell you that his reason is gone. And, moreover " 
 
 " Then," exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, interrupting him, 
 " then I ought to become a madman, too, to put myself in the 
 right! Abbe, your reasoning is not just; but I understand and 
 feel your motives, though I cannot admit your arguments' — 
 hear me, hear me out. Were my own feelings and my own 
 happiness alone concerned, I could — yes, I think I could — sa- 
 crifice them all to my brother, if by so doing 1 thought I could 
 secure his peace. But, in the first place, you do not even hold 
 out to me the supposition that any sacrifice on my part would 
 secure his happiness ; and, in the next place, I have to remember 
 that there is another whose feelings and whose comfort are to 
 be considered. Much may have passed between Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut and myself to make me sure that she knows my love, 
 and to make me hope that she returns it. And, if such be the 
 case, I have no right to draw back a single step, nor will I for 
 any consideration upon earth. If 1 love her without her loving 
 me, I can struggle against my love, though I can never over- 
 come it ; but if she love me too, I will trifle with her happiness 
 for no man upon earth — no, not my brother!" 
 
 The Abbe remained silent for a moment or two ; and then 
 replied, " Charles, your hopes are deceiving you. Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut's feelings may be favourable to you, may be 
 kindly ; but, believe me," he added, and a very slight appear- 
 ance of a sneering smile hung about his lip — " but, believe 
 me, there is no chance of your injuring her happiness by ceas- 
 ing to seek her love. I speak from good authority, Charles ; 
 as it is not two days ago, from Madame de Saulny's own ac- 
 
64 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 count, that, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut declared her in- 
 tention to be stronger than ever of going into a convent. 
 It is very natural, my dear Charles, that you, knowing and 
 feeling the passion in your own breast, should think it equally 
 evident to her. Very likely you may have addressed to her words 
 of passion and of love, displayed signs of tenderness and affec- 
 tion, which you think fully sufficient to convince her ; and yet 
 she may not have the slightest idea that your feelings are any 
 thing but those of common courtesy and kindness. You must 
 remember, that a pure and fine-minded woman shuns the very 
 idea of any man being in love with her, till his absolute assu- 
 rance that such is the case, leaves her no longer any room to 
 doubt. Pure, modest, and retiring, as Mademoiselle de Clair- 
 vaut is, such, depend upon it, are her feelings; and be you per- 
 fectly sure that nothing you have done for her has been con- 
 strued by her in any other light than that of common kindness 
 and courtesy." 
 
 "I will soon know that," replied Charles of Montsoreau; 
 " I will know that this very night; and if I find that I have been 
 deceiving myself, I will make any sacrifice for my brother. I 
 will quit the place ; I will stand in his way no longer-, although 
 you yourself," he added bitterly, " give me no hope that, by any 
 of the sacrifices you demand, I shall contribute in the least to 
 my brother's happiness." 
 
 " I think," replied the Abbe, "that you will contribute greatly 
 to the happiness of both ; or, at all events, remove those causes 
 of dissension which would have made you both miserable. Your 
 own happiness, too, may be served in the end more than you 
 imagine. The obstacles to your brother's happiness will come 
 from her, not from you. He may grow wearied of a pursuit that 
 he finds to be fruitless; he may conquer a passion which he sees 
 can never be returned. Your generosity and forbearance may, 
 in turn, have their natural effect upon his heart; and he may 
 learn to see with pleasure your union with her who never could 
 be his. Thus, in fact, by making a sacrifice, you may make none; 
 and by seeming to abandon, may win but the more surely." 
 
 " No!" replied the young nobleman—" No, Abbe! I will do 
 nothing by halves. I will act upon no motives but straightfor- 
 ward ones. I believe that Marie de Clairvaut knows, has seen, 
 and returns my affection. If she love me, if her happiness is 
 implicated, nothing on earth shall make me abandon her. 1 will 
 love her, and seek her unto death. But if I find that I have de- 
 ceived myself; if I learn that she has not seen and does not re- 
 turn my love, I will fly from her at once. To-morrow's sunset 
 shall see me far away; and then I will do every thing that lies 
 in my power to contribute to my brother's happiness. He shall 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 65 
 
 be forced to say that I have laboured for his gratification and my 
 own disappointment, though he has embittered his heart towards 
 his brother, and suffered passion to turn the milk of our mother 
 into gall. Let us ride on, Abbe, let us ride on : my determina- 
 tions are taken. It is better to know our fate at once. I shall stay 
 but a short time with the good Count de Morly 5 and I will then 
 leave you with him, and ride back with all speed." 
 
 " Nay, my dear Charles," replied the Abbe, " I will go back 
 with you. I cannot suffer you to tread a long road companioned 
 by such painful thoughts as I fear you will have." 
 
 " No, no," replied Charles of Montsoreau •, " I would rather 
 go alone. 1 must deal with this business singly, Abbe; and, be- 
 sides, some of us should stay awhile with the good Count. He 
 is your cousin as well as ours, you know ; and, as he has no other 
 relations, may leave you all his wealth." 
 
 The Abbe turned quickly round, with an inquiring and half- 
 angry look, as if there was something in his own bosom told 
 him that he might find a sneer upon the countenance of his 
 young companion. Such, however, was not the case. All was 
 clear and calm upon the face of Charles of Montsoreau, except a 
 melancholy smile, as if the motives which he jestingly attributed 
 to the Abb6 were too absurd for any one to believe he spoke in 
 earnest. They conversed no more on a subject so painful as that 
 which they had already discussed, but rode on quickly and in 
 silence. Such had been the conversation which preceded the in- 
 terview between Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 It was in the grey of the dawn, that about ten horses were 
 assembled in the court-yard of the chateau of Montsoreau, on 
 the following morning. Six were saddled and bridled as if for 
 instant departure ; and the men who stood by the sides of those 
 six were armed up to the teeth. Steel-caps, then called salads, 
 crowned the head of each ; and long swords slung high up on 
 the hip, with the point of the scabbard almost touching the 
 ground, showed a preparation for desperate resistance in case 
 of attack ,• while the small pistols in the girdle were accompanied 
 by several others attached to the saddle, so as to give every man 
 an opportunity of firing five or six shots without the necessity 
 of pausing to reload. 
 
 The other four horses were burdened with various packages ; 
 and after the whole had been assembled for a few minutes in the 
 
G6 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 court-yard, Charles of Montsoreau himself, accompanied by his 
 brother and the Abbe de Boisguerin, descended the steps from 
 the great hall, while his own strong charger was led forth, to- 
 gether with a spare horse to be led in hand by one of the grooms. 
 
 The countenance of the young nobleman was pale as the day 
 before, and deep emotions were certainly busy in his bosom. 
 But his aspect was calm and collected ; and he gazed round the 
 chateau of his fathers, from which he was going forth, perhaps 
 for the last time, with an air of grave and tranquil resolution, 
 which contrasted strongly and strangely with the agitation evi- 
 dent on the countenance of his brother. He grasped the hand of 
 the Abbe de Boisguerin in silence 5 then spoke a few words, 
 and made a few inquiries of his attendants 5 and at length 
 turning to his brother, extended his hand to him, fixing his full 
 eyes upon his countenance, and saying, " Farewell, Gaspar ! " 
 
 The Marquis pressed his hand eagerly, but he did not speak, 
 for he was agitated in a very terrible degree 5 and his brother 
 put his foot into the stirrup, and slowly threw himself into the 
 saddle, in a manner very different from that light and buoyant 
 one with which he usually mounted his horse to go forth from 
 the same walls. 
 
 As he was passing through the archway, however, something 
 suddenly seemed to strike him-, and he turned his horse round 
 to say to his brother, " Remember my poor dog Lupo, and be 
 kind to him, Caspar," and his eye ran for a moment over the 
 upper windows, at one of which the curtain was partly drawn 
 back, though neither the hand that drew it, nor the eyes which 
 gazed from behind it, were visible to the sight of those below. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau turned his horse again, and rode 
 through the archway. --" God bless you, Sir !" said the warder 
 who stood near ; — '/ God prosper you, my noble young Count," 
 said the porter of the gates— and in another minute Charles was 
 riding away from his home. 
 
 At the bridge across the stream, the party which thus left the 
 chateau of Montsoreau found another horseman waiting to join 
 them on their way ; no other than the blithe-looking forester, 
 Gondrin, who, with all his earthly goods enclosed in a large 
 pack behind him, and mounted on a powerful horse which had 
 borne him many a mile in various forest sports, looked not a 
 whit the less cheerful— not a whit the more depressed— at quit- 
 ting the place which he had made his home for several years, 
 than he did upon going out in the morning to track the foo'tsteps 
 of a boar or deer in the course of his usual occupations. 
 
 The truth is, that Gondrin was one of those men who are 
 without attachments absolutely local. There was far more of the 
 dog than of the cat in his nature. Where those he loved were, 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 67 
 
 there was his home ; and if those he loved had not been with 
 him, he would have felt a stranger even in his birthplace. Our 
 local attachments, indeed, are in themselves almost all made up 
 of associations ; the pleasures that we have tasted — the happy 
 hours that we have known — the friends that we have loved — 
 the sports, the pastimes, the little incidents — ay, even some of 
 the pains of life are woven by memory and association into ties 
 to bind our affections to certain places. Our loves and our 
 friendships almost always derive the vigour of their bonds from 
 the present and the past together — the ties of local attachments 
 are all found in the past. 
 
 On the present occasion, Gondrin had with him the great ob- 
 ject of his love and admiration : his young lord, the Count of 
 Logeres. He had with him, too, in the train of his master, more 
 than one old companion of his forest sports. Two of the under 
 piqueurs were to follow him as soon as safe-conducts could be 
 obtained for them, with six dogs, which were the special joy 
 of his heart ; so that — with the abatement of a certain degree of 
 anxiety regarding the temporal welfare of the aforesaid hounds 
 — Gondrin was as happy as he could be; and whether on his 
 horse's back, or reposing in the inn-kitchen, or resting by the 
 roadside, he considered himself just as much at home as in his 
 cottage under the castle of Montsoreau. 
 
 He bowed low to his lord as the young nobleman came up, 
 and would have spoken to him also with his usual frank cheer- 
 fulness, but Gondrin was as shrewd an observer of men's faces 
 as he was of beasts' footmarks ; and he saw on the countenance 
 of Charles of Montsoreau such indubitable traces of care and 
 thought, that he judged it better to fall back at once amongst 
 his companions in the rear, whose gay voices and merry laughter 
 soon showed the effect of his presence. 
 
 Of his young lord, Gondrin had judged rightly, when he 
 thought that he was in no mood to be interrrupted in pursuing 
 the current of his own ideas. The heart of Charles of Mont- 
 soreau was too sad and sorrowful— too full of bitter memories — 
 too full of dark anticipations— to bear any interruption with 
 patience. He had parted from Marie de Clairvaut — he had 
 parted from her probably for ever — he had been disappointed 
 in his hopes of love returned— he had voluntarily sacrificed the 
 chance of winning her — he had cast away the bright and gol- 
 den opportunity — he had cast away the delight of her society 
 —he had left behind him the home of his infancy, a place filled 
 with every sweet memory — he had parted, too, from his brother, 
 the object of all his early affections, and had parted from him 
 with feelings changed, and with a heart wounded and bleeding. 
 
 Yet on his way he was borne up by the consciousness of rec- 
 
68 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 litude, and by the vigour of high resolves. He had determined 
 resolutely and firmly, not only to put down in his bosom any 
 vain hopes of ever obtaining the hand of her he loved, but, as 
 far as possible, to conquer that affection— not only to leave his 
 brother full opportunity of striving for her hand himself, but to 
 aid, as far as it was in his power, by every exertion and by every 
 thought, to remove all ordinary difficulties from his brother's 
 path. He had already laid out his plans, he had already made up 
 his mind to his course of action. He would go to Logeres, he 
 thought^ he would call out the numerous retainers which were 
 then at his disposal ; he would take a part in the strifes of the 
 day, he would attach himself to the Princes of the house of 
 Guise ; and he doubted not to be enabled to render such service 
 to their cause, as to obviate all opposition, on their part, to the 
 union of his brother with the daughter of one of the younger 
 branches of their family. 
 
 He hoped that it might be so 5 and he trusted that it might be 
 so. He could not, indeed, deceive himself into a belief that he 
 could wish Marie de Clairvaut to return his brother's love. That 
 he could not do : but if his brother won that love, he could at 
 least contribute, he thought, to his gaining her hand also ; for there 
 was something in his bosom which told him — though they had 
 never yet competed for any great stake— that he possessed energies 
 and powers which would enable him to accomplish more, far 
 more, than Caspar could achieve in the eager strife of the world. 
 
 Such were his views, and such his determinations ; but it need 
 hardly be said, that in forming those views and determinations, 
 there ran through the whole web of his thoughts the dark and 
 mournful threads of disappointment, and care, and regret. He 
 was gloomy then, and melancholy; and though to all who ap- 
 proached him, he spoke kindly — though he was ever considerate 
 and thoughtful for their comfort, he uttered not one word un- 
 called for, and ever fell back into silent thought as soon as he 
 had uttered any order or direction. 
 
 The scene through which he passed was certainly not one 
 well calculated to dissipate gloomy thoughts. After the first four 
 or five miles, it subsided into a Hat watery country, with mani- 
 fold streams and marshes, and long rows of stunted osiers and 
 low woods seen in dim straight lines for many miles over the 
 horizon, with nothing breaking the continuity of brown but thin 
 white mists rising up from the dells and hollows, and looking 
 cold, and sickly, and mysterious. The pale grey overhanging 
 sky vouchsafed but little light to the earth 5 and though the sun 
 at one period struggled to break through, his radiant counte- 
 nance looked wan and faint. The road itself was heavy and tire- 
 some for the horses, and relieved by nothing but an occasional 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. G9 
 
 plashy meadow ; while ever and anon a wild duck flapped 
 heavily up from the morass, or a snipe started away at the sound 
 of the horses' feet with a shrill, low cry. 
 
 Seldom, if ever, does it happen that the aspect of the scene 
 through which we pass has not some effect upon us. When 
 deeply absorbed in our own thoughts 5 when filled with grief, or 
 care, or anxiety ; or even when occupied altogether with 
 thoughts of joy and happiness to come, we know not, we do not 
 perceive the scene around us stealing into our spirit, mingling 
 with, and giving a colouring to, all our thoughts and feelings, 
 softening or deepening, rendering brighter or more dark, the 
 colouring of all our affections at the moment. But still it does 
 so : still every object that our eyes rest upon, every sound that 
 greets our ear, has its effect upon the mood of the moment ; and 
 the sadness of Charles of Montsoreau, the dark disappointment, 
 the bitter regret, the withering of all his hopes, the casting 
 behind him of his home and all sweet associations, were ren- 
 dered darker, more painful, more terrible than they otherwise 
 would have been, by the sky, which seemed to frown back the 
 frown of fate, and by the misty prospect, as dim, as vague, as 
 cheerless as the future of life appeared to his mind's eye. 
 
 At length, between ten and eleven o'clock, a little village 
 presented itself; but the population was few and scanty, while a 
 sickly shade, as if from the bad air of the place, pervaded more 
 or less almost every countenance, and bespoke the marshy 
 nature of the soil. In the middle of this little place, where in 
 England would have been a village green, was an old stone 
 cross covered with lichens, and exactly opposite to it, at the 
 side, appeared a large stone building with a bush over the door, 
 and written above it, " The Inn for Travellers on horseback. — 
 Dinner at fourteen sols a head." 
 
 The horses and the servants wanted both rest and food, and 
 Charles of Montsoreau turned in thither. He himself, however, 
 ate nothing, and continued walking up and down before (he 
 door, musing bitterly of the future. It mattered not to the inn- 
 keeper, indeed, whether the young nobleman ate his viands or 
 not; for though he had a certain pride therein, he charged as 
 much for each man that entered the doors, whether they ate or 
 not, as if they had consumed the best of his larder ; and though 
 he would fain have bestowed the solace of his company upon the 
 young traveller, the manner of Charles of Montsoreau, joined 
 with a few words, soon showed him that his company would be 
 burdensome, and he wisely desisted. 
 
 Peace and quietness, however, were not to be the portion 
 of Charles of Montsoreau ; for scarcely had the aubergiste left 
 him to his own reflections, when a number of gay sounds made 
 
70 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 themselves heard from the other side of the village, and looking 
 that way , the young Count saw a company of itinerant musi- 
 cians, who, even in that time of war and bloodshed, did not 
 cease to practise their merry avocation, wandering in gay dresses 
 from city to city, sometimes exposed to plunder and injury, but 
 often strong enough and well enough armed to defend them- 
 selves, or perhaps to pillage others. 
 
 To tell the truth, these traders in sweet sounds did not alto- 
 gether bear the very best of characters ; and yet, in that time of 
 discord and tumult, when the greater part of mens time was 
 given up to painful thoughts of self-defence, or the fierce struggles 
 of civil contention, the wandering musicians were generally re- 
 ceived with a glad heart to every abode, and obtained payment 
 of some kind, either in food or money, for the temporary en- 
 joyment they afforded. 
 
 The party which now approached consisted of two men, a 
 woman, and a boy. The two men were ferocious-looking per- 
 sons enough, with dresses of gay colours, embroidered with 
 tinsel, and each bearing in his girdle a dagger, the meretri- 
 cious ornaments of which seemed adopted for the purpose of 
 persuading people that it was there only for show, though 
 in reality the sharp broad blade of highly tempered steel was 
 very well calculated to effect any murderous purpose. The 
 woman had once, perhaps, been pretty, and she now decked out 
 charms, blighted perhaps by vice as much as faded by time, with 
 every ornament within her reach. The boy, however, was the 
 personage of the group certainly the most interesting. He pre- 
 ceded his brethren along the street, playing on a small pipe, from 
 which he produced most exquisite sounds ; while a small spaniel 
 dog ran on before him, and from time to time stood upon his 
 hind legs, much to the amusement of the children and women 
 that followed the musicians. 
 
 The truth is, the whole band had been lodging at the other 
 end of the village, in one of those little public houses called, in 
 those days, Rdpues ; but hearing of the arrival of a body of gay 
 cavaliers at the larger inn, they were coming up in haste to see 
 how many sous their music could extract from the pockets of 
 the troop. The two elder men and the woman were pushing in 
 at once into the auberge, without taking any note of the young 
 Count de Logeres, whom they looked upon as a mere idler at 
 an inn-door; but the boy stopped, and, uncovering his dark 
 curly head, gazed for a moment in the Count's face, with eyes 
 full of fire and intelligence. 
 
 He had scarcely paused a moment, however, when one of the 
 men returning, caught him violently by the arm, exclaiming, 
 "What are you lingering for, idle fool?" and struck him a blow 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. / 1 
 
 upon the face with the open hand, which left the print of his 
 lingers upon the hoy's young cheek. The boy neither wept nor 
 complained, but stood with his hands by his sides, a dark and 
 bitter frown upon his brow, and a Hashing fire in his eye, which 
 showed that his passive calmness proceeded from no want of 
 indignant sensibility to the injury. The blow might very likely 
 have been repeated, had not the man's eye, at that moment, 
 fallen upon Charles of Montsoreau, and perceived in his counte- 
 nance a look of angry indignation, while his apparel and bear- 
 ing at once showed that he was superior to the party whom the 
 musicians had met with within. 
 
 "Come in, Ignati," cried the musician, with somewhat of a 
 foreign accent, "either play on your pipe to the gentleman 
 here, or come and help us to sing to the company within doors." 
 
 "I will not go in," said the boy, " unless you make me : but 
 I will sing the gentleman a song here, if he likes it." 
 
 "Ay, do, do," said the man; " sing him that Gaillard song 
 with the chorus." 
 
 " I am in no mood, my poor boy," said Charles of Montso- 
 reau, " to take pleasure in your music. My heart is too sad for 
 your gay sounds. There is something for you, however. Go in 
 and sing to the lighter hearts within." 
 
 And giving him a small piece of money, he was turning away 5 
 but the boy drew closer to him, and looking up in his face with 
 a sweet and kindly smile, pressed him to hear his music. 
 
 " Oh let me sing to you," he said, " let me sing to you, noble 
 gentleman. You don't know what music can do for a sad heart. 
 It often makes mine less heavy ; and I will choose you a song, 
 where even the gay words are sad, so that they shall not be harsh 
 to the most sorrowful ear." 
 
 "Well, my good boy," replied the Count, " if you must sing, 
 let it be so; but you must expect me to listen but lightly, for I 
 have many things to think of." 
 
 The boy instantly laid down his pipe on a bench by the door, 
 and lifting his two hands gracefully, which had before been 
 clasped together, he looked up for a minute to the sky, and then 
 began his song, as follows : — 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Gue\ gu£, well-a-day ! 
 Dost thou remember brighter hours 
 
 Shining upon thy happy way, 
 Like morning sunshine upon dewy flowers? 
 Oh, join my lay, 
 And with me say, 
 Gue, gue, well-a-day ! 
 
72 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Gue, gue, well-a-day ! 
 Has fortune's favour left thee 
 
 (Ebbing fast away), 
 Like stranded vessel by a summer sea? 
 Oh, join my lay, 
 And with me say, 
 Gue\ gu6, well-a-day ! 
 
 Gue\ gue\ well a-day ! 
 Have the eyes that once were smiling 
 
 Now learnt to stray, 
 Other hearts as fond as thine beguiling? 
 Then join my lay, 
 And with me say, 
 Gue\ gue, well a-day t 
 
 Gue, gue\ well-a-day ! 
 Has love's blossom suffer'd blight 
 
 'Neath misfortune grey, 
 Like flow'rs in the frost of a wintry night? 
 Oh, join my lay, 
 And with me say, 
 Gue\ gue, well-a day ! 
 
 The boy's music had contrived to fix the attention of Charles 
 of Montsoreau, and awakened an unexpected interest in the fate 
 of the youth, who seemed capable, not only of the mere me- 
 chanical art of singing the words of others, or, like a taught bird, 
 whistling music by rote, but of feeling every word and every tone 
 that he uttered. As the young nobleman looked from his face to 
 that of the man whom he accompanied, and who sat by his side 
 on the bench at the door, gazing at him with an affected smile 
 upon his coarse assassin-like features, he could not but think 
 that it must be a hard fate for that poor, sensitive-looking boy 
 to wander on under the domination of a harsh being like that, 
 and he almost longed to deliver him from it. He gave the boy 
 some additional money, however, which made the man's eyes 
 gleam 5 and he was proceeding to ask some questions regarding 
 the fate and history of the whole party, when Gondrin and the 
 rest of the servants issued forth with the horses, and Charles of 
 Montsoreau prepared to mount. 
 
 " These are the vagabonds, my Lord," said Gondrin, " who 
 were up at the castle gates on the day you saved Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut from drowning." 
 
 " I did not see them," replied Charles of Montsoreau with 
 some surprise — " I did not remark any one there." 
 
 " No," answered the boy with a light smile, " no, you were 
 thinking too much of some one else." 
 
 " You must have made speed to get here before me," said 
 Charles of Montsoreau. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE; ?3 
 
 " Ay, we go by paths, Sir, that you cannot go on horseback," 
 joined in the man; " and we will be at the next inn gate before 
 you to-night, if you would like to hear the boy's music again." 
 
 "Perhaps I may," replied Charles of Montsoreau ; "at all 
 events, you sha'nt go without reward." 
 
 " We will be there, we will be there," replied the man ; and 
 the Count having ascertained that the reckoning was paid, rode 
 on upon his way. 
 
 The little incident which had broken in upon the train of his 
 melancholy thoughts did not very long occupy his mind. " This 
 must be a shrewd boy," he thought, " to adapt his song so well 
 to the circumstances ; for it is clearly from what he saw at the 
 castle gate that he judged of the nature of my feelings, and sang 
 accordingly." 
 
 Thus thinking, he rode on, and his mind readily reverted to 
 the darker topics which had before occupied it. When he ar- 
 rived at the sleeping place, which were in those days called 
 Giles, he found a large and comfortable inn, such as was 
 scarcely ever to be met with in any other country but France in 
 those days. He looked naturally for the band of musicians at the 
 door-, but it seemed that they had either forgotten their promise, 
 or had not yet arrived 5 and the young Count had entered the 
 hall and commenced his supper before there was a sign of their 
 approach. 
 
 The first thing that gave him any intimation of their coming 
 was the sound of voices speaking sharp and angrily in the Italian 
 language; and he thought he heard amongst them the tones of 
 the boy uttering a few, but indignant, words of remonstrance. 
 
 Poising from the table at which he sat, the young Count ap- 
 proached the window, and found that he was right in supposing 
 the party of musicians had arrived. The boy was standing in the 
 midst, and the woman, as well as the two men, were bending 
 over him, talking to him earnestly, with vehement grimaces on 
 the countenance of each, while the clenched fist of the elder 
 man shaken unceasingly, though not raised even so high as his 
 own girdle, showed that some threats were being used to the 
 boy, in order, apparently, to drive him to something, to do 
 which he was unwilling. Although the window was on a level 
 with their heads, the Count could not distinguish what they 
 said, for they were now speaking low, though still eagerly. 
 They raised their voices, indeed, almost to a scream, when they 
 uttered some wild Italian exclamation, but it was meaningless 
 without the context. At length, however, to the surprise of 
 Charles of Montsoreau, the boy seemed moved by a sudden fit 
 of rage 5 and lifting the hand which held his pipe, he dashed the 
 instrument of music upon the ground, shivering it to atoms, 
 
74 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 and exclaiming, " Never! never! I will neither sing nor play a 
 note ! " 
 
 At that instant the elder man struck him a blow on the side 
 of the head, which knocked him at once down upon the road; 
 and Charles of Montsoreau opening the window, leaped out, and 
 interfered, while several of his attendants followed him from the 
 supper room. 
 
 The faces of the Italians fell when they saw him; and there 
 was a sort of confused and guilty look about them, which might 
 well have made any one of a suspicious nature believe that they 
 had been planning no very good schemes, when the obstinacy 
 of the boy had obstructed them. 
 
 "You treat this youth ill," said Charles of Montsoreau, 
 frowning upon the man who had struck him. " Are you his 
 father?" 
 
 "■ No, the blessed Virgin be thanked ! " exclaimed the Italian ; 
 " his name is Carlo Ignatius Morone, though we call him 
 Ignati. No, obstinate little brute! he is no child of mine! I 
 bought him of his mother to sing and dance for us. A bad 
 bargain I made of it too, for he does not gain his own bread 
 with his whims. His mother was a courtezan of Genoa." 
 
 "She was not my mother!" cried the boy in an indignant 
 tone. " My mother was dead long before that. But whatever she 
 was, Paulina Morone was always kind to me ; and she would 
 never have sold me to you, if I had not asked her, when she 
 had no bread to eat herself, and had given me the last crust she 
 had to give." 
 
 " This is a sad history," said Charles of Montsoreau ; "and as 
 you say the boy does not gain his own bread, you will, doubtless, 
 be glad enough to sell him to me, my good friend." 
 
 The man hesitated. " I don't know that exactly," he said, 
 " noble Lord. The boy can sing well, if he likes it, as you know; 
 and he can play well both upon the pipe and the lute when he 
 likes it and is not obstinate ; and he is as active as a Basque, 
 and can dance better than any one I ever saw. Would you like 
 to see him dance, my Lord? I'll make him dance fast enough. 
 That I can always do with a good stout stick, though sing he 
 won't unless he likes it." 
 
 " I wonder not at it," replied the Count. " But you shall not 
 make him dance for me. What I wish to know is, will you sell 
 him to me? You said you had made a bad bargain, and that he 
 did not gain his own bread, much less repay you." 
 
 " Not here in the provinces. Sir," replied the man. " But I 
 am sure if I took him to Paris, I could make a good sum by 
 showing him to the lords and ladies there. However, I will sell 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. /5 
 
 him, if I can make something by him, sooner than be burdened 
 with him anymore." 
 
 " What do you demand ? " said Charles of Montsoreau. " If 
 you are moderate, perhaps I may give it to you, for I like to hear 
 the boy sing." 
 
 " I will have," said the man, " I will have at least a hundred 
 and fifty crowns of gold, crowns of the sun, Sir, remember, or 
 I '11 not part with the boy." 
 
 "That is three times as much as you gave to the Morone," 
 cried the boy — " you know it is." 
 
 "Ay, little villain," answered the man; "but have I not 
 brought you from Italy since, and fed you for more than a year?" 
 
 "And spent a fortune in cudgels too upon him," said the 
 woman. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau gave her a glance of contempt, and 
 then turned his look towards the boy, whose eyes were full of 
 tears. The sum that was asked for him was, in fact, considerable, 
 each gold crown being in that day worth sixty sous, and the va- 
 lue of money itself, as compared with produce, being about five 
 times that which it is at present. But the young nobleman, un- 
 accustomed to trafic in human flesh, that most odious and hor- 
 rible of all the rites of Mammon, looked upon the sum to be 
 given as a mere trifle when compared with the boy's deliverance 
 from the hands into which he had fallen. 
 
 " You shall have the money," he said.—" Gondrin, bid Mar- 
 tin bring me the leathern bag which he carries, and I will pay 
 the sum immediately." 
 
 The first sensation of the Italian was joy, at having over- 
 reached the young French nobleman, the second was equally 
 natural to the people, and the class to which he belonged, sor- 
 row at not having contrived to over-reach him to a greater ex- 
 tent. The money, however, being produced, and the sum paid, 
 the boy demanded and received from the younger man, who 
 carried a pack upon his shoulders, some little articles of property 
 belonging, he said, to himself. 
 
 " The boy is now yours, my Lord," said the Italian, looking 
 wistfully at the closing mouth of the bag-, "but surely your 
 Lordship will give me another crown for the bargain's sake." 
 
 " I will tell you what I will give you," replied Charles of Mont- 
 soreau : — " if you and your base companions do not take your- 
 selves out of the place as fast as your legs can carry you, I will 
 order my horsemen to flog you for a mile along the road with 
 their stirrup leathers." 
 
 The man put his hand, with a meaning look, to the gilded hilt 
 of his dagger ; but, in an instant, one buffet from the hand of 
 Charles of Montsoreau replied to the mute sign, by laying him 
 
76 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 prostrate on the ground. A loud laugh echoed from the inn door 
 at this conclusion of the scene ; and starting on his feet again, 
 the Italian and his companions hurried away as fast as possible, 
 the elder one only pausing for a moment, at about a hundred 
 yard's distance, to shake his clenched fist at the young noble- 
 man, with a meaning look. 
 
 " Come, my boy," said the Count, " come and get thee some 
 supper. Thou shall be better treated at least with me than with 
 them." 
 
 The boy caught his hand, and kissed it a thousand times, and 
 the young nobleman led him towards the house, asking him as 
 they went, " What was it they wished you to do when I came 
 out to stop them from maltreating you ? " 
 
 " To sing and play to you, and engage all your thoughts," re- 
 plied the boy, " while they stole the jewel out of your hat, and 
 put a piece of glass in its place." 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The sweetest of all balms to a hurt mind is the doing a good 
 action 5 and with that for his consolation, Charles of Montsoreau 
 retired to rest, and, though he slept not well, certainly, he ob- 
 tained more repose than he had expected. On the following 
 morning, he found — that which we so often find — that things 
 done for kindly and benevolent purposes bear with them sources 
 of recompense to ourselves which we never calculated upon. 
 The unfortunate boy whom he had delivered from the hands of 
 his persecutors on the preceding day, afforded the young Count 
 a subject of interest and occupation, that withdrew his thoughts 
 from more painful themes, and gave him a degree of relief, 
 which, though merely temporary, was in itself a blessing. 
 
 The boy stood by his side while he took his breakfast, and 
 looked so full of joy, that Charles of Montsoreau could not help 
 congratulating himself upon what he had done, though he was 
 not sufficiently ignorant of the world to suppose that, for the sum 
 of a hundred and fifty crowns, he had bought himself a treasure 
 of high qualities, such as the best education can hardly bestow 
 upon the best disposition. 
 
 He had made the boy over entirely to the care of Gondrin, and 
 told the shrewd huntsman to watch his disposition well, and let 
 him know all the peculiarities thereof. He was himself too much 
 occupied with gloomy thoughts, to invesligale the malter fully ; 
 and, as the boy stood by him, he confined his questions to some 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 77 
 
 points of his former history, and to the various accomplishments 
 which he possessed. 
 
 To a question as to whether he could ride, the boy only re- 
 plied with a smile; and it appeared afterwards that, while with 
 the Italians, the whole of the first part of their journey through 
 Italy and France had been performed on horseback, till some 
 acts of dishonesty, committed in the town of Grenoble, forced 
 them to tly on foot with all speed, and leave their beasts behind 
 them. 
 
 The purchase of a fresh horse for the boy, and of some suits 
 of clothes better fitted to a nobleman's page than the gay and 
 mountebank costume in which he had come to his new master, 
 occupied a considerable part of the morning; and by the time 
 Charles of Montsoreau issued forth to proceed upon his journey, 
 the mists of the early day had cleared away ; the grey veil of 
 clouds which had obscured the sky during the preceding day 
 had been scattered into small feathery fragments by the sun and 
 the wind; there was a feeling of spring in the breath of the air, 
 and a look of hope and joyfulness upon all the world around. 
 
 As the boy Ignati stood by his master's stirrup for a moment 
 before they set out, he lifted his fine dark eyes to the counte- 
 nance of the young nobleman with a look of love and gratitude 
 that was not to be mistaken. It is true that a man may smile, 
 and smile, and be a villain ; it is true that the language of looks 
 may often be as false as the words of the tongue ; it is true that 
 no human mode of expression may not be poisoned by hypo- 
 crisy, and that even actions themselves are often as false as 
 looks and words. But there are moments when the free soul 
 bursts forth through all the bonds of habit or of cunning, and 
 sports, if it be but for a single instant, at liberty ; and in those 
 times, though the words may still be false, or at the best re- 
 gulated with deliberate skill, yet there are momentary expres- 
 sions that cross the countenance — lights that beam up in the 
 eye — smiles that flutter round the lip — which betray the se- 
 cret of the heart's feelings, notwithstanding the most careful 
 guard. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau looked down, and laid his hand upon 
 the boy's head. 
 
 " You know, Ignati," he said, " that you are a freeman, and 
 not a slave. I paid pour price to the Italians to give you liberty, 
 and not to purchase you myself; so you are free to come and to 
 go, to stay with me, or to leave me, as you like." 
 
 " I will go with you through the world," replied the boy; 
 and though he said no more, he said it in such a tone as to 
 leave no doubt upon the mind of Charles of Montsoreau that 
 he was sincere for the time at least. 
 
78 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 The boy sprang into his saddle with alacrity and grace; and 
 the first horseman of the court of France could not have sat his 
 horse with more ease and vigour. His whole demeanour seemed 
 changed from the former day, as if slavery and the degrading 
 trade to which he had been previously bound had bowed down 
 his spirit, and with it his corporeal frame. There was a light- 
 ness, a joyous fire in his look, which spoke the consciousness 
 of freedom and of dawning hopes. Before, he had been but a 
 handsome, sullen boy ; while, now, he looked older than before, 
 and all was quickness and activity. 
 
 The sky, we have said, was brighter, the day more cheerful, 
 and the scenery itself gradually assuming a finer and a bolder 
 character. Entering that hilly district which lies between Li- 
 moges and Tulle, the road was constantly ascending or descend- 
 ing. Wide woods and moors, broken by rocks and streams, 
 were seen on either side ; while now a soft green meadow co- 
 vered the slope, now a rich-coloured fallow field showed traces 
 of man's industrious hand. Here and there, too, a cottage ap- 
 peared, with its little garden and orchard roundabout it; here 
 and there a forge, while the castellated houses of many of the 
 small provincial nobility showed their glittering weathercocks 
 above the grey woods. The aspect of the whole scene was very 
 peaceful ; and so, indeed, that part of the country was at the 
 time ; for no towns of sufficient consequence were near to render 
 it, though extremely defensible, worth the while of any of the 
 various parties which tore the state to defend it against the rest. 
 Through these scenes the young Count and his attendants rode 
 on during the day, till they came to their gite for the night, at 
 the pleasant-named town of St. Germain les belies Filles. 
 
 When the young Count de Logeres sat down to supper, with 
 none but one habitual attendant near him — while the rest of 
 his train dined at a table at the other end of the hall — his mind 
 drew up the short summary of what changes of feeling his heart 
 had undergone, which we are almost always inclined to make 
 unconsciously, when we come to the end of a day's journey. 
 
 It were vain to say that the scenes through which he had 
 passed, or the aspect of the day, or the occupation of his thoughts 
 by the boy that he had freed, had made his heart lighter; but 
 they had, perhaps, taught that heart to bear its load more firmly. 
 He still thought of Marie de Clairvaut with the intense passion 
 of first, true, ardent love. He felt but the more convinced, at 
 every step he took away from her, that that love would last 
 throughout his being. He felt that, without her, life was now 
 a blank, void of the grand pointing interest of existence — void 
 of all sustaining power, but a knowledge of rectitude, and a pur- 
 pose of endurance. It was hard, far more hard, for a young 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 79 
 
 heart like his, that had seldom, if ever, tasted sorrow before, or 
 known affliction., to undergo at once the extinction of that bright- 
 est of life's lights, the hope of mutual affection. We value not 
 our minor sorrows sufficiently : there are great ones to be en- 
 dured by every man on earth ; and did not the lesser ones pre- 
 pare us gently for the burden, we should be crushed under the 
 first mighty misfortune that befall us. But Charles of Monlsoreau 
 had known few, so few, that he felt, as it were, stunned and 
 benumbed by the weight of grief that now came upon him. He 
 had been deprived of the belief that he possessed the love of 
 Marie de Clairvaut ; he had abandoned the hope and task of 
 winning that love ; and, at the same time, the deep, warm con- 
 fidence which he had ever till that moment possessed in his bro- 
 ther's strong, unalterable affection, had been swept away too. 
 He could regard Gaspar de Montsoreau no longer as he had re- 
 garded him ; he could think of him no longer as he had thought; 
 he could not respect or esteem him as heretofore ; and all the 
 fraternal love that remained in his bosom towards his brother, 
 rendered him but the more sorrowful, that his brother was less 
 worthy than he thought. 
 
 He was sad and gloomy then, and that sadness was seen in 
 every look and action : he seemed scarcely to know what were 
 the meats placed before him, and only mechanically to taste of 
 that which was next to him. After he had eaten as much as was 
 necessary to satisfy mere nature, he leaned his head upon his 
 hand, and fell into deep thought, which was only interrupted by 
 the low sweet voice of the boy, who had come quietly up to his 
 side, saying, " May I not sing to you, Sir Count?! have seen a 
 song prove better sauce to a poor meal than a duke's kitchen 
 could produce." 
 
 "It would not be so with me, Ignati," replied the Count. 
 " You shall not sing to me to-night, my good boy; but go lo 
 bed, and rest your young limbs." 
 
 Though he refused him, yet the voluntary offer the boy bad 
 made came sweetly; for, on the first sweep of disappointment's 
 heavy wing, a sort of misanthropy is cast upon us which we own 
 not even to our own hearts. We doubt, without our will, that 
 there is such a thing as affection, or gratitude, or kindly feeling, 
 or generous sensibility left upon earth ; and it is sweet, and 
 happy, and consoling when any thing happens, however light 
 or small, to show us feelingly that our dark judgment of the 
 world was wrong. He still refused the boy's music, however, 
 though kindly; for he was busy with his own thoughts, and 
 wished to pursue them undisturbed. 
 
 On the following morning he continued his journey; nor is it 
 worth while to follow him day by day, while, taking his way by 
 
80 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Bourges and Chalons, he approached the north-eastern frontier 
 of France. The journey was long and tedious, but it was accom- 
 plished without any accident or interruption ; and, indeed, till 
 he approached near the frontiers of Lorraine, the traces of the 
 war which desolated France were comparatively small. Com- 
 merce, indeed, there was little or none throughout the land ; but 
 agriculture was pursued with less difficulty 5 and in those dis- 
 tricts where the strife was not actually going on, the first return 
 of spring saw the husbandman again in the field. 
 
 The neighbourhood of Troyes and Chalons, however, began 
 to show evident marks of the ravages of war : the fields were un- 
 cultivated 5 the towns guarded with rigorous strictness ; no tall 
 ricks of corn were seen near the farm-house ; the cattle lowed 
 not in the plains ; the shepherd turned anxiously round at every 
 sound of a horse's steps ; and, in many places, the vineyards 
 themselves showed the marks of fire, and the vines were seen 
 cut down and piled up for fuel. Wherever the traveller stopped 
 and inquired what was the cause of the destruction he beheld, 
 he was told that a body of reiters had pillaged here, or a horde 
 of Germans wasted there ; and, although there were some who 
 ventured, in the angry indignation of their heart, to curse both 
 the house of Guise and the house of La Mark, and to express 
 their horror of all parties alike, yet it was evident that the 
 chivalrous spirit of the Guises, their gracious demeanour, and 
 their heroic actions against a foreign enemy, had in general 
 won the love of the people, so that they were greatly pre- 
 ferred to the Protestant Princes of Sedan, who had led an army 
 of thirty thousand strangers to the invasion of their native 
 country. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau learned all these tales as he passed ; 
 and at each inn where he stopped he received some warning 
 not to advance rashly in this direction, or in that, lest he should 
 meet with some of the scattered bands who had turned their 
 swords into reaping hooks in a very different sense from the 
 pacific one, and were gathering in a harvest which they had not 
 sown, from the fears and necessities of the country. 
 
 Thus it happened in setting out from Chalons, the good au- 
 bergiste who had taken care to extract from the purse of the 
 young nobleman as much as could be obtained with any ap- 
 pearance of honesty, counselled him strongly, instead of pur- 
 suing the high road towards Rheims, to follow the way along 
 the river towards Mareuil, and thence across the country. 
 " For," said he, " there is a band of at least fifty reiters have 
 been watching the Rheims' gate for the last ten days, and have 
 taken toll of every one that passed, be he citizen or gentleman. 
 Your train, too, is so scanty, young sir, that one sees evidently 
 
iif.nry of guise. 81 
 
 you come from a quieter place. Why, no one here ever thinks 
 of riding without forty men at least 5 and the good Duke of Guise 
 dare not go himself from one chateau to another without a hun- 
 dred salads at his back." 
 
 As Charles of Montsoreau was not by any means well satis- 
 fied with the peculiar species of honesty of his host, he made no 
 reply to his counsels, but followed his former purpose, and 
 took the high road. Ere he had pursued it two miles, however, 
 the merry huntsman Gondrin rode up, with the boy Ignati by 
 his side, and some eagerness on his countenance. 
 
 "My Lord," he said, "the boy declares that he saw the 
 gleaming of spear-heads upon the side of the hill a mile on." 
 
 " Indeed, Ignati !" said the Count — " your eyes must be sharp. 
 Point out to me these spears ; for I have seen nothing of them, 
 though I have been watching anxiously." 
 
 " I can't show them to you now, Sir," replied the boy, " for 
 they have gone slowly behind the wood ; but I saw them, be- 
 lieve me, and I am not mistaken." 
 
 Even while he was speaking a peasant was seen coming along 
 the road upon an ass which he was beating forward to as fast a 
 pace as the brute's natural indocility would admit. The mo- 
 ment, however, that he saw the Count's troop drawn up in the 
 midst of the road, he suddenly paused in his course, with a look 
 of some alarm, which did not seem at all to subside upon the 
 young nobleman riding up to him with Gondrin and the boy, 
 and insisting upon his stopping •, for he was now endeavouring 
 to drive his beast into one of the by-paths through the country. 
 
 He was soon re-assured, however; and no sooner did he find 
 that the party he had met with was not calculated to be an ob- 
 ject of terror, than he endeavoured to inspire the persons of 
 whom it was composed with the same fears which had taken 
 possession of himself, informing the young Count that he had 
 just himself passed the reiters, who, though they had left him 
 the vegetables that he was carrying in his panniers to the market 
 at Chalons, had taken from" him all his poultry and eggs. He 
 magnified their number and their ferocity very greatly 5 and as 
 it was evident that they would not prove the most agreeable of 
 companions on the road he was about to travel, Charles of 
 Montsoreau obtained more correct information of the peasant 
 as to the way to Mareuil, and struck back again from the high 
 road towards the course of the Marne. 
 
 The circuit that he had made, however, and the time that 
 had been lost by one interruption or another, rendered it late 
 before he reached the village of Conde, and it was dark before 
 he approached Mareuil. The place was unfortified, and, as far 
 as he could judge in passing through the little narrow street by 
 
 
 
82 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 which he first entered it, had an air of greater tranquillity and 
 comfort than he had lately seen. 
 
 No house of public entertainment was apparent till he reached 
 an open part of the street, near the centre of the little town, 
 where a large stone building stood back from the rest, and 
 displayed a wide front, with windows few and far between, and 
 a single large archway for a door. Over this swung the sign of 
 the inn, under a highly ornamented and gilded grating of iron- 
 work ; and as soon as the feet of horses were heard in the dusty 
 open space before the building, mine host and two of his pale- 
 freniers rushed forth to receive the new guests. 
 
 The night was clear, and the moon was up •, and what between 
 the assistance of the fair planet and the host's lantern, a very 
 sufficient knowledge could be obtained in a moment of the per- 
 sons of the strangers. That knowledge seemed in some degree 
 to surprise and puzzle the landlord ; and had Charles of Mont- 
 soreau remarked very acutely, he would have perceived that 
 some one else had been expected in his place. 
 
 He noted not the demeanour of the landlord at all, however 5 
 but, springing from his horse, entered the archway, and passed 
 through a door which stood ajar to the right, showing through 
 the crevice a well lighted room within. It was one of the large 
 open halls of an old French inn, the rafters low and black with 
 smoke, the chimney wide and stretching out far into the room, 
 the andirons, on which were piled up immense masses of wood, 
 containing each more than one hundred weight of iron, and the 
 table in the midst fit to support viands for forty or fifty people. 
 The light which the young nobleman had seen proceeded both 
 from the fire which was blazing and crackling cheerfully, and 
 from two large sconces of polished brass hung in different parts 
 of the room. 
 
 The hall possessed at the moment of the Count's entrance only 
 one tenant, of whom he could see little more, than that he was 
 dressed in grey of the most ordinary kind. His hat was on, and 
 differed a good deal from the cap and feather then common at the 
 court of France, being tall in the crown, broad in the brim, and 
 decorated by a single cock's feather raising itself from the but- 
 ton on the right side. Large untanned riding-boots were drawn 
 up above his knees, a light sword was by his side, as if he felt 
 himself in perfect security ; and he wore a falling collar of lace 
 over his doublet, instead of the ruff, which was ordinary at that 
 period. The buttons of the grey suit were of jet, and on the 
 middle finger of his right hand was a large seal ring, of ap- 
 parently coarse manufacture. I le was sitting at one of the farther 
 corners of the table, with an inkhorn before him and a pen in 
 his hand, busily writing on a sheet of coarse paper, which had 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 88 
 
 been supplied to him by the host-, so that looking at him as he 
 sat, one might very well have taken him lor some public notary 
 of a neighbouring town, in not the best practice in the world. 
 
 Such, indeed, would have been the interpretation which 
 Charles of Montsoreau would have put upon his appearance, 
 had it not been for the somewhat Spanish cut of his hat, and the 
 singular fashion of his collar, which puzzled him a good deal ; 
 for, notwithstanding the occupation of his mind with other 
 thoughts, and the very ordinary apparel of the stranger, there 
 was something in his form and aspect which attracted attention 
 and excited curiosity in the young nobleman, he neither knew 
 why nor how. 
 
 As soon as he heard a step entering the room, the stranger 
 turned partially round and half rose from his seat, but a mo- 
 mentary glance was sufficient to show him that the person who 
 appeared was unknown to him •, and, turning towards the table 
 again, he pursued his occupation. The young Count advanced 
 slowly to the lire, and drawing a settle near, stretched out his 
 feet to warm himself, turning his back to the stranger so as to 
 avoid any air of scanning his proceedings. Gondrin and the 
 other attendants came and went, asking him questions and di- 
 rections as he thus sat; and from time to time the writer turned 
 round his head and examined their movements and appearance, 
 but without uttering a word. The aubergiste himself at length 
 approached the fireplace, in order, it seemed, to consult with 
 the young gentleman regarding his supper. There was but little, 
 he said, in the house, and at that late hour it was impossible to 
 procure much more. However, he would do his best, he added, 
 and assured his new guest of at least giving him good wine. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau informed him that he was easily sa- 
 tisfied, and doubted not that every thing would be good and 
 abundant. But somewhat to his surprise— for such things were 
 not at all customary in that day -the aubergiste proceeded to 
 demand whether he would not prefer having a chamber apart 
 to sup in, rather than take his meal in the common hall. He was 
 in the act of replying in the negative, when the voice of the 
 stranger who was writing at the table made itself heard for the 
 first time, exclaiming, in an authoritative tone, " Pierre Jean." 
 
 The innkeeper instantly flew to his side, and the other ad- 
 dressed him in a low tone, to which the innkeeper replied almost 
 in a whisper. 
 
 " As you will, Maitre Henri, as you will," said the landlord in 
 conclusion. " But I think it very strange they have not come." 
 The other merely nodded his head in reply, and then folding 
 up the paper he had written, he put it in his pocket, and ap- 
 proached the fire with an air of being quite at home. He was a 
 
84 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 man of about six or seven and thirty years of age, and, as he 
 now stood before Charles of Montsoreau at his full height, ap- 
 peared to the eyes of the young nobleman one of the most 
 powerful men he had ever beheld. His chest was at once broad 
 and deep, his limbs muscular and long, the head small, the 
 flanks thin, and the foot and hand well formed. Every indica- 
 tion was there of great strength and great activity, and the coun- 
 tenance also harmonised perfectly well with the figure, the 
 broad high forehead giving that air of a powerful and active 
 mind which we are all, whether physiognomists or not, inclined 
 by nature to see in the expanse which covers and seems to re- 
 present the great instrument of the human intellect. He wore 
 the mustachio somewhat long, and the beard pointed, but 
 small. The eyes were large and fine, the eyebrows strongly 
 marked, the nose was beautifully formed, displaying the wide 
 expansive nostril, generally reckoned a sign of generous feelings ; 
 and though there was a cut upon his brow scarcely healed, and 
 a deep scar in his cheek of a more remote date, yet they did not 
 at all detract from the handsomeness of the countenance, which, 
 notwithstanding the plainness of his dress and appearance, was 
 peculiarly striking and attractive. 
 
 "This is a cold night, young gentleman," he said, as he ap- 
 proached the fire, " and you ride out somewhat late for a tra- 
 veller in these parts of the world." 
 
 "Oh, I fear not the cold," replied Charles of Montsoreau 5 
 "and though I certainly prefer not the night to (ravel in, yet, 
 when I must betake myself to it, I do so without much discom- 
 fort or hesitation." 
 
 " Ay •, but there are other things sweep over this country be- 
 sides the wind," said the stranger, " things more cutting and 
 more sharp, I can assure you." 
 
 "Oh, against those I go pretty well prepared also," replied 
 Charles of Montsoreau •, " every French gentleman is a soldier, 
 you know \ and we are not unwilling or unable to make use of 
 our arms when it may be needful." 
 
 "You have served, I suppose," said the stranger, "perhaps 
 atCoutras, with the Duke of Joyeuse, or with Harry of Navarre 
 and his Huguenots." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau looked up with a smile. " If we begin 
 talking of where we served, and on what causes, good Sir," he 
 said, " we shall ha,ve our worthy host, Pierre Jean, requiring us 
 to give up our swords into his safe keeping till we set out again, 
 as indeed he is bound by law to do." 
 
 " Oh, no fear, no fear," replied the stranger, laughing. " We 
 shall not quarrel and cut each other's throats, depend upon it. 
 You are here, a young lord, with, it seems to me, a dozen or two 
 
HE.NRY OF GUISE. 85 
 
 of attendants, and ! am alone, a poor Eseribano, by name Maitre 
 Henri, as you just heard." 
 
 " And yet," replied (diaries of Montsoreau, " the poor Eseri- 
 bano, I should judge, had seen some service in his day, and that 
 not very many years ago either." 
 
 " Oh, you judge from that cut upon my forehead. That is but 
 the scratch of a cat." 
 
 " Well, then," answered Charles, " if you will tell me sin- 
 cerely whether that cat's claw was a reiter's estramacon, or the 
 spear of a De la Mark, 1 will tell you whether I drew my sword 
 at Coutras, and on what part." 
 
 The stranger gazed at him for several moments, with an in- 
 quiring and yet half laughing glance. 
 
 " You are as keen," he said at length, " as a Gascon ; perhaps, 
 for aught I know, as ambitious as a Guise, as hardy and obsti- 
 nate as a La Mark, and as politic and secret as a Brisson. The 
 last, at least, I am sure of; and I can tell you, my good youth, 
 if I judge right, we are not likely to part so soon as we both ex- 
 pected when you entered this room." 
 
 " Perhaps not, Maitre Henri," replied Charles of Montsoreau; 
 " for, if I judge rightly, and you are, as you say, alone, I am not 
 likely to leave you till I see you safe on the other side of Rheims. 
 There lie a strong body of reiters on the Chalons road; and 
 there is one man in France for whom I have much love and 
 respect, but who is somewhat too famous for exposing himself 
 unnecessarily. I have but few men with me; but, well led, and 
 with a great purpose, those few may do much." 
 
 The expression which the stranger's countenance assumed, as 
 he listened to this speech, was strange and mingled. There was 
 a smile came upon it, as if half amused, half touched; and yet 
 there was a degree of doubt hung wavering upon his brow, 
 while, he first scrutinised the countenance of his companion 
 closely, and then, casting down his eyes, fell into a deep fit of 
 thought. After a short pause, however, he replied,— " You 
 fought at Coutras, Sir, neither for Henry of Navarre nor Anne 
 of Joyeuse, that is clear. Ami not right?" 
 
 " Quite, Maitre Henri," replied the young Count, with an air 
 of indifference and a smile ; " I fought neither for the heretics, 
 because, Heaven be praised, I am a good Catholic, nor for the 
 minions, because the hero of Jarnac and Moncoutour has passed 
 away into a lover of pet puppies and a pedant in cosmetics." 
 
 A sarcastic smile curled the lip of his companion while lie 
 spoke. "Two good, wise, and sufficient reasons," he said, 
 " such as a notary may approve of. But tell me, young gentle- 
 man, have we ever met before?" 
 
 " Aever," answered Charles of Montsoreau. " unless we met 
 
86 HENRY OF GUISK. 
 
 before we were horn. But, however, Maitre Henri, to put an end 
 to all doubts, that J see are in your mind, my name is Charles 
 of Montsoreau, Count of Logeres, whom you may have heard 
 of, perhaps, though he has yet to make a name in history, and 
 hopes to do so with his sword." 
 
 The stranger instantly extended his hand to him, exclaiming, 
 "Indeed, young friend, indeed! How came you here? What 
 brought you to this part of the world ? " 
 
 " I came for two purposes," replied Charles of Montsoreau. 
 " In the first place, it is long since I have seen Logeres ; my te- 
 nantry need my presence ; and it is time that I should take the 
 management of those estates out of the hands of underlings, and 
 defend, protect, and direct them myself." 
 
 While he spoke, several of his attendants returned to the 
 room, accompanied by the host, to make preparation for the vi- 
 siter's supper, and the stranger instantly resumed the position he 
 had at first been standing in, after he approached the fire, while 
 Charles of Montsoreau went on, taking a hint to be cautious 
 from his companion's eyes. " In the next place," he continued, 
 " my second purpose was to visit the good Duke of Guise, who, 
 1 understand, is at Soissons, or in that neighbourhood." 
 
 " He was at Nancy but a week or two ago," replied the other; 
 " hut, after all, you may very likely find him at Soissons, for he 
 is continually moving about the country ; and there was a report 
 not long ago, that he was to hold a private conference one of 
 these days with Monsieur de Bellievre, sent on the part of the 
 king. But there is little trust in this Henry, and Heaven knows 
 whether he will send or not. — Shall we sup together, Sir ? " 
 
 " With all my heart," replied the young Count, not a little to 
 the surprise of some of his attendants who were in the room, 
 and who did not at all comprehend how their lord, whom they 
 were themselves accustomed to treat with much reverence and 
 respect, came to sit down with a person of such plain apparel. 
 
 Their astonishment was not less when they beheld the young 
 nobleman, after supper had been placed upon the table, wait till 
 the other was seated, before he took his own place. The only 
 one who seemed to understand the whole was the boy Ignati, 
 who said, in an under voice, to Gondrin, " He has forgotten him- 
 self, master huntsman ! Or is Maitre Henri gone for to-night?" 
 "And who is Maitre Henri?" demanded Gondrin, in the 
 same tone. 
 
 " I could tell, if I would," answered the boy, "but our lord 
 knows him, if you do not." 
 
 Before he had well ended, a servant, dressed like his master, 
 in grey, entered the room in haste, and placed a written paper 
 in the hands of Maitre Henri, who read it with attention, and 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 87 
 
 then bonding over the table towards Charles of Montsoreau, de- 
 manded, in a low tone, " How many men have you with you, 
 my young friend?" 
 
 ' w Only seven," replied Charles of Montsoreau, " besides my- 
 self and the page. Hut they are all well-armed, resolute, and de- 
 termined, and I, the eighth, trust not to be behind any of them." 
 
 " Eleven !" said his companion, musing. "We should but 
 muster eleven if we were to set off this moment; for though we 
 counted six amongst us when J arrived, I have sent off three to 
 a distance, and they cannot be back ere the morning. No, we 
 had better wait till daylight. I must give them till twelve o'clock, 
 too, to see if they will keep their word with me : though, by 
 these tidings, it seems to be broken already.— Hark ye," he con- 
 tinued, speaking to the servant who had brought him the paper, 
 and who still stood beside his chair— " hark ye; bend down 
 your ear." 
 
 The man did as he was bidden ; and, after whispering to him 
 for several minutes, the stranger added, in a louder tone, "If 
 you go by Les petites Loges, you will pass them. Tell him that 
 fifty will do. I want no more, and we must not leave any point 
 weak." 
 
 After he had thus spoken, he tore off a bit of the paper he had 
 received, wrote a few words down upon it in a careless way, 
 and tossed it over to Charles of Montsoreau. Those words 
 were, "Schelandre, who you know is as brave as a lion and as 
 cunning as a fox, is looking out for me , with two squadrons, on 
 the road by Hautvilliers. He has got news of my coming by 
 some means — very likely from Henry himself." 
 
 Charles turned an inquiring look upon his companion's face, 
 as if to ask, what is to be done? But the other glanced his eye 
 over his shoulder towards the attendants, and proceeded with 
 his supper, commenting upon the landlord's good cheer, prais- 
 ing his wine, and laughing and talking gaily, as if there were no 
 such thing as peril upon the earth. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was in the grey of the morning on the following day that 
 a party of horsemen, now amounting in all to the number of 
 fifteen or sixteen, was seen winding through the little wood, 
 which at that time occupied the ground in the neighbourhood of 
 Cliaumizy, a spot which in the present day sends forth many an 
 excellent bottle of sparkling wine, to warm the hearts of many 
 a distant potator. 
 
88 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 To any eye which watched the progress of that party from a 
 height — and there was an eye which did so — the movements 
 of the band might seem complicated and curious, — now turn- 
 ing to the east, now winding to the west — now marching on 
 straight forward to the north. One thing, however, was evident, 
 that those horsemen affected by-paths and shady roads, never 
 crossing a hill where they could take their way through the 
 valley, never choosing the open ground where they could go 
 through the wood. Sometimes the eye which, as we have said, 
 watched them from the most elevated ground in the neighbour- 
 hood, lost them for several minutes amongst the trees and 
 vineyards, sometimes saw them emerge when it least expected 
 them, sometimes was baffled altogether in regard to a concep- 
 tion of their onward course, by the strange turns and windings 
 which they took. 
 
 Nevertheless the band still continued to advance in its own 
 way, winding amidst the brown leafless woods, with Charles of 
 Montsoreau completely armed at its head; Gondrin, little less 
 formidably equipped by his side on the right hand, and the boy 
 Ignati, now dressed completely as a page, with pistols at his 
 saddlebow, and a strong dagger on his thigh, upon the left hand 
 of the young nobleman. Then came mixed together, the at- 
 tendants of the Count — all as we have descrihed them before, 
 strongly armed; — two or three strangers of military appear- 
 ance, clothed in general in grey suits with a double black cross 
 observable on some parts of their garments ; and two or three 
 hardy spirits from the little village of Mareuil, who had been hired 
 to swell the numbers of the Count's train, as they passed across 
 the dangerous part of the country hetwen Chalons and Rheims. 
 
 Amongst the rest of the persons thus mixed together, might 
 be observed Maitre Henri, dressed precisely as he had been the 
 night before, though most of the other personages in grey had 
 contrived to purchase in the village of Mareuil several pieces of 
 defensive and offensive armour, such as steel caps, called salads, 
 breast plates, and the large heavy swords then in use against 
 cavalry, which, like the attendants of Charles of Montsoreau, 
 they bore naked in their hands. 
 
 Very few w r ords w*ere uttered as the band rode along : some- 
 times an order was given in a low voice by the young Count, 
 sometimes, while the rest continued to advance, he rode back, 
 to speak to some one in the rear, sometimes he addressed a few 
 words to Gondrin or the page; but in general all passed in 
 silence. 
 
 " Are you sure you know your way?" he demanded at length 
 of the boy Ignati, on their suddenly taking a path which ap- 
 peared more than usually out of the direct course. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 80 
 
 " As well as I know the lines on my own hand, Sir," replied 
 the hoy in the Italian language, which he had discovered that 
 his master understood. "I would rather lose my eyes than lead 
 you or him a step wrong." 
 
 " Who do you mean hy him?" demanded Charles of Montso- 
 reau in the same tongue. 
 
 " I mean him with the scar," replied the hoy. 
 
 " Why, what is he to thee?" asked his master. 
 
 "Why, he is the only one in all the land," replied the boy, 
 "that ever was kind to me hefore yourself-, and I remember 
 seven months ago, when they made me dance and sing at a great 
 banquet in the town of Nancy, he patted my head, and called 
 me a good youth, and while all the rest showered money into 
 the box my master carried round, he gave me. a broad piece, and 
 told me it was for myself. They look it from me afterwards : but 
 he did not know that. " 
 
 "Then recollect him, and you know him?" demanded his 
 master. 
 
 " Grey cloth and brown baize will not hide him from me," re- 
 plied the boy, with an intelligent smile, " though when I saw 
 him, it was crimson velvet and gold. The heart has its eyes, dear 
 lord, as well as the head, and the heart's eyes never forget." 
 
 "Well then, Ignati," replied the Count, "in case of any 
 attack — which we cannot be sure will not take place — you at- 
 tach yourself to his side, quit him not for a moment, serve him 
 in every thing ; but in the very first place guide him on towards 
 llheims, hy the safest paths that you know." 
 
 " But must I leave you?" demanded the boy — " must I leave 
 you in the hands of the enemy ? " 
 
 " Nevermind me," replied his master — " I will defend myself, 
 good Ignati. Besides, they can scarcely be called my enemies, 
 as 1 have taken no service against them." 
 
 Just as he spoke, the band issued forth from the little by-path 
 which they had been pursuing, into one of the main roads 
 through the wood, and saw hefore them, at the distance of about 
 a hundred yards, an old grey stone cross, raised upon several 
 steps, in the very centre of the road, marking the spot where 
 two ways crossed. When first they came within sight of that 
 memento of past years, the ground around it was completely 
 solitary : but before they reached it, five or six heavy armed 
 horsemen came at a quick pace up the road leading to the left, 
 and planted themselves round the cross. The moment they 
 reached it, one of their party look off his steel cap. and waved 
 it in the air, looking at the same time down the road hy which 
 he had come, as if giving a signal to some persons who followed 
 him. 
 
90 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 To the eyes of Charles of Montsoreau and his companions 
 these indications wanted no explanation, nor was any consul- 
 tation necessary ; for it was evident that there was but one thing 
 to be done, namely, to endeavour to force a passage through 
 this little advanced party of the reiters before the main body 
 could come up. 
 
 "Quick to the side of Maitre Henri," exclaimed Charles of 
 Montsoreau, speaking to the page. " You, Gondrin, too, attach 
 yourself to him. Leave nothing undone to secure his escape 5 
 and now forward, my men ! Upon them!" 
 
 He turned one anxious glance round in the direction of his 
 newly acquired companion 5 but saw — with some surprise, per- 
 haps — nothing but a calm, unperturbed smile on his counte- 
 nance. Mailre Henri was quietly drawing his sword from its 
 sheath, and in answer to the anxious look of Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, only gave a familiar nod, saying, " Go on !" 
 
 The young Count's orders had been already given, and his 
 horse was instantly put into the gallop. The reiters on their part 
 seemed to require neither parley nor explanation any more than 
 the young Count; and instantly separating into two parties, they 
 occupied the road on either side of the cross : he, who was evi- 
 dently the commander, again waving his steel cap in the same 
 direction as before. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau saw that all depended upon speed, and 
 the prompt execution of his commands; and, turning to the man 
 who followed immediately behind him, he exclaimed, without 
 at all checking his pace as he did so, "Pass round to the right 
 of the cross with two others; but where the passage is forced, 
 attach yourself to drive back the men on the left of the cross, up 
 the road to the left ; while I with the rest bar that road against 
 those that are coming up." 
 
 The man seemed to understand at a word ; and in a moment 
 more they were at the spot where the two roads crossed. As he 
 came up, Charles of Montsoreau turned his head for an instant, 
 and, to his great satisfaction, saw that a large body of horse, 
 which was coming down at full speed, was still at a conside- 
 rable distance. 
 
 That turning of his head, however, had nearly cost him his 
 life-, for the three men immediately behind him, having been 
 detached to the other side, one of the reiters, emboldened by this 
 circumstance, spurred suddenly forward, and aimed a long heavy 
 stroke at the head of the young nobleman, which struck him 
 upon the neck, and had it not been for the goodness of his arms, 
 must inevitably have killed him on the spot. As it was, the blow 
 made the Count bend almost to his saddle-bow : but it was only 
 to raise himself again immediately, and to return the blow with 
 
HENRY OP GUISE. 91 
 
 a force and vigour which cast the reiter headlong from his horse. 
 
 At the same time the three men whom he had detached, passed 
 round to the right of the cross. The reiters, who were opposed 
 to them on that side, prepared to stop their progress ; but as they 
 were about to do so, they perceived Gondrin, the page, and 
 Maitre Henri, with one of his attendants, advancing at full speed 
 a little further lo the right. This was enough to make them de- 
 sist their opposition to the others, and turn to close the path on 
 that side, while the three followers of Charles of Montsoreau, 
 taking advantage of the space thus left, wheeled upon the men 
 on the left side of the cross, and drove them back, trampling 
 upon their fallen companion. 
 
 The young nobleman, as soon as he saw the success of this 
 manoeuvre, drew in his rein for a moment, in order to suffer it 
 to be fully executed, and the reiters to be driven back into the 
 road up which they had come. On the other hand, they, find- 
 iug themselves decidedly overmatched, suffered this to be ac- 
 complished with ease, and made the best of their way back to- 
 wards the larger body of their comrades, who were now coming 
 down at full speed to their support. 
 
 The moment that Charles of Montsoreau saw this accom- 
 plished, he turned his head once more to Maitre Henri, ex- 
 claiming. k ' On, on, with all speed ! I will insure you at least ten 
 minutes : " and then, without waiting for any answer, hebrought 
 the greater part of his men into the road down which the chief 
 body of the reiters was advancing, and prepared, as best he 
 might, to stand the coming shock, which was certain to be tre- 
 mendous. 
 
 In the mean while, Maitre Henri, with Gondrin on one side, 
 and the boy on the other, had advanced at full speed towards 
 the three reiters on the right of the cross. One of the stranger's 
 own attendants followed only a step behind ; but as they came 
 up, a fierce-looking, powerful man, from amongst their op- 
 ponents, aimed his petronel right at the head of Maitre Henri, 
 exciaiming, " I know thee ! I know thee ! " and was in the very 
 act of firing, when the page, making his horse spring forward, 
 endeavoured to grasp the muzzle of the piece. 
 
 He did not succeed entirely, but was enabled to turn the 
 weapon in some degree, so that the ball passed through the tall 
 Spanish hat of Maitre Henri-, and being fired from the higher 
 ground on which the cross stood, entered the head of the at- 
 tendant who was coming up behind, and killed him on the spot. 
 The contest at that point was thus rendered a very unequal one, 
 there being but two men, and one of those nearly unarmed, 
 with a boy of fourteen or fifteen, opposed to three strong and 
 well-armed men. 
 
92 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 As all knew, however, that the party headed by Charles of 
 Montsoreau could maintain the road hut a very short time 
 against the force coming down upon him, the gain or loss of a 
 minute was every thing to those who were struggling on the 
 right of the cross. The long heavy sword usually borne by the 
 reiter was hut feebly opposed by the light weapon of Maitre 
 Henri-, but that light weapon was used with a degree of skill, 
 coolness, and presence of mind which made up for the dispa- 
 rity, and, with the page still close to his side, he was driving 
 back his immediate opponent, warding off every sweep of his 
 heavy blade, pressing him so hard whenever he paused for a 
 moment, as to prevent him from snatching one of the pistols 
 from his saddle-bow, and gradually urging his own charger 
 onward, till he had very nearly cleared the road before him, 
 when one of the other two reiters — who had hitherto attached 
 themselves to Gondrin, as the only completely equipped man- 
 at-arms of the opposite party — turned suddenly upon Maitre 
 Henri, and assailed him on the right, while the other rapidly 
 recovered his ground upon the left. 
 
 jNever, however, did skill, strength, and presence of mind, do 
 so much for one individual as they did for the man in grey. 
 For a moment or two he applied himself solely to the defensive, 
 wheeling his horse from the one to the other, as they attacked 
 him with the most extraordinary rapidity and skill, — now parry- 
 ing one blow, now parrying another, and still watching for an 
 opportunity of resuming the offensive. At length the reiter who 
 was assailing him on his right hand, seeing that their other 
 companion had by this time been well nigh mastered by Gon- 
 drin, determined to end all by killing the horse of the man op- 
 posed to him, and with the bridle in his teeth, and his sword in 
 both hands, aimed a tremendous blow at the poor animal's head : 
 but Maitre Henri instantly divining his intention, turned the 
 spur sharply into the horse's side, and reined him to the left at 
 the same time. 
 
 The noble animal, practised for years to comprehend the 
 slightest indication of its rider's will, instantly took a demivolte, 
 as it was called, to the left with a sharp spring. The reiter's 
 sword descended with tremendous force } but the object at 
 which he had aimed was just beyond his reach, and the weight 
 of the sword, with the impetus he had given the blow, nearly 
 threw him from the saddle, making him bend down to his saddle- 
 bow. The opportunity was all that his opponent desired ; his 
 horse was turned like lightning, and before the man could raise 
 himself, he received a severe wound in the back of the neck, 
 which made heaven and earth, and the whole scene around, 
 swim dizzily before his eyes. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 93 
 
 The other rciter on the left, however, was upon the success- 
 ful swordsman in a moment. By this time his pistol was in his 
 hand, and a very slight movement brought the muzzle within a 
 foot of IMaitre Henri's bosom. 
 
 That advantage retained for one single second more might 
 have changed the destiny of many thousands of human beings; 
 but at the very moment that he was sure of his aim, and about 
 to draw the trigger, a strong, well-aimed, unhesitating blow 
 from the hand of the page, drove the dagger, with which he was 
 armed, under the very arm which held the pistol, between it and 
 his corselet. ' So strong, so determined was that blow, that the 
 weapon entered to the very haft, and there remained, fixed be- 
 tween the corselet and the brassard, so that the boy could not 
 withdraw it. 
 
 But that mattered not, the weapon had cut through many a 
 vital part in its passage •, the sick faintness of death came upon 
 the man's heart and brain •, the pistol and the reins dropped 
 from his hands ; and, after a reeling attempt to keep the saddle, 
 he fell headlong to the ground. 
 
 One glance of the eye had shown Maitre Henri all that look 
 place 5 and without uttering a word, he continued the fight with 
 his other antagonist, taking advantage of The wound he had 
 given him, and pressing him so hard, that at length the horse, 
 reined back upon the slippery ground of the forest road, reared, 
 and fell over with his rider, crushing him under its weight. 
 
 By this time, though the space that had elapsed was very 
 short, Gondrin had so far got the better of his antagonist, that 
 the man's steel cap had fallen off under the repeated blows of 
 the huntsman, and a deep bleeding wound in the forehead 
 showed that the protection of the casque was not a little want- 
 ing. The sight of one of his companions dead upon the ground, 
 and of the horse falling over with the other, did not give him 
 any very great encouragement to pursue the strife •, and he was 
 making the best of his way, closely pursued by Gondrin, 
 towards the branch of the road which led up to the right, when 
 the voice of Maitre Henri attracted the huntsman's ear exclaim- 
 ing, "Leave him, leave him! Let us make our way onward, 
 with all speed, now that the road is clear." 
 
 Gondrin certainly asked himself, " Is it fair and right to leave 
 my noble master thus?" But the orders of that master had been 
 distinct, and he obeyed at all risks, following Maitre Henri, who 
 galloped on with a degree of speed which, to the eyes of the 
 huntsman, seemed somewhat unseemly. At the distance of 
 about a mile and a half, however, the road took a turn to the left; 
 and, in a moment, a large body of horse was before the eyes of 
 the fugitives, advancing at a somewhat quick pace towards the 
 
94 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 scene where the lale contest had taken place. On the left breast 
 of each corselet appeared a double cross; and, without drawing 
 his rein for a moment, Maitre Henri galloped up towards them, 
 while a loud shout of " The Duke! the Duke! " burst from the 
 ranks of the soldiery. 
 
 Few, however, were the words which the man in grey spoke. 
 He wheeled his horse at their head, bade Gondrin and the page 
 get into the rear; adding, " You have had fighting enough for 
 to-day, my friends," — and in a moment the whole body was 
 put to full speed, and advancing towards the cross, in the heart 
 of the wood. 
 
 They came but up in time, however ; for Charles of Montso- 
 reau, though contending pertinaciously for every inch of ground, 
 from a knowledge of how needful was each moment to his com- 
 panion, had been driven back by superior numbers into the 
 other road, and, though still keeping his face to the enemy, and 
 closing the path against them, was losing ground rapidly. 
 
 In the first shock with the reiters, he had turned his head to 
 ascertain that there was no space left for the passage of the 
 enemy, and had beheld, to his surprise, that two or three of 
 Maitre Henri's servants had remained with him, instead of follow- 
 ing their master. In answer to an exclamation expressive of his 
 surprise, however, one of the men merely replied, " It was his 
 order ;" and the fierceness of the struggle that ensued left no 
 room for farther inquiry. 
 
 The number of reiters amounted to at least fifty men ; and 
 had the space been open, the young cavalier must have been 
 overpowered in a moment. But the arrival, nay, the very sight, 
 of the strong body that now came down to his assistance, 
 changed in a moment the aspect of the whole scene. 
 
 At a single word from the lips of Maitre Henri, the lances of 
 the three first lines of his horsemen were levelled in an instant ; 
 the reiters halted in mid-career ; and Charles of Montsoreau, at 
 once comprehending what had occurred, opened the way, as far 
 as possible, by drawing his wounded and weary followers out 
 of the road, and plunging their horses, where they could, in 
 amongst the trees. The reiters wavered for a moment, as if 
 hesitating whether to retreat at once, or endeavour to make a 
 stand ; but so sudden and unexpected was the appearance of 
 the adverse horse, that nothing had been prepared for retreat; 
 and the commander found himself forced to maintain his ground 
 lor a time, till the ranks that followed could be wheeled and 
 withdrawn . 
 
 In the mean time, with loud cries of " Lorraine! Lorraine ' ! 
 
 1 The Duke of Guise was at this lime employing several bodies of troops levied in Lor- 
 raine, against the Princes ofSejJan. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 95 
 
 A Guise! a Guise!" the adverse cavalry came down; but the 
 German horse could not stand for a moment before the long 
 lances of the men-at-arms, and in a few minutes all was confu- 
 sion, flight, and pursuit. 
 
 As soon as the cavalry of Lorraine had passed by, Charles of 
 Montsoreau drew his men out again from the wood, and, per- 
 fectly secure from any further annoyance, began to count his 
 loss, and to examine into the state of the wounded men who 
 had continued to light on by his side. He himself was bleeding 
 from a sharp wound in the head, received from so strong a blow 
 of one of the reiter's heavy swords, that not even his steel cap 
 had been able to protect him. He had another wound, also, 
 from a pistol ball in the left arm 5 but it was very slight, and had 
 not prevented him from managing his horse with ease. Almost 
 every man about him was more or less wounded, and some se- 
 verely, but only two had been left on the ground from which 
 he had been driven ; and he hastened on after the two par- 
 ties still engaged in conflict, to see for those who were thus 
 missing. 
 
 Luckily, the reiters, in their retreat, had followed the straight 
 road behind them, instead of taking that by which they came; 
 otherwise the whole force of charging cavalry must have passed 
 over the young Count's two followers. One of them was still 
 living, and afterwards recovered, though he was at the time so 
 severely wounded in the leg that he could not move from the 
 spot where he lay. The other was quite dead, a pistol ball having 
 passed through his head. 
 
 The road through the wood was now, for a minute or two, 
 turned into an hospital ; and all that was possible was done to 
 stanch the bleeding of the wounds which had been received, and 
 to put the men in a slate to pursue their onward journey towards 
 Rheims. Nor were the wounded reiters themselves neglected •, 
 for Charles of Montsoreau was not one to forget, as soon as the 
 eagerness of the actual strife was over, that his adversaries were 
 his fellow-men. 
 
 This had been scarcely completed, and the young Count once 
 more on horseback again, when the sound of distant trumpets 
 ringing merrily through the wood gave notice that the horse- 
 men of Lorraine were on their return ; and in a few minutes 
 after a group of some six or seven cavaliers, with Maitre Henri 
 at their head, appeared coming up the road, followed at the dis- 
 tance of a couple of hundred yards by the body of cavalry he 
 had met with so opportunely. All was laughter and merriment 
 amongst the little group of officers; and, though Maitre Henri 
 himself was not loud in his mirth, he came on smiling at the 
 jests and gibes of the others, and sometimes answering them in 
 
96 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 the same strain, though with a manner somewhat chastened and 
 stately. 
 
 At the distance of about twenty or five and twenty yards from 
 the young Count, he held up his hand to the troops that followed, 
 pronouncing the word " Halt!" Then riding up with his group 
 of officers, he grasped Charles of Montsoreau warmly by the 
 hand; and, turning to those who followed, said, " Noble Lords, 
 to this gallant gentleman, to his courage, skill, determination, 
 and good faith, I owe life or liberty. You are witnesses that, 
 in the fullest manner, I acknowledge the debt, and that in no 
 manner will I fail to pay it, when he chooses to call upon me." 
 
 " Your highness is too generous in your consideration of the 
 service," replied Charles of Montsoreau. " I came from a dis- 
 tant part of France to seek you, in order to offer you my poor 
 services — perhaps somewhat tardily — in your efforts to chase 
 from the soil of our native country bands of foreign adventurers 
 who have no business to meddle with our intestine quarrels. I 
 found you likely to be surprised by accident by one of those 
 bands ; and what could I do less than assist you to the utmost 
 of my power?" 
 
 " Our views of the extent of the service," replied the Duke 
 of Guise, with the bright smile of his house playing on his lip, 
 "must be somewhat different, I fear, my young friend. But 
 now we have met, we will not part speedily. You must be my 
 guest, and go on with me, first to Rheims, and then to Soissons, 
 with all speed. There we will talk of our future alliance ; for the 
 Count de Logeres and the Duke of Guise shall treat together as 
 crown to crown, and nobody call it treason. I have," he con- 
 tinued in a lower voice, but with a marked and meaning smile 
 — " I have to ask you many questions in regard to a fair child 
 of our house, who has, according to her letters and to yours, 
 received the same protection and defence at your hands which 
 you have this day afforded her uncle. Perhaps it may be on her 
 account that you come to seek me. Is it so, good friend?" 
 
 The words of the Duke — those words which, under other 
 circumstances, might have been the brightest and the dearest to 
 the heart of Charles of Montsoreau— now entered into his spirit 
 like a sword. The beaming smile of his race upon the lip of the 
 princely Guise called up before the eye of fancy in a moment the 
 form of the beautiful and beloved being on whose countenance 
 he had first seen it. All his tenderness — all his affection for her 
 — all the deep, unchangeable attachment of his heart — were felt 
 at that moment more deeply, more powerfully, than ever $ but, 
 at the same time, strong upon his mind, came the bitter resolu- 
 tion he had taken to yield his hopes of happiness, to cast away 
 his chance, his most probable chance, of the brightest joy that 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 97 
 
 fancy could dream of, an I to yield to the brother who had ill- 
 treated him all those; advantages which he himself of right pos 
 sessed. 
 
 The blood fled from his cheek to his heart, as if to strengthen 
 it against the pains and against the temptations of that moment ; 
 and the Duke of Guise, seeing him turn very pale, judged, per- 
 haps, wrongly of his feelings, and again grasped him by the 
 hand, saying, "Fear not, fear not, good friend. Come, let us 
 on upon our way. I may meet with tidings at Rheims to hasten 
 my progress onwards." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 During the two days that followed the events recorded in the 
 last few pages, Charles of Montsoreau had scarcely any oppor- 
 tunity of speaking with the Duke of Guise, without that multi- 
 tude of listeners around, which renders all conversation general 
 and frequently insignificant. It is true he dwelt in the same 
 splendid hotel which served the Duke for his residence in the 
 city of Rheims ; that he dined with him at the same table ; that 
 he was present on every occasion when he received the nobles 
 who flocked around him. But the continual press of business of 
 various kinds, the constant coming and going of couriers from 
 and to Paris and Nancy •, the writing of letters that seemed in- 
 numerable, and the almost hourly consultations with different 
 members of the clergy and officers of the army, seemed to oc- 
 cupy the whole private time of the Duke of Guise, and to leave 
 him no space for either thought or repose. 
 
 At length on the third morning, when the young nobleman 
 had breakfasted with the Duke in company with the Duke of 
 Nemours, the Baron d'Aussonville, the bailiff of St. Michael, 
 and a number of other gentlemen, with two or three ladies of 
 the good town of Rheims — who seemed not a little anxious to 
 attract the attention of the Duke— Guise, on rising to proceed to 
 other business, drew his young friend aside for a moment, and 
 asked him some questions concerning the wounded men. The 
 Count replied that they all bade fair to recover; and after a few- 
 words more, spoken in the same tone, and evidently intended 
 for the ears of those around, though apparently addressed to 
 him in private, the Duke dropped his voice nearly to a whis- 
 per, saying, " I have much to talk with you about. Sup with 
 me alone to-night at nine o'clock, when I trust we shall have 
 time to make all our arrangements." 
 
 7 
 
98 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau did not miss the hour ; but descending 
 from the apartments which had been assigned to him, and 
 which were immediately over those of the Duke, he proceeded 
 to the hall where he had usually found him, but in which he 
 now met with no one but a solitary lute-player, a great favourite 
 with the Duke of Guise. The musician was now seated with 
 his instrument in his hand, with one of his feet raised upon the 
 huge andirons of the fireplace, and his hands employed in strik- 
 ing from time to time a few .low and listless sounds from the 
 instrument that lay upon his knee. The man had thus been ap- 
 parently left solitary for some lime ; for no sooner did Charles 
 of Montsoreau appear, than, seizing him by one of the buttons 
 of his doublet, he began to tell him a long story, of not the 
 most interesting kind, from which the young Count would wil- 
 lingly have delivered himself. 
 
 Perhaps the greatest art of human benevolence that can be 
 conceived, is that of listening with a tolerable appearance of 
 satisfaction to a tiresome tale; and Charles of Montsoreau, 
 whose heart was really kind and gentle, and who had not yet 
 learned in the great wise school of the world the lesson of 
 treading upon the feelings of others, did his best to seem inte- 
 rested, till one of the Duke's servants entered the room, and, 
 after a glance around, retired without any further announce- 
 ment. A moment or two after, while the young nobleman was 
 still in the sort of durance in which the lute-player held him, 
 the servant again made his appearance, and, walking straight 
 up to him, informed him that the Duke wished to speak with 
 him in his cabinet. 
 
 " Show me the way," said the young nobleman, detaching 
 his button from the grasp of the musician—" show me the way, 
 and I will come directly." 
 
 "Oh, I will go with you, and show you the way," exclaimed 
 the lute-player : " I 've no idea of staying here all by myself, as 
 melancholy as a rat in a rat-trap." 
 
 "His Highness particularly said," observed the servant in a 
 dry tone, " that he wished to converse with Monsieur de Logeres 
 alone." 
 
 The lute-player looked confounded and mortified ; but Charles 
 of Montsoreau, not a little pleased to be rid of his company, fol- 
 lowed the attendant, and in a few moments was ushered into 
 the Duke's cabinet. It was a small but somewhat lengthened 
 octangular room, lined throughout with dark black oak, carved 
 in the most exquisite manner. From the centre of the ceiling 
 hung a silver chain, bearing a large lamp of the same material, 
 with eight burners. At the further end of the room was the fire- 
 place, and in the midst a small table with two covers and a 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 99 
 
 number of dishes and cups of silver, some plain, some jewelled 
 at the rim. 
 
 The Duke himself was standing at the farther side with his 
 hack to the fire, reading a letter by the light of a small lamp 
 which shed its rays over his shoulder; and certainly as he stood 
 there, now dressed in the magnificent costume of those days, 
 partially reclining against the projecting chimney, with the letter 
 raised in his hand, the light of the lamp streaming over his 
 shoulder, but catching brightly upon his cheek and lip, and on 
 the rich brown beard and mustachio, with the deep carved oak 
 behind him,' and a certain sort of gloomy splendour round that 
 part of the room, there probably never was any thing so grace- 
 ful, so princely, so dignified, as his whole appearance. 
 
 He folded up the letter as soon as Charles of Montsoreau's 
 step sounded in the cabinet, and banishing a slight frown which 
 had been upon his brow while reading, he advanced to the table 
 with a smile saying, " Our viands are getting cold, Monsieur le 
 Comte." 
 
 " I went into the usual hall," replied the young nobleman, 
 " not knowing where to find your Highness, and fearful of in- 
 truding upon you." 
 
 " I should have told you, I should have told you, dear friend," 
 replied the Duke : " when I wish to have an hour in private for 
 conversation with any of my most confidential friends, I sup in 
 my own cabinet, which is the only place to which my worthy 
 countrymen and acquaintances will grant the right of sanctuary. 
 — -Now Martinez," he continued, speaking to the servant, " un- 
 cover the dishes, put us down some good wine, bring me in a 
 naquet to hold our dirty platters, and then leave us." 
 
 The attendant did as he was commanded, removed the tops 
 of the dishes, put several bottles of wine down by the side of the 
 Duke, and after bringing in a sort of buffet on a small scale, 
 somewhat like what we now call a dumb waiter, but which was 
 then called by the name of naquet, (though that word w r as only 
 properly applied to the marker of a tennis-court), he retired, 
 shutting the door closely behind him. 
 
 " This is an hour of relief," said the Duke, as soon as the 
 man was gone ; " for our business to-night, dear Count, must of 
 course be light and easy to us both— light to you, because you 
 have nothing to do but to express your wishes and desires to 
 Henry of Guise, and light to me, as nothing can be more joyful 
 to my heart than to show my gratitude for the services that you 
 have rendered me, and to express, in every manner in my 
 power, my esteem and regard for yourself, and my admiration 
 for your conduct 1 ." 
 
 1 Those who may be inclined to suppose such language inconsistent with tbe character 
 
100 HKNRY OF GUISK. 
 
 " Oh, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, " 1 thought 
 you had forgotten by this time to use such high-flown expres- 
 sions towards me" 
 
 " Call them not high-flown, good friend," replied the Duke : 
 " persons situated as I am, dealing with and often obliged of 
 sheer necessity to excite the worst passions of our fellow-crea- 
 tures, meet so rarely with frank, disinterested service, that 
 when it comes upon us in the sudden way that yours has come 
 upon me, without claim, without expectation, without any pre- 
 vious notice, it strikes us as something both wonderful and 
 beautiful \ and we admire, as we would the visit of an angel, 
 that which gives us a view of a fairer state of being than the 
 one with which our daily thoughts are familiar. Besides, if I 
 must own the truth, too, there was something in the frankness 
 — some of my adulators would call it the bluntness — with which 
 you dealt with me in the little inn at Mareuil, evidently know- 
 ing me all the time, but still treating me as the comrade of an 
 inn dining-room, which, as you may suppose, struck me not a 
 little. But a truce to all fine speeches : let us begin our 
 supper 5 and after doing justice to what Maitre Lanecque has 
 set before us, we will discuss the matter further at our ease." 
 
 Although the cookery of that day, as exemplified in a small 
 but refined supper of the Duke of Guise, might well astonish, 
 both from its materials and its combinations, any of the culinary 
 artists of the present day, both the Duke and his young friend 
 found it excellent, and every thing was praised as it deserved. 
 The wine also was of the finest kind that could be procured, 
 and the Duke was liberal of it 5 but Charles of Montsoreau was 
 not one to be tempted by any vintage to drink more than was 
 beneficial to him either corporeally or mentally •, and though the 
 Duke of Guise drank more than himself, he pressed not the ruby 
 juice of the grape upon his young friend after he once saw that 
 it might become disagreeable to him. 
 
 Towards Charles of Montsoreau, indeed, he had none of those 
 designs which lead wily politicians sometimes to press the wine- 
 cup upon a tyro. He might, it is true, be somewhat surprised at 
 the easy and courtly grace with which a young nobleman, edu- 
 cated almost entirely in the provinces, met and mingled with the 
 highest and most stately in the land •, and he might, consequently, 
 be a little inclined to see him off his guard 5 but when he 
 found that he was not disposed to take any more, he abstained 
 from asking him, and pursued the subject of their former dis- 
 course, interrupted by various little remarks upon things of an 
 
 of Ihe proud, ambitious politician, which Guise is often represented (o have been, need 
 but read any of his letters to Iiassompierre, or any other of his personal friends, to see 
 With what openhearled affection lie dealt with them. 
 
HENRY OF GUISii. 101 
 
 ordinary character, touching them, however, with grace and 
 ease, which raised them all, and made them harmonise with 
 graver discourse. 
 
 " Now, Monsieur de Logeres," he said, as soon as he had 
 passed to his young friend the dish at his end of the table with 
 which they commenced the meal, " tell me clearly and exactly 
 what were your motives and your views in coming hither from 
 so far to seek me ; for it would seem that you have been acting 
 entirely independently of your brother. Speak to me, my good 
 friend, without reserve of any kind, as to a brother— as to a 
 father, if you will— for I am old enough surely, both in years 
 and experience, to claim that title, though indeed it is not 1 
 who have given you life, but you to whom I owe it." 
 
 " It is scarcely either needful or possible, my Lord," replied 
 the young Count, " for me to tell your Highness more than I 
 have already told. In the first place, I came to see my lands of 
 Logeres, which, as you well know, lie not above forty or fifty 
 miles from this spot— a long day's journey. I have only seen 
 them once since the death of my father. I have withdrawn but 
 a small part of the revenues from the improvement of the ter- 
 ritory, and the encouragement of the peasantry, and it is time 
 that I should now see what is the state of the whole. At the 
 same time, I thought and believed that 1 had remained somewhat 
 too long a spectator of the contentions which distract my native 
 land. Now, my Lord Duke, I had to choose between three per- 
 sonages, the great leaders of the present day— Henry of Navarre, 
 Henry of France, and Henry Duke of Guise. The first seemed 
 to me out of the question, though a gallant and a noble prince; 
 for, waging war as he does, for the advancement of heresy, it 
 was not for me to draw my sword in such a cause. Between the 
 other two there could surely be no question ; for though I may 
 not think your Highness always right in every thing that you 
 have done, yet as a gallant and aJoiightly leader, as one whom 
 a brave and true-hearted man may follow, there is none whom 
 I know that I could choose against yourself from one end of 
 Europe to the other. In attaching myself to you, too, I trust 
 and am sure that I do not ill serve my king-, and, to say but the 
 truth, I would far rather serve his Majesty under another, than 
 come within the reach of his perfumes and cosmetics." 
 
 The Duke of Guise smiled, and leaning his arm upon the 
 table, gazed down for a moment or two in a meditative mood, 
 not a little struck and surprised at the calm and reasoning, but 
 bold and straight-forward frankness with which his young com- 
 panion spoke. Perhaps, too, he traced back into the past the 
 various motives and views with which the different distinguished 
 men, who appeared as followers of the three leaders mentioned, 
 
102 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 had chosen their party, and he might Gnd none amongst them 
 all who were actuated by such feelings as the young man before 
 him. He was silent for several moments then 5 and the first 
 thing that roused him was the young Count adding, to what he 
 had said, "Indeed, my Lord, this was my pure and simple 
 motive." 
 
 " I doubt it not, Monsieur de Logeres," replied the Duke, 
 drawing towards him another dish—" I doubt it not ; and this is 
 a pure and simple salmi, and apparently as good a one as ever 
 was cooked; but still, if you were to ask Maitre Lanecque to 
 analyse it — try it, good friend, you will find it an antidote 
 against all the poisons and evils of the inn at Mareuil, and other 
 such pestiferous places — but, as I was saying, if you were to ask 
 Maitre Lanecque to analyse this simple salmi, you would find it 
 composed of some hundreds of different things besides the wood- 
 cock, which is the basis of the whole. All these accessories are 
 admirable in themselves, and contribute to make the woodcock 
 better. And thus it is in life. Every human motive is a salmi, 
 cooked by a skilful artist, for our own palates as well as those 
 that observe them. There is one grand and apparent cause of 
 action, which may be considered as the woodcock, but there are 
 a thousand minor motives, incentives, and inducements, the 
 condiments, the gravies, the truffles, the toast, which nobody 
 ever thinks of counting, which pass, in fact, undercover of the 
 woodcock, and which, nevertheless, all tend to make the salmi 
 what it is. Now, I have no doubt on earth, my dear young 
 friend, that the great motive of your coming hither was what 
 you say ; but were there not other motives joined therewith — 
 feelings, designs, views, and purposes of your own, all mingling 
 together, to aid and strengthen your original motive— in fact, to 
 make up the salmi ? " 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau knew and felt that there were-, for he 
 could not help remembering the real cause of his quitting his 
 brother's dwelling in such haste, and the resolutions then taken, 
 which were still strong within him, to be generous, even to the 
 utmost extent of human generosity, towards one who had been 
 ungenerous to him. He now looked down thoughtfully for a 
 moment-, but he was by nature far too frank and open to con- 
 ceal his thoughts from one who sought them in the way which 
 they were sought by the Duke of Guise. 
 
 " My Lord," he said, " if your Highness means to ask, whe- 
 ther there were or were not private feelings which induced me 
 at once to plunge into contentions from which I had long with- 
 held myself, and combined with the general public motives which 
 otherwise called upon me so to do, I by no means deny that 
 there were such feelings 3 and had it not been for them— though. 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 103 
 
 I certainly think I should have joined your Highness before many 
 months were over — yet it might not have been so early or so op- 
 portunely as it has turned out." 
 
 The Duke smiled frankly, and replied, " I thought so, Mon- 
 sieur de Logeres. You are always candid and true, and you shall 
 see at once, by my next question, why J asked you this so par- 
 ticularly. Tell me, has not a fair relation of mine, who has found 
 a place of refuge in the castle of Montsorcau — has she not some- 
 thing to do with the motives that you speak of ? " 
 
 " She has, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsorcau — " but 
 not in the way which I see you imagine." 
 
 The Duke laughed. " What ! " he exclaimed,—" pretty Mis- 
 tress Marie of Clairvaut has, I suppose, been acting the prude 
 with you, as usual, and gave you warning, when it was too late, 
 that she intended to plunge herself into a convent. Take heart 
 of grace, man — take heart of grace. Though she has ever yet 
 shown herself, in these affairs of love, as cold as the top of the 
 Vosges, and as hard as the nether-millstone, yet she is always 
 candid and true, poor girl •, and in two letters which have reached 
 me from her hand, the one sent by your own courier, the other 
 arriving to-day, she speaks of you, and of your services towards 
 her, in terms that admit of no mistake. I do not mean to say 
 you know that you have won her heart, because her heart is not 
 one easily won, but I do most assuredly think that you may win 
 it ; and if you do, as far as Henry of Guise's power goes, you 
 win her too." 
 
 There is nothing so terrible on earth, as when some friendly 
 hand approaches to our lips the cup of joy, seeing not, knowing 
 not, that we must not, that we dare not, that we cannot drink, 
 when accidental words, perhaps most kindly spoken, present to 
 the eye of fancy, in colours more vivid than ever, the pictures 
 that were once painted by the hand of hope, after every fair 
 reality that they represented is done away, and nothing remains 
 but the memory and the endurance. Terrible, indeed, was the 
 temptation of Charles of Montsoreau, and terrible the struggle 
 in his bosom. Not the arch-fiend himself could exhort man to 
 break high resolutions more powerfully, than did the words 
 spoken with the best intentions by the Duke of Guise. Rut 
 amongst those words were a few, which, by recalling to the 
 mind of the young nobleman most strongly the circumstances on 
 which his determination was founded, gave him strength to 
 endure. Had the Duke said that he knew her heart was won, 
 those few words would have put all his resolutions to an end ; 
 but he implied that her heart was not won, and it was upon that 
 persuasion that all his purposes had been hitherto framed. 
 
 The Duke of Guise saw him once more turn very pale, and 
 
104 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 was not a little puzzled to divine the cause. " Why do you 
 not answer?" he demanded, after pausing for a moment or 
 two. " In consideration of a vast service, I have spoken to you 
 as I would to no other man under a prince's dignity in Eu- 
 rope." 
 
 " And I am most grateful, my Lord," replied the Count; 
 " but your Highness has mistaken me. My pretensions to the 
 hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut are too small, too few to 
 be thought of even by myself. My brother, indeed, may have 
 greater pretensions. Your Highness knows that his estates in 
 the south are considerable ; that his race, though certainly not 
 equal to that of the princely house of Guise, is as old and as 
 pure as any in France ; but he has a thousand high qualities 
 that you do not know. He is brave, skilful, with far more expe- 
 rience than myself, faithful and true in his attachments, and 
 even more zealous and eager than I am in every thing he un- 
 dertakes. Let any little services of mine, my Lord, be attri- 
 buted to him; let him also serve and attach himself to your 
 Highness ; and let the sum of the affection and zeal of both in 
 your cause induce you to look favourably upon his suit, even 
 should he aspire to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut." 
 
 "By my faith," exclaimed the Duke of Guise, pushing the 
 glass of wine which he was just about to drink away from him 
 — " By my faith, this is the most extraordinary piece of bu- 
 siness, I think, I ever heard of?" And he paused, thoughtfully 
 gazing down upon the table "You are a strange youth," he con- 
 tinued, " and there is something under this which I do not un- 
 derstand. But, be you sure, Maitre Charles, that Maitre Henri 
 will unriddle it. And now let me tell you something that you do 
 not know yourself. 1 have this very morning received an epistle 
 from your brother; an epistle which, though eloquent enough, 
 well written, clear, and masterly, yet I love not altogether. He 
 tells me, that the passports for my niece, from Henri of Navarre, 
 have arrived ; but that he judges it best, seeing the troubled state 
 of the country, to escort her towards Soissons himself, with a 
 sufficient band to protect her against any attack. He speaks of 
 you, too, as ' a brother of his' and gives as a reason for delaying 
 a day or two ere he sets out, that you had taken with you on 
 your journey some men from the castle, so that it is necessary 
 for him to increase his numbers ere he departs" 
 
 " That was hardly generous of him," said Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, calmly; "for I took no more than my own immediate 
 retainers, except, indeed, the one man, Gondrin, whom your 
 Highness knows, and who was born upon my own lands of 
 Logeres." 
 
 " Oh , 1 know him well, indeed," replied the Duke, " and owe 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 105 
 
 him much. We will have him and the page in before we part, 
 that I may thank them. And so, Monsieur de Logeres, you will 
 let me do nothing for you." 
 
 " Say not so, my Lord," replied the Count, " I ask you much, 
 when 1 ask you for the honour and the pleasure of serving under 
 you, and also express the hope that you will always treat me and 
 consider me as now." 
 
 " Oh, such requests are easily granted," said the Duke : " you 
 shall command a company of my Albanians, and be ever near 
 my person 5 but still I shall consider that there is a debt to be 
 paid, and shall reserve the payment thereof for a year •, and if you 
 name not your own boon by that time, 1 shall force my gratitude 
 upon you. There is some mystery in your conduct which at pre- 
 sent I do not understand. But all earthly mysteries disappear, 
 my good young friend. When they represented Time, they 
 would have done well to put a torch in his hand as well as a 
 scythe, for he throws light upon all things. I will write about 
 the Albanian company this night." 
 
 "Your pardon, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau — 
 " but I would fain serve you at the head of my own people. 
 Give me but a month away from you, and I will bring you a 
 hundred steel-caps from Logeres, mounted, armed, and trained 
 as well as any cavaliers in France. Ail the tenantry are bred to 
 arms there from their infancy, so that but a short space will 
 suffice." 
 
 f You are resolved to make me still more your debtor," said 
 the Duke 5 " and I will acknowledge, that at the present moment 
 the assistance of every brave and true-hearted man in France is 
 needful to Henry of Guise-, for oh, my young friend, I have to deal 
 with as wily a serpent as ever was hatched in the Asiatic deserts. 
 Were it but lienry of Navarre I had to deal with, the contest in 
 this country would soon be settled, for as gallant a knight, and 
 as noble a gentleman is he, as ever lived ; frank, generous, and 
 true ; and with our lances in our hands and our helmets on our 
 heads, we could decide the fate of France between us in an 
 hour. But when I have to deal with one who, professing love 
 and friendship, would poison the chalice, or arm the assassin's 
 hand against me : who, while he feigns to listen to my counsel, 
 deals secretly with every enemy of his state and of his country; 
 who betrays every secret that is intrusted to him as soon as he 
 finds an interest in so doing ; and who only sinks from the ac- 
 tivity of evil-doing into voluptuous, effeminate, indecent repose; 
 — when I have to deal with such a man as that, I say, the sup- 
 port of every true man in France is needful to me. to free my 
 country from the evils that afflict her — never forgetting my duty 
 to the crown. Go, my young friend, arm your vassals, bring to 
 
106 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 me every man that you can command, and you shall find Henry 
 of Lorraine as deeply grateful to you for this new service as he 
 is for that which is past. I will make no further professions to 
 you. What I have said already ought to he enough to convince 
 you, that with me, at least, neither the pride nor the ambition, of 
 which they unjustly accuse our race, can stand in the way of 
 gratitude. Now, however, let us have in your man Gondrin and 
 your little page. He speaks, it seems to me, with a foreign ac- 
 cent. Where did you get him !" 
 
 As he spoke, the Duke rang a silver bell which stood by his 
 side, and gave orders to the servant who appeared to seek for 
 the two attendants of the young Count, and bring them before 
 him. While he was absent, Charles of Montsoreau gave him a full 
 account of his accidental meeting with the boy Ignati, and of his 
 redeeming him from the hands of the Italians. The tale seemed 
 to interest the Duke not a little ; and, after musing for a moment, 
 he said, " You see, my young friend, how kindness and services 
 always render men greedy. I would to heaven that you would 
 give me these two who have gone with me through such a mo- 
 ment of peril. I feel as if that boy were destined again to do me 
 some great service." 
 
 " Take him, my Lord, with all my heart," replied Charles of 
 Montsoreau, " not that I put any great faith in such presenti- 
 ments ; but as I redeemed the boy from these men only for his 
 own good, far be it from me to stay him any way from advance- 
 ment. Your Highness remembers, however, that he is not noble, 
 and therefore can scarcely he your page." 
 
 "Oh, we set our foot upon such things now," replied the 
 Duke — " the service of the Guise shall make him noble. But here 
 they are. Come hither, good youth," he added, as the boy and 
 Gondrin entered — " let me look in your face : it seems to me as 
 if I had seen you somewhere before. Your look pleases me, and 
 memory seems to bring it back with pleasure. Where have I 
 beheld you?" 
 
 The boy looked up in the Duke's face, with his colour slightly 
 heightened, but his manner calm and self-possessed. " You have 
 seen me, my Lord," he said, " in the good town of Nancy, in 
 the palace of the noble Duke of Lorraine, upon the night of a 
 high festival, where many a gallant lord and many a bright lady 
 sat around you •, and a poor Italian boy was brought in to dance 
 and sing before the high table at which you feasted. The prin- 
 ces, and the nobles round, the beautiful women, and the politic 
 matrons, poured their money into the cap which my hard task- 
 master handed round ; but the Duke of Guise alone called up 
 poor Ignati to his side, laid bis hand upon hishead, thanked him 
 for his music, and gave him a broad piece of gold for himself." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 107 
 
 " I remember," said the Duke, thoughtfully,." I remember. 
 Well, boy, by that kind word, and that broad pieee, it seems I 
 have purchased service that never was bought at so light a rate. 
 My good Lord ol'Logeres, when the pistol of a reiter w;is within 
 a foot of my breast, his finger on the trigger, and my life ap- 
 parently at his mercy, with nothing but a grey doublet between 
 me and destruction, this boy proved better to me than a breast- 
 plate of Milan steel, and, by driving his dagger into the heart of 
 my adversary, saved the life of Henry of Guise, for whatever 
 period Gpd in his grace may grant it further. Will you give me 
 this youth, my Lord, to be my page?" 
 
 The young Count bowed his head in token of assent, and the 
 Duke went on. "What say you, boy? would you willingly 
 serve me?" 
 
 The boy paused, and looked down, while the tears rose in his 
 eyes. Then, turning his look to Charles of Montsoreau, he said, 
 " He has been very kind to me ! " 
 
 " Come, come, lgnati," said the young Count, " I will not have 
 your heart spoil your fortunes, my good youth. I took you for 
 your own service, not for mine ; and though I like you well, and 
 would willingly have you with me, yet this is a noble offer, and 
 must not be refused." 
 
 The boy then knelt down and kissed the Duke of Guise's 
 hand, saying, " I am your Highness's servant." 
 
 " So shalt thou be, lgnati," replied the Duke, with one of the 
 bright smiles of the Guise. " But I will tell thee what thou shalt 
 do. Thou shalt go with this young lord to his lands of Logeres, 
 and be my spy upon all his actions and his thoughts. Then, if 
 thoufindest out that thing on all the earth which he most wishes 
 and desires to possess, and bringest me the tidings thereof, thou 
 shalt have a purse of broad pieces for thy pains. W T hen he comes 
 back, thou shalt come to be of my household ; and, as I trust 
 that he will be ever near me, thou mayest find many a way of 
 serving him also. — Now, good soldier," he continued, turning 
 to Gondrin, " you, too, have aided me well in a moment of great 
 need : what recompense shall the Duke of Guise offer you? Will 
 you take service with him, and he will care for your for- 
 tunes?" 
 
 " I thank you, my Lord," replied Gondrin, bluntly. " But on 
 this young gentleman's lands was I born, his race have I served, 
 his forest sports have I tended through all my life, and I think I 
 will not leave him now, unless he dismount me out of his troop 5 
 and then, pardie! I think I shall follow him on foot. What I did 
 for your Highness was done by his orders, I knew you but as 
 Maitre Henri, with a grey doublet and a cock's feather, so that 
 I deserve neither thanks nor recompense, though I will gladly 
 
108 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 serve your Highness under him, if God and the good Count so 
 will it." 
 
 " Would that there were many such as thou art!" said the 
 Duke of Guise, thoughtfully. " There are few who will not quit 
 old kindness for new preferment. Here, my friend, take you that 
 ring, in memory of Henry of Guise. It is a diamond, lor which 
 the goldsmiths will give five hundred crowns ; but, should you 
 ever want money, he who now gives it will gladly give a thou- 
 sand crowns for it back again." 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The rock which it meets with in its course turns the impe- 
 tuous river from the way it was pursuing, even when it comes 
 down in all the fury of the mountain torrent. The slight slope 
 of a green hill, the rise of a grassy bank at an after-period, 
 bends the calm stream hither and thither through the plains, 
 offering the most beautiful image of the effect of circumstances 
 on the course of human life. Some streams also become colour- 
 ed by the earth they pass over, or mingle readily with the waters 
 that flow into theirs. But there area few— and they are always 
 the mightiest and most profound— which retain their original 
 hue and character, receive the tribute of other streams, pass 
 over rocks and mountains, and through the midst of deep lakes, 
 without the Rhone losing its glossy blue in the bosom of Lake 
 Leman, or the Rhine mingling its clear stream with the waters 
 of Constance or the current of the Maine. 
 
 The firm and powerful mind may be affected in its operations 
 by circumstances, but not in its nature, and the depths of origi- 
 nal character remain unchanged from the beginning to the end 
 of life. Even strong feelings in such hearts, like objects cast 
 upon a grand and rapid river, are borne along with the current 
 through all scenes and circumstances, till with the waters them- 
 selves they plunge into the ocean of eternity. 
 
 Neither by nature nor by the period of his life was Charles of 
 Montsoreau likely to retain and nourish long any light feelings 
 of disappointment, but such was not the case with deep sorrows 
 or with strong affections. His heart was of that firm and tena- 
 cious kind that it lost not readily any thing once strongly im- 
 pressed upon it. The love of Marie de Clairvaut was one of 
 those things never to be forgotten ; the sorrows by which that 
 love had been followed were never to be obliterated from his 
 mind. 
 
 In the gay scenes of the sort of second court which the Duke 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 109 
 
 of Guise held for some days in the city of Rheinis, Charles of 
 Montsoreau mingled without any apparent grief weighing upon 
 his mind, or any dark and gloomy memory seeming to oppress 
 his spirit. He smiled with those who smiled, he admired all 
 (hat was fine, and bright, and beautiful; and if he felt for a mo- 
 ment coming over him the deep melancholy with which he had 
 quitted his own home, and which had now concentrated itself 
 in his heart, he struggled against it and banished the outward 
 appearance of it speedily, deriving only from those deeper feel- 
 ings which lay concealed within, that degree of indifference 
 towards the pleasures and amusements of youth which is seldom 
 obtained but by experience. He forgot not Marie de Clairvaut, 
 however — he forgot not the painful task which he had imposed 
 upon himself; but he gladly occupied his immediate thoughts 
 with the objects around him, and remained for some days well 
 pleased himself, and not un-noted by others for his calm and 
 graceful demeanour, amongst all the proud nobles who now 
 surrounded the princely Guise. 
 
 At length, however, all his attendants but two, whose wounds 
 promised a tedious convalescence, were sufficiently recovered 
 to enable him to pursue his journey to Logeres •, and he set out, 
 with his train increased by six or seven veteran soldiers, whom 
 the Duke spared to him, for the purpose of completing, as ra- 
 pidly as possible, the discipline and training of his own retain- 
 ers. As the distance was not far, and the Duke of Guise had 
 given him more than one hint that no time was to be lost, he 
 resolved to accomplish the march in one day; and, setting off 
 early in the morning, approached Logeres towards sunset upon 
 a short spring day. 
 
 It was a wild and wooded country, on the borders of the an- 
 cient Ardennes, with the scene continually varying in minor 
 points, but never changing the character of rough, solitary na- 
 ture, which that part of France, and indeed many other parts, 
 at that time displayed. Here the ground was rocky and moun- 
 tainous, shooting up into tall hills covered with old woods ; 
 there, smooth and even, with the feet of the primeval oaks car- 
 peted with green turf. Then, again, came deep dells, and banks, 
 and ravines, and dingles, so thick that the boar could scarcely 
 force his way through the bushes; and then the trees fell back, 
 and left the wild stream wandering through green meadows, or 
 sporting amongst the masses of stone. If a village appeared, it 
 was perched high up above the road, as if afraid of the passing 
 strangers ; if a cottage, it was nested in the brown wood, and 
 scarcely to be distinguished from the surrounding banks. The 
 air was now as warm as May, and all the sweet things that haunt 
 the first dream of summer had come forth : the birds were tun- 
 
110 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ing their earliest songs ; the flowers were gathering round the 
 roots of the trees, and the branches above them were making 
 an effort, though but faint, to cast away the brown cloak of 
 winter, and put on the green garmenture of the spring. 
 
 The evening sunshine was clear and smiling. Pouring from 
 under a light cloud, which covered a part of the sky, it streamed 
 in amongst the bolls and branches of the trees ; it gilded the 
 green turf, and danced upon the yellow banks : and what be- 
 tween the wild music of the blackbird, and the thrush, and the 
 woodlark, the flowers upon the ground, the balminess of the air, 
 the spring sunshine, and the peaceful scene, Charles of Montso- 
 reau felt his sorrows softened ; and though not less deeply me- 
 lancholy than before, yet owned the influence of that season, 
 which is so near akin to youth and hope, and rode on with a 
 vague, but sweet feeling, that brighter hours might come. 
 
 He had spent many a happy youthful day at Logeres 5 and 
 though he had forgotten much, so that the charm of novelty 
 was not altogether wanting, he remembered enough to make 
 his heart beat with the thrill of memory, while many an object, 
 once familiar to his eye, rose up, as if to greet him on his return. 
 x\t length, the road passing straight over a ridge of rising 
 ground, showed him his own little village, in the sweet valley 
 below, with the chateau rising on a tall hill that started up 
 from the side of the little town, unconnected with any of the 
 other heights around. The clouds that were in the zenith at 
 that moment were pouring forth a light shower of spring rain ; 
 the sun was shining bright near the edge of the horizon, catch- 
 ing on the weathercocks, and turrets, and windows of the cha- 
 teau; while spanning over the castle and the village, and 
 wavering on the face of the light grey cloud above was seen the 
 radiant bow of heaven, the pledge of brightness for the days to 
 come. 
 
 The young Count, as he paused for a moment to gaze, could 
 hear gay distant voices, borne on the wind, rising up from the 
 village in the valley. It was a cheerful sound ; but, more than 
 any thing else, it recalled the former times, and wove between 
 them and the present a tissue of associations both sweet and 
 melancholy. He thought of the gallant father, by whose knee 
 he had played in those very scenes in other days 5 he thought of 
 the mother, whose inheritance those lands had been ; he thought 
 of the mutual love and harmony that had subsisted between 
 them all, and how death had taken two, and how disunion had 
 arisen between the two that remained. He thought of all this ; 
 and he thought of how— if fate had willed it otherwise— he might 
 have led a happy bride to those glittering towers, have listened 
 with her to the glad voices of the rejoicing peasantry, and have 
 
HENRY OF GOISE. Ill 
 
 pointed to the sunshine that lit their dwelling, and the rainbow 
 that waved across their sky, as auguries of hope, and happiness, 
 and mutual love. He thought of all this, and how it was all in 
 vain : and the tears filled his eyes, as he rode on towards the 
 dwelling before him. 
 
 The two servants, whom he had sent on the day before, had 
 spread the news, and given the probable hour of his coming: 
 the street of the village was thronged with people, in their holy- 
 day attire ; the old grey cross, and the rude stone fountain, were 
 decked with flowers ; the light-hearted peasantry echoed his 
 name with shouts when he appeared, and greetings and gratula- 
 tions poured forth upon him : but the heart of the young Count 
 of Logeres was sad. The face of nature reviving from the wintry 
 cold, the voices of the birds, the eloquence of sunshine and of 
 flowers, had soothed, and calmed, and inspirited his heart-, but 
 the rejoicings of fellow-beings like himself — he knew not why, 
 and he was angry to feel it — made him even more melancholy 
 than before. 
 
 The elders of the village, conscious of dignity, the Count's 
 own intendant, and the seneschal of his lands, came forward to 
 greet him, and conduct him on his way, while Gondrin lingered 
 behind, shaking hands with many an old friend, and inquiring 
 after many an old acquaintance, vaunting the high deeds and 
 noble qualities of his lord, and gladdening the hearts of the vil- 
 lagers with the promise of great doings at Logeres. 
 
 Such was Charles of Montsoreau's arrival on his own estates 5 
 but the aspect of the interior of his dwelling again recalled bitter 
 feelings and manifold regrets. But we must pass over such things, 
 and merely notice briefly what followed after his arrival. Im- 
 mediate inquiry showed him a state of things which few lords 
 who absent themselves long from their own lands can ever hope 
 to find : — his tenantry, his vassals, were in general contented 
 and happy ; no one had been pressed hard upon by his officers in 
 his absence ; no one brought forward any accusation of extor- 
 tion or oppression •, and though there were many who had their 
 little petition to present, or their request to make for the 
 future, there was none who found occasion to complain of the 
 past. At the same time, he found that considerable sums, and a 
 considerable quantity of produce, had accumulated for his own 
 use ; that there were large woods, the trees of which required 
 to be thinned-, that the wool of many years yet remained to be 
 sold ; that some distant mines had poured unexpected wealth 
 into his coffers 5 and that, in fact, great riches, which seemed 
 still greater to an inexperienced eye, were immediately at his 
 command. 
 
 The secret of all this was. that those left in authority behind 
 
112 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 him were all old tried and attached servants of his mother's 
 house ; and the feudal system had that advantage at least, if it 
 had no other, that it created an identity of interests between a 
 lord and his servants, which nothing but blindness and folly 
 could break through on either part. 
 
 On speaking with the old seneschal in regard to the military 
 capacity and disposition of the people, the old man smiled at the 
 question if he could raise a hundred strong troopers within the 
 ensuing month. 
 
 " The ringing, Sir, of the old ban-cloque," he said, " which, 
 thank God, I have heard but once in my day, would bring 
 double the number of well-armed lads round your gate in an 
 hour. They are only angry because, in all the feuds that have 
 lately fallen out, I would never let them go to join either one 
 party or another, if I could help it. Your own orders upon that 
 head were strict ; and I certainly thought it very wise, as long 
 as they judged fit to leave us at peace here, to avoid all occasion 
 of bringing feuds upon ourselves. Some of the young men stole 
 away, indeed, whether I would or not, and took service with 
 the good Duke of Guise against the reiters. They have almost all 
 come back now; but the tales they bring of battles here and 
 there, and driving the Germans out of France like sheep, are 
 not likely to make those that remained more fond of home." 
 
 " I have no wish," replied the Count, " to drain the place of 
 its peasantry, good seneschal. A hundred men will be enough 
 for my purpose, and of those, none but such as are willing. I 
 would rather, of course, have those who have served already, if 
 they are inclined to serve again under their own lord's banner. 
 And now let this be arranged with all speed, for I have promised 
 the Duke of Guise not to delay a day longer than necessary." 
 
 No delay or obstruction of any kind was met with by the 
 young Count in his proceedings. Though neither very populous 
 nor very productive, except in wood and pasture, his territories 
 were very extensive 5 and no sooner were his wishes known, 
 than many more volunteers flocked in to serve beneath his ban- 
 ner than he was willing to receive. With the old soldiers who 
 accompanied him, and the aid of such of his peasantry as had 
 served before, whatever was wanting to the discipline of the 
 rest was soon accomplished. The providing them with arms and 
 horses occupied a something longer time ; but every thing was 
 in active preparation, when, at the expiration of about a 
 fortnight, a courier from the Duke of Guise arrived at Logeres, 
 bearing a letter dated from Soissons, and addressed to the young 
 Count. 
 
 " I fear," the letter said, " that this will not find you in such 
 a state of preparation as to enable you to join me at once, at 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 1 13 
 
 the litlle town of Gonnesse, with ;il! the men you promised. If 
 you could, however, advance at once towards that place, with 
 whatever men you can command at the moment, you might 
 render the greatest of services to Henry of Guise. 
 
 " It would be as well," he continued in a postscript, " if you 
 could cross the Aisne. My presence is required, with all speed, 
 in the neighbourhood of Paris. 1 have not fifty men with me ; 
 and, notwithstanding the defeat of Auneau, I hear that a strong 
 band of reiters has been seen in the neighbourhood of La Ferte 
 sous Jouarre. If you can set off before night to-morrow, send 
 me tidings that such is the case by the messenger who bears 
 this letter ; but do not go farther than Montigny before you 
 hear more. God have you in his good keeping. 
 
 "Henry of Guise." 
 
 The consultation of Charles of Montsoreau with his seneschal 
 was but short. He well knew that the field is the place to make 
 good soldiers, and that but little more preparation was needful. 
 He therefore caused his band to pass before the courier of the 
 Duke, and bade him tell that Prince what he saw, directing him 
 to add, that he would, on the following day, make his first 
 inarch towards La Ferte with fifty men ; and that, in four days 
 more, the rest would follow, if by any possibility their arms 
 could be prepared by that time With this message he mounted 
 him afresh, and sent him back to Soissons. 
 
 A night of bustle and preparation succeeded, which left little 
 time for that indulgence of calm thought during which the 
 heart broods over its own griefs, and but increases them by con- 
 templation. The first day's march was performed without 
 danger or difficulty ; and, not a little to the satisfaction of 
 Charles of Montsoreau, the soldiers whom he had raised, being 
 bred amongst a rural population demeaned themselves peaceably 
 and orderly amongst the inhabitants of the village where they 
 halted for the night, so that no complaint was heard in the 
 morning; and when they departed, many a villager was seen 
 shaking hands with, and bidding God speed, the acquaintance 
 of the evening before. 
 
 On the second day's march, which brought them to Grisolles, 
 rumours and reports of the band of reiters which the Duke of 
 Guise had mentioned began to reach their ears. The peasantry 
 showed every sign of rejoicing on their appearance ; and as they 
 rode through the various villages, the young Count's horse was 
 often surrounded by the peasantry, giving him this report or 
 that, and expressing a hope that he had come to deliver them 
 from the marauding strangers. On the third day's march 
 
 8 
 
114 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 towards Montigny, more accurate information was obtained 
 concerning the real position and proceedings of the band of 
 German adventurers, who were represented as lying further 
 down towards the Marne, in the woods and hamlets about 
 Gland and La Fern, intercepting the passengers on the roads 
 between Chateau Thierry, Epernay, and La Ferte •, the lower 
 part of which latter town they were said to have attacked and 
 plundered. Manifold were the entreaties now addressed to 
 Charles of Montsoreau by the wealthy farmers and proprietors 
 of that rich tract of country to go at once against the ma- 
 rauders, and drive them across the Marne. But he adhered 
 firmly to his resolution of obeying the Duke's orders ; and after 
 halting for some hours to refresh his horses and men at Gandelu, 
 he again began his march towards three o'clock in the evening, 
 expecting to arrive at Montigny before nightfall. 
 
 On the whole of the road he had received no greater service 
 from any one than from the boy Ignati, whose light weight and 
 arms did not fatigue his horse so much as those of the other 
 horsemen, and who was constantly riding hither and thither 
 through the country obtaining intelligence, and bringing it ra- 
 pidly to the young Count. He had left the little village of Gandelu 
 about a quarter of an hour before the rest of the troop, and was 
 not seen again for nearly an hour and a half after it had recom- 
 menced its march. The Count had asked for him more than 
 once, and had become somewhat apprehensive regarding him, 
 when, as they were passing through the wood of Ampon, his 
 anxiety regarding the boy was not diminished by hearing a dis- 
 charge of fire-arms at some distance, but apparently in advance. 
 He was relieved on Ignati's account, however, in a moment after, 
 by seeing him coming at full speed through the wood in apparent 
 excitement and alarm. 
 
 " Quick ! quick, my Lord ! " he cried : " down in the meadow- 
 there, the Schwartz reiters have attacked a gallant little band 
 just crossing a small stream, and are driving them back towards 
 the Marne. I saw some ladies in a carriage, too •, and they must 
 have fallen by this time into the hands of the enemy." 
 
 No further inducement was wanting to Charles of Montsoreau. 
 Giving orders to quicken his men's pace, he himself advanced at 
 still greater speed, till he reached the point where the road 
 issued forth from the wood upon the meadow, where he had at 
 once before him, at the distance of scarcely three hundred yards, 
 the whole scene which the boy had described, though it was, of 
 course, somewhat changed in aspect during the time which had 
 since elapsed. 
 
 On the bank of the small stream which, flowing through a 
 slight hollow in the meadow, proceeded towards the Marne, 
 
HENRY OF GUISF. 115 
 
 was seen a party of some thirty or forty horsemen, the greater 
 part of them well armed, making a gallant hut ineffectual stand 
 against a body of reiters nearly double their number, which 
 charged them on every side, and seemed likely to overpower 
 them in a few minutes. That, however, which struck Charles of 
 Montsoreau the most, was to see, in the very front of the party 
 who opposed the reiters, a man dressed in a clerical habit, who 
 seemed, with the utmost coolness, skill, and determination, to 
 be directing the movements of those around him, for the purpose 
 of extricating a heavy carriage which was embarrassed in the bed 
 of the rivulet. 
 
 The forms of the reiters passing here and there obscured the 
 view of his person from time to time ; but Charles of Montsoreau 
 felt sure that his eyes could not deceive him, when they told 
 him that there, in the midst of the fight, was the form of his old 
 preceptor, the Abbe de Boisguerin. A moment after, he caught 
 sight of his brother also, and prepared, without the loss of an 
 instant, to extricate the whole party from their perilous situation. 
 The numbers which he brought were hardly sufficient to make 
 his band, even when united with that of his brother, equal nu- 
 merically to that of the reiters. But he knew that there was 
 much in surprise-, and, though he did not exactly despise his 
 enemy, yet he by no means looked upon each reiter as a match 
 for one of his own men at arms. His troopers had followed him 
 at all speed-, and, the moment they came up, his orders were 
 given, the lances levelled, the spurs struck into every horse's 
 sides, and down the gentle slope they went, against the tlank of 
 the enemy, with a speed and determination that proved for the 
 moment quite irresistible. The commander of the foreigners had 
 scarcely time to wheel a part of his force lo receive the charge of 
 this new adversary, before the troops of Logeres were upon him, 
 and, in a moment, he was driven down the stream for nearly fifty 
 yards. 
 
 But the marauders had one great advantage over ordinary 
 troops. Accustomed to fight in small parties, and even hand to 
 hand, they were fully as much, if not more, in their element 
 when their ranks were broken than when they were in a com- 
 pact mass, and Charles of Montsoreau now found that the suc- 
 cess of his first onset by no means dispirited them ; but that, 
 superior in numbers to his own soldiery, they met his troopers 
 man to man, and that a body was even detached to pursue the 
 carriage, which by this time had been extricated ; while neither 
 his brother nor the Abbe de Boisguerin, embarrassed in protect- 
 ing the unarmed persons of their own party, thought it needful 
 to give him the slightest assistance in his contention with the 
 reiters. 
 
1 10 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Under these circumstances, the only thing that appeared to be 
 left for him to do, was to keep his men in the most perfect order, 
 and fall gradually hack, covering his hrother's band, and sending 
 to demand his co-operation for their mutual benefit. The rei- 
 ters, however, in the mean time, made every effort to frustrate 
 this purpose, which they at once divined, and by repeated charges 
 endeavoured to break his line, and force him to fight after their 
 own manner. In pursuing this plan, however, they committed 
 the oversight of making a part of their body cross the stream in 
 order to take him on the flank 
 
 With a quickness of perception, which he generally displayed 
 in times of difficulty and danger, he had remarked, even while 
 in the act of charging the enemy, that the stream higher up grew 
 deeper, and the banks more steep. He now saw that, by falling 
 back a little farther than he had at first intended, he could deal 
 with the Germans in separate bodies, and in all probability rout 
 them band by band. 
 
 To do so, however, obliged him to leave his brother's party, 
 the carriage, and those whom he knew it contained, to struggle 
 unassisted with the little force which had been detached from the 
 reiters, as well as they might, and for a moment he remained 
 in a state of suspense which almost lost him the advantage. The 
 hour, however, was late ; the shades of evening were beginning 
 to fall : one look to the other side of the field showed him that 
 the first attack of the reiters on his brother's party had been 
 repulsed, apparently with considerable loss, and he accordingly 
 took his resolution, and gave orders to retreat slowly up the 
 stream, preparing his men, however, to charge again the mo- 
 ment that he found it expedient so to do. 
 
 The reiters, thinking him defeated and intimidated, pursued 
 him fiercely, and those on the right bank of the stream galloped 
 quickly on to cut him off from a retreat by the high road. But 
 the others immediately in front of him were surprised, and 
 somewhat astounded, to find that as soon as he perceived the 
 stream was deep enough, and the bank was high enough — if 
 not to prevent the other body of reiters from crossing, at all 
 events to embarrass and to delay them— the order was given to 
 the French troopers to charge, and the young Count and his 
 band came down upon them with a shock which scattered them 
 before him in an instant. 
 
 He was now, in turn, superior to that parly in numbers, and 
 knowing that not a moment was to be lost, he exerted every 
 energy of mind and body. With his own hand he struck the 
 commander from his horse, and urging on his men with all speed, 
 drove a number of the scattered parties over the banks into the 
 stream. Some escaped unhurt lo the other side, but in many 
 
MEJVRY|OF GUISE! 117 
 
 instances the horses fell, \u\ rolled over into the water with 
 their riders ; and in the mean time terrihle havoc was going on 
 amongst those who remained upon the hank. 
 
 The pistols and musketoons of the German soldiery had been 
 discharged in the first contest with his brother ; but the troops 
 of Logeres, charging with the lance, had still their fire-arms 
 loaded : and seeing that the struggle with the sword might be 
 protracted till the other party came up, the young commander 
 shouted loudly to his men to use their fire-arms. His voice was 
 heard even, in the midst of the strife ; and now mingled as the 
 two parties were with each other, the effect of the pistol was 
 terrible. A number of the enemy were killed and thrown from 
 their horses on the spot, a number were wounded, and unable 
 to continue the conflict, and the rest, seized with panic, were 
 living amain, when the other band, seeing the error that had 
 been committed, endeavoured to repair it by crossing the stream 
 and attacking Charles of Montsoreau in the rear. 
 
 Though they succeeded in their first object, it was with diffi- 
 culty and in disorder, some choosing one place, some, not liking 
 to venture too far, seeking a safer passage ; and heavily armed 
 as were both horses and men, the task was certainly one of great 
 danger. In the midst of the strife which he was carrying on, the. 
 young Count had not failed to watch eagerly, from time to time, 
 the movements of the party on the other bank. 
 
 The body immediately opposed to him was by this time com- 
 pletely routed, and in full flight 9 and wheeling his men to en- 
 counter the other, he calmly brought them once more into good 
 order, and led them to the charge. 
 
 But the leader of the enemy in that part of the field seeing 
 that he had come too late, and that his men were in no condition 
 to protract the struggle with success, was wise enough not to at- 
 tempt to play out a losing game. Giving orders for instant re- 
 treat, he kept a firm face to his adversary, till his men had reco- 
 vered from the disorder of crossing the water, and then marched 
 firmly up the bill, facing round every two or three minutes to re- 
 ceive the charge of the French troopers, and not suffering his 
 pace to be hurried, though he lost several men as he went. 
 
 The sight, however, of a group of peasantry, watching the 
 strife from a part of the road above, seemed to strike the reiters, 
 who probably mistook them for a fresh band of soldiers, with 
 panic and dismay. Their leader lost all command over them ; and 
 though he was seen in vain endeavouring to rally them, and keep 
 them in their ranks, they fled down the road at full speed, pur- 
 sued by Charles of Montsoreau and his band for some time, till 
 the coming on of night rendered it useless to protract the chase 
 any farther. 
 
118 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 The young officer then caused the recall to be sounded, and 
 turned his bridle rein towards the field where the skirmish had 
 taken place, in order both to ascertain what was the amount of 
 his own loss, and to give assistance to the wounded. He found a 
 number of peasants on the field; and though in all instances they 
 were giving the tenderest care and attention to the wounded 
 troopers of Logeres, there was too good reason to suspect that 
 the knife of the boor had been employed without mercy to end 
 the course of any of the wounded Germans who had fallen into 
 their hands. Only two were found alive upon the field, and it is 
 probable that they owed their lives to the return of Charles of 
 Montsoreau. 
 
 His own loss in persons actually killed was very slight, but a 
 number were severely wounded ; and in order to gain some as- 
 sistance for these poor men, it was necessary, of course, to pro- 
 ceed to the nearest town. On inquiring what that was, the pea- 
 santry replied that none was nearer than La Ferte sous Jouarre, 
 and thither the young Count bent his steps, as soon as some 
 litters and carriages could be procured to bear the wounded men . 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Night had fallen heavily over the world, ere Charles of Mont- 
 soreau and his party approached the town of La Ferte : but the 
 moon was coming out heavily from behind the clouds, and cast 
 a silvery radiance over all that part of the sky which lay behind 
 the heights of Jouarre, throwing out a part of the towers and 
 pinnacles of the old abbey in clear relief, as they rose above the 
 shoulder of the hill. 
 
 But there were other lights in the prospect of a different hue, 
 which not a little puzzled Charles of Montsoreau, as he rode on 
 at the head of his men. What seemed to be torches, by the red 
 and heavy glare they gave, were seen moving about fitfully 
 amongst the banks and vineyards on the heights, and, in a mi- 
 nute or two after, a horseman passed the young Count at full 
 speed. 
 
 He turned suddenly from the path, however, and plunged his 
 horse down the banks into the neighbouring meadow, as soon 
 as he saw the body of men at arms ; but though the young Count 
 judged it useless to pursue him, the faint light that was in the 
 sky was quite sufficient to enable him to judge that he belonged 
 to a part of the marauding band which had been defeated in the 
 morning. He concluded, naturally and rightly, that he was one 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 119 
 
 of those who had followed the party of his brother Gaspar, and 
 had probably pursued it towards Jouarre. A moment or two 
 after, the sound of coming horses again met his ear-, and or- 
 dering some of his men to advance, and cut off the way into the 
 meadow, he halted the rest of the troop, and waited in listening 
 expectation. 
 
 At the end of a few minutes, three more horsemen appeared, 
 and dashed into the very midst of the ambush that the young 
 Count had laid for them. 
 
 " Halt, and surrender ! " he cried in a loud tone, ordering his 
 men at the same time to close round them-, and the reiters, for 
 such indeed they were, finding escape impossible, yielded with- 
 out resistance. From them Charles of Montsoreau found that 
 his suspicions were true, and that they formed part of the band 
 which had pursued his brother towards La Ferte. He could 
 gain no further information, however, from the men he had ta- 
 ken, except that the Marquis had effected his retreat in safety, 
 and that a large body of armed burghers, coming out from La 
 Ferte, had forced the reiters to fly with all speed. 
 
 Having given the prisoners in charge to those who would not 
 lose sight of them, Charles of Montsoreau resumed his march ; 
 and, as his band approached La Ferte, their trumpet sang 
 cheerily out in the clear night, giving notice to the citizens of 
 the arrival of a friendly party. 
 
 The streets were now full of horses and people, the red light 
 of the torches flashing upon the eager and excited countenances 
 of those who had taken part in the affray, and, by the glare, 
 Charles of Montsoreau easily distinguished the chief inn, with a 
 number of horses held around the door, and a group of fifteen 
 or sixteen persons gathered together round one, in whom he at 
 once recognised his brother. 
 
 Perhaps Charles of Montsoreau had not any cause to be more 
 satisfied with that brother's conduct during the eventful day 
 which had just passed, than he had been with that which pre- 
 ceded his departure from Montsoreau. But fraternal affection 
 was strong at his heart, and halting his men in the market- 
 place, he rode up with the page and two or three others to gra- 
 tulate his brother, and ask how he fared after the perils he had 
 undergone. He was surprised, however, as he came near, to see 
 a heavy cloud lowering on the Marquis's brow, and his eyes 
 rolling with an expression both fierce and anxious. 
 
 "So, Charles of Montsoreau," he exclaimed in a loud harsh 
 tone, even before his brother could dismount, "so you have 
 come to render an account of your conduct this day, I trust, and 
 to explain away the treachery which is but too evident." 
 
 The young Count heard him with surprise, as may be well 
 
120 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 supposed ; but he saw that he was under the excitement of some 
 strong passion, and instantly dismounting from his horse, he 
 walked up to his brother through the crowd, holding out his 
 hand, and saying, " Gaspar, you are under some mistake. How 
 do you fare ? You shall explain to me what is the matter within." 
 
 But the Marquis put his hand angrily by, exclaiming, " I take 
 no hand stained with such treachery, even though it be my 
 brother's. I care not who sees or who hears. I suppose, Sir, 
 you have brought the Lady with you, whom you have contrived 
 to rescue once more, by first leading her into danger, that you 
 mis;ht then deliver her from it." 
 
 " I can hardly suppose you sane, Gaspar de Montsoreau," re- 
 plied his brother at length. "What danger have I led you or 
 any one else into? though you say true, when you say that I 
 have delivered you, even when you thought fit to give me no 
 assistance. But I ask again, What danger have I led you into, 
 or any one else ? What is it that you mean? " 
 
 " Pshaw! " exclaimed his brother, turning away with a look 
 of contempt, which was very hard to bear. " You had better 
 bring the Lady into the house, Sir, and let her take some repose-, 
 and if she be not altogether blinded, I will lake care to ex- 
 plain to her how all this day's brilliant achievements have been 
 brought about." 
 
 "In the name of God, Gaspar of Montsoreau ! " exclaimed 
 his brother, at length, " what is it that you mean ? What Lady? 
 W~here is Mademoiselle de Clairvaut? What madness has seized 
 upon you now ? " 
 
 Gaspar of Montsoreau took a step forward, till he almost 
 touched his brother, and demanded in a voice that was loud, but 
 that trembled with passion, " Did I not see your page, that very 
 page who is holding your horse now — that very page, who was 
 pointed out to me by one that knows him well, as your bought 
 bondsman — did I not see him— can you deny it? — did I not see 
 him with the reiters at the moment that they charged down the 
 hill upon us? And then I saw him by your side five minutes af- 
 ter, when you came pretending to assist us." 
 
 " The man's mad, or drunk ! " said the boy aloud ; but Charles 
 of Montsoreau turned upon him sharply, exclaiming, "Hush! 
 Pvemember, Sir, he is my brother! " 
 
 " I am sorry that he is, Sir," replied the boy. " He might see 
 me near the reiters, but he never saw me with them, for I had 
 been watching them for half an hour, concealed behind a great 
 mass of bushes, and not daring to stir for my very life, till I saw 
 them begin to ride down the hill, when I came out and galloped 
 as fast as I could to tell my noble Lord, and bring him up to at- 
 tack them. — Out upon it !— Pretending to help any one, when 
 
HENKY OF GUISE. 121 
 
 there is scarcely a man in the troop un wounded !— Out upon it ! 
 — Pretending to attack the reiters, when lie has well nigh cut 
 them to pieces, and not left two men together of the whole 
 hand ! " 
 
 The hoy spoke loud and indignantly, and at the joylul news of 
 the marauders being cut to pieces, a glad shout hurst from the 
 town's people, who had gathered round, listening with no small 
 surprise to the dispute between the two brothers. 
 
 "For Heaven's sake, Caspar," said Charles of Montsoreau, 
 "govern your feelings for a few minutes. I am here on the 
 service of 4he noble Duke of Cuise, and set out from Logeres 
 only three days ago. I had heard of the reiters by the way, and 
 determined to fight them if I met them. The first moment that 
 1 saw or had any communication with them— on my honour 
 and on my soul! — was that "when I ordered my men to level 
 their lances, and charge them in the flank. You have nothing lo 
 do but either to look at the banks of the stream, where they lay 
 by dozens, to speak to the prisoners 1 have brought in, or to take 
 one glance into those litters and those carts that carry my own 
 wounded, to show you that it was no feigned strife, as you have 
 wildly fancied, that went on between us. And now believing 
 this, and feeling that you have done me wrong, tell me where is 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, for your words alarm and agitate me 
 concerning her? Where is she, Caspar? I say where is she?" 
 
 " I know not," said the Marquis, turning sullenly away, " I 
 know not, Charles. In the last charge of the reiters, which 
 happened nearly at night-fall, they drove us beyond the carriage, 
 and I have seen no more of her. The Abbe, however, was with 
 her, and he has not come up either-, two or three of the men, 
 too, were there." 
 
 " Bring up the prisoners," exclaimed Charles of Montsoreau, 
 with a degree of agony of mind that it is impossible to conceive. 
 " These men can give us information, for we took them on the 
 road just now. — Bring up those prisoners." 
 
 With their arms tied, and their heads uncovered, the three 
 Germans, who had endeavoured, as was customary with many 
 of their bands, to make themselves look as fierce and terrible as 
 possible, by suffering their hair and beards to grow in confused 
 and tangled masses, were now brought before the young com- 
 mander; and gazing sternly upon them, he said, " You are here 
 not as fair and open enemies, but as plunderers and marauders, 
 after the generals who brought you here have retreated from 
 the land, and entered into a treaty with the King of this country. 
 Your only way, then, of obtaining any portion of mercy is, by 
 answering the questions 1 am going to ask you distinctly and 
 truly, for if I catch the slightest wavering or falsehood in yum 
 
122 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 replies, I will have you shot one by one within the next five 
 minutes, as a just punishment for the crimes that you have com- 
 mitted." 
 
 His words seemed to make little or no impression upon men 
 accustomed to the daily contemplation of death. They all seemed 
 to understand him, however, though it was with difficulty that 
 they answered him in his own language, mingling German with 
 French, so as to render it nearly unintelligible. 
 
 " We will tell you the truth to be sure," replied one of the 
 men. " What should we tell you a lie for? All that ought to 
 be lied about you know already ; so we can do no harm by telling 
 you the truth, and may do our own throats harm by telling you 
 a lie. Hundred thousand.' Ask your questions, and you shall 
 have truth." 
 
 It was in vain, however, that Charles of Montsoreau ques- 
 tioned the man sternly and strictly in regard to what had become 
 of Marie de Clairvaut , and those who were with her. It was 
 evident that he knew nothing. He admitted that they had 
 driven the party of the Marquis beyond the carriage, and had 
 passed it themselves in the eagerness of pursuit 5 but the sudden 
 appearance of the armed burghers of La Ferte had caused them, 
 he said, to retreat in great haste, and in separate parties. ' He 
 and those who were with him had not taken the same road by 
 which they came, and had seen nothing of the carriage. 
 
 This information, though so scanty, afforded Charles of Mont- 
 soreau a hope. "If the road," he exclaimed eagerly, "on 
 which these men were captured, is not the same on which the 
 carriage was left, it may still be there, and Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut safe." 
 
 But his brother shook his head with an air of sullen grief and 
 despair. "No!" he said, "No, the carriage is not there! I 
 have been out myself to seek it, and have passed the spot. Not 
 a trace of it was to be seen, and I only returned when I heard 
 your trumpets, believing that you were bringing in your prize 
 in triumph." 
 
 " You have learnt, Gaspar," said his brother, " I know not why 
 or how, to do me sad injustice. However, it is the duty of both 
 of us not to close an eye till we have discovered what has become 
 of the young Lady whom you undertook to conduct in safety 
 till she was under the protection of her relations." 
 
 " I see not how it is your duty, Charles," replied his brother, 
 sharply. " I, as you say, undertook to conduct her, and there- 
 fore it is my duty ; but you, it seems to me, have nothing to do 
 with it." 
 
 " It is my duty, Gaspar," replied his brother, " as a gentle- 
 man, and as a man of honour } and it is also my duty as an at- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 123 
 
 tached friend of the Duke of Guise; so that I shall seek for her 
 this very instant. Let us both to horse again ; let us obtain 
 guides who know the country well. You take one circuit, 1 will 
 take another ; and as there is now no farther fear of any attacks 
 from the reiters, we can suffer the greater part of our men to 
 repose, and meeting here in the morning, report to each other 
 what we have done and concert together what steps are farther 
 to be taken. — And oh, Gaspar," he continued, "let us, I 
 beseech you, let us act together in a brotherly spirit ; do justice 
 to my motives and intentions, for they have been all what is kind 
 and brotherly towards yourself." 
 
 " Doubtless," said the Marquis of Montsoreau, with one of 
 those bitter sneers, which the determination of persisting in 
 wrong too often supplies to the uncandid and ungenerous : 
 " doubtless your motives and intentions were good and bro- 
 therly, when the first thing that you did after learning from 
 the Abbe de Boisguerin my feelings, wishes, and hopes, was 
 instantly to seek the Duke of Guise for the purpose of prepos- 
 sessing him in your favour, and against my suit." 
 
 V In this, as in all else, you do me wrong, Gaspar," replied 
 his brother; " and so you will find it when you see the Duke : 
 but I cannot pause to explain all this. We lose time, precious 
 and invaluable.— Gondrin, call out ten of our freshest and best 
 mounted men. Let surgeons be obtained immediately to dress 
 the wounds of the hurt, and tell Alain and Mortier to provide 
 for the comfort and refreshment of the rest, according to the 
 orders I gave them as we came along. Take this German with 
 us, as a sure guide to show us the spot where the carriage was 
 last seen. If I might advise you, Gaspar, you will go round 
 under Jouarre, and stretch out till you reach Montreuil. The 
 carriage cannot have passed the Marne except by this bridge, so 
 that " 
 
 " I shall follow my own plan, Charles of Montsoreau," said 
 the Marquis sullenly, " I want not an instructor as well as a 
 rival in my younger brother." And thus saying, he turned away 
 to give his own orders to some of those who surrounded him. 
 
 In the mean time his brother remounted his horse in haste ; 
 and, followed by Gondrin, and the ten men who had been se- 
 lected, he set out upon his search. That search, however, proved 
 utterly vain. No tidings whatsoever of Marie de Clairvaut, or 
 those who accompanied her, were to be obtained ; the peasantry, 
 in terror of the reiters, had kept all their cottages closed and de- 
 fended as best they could ; and, with few if any of them, Charles 
 of Montsoreau could open a communication, as every door that 
 they applied to was shut, and in general nothing but sullen si- 
 lence was relumed to his application for admittance or informa- 
 
124 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 lion. In the few instances where the sound of his voice, speaking 
 in the French tongue, obtained for him any answer, the reply 
 was still the same, that they had kept all closed, from fear of the 
 reiters, and had neither seen nor heard of any one passing since 
 nightfall. 
 
 With horses and men wearied and exhausted by their fruitless 
 search, and with his own brow aching, and his heart sad and 
 anxious, Charles of Montsoreau returned towards daybreak to 
 the town of La Ferte. His brother, he found, had arrived some 
 time before him, and had retired to rest without waiting for his 
 arrival. The young nobleman argued from that fact, that though 
 the Marquis had not absolutely brought back the carriage with 
 him to La Ferte, he must have obtained some satisfactory in- 
 telligence concerning it ; and, unbuckling his arms, without, 
 however, casting off the dress he wore beneath, he cast himself 
 down co rest in the apartment which had been prepared for him. 
 Though much fatigued, however, and with a mind and body 
 both exhausted by all the events and anxieties of the day, sleep 
 refused to visit his eyelids. His busy thoughts turned to every 
 painful theme that memory could supply from the past, or des- 
 pondency call up out of the future ; and finding that it was in 
 vain to seek repose at that moment, he approached the deep 
 casement, threw open the window, and gazed out into the 
 market-square, which lay directly beneath his apartments. 
 
 The morning was advancing brightly ; the spring sunshine 
 sparkling down the principal[street, through an opening in which 
 the Marne was seen flowing gaily on, with the open country 
 rising up behind. The little market-cross was surrounded by the 
 carts and litters in which he had brought in the wounded men, 
 and some of the early townsmen were already seen walking 
 hither and thither, while peasants and country-women in gay 
 dresses came in one by one, now driving a horse or an ass 
 loaded with the produce of their farms, now bearing the whole 
 of their little store in a basket on their shoulders or their arm. 
 Most of them paused to consider and to comment upon the array 
 of vehicles round the cross, talking in a low voice, as if fearful 
 of breaking the stillness of the morning hour. The scene was 
 calm, and quiet, and soothing; and feeling tranquilised after 
 gazing at it for some minutes, the young Count again turned 
 to his couch, and wooed the blessing of slumber not now in vain. 
 He slept profoundly, and might have gone on for many hours, 
 had he not been awakened about nine o'clock by the page Ignati 
 pulling him by the arm. 
 
 " What is the matter, Ignati?" he cried, starting up. " You 
 seem in haste and agitated." 
 
 ". Your brother is on horseback, and setting out," cried the 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 125 
 
 boy ; " and he has learned tidings of the Lady, which will fit ill 
 with your wishes or those of the Duke.'' 
 
 "What tidings, Ignati?" exclaimed the young Count eagerly. 
 " Quick boy, do not keep me in suspense." 
 
 "See your brother, and he will tell you," said the boy. "If 
 he does not, I will. But, quick, or he will be away, run down 
 at once, even as you are." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau hastened towards the door, dressed as 
 he was in the buff coat which he wore beneath his armour 5 and 
 from the stairs heard sounds that hastened all his movements. 
 There was, the trampling of horses, and the noise of many 
 tongues in the court-yard, but above all the voice of his brother, 
 ordering his men as if for instant departure. 
 
 When he reached the foot of the staircase, which led into 
 the great court of the inn, he found that those sounds had not 
 deceived him. Gaspar de Montsoreau was on horseback, with 
 his men drawn up in line ready to depart ; and a cart containing 
 two or three wounded men, and all the baggage which had not 
 fallen into the hands of the reiters, was in the act of issuing 
 forth through the archway into the market-place. There was 
 an air of eager and somewhat scornful triumph on the face of 
 the Marquis de Montsoreau 5 and, at the very moment of the 
 young Count's appearance, he was turning to speak with a well- 
 dressed cavalier by his side, whom his brother had never be- 
 fore beheld. 
 
 As soon as the eyes of the two brothers met, the Marquis 
 exclaimed aloud, in a scoffing tone, addressing his new com- 
 panion, "Ha, Monsieur de Colombel! By Heaven here comes 
 my good young brother of Logeres! We must put spurs to our 
 horses and ride quick, for he has taken service, it seems, with 
 the Duke of Guise— commands a band of stout men-at-arms, 
 enough to overpower us here — and may think fit to arrest us 
 on the spot, if he finds that we are not of the same party as 
 himself. He is not one to be stopped by brotherly love or con- 
 sideration, I can assure you." 
 
 "Nay!" replied the cavalier whom he addressed, speaking 
 with a courtly but significant smile, " the Duke of Guise is 
 King Henry's dear friend and faithful cousin, and professes 
 every sort of reverence for the crown of France." 
 
 The whole of this was spoken, as Charles of Montsoreau ad- 
 vanced towards them, with an evident intention that, he should 
 hear it; but he took not the slightest notice, and walking up 
 calmly to the side of his brother's horse, he said, " This is not 
 kind of you, Gaspar, to quit the place thus early, without giving 
 me an opportunity of explaining to you things which you have 
 misinterpreted and taken amiss." 
 
126 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " As you said to me last night, Charles," replied his brother, 
 "I have not time for long explanations now; every minute is 
 precious and invaluable. You can write to me if you have any 
 thing to explain." 
 
 "You will inform meat least then," said his brother, "whe- 
 ther you have obtained any news of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, 
 and where she is." 
 
 "lam in haste! I am in haste, good brother! "replied the 
 Marquis, " and can only wait to tell you that she is in safe 
 hands and well, which must be enough to satisfy you." 
 
 " Not quite," answered Charles of Montsoreau. " As I am 
 now upon my way to meet the Duke of Guise, and shall most 
 likely reach him before you do, it will be but courteous of you 
 to send him some fuller information regarding a Lady so nearly 
 connected with himself." 
 
 "If you do not reach him before I do," replied his brother 
 with a grim smile, "you and he will be long parted from each 
 other, my good brother-, and as to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, 
 she is in safe hands, and well be will taken care of. Fare you 
 well, my brother. Now march, my men ! " And without wait- 
 ing for any other reply, he shook his bridle and rode out of the 
 court. 
 
 The patience of Charles of Montsoreau was nearly at an end, 
 and he paused, gazing upon the ground for a minute or two, 
 before he could overcome the pain and indignation that he felt. 
 He then turned to his own chamber again, beckoning to the boy 
 Ignati who was still upon the stairs, to follow him thither. 
 
 "Now, Ignati," he said, " What is the meaning of all this? 
 You have probably heard all that has passed. Give me what in- 
 formation you can, without loss of time." 
 
 "This is all that I know," replied the boy 5 " but it is enough. 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, the Lady whom you were asking 
 about last night, has met with a party of the King's troops 
 which had been sent against the reiters, and has by them been 
 carried to Chateau Thierry, whence she sent that cavalier whom 
 you saw with your brother, to tell him what had become of her. 
 All those facts I heard the cavalier himself relate : but from the 
 page he brought with him, who was in the room, or at least at 
 the door, when his master and the Marquis were speaking, I 
 gathered, that this Monsieur de Colombel — by the advice of 
 some priest who accompanied Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, I 
 know not whom— has persuaded your brother to join the party 
 of the Ring, telling him that Henry would certainly hold Ma- 
 demoiselle de Clairvaut as a hostage, for the Duke's good con- 
 duct, and would most likely bestow her upon any one he 
 thought fit." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 127 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau pressed his hand firmly upon his 
 brow for two or three minutes. He had been learning for some 
 time those dark and painful lessons of human nature which 
 come so bitterly to a noble and a generous heart, when first the 
 world, the contentions of self-interest, and the strife of passion, 
 teaches us how few, how very few, there are who have any 
 thought or motive in all their actions but the mean ungenerous 
 ones of self — those bitter lessons which fix upon mature life the 
 sad, the dark, the horrible companionship of doubt and sus- 
 picion. 
 
 " Can I," he muttered, speaking to himself, "can I have been 
 mistaken in the Abbe de Boisguerin? Can I have trusted, and 
 believed, and reverenced, where neither trust, nor belief, nor 
 reverence was due? — It cannot be! No, it cannot be!" And 
 after thinking again over all that the page had said, he added 
 aloud, " The King's troops at Chateau Thierry !— The Duke at 
 Gonesse! — We must lose no time, but get to Montigny as 
 speedily as possible." 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 All was bustle round the door of the little inn of Montigny ; 
 twenty or thirty horses employed the hands and attention of as 
 many grooms and stable-boys; and while they put their heads 
 together, and talked over the perfections or imperfections of the 
 beasts they held, sixty or seventy respectable citizens, the great 
 cloth merchant, and the wholesale dealer in mill-stones, the 
 cure of the little town, the bailiff of the high-justiciary, the 
 ironmonger, the grocer, and the butcher, stood in knots on the 
 outside, discussing more important particulars than the ap- 
 pearance of the horses. The sign of the inn was the Croix de 
 Lorraine, and the name of the Duke of Guise was frequently 
 heard mingling in the conversation of the people round the 
 door. 
 
 " A great pity," cries one, " that his Highness does not stay 
 here the night." 
 
 " Some say that the King's troops are pursuing him," replied 
 another. 
 
 " Sure enough he came at full speed," said a third; " but I 
 heard his people talk about the reiters." 
 
 " Oh, we would protect him against the reiters," cried one of 
 the bold citizens of Montigny. 
 
 " Well," said another, " if he be likely to bring the reiters 
 
128 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 upon us, I think his Highness very wise to go. How could we 
 defend an open town? and he has not twenty men behind 
 him." 
 
 " I will tell you something, my masters," said another, with 
 an air of importance, and a low bow : — " When my boy was 
 over towards Monlreuil to-night, he heard a report of the reiters 
 having been defeated near Gandelu." 
 
 "Oh, nonsense!" replied the courageous burgher; "who 
 should defeat them if the Duke was not there?" 
 
 "But hark!" cried another, "I hear trumpets, as I live. 
 Now, if these should he the King's troops we will defend the 
 Duke at the peril of our lives. But let us look out and see." 
 
 " Come up to my windows," cried one. 
 
 " Go up the tower of the church," said the cure. 
 
 But another remarked that the sounds did not come from the 
 side of Paris ; and in a minute or two after, a well dressed citizen 
 like themselves rode gaily in amongst them, jumped from his 
 horse, threw up his cap in the air, and exclaimed, " Long life 
 to the Duke of Guise. The reiters have been cut to pieces! " 
 
 " What is that you say, young man ? " exclaimed a voice from 
 one of the windows of the inn above; and looking up, the 
 citizen saw a young and gay-looking man sitting in the open 
 casement, and leaning out with his arm round the iron bar that 
 ran up the centre. 
 
 " I said, my Lord," replied the man, " that the reiters have 
 been cut to pieces, and I saw the troops that defeated them bring 
 in the wounded and prisoners last night into La Ferte." 
 
 "Ventre bleu! This is news indeed," cried the other; and 
 instantly turning, he quitted the window and advanced into the 
 room. 
 
 While this conversation had been going on without, a quick 
 conference had been going on between the personages whose 
 horses were held without. The chamber in which they were 
 assembled was an upstairs' room, with two beds in two several 
 corners, and a table in the midst covered with a clean white 
 table-cloth, and ornamented in the centre with a mustard-pot, a 
 salt-seller, and a small bottle of vinegar, while four or five spoons 
 were ranged around. 
 
 At the side of the table appeared the Duke of Guise, dining 
 with as good an appetite off a large piece of unsalted boiled beef, 
 as off any of the fine stews and salmis of his cook Maitre La- 
 necque. Five or six other gentlemen were around, diligently 
 employed in the same occupation ; and one who had finished 
 two bowls of soup at a place where they had previously stopped, 
 now declaring that he had no appetite, had taken his seat in the 
 window. The servants of the Duke and of his companions were 
 
HENRY OK GUISE. 129 
 
 at dinner below, and the landlord himself was excluded from 
 the room, that dining and consultation might go on at the same 
 time. 
 
 " It is most unfortunate," said the Duke of Guise, as soon 
 as he had seated himself at the table, " it is most unfortunate 
 that this youth has not kept his word with me. Our horses and 
 men are both fatigued to death •, and yet, after what happened 
 the other day at Mareuil, it would be madness to remain here 
 all night with only twenty horsemen." 
 
 " You have got timid, fair cousin," replied one of the gentle- 
 men present. " We shall have you wrapping yourself up in a 
 velvet gown, and setting up a confrcrie, in imitation of our ex- 
 cellent, noble, and manly king." 
 
 The Duke was habitually rash enough to be justified in 
 laughing at the charge, and he replied, " It is on your account, 
 my pretty cousin, that I fear the most. You know what the 
 reiters have sworn to do with you, if they catch you." 
 
 " It is most unfortunate indeed," said an older and a graver 
 man ; " most unfortunate, that this Count de Logeres should 
 have deceived you. It might have been better, perhaps, to trust 
 to some more tried and experienced friend." 
 
 " Oh, you do him wrong, Laval; you do him wrong," replied 
 the Duke. " It is neither want of faith or good will, I can be 
 sworn. Some accident, such as may happen to any of us, has 
 detained him. I am very anxious about him, and somewhat re- 
 proach myself for having made him march with only half his 
 numbers. Had his whole band been with him, he might have 
 made head against the reiters, if he met with them. Tmt now he 
 has less than half their reputed number. Nevertheless," he con- 
 tinued, " his absence is, as you say, most unfortunate; for — 
 with these Germans on our left, and the movements of Henry's 
 Swiss upon our right — they might catch us as the Gascons do 
 wild ducks, in the net, through the meshes of which we have 
 been foolish enough to thrust our own heads. I pray thee, 
 Brissac, go down to mine host of the house, and gather together 
 some of the notable men of the place, to see if we cannot by any 
 means purchase horses to carry us on. Who are you speaking 
 to, Aumale?" he continued, raising his voice, and addressing the 
 youth who sat in the window. 
 
 "Good news, good news!" cried the young man springing 
 down, and coming forward into the room. " The reiters have 
 been cut to pieces near Gandelu. There is a fellow below who 
 has seen the victorious troops, and the wounded and the pri- 
 soners." 
 
 " My young falcon for a thousand crowns!" cried the Duke 
 of Guise. " If that be the case, we shall soon hear more of him. 
 
 9 
 
130 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Hark ! are not those trumpets ? Yet go out, Brissac ; go out. 
 We must not suffer ourselves to be surprised whatever we do, 
 Aumale, have the horses ready. If they should prove the Swiss, 
 we must march out at the one gate while they march in at the 
 other." 
 
 But at that moment Brissac, who had run down at a word, 
 and was by this time in the street, held up his hand to one of 
 the others who was looking out of the window, exclaiming, 
 " Crosses of Lorraine, crosses of Lorraine! A gallant body of 
 some fifty spears ; but all crosses of Lorraine.' — Ay, and 1 can 
 see the arms of Montsoreau and Logeres! All is right, tell the 
 Duke 5 all is right!" And thus saying he advanced along the 
 street to meet the troops that were approaching. 
 
 The Duke of Guise, who had risen from the table, seated 
 himself again quietly, drew a deep breath as a man relieved from 
 some embarrassment, and filling the glass that stood beside 
 him, half lull of the good small wine of Beaugency, rested his 
 head upon his hand, and remained in thought for several 
 minutes. 
 
 While he remained in this meditative mood the sounds of the 
 trumpets became louder and louder ; the trampling of horses' 
 feet were heard before the inn, and then was given, in a loud 
 tone, the order to halt. Several of the companions of the Duke 
 had gone down stairs to witness the arrival of the troops, and in 
 a minute or two after, feet were heard coming up, and the Duke 
 turned his head to welcome the young Count on his arrival. He 
 was somewhat surprised, however, to see an old white-headed 
 man, who had doffed his steel cap to enter the Duke's presence, 
 come in between Brissac and Laval, and make him a low incli- 
 nation of the head. 
 
 " Who are you, my good friend?" demanded the Duke. "And 
 where is the young Count of Logeres?" 
 
 " I know not, your Highness," replied the other. " I am the 
 Count's seneschal, and expected to find him here. He set off 
 four days ago with one half of his men, commanding me to 
 join him at Montigny with the rest, as soon as their arms ar- 
 rived from Rhetel. They came sooner than we expected, so I 
 followed him the day after." 
 
 "Then is it to you, my worthy old friend," said the Duke, 
 " that the country is obliged for the defeat of this band of ma- 
 rauders?" 
 
 " No, your Highness," replied the old man bluntly. "I have 
 not had the good fortune to meet with any thing to defeat, 
 though, indeed, we heard of something of the kind this morn- 
 ing as we passed by Grisolles." 
 
 " I hope the news is true," said the Duke j " I have heard of 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 131 
 
 many a victory in my day, where it turned out that the victors 
 were vanquished ; and I hear that these reiters numbered from 
 a hundred to a hundred and fifty men. How many had your 
 Lord with him, good seneschal?" 
 
 " He had fifty-one men at arms, " replied the old soldier 
 "besides some lackeys and a page; and some men leading 
 horses with the baggage he could not do without." 
 
 " I shall not be easy till I hear more of him," said the Duke, 
 walking up and down the room. ' k However, your coming, 
 good seneschal, will enable us to make good this place against 
 any force that may be brought against it. Quick, send me up 
 the aubergiste. We must despatch some one to bring us in 
 intelligence : and now, good seneschal, rest and refresh your 
 horses, get your men some food, and have every thing ready 
 to put foot in stirrup again at a moment's notice ; for if we find 
 that your Lord has fallen into the hands of these reiters, we 
 must mount to deliver him. Let their numbers be what they 
 may, Henry of Guise cannot make up his mind to leave a 
 noble friend in the hands of the foemen." 
 
 " We are all ready this minute, my Lord," replied the old 
 seneschal. " There is not a man of Logeres who is not ready 
 to ride forty miles, and fight two reiters this very night in de- 
 fence of his Lord." 
 
 " The old cock's not behind the young one," said the Che- 
 valier d'Aumale to Brissac. But the Duke of Guise overruled 
 the zealous eagerness of the old soldier ; and as soon as the 
 aubergiste appeared, directed him to send off a boy in the di- 
 rection of Montreuil and La Ferte, in order to gain intelligence 
 of the movements of the Count de Logeres, and to ascertain 
 whether the report of the defeat oS the reiters was correct or 
 not. His own horses he ordered now to be unsaddled, and 
 casting off his corselet, gave himself up to repose for the 
 evening. 
 
 During the next hour, or hour and a half, manifold were 
 the reports which reached the town concerning the conflict 
 which had taken place between the Count of Logeres and the 
 reiters on the preceding evening. All sorts of stories were told : 
 every peasant that brought in a basket of apples had his own 
 version of the affair-, and the accounts were the most opposite, 
 as well as the most various. The Duke of Guise, however, 
 was too much accustomed to sifting the various rumours of 
 the day, not to be able to glean some true information from the 
 midst of these conflicting statements. It seemed clear to him 
 that the reiters had been defeated, and without having any very 
 certain cause for his belief, he felt convinced that Charles of 
 Montsoreau was already upon his way towards Montigny. 
 
132 HBNRY OF OUFSE. 
 
 . " Come/' lie added, after expressing these opinions to the 
 Chevalier d'Aumale, " we must at least give our young cham- 
 pion a good meal on his arrival. See to it, Brissac; see to it. 
 You, who are a connoisseur in such things, deal with our 
 worthy landlord of the Cross, and see if he cannot procure 
 something for supper more dianty than he gave us for dinner." 
 "The poor man was taken by surprise," replied Brissac; 
 " but since he heard that you were to remain here, there has 
 been such a cackling and screaming in the court-yard, and 
 such a riot in the dovecot, that I doubt not all the luxuries 
 of Montigny will be poured forth this night upon the table." 
 
 In less than an hour after this order was given, the arrival 
 of fresh horses was heard ; and Laval, who went to the window, 
 announced, that as well as he could see through the increasing 
 darkness, for it was now night, this new party consisted only 
 of five or six persons. In a few minutes, however, the door 
 was thrown open by the aubergiste, and Charles of Montsoreau 
 himself appeared, dusty with the march, and with but few traces 
 of triumph or satisfaction on his countenance. 
 
 " What, my young hero! " cried the Duke, rising and tak- 
 ing him by the hand ; " you look as gloomy as if you had suf- 
 fered a defeat, rather than gained a victory. Are the tidings 
 which we have heard not true then, or are they exaggerated? 
 If you have even brought off your forces safe from the reiters., 
 that is a great thing, so overmatched as you were." 
 
 " It is not that, your Highness," replied Charles of Mont- 
 soreau : " the numbers were not very disproportionate, but the 
 reiters have certainly suffered a complete rout, and I do not 
 think that they will ever meet in a body again. They lost a 
 good many men on the field, and I fear Ihe peasantry have 
 murdered all the wounded." 
 
 "So much the better," cried the chevalier d'Aumale-, "so 
 much the better. One could have done nothing with them but 
 hang them. 1 ' 
 
 " I fear then," said the Duke of Guise, addressing the Count, 
 " I fear then that your own loss has been severe by the gloom- 
 iness of your countenance, Logeres." 
 
 "There are a good many severely wounded, Sir," replied 
 the Count; "but very few killed. This, however, is not the 
 cause of my vexation, which I must explain to your Highness 
 alone. I have, however, to apologise to you for not being here 
 last night, as I fully intended. I did not go to seek the reiters, 
 but fell in with them accidentally, and after the skirmish I was 
 forced to turn towards La Ferle instead of coming here, in 
 order to get surgeons to my wounded men. I find, however, 
 Sir," he continued, " that my good old seneschal has made 
 
UliNRY OF GUISE. 138 
 
 more speed than his master, and has arrived here with his 
 hand before me. 1 must go and take order for the. comfort of 
 my people, and prepare lodging for the rest who are coming 
 up, for I rode on at all speed as soon as I met with the mes- 
 senger whom you had sent out to seek me. After that I will 
 return and crave a few minutes' audience of your Grace alone." 
 " Come hack to supper, dear friend," replied the Duke ; " we 
 must let our gay friends now sup with us ; but then we will drive 
 them to their beds, and hold solitary council together, and he 
 not long Logeres, for you need both refreshment and repose." 
 When the young Count returned to the apartments of the 
 Duke, after he had seen the rest of his troop arrive, and had 
 taken every measure to secure the comfort of the men under his 
 command, he found that Prince standing in one of the deep 
 windows speaking in a low tone with the pagelgnati, while his 
 own oflicers were gathered together in the window on the other 
 side. 
 
 The Duke instantly took him by the hand as he approached, 
 and said in a low but kindly tone, " You see I have been ques- 
 tioning the spy I set upon you, Logeres, and he has let me into 
 a number of your secrets-, but you must not be angry with him 
 on that account, for Henry of Guise will not abuse the trust. 
 Come, let us sit down to table, and we will afterwards find an 
 opportunity of talking over all these affairs. You have acted nobly 
 and gallantly, my young friend, and have served your country 
 while you benefited me. For your brother's conduct you are not 
 responsible : but I think this morning's events, if the boy speaks 
 correctly, must bar your tongue from speaking his praises for 
 the future." 
 " Indeed, my Lord," exclaimed the young Count, " my 
 
 brother may " 
 
 " Hush! hush!" cried the Duke. " There is nothing sits so 
 ill upon the lips of a noble-hearted man as an excuse for bad ac- 
 tions, either in himself or others. It is false generosity, Charles 
 of Montsoreau, to say the least of it. But let us to table. Come, 
 Aumale. See ! our good Aubergiste looks reproachfully at you 
 for letting his fragrant ragouts grow cold. Come, we will to 
 meat, gentlemen. Sit down, sit down. We will have no cere- 
 mony here at the Cross of Lorraine." 
 
 Thus saying, the Duke seated himself at table, and the rest 
 look their places around. The supper proved better than had 
 been expected, and wine and good appetites supplied the place 
 of all deficiencies. The Chevalier d'Aumale indeed had every 
 now and then a light jest at some of the various dishes : he de- 
 clared that a certain capon had blunted iiis dagger, and asked 
 Charles of Montsoreau whether it was not tougher than a ve- 
 
134 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 teran reiter. He declared that a matelote d'anguille which was 
 placed before him, had a strong flavour of a hedge 5 but added, 
 that as his own appetite was viperous, he must get through it 
 as best he might. He was not without a profane jest either, upon 
 a dish of pigeons 5 but though he addressed the greater part of 
 these gaily to the young Count de Logeres, he could hardly 
 wring a smile from one who in former days would have laughed 
 with the best, but whose heart was now anxiously occupied with 
 many a bitter feeling. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau was eager, too, that the meal should 
 be over, for he longed for that private communication with the 
 Duke which weighed upon his mind in anticipation. He felt that 
 it would be difficult to exculpate his brother ; and yet, in pursu- 
 ance of his own high resolutions, he longed to do so : and then 
 again he eagerly hoped that the powerful prince beside whom he 
 sat would find some means of delivering Marie de Clairvaut from 
 the hands into which she had fallen 5 and yet he feared, from all 
 he heard and saw, that that deliverance might be difficult and 
 remote. 
 
 Thus the banquet passed somewhat cheerlessly to him ; and it 
 was not very much enlivened by a little incident which happened 
 towards the close of supper, when the landlord, who had come 
 into the room followed by a man dressed in the garb of a surgeon, 
 whispered something in the Duke's ear which called his atten- 
 tion immediately. 
 
 " How many did you say?" demanded the Duke. 
 
 " Only two at present, your Highness," replied the surgeon ; 
 " but three more sinking, I think." 
 
 " All in the same house ? " said the Duke. 
 
 " No my Lord, in different houses," replied the man ; " but 
 near the same spot." 
 
 " The only thing to be done," replied the Duke, " is to draw 
 a barrier across the end of that street, and mark the houses with 
 a white cross." 
 
 " What is the matter, your Highness?" said Laval, from the 
 other end of the table. 
 
 " Oh, nothing," replied the Duke of Guise, " only a few cases 
 of the plague ; and because it was very bad last autumn at Mor- 
 fontaine, the people here have got into a fright." 
 
 The Duke of Guise concluded his supper as lightly and gaily 
 as if nothing had happened, for his mind had become so accus- 
 tomed to deal with and to contemplate things of great moment, 
 that they made not that impression upon him which they do 
 upon those whose course is laid in a smoother and evener path. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau, however, could not feel in the same 
 way. "War and pestilence!" he thought, "bloodshed and 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 136 
 
 death ! These are the common every-day ideas of men in this 
 unhappy country, now. Perhaps famine may he added some day 
 soon, and yet there will he light laughter, and merriment, and 
 jest. Well, let it be so, Why should we cast away enjoyment 
 because it can but be small? Life is at best but made up of che- 
 quered visions : let us enjoy the bright ones while we may, and 
 make the dark ones short if we can." 
 
 While he thus thought, the Duke of Guise whispered a word 
 or two to the Count of Brissac, and that gentleman nodded to 
 Laval. Shortly after, both rose ; and, with an air of affected un- 
 willingness,' the Chevalier d'Aumale followed their example. The 
 two or three other gentlemen who had partaken of the meal, but 
 who either from inferior situation or natural taciturnity had 
 mingled but little in the conversation, left the table at the same 
 time, and accompanied the others out of the room, so that the 
 Duke cf Guise and the young Count were left alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The weak-minded and the vulgar are cowed by the aspect 
 of high station } the humble in mind, and the moderate in talent, 
 are subdued by high genius, and bend lowly to the majesty of 
 mind ; the powerful, the firm, and the elevated spring up to 
 meet their like, and with them there is nothing earthly that can 
 overawe but a consciousness of evil in themselves, or a sensa- 
 tion of abasement for those they love. 
 
 Such was the case with Charles of Montsoreau, who undoubt- 
 edly was a man of high and powerful mind. He was in his 
 first youth, it is true ; he had no great or intimate knowledge 
 of the world, except that knowledge of the world which, in a 
 few rare instances, comes as it were by intuition. He had been 
 bred up from his youth in love and admiration for the princes of 
 the House of Lorraine, and especially of Henry, Duke of Guise ; 
 and yet, when he had met him for the first time, and recognised 
 him at once in the inn at Mareuil, he felt no diffidence — no 
 alarm. Nor had this confidence in himself any thing whatsoever 
 to do with conceit : he thought not of himself for a moment ; 
 he thought only of the Duke of Guise and his situation, and 
 impulse guided by habit did the rest. Seeing that the Duke had 
 assumed an inferior character, he treated him accordingly ; and 
 acting as nature dictated to him, he acted right. 
 
 Neither, at Pdieims, when the Duke appeared surrounded by 
 pomp and splendour, did the young nobleman feel differently. 
 
136 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 He paid every tribute of external reverence to the Prince's sta- 
 tion and high renown •, but he conferred with him upon equal 
 terms, feeling that if in mind he was not absolutely equal to that 
 great leader, he was competent to appreciate his character, and 
 was not inferior to him in elevation of thought and purpose. 
 
 But now, how changed were all his feelings, when, sitting by 
 one whom he venerated and respected— more than perhaps was 
 deserved— he had to discuss with him the painful subject of a 
 brother's errors, and torture imagination to find excuses which 
 judgment would not ratify? He sat humiliated, and pained, and 
 hesitating : he knew not what to say, and he felt that any thing 
 he could say was vain. 
 
 For a few minutes after the rest of the party quitted the 
 room, the Duke of Guise remained silent, sometimes gazing 
 down, as was his habit, upon his clasped hands, sometimes 
 raising his eyes for a single moment to the countenance of his 
 young companion. He seemed to feel for him, indeed ; and when 
 he did speak, led the conversation to the subject gradually and 
 delicately. 
 
 " Well, my dear Count," he said, " let us speak of this affair 
 of the reiters. You made me as many excuses but now, for de- 
 feating our enemies, as if you had let them defeat you. Such 
 gallant actions are easily pardoned, Logeres ; and if you but 
 proceed to commit many such faults, Henry of Navarre and 
 Henry of Guise had both need look to their renown. There was 
 a third Henry once," he continued, half closing his eyes, and 
 speaking with a sigh, as he thought of Henry III. and fair pro- 
 mises of his youth ; " there was a third Henry once, who might 
 perhaps have borne the meed of fame away from us both : but 
 that light has gone out in the socket, and left nothing but an 
 unsavory smell behind. However, there was no excuse needed, 
 good friend, for cutting to pieces double your own number of 
 German marauders." 
 
 " My excuse was not for that," replied the Count, calmly, 
 " but your Highness directed me to go no farther than Monli- 
 gny, and I went to La Ferte, on account of the wounded men." 
 
 " That is easily excused too," said the Duke. " But now give 
 me your own account of the affair. The boy told me the story 
 but imperfectly. How fell you in with the reiters at first ? " 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau did as the Prince required, giving a 
 full and minute, but modest, account of all that had taken place. 
 But when he spoke of retreating up the river to the spot where 
 the banks were deeper, and the stream more profound, Guise- 
 caught him by the hand, exclaiming eagerly, "Did you know 
 that the banks were steeper ? Did you see thai they would guard 
 your flank?" 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 137 
 
 "That was my object, my Lord," replied the young Count, 
 somewhat surprised. " I noticed the nature of the ground as we 
 charged them at lirst." 
 
 " Kneel down ! " cried the Duke 5 "kneel down ! Would to 
 God that 1 were a Bayard for thy sake ! — In the name of God, 
 St. Michael and St. George, I dub thee knight j" and drawing 
 his sword he struck him on the collar with the blade, adding 
 with a smile, in which melancholy was blended with gaiety, 
 " Perchance this may be the last chivalrous knighthood con- 
 ferred in France. Indeed, as matters go, I think it will be : but 
 if it should, I can but say that it never was won more nobly." 
 
 The young Count rose with sparkling eyes. The memory of 
 the chivalrous ages was not yet obliterated by dust and lichens; 
 the fire of a more enthusiastic epoch was not yet quite extinct ; 
 and he felt as if what had passed gave him greater strength to 
 go through what was to come. 
 
 The Duke, however, relaxing soon into his former manner, 
 made him a sign to proceed ; and Charles of Montsoreau went 
 on to detail the complete defeat and dispersion of the different 
 bodies of reiters. He then began to hesitate again : but Guise 
 was determined to hear all, and said, " But your brother 5 where 
 did you find your brother? Be frank with me, Logeres." 
 
 Thus pressed, the young Count went on to say, that he did 
 not again meet with his brother till he found him in the market- 
 place at La Fert6, " My brother," he continued, " having been 
 driven by the party that pursued him beyond the carriage, and 
 judging that I was coming up with a superior force, imagined 
 that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and her attendants had fallen 
 under my protection : but finding that such was not the case, he 
 mounted his horse again, and proceeded to seek for her during 
 the greater part of the night, while I did the same in another 
 direction." 
 
 He was then hurrying on as fast as possible to speak of the 
 following morning, but the Duke interrupted him, demanding, 
 " There was a sharp dispute in the market-place, I think ; was 
 there not, Monsieur de Logeres? Pray let me hear the parti- 
 culars." 
 
 But Charles of Montsoreau, driven to the point, answered 
 boldly and at once, " It was a dispute between two brothers, my 
 Lord ; in regard to which none but God and their own con- 
 sciences can judge. You will therefore pardon me if I keep that 
 which is private to my private bosom." 
 
 Guise gazed at him for a long— a very long time, with eyes full 
 of deep feeling, and then replied, " By Heaven ! you are one of 
 the most extraordinary young men I ever met with. I know the 
 whole, Monsieur de Logeres ; and tho words there spoken let 
 
J 38 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 me into the secrets of your bosom which I wished to know. I 
 now understand how to deal with you ; and while I do my best 
 to secure your happiness, trust to the Duke of Guise to avoid, 
 as far as possible, any thing that is painful to you in the course. 
 But go on ; let me hear the rest." 
 
 " If you know all, my Lord," said Charles of Montsoreau, a 
 good deal affected by the Duke's kindness, " will you not spare 
 me the telling of that which must be painful to me?" 
 
 " I fear I must ask you to go on," replied the Duke. " What 
 you have now to tell me is the most important part of all to me 
 at the present moment, for by it must my conduct be regu- 
 lated, in regard to the measures for rescuing our poor Marie 
 
 from the hands of that ." He checked himself suddenly, 
 
 and then added, " the King, in shod. A single word may cause 
 a difference in our view of the matter ; and therefore I would 
 fain hear you tell it, if you will do me that favour." 
 
 " All that I know, my Lord, I will tell," replied the Count; 
 " but of my own knowledge I have little to tell, for the principal 
 part of my information was derived from the boy with whom 
 you have already spoken. All then that 1 personally know 
 is, that, having slept long from great fatigue, I was roused by 
 the boy in the morning 5 that he told me my brother was about 
 to depart ; and that, on descending, I found his report true. 
 My brother was already on horseback, and his troop in the act 
 of setting out: but he was accompanied by a gentleman whom 
 I had never seen before, whose name is Colombel, and who, 
 I found afterwards, is an oflicer in the service of the King." 
 
 " Oh yes," said the Duke of Guise ; " I have heard him 
 named ; a person of no great repute, but some cunning." 
 
 " My conversation with my brother," continued the Count, 
 " was not the most agreeable. On his side it was all taunts-, 
 but the only part of which it is needful to inform your High- 
 ness, was, that when I asked tidings of Mademoiselle de Clair- 
 vaut, he would afford me no information, except that she was 
 in safe hands. I am grieved, also, to be compelled to say that 
 he told me, if I did not join you before he did, I should be 
 long parted from you." 
 
 " We have lost an ally," replied the Duke; " but one which, 
 to say sooth, I do not covet. If he be not treacherous, he is at 
 best unsteady ; but I cannot help fearing, Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, that your brother himself, apprehending that my re- 
 gard for you might not suit, his purposes, has had some share 
 in suffering Marie to fall into the hands of Henry." 
 
 "Oh no, my Lord, oh no!" exclaimed Charles of Mont- 
 soreau ; " you do him wrong, believe me. My Lord, a few words 
 will explain to you the cause of his conduct. He is possessed 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 1 3 
 
 with a passion for Mademoiselle tie Clairvaut, so strong, so 
 vehement, so intense, as to have a portion of madness in it, 
 — a sufficient portion to make him cast away his former na- 
 ture altogether, to hate his brother, to abandon his friends, 
 to abjure all the thoughts and feelings of his youth, and to 
 follow her still wherever she goes, seeking to obtain her by 
 means Which the very blindness of his passion prevents Him 
 from seeing are those which must insure his losing her." 
 
 ''This is the passion of a weak and unstable mind," said 
 the Duke. "'Love, my young friend, is in itself a grand and 
 ennobling thing, leading us to do great actions for the esteem 
 and approbation of her we love. The love of a bright woman," 
 he added, " the love of a bright woman — 1 speak it with all 
 due reverence," and he put his hand to his hat, " is the next 
 finest sensation, the next grand mover in human actions, to 
 the love of God. The object is undoubtedly inferior, but the 
 course is the same, namely, the striving to do high and excel- 
 lent things for the approbation of a being that we love and 
 venerate. Alas that it should be so! but in this world I fear the 
 love of woman is amongst us the strongest mover of the two : 
 the other is so remote, so high, so pure, that our dull senses 
 strain their wings in reaching it. The love of woman appeals 
 to the earthly as well as to the heavenly part of man's nature, 
 and consequently is heard more easily. Perhaps — and Heaven 
 grant it!— that, as some of our fathers held, the one-love may 
 lead us on to the other, and the perishable be but a step to 
 the immortal. However," he added, " such love as that which 
 you say possesses your brother, will certainly never lead hirn on 
 to any thing that is great, or high, or noble. Most certainly it 
 will not lead him to the hand of Marie de Clairvaut as long 
 as Henry of Guise can draw a sword. If he have not betrayed 
 me, he has abandoned me; if he have not shown himself a 
 coward, he has shown himself a weak defender of those in- 
 trusted to his charge ; and under such circumstances, had he 
 the wealth of either India and the power of Csesar, he should 
 never wed Marie de Clairvaut." He laid his hand upon the 
 shoulder of Charles of Montsoreau, and he said, " You have 
 heard my words, good friend; those words are irrevocable : 
 and now knowing that your brother can never be really your 
 rival, act as you will. I would fain have your confidence, 
 Charles, but I will not wring it from you. This girl is beautiful 
 and sweet and fascinating ; and if I judge right, you love her 
 not less but more nobly than your brother. Tell me, or tell me 
 not as you will, but we all feel pleased with confidence. " 
 
 " Oh, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, " how can 
 I deny you my confidence when you load me with such proofs 
 
140 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 of your goodness ! I do love Mademoiselle de Clairvaut as 
 deeply, as intensely, as passionately, as my brother, — more, 
 more a thousand fold than he or any body else, I believe, is 
 capable of loving. I had some opportunities of rendering her 
 services, and on one of those occasions 1 was betrayed into 
 words and actions which I fancied must have made her ac- 
 quainted with all my feelings. It was after that I discovered, my 
 Lord, how madly my brother loved her : it was after that I dis- 
 covered that the pursuit of my love must bring contention and 
 destruction on my father's house. Had 1 believed that she loved 
 me, nothing should have made me yield her to any one ; for 
 I had the prior claim, I had the prior right : but when I had 
 reason to believe that she had not marked, and did not com- 
 prehend all the signs of my affection ; when 1 felt that I could 
 quit her without the appearance of trifling with her regard, 
 though not without the continued misery of my own life, my 
 determination was taken in a moment, and I determined to 
 make the sacrifice, be the consequences what they might. Such, 
 my Lord, is the simple truth ; such is the only secret of all my 
 actions." 
 
 The Duke of Guise bent down his eyes upon the ground with 
 a smile, in the expression of which there was a degree of cynical 
 bitterness. It was somewhat like one of the smiles of the Abbe 
 de Boisguerin ; but the Duke's words explained it at once, which 
 the Abbe's never did. 
 
 " I fear, my young friend," he said, "that the science of 
 women's hearts is a more difficult one than the science of war. 
 You have learnt the one, it would seem, by intuition 5 in the 
 other you are yet a novice. However, you shall pursue your 
 own course, bearing with you the remembrance that I swear by 
 my own honour—" 
 
 "Oh swear not. my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau ; 
 " circumstances may change : she may love him : her love may 
 alter him, and lead him back to noble things." 
 
 The Duke smiled again. " What I have said," he answered, 
 " is as good as sworn. But have it your own way 5 I thank you 
 for the confidence you have reposed in me. And now, to show 
 you how I can return it, I have a task to put upon you, an ad- 
 venture on which to send forth my new made knight. I do not 
 think that Henry either will or dare refuse to give up to me my 
 own relation and ward. The king and I are great friends, God 
 wot ! But still I must demand her, and somebody must take a 
 journey to Paris for that purpose. To the capital, doubtless, they 
 have conveyed her ; and I trust, my good Logeres, that you will 
 not think it below your dignity and merit to seek and bring back 
 a daughter of the House of Guise." 
 
HKNRY OF GlISI.. Mi 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau paused thoughtfully for a moment, era 
 lie replied. All the difficulties and dangers to which he might he 
 exposed, in acting against the views of the King of France, were 
 to him as nothing 5 but the difficulties and dangers which might 
 arise from his opposition to his own brother, were painful and 
 fearful to him to contemplate. He saw not, however, how he 
 could refuse the task; and it cannot be denied that love for Ma- 
 rie de Clairvaut had its share also in making him accept it. He 
 doubted not for a moment, that if she were in the hands of the 
 King, she was there against her own will \ and could he, he 
 asked himself, could he even hesitate to aid in delivering her 
 from a situation of difficulty, danger, and distress ? The thought 
 of aiding her, the thought of seeing her again, the thought of 
 hearing the sweet tones of that beloved voice, the thought of once 
 more soothing and supporting her, all had their share ; the very 
 contemplation made his heart beat ; and lifting his eyes, he found 
 those of the Duke of Guise fixed upon his countenance, reading 
 all the passing emotions, the shadows of which were brought 
 across him by those thoughts. The colour mounted slightly into 
 his cheek as he replied, " My Lord, I will do your bidding to the 
 best of my ability. When shall 1 march ? " 
 
 "Oh, you mistake," said the Duke, laughing 5 " you are not 
 to go at the head of your men, armed cap-d-pie, to deliver the 
 damsel from the giant's castle ; but in the quality of my envoy to 
 Henry; first of all demanding, quietly and gently, where the 
 Lady is, and then requiring him to deliver her into your hands, 
 for the purpose of escorting her to me, wherever I may be. You 
 shall have full powers for the latter purpose 5 but you must keep 
 them concealed till such time as you have discovered, either 
 from the King's own lips — though no sincerity dwells upon them 
 — or by your own private inquiries and investigations, where 
 this poor girl is. Then you may produce to the King your 
 powers from me, and to herself I will give you a letter, re- 
 questing her to follow your directions in all things. Now, you 
 must show yourself as great a diplomatist as a soldier, for I can 
 assure you that you will have to deal with as artful and as wily 
 a man as any now living in Europe." 
 
 " I will do my best, my Lord ; and to enable me to deal with 
 them before all their plans are prepared, I had better set out at 
 break of day to-morrow, with as many men as your Highness 
 thinks fit should accompany me." 
 
 The Duke mused for a moment or two ; " No," he said, " no; 
 I must not let you go, Logeres, without providing for your 
 safety. You have risked your life sufficiently for me and mine al- 
 ready. You go into new scenes, with which you are unacquainted ; 
 into dangers, with which you may find it more difficult to cope 
 
142 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 than any that you have hitherto met with. I cannot then suffer 
 you to depart without such passports and safeguards as may di- 
 minish those dangers as far as possible." 
 
 "Oh, I fear not, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau, 
 " the King and your Highness are not at war. I have done 
 nothing to offend, and — " 
 
 " It cannot be, it cannot be," replied the Duke. " You must 
 go back with me to Soissons. I will send a messenger from 
 this place to demand the necessary passports for you. No great 
 time will be lost, for a common courier can pass where you or 
 I would be stopped. Then," he continued, "as to the men that 
 you should take with you, I should say, the fewer the better. 
 Mark me," he continued, with a smile, " there are secret springs 
 in all things ; and I will give you letters to people in Paris, 
 which will put at your disposal five hundred men on the notice 
 of half an hour. Ay, more, should you require them. But use 
 not these letters except in the last necessity, for they might 
 hurry on events which I would rather see advance slowly till 
 they were forced upon me, than do aught to bring them forward 
 myself. No ; you shall go back with me to Soissons, guarding 
 me with your band ; and I doubt not, our messenger from Paris 
 will not be many hours after us. Now leave me, and to rest, 
 goodLogeres, and send in the servant, whom you will find half 
 way down the stairs." 
 
 The young Count withdrew without another word, and he 
 found that while the conversation between himself and the Duke 
 had been going on, a man had been stationed, both above and 
 below the door of the apartment, as if to insure that nobody 
 approached to listen. Such were the sad precautions necessary 
 in those days. 
 
 Early on the following morning the whole party mounted 
 their horses, the wounded men of Logeres were left under the 
 care and attendance of the good townsmen of Montigny. and 
 the young Count riding with the party of the Duke of Guise, 
 proceeded on the road to Soissons. No adventure occurred to 
 disturb their progress; and, as so constantly happens in the 
 midst of scenes of danger, pain, and difficulty, almost every one 
 of the whole party endeavoured to compensate for the frequent 
 endurance of peril and pain by filling up the intervals with light 
 laughter and unthinking gaiety. The Duke of Guise himself 
 was not the least cheerful of the parly, though occasionally 
 the cloud of thought would settle again upon his brow, and 
 a pause of deep meditation would interrupt the jest or the sally. 
 It was late at night when they arrived at Soissons, and the Duke, 
 after supping with the Cardinal do Bourbon, retired to rest, 
 without conversing with any of his party. It was about eight 
 
HENRY OF GUIS!!. 143 
 
 o'clock on the following morning, and while, by the dull grey 
 light of a cloudy spring day, Charles of Montsoreau was dressing 
 himself, with the aid of one of his servants, that the door opened 
 without any previous announcement, and the Duke of Guise, 
 clad in a dressing-gown of crimson velvet trimmed with miniver, 
 entered the room, bearing in his hand a packet of sealed letters, 
 and one open one. A page followed him with something wrapped 
 up in a skin of leather, which he placed upon one of the stools, 
 and instantly retired. 
 
 "Send away your man, Count," said the Duke, seating him- 
 self ; " resume your dressing-gown, and kindly give me your full 
 attention for half an hour. You will be so good," he continued, 
 turning to the man who was quitting the chamber, " as to take 
 your stand on the (irst landing-place below this door. You will 
 tell any body whom you see coming up to pass by the other 
 staircase •, any one you may see coming down, you will direct 
 to pass by this door quickly." 
 
 There was a stern command in the eye of the Duke of Guise 
 which had a strong effect upon those it rested on ; and the 
 man to whom he now spoke made his exit from the room, stum- 
 bling over twenty things in his haste to obey. As soon as he 
 was gone, the Duke turned to his young friend, and continued, 
 " Here is the King's safeguard under his own hand, and the 
 necessary passports for yourself and two attendants. Here is 
 your letter of credit to him in my name, requiring him to give 
 you every sort of information which he may be possessed of 
 regarding the subjects which you will mention to him ; and 
 here is a third letter giving you full power to demand at his 
 hands the person of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, for the pur- 
 pose of escorting her and placing her under my protection. This, 
 again, is to Mary herself, bidding her follow your counsels and 
 direction in every thing 5 and these others are to certain citizens 
 of Paris, whose names you will find written thereon. If you 
 will take my advice, you will again take with you the boy 
 Ignati, and one stout - man-at-arms, unarmed, however, except 
 in such a manner as the dangers of the road require. You 
 understand, I think, clearly, all that I wish." 
 
 "I believe, my Lord, I do," replied the Count. "But how 
 am I to insure safety for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut on the road, 
 without an adequate force?" 
 
 " Write to me but one word," replied the Duke of Guise, " as 
 soon as she is delivered into your hands, and I will send you 
 with all speed whatever forces I can spare. But I have one or 
 two things to communicate to you, which it is necessary for 
 you to know, both for your own security and the success of your 
 mission. The principal part of my niece's lands lie in the neigh- 
 
144 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 bourhoodofChateauneuf, between Dreux and Mortagne in Nor- 
 mandy. It is not at all unlikely, that, if driven to remove her 
 from your sight, Henry may be tempted to send her thither, 
 well knowing that it is what I have always opposed, and that T 
 preferred rather that she should dwell even in Languedoc than 
 be in that neighbourhood. For this I had a reason ; and that 
 reason is the near relationship in which her father stood to the 
 most daring and the most dangerous man in France. One of the 
 first of those whom you will see near the person of the King, the 
 man who governs and rules him to his own infamy and des- 
 truction, in whose hands the minions are but tools and Henry 
 an instrument, who, more than any one else, has tended to 
 change a gracious prince, a skilful general, and a brave man, 
 into an effeminate and vicious king, is Rene de Villequier, Baron 
 of Clairvaut. He was first cousin to Marie deClairvaut's father, 
 and he is consequently her nearest male relation out of the fa- 
 mily of Guise. He has, indeed, sometimes hinted at a right to 
 share in the guardianship of his cousin's daughter. But such 
 things a Guise permits not. However, with this claim upon the 
 disposal of her hand, Henry may, perhaps, hesitate to yield her, 
 unless with the consent of Villequier. With him, then, you maybe 
 called upon to deal •, but Villequier, I think, knows the hand of a 
 Guise too well to call down a blow from it unnecessarily. However, 
 he is as daring as he is artful, and impunity in crime has rendered 
 him perfectly careless of committing it. He is Governor of Paris, 
 one of theking'sministers,aKnightoftheHoly Ghost. ZSowhear 
 what he has done to merit all this. More than one assassin broken on 
 the wheel has avowed himself the instrument of Villequier, sent 
 to administer poison to those he did not love. Complaisant in 
 every thing to his King, he sought to sacrifice to him the honour 
 of his wife : but she differed from him in her tastes •, and , on 
 the eighteenth of last September, in broad daylight, in the midst 
 of an effeminate court, he murdered her with his own hand at 
 her dressing-table. ZSorwas this all : there was a girl — a young 
 sweet girl — the natural daughter of a noble house, who was 
 holding before the unhappy lady a mirror to arrange her dress 
 when the fatal blow was struck. The fiend's taste for blood was 
 roused. One victim was not enough, and he murdered the 
 wretched girl by the side of her dead mistress. This was done 
 in open day, was never disowned, was known to every one, and 
 was rewarded by the order of the Holy Ghost — an insult to 
 God, to France, and to humanity J . However, as with this man 
 you may have to deal, I have to give you two cautions. Never 
 drink wine with him, or eat food at his table; never go into his 
 presence without wearing under your other dress the bosom 
 
 ' All these charges were but too true. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. Iff) 
 
 friend which I have brought you there-, " and he took from lh<' 
 leathern skin in which it was wrapped, a shirt of mail, made of 
 rings linked together so line that it seemed the lightest stroke 
 would have broken it, and yet so strong, that the best tempered 
 poniard, driven by the most powerful baud, could not have 
 pierced it. "Have also in your bosom," continued the Duke 
 of Guise, "a small pistol-, and if the villain attempts to lay his 
 hand upon you, kill him like a dog. This is the only way to deal 
 with Rene de Villequier." 
 
 The young Count smiled : " And is it needful my Lord Duke," 
 he asked, 'Mo take all these precautions in the courtly world of 
 Paris? — Do you yourself take them, my Lord ? — I fear not suffi- 
 ciently." 
 
 " Oh ! with regard to myself," replied the Duke, it is dilTerent. 
 " I am so marked out and noted, they dare not do any thing 
 against me. They would raise up a thousand vengeful hands 
 against them in a moment, and they know that, too well to run 
 such a risk. Neither Henry nor Villequier would hold their lives 
 by an hour's tenure after Guise was dead. But you must take 
 these precautions, my young friend. And now 1 have nothing 
 more to say, except that, whatever you do to withdraw Marie 
 de Clairvaut from the hands into which she has fallen, I will 
 justify. If any ill befall you, I will avenge you as my brother-, 
 and if you deliver her from those whom she hates and abhors, 
 she shall give you any testimony of hergratitufle that she pleases, 
 without a man in France saying you nay." 
 
 " Oh, my Lord, it is not for that I go ! " exclaimed Charles of 
 Montsoreau, with the blood rushing up again into his cheek. 
 " It is not 5 surely you believe — " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! " replied the Duke. " I have fallen into the 
 foolish error of saying too much, my good young friend. But 
 now, fare you well. Make your arrangements as speedily as you 
 can-, mount your horse, and onward to Paris, while I apply 
 myself to matters which may well occupy every minute and 
 every thought." 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock at night, in the spring of the year 
 1588, that Charles of Montsoreau, with two companions, his 
 faithful Gondrin and the little page, presented himself at the gate 
 of Paris which opened upon the Soissons road. A surly arque- 
 busier with a steel cap on his head, his gun upon his shoulder, 
 
 10 
 
146 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ami the rest thereof in his hand, was the first person that he en- 
 countered at the bridge over the fosse. Some other soldiers were 
 sitting before the guard-house ; and the wicket-gate of the city 
 itself was open, with an armed head protruded through, talking 
 to a country girl with a basket on her arm, who had just 
 passed out of the gate, none the better probably for her visit to 
 the city. 
 
 The arquebusier planted himself immediately in the way of 
 the young cavalier and his followers, and seemed prepared to 
 stop them, though on the young Count applying to him for ad- 
 mission, he replied in a surly tone, " I have nothing to do with 
 it. Ask the lieutenant at the gate." 
 
 To him, in the next place, then, Charles of Montsoreau ap- 
 plied ; but though his tone was somewhat more civil than that of 
 the soldier, be made a great many ditlicuities, examining the 
 young nobleman all over, and looking as if he thought him a 
 very suspicious personage. The Count after a certain time grew 
 impatient, and asked, " You do not mean, 1 suppose, to refuse 
 the passport of the King ? " 
 
 "No," replied the other grinning. " We won't refuse the 
 passport of the King, or the King's passport; but in order that 
 the passport may be verified, it were as well, young gentleman, 
 that you come to the gates by day. You can sleep in the faubourg 
 for one night I take it." 
 
 " Certainly not without great inconvenience to myself," replied 
 the Count, " and more inconvenience to the affairs of the Duke 
 of Guise." 
 
 " The Duke of Guise ! " said the man starting. " Your tongue 
 has not the twang of Lorraine." 
 
 " But nevertheless," replied the Count, " the business I come 
 upon is that of the Duke of Guise, which you would have seen 
 if you had read the passport and safe-conduct. Does it not direct 
 therein, to give room and free passage, safeguard, and protec- 
 tion to one gentleman of noble birth and two attendants, coming 
 and going hither and thither in all parts of the realm of France, 
 on the especial business of our true and well-beloved cousin, 
 Henry, Duke of Guise ? and is there not written in the Duke's 
 own hand underneath, ' Given to our faithful friend and coun- 
 sellor, Charles of Montsoreau, Count of Logeres, for the pur- 
 poses above written, by me, Henry of Guise?' " 
 
 The man held the paper for a moment to a lantern that hung 
 up against the heavy stonework of the arch, and then exclaimed 
 in a loud voice, " Throw open the gates there, bring the keys. 
 Monscigneur, I beg you a thousand pardons for detaining you a 
 minute. If.I had but seen the writing of the Duke of Guise the 
 doors would have been opened instantly." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 147 
 
 As rapidly as possible the heavy gates, which had remained 
 immovable at the order of the King, swang back at the name of 
 the Guise, and one of the attendants and the captain of the night 
 running by the side of the Count's horse to prevent all obstruc- 
 tion, caused the second gate to be opened as rapidly, and the 
 Count entered the capital city of his native country for the first 
 time in his life. 
 
 The streets were dark and gloomy, narrow and high ; and as 
 one rode along them looking up from time to time towards the 
 sky, the small golden stars were seen twinkling above the deep 
 walls of the houses, as if beheld from the bottom of a well. 
 Charles of Montsoreau had not chosen to ask his way at the 
 gate, and though utterly unacquainted with the great city in 
 which he now plunged, he rode on, trusting to find some shop 
 still open where he might inquire his way without the chance of 
 being deceived. Every booth and shop was then shut, however \ 
 and for a very long way up the street which he had first entered, 
 he met with not a single living creature to whom he could apply 
 for direction. At length, however, that street ended abruptly in 
 another turning to the left, and a sudden glare of light burst 
 upon his eyes, proceeding from a building about a hundred yards 
 farther on, which seemed to be on fire. 
 
 There was no bustle, however, or indication of any thing un- 
 usual in the street ; and Charles of Montsoreau riding on, found 
 that the blaze proceeded from a dozen or more of llambeaus 
 planted in a sort of wooden barricade ' before a large mansion, 
 which fell back some yards from the general facade of the street, 
 while a fat porter clothed in manifoid colours, with a broad 
 shoulder-belt and a sword by his side, walked to and fro in the 
 light, trimming the torches with stately dignity. The young- 
 Count then remembered having heard of the custom of thus 
 illuminating the barriers, which were before all the principal 
 mansions in Paris during the first part of every night ; and riding 
 up towards the porter, he demanded whose hotel it was, and 
 begged to be directed to one of the best inns in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 The man gazed at him for a moment with the evident pur- 
 pose of looking upon him as a bumpkin ; but the porters of that 
 day were required to be extremely discriminating, and the air 
 and appearance of the young Count were not to be mistaken, 
 and bowing low he replied, "I see you are a stranger, Sir. 
 This is the house of Monsieur d'Aumonl. As to the best inn, 
 inns are always but poor places ; but I have heard a good account 
 of the White House in the next street, at the sign of the Crown 
 of France. If you go on quite to the end of this street and then 
 
 1 One or l\\ oof those houses with harriers were still existing in Paris not many years ago. 
 
148 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 turn to your right, you will come into another street as large 
 and longer, at the very end of which, just looking down to the 
 Pont Neuf, you will see a large white house with a gateway and 
 the crown hanging over it. I have heard that every thing is 
 good there, and the host civil ; hut he will make you pay for 
 what you have." 
 
 " That is but just," replied the young Count ; and giving the 
 porter thanks for his information, he rode on and look up his 
 abode at the sign of the Crown of France. 
 
 The aspect of the inn was very different from that of an 
 auberge in the country; for, though the court-yard into which 
 Charles of Montsoreau rode was littered with straw, and a large 
 and splendid stable appeared behind, it was not now grooms 
 and stable-boys that appeared on the first notice of a traveller's 
 approach, but cooks and scullions and turnspits-, while the 
 master himself with a snow-white cap upon his head, a jacket 
 of white cloth, and a white apron turned up sufficiently to show 
 his black breeches and stockings with red clocks, appeared more 
 like what he really was, the head of the kitchen, than the master 
 of the house. 
 
 He looked a little suspiciously, at first, at the young stranger 
 arriving with only two attendants, and with no other baggage 
 than a small valise upon each horse, and an additional upon 
 that of Ignati, to render the boy's weight equal to that of his 
 fellow travellers. But the host was accustomed to deal with 
 many kinds of men ; and like the porter, after examining the 
 Count for a moment, seeing some gold embroidery, but not 
 much, upon his riding-dress, gilded spurs over his large boots 
 of untanned leather, and a sword, the hilt and sheath of which 
 were of no slight value, he also made a lowly reverence, and 
 conducted him to one of the best apartments in his house. It 
 consisted of three rooms, each entering into the other with a 
 small cabinet beyond the chief bed-room 5 and the arrangements 
 which the Count made at once — placing Gondrin's bed in the 
 antechamber, and having the page's truckle-bed removed from 
 his own bed-side to occupy the cabinet beyond — gave the host 
 of the Crown of France a still greater idea of his impor- 
 tance. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau did not fail to examine the face of the 
 aubergiste, and to remark his proceedings with as much accu- 
 racy. The man's countenance was intelligent, his eyes quick 
 and piercing, but withal there was an air of straight-forward 
 frankness, tempered by civility and habitual politeness, which 
 was prepossessing-, and as the young Count knew that he might 
 have occasion to make use of him in various ways during his stay 
 in Paris, he resolved to try him with those things which were 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. H9 
 
 the most immediately necessary, and which at the same time 
 were of the least importance. 
 
 "Stop a minute, my good host," he said, as the man was 
 ahout to withdraw to order fires to he lighted and suppers to he 
 cooked. " There are some things which press for attention, 
 and in which I must have your assistance." 
 
 "This youngster speaks with a tone of authority," thought 
 the aubergiste; but he bowed low and said nothing, whilst the 
 young Count wont on, " What is your name, my good friend? " 
 demanded Charles of Montsoreau. 
 
 " I am called Gamin la Chaise," replied the auhergiste with a 
 smile. 
 
 " Well then, Master la Chaise, as you see," he continued, " I 
 have come hither to Paris on some business which required a 
 certain degree of despatch, and have ventured with few atten- 
 dants and little baggage. As however the business on which I 
 did come will call me into scenes where some greater degree of 
 splendour is necessary than perhaps either suits my taste or my 
 general convenience, I must before I go forth to-morrow morn- 
 ing, have my train increased by at least six attendants, who are 
 always to be found in Paris ready fashioned I know; and there- 
 fore I must beseech you to find them for me in proper time, 
 having them equipped in my proper colours and livery, accord- 
 ing as the same shall be described to you by my good friend 
 Gondrin here. This is the first service you must do me, my 
 good host." 
 
 " Sir," replied the landlord, " the six lackeys shall be found 
 and equipped in less time than would roast a woodcock. They 
 are as plenty as sparrows or house-rats, and are caught in a 
 moment." 
 
 " Yes, but my good host," answered the Count, " there is 
 one great difficulty which you will understand in a moment. 
 Amongst the six, I want you to find me one honest man if it be 
 possible." 
 
 The landlord raised his shoulders above his ears, stuck out 
 his two hands horizontally from his sides, and assumed an ap- 
 pearance of despair at the unheard of proposition of the Count, 
 which had nearly brought a smile into the young nobleman's 
 countenance. " That indeed, Sir," he said, " is another affair-, 
 and I believe you might just as well ask me to catch you a wild 
 roe in the garden of the Louvre, as to find you the thing that 
 you demand. Nevertheless, labour and perseverance conquer 
 all difficulties : and now I think of it, there is a youth who may 
 answer your purpose 5 he knows Paris well too; but, strange to 
 say, by some unaccountable fit of obstinacy, he would not tell 
 a lie the other day to the Duke of Epernon in order to pass an 
 
150 UISNKY OF GUISE. 
 
 item of the intendant's accounts, which would have come in for 
 a good round sum every month if he would but have sworn 
 that he used five quarts of milk every week to whiten the leather 
 of his master's boots. He would not swear to this, and therefore 
 the intendant discharged him, as he was a hired servant." 
 
 " Let me have him ; let me have him," cried the Count. " I 
 will only ask him to tell the truth, and hope he may not find that 
 so difficult." 
 
 The Count then proceeded to speak about horses, and the 
 host readily undertook, finding that money was abundant, to 
 procure all the horse-dealers in Paris with their best steeds, 
 before nine o'clock on the following day. The demeanour of 
 the young nobleman, it must be confessed, puzzled the good 
 aubergiste a good deal ; and on going down to his own abode, 
 he acknowledged to his wife, what he seldom acknowledged 
 to any one, that he could not make his guest out at all. 
 
 " I should think," he said, ''from the plenty of money, and 
 the expensive way in which he seems inclined to deal, that he 
 was some wild stripling from the provinces, the son of a rich 
 president or advocate lately dead, who came hither to call 
 himself Count, and spend his patrimony in haste. But then, 
 again, in some things he is as shrewd as an old hawk, and 
 can jest withal about rogues and honest men, while he keeps 
 his own secrets close, and lets no one ask him a question." 
 
 On the following morning, at an early hour, the six attendants 
 whom he had required were brought before him in array, exhi- 
 biting, with one exception, as sweet a congregation of roguish 
 faces as the great capital of roguery ever yet produced. The 
 countenance of the lad who had been discharged from the ser- 
 vice of the Duke of Epernon pleased the young Count much, 
 and without waiting till he was farther equipped, he putGondrin 
 under his charge for the purpose of notifying at the palace of 
 the Louvre that he had arrived in the capital, bearing a letter 
 from the Duke of Guise to the King, and of begging to have 
 an hour named for its delivery. Me found, however, with some 
 mortification— for his eager spirit and his anxiety brooked no 
 delay— that the King was at Vincennes •, and his only conso- 
 lation was that the communication which he had sent to the 
 palace, bearing the fearful name of the Duke of Guise, was 
 certain to be communicated to the monarch as soon as possible. 
 Some short time was expended in the purchase of horses, and 
 in making various additions to his own apparel, well knowing 
 the ostentatious splendour of the court he was about to visit. 
 
 We have indeed remarked that there was perhaps a touch of 
 foppery in his own nature, though it was but slight. Neverthe- 
 less; splendour of appearance certainly pleased him, even whije 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. lol 
 
 a natural good taste led him to admire, and to seek in bis own 
 dress, all that was graceful and harmonising, rather than that 
 which was rich or brilliant. 
 
 He was thus engaged, with several tradesmen around him, 
 ordering the materials for various suits of apparel, which a 
 tailor standing by engaged to produce in a miraculously short 
 time, when the door of his apartment was opened, and a some- 
 what fat pursy man in black was admitted, entering with an 
 air of importance, and receiving the lowly salutations of the 
 good citizens who were present. Charles of Montsoreau gazed 
 at him as a stranger; but the good man, with an air of im- 
 portance, and an affectation of courtly breeding, besought him 
 to finish what he was about, adding, that he had a word for 
 his private ear which he would communicate afterwards. The 
 young Count, without further ceremony, continued to give his 
 orders, examining his new visiter from time to time, and with 
 no very great feelings of satisfaction. 
 
 The countenance was fat, reddish, and, upon the whole, 
 stupid, with an air of indecision about it which was very 
 strongly marked, though there was every now and then a cer- 
 tain drawing in of the fringeless eyelids round the small black 
 eyes, which gave the expression of intense cunning to features 
 otherwise dull and flat. 
 
 When he had completely done with his mercers, and tailors, 
 and cloth-makers — who had occupied him some time, for he 
 did not hurry himself— Charles of Montsoreau dismissed them; 
 and turning to his visiter said, " Now, Sir, may I have the hap- 
 piness of knowing your business with me? " 
 
 " Sir," replied the other, rising and speaking in a low and 
 confidential tone, " my name is Nicolas Poulain. I am Lieu- 
 tenant of the Prevot de l'lsle." 
 
 He stopped short at this announcement ; and the Count, after 
 waiting a moment for something more, replied somewhat an- 
 grily, " Well, Sir, 1 am very happy to hear it. I hope the ollice 
 suits Nicolas Poulain, and Nicolas Poulain suits the office." 
 
 A slight redness came into the man's face, rendering it a 
 shade deeper than it ordinarily was ; but finding it necessary to 
 reply, as the Count, without sitting down, remained looking 
 him stedfastly in the face, he answered, " I thought, Sir, — in- 
 deed I took it for granted, Sir, that you might have some com- 
 munication for me from the Duke of Guise." 
 
 " None whatever, Sir," replied the young Count drily. " Have 
 you any thing to tell me, Monsieur Nicolas Poulain, on the part 
 of his Highness ? " 
 
 " No, Sir, no," replied the other, attempting to assume an air 
 
152 HENRY OF G4JISE. 
 
 of spirit which did not become hire. " If you have not seen 
 him more lately than I have, I am misinformed." 
 
 " And pray, my good Sir," demanded the Count, " who was it 
 that took the trouble of informing vou of any thing regarding 
 me?" 
 
 " That question is soon answered, Sir," replied Nicolas Pou- 
 lain, " though you seem to make so much difficulty in regard 
 to answering mine. The person who informed me of your ar- 
 rival was good Master Chapelle Marteau, who saw you last 
 night at the gates when you entered." 
 
 The name immediately struck the young Count as the same 
 with one of those written on the letters which the Duke of 
 Guise had given him to be used in case of need; but feeling 
 how necessary it was to deal carefully with any of the faction 
 of the Sixteen, to which both Chapelle Marteau and Nicolas 
 Poulain belonged, he determined to say not one word upon the 
 subject of his mission to any one. Much less, indeed, was he 
 inclined to do so in the case of Nicolas Poulain, in whose face 
 nature had stamped deceit and roguery in such legible cha- 
 racters, that the young Count, had he been forced to trust him 
 with any secret would have fell sure that the whole would be 
 betrayed within an hour. All, then, that he replied to Master 
 Nicolas Poulain was, that though he knew well the personage 
 he mentioned by name, he had not the pleasure of his personal 
 acquaintance. 
 
 The answers were so short, the tone and manner so dry, that 
 the worthy citizen found it expedient to make his retreat; and 
 taking a short and unceremonious leave of one who had given 
 him so cool a reception, he left the Count's apartments, and 
 descended the stairs. The moment he was gone, some suspicion, 
 which crossed the young cavalier's mind suddenly, made him 
 call the page, and bid him follow his late visiter till he marked 
 the house which Master Nicolas entered^ taking care to remem- 
 ber the way back. 
 
 The boy set off without a word, and returned in less than half 
 an hour, informing the young Count that he had tracked Master 
 Nicolas Poulain into a large house, which, on inquiry, he found 
 to be the private dwelling of the Lord of Villequier. 
 
 "The Duke is betrayed by some of these leaguers, — that is 
 clear enough !" thought the young Count. " I have heard that 
 many of his best enterprises have been frustrated by some un- 
 known means. Who is there on earth that one can trust?" And 
 leaning his head upon his hand he fell into deep thought, for to 
 him the question of whom he could trust was at that moment 
 one, not only entirely new, but one of deep and vital importance 
 also. In his journey to Paris he had two great and all-important 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 153 
 
 objects before bim. To find out his brother, and, if possible, to 
 persuade him to change a course of conduct which he felt to be 
 dishonourable to himself and to his house, was one of these 
 objects; and he doubted not that — if he could fully explain, and 
 make the Marquis comprehend, his own conduct and his pur- 
 poses—if he could show him that his only chance of obtaining 
 the hand of Marie de Clairvaut was by attaching himself to the 
 House of Guise, and that he had not a brother's rivalry to fear 
 — Caspar de Montsoreau might be induced to return to the party 
 he had quitted, and not tinally to commit himself to conduct so 
 little to his oWn interest as that which he was pursuing. 
 
 The other object, however, was much more important even 
 than that, to the heart of Charles of Montsoreau-, and the feel- 
 ings which were connected with it — as so often happens with the 
 feelings which affect every one in human life — were sadly at 
 variance with other purposes. That object was to discover and 
 guide to the court of the Duke of Cuise, her whom he himself 
 loved best on all the earth ; to free her from the hands of the 
 base and dangerous people into whose power she had fallen, and 
 to leave her in security, if not in happiness. 
 
 When he thought of seeing her again, — when he thought of 
 passing days with her on the journey, of being her guide, her 
 protector, her companion, the overpowering longing and thirst 
 for such a joyful time shook and agitated him, made his heart 
 thrill and his brain reel 5 and, bending down his face upon his 
 hands, he gave himself up for a long time to whirling dreams of 
 happiness. But then again he asked himself, if, after such hours, 
 he could ever quit her; if — following the firm purpose with 
 which he had left Montsoreau— he could resist all temptation to 
 seek her love further, and after plunging into the contentions 
 of the day could dedicate his sword and his life, as he had in- 
 tended, to warfare against the infidels in the order of St. -John? 
 There was a great struggle in his mind when he asked himself 
 the question — a great and terrible struggle; but at length he 
 answered it in the affirmative. " Yes," he said 5 " yes, I can do 
 so!" But there was a condition attached to that decision. " I 
 can do so," he said, " if 1 find that there is a chance of her wed- 
 ding him ; if I find that, in reality and truth, the first bright 
 hopes I entertained were indeed fallacious." 
 
 To say the truth, doubts had come over his mind as to whe- 
 ther he had construed Marie de Clairvaut's conduct rightly. 
 Those doubts had been instilled into his imagination by the 
 words of the Duke of Cuise. Fancy lingered round them : shall 
 we say that Hope, too, played with them? If she did so, it was 
 against his will ; for he was in that sad and painful situation 
 where hope, reproved by the highest feelings of the heart, dare 
 
154 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 scarcely point to the objects of desire. Terrible— terrible is that 
 situation where Virtue, or Honour, or Generosity bind down 
 imagination, silence even hope, and shut against us the gates of 
 that paradise we see, but must not enter. These, indeed, are the 
 angels with the flaming swords. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau would not sutler himself to hope any 
 thing that might make his brother's misery ; but yet fancy would 
 conjure up bright dreams ; and knowing and feeling that "if those 
 dreams were realised, a complete change must come over his 
 actions and his conduct, he saw that it would be needful to use 
 guarded language to his brother, - or rather to use only the 
 guard of perfect frankness. He resolved, then, to tell him fully 
 his purposes, but to tell him at the same time the conditions 
 under which those circumstances were to be executed. 
 
 As he pondered, however, and thought over the changed de- 
 meanour of his brother, over the fiery impetuosity and impa- 
 tience of his whole temper and conduct, he remembered that it 
 might be with dilliculty that lie could obtain a hearing for a suffi- 
 cient length of time to explain himself fully, and he consequently 
 determined to write clearly and explicitly, so that there might 
 be no error or mistake whatever, and that his conduct might 
 remain clear and undoubted 5 and sitting down at once, he did 
 as he proposed, that he might have the letter ready to send or to 
 deliver as soon as he discovered where his brother was. 
 
 The epistle was short, but it was distinct. He referred boldly 
 and directly to his conversation with the Abbe de Boisguerin^ 
 he explained his conduct since ; and he told his decided and un- 
 changeable purpose of seeking in no way the hand of Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut, unless he had reason to believe that the deep 
 attachment which he felt and acknowledged towards her were 
 already returned. He ended by exhorting his brother to do that 
 which his pledges and professions to the Duke of Guise had 
 bound him to do, to guide back Mademoiselle de Clairvaut 
 himself to the protection of her uncle, and to avert the necessity 
 of his seeking her and conducting her to Soissons. 
 
 In thus letting his thoughts flow on in collateral channels 
 from subject to subject, he had deviated from the original object 
 of his contemplations, which was, the method to be pursued for 
 instituting private inquiries throughout the city, in regard to the 
 arrival, both of his brother and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. Un- 
 acquainted with any persons in Paris, he knew not how to set 
 on foot the inquiry; and his mind bad just reverted to the 
 subject, which appeared more and more embarrassing each time 
 he thought of it, when he was informed, with an air of great 
 importance, by the host, that Monsieur Chapelle Marteau de- 
 manded humbly to have the honour of paying him his respects. 
 
I1EARY OF GUISE. 155 
 
 The Count ordered him instantly to he ushered in; and dur- 
 ing the brief moment that intervened before he appeared, con- 
 sidered hastily, whether he should employ this personage in any 
 way in making the inquiries that wen; necessary. He knew that 
 he was highly esteemed by the Duke of Guise; but yet it was 
 evident that, by some of the members of, or the followers of, 
 the League in Paris, the Duke was himself entirely deceived; 
 and yet Charles of Montsoreau was more inclined to trust this 
 man's sincerity than that of the person who had left him some 
 short time -before, inasmuch as the Duke had addressed one of 
 the private letters we have before mentioned to him, while he 
 had never named the other. The countenance and appearance of 
 Chapelle Marteau confirmed any prepossession in his favour. 
 It was quick, and intelligent, and frank though somewhat stern ; 
 and he had moreover the air and bearing of a man in the higher 
 ranks of life, although he held but an office which was then 
 considered inferior, that of one of the Masters in the Chamber 
 of Accounts. 
 
 " 1 come, Sir," he said, as soon as the first civilities were 
 over, " to ask your pardon for some quickness on my part in 
 refusing you admittance at the gates last night. The fact is, that 
 bad-intentioned people have been endeavouring to introduce 
 into the city of Paris, under the King's name, a multitude of 
 soldiery, in twos and threes, for the purpose of overawing us in 
 the pursuit of our rights and liberties." 
 
 " Say no more, say no more, Monsieur Chapelle," said the 
 Count; "I doubt not you had very good reasons for what you did." 
 
 He then paused, leaving his companion to pursue the subject 
 as he might think fit; and the leaguer seemed somewhat embar- 
 rassed as to how he should proceed, though his embarrassment 
 showed itself in a different manner from that of Master ]N icolas 
 Poulain. At length he said, " I entertained some hope, Sir, that 
 you might bring me a communication from the Duke of Guise, 
 as, when I had the honour of seeing him at Gonesse three days 
 ago, he gave me the hope that he would write to me ere long." 
 
 "No, Monsieur Chapelle," replied the Count deliberately; 
 " I have no message for you. His Highness directed me indeed 
 to apply to you in case of need; and I know that he has the 
 highest esteem for you, believing you to be a zealous defender 
 of our holy faith, and a man well worthy of every consideration ; 
 — but 1 have no present message to you from the Duke ; and 
 the case in which it may be necessary to apply to you for as- 
 sistance, according to his Highness's direction, .has not yet 
 arrived." 
 
 " Most delighted shall I be, my Lord ' Count," replied the 
 
 1 he word Monseignetir, my Lord, which in the days of I.oui~ XIV, bad Income re 
 
156 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 leaguer, " to afford you any aid or assistance or council in my 
 power, both on account of his Highness the Duke of Guise and 
 on your own. Might 1 ask what is the case foreseen, in which 
 you are to apply to me?" •« 
 
 The Count smiled. " In case, Monsieur Chapelle," he said, 
 " that I do not succeed in objects which the Duke has entrusted 
 to me by other means, you shall know. At present, however, I 
 have had no opportunity of ascertaining what may be necessary 
 to be done, finding that the King is at Vincennes. In the mean 
 time I am employing myself about some personal business of 
 my own, which I am afraid is likely to give me trouble." 
 
 He spoke quite calmly ; but a look of intelligence came im- 
 mediately over the countenance of Chapelle Marteau, and he 
 said, " Perhaps I might be enabled to assist your Lordship. My 
 knowledge of Paris, and all that is transacted therein, is very 
 extensive." 
 
 "You are very kind," replied the Count, "and I take ad- 
 vantage of your offer with the greatest pleasure. The matter is 
 a very simple one. My elder brother, the Marquis de Mont- 
 soreau, set out some time ago to join the Duke of Guise, having 
 under his charge and escort a young lady, named Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut." 
 
 " Daughter of the Duke of Guise's niece," said Chapelle Mar- 
 teau with some emphasis. 
 
 " I believe that is the relationship," answered the young noble- 
 man. " Rut, however, the facts are these : I have reason to 
 believe that my brother was interrupted in his journey by the 
 attack of a party of reiters, and was obliged in consequence to 
 put himself and Mademoiselle de Clairvaut under the protection 
 of a body of the King's troops coming to Paris. Now, my wish 
 is, to ascertain whether he or any of his party, either separately 
 or together, are now in Paris, and where they are to be found." 
 
 The leaguer gazed in his face for a minute or two with an in- 
 quiring look, and then replied, "I can tell you at once, my Lord, 
 that no considerable party whatever has entered the gates of 
 Paris under the protection of the King's troops for the last ten 
 days, no party of even ten in number having the ensigns of Va- 
 lois having appeared during that time. But the party you men- 
 tion may have come in by themselves without the King's troops ; 
 and I rather suspect that they have so done. However, I will let 
 you know the exact particulars within four and twenty hours 
 from this moment, and every other information that I can by 
 
 strictcd toa very few liigli dignitaries, or only given to oilier noblemen by llieir own ser- 
 vants and tenantry, was in the reign of Henry 111. commonly used to all high noblemen, 
 and we iind constantly titles addressed A mon Ires illusive el ires honore Seigneur le Mar- 
 quis; or, A I'illustrc Seigneur, Monseigncur le Comie de . 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 157 
 
 any means glean regarding the persons you speak of; for I very 
 well understand, my Lord, that there may be more intelligence 
 required ahout them than you choose to ask for at once." 
 
 The young Count smiled again, hut merely replied, "Any 
 information that you can obtain for me, Monsieur Chapelle, will 
 be received by me most gratefully; and in the mean time will 
 you do me the honour of partaking my poor dinner which is 
 about to be served ? " 
 
 The leaguer, however, declined the high honour, alleging 
 important business as his excuse; and, after having dined, the 
 young Count rode out through the streets of Paris, endeavouring 
 to make himself somewhat familiar with them, and feeling all 
 those sensations which the sight of that great capital might 
 well produce on one who had never beheld it before. On those 
 sensations, however, we must not pause, as matters of more 
 importance are before us. A couple of hours after nightfall he 
 received a note to the following effect : — 
 
 "The Marquis de Montsoreau, with a body of horsemen, 
 bearing no badge or ensign, entered Paris yesterday at about 
 four o'clock, and lodged at the Fleur-de-lis. He is not there 
 now, however, and is supposed to have quitted Paris. Made- 
 moiselle de Clairvaut is not known to have entered the capital ; 
 but a carriage, containing ladies and waiting-women, was es- 
 corted to Vincennes this morning by a body of troops of Valois. 
 The name of one of the ladies was ascertained to be the Marquise 
 de Saulny." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau received these tidings with a beating 
 heart, and sleep did not visit his eyelids til! the clock of a neigh- 
 bouring church had struck five in the morning. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Dark heavy clouds hung over the world, and totally obscured 
 the face of the sky ; the morning was chill, the air keen, and the 
 eye of the peasant was often turned up towards the leaden- 
 looking masses of vapour above his head, as if to inquire whether 
 their stores would be poured forth in lightning or in snow ; and 
 as Charles of Montsoreau rode on through the park to the Don- 
 jon of Vincennes, he felt the gloomy aspect of the whole scene 
 more than he might have done at any other time. 
 
 There, before his eyes, with the whole face of nature harmo- 
 nising well with its dark and frowning aspect, rose the grey 
 gigantic keep, which the vanquished opponent of Edward III., 
 
158 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 the rash and half-insane founder of the race of Valois, erected at 
 an early period of his melancholy reign. Story above story, the 
 large quadrangular mass, with its flanking towers, rose up till it 
 seemed to touch the gloomy sky above 5 but in those days it had 
 at least the beauty of harmony, for no one had added to the 
 harsh and solemn features of the feudal architecture the gewgaw 
 ornaments of a later age. The gallery of Marie de Medici was 
 not built, and nothing was seen but the antique form of the Don- 
 jon itself, with the mass of wall surrounding its base with their 
 Hanking turrets, a pinnacle or two rising above — as if from some 
 low Gothic building within the walls — and the still dark fosse 
 surrounding the whole. 
 
 We form but a faint idea to ourselves — a very very faint idea 
 of the manners and customs of feudal times 5 but still less, per- 
 haps, can we form any just idea of the every-day enormities, 
 crimes, and vices, that were committed at the period we now 
 speak of, and of what it was to live familiarly in the midst of 
 such scenes,and to hear daily of such occurrences. The mind of 
 most men got hardened, callous, or indifferent to acts of dark- 
 ness and of shame, even if they did not commit them themselves; 
 and the world of Paris heard with scarcely an emotion that this 
 nobleman had been poisoned by another — that the hand of 
 the assassin had delivered one high lord of this troublesome 
 friend or that pertinacious enemy — that the husband had 
 " drugged the posset " for the wife, or the wife for the husband 
 —or that persons obnoxiously wise or virtuous disappeared 
 within the walls of such places as \incennes, and passed sud- 
 denly with their good acts into that oblivion which is the gene- 
 ral recompense of all that is excellent upon earth. No one noted 
 such deeds ; the sword of justice started from the scabbard once 
 or twice in a century, but that was all •, and the worid laughed 
 as merrily — the jest and the repartee went on — sport, love, and 
 folly revelled as gaily through the streets of Paris, as if it had 
 been a world of gentleness, and security, and peace. 
 
 Though of course Charles of Montsoreau felt in some degree 
 the spirit of the day — though he thought it nothing at all exlra- 
 ordinary to be attacked by reiters in his own chateau, or stopped 
 by fifty or sixty plunderers on the broad highway — though it, 
 seemed perfectly natural to him that man should live as in a 
 state of continual warfare, always on his defence, yet the whole 
 of his previous life having passed far from the daily occurrence 
 of still more revolting scenes, in spots where calm nature and 
 God's handiwork were still at hand to purify and heal men's 
 thoughts, he had very different feelings in regard to the events 
 and customs of the day from those which were generally enter- 
 tained by the people of the metropolis. Thus, when he gazed up 
 
HENRY OF r.L'ISi:. If)'.) 
 
 at the gloomy tower of Yincennes, and thought of the deeds 
 which had been committed within its walls, together with the 
 crimes and follies that were daily there enacted, a feeling of 
 mingled horror and disgust took possession of his bosom ; and 
 had he not been impelled by a sense of duty, he would not have 
 set his foot upon the threshold of those polluted gales. 
 
 The order to appeal' before the King at Yincennes had been 
 communicated to him early in the morning, and notice of his 
 coming had been given to the officers at the gates of the castle. 
 He was punctual to a moment at the appointed time, and was 
 instantly led jnto the chateau, and conducted up a long, dark- 
 some, winding stone staircase in one of the towers. Everything 
 took place almost in silence ; few persons were to be seen mov- 
 ing about in the building ; and, while winding up those stairs, 
 nothing was heard but the footfalls of himself and the attendant 
 who conducted him. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau certainly felt neither awe nor fear as 
 he thus advanced, though some of the warnings of the Duke of 
 Guise might cross his mind at the moment; but at the end of 
 what seemed to be the first story, the attendant said, " Wait a 
 moment ;" and, pushing open a door, entered a room to the 
 right. There was another door beyond, but both were left partly 
 unclosed, and the previous silence was certainly no longer to be 
 complained of, for such a jabbering, and screaming, and yelling, 
 and howling, as was now heard, was probably never known in 
 the palace of a king, before or since. 
 
 Human sounds they seemed certainly not to be, and yet words 
 in various languages were to be distinguished, so that conjecture 
 was quite put at fault, till after an absence of several minutes 
 the attendant returned, and, bidding the young nobleman follow 
 him, led the way once more into this den of noise and con- 
 fusion. 
 
 The scene that then burst upon the eyes of Charles of Mont- 
 soreau was as curious as can well be conceived. Innumerable 
 parrots, macaws, and cockatoos were ranged on perches and in 
 cages along the sides of a large apartment, with intervals of 
 monkeys and apes rattling their chains, springing forward at 
 every object near them, mouthing, chattering, and writhing 
 themselves into fantastic forms ; six or seven small beautiful 
 dogs of a peculiar breed were running about on the floor, snarl- 
 ing at one another, barking at the stranger, or teazing the other 
 animals in the same room with themselves ; baskets filled with 
 litters of puppies were in every corner of the room ; and severai 
 men and women were engaged in tending the winged and qua- 
 druped favourites of the Ring. Not only, however, were the re- 
 gular attendants present, but, as one of the known ways to Hen- 
 
160 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ry's regard, a great number of other persons were always to be 
 found busily engaged in tending the monkeys, parrots, and dogs. 
 Amongst the rest here present, were no less than five dwarfs, 
 four others being in actual attendance upon the King. None 
 were above three feet and a half in height, and some were de- 
 formed and distorted in the most fearful manner, while one was 
 perfectly and beautifully formed, and seemed to hold the others 
 in great contempt. The voices of almost all of them, however, 
 were cracked and screaming ; and it was the sounds of their 
 tongues, mingled with the yelping of the dogs, the chattering of 
 the monkeys, and the various words repeated in different lan- 
 guages by the loquacious birds along the wall, which had made 
 the Babel of sounds that reached the ears of Charles of Montso- 
 reau while he stood without. 
 
 Passing through this room, with the envious eyes of the dwarfs 
 staring upon his fine figure, the young Count entered the cham- 
 ber of the pages— where, as if for the sake of contrast, a number 
 of beautiful youths were seen — and was thence led on into the 
 royal apartments, in which every thing was calm splendour and 
 magnificence. Here and there various officers of the royal house- 
 hold were found lounging away the idle hours as they waited 
 for the King's commands ; and at length, in an ante-room, the 
 young Count was bade to wait again, while the attendant once 
 more notified his coming to the King. He was scarcely detained 
 a moment now, however ^ but, the door being opened, he was 
 ushered into the monarch's presence. 
 
 Henry on the present occasion presented an aspect different 
 from that which the young Count had expected to behold. The 
 Monarch had recalled, for a moment or two, the princely and 
 commanding air of his youth, and received the young Count 
 with dignity and grace. His person was handsome, his figure 
 fine, and his dress in the most exquisite taste that it was pos- 
 sible to conceive. It was neither so effeminate nor so overcharged 
 with ornament as it sometimes was ; and the black velvet slashed 
 and laced with gold, the toque with a single large diamond on 
 his head, the long snowy-white ostrich feather, and the collar 
 of one or two high orders round his neck, became him well, and 
 harmonised with the air of dignity he assumed. 
 
 There were two or three gentlemen who stood around him 
 more gaudily dressed than himself, and amongst them was the 
 Duke of Epernon, whom Charles of Montsoreau remembered to 
 have seen at his father's chateau some years before. All, however, 
 held back so as to allow the monarch a full view of the young 
 cavalier, as he advanced. 
 
 " You are welcome to Vincennes, Monsieur de Logeres," said 
 the King. " Our noble and princely cousin of Guise has notified 
 
 
HENKY OF GUISE. 161 
 
 lo us that he has sent you to Paris on business of importance; 
 and, having given you that praise which we are sure you must 
 merit, has besought us to put every sort of trust and confidence 
 in you, and to listen to you as to himself, while you speak with 
 us upon the affairs which have brought you hither. We beseech 
 you, therefore, to inform us of that which he has left dark, and 
 tell us how we may pleasure our fair cousin, which is always 
 our first inclination to do — the good of our state and the wel- 
 fare of our subjects considered." 
 
 " His Highness the Duke of Guise, Sire," replied Charles of 
 Montsoreau,' not in the slightest degree abashed by the many 
 eyes that were fixed upon him, scrutinising his person and his 
 dress in the most unceremonious manner, " his Highness the 
 Duke of Guise, Sire, has sent me to your Majesty to ask infor- 
 mation regarding a young lady, his near relation, who, he has 
 reason to believe, was protected by a body of your Majesty's 
 troops in a situation of some difficulty, for which protection the 
 Duke is most grateful. She was then, he understood, conducted 
 to this your Majesty's castle of Yincennes, doubtless for the 
 purpose of affording her a safe asylum till you could restore her 
 to his Highness, who is her guardian." 
 
 Henry turned with a sneering smile towards a dark but hand- 
 some man, with a somewhat sinister expression of countenance, 
 on his left hand, saying, in an under tone, " Quick travelling, 
 Y illequier ! to Soissons and back to Paris in four and twenty 
 hours, ha ! Had the swallow ever wings like rumour?" 
 
 This was said affectedly aside, but quite loud enough for the 
 young nobleman to hear the whole. He, of course, made no 
 reply, as the words were not addressed to him ; but waited, 
 with his eyes bent down, apparently in thoughtful meditation, 
 till the King should give him his answer. 
 
 41 You have given us, Monsieur le Comte de Logeres," said 
 the King, " but a faint idea of this business ; and, as un- 
 happily the commanders of our troops are but too little accus- 
 tomed to afford us any very full account of their proceedings, 
 we are ignorant of the occasion on which any one of them ren- 
 dered this service to the young lady you mention." 
 
 This affected unconsciousness, displayed absolutely in con- 
 junction with a scarcely concealed knowledge of the whole 
 affair, Charles of Montsoreau felt to be trifling and insulting : 
 but he lost not his reverence for the kingly authority ; and he 
 replied, with every appearance of deference, il 1 had imagined, 
 Sire, that the quick wings of rumour must have carried the 
 whole particulars to your Majesty, otherwise I should have been 
 more particular in my account. The service was rendered to the 
 young lady very lately, between Jpuaire and Gandelu. I am not 
 absolutely aware of the name of the officer in command of the 
 
 11 
 
162 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 troops at the time, but one gentleman present bore the name of 
 Colombel." 
 
 " And pray what was the name of the young lady herself?" 
 demanded the King, with a sneer. "The Duke of Guise has 
 many she relations, as we sometimes find to our cost. It could 
 not be our pretty, mild, and virtuous friend, the Duchess of 
 Montpensier, nor the delicate and fair-favoured Mademoiselle 
 de St. Beuve ; for the one is staying in Paris in disobedience 
 to the orders of the Ring, and the other is remaining there, 
 waiting for the tender consolations of the Chevalier d'Aumale." 
 
 The young Count turned somewhat red, both at the coarseness 
 and the scornfulness of the King's reply. "The young lady," 
 he answered, however, still keeping the same tone, "is named 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, daughter of the late Count de Clair- 
 vaut." 
 
 " Your first cousin, Yillequier," said the King, turning to 
 his minister. " You should know something of this affair?" 
 
 " Not more than your Majesty," replied Yillequier, bowing 
 low, and perceiving very clearly that Henry had maliciously 
 wished to embarrass him. 
 
 The King smiled at the double-meaning answer, and then, 
 turning to the young Count, replied, " Well, Sir, you have 
 fulfilled your mission, and may tell the Duke of Guise, our true 
 and well-beloved cousin, that we will cause immediate inquiry 
 and investigation to be made into the whole affair ; and let 
 him know the particulars as soon as we are sufficiently well- 
 informed to speak upon it with that accuracy which becomes 
 our character. You may retire." 
 
 This was of course not the conclusion of the affair to which 
 Charles of Montsoreau was inclined to submit ; and it was 
 evident to him that the King and his minions presumed upon 
 his apparent youth and inexperience. But there was a firm de- 
 cision in his character which they were not prepared for ; and 
 after pausing for a moment in thought, during which time the 
 King's brows began to bend angriiy upon him, he raised his 
 eyes, looking Henry calmly and stedi'astly in the face, and re- 
 plying, " Your Majesty must pardon me if I do not take instant 
 advantage of your permission to retire, as you have conceived 
 a false impression when you imagine that my mission is ful- 
 filled." 
 
 The King looked with an air of astonishment, first to Epernon 
 and then to Yillequier : but the former turned away his head 
 with a look of dissatisfaction -, while the latter bit his lip, let 
 bis hand fall upon a jewelled dagger in his belt, and said nothing. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau, however, went on in the same calm 
 but determined tone. "His Highness the Duke of Guise," he 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 163 
 
 said, "directed me to inform your Majesty of the facts I have 
 mentioned, and to beg in general terms information regarding 
 them 5 but in case the general information that 1 obtained was 
 not sufficiently accurate to enable me to write to him dis- 
 tinctly that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is in this place, or in 
 that place, he further directed me humbly to request that 
 your Majesty would answer in plain terms the following plain 
 questions : — Is Mademoiselle de Clairvaut in the chateau of Vin- 
 cennes ? Is she under the charge and protection of your Majesty ? 
 Does your Majesty know where she is ? " 
 
 "By the'Lord that lives," exclaimed Henry, "this Duke of 
 Guise chooses himself bold ambassadors to his King ! " 
 
 " Do you dare, malapert boy," exclaimed Villequier, "with 
 that bold brow, to cross-question your sovereign ? " 
 
 " I do dare, Sir," answered Charles of Montsoreau, " to ask 
 my sovereign, in the name of the Duke of Guise, these plain 
 questions, which, as he is a just and noble monarch, he can 
 neither lind any difficulty in answering, nor feel any anger in 
 hearing." 
 
 " And what if I refuse to answer, Sir?" demanded the King. 
 "What is to be the consequence then? Is the doughty mes- 
 senger charged to make a declaration of war on the part of our 
 obedient subject, the Duke of Guise?" 
 
 The young Count, was not prepared for this question, and 
 hesitated how to answer it, though a full knowledge of how ter- 
 rible the Duke of Guise was to the weak and effeminate mo- 
 narch he addressed, brought a smile over his countenance, 
 which had in reality more effect than any words he could have 
 spoken. After a pause, however, he replied,—" Oh no, Sire. 
 The Duke of Guise is, as you say, your Majesty's most devoted 
 and obedient subject ; and never conceiving it possible that you 
 would refuse to answer his humble questions, he gave me no 
 instructions what to say in a case that he did not foresee. 1 can 
 only suppose," he added, with a low and reverent bow to the 
 King, " that the Duke will be obliged to come to Paris himself 
 to make those inquiries and investigations, concerning his young 
 relation, in which I have not been successful." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau could see, notwithstanding the paint, 
 which delicately furnished the King with a more stable com- 
 plexion than his own, that at the very thought of the Duke 
 of Guise coming to Paris the weak monarch turned deadly pale. 
 The same signs also were visible to Villequier, who whispered, 
 " No fear, Sire ; no fear ; he will not come ! " 
 
 The King answered sharply, however, and sufficiently loud 
 for the young nobleman to hear, " We must give him no 
 excuse, Rene ! we must give him no excuse ! Monsieur dc 
 
164 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Logeres," he continued, putting on a more placable air than 
 before, " we are glad to find that neither the Duke of Guise nor 
 his envoy presumes to threaten us-, and in consideration of 
 the questions being put in a proper manner, we are willing 
 to answer them to the best of our abilities." 
 
 Villequier, at these words, laid his hand gently upon the 
 King's cloak ; but Henry twitched it away from his graSp with 
 an air of impatience, and continued, " I shall therefore answer 
 you frankly and freely, young gentleman ; telling you that 
 the Lady whom you are sent to seek is in fact not at Vincennes 5 
 nor, to the best of our knowledge and belief, in our good city 
 of Paris ; neither do we know or have any correct informa- 
 tion of where she may be found, though it is not by any means 
 to be denied that she has visited this our castle of Vincennes." 
 The first part of the King's speech had considerably relieved 
 the mind of Villequier; but when he proceeded to make the 
 somewhat unnecessary admission, that Mademoiselle de Clair- 
 vaut had visited Vincennes, the minister again attempted to in- 
 terrupt the King, saying, " You know, Sire, her pause at Vin- 
 cennes was merely momentary, and absolutely necessary for 
 those passports and safeguards without which it might be 
 dangerous to travel, in the distracted state of the country." 
 
 " Perfectly true," replied Henry : but the King's apprehen- 
 sion of the Duke of Guise appearing in Paris was much stronger 
 than his respect for his minister's opinion 5 and he proceeded 
 with what he had to say, in spite of every sign or hint that 
 could be given him. 
 
 " You must know, Monsieur de Logeres," he said, " that, 
 as I before observed, she did visit Vincennes for a brief space ; 
 but, there being something embarrassing in the whole busi- 
 ness, we were, to*say the truth — albeit not insensible to beauty 
 — we were not at all sorry to see her depart." 
 
 Although Charles of Montsoreau judged rightly that the 
 abode of Vincennes, to the high and pure-minded girl whom 
 he sought, could only have been one of horror, he could not 
 conceive any thing in her situation which should have proved 
 embarrassing to the King, and he answered bluntly, " Then 
 your Majesty of course has caused her to be escorted in safety 
 to the Duke of Guise, as the means of relieving yourself from 
 all embarrassment concerning her." 
 
 " Not so, not so, Monsieur de Logeres," replied the King. 
 " Young diplomatists and young greyhounds run fast and over- 
 leap the game. It so happens that there arc various claims 
 regarding the wardship of this young Lady. She has many 
 relations, as near or nearer than the Duke of Guise. The care 
 and guidance of her, too, under the authorisation of the Duke 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 165 
 
 himself, has been claimed by a young nobleman whom you 
 may have heard of, called the Marquis of Montsoreau-," and 
 he fixed his eyes meaningly upon the young Count's face. " All 
 these circumstances rendered the matter embarrassing; and 
 as I was not called upon to decide the matter judicially ; and 
 the Lady, if not quite of an age by law to judge for herself, 
 being very nearly so, I thought it far better to leave the whole 
 business to her own discretion, and let her take what course 
 she thought fit, offering her every assistance and protection 
 in my power, which, however, she declined. You may there- 
 fore assure the Duke of Guise, on my part, that she is not at 
 Vincennes, and that I am unacquainted with where she is at 
 this moment. I now think, therefore, that all your questions 
 are answered, and the business is at an end." 
 
 " I fear I must intrude upon your Majesty still farther," 
 replied the young Count; "for besides the letter from the 
 Duke of Guise, which I have had the honour of delivering to 
 your Majesty, he has also furnished me with this document, 
 giving me full power and authority to inquire, seek for, and 
 require, at the hands of any person in whose power she may 
 be, the young Lady whom he claims as his ward. He has 
 directed me to request your Majesty's approbation of the same, 
 expressed by your signature to that effect, giving me authority 
 to search for her in your name also, and to require the aid 
 and assistance of all your officers, civil and military, in executing 
 the said task." 
 
 Henry looked both agitated and angry ; and Yillequier spoke 
 for a moment to Epernon behind the King's back. 
 
 " Monsieur de Logeres," exclaimed the latter, taking a step 
 forward, " this is too much. I can hardly suppose that his High- 
 ness the Duke of Guise has authorised you to make such a 
 demand." 
 
 "My Lord Duke of Epernon," replied the Count, " were it 
 not that I hold in my hand the Duke's authority for that which 
 I state, I would call upon you to put your insinuation in plainer 
 terms, that I might give it the lie as plainly as I would do any 
 other unjust accusation." 
 
 The Duke turned very red ; but he replied, " And you would 
 be treated, Sir Count, as a petty boy of the low nobility of this 
 realm deserves, for using such language to one so much above 
 yourself." 
 
 "There is no one in France so much above myself, Sir," re- 
 plied the Count, gazing on him sternly, and with a look of some 
 contempt, " as to dare to insult me with impunity, and though 
 you be now High-admiral of France, Colonel-general of Infan- 
 try, Governor of half the provinces of this country, Duke, Peer, 
 
166 HENRY OF GUISE, 
 
 and hold many another rich and honourable office besides, I tell 
 you, John of Nogaret, that when the Baron de Caumont dined 
 at my father's table, he sat nearer the salt than perhaps now may 
 suit the proud Duke of Epernon to remember." 
 
 " Silence ! " exclaimed the King, rousing himself for a moment 
 from his effeminate apathy, while, for a brief space, an expres- 
 sion of power and dignity came over his countenance, such as 
 that which had distinguished him while Duke of Anjou. " Si- 
 lence, insolent boy! Silence, Epernon ! I forbid you, on pain of 
 my utmost displeasure, to take notice, even by a word, of what 
 this young man has said. You were yourself wrong to answer 
 for the King in the King's presence. The Duke of Guise shall 
 have no just occasion to complain of us," he added, the bright- 
 ness which had come upon him gradually dying away like the 
 false promising gleam of sunshine which sometimes breaks for a 
 moment through a rainy autumnal day, and fades away again as 
 soon, amidst the dull grey clouds ; " the Duke of Guise shall 
 have no occasion to complain of us. We will give this young 
 man the authority which he has so insolently demanded, to seek 
 for Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and having found her — if she 
 have not joined the Duke of Guise long before— to escort her in 
 safety to our cousin's care. But, Monsieur de Logeres, you show 
 your ignorance of every custom of the court and state, by sup- 
 posing that the King of France can write down at the bottom 
 of the powers given you by the Duke of Guise his name in con- 
 firmation of the same, like a steward at the bottom of a butcher's 
 bill. The authority which we give you must pass through the 
 office of our secretary of state, and it shall be drawn out and 
 sent to you as speedily as possible. I think that Monsieur de 
 Villequier already knows where to send this authority. You may 
 now retire ; and rest assured that it shall reach you as soon as 
 possible. At the same time we pardon you for your conduct in 
 this presence, which much needs pardon, though it does not 
 merit it." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau bowed low, and retired from the 
 King's presence, fully convinced that Henry was deceiving him ; 
 that he knew, or, at all events, had every means of judging, 
 where Marie de Clairvaut was ; and that he had not the slight- 
 est intention of sending him the authorisation he had pro- 
 mised, unless absolutely driven to do so. 
 
 The moment that the young Count had quitted the presence, 
 the King turned angrily to Villequier, exclaiming, " Are you 
 mad, Villequier, to risk bringing that fiery and ambitious pest 
 upon us ? Tis but four days ago he was within ten miles of 
 Paris ! " 
 
 " Pshaw, Sire ! " replied Villequier ; " there is not the slight- 
 
HENRY OK GUISE. 167 
 
 est chance of his coming. Did I not tell you when he was at 
 Gonesse that 1 would find means to make him run like a fright- 
 ened hare hack again to Soissons? J fear your Majesty has ruin- 
 ed all our plans by promising this authority to that malapert 
 youth, who doubtless already knows, or easily divines, that he 
 is deceived." 
 
 " I have not deceived him," said the King : " I told him the 
 girl was not at Vincennes-, nor is she. I told him that I did not 
 know where she is at this moment-, nor do I; for she may be 
 three mdes on this side of Meulan, or three miles on that, for 
 aught I know. It depends upon the quickness of the horses, and 
 the state of the roads. I promised him the authority to seek her ; 
 and he shall have it in good due form, if he live long enough, 
 and wait in Paris a sufficient time." 
 
 "If he have it not within three days," replied Villequier, " be 
 you sure, Sire, that he will write to the Duke of Guise." 
 
 " But, Villequier," said the King in a soft tone, " could you 
 not find means to prevent his making use of pen and ink to such 
 bad purposes? In short, friend Rene, it is altogether your affair. 
 You seem to think that the fact of this girl falling into our hands 
 is quite the discovery of a treasure which may fix on our side 
 this young Marquis of Montsoreau and the crafty Abbe that you 
 talk of, and I don't know how many more people besides. Now 
 I told you from the beginning that you should manage it all 
 yourself : so look to it, good Villequier ; look to it." 
 
 " He has let me manage it all myself, truly ! " said Villequier, 
 in a low tone. " But I wish to know more precisely, your Ma- 
 jesty," he added aloud, " what am I to do with this youth and 
 the girl? Is he to have the authorisation, or not? Am I, or am 
 I not, to give her up when he demands her?" 
 
 " Now, good faith," replied the King, " would not one think, 
 Epernon, that our well-beloved friend and minister here was a 
 mere novice out of a convent of young girls, a tender and scru- 
 pulous little thing, thinking evil in every stray look or soft word 
 addressed to her. He who has dealt with so many in his day, 
 diplomatists and warriors and statesmen, has not wit enough 
 to deal with a raw boy, whom, doubtless, our fair and crafty 
 cousin of Guise has sent upon a fool's errand to get him out of 
 the way." 
 
 " Certainly," replied the Duke of Epernon, " our wise friend 
 Villequier seems to be somewhat prudent and cautious this 
 morning. The young lady is in your hands, I think, Villequier; 
 is she not? and you have sent her off into Normandy, I think 
 you told me, with an escort of fifty of your archers. She goes 
 there, douhtless, as his Majesty has said, with her own will and 
 consent, and by her own choice, for there is a soft persuasive- 
 
168 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ness in fifty archers which it is very difficult for a woman's heart 
 to resist 5 and, doubtless, by the same cogent arguments, you 
 will induce her to marry whom you please. Come, tell us who 
 it is to be ; the hand of a rich heiress to dispose of, may be 
 made a profitable thing, under such management as yours, 
 "Villequier." 
 
 "I have not discovered the philosopher's stone, like you, 
 Monsieur d' Epernon," replied the other. 
 
 The King laughed gaily, for Epernon's extraordinary cupi- 
 dity was no secret even to the monarch that fed it. But the 
 Duke was proof to all jest upon that score 5 and looking at Vil- 
 lequier with the same sort of musing expression which he had 
 before borne, he repeated his question, saying, "Come, come, 
 disinterested chevalier, tell us to whom do you intend to give 
 her?" 
 
 "Perhaps to my own nephew," replied the other. "What 
 think you of that, Monsieur le Due? " 
 
 The brow of Epernon grew clouded in a moment. "I 
 think," he said, " that you will not do it, for two reasons : in 
 the first place, you destine your nephew for your daughter 
 Charlotte." 
 
 "Not I," replied the Marquis; "I never dreamt of such a 
 thing. She shall wed higher than that, or not at all. But what is 
 your second reason, Monsieur d'Epernon?" 
 
 " Because you dare nol," replied the Due d'Epernon : and he 
 added, speaking in a low tone, " You dare not, Villequier, mingle 
 your race with that of Guise. The moment you do, your object 
 will be clear, and your ruin certain." 
 
 "It is a curious thing, Sire," said Villequier, turning to the 
 King with a smile, " it is a curious thing to see how my good 
 Lord of Epernon grudges any little advantage to us mean men. 
 However, to set his Grace's mind at ease, I neither destine Ma- 
 demoiselle de Clairvaut for one nor for the other; but I thmk 
 she may prove a wonderful good bait for the wild young Mar- 
 quis of Montsoreau. By the promise of her hand, as far as my 
 interest and influence is concerned, he will not only be bound 
 to your Majesty's cause on every occasion, but will exert himself 
 more zealously and potently for that, than any other inducement 
 could lead him to do. Even if he should fail in the trial— for 
 we must acknowledge that he shows himself somewhat unstable 
 in his purposes— he will, at all events, have so far committed 
 himself as to give your Majesty good cause for confiscating all 
 his land, cutting down all his timber, and seizing upon all his 
 wealth. However, I must think, in the first place, of how to deal 
 with this brother of his." 
 
 " JNo very difficult task, I should judge," said the Duke of 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 169 
 
 Epernon, " for one so practised in the art of catching gudgeons 
 as you, Villequier." 
 
 "I don't know that," answered Villequier 5 "I would fain 
 detach that youth, also, from the Guises. You see, most noble 
 Duke, I am thinking of the King's interest all the time, while 
 you are thinking of your own. However, I must find a way to 
 manage him, for, as their wonderful friend and tutor, this wise 
 Abbe de Boisguerin, admitted to me last night, there are three 
 means all powerful in dealing with our neighbours — love, in- 
 terest, and ambition ; and we might thus exemplify it,— the 
 King would do any thing for the first, the Duke of Epernon any 
 thing for the second, and his Highness of Guise any thing for 
 the third." 
 
 "There are two other implements frequently used, which I 
 wonder Monsieur de Villequier did not add," said the Duke, 
 " as I rather expect he may have to use one or other of them 
 on the present occasion ; and men say he is fully as skilful in 
 using them as in employing love, interest, or ambition, for his 
 ends." 
 
 "Pray what are those?" demanded Villequier, somewhat 
 sharply. 
 
 " Vicenza daggers," replied the Duke of Epernon, " and wine 
 that splits a Venice glass ! " 
 
 " Come, come, Epernon," cried the King, " you and Ville- 
 quier shall not quarrel. Come away from him, come away from 
 him , or you will be using your daggers on each other presently : " 
 and, throwing his arm familiarly round his neck, he drew the 
 Duke away. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau rode homeward in painful and 
 anxious thought : he had flattered himself vainly, before he had 
 proceeded to Vincennes, that the redoubted name of Henry of 
 Guise would be found fully sullicient immediately to cause the 
 restoration of Marie de Clairvaut to him, who had naturally a 
 right to protect her. It less frequently happens that youth fails 
 to reckon upon the fiery contention it is destined to meet with 
 from adversaries, than that it miscalculates the force of the dull 
 and inert opposition which circumstances continually offer to its 
 eager course, throwing upon it a heavy, slow, continual weight, 
 which, like a clog upon a powerful horse, seems but a nothing 
 for the moment, but in the end checks its speed entirely. None 
 
170 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 knew better than Henry III. that it is by casting small obstacles in 
 the way of impetuous youth, that we conquer and tame it sooner 
 than by opposing it ; and such had been his purpose with Charles 
 of Montsoreau. 
 
 In his idle carelessness he cared but little what became of 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaui, or into whose hands she fell. He 
 was willing to countenance and assist the politic schemes of his 
 favourite Yillequier; and cared not, even in the slightest degree, 
 whether that personage employed poison or the knife to rid 
 himself of the young Count of Logeres, provided always that 
 he himself had nothing to do with it. The only part that he was 
 inclined to act was to thwart the Duke's young envoy by 
 obstacles and long delays ; and this he had suffered to become 
 so far evident to Charles of Montsoreau, that he became angry 
 and impatient at the very prospect before him. He doubted, 
 however, whether it would be right to send off a courier with 
 this intelligence immediately to the Duke of Guise, or to wait 
 for two or three days, in order to see whether the powers 
 promised him were effectually granted ; and he was still ponder- 
 ing the matter, while riding through the streets of Paris, when, 
 in passing by a large and splendid mansion in one of the prin- 
 cipal streets, he caught a glimpse of two figures disappearing 
 through the arched portal of the building. The faces of neither 
 were visible to him ; their figures only for a moment, and that at 
 a distance. But he felt that he could not be mistaken— that all 
 the thoughts and feelings and memories of youth could not so 
 suddenly, so magically, be called up by the sight of any one but 
 his brother, — and if so, that the other was the Abbe de Bois- 
 guerin. 
 
 " Whose is that house?" he exclaimed aloud, turning to his 
 attendants. 
 
 " That of Monsieur Rene" de Villequier," replied the page 
 instantly; and, springing from his horse at the gate, (he young 
 Count knocked eagerly for admission. The portals were instantly 
 thrown open, and a porter in crimson, with a broad belt fringed 
 with gold, appeared in answer to the summons. 
 
 " I think," said the young Count, " that I saw this moment 
 the Marquis de Montsoreau and the Abbe de Boisguerin pass 
 into this house." 
 
 The porter looked dull, and shook his head, replying, "Pso, 
 Sir •, nobody has passed in here but two of my noble Lord's at- 
 tendants—the old Abbe Scargilas, and Master JNicolas Prevot, 
 who used formerly to keep the Salle d'Armes, opposite the 
 kennel at St. Germain." 
 
 Although Charles of Montsoreau knew the existence and pos- 
 sibility of such a thing as the lie circumstantial, yet the cool- 
 
HBIfRY OF GUISE. 171 
 
 ness and readiness of the porter surprised him. " Pray," he 
 said, after a moment's pause, "is there any sueh person as 
 either Monsieur de Montsoreau or the Abbe de Boisguerin 
 dwelling here at present? " 
 
 "None, Sir," replied the man. "There is no one here hut 
 the attendants of my Lord, who is at present absent with the 
 Ring." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau would have given a good deal to have 
 searched the house from top to bottom : but as it would not 
 exactly do to storm the dwelling of Rene de \ illequicr, he rode 
 on, no less convinced than ever that his brother was at that 
 moment in the dwelling of the minister. 
 
 This conviction determined his conduct at once. That his 
 brother was in Paris, and in the hands of the most dangerous 
 and intriguing man of that day, he had no doubt-, and it seemed 
 to him also clear, that schemes were going on and contriving, 
 of which the obstacles and delays thrown in his way might be, 
 perhaps, a part. To what they tended he could not, of course, 
 tell directly ; but he saw that the only hope of frustrating them 
 lay in exertion without the loss of a moment, and he accord- 
 ingly dispatched his faithful attendant Gondrin to Soissons as 
 soon as he reached the inn. 
 
 We must follow, however, for a moment, the two persons 
 whom the young Count had seen enter the hotel of Villequier, 
 and accompany them at once into the chamber to which they 
 proceeded after passing the portal. It was a splendid cabinet, 
 filled with every sort of rare and costly furniture, which was 
 displayed to the greater perfection by the dark but rich tapestry 
 that covered the walls. Another larger room opened beyond, 
 and through the door of that again, which was partly open, a 
 long suite of bed-rooms and other apartments were seen, with 
 different rich and glittering objects placed here and there along 
 the perspective, as if for the express purpose of catching 
 the eye. 
 
 Into one of the large arm-chairs which the cabinet contained, 
 the Marquis of Montsoreau threw himself as if familiar with the 
 scene. " Villequier is long," he said, speaking to the Abbe. "He 
 promised to have returned before this hour." 
 
 "Impatience, Gaspar, impatience," replied the Abbe, "is 
 the vice of your disposition. How much have you lost already 
 by impatience? Was it not your impatience which hurried me 
 forward to represent his own situation and that of yourself, to 
 your brother Charles, which drove him directly to the Duke of 
 Guise? Was it not your impatience which made you speak 
 words of love to Marie de Clairvaut before she was prepared 
 to hear them, drawing from her a cold and icy reply? Was it 
 
172 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 not your impatience that made us leave behind at Provins all 
 the tired horses and one half of the men, rather than wait a 
 single day to enable them to come on with us ; and did not that 
 very fact put us almost at the mercy of the reiters, and give 
 your brother an opportunity of showing his gallantry and skill 
 at our expense?" 
 
 " It is all true, my friend ; it is all true," replied the Marquis. 
 " But in regard to my speaking those fiery words to Marie de 
 Clairvaut, how could I help that? Is it possible so to keep down 
 the overflowing thoughts of our bosom as to prevent their 
 bursting forth when the stone is taken off from the fountain, 
 and when the feelings of the heart gush out, not as from the 
 spring of some ordinary river, but, like the waters of Vaucluse, 
 full, powerful, and abundant even at their source." 
 
 " It was that I wished you to guard against," replied the 
 Abbe. "Had you appeared less to seek, you would have been 
 sought rather than avoided. It may be true, Gaspar, what au- 
 thors have said, that a woman, like some animals of the chase, 
 takes a pleasure in being pursued-, but depend upon it, if she 
 do so, she puts forth all her speed to insure herself against 
 being caught. Unless you are very sure of your own speed and 
 strength, you had better steal quietly onward, lest you frighten 
 the deer. Had she heard much from my lips, and from those of 
 her good but weak friend Madame de Saulny, of your high qua- 
 lities, and of all those traits in your nature calculated to cap- 
 tivate and attract such a being as herself, while you seemed in- 
 different and somewhat cool withal, every thing good that is in 
 her nature would have joined with every thing that is less good 
 — the love of high qualities and of manly daring would have 
 combined with vanity and caprice to make her seek you, excite 
 your attention, and court your love." 
 
 "I have never yet seen in her," said the young Marquis, 
 "either vanity or caprice $ and besides, good friend, such things 
 to me at least are not matters of mere calculation. I act upon 
 impulses that I cannot resist. Mine are feelings, not reasonings : 
 I follow where they lead me, and even in the pursuit acquire in- 
 tense pleasure that no reasoning could give." 
 
 " True," replied the Abbe, bending down his head and an- 
 swering thoughtfully. " There is a great difference between 
 your age and mine, Gaspar. You are at the age of passions, 
 and at that period of their sway when they defeat themselves 
 by their own intensity. I had thought, however J that my lessons 
 might have taught you, my counsel might have shown you, 
 that with any great object in view it is necessary to moderate 
 even passion in the course, in order to succeed in the end." 
 
 "But there is joy in the course also," exclaimed Gaspar de 
 
HENKY OF GUISE. 17.'i 
 
 Monlsoroau. " Think you, Abbe, that oven if it were possible 
 to win the woman we love by another's voice, we could lose 
 the joy of winning her for ourselves — the great, the transcen- 
 dant joy of struggling for her affection, even though it were 
 against her coldness, her indifference, or her anger?" 
 
 " I think, Caspar," replied the Abbe, " that if to a heart 
 constituted as yours is, there be added a mind of equal power, 
 nothing — not even the strongest self-denial — will be impossible 
 for the object of winning her you love. But I am not a good 
 judge of such matters," he continued with a slight smile curling 
 his lip— a smile not altogether without pride. "I am no judge 
 of such matters. The profession which I have chosen, and fol- 
 lowed to a certain point, excludes them from my consideration. 
 All I wish to do in the present instance is to warn you, Caspar, 
 against your own impetuosity in dealing with this , \ illequier. 
 Be warned against that man ! be careful ! Promise him nothing 5 
 commit yourself absolutely to nothing, unless upon good and 
 sufficient proof that he too deals sincerely with you. He is not 
 one to be trusted, Caspar, even in the slightest of things; and 
 promise me not to commit yourself with him in any respect 
 whatsoever." 
 
 "Oh, fear not, fear not," replied the Marquis. " In this res- 
 pect at least, good friend, no passions hurry me on. Here I can 
 deal calmly and tranquilly, because, though the end is the same, 
 I have nothing but art to encounter, which may always be en- 
 countered by reason. When I am with her, Abbe, it is the con- 
 tinual strife of passion that I have to fear; at every word, at 
 every action, I have to be upon my guard ; and reason, like a so- 
 litary sentinel upon the walls of a city attacked on every side, 
 opposes the foes in vain at one point, while they pour in upon a 
 thousand others." 
 
 While he was yet speaking, a servant with a noiseless foot 
 entered the room, and in a low sweet lone informed the Mar- 
 quis, that Monsieur de Villequier had just returned from \ in- 
 cennes, and desired earnestly to speak with him, for a moment, 
 alone in his own cabinet. The word "alone" was pronounced 
 more loud than any other, though the whole was low and tune- 
 ful 5 for Villequier used to declare that he loved to have servants 
 with feet like cats and voices like nightingales. 
 
 The Abbe marked that word distinctly, and was too wise to 
 make the slightest attempt to accompany his former pupil. The 
 Marquis, however, did not remark it : and. perhaps a little fearful 
 of his own firmness and skill, asked his friend to accompany him. 
 But the Abbe instantly declined. " No, Caspar," he said, "no; 
 it were better that you should see Monsieur Villequier alone. I 
 will wait for you here -" and, turning to the table, he took up an 
 
174 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 illuminated psalter, and examined the miniatures with as close 
 and careful an eye as if he had been deeply interested in the la- 
 bours of the artist. 
 
 He saw not a line which had there been drawn ; but after the 
 Marquis had followed the servant from the room he muttered to 
 himself, "So, Monsieur de Villequier, you think that I am a 
 mean man, who may be over-reached with impunity and ease? 
 You know me not yet, but you shall know me, and that soon." 
 And laying down the psalter, he took up another book of a cha- 
 racter more suited to his mind at the moment, and read calmly 
 till his young friend returned, which was not for near an hour. 
 
 In the mean time the Marquis had proceeded to the cabinet 
 of Villequier, who, the moment he saw him, rose from the chair 
 in which he had been seated busily writing, and pressed him 
 warmly by the hand. 
 
 " My dear young friend," he said, "one learns to love the 
 more those in whose cause one suffers something; and, since [ 
 saw you, I have had to fight your battle manfully." 
 
 " Indeed ! and may I ask, my Lord, with whom? " demanded 
 the young Marquis. 
 
 " With many," answered Villequier. " With the King, — with 
 Epernon, — with your own brother." 
 
 " With my brother?" exclaimed Caspar of Montsoreau, while 
 the blood rushed up in his face. " Does he dare to oppose me 
 after all his loud professions of disinterestedness and genero- 
 sity? But where is he, my Lord? Leave me to deal with him. 
 Where does he dwell? Is he in Paris ? " 
 
 Villequier smiled, but so slightly, that it did not attract the 
 eyes of his companion. That smile, however, was but the an- 
 nouncement of a sudden thought that had passed through his 
 own mind. 
 
 Shrewd politicians like himself, fertile in all resources, and 
 unscrupulous about any, feel a pride and pleasure in their own 
 abundance of expedients, which makes the conception of a new 
 means to their end as pleasant as the finding of a diamond. On 
 the present occasion the subtle courtier thought to himself with 
 a smile, as he saw the angry blood mount into the cheek of the 
 young Marquis of Montsoreau at the very mention of his bro- 
 ther's name, — " Here were a ready means of ridding ourselves, 
 were it needful, of one if not both of these young rash-headed 
 nobles, by setting them to cut each other's tbroats." 
 
 It suited not his plan however at the moment to follow out Hie 
 idea, and he consequently replied, " No, no, Monsieur de Mont- 
 soreau. 1 should take no small care, seeing how justly offended 
 you are with your brother, to prevent your finding out his abode, 
 as I know what consequences would ensue. But in all probabi- 
 
HENRY OF CUISK. 175 
 
 Iity, by this time, he has gone hack to the Duke of Guise, hav- 
 ing with difficulty been frustrated, for the King was much in- 
 clined to yield to his demands." 
 
 " What did he demand ? " exclaimed the Marquis vehemently. 
 " What did he dare to demand, after the professions he made 
 to me at La Ferte? " 
 
 "That matters not," answered Villequier. " Suffice it that his 
 demands were such as would have ruined all your hopes for ever." 
 
 " But why should the King support his demands," said the 
 Marquis, " when well assured of how attached he is to the great 
 head of the League that tyrannises over him ? " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! " said Villequier. " The League only tyrannises 
 so long as the King chooses. Henry wields not the sword at 
 present, but the sword is still in his hands to strike when he 
 thinks fit. But to answer your question, my young friend. The 
 King knows well, as you say, that your brother is attached to 
 the Duke of Guise : but you must remember at the same time, 
 Monsieur de Montsoreau, that as yet he is not fully assured that 
 you are attached to himself. Nay, hear me out, hear me out! 
 The King's arguments, I am bound to say, were not only spe- 
 cious but reasonable. He had to consider, on the one hand, that 
 the Duke of Guise, with whom it is his strongest interest to keep 
 fair, demands this young lady as his ward, which, according to 
 the laws of the land, Henry has no right to refuse. Your brother, 
 on the Duke's part, threatens loudly 5 and what have I to oppose 
 to a demand to which it seems absolutely necessary in good po- 
 licy that the King should yield? Nothing-, for, on the other 
 hand, Henry affirms that he can be in no degree sure of your- 
 self; that your family for long have shown attachment for the 
 House of Guise ; that you yourself were upon your march to join 
 the Duke, when this lady, falling into the hands of the King's 
 troops, induced you to abandon your purpose for the time ; but 
 that the moment he favours your suit, or gives his consent to 
 your union with her, you may return to your former attach- 
 ments, and purchase the pardon and good will of the Duke of 
 Guise by returning to his faction." 
 
 "I am incapable of such a thing !" exclaimed the Marquis 
 vehemently : but the recollection of his abandonment of the 
 Duke's party came over him with a glow of shame, and he re- 
 mained for a moment or two without making any farther reply, 
 while Villequier was purposely silent also, as if to let what he had 
 said have its full effect. At length he added : 
 
 "I believe you are incapable of it, Monsieur de Montsoreau, 
 and so I assured the King. He, however, still urged upon me 
 that I had no proof, and that you had taken no positive engage- 
 ment to serve his Majesty. All the monarch's arguments were 
 
176 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 supported by Epernon, who, I believe, wishes for the hand of 
 the young lady for some of his own relations, in order to arrange 
 for himself such an alliance with the House of Guise as may 
 prove a safeguard to him in the hour of need." And again Vil- 
 lequier smiled at his own art in turning back upon the Duke of 
 Epernon the suspicion which the Duke had expressed in regard 
 to himself. 
 
 The warning of the Abbe de Boisguerin, however, at that mo- 
 ment rang in the ears of Gaspar of Montsoreau, and he roused 
 himself to deal with Villequier not exactly as an adversary, but 
 certainly less as a friend. 
 
 "In fact, Monsieur de Yillequier," he said, " his Majesty 
 wishes that I should devote my sword and fortune to his service ; 
 and I am to understand, through you, that he holds out to me 
 the hope of obtaining the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut in 
 return. Now, it was not at all my purpose to take any part in 
 the strifes that are agitating the country at this moment. lam 
 neither Leaguer nor Huguenot, nor Zealot nor Moderate-, and, 
 though most loyal, not what is called Royalist. I was merely 
 conducting Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, with a very small force, 
 not the tenth part of what I can bring into the field at a week's 
 notice, when the events took place which brought me to Paris. 
 Now, Monsieur, if the King does not rest satisfied with my ex- 
 pressions of loyalty, and desires some express and public engage- 
 ment to his service, I see no earthly reason why I should rest 
 satisfied with mere vague hopes of obtaining the hand of the lady 
 I love; and though, of course, I cannot deal with his Majesty 
 upon equal terms, yet I must demand some full, perfect, and 
 permanent assurance that I am not to be disappointed in my 
 hopes, before I draw my sword for one party or another." 
 
 Villequier gazed thoughtfully in his face for a moment or two, 
 biting his under lip, and saying internally, "The Abbe de bois- 
 guerin — this comes from him." His next thought was, "Shall 
 I endeavour to pique this stripling upon his honour, and gene- 
 rosity, and loyalty, and all those fine words?" Rut he rejected 
 the idea the moment after thinking. "No; that would do better 
 with his brother. When a man boldly leaps over such things, it 
 is insulting him to talk about them any more." 
 
 And after a moment's farther thought, he replied, "It is all 
 very fair, Monsieur de Montsoreau, that you should have such 
 assurances; though, if we were not inclined to deal straight- 
 forwardly with you in the matter, we might very easily refuse 
 every thing of the kind, and leave you not in the most pleasant 
 situation." 
 
 " How so ? " demanded the Marquis with some alarm. " How 
 
 so?" 
 
HENRY OL GUISE, 177 
 
 "Easily, my dear young friend," replied Villeqnier. "Thus-, 
 by informing you that the King could give you no such assu- 
 rance — which, indeed, is nominally true, though not really — 
 and by showing you, at the same time, that as the young lady is 
 in his Majesty's hands, and he is determined not to give her up 
 to the Duke of Guise or to any hody else, but some tried and 
 faithful friend, the only means by which you can possibly obtain 
 her is by serving the King voluntarily, in the most devoted 
 manner. Suppose this did not suit you, what would be your 
 resource ? If you go to the Duke of Guise, you find the ground 
 occupied before you by your brother, and the Duke accuses you 
 of having betrayed his young relation into the hands of the King 
 — perhaps sends you under a guard into Lorraine, and has you 
 tried, and your head struck off. Such things have happened 
 before now, Monsieur de Montsorcau. At all events, not the 
 slightest chance exists of your winning the fair heiress of Clair- 
 vautfrom him. Hut, even if you did gain his consent, she is still 
 in the hands of the King, who would certainly not give her up 
 to one who had proved himself a determined enemy." 
 
 Gaspar of Montsoreau looked down , with somewhat of a frown- 
 ing brow, upon the ground. He saw, indeed, that the alternative 
 was one that he could not well adopt; and, from the showing 
 of Villeqnier, he fancied himself of less power and consequence 
 in the matter than he really was. He resolved, however, not to 
 admit the fact if he could help it. 
 
 " Suppose, Monsieur de Villequier," he said, " that the 
 League were to prevail, and to force his Majesty to concede all 
 the articles of Nancy, think you not that one thing exacted from 
 him might well be, to yield Mademoiselle de Clairvaut to her 
 lawful guardian?" 
 
 " It might," answered Villequier immediately. " But then I 
 come in. The question of guardianship has never been tried 
 between the Duke and myself. I stand as nearly related to her 
 as he does ; and I should instantly bring the cause before the 
 Parliament, demanding that the young lady should remain in 
 the hands of the King as suzerain till the cause is decided which 
 might be this time ten years." 
 
 " I did not know," said the young nobleman, " that the re- 
 lationship was so near, though I was aware that Clairvaut is the 
 family name of Villequier. However, Sir, there is yet another 
 alternative. Suppose I were to keep the sword in the sheath, 
 and retire once more to Montsoreau." 
 
 "Why there, then," replied Villequier with a slight sneer, 
 " you might happily abide, watching (be progress of events, till 
 either the royalist party or the League prevailed; and then, as 
 chance or accident might will it, see the hand of the fair Lady 
 
 12 
 
178 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 rewarding one of the King's gallant defenders, or bestowed by 
 the Duke of Guise upon his brave and prudent partisan, the 
 Count of Logeres." 
 
 He paused for a moment or two, to let all he said have its full 
 effect, and then added, in a familiar tone, " Come, come, 
 Monsieur de Montsoreau, see the matter in its true light. There 
 is no possible chance of your obtaining the hand of Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut, except by attaching yourself to the King's 
 service, and defending the royal cause with the utmost zeal. If 
 you persist in doing so simply as a voluntary act to be performed 
 or remitted at pleasure, be you sure that as you make the King 
 depend upon your good will for your services towards him, so 
 will you be made to depend upon his good will, his caprices if 
 you like, for the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. If, how- 
 ever, on the contrary, you frankly and generously determine to 
 take service with the King, and bind yourself irrevocably to his 
 cause, I do not scruple to promise you, under his hand, his full 
 consent to your union with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. I will 
 give you the same consent under mine, assuming the title of her 
 guardian. Your marriage cannot, of course, take place till the 
 great struggle that is now impending is over. In a few months, 
 nay, in a few weeks, the one party or the other — who are now 
 directing their efforts against each other, instead of turning, as 
 they ought, their united forces against the common enemies of 
 our religion — must have triumphed over its adversary. I need 
 not tell you which I feel, which I know, must be successful 5 
 but your part will now be, to exert yourself to the utmost, to 
 traverse the country with all speed to Montsoreau, to raise 
 every soldier that you can, and to gather every crown that you 
 can collect, to join the King with all your forces, wherever he 
 may be, and, by your exertions, to render that result certain, 
 which is, indeed, scarcely doubtful even as it is; remembering 
 that upon the destruction of the Duke of Guise's party, and upon 
 the overthrow of his usurped and unreasonable power, depends 
 not only the welfare of your King and master, but the realisa- 
 tion of your best and sweetest hopes." 
 
 " You grant all that I demand, Monsieur de Yillequier," re- 
 plied Caspar of Montsoreau. " All I wish is the King's formal 
 consent in writing, and yours, to my marriage with Marie de 
 Clairvaut, as the condition of my absolute and public adhesion to 
 the royal cause." 
 
 " I know," replied Villequier, " that I grant all you demand, 
 and I was prepared to do so from the first, only we were led 
 into collateral discussions as we went on. You will, of course, 
 take an oath to the King's service, and confirm it under your 
 hand." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 179 
 
 " We will exchange the papers, Monsieur de Villequier," re- 
 plied the Marquis, thinking himself extremely cautions. "But 
 now, pray tell me, how ended the discussion with my brother?" 
 " The only way that it could end,"' replied "\ illequier, " when 
 all parlies were determined to evade his demand. The King, 
 you may easily suppose, was not inclined to give the young 
 heiress of Clairvaut to any of the partisans of an enemy. Eper- 
 non knew well that if the hand of a Guise were upon her 
 shoulder, the ring of a La Valette would never pass upon her 
 finger 5 and I, when last we met, had half given my promise to 
 you, and -was, at all events, determined that the question of 
 wardship should be settled before I parted with her. The King, 
 therefore, evaded the demands of the young Count, though he 
 was not a little inclined to yield to them at one time, in order 
 to pacify the Duke of Guise. However, I took the brunt of the 
 business upon myself, and underwent the hot indignation of 
 your brother, who thought to find in me an Epernon, or a 
 Montsoreau, who would measure swords with him for an angry 
 word.*' 
 
 " They had better be skilful as well as brave," said the young 
 Marquis thoughtfully, " who measure swords with my brother 
 Charles." 
 
 " Indeed! " said Villequier, " is he then so much a master of 
 his weapon?" 
 
 " The most perfect I ever beheld — ay, more skilful now, than 
 even our friend the Abbe de Boisguerin •, though I have heard 
 that, some years ago, when the Abbe was studying at Padua, 
 he challenged the famous Spanish sword-player, Bobez, to 
 display his skill with him in the schools, in single combat, and 
 hit him three times upon the heart without Bobez touching him 
 once." 
 
 " I remember, I remember ! " cried Villequier. " The master 
 broke the buttons from the swords in anger, and the student 
 ran him through the body at the first pass, whereof he died 
 within five minutes after in the Deacon's chamber." 
 
 " I never heard that he died," replied the Marquis with some 
 surprise. 
 
 " He did indeed, though," replied Villequier with a meditative 
 air. " And so this was the Abbe de Boisguerin. One would have 
 thought the army, rather than the church, would have called 
 such a spirit to itself." 
 
 " I know not," replied the young Marquis, " but in all things 
 he is equally skilful ; and, doubtless, you know he has taken but 
 the first step towards entering the church, pausing as it were 
 even on the threshold." 
 
{80 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " Do you think," said Villequier, "that he is as skilful in 
 conveying intelligence as in other things?" 
 
 " What do you mean, my Lord?" exclaimed his young com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Nay, I mean nothing," replied the politician, satisfied with 
 having sown the first seed of suspicion in the young noble- 
 man's mind, without, perhaps, any definite design, but simply 
 for the universal purpose of making men doubt and distrust 
 each other, with a view of ruling them more easily. " Nothing, 
 except a mere question concerning his skill. I have no latent 
 meaning, I assure you." 
 
 The brow of the Marquis grew clear again, and Villequier 
 saw that he believed the latter assertion more fully than he 
 had intended. He let the subject pass, however, and spoke of 
 many other things, giving his own account of various matters 
 which had occurred during the Count de Logeres's audience of 
 the King, and urging Caspar de Montsoreau to set off with all 
 speed to raise his forces in his native province. Then abruptly 
 turning the conversation, he demanded, " You or the Abbe told 
 me, I think, that you suspected your brother of having com- 
 municated your march to the reiters. Is it like his general 
 character so to act? I'm sure, if it be his custom to do such 
 things, 1 would much rather that he was upon the opposite 
 party than our own." 
 
 The Marquis bent down his head, and gazed sternly upon 
 the ground for two or three moments. He then answered, with 
 a deep sigh, "No, Monsieur de Villequier-, no, it is not like 
 Charles's character. He has all his life hcen frank and free as 
 the summer air, open, and generous. 1 fear I did him wrong 
 to suspect him. We are rivals where no man admits of rivalry . 
 but I must do him justice. If he have done such a thing, his 
 nature must he changed, changed indeed — changed, perhaps, 
 as much as my own." 
 
 " I thought," replied Villequier, " that he seemed frank and 
 straightforward enough, bold and haughty as a lion; gave the 
 king look for look-, bearded Epernon, and threatened to bring 
 him to the field ; and spared not me myself, whom men don't 
 for some reason love to offend. l>ut he did not seem a man 
 likely to betray his friend, or practise treachery upon his 
 brother. It is a very strange thing, too," he continued in an 
 easier tone, " that Colombel and the other ollicers of the King's 
 troops at Chateau Thierry should have received news of your 
 coming a day before you did cross the Maine, together with 
 the information that the reiters might attack you near dandeln 
 Was not I his strange?" 
 
 "Most strange," replied the Marquis, knitting his brows, 
 
HENRY OK GUISE. 181 
 
 and setting his teeth hard. Hut Villequier, now seeing that lie 
 had said quite enough, again turned the conversation ; and 
 after letting it subside naturally to ordinary subjects, he told 
 the young Marquis that he would immediately write to the 
 King, and obtain bis signature to the paper required, before 
 bed-time. " It is late already," he said ; " I think even now I 
 see a shade in the sky, so I must about my work rapidly. But 
 remember, Monsieur de Montsoreau, nine is my supper hour 
 exactly; and then, care and labour being past, we will sit 
 down and enjoy ourselves, though I fear the accommodation 
 which I can offer you in my poor dwelling must seem but rude 
 in your eyes." 
 
 The Marquis said all that such a speech required, and then 
 withdrew. 
 
 When he was gone, Villequier applied himself for some time 
 to other things ; but when they were concluded, he rose from 
 his chair, and walked once or twice thoughtfully across the 
 cabinet. 
 
 " I had better," he said to himself at length, " I had better 
 deal with him at once, and then I can ascertain what are his 
 demands, and how to treat them." 
 
 Thus saying, he took up his bell and rang it, directing the 
 servant who appeared to see if he could find the Abbe de Bois- 
 guerin alone, in which case he was to invite him to a con- 
 ference. " He will be alone," thought the w r ily courtier, " for 
 I have sown seeds of those things which will not suffer them 
 to be long together." 
 
 The Abbe, however, was absent from the house, much to 
 the surprise of Villequier; and another hour had well nigh 
 passed before he made his appearance. The moment that he 
 did so, he advanced towards Villequier with his mild and grace- 
 ful calmness, saying that he understood his Lordship had sent 
 for him. Villequier pressed his hand tenderly, and with soit 
 and courtly words assured him that, in sending for him, he 
 had only sought to enjoy the pleasure of his unrivalled conver- 
 sation for a few minutes before supper. 
 
 The Abbe replied exactly in the same lone ; that he was 
 profoundly grieved to have lost even a moment of the society 
 of one who fascinated from the first, and sent away every one 
 charmed and delighted. 
 
 A slight and bitter smile curled the lip of each as he ended 
 his speech, like a seal upon a treaty, the confirmation and 
 mockery of a falsehood. 
 
 The Abbe, however, added to his speech a few words more, 
 saying that he should have been back earlier, but that his con- 
 versation at the White Penitent's had been so interesting that 
 
182 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 he could not withdraw himself earlier from her Majesty the 
 Queen-mother. 
 
 Villequier started. "Are you acquainted with the Queen?" 
 he said. " What a surprising being Catherine is ! " 
 
 " She is indeed," answered the Abbe. "My long sojourn at 
 Florence some years ago made me fully acquainted with every 
 member of the House of Medici, and I now bring you this 
 letter on her part, Monsieur de Villequier." 
 
 Villequier took the paper that the Abbe handed to him, and 
 read apparently with some surprise. " Her Majesty," he said, 
 " knows that I am her devoted slave, but at the same time she 
 cannot doubt, knowing as she does so well your high qualities, 
 that I will do every thing to serve and assist you, and prevent 
 all evil machinations against you." 
 
 " Oh, she doubts it not-, she doubts it not," replied the Abbe. 
 " She doubts it not, Monsieur de Villequier, any more than I 
 do ; and has written this note only in confirmation of your good 
 intentions towards me. However, there is one thing I wish 
 you to do for me, Monsieur de Villequier." 
 
 " Name it, my dear friend," exclaimed the Marquis-, "but 
 give me an opportunity of making myself happy in gratifying 
 your wishes." 
 
 " The fact is, Monsieur de Villequier," replied the Abbe, 
 " that some malicious person has been endeavouring, to per- 
 suade the young Marquis de Montsoreau, my friend, and for- 
 merly my pupil, that it was I who intimated to the reiters the 
 course we were pursuing to meet the Duke of Guise, and who 
 also intimated the facts to the King's troops at Chateau Thierry, 
 that they might have an opportunity of coming up to rescue us 
 and bring us hither — though they showed no great activity 
 in doing the first. Now, doubtless, the person who did this, if 
 there were any one, had the King's service solely in view, 
 and deserved to be highly rewarded, as he probablv will be; 
 
 but " 
 
 " Doubtless," replied Villequier with a sneering smile. " But 
 surely he could not object to. such honourable service being 
 known." 
 
 " Of course not," replied the Abbe ; " nor that he had given 
 intimation of the facts to, and taken his measures with, her Ma- 
 jesty the Queen-mother ; by an order, under whose hand the 
 troops at Chateau Thierry acted, and at whose suggestion Mon- 
 sieur de Montsoreau and his friends threw themselves into the 
 hands of Monsieur de Villequier.— All this her Majesty declares 
 he did; and he could not, of course, object to any of these things 
 !u,'!ji- known, except at it is contrary to good policy and to the 
 wishes of the Queen-mother : and more especially contrary to 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 183 
 
 every wise purpose, if he be a person possessed of much habitual 
 influence with the young Marquis." 
 
 " Monsieur de Boisguerin," said Villequier, seeming suddenly 
 to break away from the subject, but in truth following the scent 
 as truly as any well-trained hound, " the bishopric of Seez is at 
 present vacant. I know none who would fill it better than the 
 Abbe de Boisguerin." 
 
 The Abbe drew himself up and waved his hand. " You mistake 
 me entirely, Monsieur de Villequier," he said. " I take no more 
 vows. I have taken too many already; and those, by God's 
 grace and the good will of our holy father the Pope, I intend to 
 get rid of very speedily. I have nothing to request of your 
 Lordship at present. I know, see, and understand your whole 
 policy, and think you quite right in every respect. The promises 
 which you and the King are to give to Monsieur de Montsoreau 
 concerning the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut can of course 
 be broken, changed, or modified in a moment at any future 
 time." 
 
 " We have no intention of breaking them," replied Villequier. 
 " We are acting in good faith, I can assure you." 
 
 " Doubtless," replied the Abbe, " doubtless ; but they can be 
 broken? " 
 
 "Of course," replied Villequier; " of course any thing on 
 earth can be broken." 
 
 " That is sufficient," replied the Abbe. " It is quite enough, 
 Monsieur de Villequier : I only desire to know, whether you 
 and the King consider it as a final arrangement, that Made- 
 moiselle de Clairvaut is to marry the young Lord of Montso- 
 reau, or whether the matter is not now as much unsettled and 
 within your own power and grasp as ever." 
 
 " Why," replied Villequier thoughtfully, " it is, as I dare say 
 you well know, Monsieur l'Abbe, a very difficult thing indeed to 
 devise any sort of black lines, which, written down upon sheep 
 skin, will prove sufficiently strong to bind the actions of kings, 
 princes, or common men, at a future period. But it seems to 
 me, Monsieur l'Abbe, that the time is come when we had better 
 be frank with each other! What is it that you aim at? You seem 
 not displeased to think the arrangement doubtful or contingent; 
 and yefc I, who am not accustomed to guess very wrongly in 
 such matters, have entertained no doubtful suspicion that you 
 prompted the demand for a definite and conclusive bargain." 
 
 " 1 did," replied the Abbe. " When you asked to see him 
 alone, I was very well assured that, though a game of policy 
 skilfully played may occasionally afford sport to Monsieur de 
 Villequier, you were quite as well pleased in the present business 
 to deal with a young and inexperienced head as with an old and 
 
184 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 a worldly one. He sought my opinion and advice, and, as I uni- 
 formly do when it is sought, I gave it him sincerely, though it 
 was against my own views and purposes. Now, Monsieur de 
 Villequier, 1 see hovering round your lips a question, which, in 
 whatever form of words you place it, whatever Proteus form it 
 may assume, will have this for its substanee and object; namely, 
 What are the plans and purposes of the Abbe de Boisguerin? 
 Now, my plant* and purposes are these, — remember, I do not 
 say my objects ; the object of every man in life is one, though 
 we all set out upon different roads to reach it. My purpose is 
 to serve his Majesty and the Queen-mother far more than I 
 have hitherto been able to do. What I have done is a trifle ; 
 but if I detach from the party of the League, separate for ever 
 from the Duke of Guise, and bring over to the royal cause 
 Charles of Montsoreau as well as his brother, I shall confer 
 no trifling service, for 1 can now inform you, Monsieur de Ville- 
 quier, that, besides the great estates of Logeres, he is lord of 
 all the possessions lately held by the old Count de Morly, who 
 amassed much treasure during the avaricious part of age, and 
 died little more than a week ago, leaving this young Lord the 
 heir of all his wealth. I have received the intelligence this very 
 morning ; so that, what between his riches, his skill, and his 
 courage, he is worth any two, excepting Epernon perhaps, of 
 the King's court." 
 
 " If you do what you say, Monsieur de Boisguerin," re- 
 plied the Marquis in a low, deep, sweet toned voice, " you may 
 command any thing you please in France, bishoprics, ab- 
 beys " 
 
 "If it rained bishoprics," replied the Abbe, " 1 would not 
 wear a mitre. I do not not pretend to say, Monsieur de Ville- 
 quier, that I am more disinterested than my neighbours ; that 
 1 have not great rewards in view, and objects of importance — 
 to me, if not to others. But these objects are not quite fixed or 
 determined yet, and I am not one of those men, Monsieur de 
 Villequier, who hesitate to render the services first from a fear 
 of losing the reward afterwards. 1 know how to make my 
 claims heard when the time comes for demanding; and in the 
 present instance, although 1 cannot distinctly promise to bring 
 Charles of Montsoreau absolutely and positively over to the 
 King's cause, yet I am sure of being able both to detach him 
 from the Duke of Guise and separate him from the faction of the 
 League. I think, indeed, that all three can be done : but nothing 
 can be done unless the promise given to his brother be made 
 contingent. The one loves her as vehemently as the other ; 
 and 1, who know how to deal with him, can change his whole 
 views in an hour, or at least in a few days." 
 
HENRY Ol GUISE. 185 
 
 "Indeed!" said Villequier. "He is now in Paris; the trial 
 could be speedily made." 
 
 " I know it — " replied the Abbe, seeing the Marquis fix his 
 eyes upon him eagerly, thinking, perhaps, ' he has promised 
 more than he could perform.' 
 
 " I know it, and that is the precise reason why I have hurried 
 on this matter, and urged it to the present point. No time is to 
 be lost, or I see storms approaching, Monsieur de Villequier, 
 that I think escape your eyes." 
 
 " What do you intend to do?" demanded Villequier-, "and 
 what means do you require to do it?" 
 
 "My purposes I have already told you," replied the Abbe. 
 " The means I require— to come to the point at once— consist 
 of a document under your own hand, making over to me, as far 
 as your relationship to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut goes, the 
 right of disposing of her hand in marriage to whomsoever I 
 may think lit : that is to say, the voice for, or the voice against, 
 any particular candidate for her hand, when given by me, is to 
 be held as if given by yourself," 
 
 " This is a great thing that you demand, Monsieur de Bois- 
 guerin," replied Villequier, gazing in his face with no incon- 
 siderable surprise; " and I see not how I can give such a paper 
 at the very same time that I give the one which I have pro- 
 mised to the Marquis of Monlsoreau." 
 
 " Nothing, I fear, can be done without it," replied the Abbe; 
 " but I think it may be done without risk or exposure of any 
 kind , for I in return can bind myself not to employ that paper 
 for nine months, by which time all will be complete ; and in 
 both the documents you can speak vaguely of other promises 
 and engagements, and can declare your great object in giving 
 me that paper to be, the final settlement of difficult claims, by a 
 person in whom you have full confidence." 
 
 Villequier looked in his face with a meaning and somewhat 
 sarcastic smile : then turned to the note which the Queen-mother, 
 Catharine de Medici, had sent him ; read it over again as if care- 
 lessly, but marking every word as he did so ; and then said, 
 with somewhat of a sigh, " Well, Monsieur de Boisguerin, pray 
 draw up on that paper what you think would be required." 
 
 The Abbe took up the pen and ink, and wrote rapidly for a 
 moment or two; while Villequier looked over his shoulder, 
 fingering the hilt of his dagger as he did so, in a manner which 
 might have made the periods of any man but the Abbe de Bois- 
 guerin, who knew as lie did his companion's habits and views, 
 less rounded and eloquent than they usually were. The Abbe. 
 however, wrote on without the slightest sign of apprehension 
 
186 HENR-Y OP GiJfsfe 
 
 HENRY OP GUI 
 
 and at length Villequier exclaimed, "TiVai would tie my hands 
 sufficiently tight, Monsieur de Boisgueriin" 
 
 " Not quite, my Lord," replied Hie other, "Irievcr make a 
 covenant without a penalty 5 and what lam how going to add 
 provides that, in case of your failing .to, canfifcm'iny decision, or 
 attempting in any way to rescind this paper ami the power 
 hereby given to me, you forfeit to my use and benefit one 
 hundred thousand golden crowns, to be sued for from you in 
 any lawful court of this kingdom." 
 
 " Nay, nay, nay ! " cried Villequier, now absolutely laughing. 
 " This is going too far, Monsieur de Boisguerin." 
 
 " Faith, not a whit, my Lord," replied the Abbe. " I take care 
 when men make me promises, that they are not such as can he 
 trifled with, at least if I am to act upon them." 
 
 " Why, you do not suppose — — " exclaimed Villequier. 
 
 " I suppose nothing, my Lord," interrupted the Abbe, " but 
 that you are a statesman and a courtier, and must in your day 
 have seen more than one promise broken." 
 
 " By some millions," replied Villequier. " I told you to speak 
 frankly, Monsieur de Boisguerin, and you have done so with a 
 vengeance. I must have my turn, too, and tell you that neither 
 to you nor any other man on earth will I give such a promise, 
 without in the first place seeing a probability of the object for 
 which it is given being accomplished, and, in fact, some steps 
 taken towards the accomplishment of that object; and, in the 
 next place, without having a distinct notion of the means by 
 which it is to effect its end. That is a beautiful ring of yours," 
 continued the statesman, suddenly breaking away from the 
 subject as if to announce that what he had just said was final, 
 but perhaps in reality to consider what was to be the next step. 
 " That is a beautiful ring of yours, Monsieur de Boisguerin, and 
 of some very peculiar stone it seems ; a large turquoise semi- 
 transparent." 
 
 " It is an antidote against all poisons," answered the Abbe 
 coolly, " whether they be eaten in the savoury ragout, drunk in 
 the racy cup, smelt in the odour of a sweet flower, or inhaled 
 in the balmy air of some well-prepared apartment. My dear 
 friends will not find me so tender a lamb as Jeanne d'Albret." 
 
 " No, I should think not," replied Villequier with a laugh, 
 and still holding off from the original subject of conversation. 
 " I should think not, if I may judge by some of your attendants, 
 Monsieur de Boisguerin, for there is one of them at least, an 
 Italian, whom I passed in the court but now, who looks much 
 more like the follower of a wolf than of a lamb. He was dressed 
 somewhat in the guise of a wandering minstrel, with a good 
 strong dagger, which I dare say is serviceable in lime of need." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 187 
 
 " I have not the slightest douht of it," replied the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin with the most imperturbable eoolness, " though I 
 have not had occasion to make use of him much in that way 
 yet. But the man's a treasure, Monsieur de \ illequier; and as 
 to his garb the tact is, that I have not had lime yet to have it 
 changed and made more becoming. You shall see in a few days, 
 Monsieur de Villequier, what a change can be effected by razors, 
 soap, cold water, and good clothing. He's a complete treasure, 
 I can assure you, and well worth any pains." 
 
 " But," said \ illequier, " if you have had him so short a time 
 as not to be able to clothe him yet, how do you know all these 
 magnificent qualities? " 
 
 "It is a singular business enough,' 1 answered the Abbe. " I 
 knew him long ago in Italy, where he was exercising various 
 professions : but he bad skill enough almost to cheat me, which, 
 of course, made me judge highly of his abilities. One day, not 
 long ago, he presented himself at the Chateau de Montsoreau, 
 where it seems he had been upon some vagabond excursion a 
 week or a fortnight before. He had on the first occasion seen 
 and recognised me, and he now came back, having spent all the 
 money he had gained by selling a young Italian pipe-player to 
 my good cousin Charles, and being consequently in not the best 
 provided state. He was in hopes that I would take him into my 
 service, which, from ancient recollection of his character, I was 
 very willing to do ; dismissing, however, without much cere- 
 mony, another man and a low Italian woman whom he had 
 brought with him. They seemed very willing to go, it is true, 
 and he to part with them ; and my good friend Orbi has already 
 shown himself on more than one occasion fully as serviceable as 
 I had expected he would prove. My former knowledge of him 
 gives me means of binding him to me by very strong ties ; and 
 I will acknowledge that never was there man to all appearance 
 so well calculated to remove a troublesome friend or a perti- 
 nacious enemy." 
 
 " Doubtless, doubtless," replied Villequier 5 " though he seems 
 not to be particularly strong in frame." 
 
 "But he is active," answered the Abbe, " and full of skill, 
 and thought, and ingenuity. But to return to what we were 
 saying concerning the paper, Monsieur de Villequier, which we 
 have left somewhat too long," added the Abbe, thinking this 
 sort of farce had been carried quite far enough. " Every objec- 
 tion that you have raised can be overthrown at once. I ask this 
 promise, not for my own sake, but to satisfy ibis youth Charles 
 of Montsoreau. He will trust you as soon as the fox will the 
 tiger ; but he will trust to me implicitly, if he believes that 1 
 have the power lo aid him in obtaining her he loves. Thus you 
 
188 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 see at once the means by which this promise is to work to the 
 ends that we propose. Then, as to seeing clearly what the effect 
 will be, I will show it to you in the very course of this night. 
 Read that letter, written by the yount Count of Logeres to his 
 brother, no later than yesterday evening ! You see," the Abbe 
 continued, after Villequier had read, " he renounces all claim 
 whatsoever to the hand of Mademoiselle deClairvaut, and this 
 in favour of his brother. The letter was brought hither not two 
 hours ago. Now, ere two hours more be over, you shall your- 
 self seethe whole feelings of this young man changed, and the 
 pursuit renewed as eagerly as ever. If it be so, what say you;? 
 Will you go forward in the way I propose? — Yea or nay, Mon- 
 sieur de Villequier? I trifle not, nor am trilled with." 
 
 " I will then go forward, beyond all doubt," replied the Mar- 
 quis. 
 
 The Abb6 thereupon took up the pen, wrote five lines on a 
 sheet of paper, sealed them with some of the yellow wax which 
 lay ready, addressed the note to Charles of Montsoreau, and 
 placing it in the hands of Villequier, bade him to send it by a 
 page, with orders to require an answer. The page seemed winged 
 with the wind, and in a marvellous short time he returned, bear- 
 ing a note from the young Count of Logeres, containing these 
 few words : — 
 
 " My renunciation was entirely conditional. If it be as you 
 say, nothing on earth shall induce me to yield the hand of Ma- 
 demoiselle de Clairvaut to any man. The time that you allow 
 me for writing does not permit me to say more, but come to me 
 as early as possible to-morrow, and let all things be explained ; 
 for a state of doubt and suspicion was always to me worse than 
 the knowledge of real evil or real wrong." 
 
 The Abbe gave it. to Villequier, and the Minister only re- 
 plied by signing and sealing the paper which the Abbe had 
 drawn up. 
 
 " Now, quick ! Monsieur l'Abbe," said the Minister. " Go 
 for a few minutes to your own apartments, and then join us at 
 supper, which I hear is already served, as if we had not met 
 during the evening. You will not need your ring, I can assure 
 you." 
 
 The Abbe bowed low and retired in silence ; but in his 
 heart he said, " And this, the fool Henry holds to be a great 
 politician." 
 
 No knave can be a great politician ; but every knave thinks 
 himself so. The mistake they make is between wisdom and cun- 
 ning. The knave prides himself on deceiving others, the wise man 
 on not deceiving himself. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 189 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 When the Abbe de lioisguerin on the following morning en- 
 tered the presence of Charles of Montsoreau, his mind was pre- 
 pared for every thing he was to say and do, for every thing he 
 was to assert or to imply. But there was one thing for which his 
 mind was- not prepared — all shrewd, keen, politic, and expe- 
 rienced as it was. 
 
 There are points in the deep study of human nature which 
 those who would use that mighty science for selfish purposes al- 
 most always overlook. Amongst these are the changes, both 
 sudden and progressive, which take place in themselves and in 
 others, and the changes in relative situations which they pro- 
 duce. In this respect it was that the Abbe de Boisguerin thought- 
 ful and calculating as he was, had not prepared himself for the 
 meeting with Charles of Montsoreau. The time was short since 
 they had parted. Not above six weeks had elapsed, if so much ; 
 and the Abbe had come ready to deal with a youth of keen and 
 penetrating mind, of quick perceptions and extensive powers ; 
 of all whose feelings and thoughts he fancied that he knew the 
 scope and quality ; whose mind he believed that he had gauged 
 and tested as if it were some material substance. But he knew 
 not at all, what an effect the space of six weeks may have when 
 spent in communication with great minds, and in dealing with 
 great events; and the moment he entered the room he saw a 
 change which he had never dreamt of — a change which through 
 the mind affected the body, the countenance, and the demea- 
 nour. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau, in short, had left him a youth high- 
 spirited, feeling, intelligent, graceful, — he stood before him a 
 man, calm, thoughtful, grave, dignified. There were even lines 
 of care already upon his brow, which gave it a degree of stern- 
 ness not natural to it ; and the whole look and aspect of his 
 former pupil was so powerfully intellectual, that the Abbe felt 
 iie must be more cautious and careful than he had prepared to 
 l»e ; that his words, his thoughts, and his looks would not alone 
 be tested by old affection, nor even by the simple powers of an 
 undoubting mind, but would be tried by experience likewise, 
 and tried moreover with that degree of suspicion which is more 
 active within us when we first learn the painful lessons taught by 
 human deceit, than it is when we learn fully our own powers of 
 separating Irulh from falsehood. 
 
190 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 He saw that it would be necessary to be more cautious than 
 he had proposed to be, and that, consequently, he must change 
 much that he had intended to say and do. The very caution 
 affected his manner, and his alteration of purposes caused occa- 
 sional hesitation. Charles of Montsoreau, who remembered his 
 whole character and demeanour during many years, found, 
 without seeking it, a touchstone in the past by which to try the 
 present, and the conclusion in his own heart was, "This man 
 is not true." 
 
 The explanation given by the Abbe of all that had occurred 
 on their route did not satisfy his hearer. He told him that he 
 had remained with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut and the carriage 
 till the reiters had passed, and then had caused the horses to 
 be turned into a bye-road, in the hope of escaping any returning 
 parties : they had thus accidentally met with the King's troops, 
 whose offered protection, of course, they could not refuse. But 
 he touched, vaguely and lightly upon the mission of Colombel 
 to the young Marquis de Montsoreau ; and the Count de Lo- 
 geres did not press him upon the subject, for he felt sufficiently 
 upon his guard, and had a repugnance openly to convict one 
 whom he had loved of falseness and treachery. 
 
 He turned then to the note which he had received on the 
 preceding evening. 
 
 " You tell me now," he said, " Abbe, that you have some 
 reason to believe that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, as I at first 
 supposed, has seen my affection, and did not intend to dis- 
 courage it. What are those reasons." 
 
 The Abbe stated vaguely that some words, dropped by Ma- 
 dame de Saulny, had produced that belief in his mind. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau mused, and made no answer. The 
 time had been when he would have replied at once, and have 
 discussed the question fully with his former preceptor •, but now 
 he held counsel with his own heart in his own bosom, and 
 said, "This man has some object in telling me this. Her own 
 words were sufficiently conclusive, that she did not see, that 
 she did not' remark, the signs of affection which I had fancied 
 undoubted." 
 
 He still maintained silence, however, towards the Abbe, in 
 regard to his own views, his own purposes, and his own feelings. 
 Nor could the other, though he used all his skill, draw from 
 him the slightest indication of what he intended to do, except 
 that he waited in Paris for the arrangement of some affairs, 
 which were not yet concluded, with the King. He in turn, 
 however, questioned the Abbe much concerning his brother, 
 expressing not only a wish but a determination to see him. 
 
 " I am happy," he said, " that my letter reached him; for — 
 
HENRY OF GUISH. 19J 
 
 by whom or for what reason instructed to falsify the truth, I 
 do not know — the porter of Monsieur de Villequier denied the 
 fact of your being in the house. As nothing could shake my 
 own belief that it was Caspar and yourself J had seen, and 
 as both Gondrin and the page confirmed my opinion, I sent 
 the letter at all risks : and now, good Abbe, if you love Caspar 
 and myself as you used to do, contrive that we may meet again 
 to-morrow, in order that all these clouds may be cleared away 
 from between us, and that we may feel once more as brothers 
 ought to feel towards each other." 
 
 The Abbe promised to do as the young Count desired, be- 
 seeching him, however, not to press his brother to an interview 
 too suddenly, and assuring him that he would use every effort. 
 
 The still more important subject of what had become of Made- 
 moiselle de Clairvaut remained to be discussed ; and Charles of 
 Montsoreau, though resolved to make the inquiry, approached 
 it with distaste and with caution, from a feeling that the Abbe 
 would not deal truly with him, and would only endeavour, in 
 the course of any conversation upon that point, to discover what 
 were his secret intentions, even while he concealed from him 
 the true circumstances. 
 
 It was as he expected. The Abbe told him that, in some de- 
 gree under the care, and in some degree under the guard, of the 
 King's troops, the whole party had been brought to the neigh- 
 bourhood of Paris, where a messenger from the monarch had 
 conveyed to himself and the young Marquis an invitation to 
 take up their abode at the house of Villequier, while Made- 
 moiselle de Clairvaut was conveyed to Vincennes. They had 
 done all that was possible, he said, to prevent such a separation ; 
 but the King's commands were peremptory •, and he had since 
 learnt, or at least had reason to believe, that the young lady 
 had been sent in the direction of Beauvais, to the care of some 
 distant relations. 
 
 The young Count smiled, and said nothing; and the Abbe 
 then, with an air of grave sincerity, proceeded to ask him what 
 had best be done under such circumstances. He replied that 
 he could give no advice-, and many a vain effort was again made 
 to discover what were his purposes in regard to Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut. Finding that no indirect means succeeded, the 
 Abbe, trusting to their former familiarity, asked the question 
 directly, " What do you intend to do in this business, Charles." 
 
 " Indeed, my dear Abbe," replied the young Count, "it is 
 difficult to tell you. I have no definite plan of action at present, 
 and must be guided by circumstances as they arise." 
 
 Thus ended their interview ; and it formed a strange contrast 
 to that between the Abbe and Villequier, — showing how simple 
 
192 HENRY OF GUISli. 
 
 honesty may often baffle cunning which has succeeded against 
 astuteness like itself. The following day passed without any 
 communication reaching the young Count, either from the Abbe 
 or from his brother, from the King or the Duke of Guise ; and 
 expectation of receiving tidings from some one caused him to 
 remain at home during the greater part of the day. 
 
 On the succeeding morning, however, he determined to pro- 
 ceed to the house of Villequier, and to demand peremptorily the 
 fulfilment of the promise which the King had made. Ere he set 
 out, however, he received a note in the hand of the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin, informing him briefly that his brother, having de- 
 termined to return to Montsoreau, was upon the very point of 
 setting out. He, the Abbe, was to accompany him for two days' 
 march upon the road, but would return to Paris in four or five 
 days without fail. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau read the note with a faint and me- 
 lancholy smile, and again said, " This man is not true ! " 
 
 He rode at once, however, to the hotel of Villequier, but found 
 that the minister had once more gone to Vincennes. He inquired 
 for the Marquis of Montsoreau of the same porter who had 
 denied the fact of his being there. The porter, not at all dis- 
 composed, replied that the Marquis and the Abbe de Boisguerin, 
 with their train, had set out fully two hours before for Mont- 
 l'hery 5 which, being confirmed upon farther inquiry by an Italian 
 confectioner on the opposite side of the street, was believed 
 by the young Count, who returned home with a heart but ill at 
 ease. 
 
 Another day was passed in gloomy and impatient expectation 5 
 but at night Gondrin reappeared from Soissons, bringing with 
 him a brief note from the Duke of Guise : — 
 
 " Your interview," it said, " was such as might be expected; 
 your conduct all that it should have been ; your view of the 
 result right. They are endeavouring to trifle both with you and 
 me ; but we must show them that this cannot be done. I send 
 off a courier at once to Villequier, requiring that the King's 
 authorisation shall be immediately given to you. If it reach you 
 not before to-morrow night, I pray you set off at once with the 
 passports you possess for Chateauneuf ; for I have information 
 scarcely to be doubted, that our poor Marie has been conveyed 
 thither. Show her the letter which I gave you, requiring her to 
 follow your directions in every thing. Endeavour to bring her at 
 once, with what people you can collect upon her lands, across 
 the country towards Rheims, avoiding Paris. If any one stops 
 you, or attempts either to delay your progress or dispute your 
 passage, show them my letter of authority, as well as the pass- 
 ports that you already possess ; and if they farther molest or 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 1 »Ki 
 
 delay you, they shall not be forgotten, be they great or small, 
 when they come to reckon with your friend, Henry of Guise." 
 
 In a postscript was written at the bottom — " In going, avoid 
 Dreux and Montfort, for the plague is raging there. If there be 
 any force stationed at Chateauneuf to prevent the removal of 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, only ascertain distinctly the fact of 
 her presence in the chateau, and come back to rejoin me with 
 all speed." 
 
 The tidings brought by Gondrin showed Charles of Montso- 
 reau that great events of some kind were in preparation. Various 
 bodies of troops attached to the House of Lorraine were moving 
 here and there in Champaign and the Ardennes ; daily confer- 
 ences were held between the Duke of Guise, the Cardinal of 
 Bourbon, the Cardinal of Guise, and a number of other influen- 
 tial noblemen ; the propriety of deposing the King was said to 
 be openly discussed at Soissons, and ridicule and hatred were 
 unsparingly busy with the names of Epernon, Villequier, and 
 others. Couriers, totally independent of those which were sent 
 upon the business that brought the young Count to Paris, were 
 almost hourly passing between the capital and Soissons ; and it 
 was daily whispered in the latter city, that experienced officers 
 and small bodies of troops were daily gliding into the capital from 
 the army which the Duke had led to victory on so many previous 
 occasions. 
 
 Early on the following morning, Charles of Montsoreau again 
 proceeded to the Hotel de Villequier, in order that nothing might 
 be wanting on his part. But the reply once more was, that the 
 minister was absent •, and the day passed over without any tidings 
 from either the King or his favourite. As he passed through 
 various parts of the city, however, the young Count remarked 
 many things that somewhat surprised him. He had hitherto 
 ridden amongst the people quite unnoticed, but now many per- 
 sons whom he met bowed low to him, and those seemingly of 
 the most respectable classes of citizens. On two or three occa- 
 sions the burgher guard saluted him as he passed; and in one 
 place, where several people were collected together, there was 
 a cry of " Long live the Duke of Guise ! " 
 
 All these indications of some approaching event of import- 
 ance at any other moment might have given him an inclination 
 to remain in Paris : but he had other interests more deeply at 
 heart ; and having waited till the last moment to make sure that 
 the King's authorisation was still delayed, he prepared to set out 
 that very night, taking with him only the number of persons 
 specified in the passports which he had brought from Soissons. 
 
 In a brief and hurried note which he wrote to Chapelle Mar- 
 teau, he informed him that he was about to absent himself from 
 
194 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Paris for a short time on business of importance ; and begged 
 him, as it was his intention to pass out of the city by the Fau- 
 bourg St. Germain that very night, to facilitate his so doing as 
 quietly as possible. That his absence might remain for some 
 time concealed from those who might obstruct his proceedings, 
 he retained his apartments at the inn, and the servants he had 
 hired, paying the whole for some time in advance, and di- 
 recting that if any inquiries were made, the reply should be, 
 that he was only absent for a few days. 
 
 When all was prepared he set out, and at the gates found his 
 friend of the Seize, with another personage, who seemed to con- 
 sider himself of great importance. No words, however, were 
 spoken, no passports were demanded, the two Leaguers bowed 
 lowly to the Count, the gates opened as if of themselves, and, 
 issuing forth, the young Count rode on upon the way, anxious 
 to place as great a distance between Paris and himself ere the 
 next morning as possible. 
 
 It was a soft calm night in April, the sky was unclouded and 
 filled with stars, the dew thick upon the grass, and the air 
 balmy ; and the young nobleman pursued his way with a mind 
 filled with thoughts which, though certainly in part melancholy, 
 were still tinged with the soft light of hope. His horses were 
 strong and fresh, and just in the grey of the morning, on the 
 following day, he reached the small town of Rambouillet. 
 
 The signs and indications of the disturbed and anxious state 
 of society in France were visible in the little town as the young 
 Count gazed from the door of the inn, after seeing that his horses 
 were well taken care of. There were anxious faces and eyes re- 
 garding 'he stranger with the expression of doubt, and perhaps 
 suspicion 5 there were little knots gathered together and talking 
 gloomily at the corners of different streets; the whistle of the 
 light-hearted peasant was unheard ; and the cart or the flock 
 was driven forth in silence. 
 
 The Count's horses required rest 5 none were to be procured 
 with which he could pursue his journey, and he determined to 
 take what repose he could get ere he proceeded on his way. 
 Casting himself down then upon a bed, he closed his eyes and 
 sought to sleep : but suddenly something like a wild cry sounded 
 from the other side of the street, and springing up he looked out 
 of the window. He could almost have touched the opposite 
 house, so narrow was the way, and he saw completely into a 
 room thereof through the window that faced his own. 
 
 There was a woman in it of about the middle age, kneeling 
 by the bedside of a youth who seemed just dead ; and on looking 
 down a little below he saw a man, dressed in a black serge robe, 
 standing on a ladder, and marking the front of the building with 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 195 
 
 a large white cross. On the impulse of the moment, Charles of 
 Montsoreau ran down stairs, and approached the door of the 
 house, intending to enter. But he was stopped at the door by 
 two of the guards of the city. " Do you not see the mark of the 
 plague?" they said. " You must not go in ; or, if you go in, you 
 must not come out again." 
 
 With a sorrowful heart, Charles of Montsoreau turned back 
 into the inn, but he found no sleep, and the image of the woman 
 clasping her dead son still haunted him in waking visions. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 It was about nine o'clock at night, and the moon, rising later 
 than the night before, had not yet gone down, as Charles of 
 Montsoreau passed through the wide forest that then surrounded 
 Chateauneuf en Thimerais. It was a beautiful moonlight scene, 
 affording to the eye many various and pleasant objects. The 
 greater part of the forest, indeed, consisted of old trees far apart 
 from each other, and only surrounded by brushwood in patches 
 here and there. Occasionally, indeed, deeper and thicker parts 
 of the forest presented themselves, where the axe had not been 
 plied so unsparingly ; but the ground was hilly and broken, and 
 the road ascended and descended continually, showing every 
 change of the forest ground. There were manifold streams too 
 in that part of the country, and small gushing fountains, while 
 a chapel or two, here and there raised by the pious inhabitants 
 of the neighbourhood, broke the desolate appearance of the 
 wood by showing sweet traces of human hope or gratitude. 
 The heart, however, of Charles of Montsoreau enjoyed not 
 that scene as it might at any other time, for many dark and 
 painful reports had reached him of the state of the country in 
 that district, and he looked anxiously forward to his arrival at 
 the little village of Morvillette seated in the midst of the forest, 
 to hear further tidings of Chateauneuf and its neighbourhood. 
 A party of soldiers he had already heard had passed along some 
 days before, escorting a carriage, and it was understood their 
 destination was Chateauneuf ; but the people of Tremblay, 
 where he received this intelligence, shook the head doubtingly, 
 and added, that the traveller would hear more at Morvillette, 
 and could there get a guide to the chateau, which was two 
 miles from the town. 
 
 At length, lying in a hollow of the woodland, the moonlight 
 showed him a group of dark cottages ; but no friendly light a.p- 
 
J96 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 peared in the windows ; and as be rode on amongst the houses T 
 there was a sort of awful stillness about the place, which seemed 
 to indicate that it was not slumber that kept the tongues of the 
 peasantry silent. There were no dogs in the streets; there was 
 no smoke curling up from any of the chimneys; all was still, 
 and many of the doors stood wide open in the night air, exhi- 
 biting nothing but solitude within. 
 
 "There must be somebody in the place," cried Gondrin, 
 springing from his horse and approaching one of the cottages, 
 the door of which was shut. 
 
 Without knocking, the man threw open the door at once, 
 and went in as far as the bridle of his horse would let him ; but 
 he came out again immediately, and his master could see that 
 his face was pale and its expression horrified. 
 
 " A man and a woman," he said in a low voice, " both dead ! 
 the one in the bed and the other on the tloor, and both of them 
 looking as blue as a cloud." 
 
 The boy Ignati pressed up his horse to hear ; and the Count 
 said, " In all probability there may be things still more horrible 
 before us. I shall go on, Gondrin; I must go on : but there is 
 no need for either yourself or the page to do so. You had better 
 both go back. Make the best of your way to Soissons, there 
 tell the Duke what you have seen, and assure him that I will 
 do my best to fulfil his wishes if I live." 
 
 " My Lord," said the boy, " I might quit you for a kind and 
 noble master when danger was not about you, but 1 will only 
 quit you now with life." 
 
 " And so say I," replied Gondrin in a somewhat reassured 
 but still anxious tone. " But let us ride on, my Lord, and get 
 out of this horrible place. We shall find no one here to show us 
 the way." 
 
 " I believe I can find it myself," replied the Count. "We 
 turn to the left as soon as we have passed the village. Come 
 on!" 
 
 Thus saying, he somewhat quickened his pace and rode away, 
 the moon now declining towards her setting, throwing longer 
 shadows, and giving more uncertain light. Anxiously did the 
 young Count gaze from the brow of every rise, hoping to see 
 I he form of the chateau rising upon the eminence before him. 
 Several times he disappointed himself by fancying that he saw it 
 when it was not there, so that, when at length he beheld a single 
 faint point of light, like the spark of a firefly amongst the distant 
 branches, he could scarcely believe that it afforded any true in- 
 dication of that which he sought. 
 
 Riding on, however, he again and again caught sight of it, 
 till at length the forms of the buiiding grew more clear and de- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. KW 
 
 fined, and alter about half a mile more lie rode up Ihe gen lie 
 slope that conducted towards the chateau. 
 
 It was situated in the midst of a wild game park, not unlike 
 that of Yincennes, only that the ground was more irregular. 
 The building, however, was very different : it had been erected 
 by that Count de Clairvaut who had been sent ambassador in 
 the reign of Henry H. to the Republic of Venice. He had formed 
 his ideas of beauty in architecture under another sky, and, but 
 that it was somewhat larger and heavier, it might have been 
 supposed that the building had been transported by someGeni 
 from the banks of the Brenta. There was a strong old castel- 
 lated gate, however, in the walls of the park, which had be- 
 longed to some former building. But the heavy iron gales were 
 wide open, and the voice of no porter responded to the call of 
 the young Count and his companions. 
 
 Still, however, he saw a light in the windows of the cha- 
 teau, and he eagerly rode on - along the path which conducted 
 to the principal gates of the building. Here there was a wide 
 flight of marble stairs, which had been brought ready polished 
 at an immense expense from Italy, yellow and green with 
 the damp, but still altogether of a different hue and consis- 
 tence from the ordinary stone of the place. From those steps 
 the wide forest scene beyond was fully displayed to the eye, 
 the chateau being built very near the highest point of the ac- 
 clivity, and the whole ground towards Dreux, Maintenon, 
 and Chartres lying below, with the forest itself sweeping down 
 the edge of that chain of high hills which separates the south- 
 ern parts of Normandy from the northern parts and Maine. 
 
 The moon at that moment was just sinking beyond the 
 trees on the left, and poured over the woods and plains be- 
 low a flood of silver light, caught and reflected here and 
 there by some open stream or wide piece of water, and, 
 shining full upon the front of the marble building, which, 
 with its pillars, its capitals, and its cornices, its wide doors 
 and spreading porticoes, looked like the spectre of some bright 
 enchanted palace from another land. 
 
 The large doors that opened upon the terrace were ajar -, and 
 Charles of Montsoreau, leaving his horse with the page, mount- 
 ed the steps and knocked hard with the haft of his dagger. A 
 long melancholy echo was all the sound that was returned. He 
 knocked again, there was no answer ; and then pushing open 
 the door, he entered the wide marble hall. The moonlight was 
 pouring through the tall windows, but all was solitary ; and put- 
 ting his foot upon the first step of the staircase, he was begin- 
 ning to ascend. At that moment, he thought he heard a distant 
 sound as of an opening door 5 and a ray of light, streaming 
 
198 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 down some long corridor at the top of the broad staircase, cross- 
 ed the balustrade and chequered the iron work with a different 
 hue from the moonlight. He now called loudly, asking if there 
 was any one in the building. 
 
 In a moment after, there were steps heard coming along 
 towards the staircase, and a voice replied, "There is death and 
 pestilence in the house. If you come for plunder, take it quickly, 
 if you come by accident, fly as fast as you may, for every breath 
 is tainted." 
 
 The tones of that voice were not to be mistaken, even before 
 Charles of Montsoreau beheld the speaker ; but, ere the last 
 words were spoken, Marie de Clairvaut herself was at the top of 
 the staircase, bearing a small lamp in her hand, and Charles of 
 Montsoreau eagerly sprang up the steps. 
 
 The lamp flashed upon the form and features which she had 
 not at first seen, and with a loud cry she darted forward to meet 
 him. 
 
 The next moment, however, nearly dropping the lamp, she 
 rushed back, exclaiming, " Come not near, Charles! Dear, dear 
 Charles, come not near ! These hands, not twelve hours ago, 
 have closed the eyes of the dead. The plague most likely is upon 
 me now ! " 
 
 But before she could add more, the arms of Charles of Mont- 
 soreau were round her. 
 
 " You have called me dear," he said, " and what privilege can 
 be dearer than sharing your fate, whatever it may be? Dear, 
 dear, dear Marie! oh, say those words again, and make me 
 happy ! " 
 
 " But I fear for you, Charles," she said ; " I fear for you. All 
 are either dead or have fled and left me, and I shall see you die 
 too,— you, you die also by the very touch, by the very breath, of 
 one to whom you have restored life." 
 
 "I fear not, Marie," answered Charles; "I fear not 5 and 
 that is the safest guard. Certainly you shall not see me fly and 
 leave you ; and I fear not, either, that you will see death overtake 
 me. But oh, if even it did, how sweet would death itself be, 
 watched by that dear face, wept by those beloved eyes! " 
 
 Marie bent down her head, and said nothing ; but she strove 
 no more against the arm that was cast round her ; her hand 
 remained in his, and the colour rose warmly into her cheek, 
 which had before been deadly pale. 
 
 " If," she said at length, after a long pause, during which he 
 had continued to gaze earnestly, fondly, sadly upon her, — " If 
 it were not that I feared for you, your presence would indeed 
 be a comfort and a consolation to me : not that I fear for my- 
 
HENRY OF GU1SK. 19U 
 
 self," she added: "1 know not why, bul I have never feared. 
 It has seemed to me as if there were no danger to myself — as if 
 I should certainly escape. Hut oh, how terrible it would he to 
 see you struck by the pestilence also ! : ' 
 
 " Say no more, dear Marie ; say no more," replied Charles of 
 Montsoreau, feeling and knowing by every word that she was 
 his own. "I fear not-, 1 have no fear; and even if J had, love 
 would trample it under foot in a moment. I would not leave you 
 in such an hour, not if by descending that short flight of steps 1 
 could save myself from death : unless indeed you told me to go, 
 and that you loved me not." 
 
 The tears sprang into Marie de Clairvaut's eyes. " 1 must not 
 tell such a falsehood," she cried, clasping her hands together, 
 "in an hour like this. I never told you so 5 indeed I never 
 did, though Madame de Saulny, poor Madame de Saulny, with 
 her dying lips assured me that you thought so." 
 
 " There have been many errors, dear Marie," replied Charles 
 of Montsoreau, " which have pained both your heart and mine, 
 I fear. But now, my beloved, I must call in those that are 
 with me^ for we have travelled far and ridden hard." 
 
 " Oh, call them not in !" said Marie de Clairvaut, " for they 
 will be frightened when they see the state of the house, and 
 catch the pestilence and die ! Bid them lead their horses to 
 the stables, and sleep there. Perhaps they may find some one 
 still living there, for this evening at sunset I saw my father's old 
 groom still wandering about as usual 5 but you must go yourself 
 to tell them, Charles, for I do not believe that there is any 
 one in the house but you and I. The stables lie away to the 
 left. I will wait here for you till you come back. Go through 
 the great doors," she said, as he descended, " and go not 
 into the rooms either to the right or left, for there is death 
 in all of them." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau descended with a rapid step, and 
 in a few words gave his directions to the servants. He then 
 returned, and taking Marie de Clairvaut's hand in his, he 
 pressed his lips warmly upon it, and gazed tenderly upon her 
 as she led him along through a wide corridor to the room in 
 which she had been sitting. 
 
 It formed a strange contrast, — the aspect of that room, with 
 the desolate knowledge that all was death and solitude through 
 the rest of the house. Beautiful pictures, rich ornaments, tine 
 tapestry, gave it an air of life and cheerfulness, which seemed 
 strange to the feelings of Charles of Montsoreau. But an illu- 
 minated book of prayer that lay upon the table told how Marie 
 de Clairvaut's thoughts had been employed ; and Charles of 
 Montsoreau paused, and, lifting his thoughts to Heaven, prayed 
 
200 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 earnestly, fervently, that that bright and beautiful and beloved 
 being might still be protected by the hand of the Almighty 
 in every scene of peril and danger which might yet await her. 
 
 She sat down on the chair in which she had been reading 
 with a look of melancholy thoughtfulness, and Charles of Mont- 
 soreau sat down beside her, and there was a long silent pause, 
 for the hearts of both were too full of agitating feelings for 
 words to be plentiful at first. The moment and the circum- 
 stances, indeed, took from love all shame and hesitation. Death 
 and deprivation and desolation gave affection a brighter, a holier 
 light, — it was like some eternal flame burning upon the altar 
 of a ruined temple. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut felt that at that moment she could speak 
 things that at any other time she would have sunk into the 
 earth to say, she felt that — with the exception of their trust 
 in God— his love for her and hers for him formed the grand 
 consolation of the moment, the healing balm, the great support 
 of that hour of peril and of terror. She looked at him and 
 he at her, and they mutually thought that a few hours perhaps 
 might see them there, dying or dead by each other's side, with 
 love for the only comfort of their passing hour — with the 
 voice of death pronouncing their eternal union, and the grave 
 their bridal bed. 
 
 They thus thought, and it may seem strange to say, but 
 — prepared as their minds were for leaving the life of this earth 
 behind them — such a death to them appeared sweet 5 and neither 
 feared it, but looked forward upon the grim enemy of human 
 life, not with the stern defying frown of the martyr, not with 
 the fierce and angry daring of the warrior, but with the calm 
 sweet smile of resignation to the will of Heaven, and hopes 
 beyond the tomb. 
 
 Thus they remained silent, or with but few words, for some 
 time; and Charles of Montsoreau felt that he was beloved. 
 Indeed, there was not a word, there was not a look, that 
 did not tell him so : and yet he longed to hear more ; he longed 
 that those words should be spoken which would confirm, by 
 the living voice of her he loved, the assurance of his happi- 
 ness. Gradually he won her from conversing of the present to 
 speak of the past-, and she gently reproached him for leaving 
 her at Montsoreau so suddenly as he had done. 
 
 " Marie," he said, with that frankness which had always 
 characterised him, "let me tell you all ; and then see if I did 
 right or wrong. If I did wrong, you shall blame me still, and I 
 will grieve and make any atonement in my power-, but if I only 
 mistook, and did not act wrong intentionally, you shall forgive 
 me, and tell me that you love me." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 201 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut gazed in his face, and asked, " And do 
 you doubt it now, Charles?" 
 
 "Oh, no!" he cried, "oh, no! I ought not to doubt it, 
 for Marie de Clairvaut could not speak such words as she has 
 spoken without loving." And gently bending down his head 
 over her, he pressed a kiss upon that dear fair brow. " Marie," 
 he said, " it is our fate to meet in strange scenes. The last time 
 that I kissed that brow, the last time that I held you to my 
 heart, was when I thought you dead, and lost to me for ever." 
 " And when I woke up," replied Marie de Clairvaut, " and 
 was not only grateful to God and to you for having saved 
 me, but happy in its being you that did save me, and happy," 
 she added, slightly dropping her eyes, " in the signs of deep 
 affection which I saw." 
 
 " And yet," he exclaimed, " and yet, when my stay or my 
 departure hung upon a single word from your lips, you gave 
 me to understand that you had not received those signs of 
 affection as signs of affection 5 that you looked upon them but 
 as the natural effect of my witnessing your restoration to life, 
 when I thought you dead." 
 
 " Oh, Charles!" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut, with a slight 
 smile, " could you not pardon and understand such small hypo- 
 crisy as that? Did you not know that woman's heart is shy, 
 and seeks many a hiding-place, even from the pursuit of one 
 it loves?" 
 
 " I never loved but you, Marie," replied the Count, " and 
 I am sadly ignorant, I fear, of woman's heart. Nevertheless, 
 upon those few words and that moment depended my fate." 
 
 "I knew not that," cried Marie de Clairvaut, eagerly; "I 
 knew not that, or, upon my honour, I would have been more 
 sincere : but what was it, Charles, made you take so sudden a 
 resolution ? what was it made you leave we, without a reply, in 
 the hands of those who have striven constantly ever since to 
 make me believe that you cared not for me?" 
 
 "I will tell you all," replied her lover; and, pouring forth in 
 eloquent words all the passion of his heart towards her, he told 
 her how his love had grown upon him, how it had increased 
 each hour; and making that the main subject of his tale, he told 
 but as adjuncts to it the pain which his brother's conduct had 
 inflicted upon him, and all the signs of rivalry which he had 
 remarked. He then spoke of his conversation with the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin on their way to visit the Count de Morly ; and he told 
 how agonised were all his feelings — how terrible was the 
 struggle in his heart, — and what was the resolution that he took, 
 to ascertain whether her affections were really gained, and by 
 the result to shape his conduct. He next spoke of his conversa- 
 
202 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 tion with her immediately preceding his departure, and of the 
 words which had led him to believe that she was unconscious 
 of his love, and did not return it. 
 
 As she listened, the tears rose in her eyes, and, laying her 
 soft fair hand on his, she said, " Forgive me, Charles ! oh, for- 
 give me ! but do believe that there is not another woman on all 
 the earth who would not have done the same." 
 
 "Alas! dear Marie," he replied, "in such knowledge you 
 have hut a child to deal with." 
 
 "Oh, be so ever, Charles!" she cried, clasping her hands 
 and looking up in his face. " There may be women who would 
 love you less for being so ; but I trust and hope that you will 
 never love any one but Marie de Clairvaut, and she will value 
 your love all the more for its being, and having ever been, en- 
 tirely her own. But you were speaking of the Abbe" de Bois- 
 guerin, Charles — you have told me of his conversation with you 
 — I saw, when I was at Montsoreau, that you loved and 
 esteemed him." — She paused, and hesitated, "I fear," she 
 added, " that what I must speak, that what J ought to tell you, 
 may pain and grieve you: — I doubt that man, Charles — I 
 more than doubt him." 
 
 " And so do I, Marie," replied her lover with a melancholy 
 shake of the head ; " and so do I doubt him much. Indeed, as 
 you say, I more than doubt him, for I know and feel that he is 
 not true." 
 
 " Alas ! Charles," she replied, " I fear that in that very first 
 conversation with you he meditated treachery towards you. I 
 fear much, very much, that his design and purpose even then 
 was to separate us." 
 
 " Perhaps it might be so, Marie," replied her lover : " though 
 he has never shown any strong preference, I have often thought 
 he loves Gaspar better than he does me." 
 
 " But it was no love of your brother, Charles," she said ; " it 
 was no love of your brother .moved him then ; for if your 
 brother trusted him, he betrayed him too. Now hear me, 
 Charles, and let me, as quickly as possible, tell a tale that makes 
 my cheek burn, for it must be told. After you were gone, I 
 avoided your brother's presence as far as might be. I was never 
 with him for a moment alone if I could help it, for 1 could not 
 but see feelings that were never to be returned. Although there 
 was something from the first in the Abbe de Boisguerin that I 
 loved not, though I could not tell why — something in his eye 
 that made me shrink into myself with a kind of fear,— I now 
 courted him to be with me, in order to avoid the persecution of 
 love for which I could not feel even grateful. At first he seemed 
 inclined to give your brother opportunities \ and I believe. I 
 
HENRY OF GUiSB. 203 
 
 iirmly believe, that he did so because he knew that those oppor- 
 tunities would but serve to confirm the coldness of my feelings 
 towards him. When he saw that I sought him to be with us, 
 beseemed to yield, and was now with me often almost alone, 
 when there was none but one or two of my women in the 
 further end of the room. He timed his visits well ; and, for a 
 space, well did he choose his conversation too. It was such as 
 he knew must please my ear. He told me of other lands, and of 
 princely scenes beyond the Alps, the beauties of nature, the mi- 
 racles of art, the graceful but dangerous race of the Medici, the 
 treasures,' the unrivalled treasures of Florence, and of Rome. 1 
 learned to forget the prejudices I had first taken towards him, 
 and he saw that I listened well pleased, and then he ventured 
 to speak of you and of your brother. But oh, Charles, he spoke 
 not as a friend to either. He blamed not, indeed 5 he even some- 
 what praised ; but he undervalued all and every thing. There 
 was not a word of censure, but there was every now and then a 
 light sneer in the tone, a scornful turn of the lip, and curl of the 
 nostril. It pleased me not, and seeing it, he wisely dropped 
 such themes. He spoke of you no more 5 but he spoke of him- 
 self and of his own history. He told me that his was the more 
 ancient branch of your own family, but that reverses and mis- 
 fortunes had overtaken it ; and that, careless of wealth or sta- 
 tion, and any of the bubbles which the world's grown children 
 follow, he had made no effort to raise his own branch from the 
 ground to which it had fallen. But he said, however, that if he 
 had had an object, a great and powerful object, he felt within 
 himself those capabilities of mind which might raise him over 
 some of the highest heads in the land : and none could hear his 
 voice, and see the keen astuteness of his eye, without believing 
 that what he said was true. And then again he spoke of the 
 objects, the few, the only objects, which could induce a man of 
 great and expansive intellect to mingle in the strife and turmoil 
 of the world ; and the chief of those objects, Charles, was 
 woman's love. He was a churchman, Charles, and had taken 
 vows which should have frozen such words upon his lips. 
 I was silent, and I think turned pale, and he instantly changed 
 the conversation to other things, speaking eloquently and 
 nobly upon great and fine feelings, as I have seen one of the 
 modellers in wax cast on the rough harsh form that he in- 
 tended to give, and then soften it down with fine and delicate 
 touches, so as to leave it smooth and pleasant to the eye. At 
 length we set out to join my uncle ; and your hrolher now had 
 opportunities of paining me greatly by the open and the rash 
 display of feelings that grieved and hurt me. He took means 
 too to find moments to speak with me alone, which I must not 
 
204 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 dwell upon — means which were unworthy of one of your race, 
 Charles. He tried to deceive me into such interviews by every 
 sort of petty art ; and if the Abbe de Boisguerin came lo my re- 
 lief, alas ! it was but now to inflict upon me worse persecution. 
 He dared to speak to me, Charles, words that none had ever 
 dared to speak before — words that I must not repeat, that I 
 must not even think of here, so near the holy calmness of the 
 dead. These words were not, indeed, addressed to me direclly ; 
 but they were used to figure forth what were the passions which 
 an ardent and fiery heart might feel. They were intended evi- 
 dently to let me know of what he himself was capable : though 
 they breathed of love, there was somewhat of menace in them 
 likewise. The very sound of his voice, the very glare of his 
 eyes, now became terrible to me : but he seemed to consider 
 that I was more in his power now than I had been at Montso- 
 reau ; and I need not tell you that to me the journey was a ter- 
 rible one. To end it all, Charles— as I take it for granted that 
 you know some part of what has taken place, even by seeing 
 you here this night — I feel sure that it was by his machinations 
 that I was betrayed into the hands of the King, whom I have 
 all my life been taught to abhor, and by him given up to the 
 power of a relation, from whom I have been sheltered by all my 
 better friends as from the most venomous of serpents." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau had heard all in deep silence, without 
 interrupting her once. He gazed indeed, from time to time, 
 upon her fair face, watching with love and admiration the 
 bright but transient expressions that came across it : but he 
 listened with full attention and deep thought ; and when she 
 had done, he replied, "What you have told me, dear Marie, 
 indignant as it well may make me, was most necessary for me 
 to hear, and is most satisfactory, for it explains all that I did 
 not before comprehend or understand. His machinations, how- 
 ever, dear Marie, I now trust are at an end. What may be be- 
 tween Villequier and him I do not know ; but I trust, dear 
 Marie, I trust in that God who never does fail them that trust in 
 him, that I come to bring you deliverance and to lead you to 
 happiness. It would be long and tedious to tell you, beloved, 
 all that has happened to me since I left you at Montsoreau. 
 Suffice it that I have seen the Duke of Guise ; that I have spent 
 the greater part of the time with him ; that I have been able, 
 Marie, to serve him — he says, to save his life ; and that to me 
 he has entrusted the charge of seeking you and bringing you 
 to join him at Soissons, in despite of any one that may op- 
 pose us." 
 
 " Oh, joy, joy ! " cried Marie de Clairvaut. " When can we 
 set out ? " And she rose from her seat as if she hoped their de- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 205 
 
 parlure might take place that minute. Charles of Montsoreau 
 drew her gently to his heart, and, gazing into her deep tender 
 eyes, he asked, " Will your joy be less, dear Marie, if you know 
 that you go to he at once the bride of Charles of Montsoreau, 
 with the full consent of your princely guardian, given by one who 
 is well worthy to give, to one who is scarcely worthy to receive, 
 such a jewel as yourself?" 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut hid her face upon his bosom, murmuring, 
 in a scarcely audible tone, " Can you ask me, Charles?— But 
 oh, let us speed away quickly 5 for though I, who have been 
 here now ,several days, and have seen nothing but death and de- 
 solation round me ever since I came, have become accustomed 
 to the scene, and doubtless to the air also, yet I fear for every 
 moment that you remain here." 
 
 " I still fear not, dear Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau. 
 " Nevertheless, most glad am I to bear you away to happier 
 scenes ; and as soon as the horses have taken some rest, we will 
 set out. And now, dear girl," he added, " I will send you from 
 me. You need some repose, Marie; you need some tranquillity. 
 Leave me then, dear girl, and try to sleep till the hour of our 
 departure, while I will watch here for you, and call you before 
 break of day." 
 
 "If you watch, Charles," replied Marie, " I will watch with 
 you, for 1 need not repose. This morning, after closing the eyes 
 of poor Madame de Saulny, and weeping long and bitterly over 
 her and the poor girl who was the only one that chose to re- 
 main with me, exhausted with watching, anxiety, and grief, I 
 fell asleep, and slept long. Before that, I had felt so weary and 
 so heated, that I almost fancied— though without fearing it— 
 that the plague might be coming upon me •, but I woke refreshed 
 and comforted just as the sun was going down, and 1 felt, as it 
 were, a hope and expectation that some change would soon 
 come over my fate. But you need at least refreshment, Charles. 
 In the next room remains my last untasted meal — the last that 
 the poor frightened beings who abandoned me, set before their 
 mistress yesterday. I fear not to take you there, Charles, for no 
 one has died in this part of the house." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau followed her, and persuaded her also 
 to take some light refreshment; and there they sat through the 
 live long night, speaking kind words from time to time, and 
 watching each other's countenances with hope strong at the 
 hearts of both, though somewhat chequered by fears, each for 
 the other. 
 
206 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 By the time that the first grey streak chequered the dark ex- 
 panse of the eastern sky, the horses of Charles of Montsoreau, 
 with three others, were standing on the terrace at the loot of the 
 marble steps. The page and Gondrin were there, and also the 
 old groom, a white-headed man of some sixty years of age, who 
 had booted and spurred himself, and buckled on a sword, de- 
 claring that he would accompany his young mistress, if it were 
 but to lead the sumpter horse which carried her baggage. A 
 moment after, Marie herself appeared, and Charles of Montso- 
 reau placed her on the beast that had been prepared for her, 
 while the old groom kissed her hand, saying, " I am glad to see 
 you well, dear lady. But fear not ; none of your race and none 
 of mine ever died of the plague either, though I have seen it pass 
 by this place twice before now, and I remember eleven corpses 
 lying on those steps at once." 
 
 " There are six within those chambers now," replied Marie 
 shaking her head mournfully. " But I fear not, good Robin, — 
 for myself at least. But you had better lead the way towards 
 Chalet, for the Count tells me that Morvillette is deserted." 
 
 "Oh, I will lead you safely, Lady," replied the old man; 
 " and though very likely they may keep us out of many a house 
 on account of where we come from, there is my daughter's cot- 
 tage where they will take us in, for they do not fear the plague 
 there." 
 
 Thus saying, he mounted his horse, and rode on before, 
 through the forest roads, while the lady and her lover followed 
 side by side. As they went on circling round the highest parts 
 of the hills, the grey streaks gradually turned into crimson ; the 
 dim objects became more defined in the twilight of morning ; a 
 few far distant clouds at the edge of the sky, tossed into fantastic 
 shapes, began to glow like the burning masses of a furnace ; the 
 crimson floated like the waves of a sea up towards the zenith ; 
 the fiery red next became mingled with bright streaks of gold ; 
 the forest world, just budding into light green, was seen below 
 with its multitude of hills and dales, and rocks and streams; the 
 air blew warm and sweet, and full of all fhe balm of spring; and 
 a thousand birds burst forth on every tree, and carolled joyous 
 hymns to the dawning day. 
 
 Never broke there a brighter morning upon earth; never 
 rose the sun in greater splendour; never was the air more 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 207 
 
 balmy, or the voices of the birds more sweet. It seemed as if all 
 were destined to afford to those two lovers the strongest, the 
 strangest, the brightest contrast to the dark dull night of anxiety 
 and emotion which they had passed within the palace they had 
 just left behind them. It seemed to both as an image of the dawn 
 of immortality after the tomb— anxiety, sorrow, danger, death, 
 left behind, and brightness and splendour spread out before. 
 
 Each instinctively drew in the rein as the sun's golden edge 
 was raised above the horizon ; each gazed in the countenance 
 of the other, as if to see that no trace of the pestilence was there ; 
 and each held out the hand to grasp that of the being most 
 loved on earth, and then they raised their eyes to Heaven in 
 thankfulness and >oy. 
 
 The old man led them on with scarcely a pause towards 
 Chalet; but about a mile from that place he turned to a little 
 hamlet near, where, in a good farm-house inhabited by his 
 daughter and her husband, they found their first resting-place. 
 They were gladly received and heartily welcomed, without the 
 slightest appearance of fear, though the circumstances of their 
 flight were known. The farmer and the farmer's wife set before 
 them the best of all they had, the children served them at the 
 table, and the good woman of the house brought forth a large 
 flask of plague water, and made them drink abundantly, assur- 
 ing them that it was a sovereign antidote that was never known 
 to fail. They then assigned a room to each, and though it was 
 still daylight they gladly retired to rest. Charles of Montsoreau, 
 though much fatigued, slept not for near an hour, but the house 
 was all kept quiet and still, and, with his thoughts full of her 
 he loved, he fancied and trusted that she was sleeping calmly 
 near him, and in an earnest prayer to Heaven he called down 
 blessings on her slumber. At length sleep visited his own eyes, 
 and he rose refreshed and well. Some fears, some anxieties still 
 remained in his bosom till he again saw the countenance of 
 Marie de Clairvaut. When he did see it, however, fears on her 
 account vanished altogether, for the paleness which had over- 
 spread her face the night before had been banished by repose, 
 and the soft warm glow of health was once more upon her 
 cheek. He saw the same anxious look of inquiry upon her coun- 
 tenance 5 and oh! surely there is something not only sweet and 
 endearing, but elevating also, in the knowledge of such mutual 
 thoughts and cares for each other ; something that draws forth 
 even from scenes of pain and peril a joy tender and pure and 
 high for those who love well and truly ! 
 
 " Fear not, dear Marie," he said ; " fear not ; for I feel well, 
 and you too look well, so that I trust the danger is over." 
 
 "Pray God it be?" said Marie de Clairvaut. "But now, 
 
208 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 when you will, Charles, I am ready to go on ; we may soon reach 
 Maintenon.' 1 
 
 " We must avoid the road by Maintenon," replied Charles of 
 Montsoreau, " for that would bring us on the lands of the grasp- 
 ing Duke of Epernon,and we could not run a greater risk. Char- 
 tres itself is doubtful-, but we must take our way thither, and act 
 according to circumstances. However, dear Marie, our next 
 journey must be long and fatiguing : would it not be better for 
 you to stay here to-night, and take as much repose as you can 
 obtain before you go on ? " 
 
 " Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut; " I am well and strong 
 now, and eager to get forward out of all danger. The bright 
 moon will soon be rising, the sun has not yet set, and we may 
 have five or six hours of calm light to pursue our way." 
 
 Her wishes were followed-, and they were soon once more 
 upon their way towards the fair old town of Chartres Their 
 former journey had passed greatly in thought, for deep emotions 
 lay fresh upon their hearts, and burthened them : but now they 
 spoke long and frequently upon every part of their mutual situa- 
 tion. The history of every event that had happened to either, 
 since they had parted at Montsoreau, was told and dwelt upon 
 with all its details : and while the love of Charles of Montsoreau 
 for his fair companion certainly did not diminish, every word 
 that fell from his lips, every act that she heard him relate, and 
 the manner of relating it also, increased in her bosom that love 
 which she had at first perceived with shame, but in which she 
 now began to take a pride as well as a joy. 
 
 Nor, indeed, did his conduct and demeanour to herself in the 
 circumstances which surrounded them — circumstances of some 
 difficulty and delicacy- change one bright feeling of her heart 
 towards him. There was very much of that tenderness in his 
 nature, that soft, that gentle kindness, which, when joined with 
 courage and strength, is more powerful on the affections of 
 woman than, perhaps, any other quality ; and her feelings were 
 changed and rendered more devoted by being dependent upon 
 him for every thing' — protection, and consolation, and support, 
 and affection, and all those little cares and kindnesses which 
 their mutual situation enabled him to show. 
 
 Thus they journeyed on for several hours, and at length 
 reached the town of Chartres, having agreed to pass for brother 
 and sister, as the safest means of escaping observation. It was 
 about eleven o' clock at night when they reached the inn, but they 
 were received with all kindness and hospitality, such as inn- 
 keepers ever show to those who seem capable of paying for good 
 treatment. No questions were asked, supper was set before 
 them, and the night passed over again in ease and comfort- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 209 
 
 Every hour, indeed, that went Ity without displaying any sign 
 of illness was in itself a joy ; and there was a stillness and a 
 quietness about the old town of Chartrcs which seemed to quiet 
 all fears of annoyance or interruption. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau was early up, and was waiting for the 
 appearance of Marie de Clairvaut, when the landlord of the inn 
 appeared to inform him that a horse-litter, which he had or- 
 dered to be ready for his inspection, had been brought into the 
 court-yard, and was waiting for him to see. At that moment, 
 however, there was a flourish of trumpets in the street; and, 
 looking forth from the window, the young Count saw a consi- 
 derable band of mounted soldiers, drawn up, as if about to 
 proceed on their march. 
 
 " My sister," he said, turning to the host, " has not yet risen, 
 and she must see the litter, too, as it is for her convenience. 
 But who are these gallant gentlemen before the house, and 
 whither are they going?" 
 
 " Why, you might know them, Sir, by their plumes and their 
 scarfs," replied the host. " They are a body of the light horse 
 of the guard of the Queen-mother. They are easily distin- 
 guished, I ween." 
 
 " Ay, but I am a rustic from the provinces," replied the young 
 nobleman : " but they seem gallant-looking soldiers." 
 
 " The Captain was making manifold inquiries about you and 
 the young lady who arrived last night," replied the landlord, 
 " for he has come with orders to seek and bring back to Paris 
 some young lady and gentleman that have made their escape 
 lately with eight or nine attendants. But when I told him that 
 you were going to Paris, not coming from it, and that you had 
 only three servants with you, and the young lady was your sis- 
 ter, he said it was not the same and is now going on. But I 
 must go, lest he should ask for me." 
 
 " Well, well," answered the young Count with an air of in- 
 difference. " I will be down presently to see the litter ; let it 
 wait." 
 
 He watched, however, with some anxiety the departure of the 
 body of light horse, for though he did not feel by any means 
 sure that it was himself whom they sought, he did not feel at 
 all secure till the last faint note of their trumpets was heard, as 
 they issued forth from one of the further gates of Chartres. As 
 soon as Marie de Clairvaut appeared, he purchased the litter 
 without much hesitation, and determined to proceed with ;.;!! 
 speed towards Dourdan and Corbeil. 
 
 The host of the inn would have fain had them stay some time 
 longer, for the young Count had paid so readily for the litter, 
 that he judged some gold might be further extracted from his 
 
 14 
 
210 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 purse. He asked him, therefore, whether there was nothing in 
 the good town of Chartres to excite his curiosity, and was be- 
 ginning a long list of marvels ; but Charles of Montsoreau cut 
 him short, saying, as he looked up at the sign covered with 
 fleurs-de-lis, " No, no, my good host. I have much business on 
 my hands in which his majesty is not a little concerned, and 
 therefore I must lose no time." 
 
 The host nodded his head, looked wise, and suffered the 
 Count and his party to depart without further opposition. 
 
 As it was not a part of their plan to follow the high road more 
 than they were actually obliged to do, soon after leaving Chartres 
 they took a path to the left, which they were informed would 
 lead them by Gellardon to Bonnelle, through the fields and 
 woods. Before they had gone a league, however, the noise of 
 dogs and horses, and the shouts, as it seemed, of huntsmen, 
 were heard at no great distance 5 and turning towards Gondrin 
 the young Count asked, " What can they be hunting at this time 
 of year?" 
 
 " The wolf, my Lord, the wolf," replied the man. " They 
 hunt wolves at all times." * 
 
 Scarcely had he spoken, when a loud yell of the dogs was 
 heard •, and nodding his head sagaciously, as if he had seen the 
 whole proceeding with his' mind's eye, Gondrin added, " They 
 have killed him-," which was confirmed by a number of joyous 
 morts on the horns of the huntsmen. 
 
 " Let us proceed as fast as possible," said Charles of Mont- 
 soreau ; " we know not who those huntsmen may be : " and he 
 was urging the driver of the litter to hurry on his horses rapidly, 
 when the whole road before them was suddenly filled with 
 a gay party of cavaliers, splendidly dressed and accoutred, and 
 coming direct towards them. There was nothing now to be done 
 but to pass on quietly if possible; and, taking no apparent no- 
 tice, but bending his head and speaking into the litter, without 
 even seeing of whom the other party was composed, Charles of 
 Montsoreau was riding on, when a loud voice was heard ex- 
 claiming " Halt there! halt! A word with you if you please, 
 young Sir;" and, looking up, he saw the Duke of Epernon. 
 
 Without suffering the slightest surprise to appear upon his 
 countenance, or the slightest apprehension, Charles of Mont- 
 soreau turned his head, demanding calmly, " Well, my Lord, 
 what is your pleasure with me?" 
 
 " My pleasure is," replied the Duke, " that you instantly turn 
 your horse's head and go back to Epernon with me." 
 
 " I am extremely sorry, my Lord," replied the Count, " that 
 it is quite impossible for me to do what you propose, as 1 am 
 upon urgent business for the Duke of Guise, and bear the King's 
 
HKNRY OF GUISE. 211 
 
 passport and safe-conduct, which I presume your Lordship will 
 not despise." 
 
 " You may bear the King's passport, Sir," said the Duke, 
 " but you certainly do not bear his authorisation to carry away 
 from his power the young lady who I suppose is in that litter. As 
 to the Duke of Guise, your authority from him is very much 
 doubted also." 
 
 " That doubt is easily removed, my Lord," replied the Count, 
 seeing clearly that he would be forced to yield, but fully resolved 
 not to do so till he had tried every means to avoid it. " That 
 doubt is easily removed, my Lord. Allow me to show you the 
 authority given me by the Duke under his own hand, which I 
 think even the Duke of Epernon must respect." 
 
 The Duke took the paper which he tendered him. and then 
 saying, " I will show you how I respect it," he tore it into a 
 thousand pieces, and cast it beneath his horse's feet, while a 
 laugh ran through the men that attended him. "Turn your 
 horse's head," he continued, " without more ado, or I will have 
 your arms tied behind your back, and the horse led." 
 
 " My Lord," replied the young Count, " I must obey, for I 
 have no means of resisting 5 but let me remind you, that the 
 Duke of Epernon was always considered, even before what he 
 is now, a gallant gentleman and a man of good feeling, who 
 would not insult those who were too weak to oppose him, and 
 who did their duty honourably as far as it was possible for them 
 to do it." 
 
 " Your civility now, Sir," replied the Duke, " like your rash 
 folly a week or two ago, is too contemptible to make any 
 change in the Duke of Epernon. That foolish party of light 
 horse," he continued, speaking to one of his attendants, "must 
 have suffered this malapert youth and his fair charge to have 
 passed it. Turn the litter round there; take care that none of 
 them escape." 
 
 " The boy has made off already," replied one of the men. 
 " Shall I gallop after him, my Lord? He may tell the Duke of 
 Guise." 
 
 " Let him ! " answered Epernon. " Go not one of you ; but 
 bring the rest of them along hither." 
 
 Without giving any intimation of his intent, Charles of Mont- 
 soreau turned his horse suddenly back to the side of the litter, 
 and drew the curtain back, saying to Marie de Clairvaut, who 
 sat pale and anxious within it, " You hear what has happened ; 
 there is no power of resistance, for they are ten to one : but 
 the boy has escaped, and will give the Duke notice of where 
 you are. In the mean time it is one comfort, thai now you are 
 
212 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 in the hands of one who is, at all events, a man of honour 
 and a gentleman in feeling." 
 
 What he said was intended to give comfort and consolation 
 to Marie de Clairvaut; hut it reached the ear of the Duke of 
 Epernon likewise. " I must suffer no farther conversation," 
 he said in a gentler lone than he had hefore used. "You will 
 understand, Monsieur de Logeres, that I have authority for 
 what I do; and that I arrest you out of no personal vengeance, 
 but because the order has been already given to that effect." 
 " My Lord," replied the young Count, " I care very little for 
 my own arrest, as I know that I can but be detained a short 
 time : but I confess I am most anxious for the young lady 
 placed under my especial charge by the Duke of Guise, as I 
 have shown your Lordship by the paper you have torn. If she 
 is to remain in your Lordship's charge, I shall be more satisfied, 
 but if she is to be given up to Monsieur de Villequier, the con- 
 sequences will indeed be painful to all. You are perhaps not 
 aware, my Lord, that he sent her to a place where the plague 
 was raging at the time, where six persons of her household 
 died of it, and the rest lied, leaving her utterly alone." 
 
 The Duke seemed moved, and after remaining silent for a 
 minute, he replied, " I did not know it-, the man who would 
 murder his wife, would make no great scruple of killing his 
 cousin, I suppose. However, Sir, set your mind at ease : though 
 I cannot promise that she shall remain with the Duchess of 
 Epernon, she shall not be given up to Villequier either by my- 
 self or by any body in whose hands I may place her. Is that 
 assurance sufficient for you ? " 
 
 " Perfectly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. " The 
 Duke of Epernon's promise is as good as the bond of other 
 men." 
 
 " Well, follow me, then," replied the Duke, and, riding on 
 alone, he left the young Count in the hands of his attendants. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 It was in one of the saloons of the old Cardinal de Bourbon, 
 in the town of Soissons, that Henry Duke of Guise, princely in 
 his habit, princely in his aspect, with his foot raised upon a 
 footstool of crimson and gold, a high plumed Spanish hat upon 
 his head, manifold parchments before him, and a pen in his 
 hand, sat alone on a day in the month of April with his eyes 
 
HENRY OF GUISI 213 
 
 lixed upon a door at the other end of the room, as il waking 
 for the entrance of some one. 
 
 The next moment the door was thrown wide open, and, 
 preceded by two servants announcing him to the Duke, ap- 
 peared a small and not very striking personage plainly habited 
 in black velvet. The moment the Duke saw him, he rose, and 
 for an instant uncovered his head, then covering himself again 
 he advanced to meet him, and took him by the hand, saying 
 " Monsieur de Bellievre, I am delighted to see you. The King 
 could not have chosen any one more gratifying to myself to 
 receive : in' the first place, because I know that I shall hear 
 nothing but truth from the lips of Monsieur de Bellievre; and, 
 in the next place, because I am sure no one will bear more 
 exactly to his Majesty any reply I may have to make to the 
 message with which 1 understand you are charged." 
 
 " The confidence which your Highness expresses in me," 
 replied Bellievre, as the Duke led him towards the table, and 
 made him seat himself beside him, " does great honour to so 
 humble an individual as myself. Nevertheless, I must deliver 
 the King's message, my Lord, precisely as it was given to pie; 
 and should there be any thing in it disagreeable to your High- 
 ness, I trust that you will excuse the bearer, and consider the 
 matter dispassionately." 
 
 "Proceed, proceed," replied the Duke; " as in duty bound 
 I shall receive his Majesty's communication with all deference 
 and humility." 
 
 " Well, then," replied Bellievre, " I am charged by his Ma- 
 jesty to assure your Highness that his personal esteem and 
 respect for you is very great; and that he has never, in any 
 degree, given ear to the injurious reports which persons ini- 
 mical to your Highness have been industrious in circulating to 
 your disadvantage." 
 
 " Your pardon, Monsieur de Bellievre, for one moment," 
 said the Duke, interrupting him. " To what injurious reports 
 does his Majesty allude? I am ignorant that any one has dared 
 to circulate injurious reports of me; and if such be the case, it 
 is high time that 1 should proceed to the capital to confront 
 and shame my accusers." 
 
 As Ihis was not at all the point to which the King's envoy 
 wished to bring the Duke, he looked not a little embarrassed 
 what to reply. He answered, however, after a moment's pause, 
 •• It would, indeed, be requisite for you to do so, my Lord, if 
 I did not bear you the King's most positive assurance that he 
 gives no ear to such reports. But to proceed : his Majesty has 
 bid me strongly express his full conviction of your attachment, 
 fidelity, and affection, but has commanded me to add that. 
 
214 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 having heard it reported your intention is immediately to pre- 
 sent yourself in Paris, he is unwillingly obliged, by state rea- 
 sons of the utmost importance, to request that you would 
 forbear the execution of that purpose." 
 
 It was not without some hesitation and apparent emotion 
 that Bellievre spoke; but the Duke heard him with perfect 
 calmness, though with a slight contraction of the brow. 
 
 " The report," he answered, " of my intention of visiting 
 Paris is perfectly correct, Monsieur de Bellievre; nor can I, 
 indeed, refrain from executing that purpose, with all due defer- 
 ence to his Majesty, for many reasons, amongst which those 
 that you yourself give me of injurious rumours being rife in the 
 capital regarding me, are not the least cogent. Thus, unless the 
 King intends to signify by you, Monsieur de Bellievre, that he 
 positively prohibits my coming into Paris— which, of course, he 
 would not do— I see not how I can avoid doing simple justice 
 to myself by returning to my own dwelling in the capital of this 
 country." 
 
 " I grieve to say, your Highness," replied Bellievre, seeing 
 that the worst must be told, " I grieve to say, that while the 
 King has charged me to assure you of his regard and his confi- 
 dence in you, he none the less instructed me to make the prohi- 
 bition on his part absolute and distinct." 
 
 The Duke of Guise started up with his brow knit and his eyes 
 flashing. "Is this the reward," he exclaimed, " of all the services 
 I have rendered the state? Is this the recompense for having 
 shed my blood so often in defence of France? to be dishonoured 
 in the eyes of all the people, by being banished from the metro- 
 polis, to be excluded from the companionship of all my friends, 
 to be cut off from transacting my own private affairs, to be talked 
 of and pointed at as the exiled Duke of Guise, and to have the 
 boys singing in the streets the woeful ditty of my sufferings and 
 a King's ingratitude?" And as he spoke, the Duke took two or 
 three rapid strides up and down the room. 
 
 " Indeed, indeed, your Highness," cried Bellievre, " you take- 
 it up too warmly. The King is far from ungrateful, but most 
 thankful for your high services; but it is for the good of the 
 state that you love, for the safety and security of the people of 
 the capital who are in a tumultuous and highly excitable state, 
 that he wishes you to refrain from coming " 
 
 " That he sends me a message dishonouring to myself and to 
 my House," replied the Duke. " That he marks me out from 
 the rest of the nobles of the land, by a prohibition which I may 
 venture to say is unjust and unmerited. I must take some days 
 to think of this, Monsieur de Bellievre; nor can I in any way 
 promise not to visit Paris. Were it but to protect, support. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 215 
 
 and guide my friends and relations, I ought to go : were it but 
 on account of the church for which I am ready to shed my blood 
 if it be necessary, persecuted, reviled, assailed as that holy 
 church is $ were it but for my attendants and supporters, who 
 are attacked, abused, and ill-treated in the streets and public- 
 ways." 
 
 " As for the church, your Highness," replied Bellievre, 
 " none is more sincerely attached to it than the King and the 
 King's advisers. It will stand long, my Lord, depend upon it, 
 without apy further assistance than that which you have already 
 so ably given it. Your relations, my Lord, and household," he 
 said, " are not and cannot be ill-treated." 
 
 'How?" exclaimed the Duke. "Is not my dear sister 
 Margaret even now, as it were, proscribed by the King and his 
 court? Is not every thing done to drive her from Paris? Have 
 not her servants been struck by those of Villequier in the open 
 streets? " 
 
 " I know," replied Bellievre, " that a month or two ago Ma- 
 dame de Montpensier was subject to some little annoyance, but 
 as soon as it came to the King's ears he had it instantly remedied, 
 and only wished her to quit Paris for her own security." 
 
 "The House of Guise, Sir, have always been secure in the 
 capital of France," replied the Duke; " and I trust always will 
 be." 
 
 " Nothing has occurred since I trust, my Lord," continued 
 Bellievre. " The King is most anxious that you should have 
 satisfaction in every thing, and will give you the strongest assu- 
 rances that your family, your household, and your friends, shall 
 be in every respect well treated and protected, as indeed he has 
 always wished them to be." 
 
 The Duke threw himself down in his chair and rang the bell 
 that stood upon the table violently. " Ho! without there!" he 
 exclaimed. " Bring in that page that arrived hither a night or 
 two ago, when I was absent at Jamets." 
 
 The attendant who had appeared retired, and the Duke sat 
 silent, gazing with a frown at the papers on the table. " May I 
 ask your Highness," said Bellievre, not knowing what interpre- 
 tation to put upon this conduct, " May I ask your Highness 
 whether I am to conceive my audience at an end?" 
 
 " No, Monsieur de Bellievre, no," replied the Duke in a 
 milder tone ; " for you I have a high respect and esteem, and will 
 listen to you upon this subject longer than I would to most men. 
 I wish you to hear and to know how the friends of the Duke of 
 Guise are treated, what protection and favour is shown to them 
 at the court of France. Perhaps you will hear some things that 
 are new to you — perhaps they may be new to the King too," 
 
216 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 he added, a slight sneer curling his haughty lip. " Rut be that 
 as it may, Monsieur de Bellievre, I think I can show you good 
 cause why the Duke of Guise should be no longer absent from 
 Paris. Come hither, boy," he added, as the page Ignati entered 
 the room, "Come hither, boy, and answer my questions. Thou 
 art both witty and honest, but give me plain straightforward 
 replies. Stand at my knee and answer, so that this gentleman 
 may hear." 
 
 The boy advanced, and did as the Duke bade him, turning his 
 face towards Bellievre, with his left hand to the Duke. 
 
 " You went to Paris," said Guise, " with my friend the young 
 Count of Logeres; did you not? Were you aware of the cause 
 of his going?" 
 
 " He went I understood, your Highness," replied the boy, 
 " to seek a young lady, a relation of your own, who had been 
 carried to Paris by a body of the King's troops while on her way 
 to join your Highness." 
 
 " Can you tell what was Monsieur de Logeres' success? " said 
 the Duke. 
 
 " I know he saw the King," replied the boy, " and heard 
 that he had been promised a letter to all the governors and com- 
 manders in different places to aid him in seeking for the young 
 Lady, and bringing her back to your Highness. I heard also that 
 it was for this paper he waited from day to day in Paris, but that 
 it never came." 
 
 " I beg your Highness's pardon," said Bellievre interrupting 
 the boy, " but you will remark that this is all hearsay. He does 
 not seem to speak at all from his own knowledge." 
 
 " That will come after," answered the Duke somewhat sharply. 
 " Go on, Ignati. What do you know more? " 
 
 " What I have said," replied the boy, " is more than hearsay, 
 my Lord, for while we staid in Paris the good Count bade us 
 always be ready at a moment's notice to set out, for he could 
 not tell when the letter from Monsieur de Villequicr would 
 arrive. It never came, however, and one night the Count having, 
 as I understood, gained information of where Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut was, set out with his man Gondrin and myself to seek 
 her. We found that she had been brought by a body of the 
 King's troops to a chateau or a palace, for it looked more like a 
 palace than a chateau, called Morvillette, I believe near Chateau- 
 neuf, where the plague was then raging, when the King's sol- 
 diers left her. By the time we arrived the plague had reached 
 the chateau, six or seven people were dead, and all the rest had 
 tied, leaving the young lady with nobody in the palace, and none 
 but one old groom in the stables." 
 
 The Duke's eye fixed sternly upon the countenance of Belli- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 217 
 
 evre, and he muttered between his teeth, " This is the doing, 
 Monsieur de Bellievre, of my excellent good friend, the King of 
 France. Go on, boy ; go on ! Proceed. What happened next ? '' 
 
 " The lady was most joyous of her deliverance," continued 
 the boy, " and eager to come to your Highness ; and we set out 
 the next morning before day-break, and reached Chartres, where 
 the Count bought a litter for her greater convenience. At a short 
 distance from Chartres, however, we were met by the Duke of 
 Epernon and his train wolf-hunting, and the Duke immediately 
 stopped us, and insisted upon the Count going back with him 
 to Epernon. The Count produced the King's passports, but 
 the Duke said that there were doubts of his being authorised by 
 you." 
 
 " Did he not show him my own letter ? " exclaimed the Duke. 
 " Did he not show him the authority I gave him under my own 
 hand ? " 
 
 " He did, my Lord 5 he did," replied the boy ; " but the Duke 
 of Epernon said he would show in what respect he held your 
 llighness's letter, and tearing it in several pieces he threw it down 
 under his horse's feet." 
 
 Bellievre continued to look down upon the ground with a brow 
 which certainly displayed but little satisfaction. The Duke of 
 Guise, however, though he had been frowning the moment 
 before, now only smiled as the boy related the incident of the 
 letter •, the smile was somewhat contemptuous, indeed 5 but he 
 said merely, "Go on, boy. What happened next? " 
 
 " Nay, my Lord," replied the boy, " what happened to them 
 I know not, for seeing that the Duke held them prisoners, and 
 was taking them back to Epernon, I made my escape as fast as 
 I well could, and came hither to tell you into whose hands the 
 young lady and Monsieur de Logeres had fallen." 
 
 " You did quite right, boy," said the Duke ; " and now you 
 may retire. You hear, Monsieur de Bellievre," he continued, 
 " with what kindness, protection, support, and generosity the 
 King treats the friends of the Duke of Guise ! First he casts my 
 poor niece's child into the hands of Yillequier, something worse 
 than those of the hangman of Paris, and then between them they 
 send her into the midst of the pestilence 5 then comes Monsieur 
 d'Epernon to confirm all, arrests my friend bearing the King's 
 own passports and safeguard, seizes upon my own relation and 
 ward, and carries them both I know not whither." 
 
 " Perhaps your Highness," said Bellievre, " the Duke of Eper- 
 non might have motives that we do not know. At all events the 
 King " 
 
 " Fie, Monsieur de Bellievre, fie ! " exclaimed the Duke vehe- 
 
218 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 mently. " I will tell you what ! It is time the Duke of Guise were 
 in Paris, if but to deliver the King from such Dukes of Epernon 
 who abuse his authority, disgrace his name, absorb his favours, 
 ruin the state, overthrow the church, and dare do acts that make 
 men blush for shame. France will no longer suffer him , Sir 5 
 France will no longer suffer him ! If I free not the King from 
 him and such as he is, the people will rise up and commit some 
 foul attempt upon the royal authority. What," he continued, 
 with fierce scorn, "What though he be Baron of Caumont, 
 Duke of Epernon, raised out of his place to sit near the princes 
 of the blood, Governor of Metz and Normandy, of the Bou- 
 lonnais, and Aunis, of Touraine, Saintonge, and Angoumois, 
 Colonel-general of Infantry, and Governor of Anjou, a Knight 
 of the order of the Holy Ghost ! he shall find this simple steel 
 sword of Henry of Guise sufficiently sharp to cut his parch- 
 ments into pieces, and send him back a beggar to the class he 
 sprung from." 
 
 The Duke spoke so rapidly, that to interrupt him was impos- 
 sible ; and so angrily, that Bellievre, overawed, remained silent 
 for a moment or two after he had done, while the Prince bent 
 his eyes down upon the table, and played with the golden tassels 
 of his sword-knot, as if half ashamed of the vehemence he had 
 displayed. 
 
 " I did not come here, your Highness," he said, " either as 
 the envoy or the advocate of the Duke of Epernon. You must 
 well know that there is no great love between us ; and I doubt 
 not, when your Highness comes to call him to account for his 
 deeds, that justice will be found entirely on your side. But I 
 came on the part of the King ; and I beseech you to consider, 
 my good Lord, what may be the consequences of pressing even 
 any severe charges against the Duke of Epernon at this moment, 
 when his Majesty is contending with the heretics on the one side, 
 and is somewhat troubled by an unruly people on the other." 
 
 "Is he indeed contending with any body or any thing, Bel- 
 lievre?" demanded the Duke. " Is he indeed contending against 
 the Bearnois? Is he contending against the indolence of his own 
 nature, or rather against the indolence into which corrupt fa- 
 vourites have cast him ? Is he contending against the iniquities 
 of Yillequier, or the exactions of Epernon? Is he contending 
 against any thing less contemptible than a spaniel puppy or an 
 unteachable parrot? My love and attachment to the King and 
 his crown, Bellievre, are greater than yours; and, as my final 
 reply, 1 beg you humbly to inform his Majesty on my part, that 
 if I do not promptly and entirely obey him in this matter of not 
 coming to Paris, it is solely because I am compelled to do as I 
 do, for the good of the church, for the safety of the state, for the 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 219 
 
 security of my own relations and friends, and even for the be- 
 nefit of his Majesty himself. This is my final reply." 
 
 " Yet one word, my Lord," replied Bellievre. "At all events, 
 if your determination to visit the capital be taken, will you not 
 at least, at my earnest prayer, delay your journey till I myself can 
 return to Paris, and obtaining more ample explanations of the 
 King's purposes, come back to you and confer with you farther 
 on the subject." 
 
 "I see not, Monsieur de Bellievre," said the Duke of Guise, 
 ' ' what good could be obtained by such delay. I do not at all mean 
 to say that you would take advantage of my confidence to pre- 
 pare any evil measures against me ; but others might do so : and 
 besides, my honour calls me not to leave my friends in peril for 
 a moment, even though I called upon my head the enmity of a 
 whole host in stepping forward to rescue them." 
 
 " I pledge you my honour, my Lord," replied Bellievre, " that 
 if you will consent to delay, no measures shall be taken against 
 you; and I will do the very best I can to induce the King to 
 make any atonement in his power to your friends. As to this 
 young Count of Logeres, I never heard of him before to-day, 
 and know not what has been done with him at all ; and in re- 
 gard to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, she is doubtless in the hands 
 of Villequier, who, I understand, claims the guardianship." 
 
 "To which he has less right," replied the Duke angrily, 
 " than that footstool; and if he contends with me, I will spurn 
 him as I do it;" and he suited the gesture to the word. "But 
 still I see not," continued the Duke, "what is to be gained by 
 this delay to either party." 
 
 "This, my good Lord," replied Bellievre. " I am well aware 
 that his Majesty the King has sent me here without sufficient 
 powers to make you just and definite proposals. This I believe 
 to have been entirely from the haste in which I came away, there 
 being no time for thought. But if you permit me to return with 
 assurance that you will wait but a few days, I feel convinced 
 that I shall come back to you with offers so abundant, so satis- 
 factory, and so well secured, that your Lordship will change 
 your resolution." 
 
 The Duke mused for a moment or two. "Well, Monsieur de 
 Bellievre," he said at length, "though I entertain no such hopes 
 as you do, I must yield something to my loyalty, and to my real 
 desire of obeying the King; although, perhaps, my duty 
 to my country and to the church might well lead me to 
 more prompt proceedings. I will, therefore, delay my journey 
 for a day or two ; but you must use all speed, and I must have 
 no trifling. You know all my just grievances : those must be re- 
 medied, the church must be secured; and for the quiet and the 
 
220 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 satisfaction of the people who abhor and detest him, as well as 
 for the relief of the nobles who have long been shut out from 
 all favour by that unworthy minion, this John of Nogaret, this 
 Duke of Epernon, must be banished from the court and councils 
 of the King, and stripped of the places and dignities which he 
 has won from the weak condescension of the Monarch. You 
 understand me, Monsieur de Bellievre," he said in a sterner 
 tone, seeing that Bellievre looked somewhat dismayed at the 
 extent of his demands. " Undertake not the mission if you think 
 that you cannot succeed in it; but let me on my way without 
 more opposition." 
 
 " My Lord, I will do my best to succeed," replied Bellievre; 
 "and trust that I shall do so. How many days will your 
 Highness give me?" 
 
 "Nay, nay," replied the Duke-, " that I cannot tell, Mon- 
 sieur de Bellievre. Suffice it, I will delay as long as my 
 honour permits me; and you on your part lose not an hour in 
 making the necessary arrangements, and bringing the King's 
 reply." 
 
 As he spoke the Duke rose to terminate the conference ; and 
 then added, "I fear, Monsieur de Bellievre, as I am expecting 
 every moment my brother, the Cardinal de Guise, and his Emi- 
 nence of Bourbon, to confer with me upon matters of import- 
 ance, I cannot do the honours of the house to you as I could 
 wish ; but Pericard, my secretary and friend, will attend upon 
 you, and insure that you have every sort of refreshment. I will 
 send for him this moment." And so doing, he placed Bellievre 
 in the hands of his secretary, and turned once more to other 
 business. 
 
 The King's envoy sped back to Paris, scarcely giving himself 
 time to take necessary refreshment; but on his arrival in the 
 capital he first found a difficulty even in seeing the Monarch ; 
 and when he did see him, found him once more plunged in that 
 state of luxurious and effeminate indolence from which he was 
 only roused by occasional fits of excitement which sometimes 
 enabled him to resume the monarch and the man, but. more fre- 
 quently carried him into the wildest and most frantic excesses 
 of debauchery. 
 
 Henry would scarcely listen lo the business of Bellievre even 
 when he granted him an audience on the following morning. He 
 asked many a question about his cousin of Guise, about his 
 health, about his appearance, about his dress itself; whether his 
 shoes were pointed or square, and how far the haut-de-chausses 
 came down above his knees. Bellievre was impatient, and pressed 
 the King with some fire; but Henry only laughed, and tickled 
 the ears of a monkey that sat upon the arm of his chair with a 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 221 
 
 parrot's feather. Theanimalmouthedand chattered at the King, 
 and strove to snatch the feather out of his hands; and Henry, 
 stroking it down the head, called it "Mon Due de Guise." 
 
 Bellievre bowed low, and moved towards the door. " Come 
 back to-morrow, Bellievre-, come back to marrow," said the 
 King : " Yillcquier will be here then. You see at present how 
 importantly 1 am occupied with my fair cousin of Guise here;" 
 and he pulled the monkey's whiskers as hejspoke. "\ illequier 
 has told me all about it," he added. " He says the Duke will not 
 come, and so says my mother 5 and if they both say the same 
 thing who never agreed upon any point before, it must be true 
 Bellievre, you know." 
 
 " I trust it may, Sire," replied Bellievre dryly, and quitted the 
 room with anger and indignation at his heart. Before he had 
 crossed the anteroom, he heard a loud laugh ringing like that 
 of a fool from the lips of the Monarch ; and although it was 
 doubtless occasioned by some new gambol of the monkey, it did 
 not serve to diminish the bitter feelings which were in the di- 
 plomatist's bosom. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 In a small, dark, oaken cabinet with one window high up and 
 barred, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, a taDle with books and 
 a musical instrument, several chairs, and a silver bell, Charles of 
 Montsoreau was seated several days after the period at which 
 we last left him. A bedroom well furnished in every respect was 
 beyond ; the least sound of the silver bell produced immediate 
 attendance ; nothing was refused him that he demanded ; no- 
 thing was wanting to his comfort except liberty and the sound 
 of some other human being's voice. Yet, strange to say, although 
 he knew that he was in the city of Paris, he knew nothing more 
 of the position of the building in which he was placed. He had 
 been brought into the capital at night, had been conducted 
 through a number of narrow and tortuous streets, and had at 
 length been led through a deep archway and several large 
 courts, to the place in which he was now contined. 
 
 It may seem perhaps that such a state of imprisonment did 
 not offer much to complain of; and yet it had bent his spirit 
 and bowed down his heart. The want ol all knowledge of what 
 was passing around him, the absence of every one that he loved, 
 the loss of liberty, the perfect silence, joined with anxiety for 
 one who was dearer to him than himself, wore him day by day, 
 
222 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 and took from him the power of enjoying any of those things 
 which were provided for his convenience or amusement. 
 
 The servant who attended upon him never opened his lips, he 
 obeyed any orders that were given to him, he brought any thing 
 that was demanded 5 but he replied to no questions, he made no 
 observations, he afforded no information even by a look. Every 
 bolt and bar that was on the outside of the door was invariably 
 drawn behind him, and the high window in either room could 
 only be so far reached even by standing on the table or one of 
 the chairs, as to enable the young nobleman to open or shut it 
 at pleasure, so to admit the free air from without. 
 
 Such had been the condition of Charles of Montsoreau, as we 
 have said, for many days ; but he had not yet become reconciled 
 in any degree to his fate, though he strove, as far as possible, 
 to while away the moments in any way that was permitted, either 
 by books or music. But it was with impatience and disgust that 
 he did so, and the lute was taken up and laid down, the book 
 read and cast away, without remaining in his hands for the space 
 of five minutes. 
 
 The sun shone bright through the high window, and traced a 
 moving spot of golden light upon the dark oak of the opposite 
 wainscot ; the air of spring came sweet and pleasantly through, 
 and gave him back the thoughts and dreams of liberty ; a wild 
 plant rooted in the stonework of the building without, cast its 
 light feathery shadow on the wall where the sun shone, and the 
 hum and roar of distant multitudes, pursuing their busy course 
 in the thronged throughfares of the city, brought him his only 
 tidings from the hurried and struggling scene of human life. 
 
 He took a pleasure in watching the leaves of the little plant as, 
 waved about by the wind, they played against the bars of the 
 window, and he was thus occupied on the day we have men- 
 tioned, when suddenly something crossed the light for a mo- 
 ment, as if some small bird had flown by ; but at the same instant 
 a roll of paper fell at his feet, and taking it up, he recognised 
 the well-known writing of the Duke of Guise. 
 
 " You have suffered for my sake," the paper said, " and I 
 hastened to deliver you. The day of the Epernons is over ; your 
 place of imprisonment is known. Be not dispirited, therefore, for 
 relief is at hand." 
 
 It cannot be told how great was the relief which this note 
 itself brought to the mind of the young Count, not alone by the 
 promise that it held out, but by the very feeling that it gave him 
 of not being utterly forgotten, of being not entirely alone and 
 desolate. He read it over two or three times, and then hearing 
 one of the bolts of the door undrawn, he concealed it hastily lest 
 the attendant should see it. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 223 
 
 Another bolt was immediately afterwards pulled back, and 
 then the door was unlocked, though far more slowly than usual. 
 J t seemed to the young Count that an unaccustomed hand was 
 busy with the fastenings, and a faint hope of speedy deliverance 
 shot across his mind. 
 
 The next instant, however, the door was opened, and though 
 it certainly was not the usual attendant who appeared, no face 
 presented itself that was known to Charles of Montsoreau. The 
 ligure was that of a woman, tall, stately, and dressed in gar- 
 ments of deep black, fitting tightly round the shoulders and the 
 waist, and flowing away in ample folds below. Her hair was en- 
 tirely covered by black silk and lace, but her face was seen, 
 and that face was one which instantly drew all attention to 
 itself. 
 
 It was not indeed the beauty which attracted, though there 
 were great remains of beauty too, but it was the face not only 
 of an old woman, but of one who had been somewhat a spend- 
 thrift of youth's charms. There was, however, a keen fire in 
 the eyes, a strong determination on the brow, an expansion of 
 the nostril, which gave the idea of quick and eager feelings, and 
 a degree of sternness about the whole line of the features, 
 which would have made the whole countenance commanding, 
 but harsh and severe, had it not been for a light and playful 
 smile that gleamed across the whole, like some of the bright and 
 sudden rays of light that from time to time we see run across 
 the bosom of deep still shady waters. 
 
 There was a degree of mockery in that smile, too ; and yet it 
 spoke affections and feelings which as strangely blended with 
 the general character of that woman's life, as the smile itself did 
 with the general expression of her countenance. The hands were 
 beautiful and delicately small, and the figure good, with but few 
 signs of age about it. 
 
 The young Count gazed upon her with some surprise as she 
 entered, but instantly rose from the seat in which he had been 
 sitting while reading the Duke of Guise's note; and the lady, 
 with a graceful inclination of the head, closed the door, advanced 
 and seated herself, examining the young Count from head to 
 foot with a look of calm consideration, which he very well un- 
 derstood implied the habitual exercise of authority and power. 
 
 After thus gazing at him for a moment or two, she said, "Mon- 
 sieur le Comte de Logeres, do you know me?" 
 
 " If you mean, madam," he replied, " to ask me if I recognise 
 your person, I believe I do ; but if you would ask absolutely 
 whether I know you, I must say, no." 
 
 One of those light smiles passed quick across her countenance, 
 and she said in a low voice, as if speaking to herself, " Who ever 
 
224 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 did know me?" She then added, " Who then do you suppose 
 lam?" 
 
 " I conclude, madam," replied the young Count, " that I stand 
 in the presence of her Majesty the Queen-mother." 
 
 " Such is the case," replied the Queen, " and I have come 
 to visit you, Monsieur de Logeres, with views and purposes 
 which, were I to tell them to any person at my son's court, 
 would hardly be believed." 
 
 The Queen paused, as if waiting for an answer; and the 
 young Count replied, " I trust, madam, that if I am detained 
 here by the directions, and in the power of your Majesty, that 
 you have come to give me liberty, which would, I suppose," he 
 added with somewhat of a smile, " be rather marvellous to the 
 courtiers of the King." 
 
 Catharine de Medici smiled also, but at the same time shook 
 her head. " I fear I must not give you liberty," she said, " for 
 I have promised not : but I have come with no bad intent to- 
 wards you. I knew your mother, Monsieur de Logeres, and a 
 virtuous and beautiful woman she was. God help us ! it shows 
 that I am growing old, my praising any woman for her virtue. 
 However, she was what I have said, and as unlike myself as 
 possible. Perhaps that was the reason that I liked her, for we 
 like not things that are too near ourselves. However, I have 
 come hither to see her son, and to do him a pleasure. You 
 play upon the lute?" she continued. " Come, 't is a long time 
 since I have heard the lute well played. Take up the instrument, 
 and add your voice to it." 
 
 " Alas, madam," replied the young Count, " I am but in an 
 ill mood for music. If I sang you a melancholy lay it would find 
 such stirring harmonies in my own heart, that I fear I should 
 drown the song in tears ; and if I sang you a gay one, it would 
 be all discord. I would much rather open that door which you 
 have left unlocked behind you, and go out." 
 
 The Queen did not stir in the slightest degree, but gazed upon 
 him attentively with a look of compassion, answering, " Alas ! 
 poor bird, you would find that your cage has a double door. But 
 come, do as I bid you ; sit down there, take up the lute and 
 sing. Let your song be neither gay nor sad ! Let it be a song 
 of love. I doubt not that such a youth as you are, will easily 
 find a love ditty in your heart, though the present inspiration be 
 no better than an old woman. Come, Monsieur de Logeres, 
 come : sit down and sing. I am a judge of music, I can tell 
 you." 
 
 With a faint smile the Count did as she bade him ; and taking 
 up the lute, he ran his fingers over the chords, thought for a 
 moment or two, and recollecting nothing better suited to the 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 225 
 
 moment, he sang an Italian song of love, in which sometime 
 before he had ventured to shadow forth to Marie de Clairvaul, 
 when she was at Montsoreau, the first feelings of affection that 
 were growing up in his heart. The Queen sat by in the mean 
 time, listening attentively, with her head a little bent forward, 
 and her hand marking the cadences on her knee. 
 
 " Beautifully sung, Monsieur de Logeres," she said at length 
 when he ended. " Beautifully sung, and as well accompanied. 
 You do not know how much pleasure you have given. — Now, 
 let us talk of other things. Are you sincere, man?" 
 
 " I trust' so, madam," replied the Count. " I believe I have 
 never borne any other character." 
 
 " Who taught you to play so well on the lute?" demanded 
 the Queen abruptly. 
 
 " 1 have had no great instruction, madam," answered the 
 Count somewhat surprised. " I taught myself a little in my boy- 
 hood. But afterwards my preceptor, the Abbe de Boisguerin, 
 was my chief instructor. He had learned well in Italy." 
 
 " Did he teach you sincerity too ?" demanded the Queen 
 with a keen look ; "and did he learn that in Italy?" 
 
 The Count was not a little surprised to find Catherine's ques- 
 tions touch so immediately upon the late discoveries he had made 
 of the character of the Abbe de Boisguerin, and he replied with 
 some bitterness, " He could but teach me, madam, that which 
 he possessed himself. I trust that to my nature and my blood I 
 owe whatever sincerity may be in me. I learned it from none 
 but from God and my own heart." 
 
 " Then you know him," said the Queen, reaching the point 
 at once-, " that is sufficient at present on that subject. I know 
 him too. He came to the court of France several years ago, 
 with letters from my fair cousin the Cardinal ; but he brought 
 with him nothing that I wanted at that time. He had a wily head, 
 a handsome person, manifold accomplishments, great learning, 
 and services for the highest bidder. We had too many such things 
 at the court already, so I thought that the sooner he was out of 
 it the better, and looked cold upon him till he went. He under- 
 stood the matter well, and did not return till he brought some- 
 thing in his hand to barter for favour. However, Monsieur de 
 Logeres, to turn to other matters ; I do believe you may be 
 sincere after all. I shall discover in a minute, however. Will 
 you answer me a question or two concerning the Duke of Guise? " 
 
 "It depends entirely upon what they are, madam," replied 
 the Count at once. 
 
 " Then you will not answer me every question, even if it were 
 to gain your liberty." 
 
 ik Certainlv not, madam," replied the Count. 
 
 15 
 
226 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " Then the Duke has been speaking ill of me," said Catherine 
 at once, " otherwise you would not be so fearful." 
 
 "Not so, indeed," replied the Count, eagerly. "The Duke 
 never, in my presence, uttered a word against your Majesty." 
 
 " Then will you tell me, as a man of honour," demanded the 
 Queen, " exactly, word for word what you have ever heard the 
 Duke say of me?" 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau paused and thought for a moment, and 
 then answered, " I may promise you to do so in safety, madam, 
 for I never heard the Duke speak of you but twice, and then i 
 was in high praise." 
 
 " Indeed!" she replied. " But still I believe you, for Ville- 
 quier has been assuring me of the contrary, and, of course, what 
 he says must be false. He cannot help himself, poor man. 
 Now, tell me what the Duke said, Monsieur de Logeres. Per- 
 haps I may be able to repay you some time." 
 
 " I seek for no bribe, your Majesty," replied the Count 
 smiling; "and, indeed, the honour and the pleasure of this 
 visit " 
 
 "Nay, nay! You a courtier, young gentleman!" exclaimed 
 the Queen, shaking her finger at him. " Another such word as 
 that, and you will make me doubt the whole tale." 
 
 " The speech would not have been so courtier-like, madam, 
 if it had been ended," replied the Count. " I was going to have 
 said, that the honour and pleasure of this visit, after not having 
 heard for many days, many weeks I believe, the sound of a 
 human voice, or seen any other face but that of one attendant, 
 is full repayment for the little that 1 have to tell. However, 
 madam, to gratify you with regard to the Duke, the first time 
 that I ever heard him mention you was in the city of Rheims, 
 where a number of persons were collected together, and many 
 violent opinions were expressed, with which I will not offend 
 your ears; your past life was spoken of by some of the gentlemen 
 present " 
 
 " Pass over that, pass over that! I understand! " replied the 
 Queen with a sarcastic smile •, " I understand. But those things 
 are not worth speaking of. What of the present, Monsieur de 
 Logeres? What of the present?" 
 
 "Why, some one expressed an opinion, madam," the Count 
 continued, " that in order to retain a great share of power, you 
 did every thing you could to keep his Majesty in the lethargic 
 and indolent state in which I grieve to say he appears to the 
 great mass of his subjects." 
 
 "What said the Duke?" demanded the Queen. " AVhat 
 said the Duke? surely he knows me better." 
 
 " Why, madam," replied the Count, " his eye brightened and 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 227 
 
 his colour rose, and he replied indignantly that it could not he 
 so. ' Oh no,' he said, ' happy had it heen for France if, instead 
 of divided power, the Queen- mother had possessed the whole 
 power. It is by petty minds mingling their Ieven with their 
 great designs that ruin has come upon the land. She has had to 
 deal with great men, great events, and great difiiculties, and she 
 was equal to deal with, if not to bow them all down before her, 
 had she but been permitted to deal with them unshackled.' "' 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed the Queen ; " did he say so? " 
 
 " He did, madam, upon my honour," replied the Count. 
 
 " I know'not whether he was right or wrong," rejoined the 
 Queen thoughtfully,- " for though perhaps, Monsieur de Lo- 
 geres, 1 possessed in some things the powers of a man — say, if 
 you will, greater powers than most men— yet, alas! in others, 1 
 had all the weaknesses of a woman — perhaps I should say, to 
 balance other qualities, more weaknesses than most women. 
 But he must have said more. The answer was not pertinent to 
 the remark, and Henry of Guise is not a man either in speech or 
 action ever to forget his object." 
 
 "Nor did he in this instance," replied the Count; "but he 
 said that, wearied out with seeing your best and greatest schemes 
 frustrated by the weakness of others, you now contented your- 
 self with warding off evils as far as possible from your son and 
 from the state •, that it was evident that such was your policy ; 
 and that, like Miron, the King's physician, unable from external 
 circumstances to effect a cure, you treated the diseases of the 
 times with a course of palliatives; that, as the greatest of all 
 evils, you knew and saw the apathy of his Majesty, and did all 
 that you could to rouse him, but that the poisonous counsels 
 of Villequier, the soft indolence of his own nature, and the en- 
 feebling society of Epernon and others, resisted all that you 
 could do, and thwarted you here likewise." 
 
 " He spoke wisely, and he spoke truly," replied the Queen ; 
 " and I will tell you, Monsieur de Logeres, though Henry of 
 Guise and I can never love each other much, yet I felt sure that 
 he knew me too well to say all those things of me that have been 
 reported by his enemies. I am satisfied with what I have heard, 
 Count, and shall ask no further questions. But you have given 
 me pleasure, and I will do my best to serve you. Once more, 
 let us speak of other things. Have you all that you desire and 
 want here? " 
 
 " No, madam," replied the young Count. " I want many 
 things— liberty, the familiar voices of my friends, the sight of 
 those I love. Every thing that the body wants I have ; and you 
 or some of your attendants have supplied me with books and 
 
 1 Such was undoubtedly the expressed opinion of the Onkr of Guise. 
 
228 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 music ; but it is in such a situation as this, your Majesty, that 
 one learns that the heart requires food as well as the body or the 
 mind." 
 
 " The heart! " replied Catharine de Medici thoughtfully. " I 
 once knew what the heart was, and I have not quite forgotten 
 it yet. Did you mark my words after you had sung, Monsieur 
 de Logeres?" 
 
 " You were pleased to praise my poor singing much more than 
 it deserved, madam," replied the young Count. 
 
 " Something more than that, my good youth," replied the 
 Queen. " I told you that it had given more pleasure than you 
 knew of. I might have added, that it gave pleasure to more than 
 you knew of, for there was another ear could hear it besides 
 mine." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed the Count gazing eagerly in the Queen's 
 face; " and pray who might that be?" 
 
 "One that loves you," replied Catharine de Medici. " One 
 that loves you very well, Monsieur de Logeres." And rising 
 from her chair she put her hand to her brow, as if in deep 
 thought. " Well," she said at length 5 " something must be 
 risked, and I will risk something for that purpose. The time is 
 not far distant, Monsieur de Logeres — I see it clearly — when 
 by some means you will be set at liberty ; but, notwithstanding 
 that, it may be long before you find such a thing even as an 
 hour's happiness. You are a frank and generous man, I believe : 
 you will not take advantage of an act of kindness to behave un- 
 generously. I go away from you for a moment or two, and leave 
 that door open behind me, trusting to your honour." 
 
 She waited for no reply, but quitted the room 5 and Charles of 
 Montsoreau stood gazing upon the door, doubtful of what was 
 her meaning, and how he was to act. Some of her words might 
 be interpreted as a hint to escape ; but others had directly a con- 
 trary tendency, and a moment after he heard her unlock and 
 pass another door, and close but not lock it behind her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 " What is her meaning?" demanded Charles of Montsoreau, 
 as he gazed earnestly upon the door-, and as he thus thought 
 his heart beat vehemently, for there was a hope in it which he 
 would not suffer his reason to rest upon for a moment, so im- 
 probable did it seem, and so fearful would be disappointment. 
 " What is her meaning?" And he still asked himself the ques- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 229 
 
 tion, as one minute flew by after another, and to his impatience 
 it seemed long ere she returned. 
 
 Hut a few minutes elapsed, however, in reality, ere there were 
 steps heard coming back, and in another minute Catharine de 
 Medici again appeared, saying, " For one hour, remember ! 
 For one hour only!" 
 
 There was somebody hehind her, and the brightest hope that 
 Charles of Montsoreau had dared to entertain was fully realised. 
 
 The Queen had drawn Marie de Clairvaut forward ; and pass- 
 ing out again, she closed the door, leaving her alone with her 
 lover. Jf his heart had wanted any confirmation of the deep, 
 earnest, overpowering affection which she entertained towards 
 him, it might have been found in the manner in which — appa- 
 rently without the power even to move forward, trembling, 
 gasping for breath— she stood before him on so suddenly seeing 
 him again, without having been forewarned, after long and pain- 
 ful and anxious absence. As he had himself acknowledged, he 
 was ignorant in the heart of woman ; but love had been a mighty 
 instructor, and he now needed no explanation of the agitation 
 that he beheld. 
 
 Starting instantly forward, he threw his arms around her; 
 and it was then, held to his bosom, pressed to his heart, that all 
 Marie de Clairvaut's love and tenderness burst forth. Gentle, 
 timid, modest in her own nature as she was, love and joy 
 triumphed over all. The agony of mind she had been made to 
 suffer, was greater than even he could fancy, and the relief of 
 that moment swept away all other thoughts : the tears, the 
 happy but agitated tears, flowed rapidly from her eyes -, but her 
 lips sought his cheek from time to time, her arms clasped ten- 
 derly round him, and as soon as she could speak, she said, 
 " Oh Charles, Charles, do I see you again? Am I, am I held in 
 your arms once more ; the only one that I have ever loved in 
 life, my saviour, my protector, my defender. For days, for 
 weeks, I have not known whether you were living or dead. 
 They had the cruelty, they had the barbarity not even to let me 
 know whether you had or had not escaped the plague. They 
 have kept me in utter ignorance of where you were, of all and 
 of every thing concerning you." And again she kissed his cheek, 
 though even while she did so, under the overpowering emotions 
 of her heart, the blush of shame came up into her own : and 
 then she hid her eyes upon his bosom, and wept once more in 
 agitation but in happiness. 
 
 " As they have acted to you, dearest Marie," he replied, " as 
 they have acted to you, so they have acted to me. The day they 
 separated me from you at Epernon, was the last day that 1 have 
 spoken with any living creature up to this morning. jNo answers 
 
230 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 have been returned to my questions 5 not a word of intelligence 
 could I obtain concerning your fate ; and oh, dear, dear Marie, 
 you would feel, you would know how terrible has been that 
 state to me, if you could tell how ardently, how deeply, how 
 passionately 1 love you." And his lips met hers, and sealed the 
 assurance there. 
 
 " I know it, I know it all, Charles," replied Marie. " I know 
 it by what I have felt; I know it by what I feel myself, for I be- 
 lieve, 1 do believe, from my very heart, that if it be possible for 
 two people to feel exactly alike, we so feel." 
 
 " But tell me, dear Marie, tell me," exclaimed her lover, " tell 
 me where you have been. Have they treated you kindly? Does 
 the Duke of Guise know where you are?" 
 
 • ' Alas, no, Charles ! " replied Marie de Clairvaut ; " he does 
 not, I grieve to say. Well treated indeed I may say that I have 
 been, for all that could contribute to my mere comfort has been 
 done for me. Nothing that I could desire or wish for, Charles, 
 has been ungiven, and I have ever had the society of the good 
 sisters in the neighbouring convent. But the society that I love 
 has of course been denied me ; and no news, no tidings of any 
 kind have reached me. I have lived in short with numbers of 
 people surrounding me, as if I were not in the world at all, and 
 the moment that I asked a question, a deep silence fell upon 
 every one, and I could obtain no reply." 
 
 " This is strange indeed," said Charles, " very strange. How- 
 ever, we must be grateful that our treatment has been kind in- 
 deed in some respects." 
 
 " Oh, and most grateful," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "for 
 these bright moments of happiness. Do you not think, Charles, 
 do you not think, that perhaps the Queen may kindly grant us 
 such interviews again?" 
 
 Who is there that does not know how lovers while away the 
 time? Who is there that has not known how short is a lover's 
 hour? But with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut 
 that hour seemed shorter than it otherwise would have done ; 
 for it was not alone the endearing caress, the words, the ac- 
 knowledgments, the hopes of love, but they had a thousand 
 things in the past to tell each other 5 they had cares and fears, 
 and plans and purposes for the future, to communicate. 
 
 Even had not all shyness, all timidity been done away before, 
 that was not a moment in which Marie de Clairvaut could have 
 affected aught towards her lover ; so that what between tidings 
 of the past and thoughts of the future, and the dear dalliance 
 of that spendthrift of invaluable moments, love, an envious clock 
 in some church-tower hard by, had marked the arrival of the 
 last quarter of an hour they were to remain together, ere one 
 
URJNKY 01- 0U1SE. 231 
 
 tenth part of what they had to think of or to say was either 
 thought or said. The sound startled them, and it became a 
 choice whether they should give up the brief remaining space to 
 serious thoughts of the future, or whether they should yield it 
 all to love. Who is it with such a choice before him that ever 
 hesitated long ? 
 
 The space allotted for their interview had drawn near its 
 close, and the very scantiness of the period that remained was 
 causing them to spend it in regrets that it was not longer, when 
 suddenly the general sounds which came from the streets be- 
 came louder and more loud, as if some door or gate had been 
 opened which admitted the noise more distinctly. Both Marie 
 de Clairvaut and her lover listened, and almost at the same in- 
 stant loud cries were heard of " The Duke of Guise ! The Duke 
 of Guise! Long live the Duke of Guise! Long live the great 
 pillar of the Catholic church ! Long live the House of Lor- 
 raine ! " And this was followed by the noise and trampling of 
 horses, as if entering into a court below. 
 
 Marie and her lover gazed in each other's faces, but she it was 
 that first spoke the joyful hopes that were in the heart of both. 
 
 " He has come to deliver us! " she cried. "Oh Charles, he 
 has come to deliver us! Hear how gladly the people shout his 
 well-loved name! Surely they will not deceive him, and tell him 
 we are not here." 
 
 " Oh no, dear Marie," replied her lover ; " he has certain in- 
 formation, depend upon it, and will not be easily deceived. He 
 has already discovered my abode, dear Marie; and this letter 
 was thrown through the window this morning, though I myself 
 know not where we are — that is to say, I am well aware that we 
 are now in Paris, but I know not in what part of the city." 
 
 " Oh, that J discovered from one of the nuns," replied Marie. 
 " We are at the house of the Black Penitents, in the Rue 
 St. Denis. I remember the outside of it well ; a large dark build- 
 ing with only two windows to the street. Do you not remember 
 it? You must have seen it in passing." 
 
 "I am not so well acquainted with the city as you are, dear 
 Marie," replied Charles of Montsoreau ; "but, depend upon it, 
 where they have confined me is not in the house of the Black 
 Penitents. It would be a violation of the rules of the order 
 which could not be." 
 
 " It communicates with their dwelling," replied Marie de 
 Clairvaut; " of that at least I am certain; for the Queen, when 
 she brought me hither, took me not into the open air. She led 
 me indeed through numerous passages, one of which, some 
 ten or twelve yards in length, was nearly dark, for it had no 
 windows, and was only lighted by the door left open behind us. 
 
232 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 1 was then placed in a little room while the Queen went on, 
 and a short time after I heard a voice, that made my heart beat 
 strangely, begin to sing a song that you once sung at Montso- 
 reau ; and when I was thinking of you Charles, and all that you 
 had done for me — how you had first saved me trom the reiters, 
 and then rescued me from the deep stream, and had then come 
 to seek me and deliver me in the midst of death and pestilence — 
 I was thinking of all these things, when Catherine came back, 
 and without telling me what was her intention, led me hither." 
 
 " Hark ! " cried Charles de Montsoreau. "They shout again. 
 I wonder that we have heard no farther tidings." 
 
 And they both sat and listened for some minutes, but no indi- 
 cation of any farther event look place, and they gradually re- 
 sumed their conversation, beginning in a low tone, as if afraid 
 of losing a sound from without. Marie de Clairvaut had already 
 told her lover how she had remained at Epernon for a day or 
 two under the protection of the wife of the Duke, and had been 
 thence brought by her to Paris and placed in the convent at a 
 late hour of the evening ; but as the time wore away, and their 
 hopes of liberation did not seem about to be realized, she re- 
 curred to the subject of her arrival, saying. "There is one thing 
 which makes me almost fear they will deceive him, Charles. I 
 forgot to tell you, that as we paused before this building on the 
 night that I was brought hither, while the gates were being 
 opened by the portress, a horseman rode up to the side of the 
 carriage and gazed in. There were torches on the other side 
 held by the servants round the gate, and though I could not see 
 that horseman as well as he could see me, yet I feel almost sure 
 that it was the face of the Abb6 de Boisguerin I beheld." 
 
 " I know he was to return to Paris," said Charles of Montso- 
 reau, "after accompanying my brother some part of the way 
 back to the chateau. But fear not him, dear Marie 5 he has no 
 power or influence here." 
 
 " Oh, but I fear far more wile and intrigue," cried Marie de 
 Clairvaut, " than I do power and influence, Charles. Power is 
 like a lion, bold and open ; but when once satisfied, injures little-, 
 but art is like a serpent that stings us, without cause, when we 
 least expect it. But hark!" she continued again. "They are 
 once more shouting loudly." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau listened also, and the cries, repeated 
 again and again, of" Long live the Duke of Guise! Long live 
 the House of Lorraine! Long live the good Queen Catherine * ! 
 
 ' The progress of the Duke of Guise and the Queen-mother, from the convent of the 
 Penitents to the Louvre, was in triumph. " II y en avoit," says Auvigny, "qui se met- 
 loient a genoux devant Iui, d'autrcs lui baisoient les mains; quelques tins se trouvt^renl 
 trop heureux de pouvoir en passant toucher son habit." A farther account of this famous 
 event is given a few pages farther on. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 233 
 
 Life to the Queen ! Life to the Queen ! " were heard mingled 
 with thundering huzzas and acclamations. The heart of the 
 young Count sank, for he judged that the Duke had gone forth 
 again amongst the people, and had either forgotten his fate 
 altogether in more important affairs, or had been deceived by 
 false information regarding himself and Mademoiselle do 
 Clairvaut. 
 
 The cries, which were at first loud and distinct, gradually 
 sunk, till first the words could no longer be distinguished 5 then 
 the acclamations became more and more faint, till the whole 
 died away into a distant murmur, rising and falling like the sound 
 of the sea beating upon a stormy shore. The young Count gazed 
 in the countenance of Marie de Clairvaut, and saw therein 
 written even more despairing feelings than were in his own 
 heart. 
 
 " Fear not, dear Marie," he said pressing her to his bosom. 
 " Fear not 5 the Duke must know that I am here by this letter 5 
 nor is he one to be easily deceived. Depend upon it he will find 
 means to deliver us ere long." 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut shook her head with a deep sigh and with 
 her eyes filled with tears. But she had not time to reply, for 
 steps were heard in the passage, and the moment after the door 
 of the room was opened. 
 
 It was no longer, however, the figure of Catherine de Medici 
 that presented itself, but the homely person and somewhat un- 
 meaning face of a good lady, dressed in the habit of a prioress. 
 Behind her, again, was a lay-sister, and beside them both the 
 attendant who was accustomed to wait upon the young Count. 
 The good lady who first appeared looked round the scene that 
 the opening door disclosed to her with evident marks of curiosity 
 and surprise; and, indeed, the whole expression of her coun- 
 tenance left little doubt that she had never been in that place 
 before. 
 
 After giving up a minute to her curiosity, however, she 
 turned to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, saying, " I have been 
 sent by the Queen, madam, to conduct you back to your 
 apartments." 
 
 " Let me first ask one question," replied Marie de Clairvaut. 
 " Has not the Duke of Guise been here?" 
 
 The nun answered not a word. 
 
 " We need no assurance of it, dear Marie," said Charles of 
 Montsoreau, hoping to drive the Prioress to some answer. " We 
 know that he has, and must have been deceived in regard to 
 your state and mine." 
 
 The Prioress was still silent ; and Marie de Clairvaut, after 
 waiting for a moment, added, " If he have been deceived, 
 
234 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Charles, woe to those who have deceived him. He is not a man 
 to pass over lightly such conduct as has been shown to me 
 already." 
 
 "Madam," said the Prioress. "I have been sent by the 
 Queen to show you to your apartments." 
 
 It was vain to resist or to linger. Marie de Clairvaut gave 
 her hand to her lover, and they gazed in each other's faces for a 
 moment with a long and anxious glance, not knowing when they 
 might meet again. Charles of Montsoreau could not resist-, and 
 notwithstanding the presence of nun, prioress, and attendant, 
 he drew the fair creature whose hand he held in his gently to 
 his bosom, and pressed a parting kiss upon her lips. 
 
 Marie turned away with her eyes full of tears, and leaving her 
 hand in his till the last moment, she slowly approached the door. 
 She turned for one other look ere she departed, and then, 
 dashing the tears from her eyes, passed rapidly out. The door 
 closed behind her, and Charles of Monsoreau alone, and almost 
 without hope, buried his face in his hands, and gave himself up 
 to think over the sweet moments of the past. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 It was on the morning of Monday, the 9th of May, 1588, at 
 about half past eleven o'clock, that a party, consisting of sixteen 
 horsemen, of whom eight were gentlemen and the rest grooms, 
 appeared at the gates of Paris. But though each of those eight 
 persons who led the cavalcade were strong and powerful men, 
 in the prime of life, highly educated, and generally distinguished 
 in appearance, yet there was one on whom all eyes rested 
 wherever he passed, and rested with that degree of wonder and 
 admiration which might be well called forth by the union of the 
 most perfect graces of person, with the appearance of the 
 greatest vigour and activity, and with a dignity and beauty of 
 expression which breathed not only from the countenance, but 
 from the whole, person, and shone out in every movement, as 
 well as in every look. 
 
 The gates of the city were at this time open, and though a 
 certain number of guards were hanging about the buildings on 
 either hand, yet no questions were asked of any one who came 
 in or went out of the city. The moment, however, that the 
 party we have mentioned appeared, and he who was at its head 
 paused for a moment on the inside of the gate and gazed round, 
 as if looking for some one that he expected to see there, one of 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 235 
 
 the bystanders whispered eagerly to the other, " It is the Duke ! 
 Ft is the Duke of Guise ! " 
 
 All hats were off in a moment ; all voices cried, "The Duke ! 
 The Duke ! " A loud acclamation ran round the gate, and the 
 people from the small houses in the neighbourhood poured forth 
 at the sound, rending the air with their acclamations, and press- 
 ing forward round his horse with such eagerness that it was 
 scarcely possible for him to pass along his way. Some kissed 
 his hand, some threw themselves upon their knees before him, 
 some satisfied themselves by merely touching his cloak, as if it 
 had saintly virtue in it, and still the cry ran on of " The Duke 
 of Guise ! The Duke of Guise ! Long live the Duke of Guise ! " 
 while every door-way and alley and court-yard poured forth its 
 multitudes, till the people seemed literally to crush each other in 
 the streets, and all Paris echoed with the thundering accla- 
 mations. 
 
 After that momentary pause at the gates, the Duke of Guise 
 rode on, uncovering his splendid head, and bowing lowly to 
 the people as he went. His face had been flushed by exercise 
 when he arrived, but now the deep excitement of such a recep- 
 tion had taken the colour from his cheek ; he was somewhat 
 pale, and his lip quivered with intense feeling. But there was a 
 fire in his eye which seemed to speak that his heart was con- 
 scious of great purposes, and ready to fulfil its high emprise ; 
 and there was a degree of stern determination on that lordly 
 brow, which spoke also the knowledge but the contempt of dan- 
 ger, and the resolution of meeting peril and overcoming resist- 
 ance. 
 
 Thus passing on amidst the people, and bowing as he went 
 to their repeated cheers, the Duke of Guise reached the convent 
 of the Black Penitents, where for the time the Queen-mother 
 had taken up her abode. The gates of the outer court into which 
 men where suffered to enter were thrown open to admit him ; 
 and signifying to such of the crowd as were nearest to the gate 
 that they had better not follow him into the court, the Duke of 
 Guise rode in with his attendants, and the gates were again 
 closed. The servants and the gentlemen who accompanied him 
 remained beside their horses in the court, while he alone en- 
 tered the parlour of the convent to speak with the Queen- 
 mother. 
 
 She did not detain him an instant, but came in with a coun- 
 tenance on which much alarm was painted, either by nature or 
 by art. The Duke at once advanced to meet her, and bending 
 low his towering head, he kissed the hand which she held out 
 to him. 
 
 " Alas ! my Lord of Guise," she said, " I must not so far fal- 
 
236 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 sify the truth as to say that I am glad to see you. Glad, most 
 glad should I have been to see you, any where but here. But, 
 alas ! I fear you have come at great peril to yourself, good cou- 
 sin ! You know not how angry the minds of men are ; you 
 know not how much hostility reigns against you in the breasts 
 of many of the highest of the land 5 you have not bethought 
 you, that on every step to the throne there stands an ene- 
 my " 
 
 " Who shall fall before me, madam," replied the Duke of 
 Guise. 
 
 " Till you have reached the throne itself, fair cousin?" said 
 the Queen-mother. 
 
 " No, madam, no," answered the Duke of Guise eagerly. " I 
 thought your Majesty had known me better. I have always be- 
 lieved that you were one of those who felt and understood that 
 I never dreamt of wronging my master and my king, or of 
 snatching, as you now hinted, the crown from its lawful pos- 
 sessor." 
 
 " I have felt it, and I have understood it, cousin of Guise," 
 replied Catharine de Medici. " But, alas! my Lord, I know how 
 ambition grows upon the heart. It begins with an acorn, Guise, 
 but it ends with an oak. Those that watch it, the very soil that 
 bears it, perceive not its increase ; and yet it soon overshadows 
 all things, and root it out who can ! " 
 
 " Madam," answered the Duke of Guise, boldly, " to follow 
 the figure that you have used, the axe soon reduces the oak ; 
 and may the axe be used on me, and ease me of earth's ambi- 
 tion for ever, if any such designs as have been attributed to me 
 exist within my bosom! You see, madam, I meet you boldly, 
 look to ultimate consequences of ambitious designs, and fear 
 not the result. It is such accusations that I come to repel, and it 
 is those who have propagated them, and instilled them both 
 into the mind of his Majesty, and, as it would appear, your 
 own, that I come to punish. Trusting that, humble though I 
 be, your Majesty was the best friend I had at the court of 
 France, I have ridden straight hither, without even stopping at 
 my own abode, to beseech you to accompany me to the presence 
 of the King." 
 
 "I do believe, cousin of Guise, that I am your best friend at 
 thecourt of France," replied the Princess. "In fact, I may say, 
 I know that none there loves you but myself. Nor must you 
 think that I accuse you of actual ambition, or believe the ru- 
 mours that have been circulated against you. I merely wish 
 to warn you of the growth of such things in your own bosom." 
 
 " Dear madam," replied the Duke, " had I been ambitious, 
 what might I not have become ! Here am I simply the Duke 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 237 
 
 of Guise; a poor officer, commanding part of the King's 
 troops, and contributing no small part of my own to swell 
 his forces ; with scarcely a place, a post, a government, an 
 emolument, or a revenue, except what I derive from my 
 own estates. Am I the most ambitious man in France ? Am 
 I so ambitious as he who adds, to the government of Metz, 
 the government of Normandy, and piles upon that Touraine, 
 Anjou, Saintonge, the Angoumois, seizes upon the office of 
 High-admiral,' creates himself Colonel-general of the Infantry? 
 This, lady, is the ambitious man ; but of him you seem to en- 
 tertain no fear." 
 
 "There are two ambitions, my Lord Duke," replied the 
 Queen : " the ambition which grasps at power, and the ambi- 
 tion which snatches at wealth : the moment that ambition min- 
 gles itself with avarice, the grovelling passion, chained in its own 
 sordid bonds, is no longer to be feared. It is where the object is 
 power ; where there is a mind to conceive the means, and a 
 heart to dare all the risks, that there is indeed occasion for ap- 
 prehension and for precaution. Still, my Lord, I believe you; 
 still I believe that the hand of Guise will never be raised to pull 
 down the bonnet of Valois. You may strip the minion Epernon 
 of the golden plumes with which he has decked his mid-air 
 wings, for aught I care or think of ; you may cast down the dark 
 and plotting Villequier, and sweep the court of apes and parrots, 
 fools and villains, and the whole tribe of natural and human 
 beasts, without my saying one word to oppose you, or without 
 my dreaming for a moment that you aim at higher things ; you 
 may even soar higher still, and like your great father become at 
 once the guide and the defender of the state, and still I will not 
 fear you. But Guise," she added in a softer tone, "I must and will 
 still fear for you , and though I will go with you to the King 
 if you continue to demand it, yet I tell you, and I warn you, 
 that every step you take is perilous, and that I cannot be your 
 safeguard nor your surety for a moment ! " 
 
 " Madam, I must fulfil my fate," replied the Duke of Guise 
 looking up. "I came here to justify myself; I came here to 
 deliver and to support my friends ; I came here to secure 
 honour and safety to the Catholic Church ; and did I know that 
 the daggers of a hundred assassins would be in my bosom at 
 the first step I took beyond those gates, I would go forth 
 as resolutely as I came hither." 
 
 " Then 1 must send to announce your coming to the King," 
 said the Queen. " Of course I cannot take you to the Louvre 
 unannounced." 
 
 Thus saying she quitted the room for a moment, and the 
 Duke remained behind with his arms crossed upon his bosom 
 
238 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 ii% deep thought. She returned in a moment, however, saying 
 that she had sent one of her gentlemen upon the errand, and 
 the next minute as the gates were opened for some one to go 
 out, long and reiterated shouts of " A Guise! A Guise! Long 
 live the Guise!" were heard echoing round the building. 
 
 Catharine de Medici smiled and looked at the Duke. " How 
 often have I heard," she said, " those same light Parisian 
 tongues exclaim the name of different princes ! I remember 
 well, Guise, when first I came from my fair native land, how 
 the glad multitude shouted on my way, how all the streets 
 were strewed with flowers ; and how, if I had believed the 
 words I heard, I should have fancied that not a man in all the 
 land but would have died to serve me ; and yet, not long after, 
 I have heard execrations murmured in the throats of the dull 
 multitude while I passed by, and the name of Diana of Poi- 
 tiers echoed through the streets. Then have I not heard the 
 names of a Francis and a Henry shouted far and wide? and 
 after Jarnac and Moncontour, the heavens were scarcely high 
 enough to hold the sounds of his name who now sits upon 
 the throne of France. To day it is Guise they call upon ! — Who 
 shall it be to-morrow! And then another and another still 
 shall come, the object of an hour's love changed into hatred in 
 a moment." 
 
 " It is too true, madam," replied the Duke. " Popularity 
 is the most fleeting, the most vacillating — if you will, the most 
 contemptible — of all those means and opportunities which 
 Heaven gives us to be made use of for great ends. But never- 
 theless, madam, we must so make use of them all 5 and as 
 this same popularity is one of the briefest of the whole, so 
 must we be the more ready, the more prompt, the more de- 
 cided in taking advantage of the short hour of brightness. I 
 may be wrong in thinking," he continued after the pause of 
 a moment or two, " I may be wrong in thinking that my 
 well-being and that of the state and church of this realm are 
 intimately bound up together. It may be, and probably is, a de- 
 lusion of human vanity. Nevertheless, such being my opinion, 
 none, can say that I am wrong in taking advantage of the mo- 
 ment of my popularity to do the best that I can both for the 
 church and for the state. Such, I assure you, madam, is my 
 object; and if I benefit myself at all in these transactions, it can 
 be, and shall be, but collaterally; while in the mean time I 
 incur perils which I know and yet fear not." 
 
 Thus went on the conversation between the Queen and the 
 Duke of Guise for nearly half an hour, at the end of which 
 time the gentleman who had been dispatched to the King re- 
 turned, bearing his Majesty's reply, which was, that since his 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 239 
 
 mother desired it, she might bring the Duke of Guise to his 
 presence, and Catherine prepared immediately to set out. Her 
 chair was brought round ; and after speaking a few words with 
 the superior of the convent, she placed herself in the vehicle, 
 the Duke of Guise walking by her side. The gentlemen who 
 had come with him gave their horses to the grooms, and fol- 
 lowed on foot ; and several servants and attendants ran on before 
 to clear the way through the people. 
 
 The moment the gates were opened, a spectacle struck the 
 eyes of the Queen and the Duke, such as no city in the world 
 perhaps, except Paris, could produce. In the short period which 
 had elapsed since the Duke's arrival, the news had spread from 
 one end of the capital to the other, and the whole of its mul- 
 titudes were poured out into the streets or lining the windows, 
 or crowning the house-tops. With a rapidity scarcely to be 
 conceived, scaffoldings had been raised in that short space of 
 time in different parts of the streets, to enable the multitude to 
 see the Duke better as he passed * ; in many places, velvets and 
 rich tapestries were hung out upon the fronts of the houses, as 
 if some solemn procession of the church were taking place ; the 
 ladies of the higher classes at the windows, or on their scaf- 
 folds, were generally without the masks which they usually 
 wore in the streets-, and again, when the gates of the convent 
 opened, and the Queen and the Duke issued forth, the air 
 seemed actually rent with the acclamations of the people, and a 
 long line of waving hats and handkerchiefs was seen all the 
 way up the Rue St. Denis. 
 
 The same gratulations as before met the Duke on every side 
 as he passed along ; the populace seemed absolutely inclined to 
 worship him, and many threw themselves upon their knees 
 as he passed. He looked round upon the dense mass of people, 
 upon the crowded houses, upon the waving hands; he heard 
 from every tongue a welcome, at every step a gratulation, 
 and it was impossible for the heart of man not to feel at that 
 moment a pride and a confidence fit to bear him strongly on his 
 perilous way. 
 
 All the way down the Rue St. Denis, and through every other 
 street that he passed, the same scene presented itself, the same 
 acclamations followed him, so that the shouts thundered in the 
 ear of the King as he sat in the Louvre. 
 
 At length the Queen and those who accompanied her ap- 
 proached the palace 5 and in the open space before it, which was at 
 that time railed off, was drawn up a long double line of guards, 
 forming a lane through which it was necessary to pass to the 
 gates. The well-known Crillon, celebrated for his determination 
 
 1 This fact is recorded in every account of the proceedings of that day. 
 
240 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 and bravery, was at their head ; and the Duke of Guise, obliged 
 to pause in order to suffer the chair of the Queen-mother to pass 
 on first, bowed to the commander, whom he knew and respected. 
 
 Crillon scarcely returned his salutation , but looked frowning 
 along the double row of his soldiery. The people, close by the 
 railings, watched every movement, and a murmur of something 
 like apprehension for their favourite ran through them as they 
 watched these signs. But not a moment's pause marked the 
 slightest hesitation in the Duke of Guise. With his head raised 
 and his eyes flashing, he drew forward the hilt of his unconquered 
 sword ready for his hand, and holding the scabbard in his left, 
 strode after the chair of the Queen till the gates of the Louvre 
 closed upon him and his train. 
 
 A number of officers and gentlemen were waiting in the vesti- 
 bule to receive the Queen-mother, who however gave her hand 
 to the Duke of Guise to assist her from her chair. On him they 
 gazed with eyes of wonder and of scrutiny, as if they would fain 
 have discovered what feelings were in the heart of one so hated 
 and dreaded by the King, at a moment when he stood with 
 closed doors within a building filled with his enemies, and sur- 
 rounded by soldiers ready to massacre him at a word. But the 
 fire which the menacing look of Crillon had brought into the 
 eyes of the Duke had now passed away, and all was calm dignity 
 and easy though grave self-possession. The eye wandered not 
 round the hall; the lip, though not compressed, was firm and 
 motionless, except when he smiled in saluting some of those 
 around whom he knew, or in speaking a few words to the Queen- 
 mother, whose dress had become somewhat entangled with a 
 mantle of sables which she had worn in the chair. 
 
 As soon as it was detached, one of the officers of the household 
 said, bowing low " His Majesty has commanded me, Madam, 
 to conduct you and his Highness of Guise to the chamber of her 
 Majesty the Queen, where he waits your coming. " And he led 
 the way up the stairs of the Louvre to the somewhat extraor- 
 dinary audience chamber which the King had selected. 
 
 Henry, when the party entered, was sitting near the side of 
 the bed, surrounded by several of his officers, one of whom, 
 Alphonzo d'Ornano by name, whispered something over the 
 King's shoulder with his eyes fixed upon the Duke of Guise. 
 
 The words, which were, "Do you hold him for your friend 
 or your enemy ? " were spoken in such a tone as almost to reach 
 the Duke himself. The King did not reply, but looked up at 
 the Duke with a frown that was quite sufficient. 
 
 " Speak but the word," said Ornano in a lower tone " speak 
 but the word, and his head shall be at your feet in a minute." 
 
 The King measured Ornano and the Duke of Guise with his 
 
UF.INRY OF GUISE. 241 
 
 eyes, then shook his head with somewhat of a scornful smile ; 
 and then, looking up to the Duke, who had hy this time CQBie 
 near him, he said in a dull heavy tone, " What hrings you here, 
 my cousin ? " 
 
 " My Lord," replied the Duke, " I have found it absolutely 
 necessary to present myself before your Majesty, in order to 
 repel numerous calumnies." 
 
 " Stay, cousin of Guise," said the Ring ; and turning to Bel- 
 lievre, who stood amongst the persons behind him, he demanded 
 abruptly, " Did you not tell me that he would not come to 
 Paris?" 
 
 " My Lord Duke," exclaimed Bellievre, not replying directly 
 to the King's question, but addressing the Duke, " did not your 
 Highness assure me that you would delay your journey till I 
 returned ? " 
 
 " Yes, Monsieur de Bellievre," replied the Duke. " But you 
 did not return." 
 
 " But I wrote you two letters^ your Highness," replied Bel- 
 lievre, " reiterating his Majesty's commands for you not to come 
 to Paris." 
 
 " Those letters," replied the Duke of Guise, with a bitter smile, 
 " like some other letters which have been written to me upon 
 important occasions, have, from some cause, failed to reach my 
 hands. Nevertheless, Sire, believe me when I tell you, that my 
 object in coming is solely to prove to your Majesty that I am 
 not guilty either of the crimes or the designs which base and 
 grasping men have laid to my charge. Believe me, that after my 
 devotion to God and our holy religion, there is no one whom 
 I am so anxious to serve zealously and devotedly as your Ma- 
 jesty. This you will find ever, Sire, if you will but give me the 
 opportunity of rendering you any service." 
 
 The Ring was about to reply, but the Queen-mother, who 
 had advanced and stood by his side, touched his arm saying. 
 " You have not yet spoken to me, my son." And the Ring turn- 
 ing towards her, she added something in a low voice. The Ring 
 replied in the same tone ; and the Duke of Guise, passing 
 through the midst of the frowning faces ranged around the royal 
 seat, approached the Queen-consort, the mild and unhappy 
 Louisa, and addressed a few words to her of reverence and res- 
 pect which were gratifying to her ear. 
 
 He then turned once more to the Ring, who seemed to have 
 heard what Catharine de Medici had to say, and having given 
 his reply, sat in moody silence. The Queen -mother stood by 
 with some degree of apprehension in her countenance, as if 
 feeling very doubtful still how the affair would terminate. The 
 brows of the courtiers were gloomy and undecided, and the few 
 
 16 
 
2-12 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 followers of the Duke of Guise ranged at some distance from the 
 spot to which he had now advanced, kept their eyes fixed either 
 on him or on those surrounding the King, as if, at the least me- 
 nacing movement, they were ready to start forward in defence 
 of their leader. 
 
 The only one that was perfectly calm was Guise himself-, hut 
 he, retreading his steps till he stood opposite the King, again ad- 
 dressed the Monarch saying, "I hope, Sire, that you will give 
 me a full opportunity of justifying myself." 
 
 " Your conduct, cousin of Guise," replied the King, " must 
 best justify you for the past; and I shall judge by the event, of 
 your intentions for the future." 
 
 " Let it be so," replied the Duke, " and such being the case, 
 I will humbly take my leave of your Majesty, wishing you, from 
 my heart, health and happiness." 
 
 Thus saying he once more bowed low, and retired from the 
 presence of the King, followed by the gentlemen who had ac- 
 companied him. Not an individual of the palace stirred a step to 
 conduct him on his way, though his rank, his services, his ge- 
 nius, and his vast renown, rendered the piece of neglect they 
 showed disgraceful to themselves rather than injurious to him. 
 He was accompanied from the gates of the Louvre, however, 
 and followed to the Hotel de Guise, by an infinite number of 
 people, who ceased not for one moment to make the streets ring 
 with their acclamations. 
 
 Nor were these by any means composed entirely of the lowest 
 classes of the people, the least respectable, or the least well-in- 
 formed. On the contrary, it must, alas ! be said, that the great 
 majority of all that was good, upright, and noble in the city 
 hailed his coming loudly as a security and a safeguard. 
 
 A number, an immense number, of the inferior nobility of the 
 realm were mingled with the crowd that followed him, or joined 
 the acclaim from the windows. The robes of the law were seen 
 continually in the dense multitude, and almost all the courts had 
 there numbers of their principal members 5 while the municipal 
 officers of the city, with the exception of two or three, were 
 there in a mass, accompanied by a large body of the most opu- 
 lent and respectable merchants. 
 
 Thus followed, the Duke of Guise proceeded to his hotel on 
 foot as he came, speaking from time to time with those who 
 pressed near him with that peculiar grace which won all hearts, 
 and smiling with the far-famed smile of his race, which was said 
 never to fall upon any man without making him feel as if he 
 stood in the sunshine. 
 
 Already collected on the steps of the Hotel de Guise, at the 
 news that he was returning from the Louvre, was a group of 
 
HEiNKY OF GUISE. 243 
 
 the brightest, the bravest, the most talented, and the most beau- 
 tiful of the French nobility, — Madame de Montpensier, Made- 
 moiselle de St. Beuve, the Chevalier d'Aumale, Hrissac, and a 
 thousand others. The servants and attendants of his household 
 in gorgeous dresses kept back the crowd with courteous words 
 and kindly gestures jj and when he reached the steps that led to 
 the high doorway of the porter's lodge, on the right of the porte 
 cochere he ascended a little way amongst his gratulaling friends, 
 and then turned and bowed repeatedly to the people, pointing 
 out here and there some of the most popular of the citizens and 
 magistrates,' and whispering a word to the nearest attendant, 
 who instantly made his way through the crowd to the spot 
 where the personage designated stood, and in his master's name 
 requested that he would come in and take some refreshment. 
 
 When this was over, he again bowed and retired ; and while 
 the multitude separated, he walked on into his lordly halls with 
 a number of persons clinging round him, whom he had not seen 
 for months — for months which to him had been full of activity, 
 thought, care, and peril, and to them of anxiety for the head of 
 their race. 
 
 As he passed along, however, to a chamber where the dinner 
 which had been prepared for him had remained untouched for 
 many an hour, his eye fell upon a boy dressed in the habit of 
 one of his own pages ; and taking suddenly a step forward, he 
 called the boy apart into a window, demanding eagerly, " Well, 
 have you found your master ? " 
 
 " I have, your Highness," replied the boy, " and have found 
 means to give him the letter?" 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the Duke, " outwitted Villequier, and 
 Pisani, and all ! The wit of a page against that of a politician for 
 a thousand crowns ! " 
 
 " I dressed myself as a girl, your Highness," replied the boy, 
 " and got into the convent, and then through a gate into what 
 is called the rector's court, where Doctor Botholph and the Cure 
 live, and where men are admitted, and women not shut out 
 when they like to go in 5 and I got talking to the old verger of 
 the church by the side, and he called me a pretty little fool, and 
 said he dared to say I would soon be among the penitents within 
 there-, and with that I got him to tell me every thing, and the 
 whole story of the young Count being brought there at night, 
 and shut up in what are called the rector's apartments." 
 
 As he spoke, one or two of the higher class of those whom 
 the Duke had selected from the crowd below, and who felt them- 
 selves privileged to present themselves in his private apart- 
 ments, entered the hall, and instantly caught his eye. 
 
 " I cannot speak with you more at present, Jgnati, ' he said, 
 
244 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 "nor, perhaps, during the whole day> for there is business of 
 life and death before me; but come to me while I am rising to- 
 morrow, and only tell me in the mean time where our poor Lo- 
 geres is, for 1 know not what convent you mean." 
 
 " He is in the rector's court," replied the boy, " close by the 
 convent of the Black Penitents, in the Rue St. Denis." 
 
 "By my faith!" exclaimed the Duke in no slight surprise, 
 "J have been there this very day myself, and there the Queen- 
 mother has made her abode for the last ten days. She must be 
 deceiving me •, and yet, perhaps, the mighty matters that occupied 
 her mind when I saw her might have made her forget all other 
 things. However, Logeres shall not be long so fettered. Come 
 to me to-morrow, Ignati ; come to me to-morrow, as I am rising ; 
 and in the mean time, if you can find some means of giving 
 the Count intimation that he is not forgotten, it were all the 
 better." 
 
 " I will try, my Lord," replied the boy. And the Duke hurried 
 on to welcome his new guests, making them sit down at table 
 with him, and covering them with every sort of honour and dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 In our dealings with each other there is nothing which we so 
 much miscalculate as the ever varying value of time, and indeed it 
 is but too natural to look upon it as it seems to us, and not as it 
 seems to others. The slow idler on whose head it hangs heavy, 
 holds the man of business by the button, and remorselessly 
 robs him on the king's highway of a thing ten times more va- 
 luable than the purse that would hang him if he took it. The 
 man of action and of business whose days seem but moments, 
 forgets in his dealing with the long expecting applicant, and the 
 weary petitioner, that to them each moment is far longer than 
 his day. 
 
 The hours, not one minute of which where unfilled to the 
 Duke of Guise, passed slowly over the head of Charles of Mont- 
 soreau, and it seemed as if the brief gleam of happiness which 
 had come across his path had but tended to make the long soli- 
 tary moments seem longer and more dreary, in fact, to give full 
 and painful effect to solitude and want of liberty, and yet he 
 would not have lost that gleam for all the world. 
 
 He thought of it, he dwelt upon it, he called to mind each 
 and every particular; and, though it was crossed, as the me- 
 mory of all such brief meetings arc, with the recollection of a 
 
HKNKV OF MUSK, lii") 
 
 thousand things which he could have wished to have said, bill 
 which he had forgotten, and also hy many a speculation of a 
 painful kind concerning the visit of Ihe Duke of Guise to the 
 very place in which he was conlined, without the slightest 
 effort being made for his liberation, yet it was a consolation 
 and a happiness and a joy to him — one of those blessings which 
 have been stamped by the past with the irrevocable seal of en- 
 joyment, which are our own, the unalienable jewels of our fate, 
 held for ever in the treasury of memory. 
 
 Nothing occurred through the rest of the day to call his at- 
 tention, or to rouse his feelings. He heard the distant murmur, 
 and the shouts of the people from time to time ; but the gates 
 were now shut, and the sounds dull, and all passed on evenly 
 till darkness shut up the world. In the mean time he knew — 
 as if to make his state of imprisonment and inactivity more in- 
 tolerable — that busy actions were taking place without, that his 
 own fate was deciding by the hands of others, that his hap- 
 piness and that of Marie de Clairvaut formed but a small matter 
 in the great bulk of political affairs which were then being 
 weighed between the two angry parlies in the capital, and 
 might be tossed into this scale or that, as accident, or conve- 
 nience, or policy might direct. 
 
 Though he retired to rest as usual, he slept not, and ever 
 and anon when a sort of half slumber fell upon his eyes he 
 started up, thinking he heard some sound, a distant shout of 
 the people, the tolling of a bell, or the roll of some far off 
 drum. Nothing however occurred, and the night passed over 
 as the day. 
 
 In the grey of the morning, however, just when the slow 
 creaking cf a gate, or the noise of footsteps here and there 
 breaking the previous stillness, told that the world was be- 
 ginning to awake, a few sweet notes suddenly met his ear like 
 those of a musical instrument, and in a moment after he heard 
 the same air which the boy Ignati had played with such ex- 
 quisite skill just before he freed him from his Italian masters. 
 
 " A blessing be upon that boy," he cried, as he instantly 
 recognised not only the sounds but the touch. " He has come 
 to tell me that 1 am not forgotten." 
 
 Suddenly, however, before the air was half concluded, the 
 music stopped, and voices were heard speaking, but not so 
 loud that the words could be distinguished. It seemed to the 
 young Count, and seemed truly, that some one had sent the 
 boy away ; but though he heard no more, those very sounds 
 had given him hope and comfort. 
 
 Driven away by the old verger, who had now discovered the 
 trick which had been put upon him the day before, the boy 
 
245 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 returned with all speed to the Hotel de Guise, and, according 
 to the Duke's order, presented himself in his chamber at the 
 hour of his rising. But the Duke was already surrounded with 
 people, all eager to speak with him on different affairs, and 
 his brow was evidently dark and clouded by some news that 
 he had just heard. 
 
 "Send round," he was saying as the boy entered, "Send 
 round speedily to all the inns, and let those who are known 
 for their fidelity be informed that the doors of this hotel will 
 never be shut against any of those who have come to Paris for 
 my service, or for that of the church, as long as there is a 
 chamber vacant within. And you, my good Lords," he con- 
 tinued, turning to some of the gentlemen who surrounded him, 
 " I must call upon your hospitality, also, to provide lodging for 
 these poor friends of ours, whom this new and iniquitous pro- 
 ceeding or the court is likely to drive from Paris. But stay, 
 Bussi," he continued, and his eye fell upon the page as he 
 spoke 5 " you say you saw the Prevot des Marchands but a 
 minute ago in the Rue d'Anvoye seeking out the lodgers in the 
 inns, and ordering them to quit Paris immediately. Hasten 
 down after him quickly, and tell him from Henry of Guise that 
 there is a very dangerous prisoner and a zealous servant of the 
 church lodged in the Rue St. Denis ; that he had better drive 
 him forth also ; and that, if he wants direction to the place 
 where he sojourns, one of my pages shall lead him thither. You 
 may add, moreover, that if he do not drive him forth, I will 
 bring him forth before the world be a day older." 
 
 The Duke of Guise then took the pen from the ink which 
 was standing before him, and, though not yet half-dressed, 
 wrote hastily the few following words to the Queen-mother : — 
 
 " Madam, 
 
 " I am informed, on authority which I cannot doubt, that my 
 friend, the yount Count de Logeres, is at present in your hands, 
 kept under restraint in the Rue St. Denis, after having been ar- 
 rested in the execution of business with which I charged him, 
 while bearing a passport from the King. I beseech you to set 
 him immediately at liberty, and also at once to order that my 
 niece and ward, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, be brought to the 
 Hotel de Guise without an hour's delay. Let me protest to your 
 Majesty that you have not a more faithful and devoted servant 
 than 
 
 " Henry of Guise." 
 
 " 1 will not send this by you, Ignati," said the Duke-, " they 
 would laugh at a boy. Here, Meslroit, bear this to the Queen- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 247 
 
 mother. Say I cast myself at her feel; and bring me back an 
 answer without delay. — Why, how now, St. Paul ! " he con- 
 tinued, turning to a gentleman who had just entered. " Your 
 brow is as dark as a thunder-cloud. What has happened now? 
 Shall we be obliged to make our hotel our fortress, and defend 
 it to the last, like gallant men ?" 
 
 "Not so, my Lord," replied the Count of St. Paul; "not 
 near so bad as that : but still these are times that make men 
 look thoughtful; and, depend upon it, the King, aided by his 
 minions and the Politics ', is seeking to inclose your Highness, 
 as it were in a net." 
 
 " We will break through, St. Paul ! We will break through ! " 
 replied the Duke with a smile. " But what are your tidings? " 
 
 " Why, that orders have been sent to the Swiss to come up 
 from Corbeil, as well as those from Meulan and Chateau Thierry; 
 also the companies of French guards from every quarter in the 
 neighbourhood are called for, and 1 myself saw come in, by the 
 Faubourg St. Germain, a body of two hundred horse, which, 
 upon inquiry, I found to be a new levy from some place in the 
 South, led by a young Marquis of Monlsoreau, whose name I 
 never heard of before." 
 
 " W T henever you hear it again, St. Paul," replied the Duke 
 sternly, "couple with it the word 'Traitor!' and you will do 
 him justice. But what force is it said they are bringing into 
 Paris? What stay you for, Mestroit? " he continued, seeing that 
 the gentleman to whom he had given the letter had not taken 
 his departure. " W T hat stay you for? I would have had you there 
 now. Go with all speed! There are horses enough saddled in 
 the court. I would give a thousand crowns that letter should be 
 in the Queen's hand before this youth's coming is known to her. 
 It may save us much trouble hereafter. Fail not to bring me an 
 answer quick. Now, St. Paul, how many men say you on your 
 best judgment are they bringing into Paris? " 
 
 "Why, your Highness," replied the Count, " some say ten 
 thousand; but, to judge more moderately from what I hear, the 
 moment your Highness's arrival in Paris was known, orders 
 were sent for the march of full seven thousand men." 
 
 " We must be very formidable creatures, Brissac," cried the 
 Duke, " that my coming with seven of you should need seven 
 thousand men to meet us. On my soul, they will make me think 
 myself a giant. I always thought I was a tall man— some six 
 foot three, I believe— but, by Heavens ! I must be a Gargantua, 
 indeed, to need seven thousand men to hold me. Seven thousand 
 men!" he added thoughtfully : "he has not got them, St. 
 
 ' That parly was so called which alluded lo hold the balance between (he Court and tin 
 League, without givinf! countenaRee 10 tiiPTliipuenols. 
 
248 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Paul. There are not five thousand within fifty miles of Paris, 
 unless Epernon and Villequier have contrived to raise more of 
 such Montsoreaus against us. However, we must have eyes in 
 all quarters. Send out parties to watch the coming of the troops 
 and give us their numbers. Let some one speak to the inferior 
 officers of the French guards, and remind them that the Duke 
 of Guise and the Holy League are only striving for the main- 
 tenance of the true faith, and for the overthrow of those minions 
 who have swallowed up all the honours and favours of the 
 crown. It were well also, Brissac, that a good watch was kept 
 upon the proceedings in the city. I can trust, methinks, to The 
 Sixteen to do all that is necessary in their different quarters, and 
 to make full reports of all that takes place ; but still a military 
 eye were as well here and there, from time to time, Brissac, and 
 I will trust that to you." 
 
 The rest of the morning passed in the same incessant activity 
 with which it had begun •, tidings were constantly brought in from 
 all parts of the town and the country round concerning every 
 movement on the part of the court ; and the hotel of the Due de 
 Guise was literally besieged by his followers and partisans. Train 
 after train of noblemen and officers, of lawyers and citizens, 
 followed each other during the whole day, each bringing him 
 information, or claiming audience on some account. Nor were 
 the clergy less numerous 5 for scarce a parish in the capital but 
 sent forth, in the course of that day, its train of priests and 
 monks to congratulate him on his arrival, or to beseech him to 
 hold up the tottering church of France with a strong hand. 
 
 At the same time, the order which had been given by the King 
 in the morning, for every stranger not domiciled in Paris to 
 quit it within six hours, and the proceedings of the Prevot des 
 Marchands to execute that order had — by driving out of the 
 inns and taverns the multitudes of the Duke's partisans who had 
 followed him in scattered bodies into Paris -now tilled the Hotel 
 de Guise with all those of the higher classes who were thus 
 expelled. The houses of other members of the faction received 
 the rest. But the stables of the hotel were all filled to the doors -, 
 the great court itself could scarcely be crossed, on account of the 
 number of horses ; and more than once the street became impas- 
 sable from the multitude of carriages, chairs, horses, and atten- 
 dants, who were waiting while their masters conferred with the 
 Duke. 
 
 It was near mid-day when the gentleman who had been 
 dispatched to Catharine de Medici again presented himself; and 
 the Duke demanded, somewhat impatiently, what had detained 
 him so long. 
 
 " It was the Queen -mother, your Highness," replied Mestroit. 
 
HENKY OF GUISH. 249 
 
 " More than an hour passed heibrc I could obtain an audience ; 
 and when I was admitted to present your Highness's letter, 1 
 found Monsieur dc Villequier with her." 
 
 " Did she show the letter to that son of Satan?" demanded 
 the Duke. 
 
 " No, Sir," replied the other ; " on the contrary, she seemed 
 not to wish that he should see it, for she kept it tight in her 
 hand after she had read it, and told me to wait a moment, that 
 she would give me an answer directly." 
 
 " I would sooner unriddle the enigma of the sphynx," said 
 the Duke, u than I would say from what motive any one of 
 that woman's acts proceed; and yet she has a great mind, and 
 a heart not altogether so vicious as it seems. What happened 
 then, Mestroit?" 
 
 " Why, my Lord, Villequier seemed anxious to know what 
 the letter contained, and I saw his head a little raised, and his 
 eyes turned quietly towards it while she was reading, as I have 
 seen a cat regard a mouse-hole towards which she was stealing 
 upon tiptoes 5 and he lingered long, and seemed inclined to stay. 
 The Queen, however, begged him not to forget the orders she 
 had given, but to execute them instantly 5 and then he went away. 
 When he was gone, the Queen again read your Highness's 
 letter, and replied at first, ' The Duke asks what is not in my 
 power. Tell my noble cousin of Guise that he has been misin- 
 formed-, that I hold none of his friends in my power — Then, 
 after a moment, she bade me wait, and she would see what 
 persuasion would do? " 
 
 " She must not think to deceive me!" replied the Duke of 
 Guise. " But what more?" 
 
 " She went away," replied the gentleman, "and was absent 
 for full two hours, leaving me there alone, with nothing to amuse 
 me but the pages and serving women that came and looked at 
 me from time to time as at a tiger in a cage. At length she came 
 back, and bade me tell your Highness these exact words : ' My 
 cousin has been misinformed. I have none of his people in my 
 hands, or in my power. The Count of Logeres, however, shall 
 be set free before eight and forty hours are over. He may be 
 set free to-morrow •, but by leaving him for a few hours more 
 where he is, I trust to accomplish for the Duke that which he 
 demands concerning his ward, although I have no power what- 
 ever in the matter." 
 
 " There is nothing upon earth," said the Duke thoughtfully, 
 " so convenient as to have the reality without the name of 
 power. W T e have the pleasure without the reproach ! Catharine 
 de Medici has not the power! — Who then has ? — I may have the 
 power also, it is true, to right myself and those who attach them- 
 
250 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 selves to me 5 and in this instance I will use it. But still it were 
 better to wait the time she states ; for I know her fair Majesty 
 well, and she never yields any thing without a delay, to make 
 what she grants seem more important : — and yet, the day.after 
 to-morrow — the day after to-morrow — who shall say what may 
 be, ere the day after to-morrow comes? This head may be 
 lowly in the dust ere then." 
 
 " Or circled with the crown of France," said the Count de 
 St. Paul. 
 
 " God forbid ! " exclaimed the Duke earnestly. " If I thought 
 that it would ever produce a scheme to wrest the sceptre from 
 the line that rightfully holds it, I would bear it to-morrow 
 to the foot of the throne, myself, as my own accuser. No, 
 no ! bad kings may die or be deposed : but there is still some 
 one on whose brow the crown descends by right. And let him 
 have it." 
 
 " The Cardinal of Bourbon, your Highness," said an atten- 
 dant entering, " has just arrived from Soissons. His Eminence 
 is upon the stairs coming up." 
 
 A smile played over the lips of most of the persons present 
 at such an announcement at that moment, for every one well 
 knew that it was to the old Cardinal de Bourbon that the party 
 of the League looked, as the successor to the crown on the death 
 of Henry III. , to the exclusion of the direct line of Navarre, held 
 to be incapable of succeeding on account of religion. The Duke, 
 however, advanced immediately with open arms to meet the 
 Cardinal, and many hours were passed in long conferences 
 between them and the principal officers and supporters of the 
 League. 
 
 At the end of that time, however, towards seven o'clock, a 
 message was brought into the room where they were in consul- 
 tation, from Monsieur de Sainctyon, a well-known adherent of 
 the League, begging earnestly to speak with the Duke upon 
 matters of deep importance. On the Duke going out, he found 
 the worthy Leaguer in a state of great excitement and agitation. 
 
 " My Lord," he said, as soon as Guise appeared in the room 
 where he had been left alone, "I fear that they are busily la- 
 bouring, at the palace, for the destruction of your Highness and 
 of the Holy League." 
 
 "How so, Monsieur de Sainctyon?" demanded the Duke, 
 who entertained doubts, it seems, of the Leaguer's sincerity, 
 which were never wholly removed. " Some of my friends have 
 just returned from the palace, who tell me that all is as still and 
 quite as the inside of a vault." 
 
 "They told your Highness also, I hope," said the Leaguer, 
 " that they had trebled the guard, bolh Swiss and French." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 251 
 
 " Yes, I was informed of that," replied the Duke. " But that 
 shows fear, not daring, Monsieur dc Sainctyon." 
 
 " Perhaps so, my Lord," replied Sainetyon, who was one of 
 the echevins, or sheriffs of the town ; " hut perhaps not. How- 
 ever, what 1 have now to tell, shows more daring than fear. We 
 were summoned this afternoon at five o'clock to the Hotel de 
 Ville, where we found not only Pereuse, the Prevot, and Le 
 Comte, who is worse than a Politic, and half a Huguenot, but 
 the Marquis d'O " 
 
 " Who is worse," said the Duke of Guise, " than minion, or 
 Politic, or Huguenot, or reiter, equally foul in his debaucheries 
 and his peculations : equally impudent in his vices and his follies ; 
 fit son-in-law of Viilequier ; well chosen master of the wardrobe 
 to the King of France ! Who was there besides, Monsieur de 
 Sainctyon? Some expedient infamy was of course to be com- 
 mitted, otherwise d'O would not have been there." 
 
 " There were a number of captains and colonels of the diffe- 
 rent quarters," replied Sainctyon, well pleased to see that the 
 Duke now felt the importance of his intelligence, " and the Pre- 
 vdt and Le Comte began to speak what seemed to me at first 
 simple nonsense, in a confused way, saying, that it was neces- 
 sary to keep guard in a very different manner in Paris from 
 that which we were accustomed to use, for that your coming 
 had excited the minds of the people, and that there was hourly 
 danger of a revolt, and that it would be better for all the cap- 
 tains to meet with their companies together in some particular 
 place, in order to see to the matter. But I replied, that nothing 
 could be more dangerous than that which was proposed, for 
 that the companies of armed citizens would be much better 
 as usual, each in its separate quarter, taking care of that quarter, 
 rather than meeting altogether in one large body of armed men, 
 which was likely to cause a tumult immediately. A number of 
 the other colonels cried out the same thing ; but then Monsieur 
 
 d'O cut us all short, saying, ' Give me none of your reasons, 
 
 gentlemen. What the Prevot has stated to you is the will of the 
 King, and he must be obeyed. The place of your meeting is the 
 Cemetery of the Innocents, and there you are all expected to 
 be with your companies at nine o'clock this evening.' Now, my 
 Lord, I have come to your Highness, by the authority of all the 
 other colonels in whom we can trust, for counsel and direction 
 in this business, assuring you that we have heard it is the inten- 
 tion of the Court to pick out from amongst us thus assembled 
 six or seven of your most zealous friends and supporters, and 
 execute them early to-morrow in the Place de Greve." 
 
 The Duke paused and thought for a moment ere he replied 5 
 buthe then said, "1 thank you most sincerely, Monsieur de 
 
252 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Sainctyon, for the intelligence you have brought me. You are 
 mistaken, however, with regard to what are the intentions of 
 the Court, as you will see in one moment. The large body of 
 men in arms which you will have with you when all assembled 
 together, trebles the number of any force in Paris, so that the 
 least attempt to do you wrong at that moment would be a signal 
 for the overthrow of the monarchy. On the contrary, Monsieur 
 de Sainctyon-, I believe the thus calling you together in one 
 place has solely for its object to remove you from the quarters 
 where your presence would be useful in opposition to the ini- 
 quitous proceedings of your enemies. To arrest somebody — 
 perhaps myself — is doubtless the object of these persons-, and 
 if you would follow my advice, the course you pursue would be 
 this, — to meet as you have been ordered by the King, having 
 first communicated all the facts to the persons under your com- 
 mand whom you can trust. Some one will come to bring you 
 farther orders, depend upon it ; find out what those orders are, 
 and let them instantly be communicated to me ; but on no ac- 
 count or consideration suffer yourselves to be kept together in 
 one place. On the contrary, as soon as you have discovered as 
 far as possible what the designs of your enemies are, lead your 
 companies to their different quarters, or wherever you may think 
 best to station them. If you want any farther assistance, send 
 hither ; and I will dispatch experienced oflicers to take counsel 
 with you as to what is to be done. I hope your opinion coin- 
 cides with mine, Monsieur de Sainctyon." 
 
 " Your words always carry conviction with them, my Lord," 
 replied the sheriff; " and I will instantly proceed to obey you." 
 
 Thus saying he took his leave, and quitted the Duke, hasten- 
 ing with the rest of the officers of the city to arm himself cap-a- 
 pie, and present himself with the burgher guard in the Cemetery 
 of the Innocents at the appointed hour. 
 
 When that hour arrived, every thing through the rest of the 
 city was dark and silent, and but little light shone from the dim 
 lanterns round the Cemetery upon the dark masses of armed 
 men that now surrounded it. The officers commanding them 
 looked in each other's faces, as if expecting that some one 
 amongst them had orders in regard to what they were farther 
 to do, but for several minutes no one announced himself as em- 
 powered to direct them, and they had even proposed to separate, 
 when the sheriff LeComte arrived on horseback at great haste 
 from the side of the Louvre. Having called the colonels of the 
 quarters together he said, " The King, having been informed 
 that this night an enterprise is to be undertaken against his au- 
 thority by his enemies, trusts entirely to his citizens of Paris lor 
 the defence of the capital, and consequently commands you, in 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 253 
 
 order to have a strong point of resistance, to occupy this Ceme- 
 tery, of which I have here the keys, till to-morrow morning. All 
 the gates will he shut except one wicket, and in a very short 
 time the Marquis de Beauvais iNangis, an experienced oflicer, 
 will he sent down hy the Ring to command you '." 
 
 A murmur ran through the ollicers and through the men, who, 
 as Le Comte spoke loud, heard every word that passed ; hut an 
 old captain of one of the quarters hurst forth, a moment after, 
 exclaiming, "What, shut myself up there, as if in a prison? 
 They must think me mad ! ZSot I, indeed, for any of them! I 
 have nothing to do with you. Monsieur le Comte, nor with any 
 of you, except with the inhabitants of my own quarter, and there 
 I shall go directly. Those may go and shut themselves up with 
 you that like. Come, my men ; march ! Who gave Beauvais 
 INangis a right to command me, I should like to know? Not the 
 citizens of Paris, I'm sure : so those may obey him that like him." 
 And putting himself at the head of his men, he marched out, 
 followed by almost all the other companies except one or two, 
 who suffered themselves to be persuaded to enter into the Ce- 
 metery, where they were locked up by Le Comte, to await 
 whatever fate might befall them. 
 
 In the mean time the other officers of the burgher guard held 
 a consultation together, and determined, instead of proceeding 
 immediately to their different quarters to occupy the principal 
 points of the city, where they fancied that attempts might be 
 made upon the life or liberty of the chiefs of the League. The ave- 
 nues to the Hotel de Guise were strongly guarded, the Rue St. 
 Denis was patrolled by a large party, two companies occupied 
 the Rue St. Honore, and the utility of these precautions was 
 strongly demonstrated ere they had been long taken. 
 
 Before midnight the sound of horses was heard by the two com- 
 panies in the Rue St. Honore, and in a moment after appeared 
 
 the Marquis d'O , with as many horse arquebusiers as could 
 
 be spared from the palace. The citizens stood to their arms and 
 barred the way, and d'O , never very famous for his cou- 
 rage, demanded, in evident trepidation and surprise, what they 
 did there, when they had been ordered to be in the Cemetery 
 of the Innocents? 
 
 " We came here to do our duty to our fellow-citizens,'" replied 
 the same old captain who had spoken before, " and to guard 
 our houses and our property, for which purpose we are en- 
 rolled." 
 
 " Well, well, you are right," replied the Marquis, evidently 
 
 1 This most absurd and impudent proposal would scarcely be credited, were it not to be 
 found in the Ilistoire trcs veritable, etc.. written by Sainclyon himself, and published b> 
 MichelJouin in the very year 1588. 
 
254 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 confounded and undecided ; and turning his horse's rein he rode 
 back by the same way he came, showing evidently that he had 
 been bound upon some attempt which had been frustrated. 
 
 About the same time the party in the Rue St. Denis had been 
 drawn towards the further end by the noise of horses and the 
 light of torches ; and on advancing they found a number of men 
 on horseback, and a vacant carriage, with two lights before it, 
 just halting at the Convent of the Black Penitents. The good 
 citizens, however, were in an active and interfering mood, and 
 they determined to inquire into an occurrence which otherwise 
 would have passed over without the slightest notice. The horse- 
 men, however, did not wait for many questions; but, evidently 
 
 as much surprised and embarrassed as the Marquis d'O , 
 
 turned their horses' heads, and made the best of their way out 
 of the street. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 The convent of the Biack Penitents was a very different 
 building indeed, and a very different establishment altogether 
 from that which the imagination of the reader may have raised 
 up from the images furnished by dark and mysterious tales of 
 Italian superstition. It was certainly intended to be, and was, in 
 some degree, a place of voluntary penitence for women who con- 
 ceived that they had led a peculiarly sinful life : but there were 
 two classes of nuns confined there by their own good will, — 
 one of which consisted of persons who had mingled long with 
 the world, and really led an irregular life therein-, while the 
 other comprised a number of young women of high rank, who 
 had never known any thing, either of the pleasures or the vices 
 which the others now fled from, but who, either by a natural 
 feeling of devotion, or the urgency of relations, had devoted 
 themselves at an early period to the cloister. 
 
 In point of diet, fasts, prayers, and penances the order was 
 certainly very strict; but the building in itself was any thing but 
 a gloomy one, and a considerable portion of it, attached to the 
 dwelling of the superior, was set apart for the occasional board- 
 ers who took up their abode there, or for such ladies of high 
 rank and station as might wish to absent themselves for a time 
 from the cares and vanities of the world, and retire to a more 
 intimate communion with God and their own heart, than they 
 could enjoy in such a capital as that of France. 
 
 Such was the original intention of these apartments, and the 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 255 
 
 destination of the institution altogether; hut \ye well know how 
 everything entrusted to human management here is eorrupted 
 in process of time. The rooms which at first had heen furnished 
 simply, were soon decked with every sort of ornament; the 
 visiter's table, as it was called, was separated from the ordinary 
 hoard of the refectory ; cooks and wine-growers did their best 
 to gratify the palate; and, with the exception of the vowed nuns, 
 those who sought shelter in the convent of the Black Penitents 
 were condemned to but little abstinence, and knew only this 
 difference from the world in general, that they had an opportu- 
 nity of escaping obtrusive society when they thought fit. 
 
 It was in one then of the handsomest apartments of the build- 
 ing' — to speak truth, one far handsomer than that occupied by 
 the Queen-mother herself— that Marie de Clairvaut made her 
 abode during the time she was confined in that building. No 
 great restraint, indeed, was put upon her; but the word con- 
 finement was justified by the measures taken to prevent her 
 quitting the convent, or holding communication with any one 
 but the nuns themselves. 
 
 To this apartment the Prioress led her back again, after 
 putting an end to her interview with Charles of Montsorcau, 
 and though the good lady herself was by no means entirely 
 weaned from the affections of this world, she thought it but 
 befitting to read Mademoiselle de Clairvaut a brief lecture on 
 the necessity of attaching herself to higher objects, and an ex- 
 hortation to abandon earthly attachments, and dedicate herself 
 to the service of Heaven. She hinted, indeed, that there could 
 not be an order more worthy of entering into than the one of 
 which she was an unworthy member ; nor, indeed, one in which 
 so many of the little pleasures of life could be combined with 
 deep devotion. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut was, at that moment, far more inclined to 
 weep than smile; but it was scarcely possible not to feel amused 
 at the exhortation of the Prioress; and certainly the greater 
 degree of knowledge which the young lady had lately acquired 
 of conventual life would have banished from her mind all desire 
 to take those irrevocable vows which she had once looked 
 forward to with pleasure, even if love had not long beforo 
 driven all such purposes from her mind. 
 
 Glad to be freed from importunity, and left to her own 
 thoughts, she replied nothing to the good mother's words; and, 
 as soon as she was gone, gave up her whole mind to the recol- 
 lection of the interview which she had just had with him she 
 loved. To her, too, that interview was a source of deep gratifi- 
 cation ; every memory of it was dear to her; every word that 
 Charles of Montsoreau had spoken came back to her heart like 
 
256 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 the voice of hope, and giving way to the suggestions of that 
 bright enchantress, she flattered herself with the expectation of 
 seeing him again and again, even if the presence of the Duke of 
 Guise in Paris failed to restore them both to liberty. 
 
 Previously to that period, she had been accustomed to see the 
 Queen almost every day, and indeed more than once during the 
 day 5 but, during the whole of that evening she saw her not 
 again, and though she eagerly asked the next morning to be 
 admitted to the presence of Catharine de Medici, the only answer 
 that she obtained was, that though the Princess was expected 
 again in the evening, she had not yet returned from the palace. 
 
 The second day passed as the first had done, but during the 
 morning of the third the excitement of the city had communi- 
 cated itself even to the inmates of the convent. The portress, 
 the lay sisters, the visiters, obtained the news of the hour from 
 those without, and communicated it to the nuns within. Nor 
 did two of those nuns, who had entered into some degree of 
 intimacy with the fair prisoner, fail to bring her, every half- 
 hour, intelligence of what was passing without. 
 
 The first news brought was that the guards in the street of 
 Paris had been all changed and doubled during the preceding 
 night, and that the Holy League and the Court were in continual 
 agitation, watching each other's movements. One of the nuns 
 whispered that people said, it had been proposed by the Duke 
 of Epernon, to murder the Duke of Guise at the very door of 
 that convent, as he came to visit the Queen-mother ; and others 
 declared, she added, that the Duke had vowed he would not 
 rest till he had taken the crown off Henry's head, and put it on 
 that of the Cardinal de Bourbon. 
 
 Then came intelligence that a large body of the Swiss guards 
 had just entered Paris, and were seen marching rapidly down 
 the Rue St. Honore, with their fifes silent, and their drums 
 still. Hourly after that came the news of fresh troops entering 
 the city, and fresh rumours of manifold designs and purposes 
 against the life of the Duke of Guise. His house was to be at- 
 tacked by the French and Swiss guards, and his head to be 
 struck off in the Place de Greve : he was to be shot by an assas- 
 sin, placed at one of the windows of an opposite house, the 
 first time he came out; and some said that Villequier had found 
 means to bribe Lanecque, his cook, to poison him that night at 
 supper, as well as all who were with him. 
 
 The various scenes, and the dangers and difficulties which 
 she had lately encountered, had given Marie de Clairvaut a far 
 greater knowledge of the world, and of how the important 
 events of the world take place, than was possessed by any of 
 her companions-, and she assuredly did not believe a thousandth 
 
HKNRY OF GUISK. 25? 
 
 part of all the different rumours that reached her. The reitera- 
 tion of those rumours, however, gave her some apprehensions 
 for her great relation ; and when towards the evening she was 
 visited by the Prioress, and found that, beyond all doubt, every 
 gate of the city, except the porte St. Honore, was closed, her 
 fears became much greater, seeing plainly that it was the design 
 of the Court to hem the Duke in, within the walls of Paris, 
 deprived, as they believed him to be, of all assistance from his 
 friends without. 
 
 The night passed over, however, in tranquillity, and when, 
 
 at an early hour, the young lady rose, she was informed, as she 
 
 had expected, that a great part of the rumours of the preceding 
 
 day were false or exaggerated. No Swiss, it was now said, had 
 
 arrived, except a very small body 5 the Duke of Guise had been 
 
 seen on horseback with the King ; and the mind of Marie de 
 
 Clairvaut became reassured in regard to her uncle. The Prioress 
 
 herself— though somewhat given to fear, and like many other 
 
 persons, absolutely enjoying a little apprehension in default of 
 
 other excitement — acknowledged that all seemed likel y to go well. 
 
 But this state of security was soon changed. The report 
 
 regarding the arrival of the Swiss had only forerun the event 
 
 by a few hours, for the sound of drums and trumpets heard from 
 
 the side of the Cemetery of the Innocents towards seven o'clock 
 
 in the morning, announced to the Parisians that a large body 
 
 of troops had been introduced in the night, without the city in 
 
 general knowing it ; and in a few minutes after the movements 
 
 of these forces evidently showed that some grand stroke was to 
 
 be struck by the Court against its enemies. The Place de Greve 
 
 was next occupied by a considerable force of mixed Swiss and 
 
 French guards, favoured in their entrance by the Prevot des 
 
 Marchands, and led by the notorious Marquis d'O. Various 
 
 other points, such as bridges and market-places, were seized 
 
 upon by the troops ; and the greatest activity seemed to reign 
 
 in the royal party, while that of the Duke of Guise and the 
 
 League, remained perfectly still and inactive, as if thunderstruck 
 
 at this sudden display of energy. 
 
 News of all these proceedings reached Marie de Clairvaut in 
 the convent, accompanied with such circumstances of confirma- 
 tion, that she could not doubt that the intelligence was partly 
 true. But for a short time after the troops were posted, every 
 thing seemed to relapse into tranquillity, except that from time 
 to time reports were brought to the convent parlour, of citizens, 
 and especially women, being treated with great insolence and 
 grossness by the soldiery. Criilon himself was heard to swear 
 that any citizen who came abroad with a sword should be hung 
 to his door-nost, while worse was threatened to the wives and 
 
 17 
 
258 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 daughters of the burghers, if the slightest resistance was made 
 to the troops. The portress brought news that all the houses 
 and shops in the Hue St. Denis and the Rue St. Honore were 
 closed; and the Prioress herself thought it was high time to 
 cause the convent gates to be shut and barred, and even that 
 door which led into what was called the rector's court, and 
 which usually stood open, to be closed and fastened with large 
 chains. 
 
 At length tidings were brought that the first open resistance 
 of the people had commenced ; that blood had been shed-, and 
 it was rumoured that Crillon himself, attempting to take posses- 
 sion of the Place Maubert with two companies of Swiss and 
 one of French guards, had been opposed by the scholars of the 
 University and the citizen guard, and forced to retreat without 
 effecting his object. 
 
 The terror of the Prioress was now extreme ; the sound of 
 horses galloping here and there with the most vehement speed, 
 could be heard even in the parlour of the convent, and towards 
 nine o'clock the roll of distant musketry borne by the wind 
 completed the terror of the poor nuns. 
 
 It was evident now to Marie de Clairvaut that a struggle had 
 commenced between the Monarch and the people of the capital, 
 on which depended the safety, perhaps the life, of the Duke of 
 Guise, and, in a great degree, her own fate and happiness. In 
 that struggle she could take no part-, and, situated as she was, 
 she could gain no relief even from hearing any exact account of 
 how it proceeded from time to time. 
 
 The fears of the good superior of the convent had driven her 
 by this time to the resource of prayer. All the nuns were 
 ordered to assemble in the chapel ; and Marie de Clairvaut, 
 feeling that none at that momen thad greater need of heavenly 
 protection than herself, prepared to follow, after listening for a 
 few minutes, alone in her chamber, to the distant roll of mus- 
 ketry which still went on ; when suddenly the Prioress returned 
 in great haste with a paper in her hand, and apparently in 
 much agitation and alarm. 
 
 " There, there," she said, thrusting the paper into Marie de 
 Clairvaut's hands, "that is from the Queen! Do what you 
 like ! Act as you like! I would not go out for the whole world, 
 for just through the grating I have seen a Swiss officer carried 
 by all dropping with blood as they bore him along the streets. 
 I will go to prayers ; I will go to prayers! " 
 
 The note from the Queen-mother was very brief. 
 
 "You know, mademoiselle," it said, "that you have not 
 [teen kept where you are by my orders. I would fain have set 
 you free two nights ago by any means in my power, if meddling 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 259 
 
 fools on the one side, and cowardly fools on the other, had not 
 frustrated my plan. I have now taken the responsibility upon 
 myself of ordering the gates to be opened to you. The man who 
 brings you this is brave and to be trusted ; and what I have to 
 entreat of you is, if I have shown you any kindness, to go with 
 all speed to the hotel of my good cousin of Guise and beseech 
 him to do his best to allay the tumult, so far, at least, that I 
 myself may come to him with safety. The scenes that yoa 
 will meet with may be terrible, but you have that blood in your 
 veins which does not easily shrink from the aspect of danger." 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut might be more timid than Catharine de 
 Medici believed; but, when she thought of freedom, and of 
 being delivered from the power of those whom she detested, to 
 dwell once more with those she loved, she felt that scarcely any 
 scene would be so terrible as to deter her from seeking such a 
 result. She remarked, however, that the Queen did not once 
 mention the name of Charles of Montsoreau, or allude to his 
 fate. " What," she asked herself, " is he still to be kept a pri- 
 soner, while I am set at liberty ? If so, liberty is scarcely worth 
 having." 
 
 She paused, and thought for a moment, and then the hope 
 crossed her mind of setting him at liberty herself. 
 
 " Surely," she said, " I could trace my way back to his apart- 
 ments. I remember every turning well ; and then, by bringing 
 him through here, in the confusion and terror that now reign in 
 the convent, I could easily give him his liberty too." 
 
 The more she thought of it, the more feasible the scheme 
 seemed to be ; and catching up a ordinary veil to throw over her 
 head, she ran down into the apartments of the Queen, which 
 she found, as she expected, quite vacant. She had no difficulty 
 in discovering the corridor that led towards the rector's court. 
 At the end there was a door which was locked, but the key was 
 in it, and she passed through. Another short passage led her to 
 the room where she had waited for the Queen, and where she 
 had listened to Charles of Monlsoreau singing ; and then with a 
 beating and an anxious heart she hurried on rapidly to the 
 chamber where she had seen him last. 
 
 All the bolts were shot, showing her that he was still there-, 
 but exactly opposite was an open door at the top of a small 
 staircase, which seemed to lead to a waiting-room below, for 
 she could distinctly hear the tones and words of two men of 
 the lower class talking over the events that were taking place 
 without. 
 
 Gently closing the door at the top of the stairs, Marie de Clair- 
 vaut locked and bolted it as quietly and noiselessly as possible. 
 Her heart beat so violently, however, with agitation, that she 
 
260 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 could scarcely hear any thing but its pulsation, though she 
 listened breathlessly to ascertain if the slight noise of the lock 
 had not attracted attention. All was still, however, and she 
 gently undid the fastenings of the opposite door. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau was seated at the table, and lifted his 
 eyes as she entered with a sad and despairing look, expecting to 
 see no one but the attendant. Marie was in his arms in a mo- 
 ment, however, and holding up her finger to enjoin silence, she 
 whispered, " Not a word, Charles \ but come with me, and we 
 shall be safe ! Every one is in the chapel at prayers ; orders are 
 given for my liberation ; and in five minutes we may be at the 
 Hotel de Guise." 
 
 " What are all those sounds," demanded her lover in the same 
 tone, " those sounds which I have heard in the streets? 1 thought 
 1 heard the discharge of firearms." 
 
 " I fear," she answered, " that it is my uncle's party at blows 
 with that of the King. I know but little myself, however -, only 
 that we may make our escape if we will. 1 will lead you, Charles-, 
 1 will lead you this time." 
 
 " Alas! " said Charles of Montsoreau as he followed her ra- 
 pidly, " they have taken my sword from me;" but Marie ran 
 on with a step of light, taking care however to lock the doors 
 behind them as she passed to prevent pursuit. 
 
 As she had never been in the courtyard since the day of her 
 first arrival, she met with some difficulty in finding her way 
 thither from the Queen's apartments : haste and agitation indeed 
 impeding her more than any real difficulty in the way. At length, 
 however, it was reached, and was found vacant of every one 
 but the old portress, who stood gazing through a small iron 
 grating at what was passing without. 
 
 " Open the door, my good sister," said Marie de Clairvaut 
 touching her arm. "Of course the Prioress has given orders 
 for you to let me pass." 
 
 " Yes, to let you pass, my sister," replied the portress, " for 
 I suppose you are the young lady she meant •, but not to let any 
 body else pass." And she ran her eye over the figure of Charles 
 of Montsoreau. 
 
 " Why, surely," replied Marie de Clairvaut, " you would not 
 stop the gentleman who is going to protect me through the 
 streets." 
 
 ; ' Why, I do not know," replied the portress, still sturdily 
 setting her face against their passage; " there was another per- 
 son waiting on the outside to show you the way, till just a mi- 
 nute ago. Where he's gone, I don't know, but he seemed the 
 filter person of the two, for he was an ecclesiastic. I have heard 
 too, of some one being confined up above, by Monsieur > ilk- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 261 
 
 quier's orders, and as the rector's court belongs to him, they 
 say I must take care what I am about; so I '11 just ring the bell 
 and inquire." 
 
 " I will save you the trouble of doing that, my good lady," 
 replied Charles of Montsoreau •, and stepping quietly forward, he 
 put her gently but powerfully back with his left hand, while 
 with his right he turned the key in the great lock of the wicket, 
 and threw it open. The portress made a movement of her hand 
 to the bell-, but then thinking better of it, did not ring-, and 
 Marie and her lover, without further opposition, passed at once 
 into the streets of Paris. 
 
 There were very few people in the Rue St. Denis, but on look- 
 ing up and down on either side, there were seen a party of 
 horsemen, apparently halted, at the farther end of the street, on 
 the side nearest to the country, and a number of persons farther 
 down, passing and repassing along one of the cross streets. 
 Some way farther up, between the fugitives and the party of 
 horsemen we have mentioned, were two figures, one of which 
 was evidently dressed in the robes of an ecclesiastic, and both 
 gazing down towards the convent, as if watching for the appear- 
 ance of some one. 
 
 The moment the young Count and Marie de Clairvaut ap- 
 peared, the two figures walked on rapidly in a different direc- 
 tion, and were lost immediately to their sight by turning down 
 another street. There was nothing apparent that could alarm 
 the fugitives in any degree, and though distant shouts and cries 
 were borne upon the air, yet the sound of musketry had ceased, 
 which gave greater courage to Marie de Clairvaut. She needed 
 indeed some mitigation of her apprehensions, for the success 
 which she met with in rescuing her lover had been far from 
 increasing her courage in the same proportion that it had been 
 diminished by the very agitation she had gone through. Draw- 
 ing the thick veil over her face, and as far as possible over her 
 person, she clung to Charles's arm, and hurried on with him, 
 directing him as far as her recollection of the city of Paris would 
 serve. It was long, however, since she had seen it ; and al- 
 though the general direction which she took was certainly right, 
 yet many a turning did she unnecessarily take by the way. 
 
 Still, however, they hurried on, till turning suddenly into one 
 of the small streets which led round into the Rue St. Honore 
 itself, the scene of fierce contention which was going on in the 
 capital was displayed to their eyes in a moment. 
 
 Across the street, within fifty yards of the turning, was drawn 
 an immense chain from post to post, and behind it was rolled an 
 immense number of barrels filled with sand and stones, and 
 rendered fixed and immovable, against the efforts of any party 
 
202 HEiARY OF GUISE. 
 
 in front at least, by carts taken off the wheels, barrows, and 
 paving-stones. Behind this barrier again appeared an immense 
 multitude of men armed with various sorts of weapons snatched 
 up in haste. The front row, indeed, was well furnished with 
 arquebuses, while pistols, swords, daggers, and pikes gleamed 
 in abundance behind. Several of the persons in front were 
 completely armed in the defensive armour of the time ; and in a 
 small aperture which had been left at the corner between the 
 barricade and the houses, sufficient only for two people to pass 
 abreast when the chain was lowered, an officer was seen in 
 command, with a page behind carrying his plumed casque. 
 
 The lower windows of all the houses throughout Paris were 
 closed, and the manifold signs, awnings, and spouts, as well as 
 the pent-houses which were sometimes placed to keep off the 
 rain and wind from some of the principal mansions, had all been 
 suddenly removed, in order that any bodies of soldiery moving 
 through the streets might be exposed, without a place of shelter, 
 to the aim of the persons above, who might be seen at every 
 window glaring down at the scene below. There too were beheld 
 musketoons, arquebuses, and every other sort of implement of 
 destruction ; and where these had not been found, immense 
 piles of paving-stones had been carried up to cast down upon 
 the objects of popular enmity. 
 
 Between the two fugitives and the barricade were drawn up 
 two companies of Swiss and one of French infantry 5 and though 
 standing in orderly array, and displaying strongly the effects of 
 good military discipline, yet there was a certain degree of pale- 
 ness over the countenances of the men, and a look of hesita- 
 tion and uncertainty about their officers, which showed that they 
 felt not a little the dangerous position in which they were pla- 
 ced. JNo shots were fired on either side however, and the only 
 movement was amongst the people, who were seen talking to- 
 gether, with their leaders stirring amongst them, while from 
 time to time those who were below shouted up to those in the 
 windows above. 
 
 Without the slightest apparent fear of the soldiers, who were 
 thus held at bay, two or three people from time to time sepa- 
 rated themselves from the populace, and coming out under or 
 over the chain, passed completely round the guards to the oppo- 
 site corner of the street, and appeared to be laying a plan for 
 forming another barricade in that quarter, so as completely to 
 inclose the soldiery. 
 
 At the sight of all these objects Marie de Clairvaut naturally 
 clung closer to the arm of her lover, and both paused for a 
 moment in order to judge what was best to do. An instant's 
 consideration however sufficed, and Charles of Montsoreau led 
 
HENRY OF OUISE. 263 
 
 her on to that part of the barricade where the chain was the 
 
 only ohslacle to their further progress, passing as he did so along 
 the whole face of the French and Swiss soldiers, not one of 
 whom moved or uttered a word to slop them as they proceeded. 
 At the chain, however, they met with a more serious ohslacle. 
 The officer whom they had seen in command at that point had 
 now turned away, and was speaking to some people behind, 
 and a rough-looking citizen, armed with a steel cap and breast- 
 plate, dropped the point of his spear to the young Count's breast 
 saying, *-' Give the word, or you do not pass !" 
 
 " fdo not know the word," replied Charles of Montsoreau. 
 " But I pray you let me pass, for I am one of the friends and 
 officers of the Duke of Guise." 
 
 " If you were you would know the word," replied the man. 
 " Keep hack, or I will run the pike into you." 
 
 " I could not know the word," answered the young Count, 
 " if I had been long absent from the Duke, as I have been, and 
 were hastening to join him, as I now am." 
 
 " Keep back, I say," cried the man who was no way fond of 
 argument. " You will repent if you do not keep back." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau was about to call to the officer he saw 
 before him, but at that moment the other walked on amidst the 
 people, and was seen no more. 
 
 " Let us try another street," cried Marie de Clairvaut ; " let us 
 try another street, Charles." And following this suggestion they 
 hurried back, and took another street farther to the left. 
 
 They now found themselves in a new scene ; no soldiers were 
 there, but dense masses of people were beheld in every direction, 
 and barricades formed or forming at every quarter. Where they 
 were not complete the lady and her lover passed without diffi- 
 culty, and almost without notice. One of the young citizens, 
 indeed, as he helped her over a large pile of stones, remarked 
 that her small feet ran no risk of knocking down the barricade ; 
 and an old man who was rolling up a tun to fill a vacant space, 
 paused to let her pass, and gazing with a sort of fatherly look 
 upon her and her lover exclaimed, " Get ye gone home, pretty 
 one-, get ye gone home. Take her home quick, young gentle- 
 man ; this is no place for such as she is." 
 
 These were all the words that were addressed to them till 
 they again reached another barrier ; but there again the word 
 was demanded with as much dogged sullenness as ever, and the 
 young Count, now resolved to force his way by some means, 
 determined rather to be taken prisoner by the people and to de- 
 mand to be carried to the Hotel de Guise, than he driven from 
 barrier to barrier any longer. He remembered, however, the 
 degree of civility which had been shown to him by Chapclle 
 
264 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Marteau some time before, and he demanded of the man who 
 opposed him at the chain if either that personage or Bussi le 
 Clerc were there. The man replied in the negative, but seemed 
 somewhat shaken in his purpose of excluding him, by his de- 
 mand for persons so well known and so popular. 
 
 At that moment, however, Charles of Montsoreau caught the 
 sight of a high plume passing amongst the people at some dis- 
 tance, and the momentary glance of a face that he recollected. 
 
 " There is Monsieur de Bois-dauphin," he cried ; " in the 
 name of Heaven call him up here, that he may put an end to 
 all this tedious opposition." The man did not seem to know of 
 whom it was he spoke, but pointing forward with his hand, the 
 young Count exclaimed, "That gentleman with the plume! 
 that gentleman with the tall red plume!" 
 
 The word was passed on in a moment, and the officer ap- 
 proached the barrier, when Charles of Montsoreau instantly ad- 
 dressed him by the name of Bois-dauphin, begging him to give 
 them admittance within the barricade, and then adding in a low 
 voice, that he had with him the Duke's ward, Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut, who had just made her escape from the enemies of the 
 House of Guise, and was so terrified that she could scarcely sup- 
 port herself any longer. 
 
 " You mistake, Sir," replied the officer ; " I am not Bois-dau- 
 phin , but Chamois : but I remember your lace well at Soissons; 
 the Count of Logeres, if I am right." 
 
 The Count gave a sign of affirmation, while Marie de Clairvaut 
 looked up in his face with an expression of joy and relief, and 
 the officer immediately added, " Down with the chain directly, 
 my good friends. You are keeping out the Duke's best friends 
 and relations." 
 
 The men round the chain hastened eagerly to obey, but some 
 difficulty was experienced in removing the chain, as the barrels 
 — or barriques, as they are called in France, and from which 
 the barriers called barricades luok their name — pressed heavily 
 upon it, and prevented it from being unhooked. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau was just about to pass under with his 
 fair charge as the most expeditious way, when there came a loud 
 cry from the end of the same street by which they had themselves 
 come thither, of " The Queen ! the Queen ! Long live the good 
 Queen Catharine! " And rolling forward with a number of un- 
 armed attendants came one of the huge gilded coaches of the time, 
 passing at great risk to itself and all that it contained, through 
 or over the yet incomplete barriers farther up in the street. 
 
 At the barricade where Charles of Montsoreau now was, 
 however, the six horses by which the vehicle was drawn were 
 brought to a sudden stop, and notwithstanding her popularity, 
 
HENKY OF GUISE. 265 
 
 which, at ttiis time, was not small, the citizens positively refused 
 to remove the barricade, although the Queen entreated them in 
 the tone of a suppliant, and assured them that she was going 
 direct to the Hotel de Guise. Some returned nothing but a sul- 
 len answer, some assured her it was impossihle, and would take 
 hours to accomplish ; and Monsieur de Chamois, who apparently 
 did not choose to be seen actually aiding or directing the people 
 in the formation of the barricades, retreated amongst the mul- 
 titude, and left them to act for themselves. 
 
 At that moment the eye of Catherine de Medici fell upon 
 Charles of Montsoreau, and she beckoned him eagerly towards 
 her. 
 
 " You are here, of course," she said, " upon the part of the 
 Duke." 
 
 " Not so indeed, madam," he replied ; " I have but this mo- 
 ment made my escape from that place where I have been so long 
 and so unjustly detained." 
 
 "Your escape!" she exclaimed in a tone that could not be 
 affected. " Villequier has betrayed me. He promised you should 
 be set at liberty yesterday morning. And you too, Marie," she 
 said looking at the young Count's fair companion. " You surely 
 received the order for your liberation that I sent." 
 
 " Safely, madam," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "and thank 
 your Majesty deeply. But they have refused to let us pass at se- 
 veral barriers, otherwise I should certainly have executed your 
 Majesty's commands." 
 
 "This is most unfortunate," said the Queen. "But pray, Mon- 
 sieur de Logeres, exert your influence with these people as far 
 as possible. The welfare, perhaps the very salvation of the state, 
 depends upon my speaking with the Duke of Guise directly." 
 
 " I will do my best, madam," replied the young Count ; "but 
 I fear I shall not be able to do much. I will leave her under your 
 protection, madam, and see." 
 
 The Queen made him place Marie de Clairvaut in the car- 
 riage beside her ; and having done this, he turned to the bar- 
 rier and spoke to those who surrounded that point where the 
 chain had been lowered to let him pass, with far more effect 
 than he had anticipated. To remove the barricade, the people 
 said, was utterly impossible-, but if her Majesty would descend 
 and betake herself to her chair which was seen carried by her 
 domestics behind her, they would do what they could to make 
 the aperture large enough for her to pass. 
 
 With this suggestion Catherine de Medici, who had no per- 
 sonal fears, complied at once, and seated herself in the rich gilt- 
 covered chair which followed her. She was about to draw the 
 curtains round her and bid the bearers proceed, but her eye fell 
 
266 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 upon Mario de Clairvaut; and after a moment's hesitation be- 
 tween compassion and queenly state, she said, " Poor child, thou 
 art evidently like to drop : come in here with me-, there is room 
 enough for thee also, and the Queen is old enough not to mind 
 her garments being ruffled. Quick, quick," she added, seeing 
 Marie hesitate ; and without further words the fair girl took her 
 place by the Queen. 
 
 Although the chairs of those times were very different in point 
 of size from those which we see (and now alas! rarely see) in 
 our own, yet Mademoiselle de Clairvaut felt that she pressed 
 somewhat unceremoniously on her royal companion •, butCathe- 
 rine de Medici, now that the act was done, smiled kindly upon 
 her, and told her not to mind; and the bearers taking up the 
 chair carried it on, while the populace rolled away one of the 
 tuns to permit its passing through the barricade. The Queen's 
 train of attendants pressed closely round the chair, and Charles 
 of Monlsoreau followed amongst them as near as he could to the 
 vehicle, the people shouting as they went, " Long live the 
 Queen ! Long live the good Queen Catharine ! " 
 
 At all the barriers a way was made for her to pass, but still 
 the multitudes in the streets were so thick, and the obstacles so 
 many, that nearly three quarters of an hour passed, and the 
 Hotel de Guise was still at some distance. 
 
 At length Catharine de Medici drew back the curtains of gilt 
 leather, and beckoned the young Count to approach, saying, as 
 soon as he was near, "Pray, Monsieur de Logeres, go on as 
 fast as possible, and let the Duke know that I am coming. I fear 
 that with all these delays he may have gone forth ere I reach 
 his hotel. And hark, Monsieur de Logeres," she continued, " if 
 out of pure good will I once afforded you one hour of happiness 
 that you did not expect, remember it now; and should chance 
 serve, speak a word to the Duke in favour of my purposes. You 
 understand ? Quick — go on ! " 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau hastened on at the Queen's bidding, 
 and having now heard the pass- word often repeated amongst the 
 citizens, met with no opposition in making his way to the Hotel 
 de Guise. The only difficulty that he encountered was in the 
 neighbourhood of the mansion itself, for the street was so 
 thickly crowded with people and with horses, that it was scarce- 
 ly possible to approach the gates. Every thing was hurry and 
 confusion too, and the dense mass of people collected in that 
 spot was not like an ordinary crowd, either fixed to one place 
 around the object of their attention, or moving in one direction 
 in pursuit of a general object ; but, on the contrary, it was 
 struggling and agitated, by numbers of persons forcing their 
 way through in every different direction, so that it was with the 
 
HENRY OF GUlSli. 267 
 
 greatest possible labour and loss of time that any one advanced 
 at all. The great bulk of those present were armed, and amidst 
 corslets, and swords, and brassards, heavy boots and long 
 spurs, Charles of Montsoreau, totally unarmed as he was, found 
 the greatest possible difficulty in forcing his way, although, pro- 
 bably, in point of mere personal strength he was more than 
 equal to any one there present. 
 
 Long ere he could reach the gate of the hotel, there was a 
 loud cry of, " The Queen ! the Queen ! long live Queen Catha- 
 rine!" And the crowd rolling back, as if by common consent, 
 swept him away far from the spot which he had gained, and 
 nearly crushed him by the pressure. At some distance he 
 caught a sight of the Queen's chair, but it stopped at the edge 
 of the crowd, and the movements that he saw in that part of the 
 mass made him believe that Catharine was descending from the 
 vehicle, intending to proceed on foot. 
 
 He doubted not that the Queen's attendants, who were very 
 numerous, would keep off the multitude; and even the rolling 
 back of the people upon himself evinced that they were inclined 
 to show her every respect. But still feeling that all he loved on 
 earth was there, he naturally strove to see over the heads of the 
 people. It was in vain that he did so, however, for between 
 him and the line along which the Queen was passing was a sea 
 of waving plumes of every height and colour, and all that he 
 could discover was, how far she had proceeded on her way to 
 the gales, by the rush of the people closing up behind her as 
 soon as she had passed. 
 
 Just as she was entering the mansion a considerable degree 
 of confusion was created in the crowd by one of the horses 
 held not far from the place where Charles of Montsoreau stood' 
 either frightened by the noise, or pressed upon by the people, 
 beginning to kick violently. The man whom he first struck was 
 luckily well covered with defensive armour ; but he was knock- 
 ed down notwithstanding, and all the rest rushed back, press- 
 ing upon the others behind them in confusion and dismay. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau, however, took advantage of the op- 
 portunity to make his way forward ; but just as he was so doing 
 he was encountered by the Marquis de Brissac hurrying ea- 
 gerly forward through the crowd. He was dressed in his ordi- 
 nary clothes, and armed with nothing but his sword ; but there 
 was fire and eagerness in his eyes, and he seized the young 
 Count by the hand, exclaiming, " I am delighted to have found 
 you, Logeres. 1 wanted a man of action and of a good head. 
 Come with me! come with me quick! or we shall have more 
 mischief done than is at all needful. They have begun firing 
 again! There! — Don't you hear?" 
 
268 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " I hear now," replied the Count, " but I did not pay atten- 
 tion to it before. I would come with you willingly, Monsieur de 
 Brissac, but I wish to see the Duke. He does not know yet that 
 I am at liberty : neither have I a sword." 
 
 " The Duke cannot see you now," cried Brissac, still holding 
 the Count by the arm. "The Queen and her people are with 
 him. I will get you a sword. Come with me, come with me. 
 Here, fellow, give the Count your sword," And taking hold of 
 the baldric of one of the men near, he made him unbuckle it, 
 and threw it over the Count's shoulders. 
 
 For Brissac, who was well known to almost every body there, 
 the people now made way at least in some degree ; and followed 
 by the young Count he hurried on, till they both could breathe 
 somewhat more at liberty. 
 
 In the mean time the sound of the musketry was heard in- 
 creasing every moment, and Brissac after listening for a moment 
 exclaimed, "It comes from the March6 Neuf. By Heavens ! Lo- 
 geres, we must put a stop to this, or they will take up the same 
 music all over the town, and we shall have those poor devils of 
 Swiss slaughtered to a man. Who is that firing at the Marche 
 Neuf?" he demanded at the first barrier they reached. 
 
 " Our people," replied the captain of the quarter, " are firing 
 upon the soldiers in the market-place I hear." 
 
 "Quick, Arnault; quick! " cried Brissac. "Get the keys of 
 the slaughter-house and bring them after me with all speed ! 
 Come on, Logeres, come on ! " he continued, unable to refrain 
 from a joke even in the exciting and terrible scene that was 
 going on. " The King will find, I am afraid, that he has brought 
 these pigs to a bad market, as the good ladies of the halle say. 
 We must save as many of them from being butchered as we 
 can, however." And running on, followed by two or three per- 
 sons from the different barriers that they passed, they soon 
 reached the corner of the Marche INeuf, where an extraordi- 
 nary and terrible scene was exposed to their eyes. 
 
 The market, which was somewhat raised above a low street 
 that passed by its side, was a large open space, having at that 
 time neither booths nor penthouses to cover the viands, usually 
 there exposed, from the sun : each vendor that thought fit 
 spreading out his own little canvass tent over his goods when 
 he brought them. On the side by which Brissac and Charles of 
 Montsoreau approached, there was a low wall, not a yard high, 
 separating the market from the street which passed by the side, 
 with some steps up to the former, as well as two or three open 
 spaces to give ingress ; and on the other side was a long low 
 range of covered slaughter-houses, with tall buildings overtop- 
 ping them beyond. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 269 
 
 In the midst of this open space, cooped in hy barricades on 
 every side, and surrounded by tall houses with innumerable 
 windows, was a body of about eight hundred Swiss. They were 
 standing firm in the midst of the place, forming a three-sided 
 front, with their right and left resting on the slaughter-houses 5 
 and while their front rank poured a strong and well-directed 
 but ineffectual fire upon the two barricades opposite, the second 
 rank endeavoured to pick off their assailants at the different 
 windows. 
 
 In the meanwhile, however, from those windows and bar- 
 ricades was poured in upon the unhappy Swiss a tremendous 
 fire, almost every shot of which told. The people at the barriers 
 rose, fired, and then bent down again behind their defences, 
 while the men at the windows kept up a still more formidable, 
 but more irregular discharge, sometimes firing almost altogether, 
 as if by common consent, sometimes picking off, here and there, 
 any of their enemies they might fix upon ; so that at one mo- 
 ment, the whole sweeping lines of the tall houses were in one 
 blaze of fire and cloud of smoke ; and the next, the flashes 
 would drop from window to window, over each face of the 
 square, like some artificial firework. 
 
 Such was the scene of confusion and destruction which burst 
 upon the eyes of Brissac and Charles of Montsoreau when they 
 entered the square of the Marches Neuf. The fire of the barrier 
 which they passed was instantly stopped, but in other places 
 it was still going on, and Brissac, without the slightest hesi- 
 tation, jumped at once upon the low wall we have mentioned, 
 and waved his hat in the air, shouting loudly to cease firing. 
 Some cessation instantly took place, but still not altogether 5 
 and Charles of Montsoreau, rapidly crossing the market-place 
 to command the men at the opposite barricade to stop, was 
 slightly wounded in the arm by a ball from one of the win- 
 dows. 
 
 It luckily happened that the baldric which had been procured 
 for him by Brissac bore the colours of the League and the cross 
 of Lorraine embroidered on the front ; and the defenders of 
 the barrier stopped instantly at his command. When that was 
 accomplished, he turned to rejoin Brissac, and as he went, 
 called to the people at the lower windows of the houses to 
 stop firing in the name of the Duke of Guise, and to pass the 
 same order up to those above them. The Swiss had ceased im- 
 mediately, very glad of any truce to an encounter in which 
 fifty or sixty of their number had already fallen, while many 
 more were seriously wounded. 
 
 The keys which Brissac had sent for had by this time arrived ; 
 and, accompanied by the young Count, he advanced, hat in 
 
270 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 hand, to the officer in command of the Swiss, who met him 
 half way with a sad but calm and determined countenance. 
 
 " You see, Sir," said Brissac, " that it is perfectly impossible 
 for you to contend against the force opposed to you." 
 
 " Perfectly," replied the officer-, " every street is a fortress, 
 every house a redoubt. But we never intended to contend, and 
 indeed had received orders to retire, but could not do so on 
 account of the barricades, when suddenly some shot was fired 
 from behind those buildings ; and whether it was a signal to 
 commence the massacre, or whether the people thought that 
 we had fired, I know not, but they instantly began to attack 
 us ; and here are more than sixty of my poor fellows butchered 
 without cause." 
 
 " There is only one plan to be pursued, Sir," replied Brissac, 
 " in order to save you. You must instantly lay down your 
 arms." 
 
 " Were the people opposed to me soldiers, Sir," replied the 
 officer, " I would do so at a word-, but the people seem in 
 a state of madness, and the moment we are disarmed they 
 might fall upon us all, and butcher us in cold blood — yourself 
 and all, for aught I know." 
 
 " I have provided against that, Sir," replied Brissac. " Here 
 are the keys of those buildings, which will shelter you from 
 all attack. I must not put in your hands a fortress against 
 the citizens of Paris; so that while you retain your weapons you 
 cannot enter -, but the moment you lay down your arms, I will 
 give you that shelter, and pledge my word for your protection. 
 The joy which spread over the officer's countenance at this 
 offer plainly showed, what neither word nor look had done 
 before, how deeply he had felt the terrible situation in which 
 he was placed. 
 
 " It shall be done this instant," he said \ and returning to 
 his men, while Brissac unlocked the gates, he made them pile 
 their arms in the market-place, amidst a deafening shout from 
 the people on all sides. The Swiss then marched, rank by 
 rank, into the place of shelter thus afforded them; and Brissac, 
 bowing low to the commander, who entered the last, said with 
 a smile, which the other returned but faintly, " In name, my 
 dear Sir, the exchange you are just making is not an agreeable 
 one-, but I am sure you will find that this slaughter-house is 
 rather a more comfortable position than the one from which 
 I have just delivered you." 
 
 The Marquis then caused a guard of the citizens to be placed 
 over the arms of the Swiss -, and turning to Charles of Montso- 
 reau, he said, " Come, let us quick to the new bridge. The 
 King used to say of me, Monsieur do Logeres, that I was good 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 2? f 
 
 for nothing, either on the sea or on the land. J think he will 
 line! to-day that 1 am good for something on the pavement." 
 
 Thus saying he led the way hack through the harrier-, and 
 Charles of Montsoreau, having more leisure now than hefore 
 to ohserve the countenances and demeanour of the different 
 people around, could not help thinking that older and more 
 skilful soldiers than the citizens of Paris could beast were busy 
 in directing the operations of the populace in different parts 
 of the city. The scene was a strange and extraordinary one 
 altogether^ the streets were absolutely swarming with people, 
 and crowds were hurrying hither and thither through every 
 open space, but were still kept in dense masses by the constant 
 obstruction of the barricades. 
 
 Hastening on through the midst of these masses with Brissac, 
 the young nobleman's eye ran hastily over all the crowds that 
 he passed, when suddenly, at the end of one of the largest 
 streets, which rose between the dark gigantic houses on either 
 side, with a gentle acclivity from the spot where he then stood, 
 he saw amongst the various groups which were moving rapidly 
 along or across it, one which attracted his attention more parti- 
 cularly than the rest. It was at that moment coming down the 
 street, but proceeding in a somewhat slanting direction towards 
 the corner of another small street, not fifty yards from the 
 spot where he then was. There were two figures in it, in re- 
 gard to which he could not be deceived : the one nearest him 
 was the Abbe de Boisguerin, the second was his own brother, 
 Caspar de Montsoreau ; and he could not help imagining that 
 another whom he saw leading the way was that personage who 
 had first called upon him on his arrival in Paris, named Ni- 
 colas Poulain. 
 
 Before he could recollect himself, an exclamation of surprise 
 had called the attention of Brissac ; but remembering how much 
 his brother had excited the indignation of the Duke of Guise, 
 and that his very life might be in danger if taken in the streets of 
 Paiis at that time, Charles of Montsoreau only answered in 
 reply to Brissac's questions, that he had fancied he saw some- 
 body whom he knew. 
 
 "There goes worthy Master Nicolas Poulain," said Brissac, 
 " and the good Cure of St. Genevieve, as zealous in our cause 
 as any one; but we can't stop to speak with them just now." 
 And he was hurrying on, but Charles of Montsoreau stopped 
 him, saying, 
 
 " For my part, Monsieur de Brissac, 1 shall return to the 
 Hotel de Guise. The Duke, I dare say, has concluded his in- 
 terview with the Queen by this time, and I much wish to speak 
 with him." 
 
272 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " Well, you cannot miss your way," cried Brissac. " Take 
 that first turning to the left, and then the third to the right, and 
 it will lead you straight to the Porte Cochere." 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau nodded his head, and hurried on, 
 with manifold anxieties and apprehensions in his bosom, which 
 twenty times he pronounced to be absurd, but which, never- 
 theless, he could not banish by any effort of reason. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 We must now return to mark what was passing at another 
 point in the capital, an hour or two earlier than the events 
 narrated in the end of the last chapter. The Duke of Guise 
 sat in a cabinet in his hotel, with his sword laid upon the table 
 before him, which also bore a pen, and ink, and paper, and 
 some open letters. His foot was resting on a footstool, his 
 dress plain but costly, and not one sign of any thing like prepa- 
 ration for the stirring events, which were to take place that 
 day, apparent in either his looks, his apparel, or his demeanour. 
 
 Beside him booted, and in some degree armed, stood the 
 Count of St. Paul 5 while Bois-dauphin, who had just had his 
 audience, was leaving the cabinet by a low door, and the Duke, 
 bending his head, appeared listening with the utmost tran- 
 quillity to what his friend was telling him. 
 
 " Then the matter is done," he said, as soon as St. Paul had 
 concluded. " The Place Maubert is in the hands of the people, 
 and may be made a Place d'Armes. Bois-dauphin tells me that 
 the soldiers under Tinteville, at the Petit Pont, are barricaded 
 on all sides and cannot move. You give me the same account 
 of the Marche Neuf, the same is the case with the Greve, the 
 French guard under the Chatelet are hemmed in all round, 
 the Cemetery of the Innocents is invested on all sides, and 
 Malivaut, I understand, has been driven from his post in great 
 disorder. This being done, St. Paul, you see these troops of 
 the King's are not exactly in fortresses, but in prisons ; and 
 how Biron, or Crillon, or the King himself, could have com- 
 mitted the extraordinary error— all of them being men of ex- 
 perience—how they could have committed the extraordinary 
 error, I say, of dividing their soldiery in the narrow streets 
 and squares of such a city as Paris, sending them far from 
 the palace, and leaving them without communication with each 
 other, I cannot conceive. However, they are all in our hands, 
 and what we must think of is, to make a moderate use of our 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 27'i 
 
 success. Try to keep the people from any active aggression, 
 St. Paul ; let them stand upon the defensive only, spread amongst 
 them different parties of those whom we have collected, who 
 may give them direction and assistance if needful. Rut keep 
 the principal part of our own people in this neighbourhood, 
 that we may direct them on any point where their presence 
 may be necessary." 
 
 "Might it not be as well, your Highness," said the Count, 
 "to take one measure more? We have far more people than 
 enough to, guard all the barricades. I can undertake to draw ten 
 or even twelve thousand from different spots, and march them 
 out of the Porte Neuve." 
 
 "To lead them where?" demanded the Duke of Guise, lifting 
 his eyes to the countenance of St. Paul with a meaning expres- 
 sion. 
 
 "To the Tuileries and to the Louvre," replied the Count. 
 "Every point of importance," he added in a low and meaning 
 voice, " will then be invested." 
 
 The Duke of Guise waved his hand. "No, St. Paul, no!" he 
 said, "that step would instantly require another. No; if the 
 enemy misjudge our forbearance, and attempt aught towards 
 shedding the blood of the citizens of Paris, we must then act as 
 God shall dire'ct us. In the mean time 1 say not, that the barri- 
 cades may not be carried up to the very gates of the Louvre, for 
 that is for our own defense ; but at present, St. Paul, at pre- 
 sent, it must be on the defensive that we stand. I beseech you, 
 however, to see that no ground is lost in any part of the city, for 
 you know how soon advantage is gained. Should it be needful 
 send for me, but not till the last extremity." 
 
 The Count of St. Paul turned to obey, but paused for a mo- 
 ment before he had reached the door. The Duke of Guise by 
 this time was gazing fixedly upon the hilt of his sword, as it lay 
 on the table before him, and seemed perfectly unconscious that 
 the Count had not quitted the room. A slight smile curled that 
 gentleman's lip, as he saw the direction that the Duke's eyes had 
 taken, and he opened the door and passed out. 
 
 For several minutes the Duke of Guise continued to gaze in 
 deep thought; and his bosom at that moment was certainly full 
 of those sensations which never, perhaps, occur to any man but 
 once in his lifetime — even if Fate have cast him one of those 
 rare and memorable lots, which bear down the winner thereof, 
 upon the stream of fame and memory, through a thousand ages 
 after his own day is done. The fate of his country was in his 
 hands; he had but to stretch out his arm and grasp the crown 
 of France : and what temptations were there to do so to a 
 mind like his ! 
 
 18 
 
274 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 It must not be forgotten that the Duke of Guise, by every he- 
 reditary feeling, by every prejudice of education, as well as by 
 many strong and peculiar points in his own character, was in 
 truth and reality a strenuous and zealous supporter of the 
 Roman Catholic Church. His veneration for that great and 
 extraordinary institution had descended to him from his father, 
 and had formed the great principle of action in his own life. 
 Even had he merely assumed that devotion for the church dur- 
 ing so many years, the very habit must have moulded his feelings 
 into the same form; and he must have been by this time, more 
 or less a zealous advocate of the Catholic cause, even if he had 
 set out with caring nothing in reality about it. But such was not 
 the case : his father had educated him in principles of strict and 
 stern devotion to the faith in which they were born ; and though 
 in the gaieties and the frivolities of youth, or the eager struggles 
 of manhood, he might have appeared in the ordinary affairs of 
 life any thing on earth but the zealot, yet still his zeal would have 
 been far more than a pretence, had it only been the effect of 
 early education and constant habit. 
 
 There was something still more, however, to be said. The 
 spirit of the Catholic Church was consonant to, and harmonious 
 with, the whole tone of his own feelings, at once deep, powerful, 
 imaginative, enthusiastic, politic, and commanding. Chivalry, 
 feudalism, and the Church of Rome, went hand in hand : all three 
 were, indeed, in their decay; but if ever man belonged to the 
 epoch of chivalry, it was Henry Duke of Guise ; and he clung 
 to all the other institutions that were attached to that past epoch, 
 of which he in spirit was a part. 
 
 Attached therefore sincerely, deeply, and zealously to the Ca- 
 tholic Church — far, far more than his brother the Duke of 
 Mayenne ever was or ever could be — Guise beheld a weak mo- 
 narch, whom he despised and hated from the very bottom of his 
 heart, wasting the whole energies of the Catholic party in France 
 in a mere pretence of opposing the Huguenots, and, in fact, 
 caring for nothing but so to balance the two religious factions as 
 to be permitted to remain in luxurious indolence, swallowed up 
 with the most foul, degrading, and abhorrent vices ; setting an 
 example of low and filthy effeminacy to his whole court; and 
 only chequering a life of soft and unmanly voluptuousness by 
 bursts of frantic debauchery, or moments of apparent penitence 
 and devotion, so wild and extravagant as to betray their own 
 affectation, by the absurdities which they displayed. 
 
 The church to which Guise was attached was thus betrayed ; 
 his own especial friends and relations were neglected, insulted, or 
 maltreated; all that were great or good in the nobility of France 
 were shut out from the high offices of state, trampled upon by the 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 275 
 
 minions of the King, and plundered by insolent and fraudulent 
 iinanciers 5 thecourseof public justice was totally perverted 5 every 
 thing in the government was venal and corrupt; the exertions 
 of commerce and industry totally put to a stop; assassination, 
 poison, and the knife, of daily occurrence ; and bands of auda- 
 cious plunderers tearing the unhappy land from north to south. 
 
 The Duke of Guise might well think, as he sat there gazing 
 upon the hilt of that renowned sword which had never been drawn 
 in vain, that, were he to say the few short words which were 
 all that was necessary to bring the crown to his head and the 
 sceptre to his hand — he might well think that he could obtain 
 for France thereby those great objects which he conceived were, 
 beyond all others, necessary to her well-being. He might well 
 conceive too that the cost of so doing would but be little : civil 
 war already raged in the land ; the whole south of France was 
 one scene of contention ; it already existed in the capital ; and 
 would, in all probability, be shortened rather than prolonged by 
 his striking the one great and decisive blow. 
 
 The King, who was absolutely at his mercy, and whom he 
 could cast down from his throne at a single word, was no ob- 
 stacle in his way ; the Epernons, the d'Aumonts, the Villequiers, 
 he looked upon, notwithstanding all their favour, and the sem- 
 blance of power which had been cast into their hands, as a mere 
 herd of deer, to be driven backwards and forwards, like beasts 
 of the chase, between himself and Henry of Navarre. And then 
 again, when he looked to the great and chivalrous Huguenot 
 monarch, what were the feelings with which he regarded the 
 struggle that might take place between them ? His breast heaved, 
 his chest expanded, his head was raised, his eye flashed with 
 the thought of encountering an adversary worthy of the strife, 
 a rival of powers equal or nearly equal to his own. When he 
 thought of army to army, and lance to lance, against Henry of 
 Navarre, with the crown of France between them as the golden 
 prize of their mighty strife, his spirit seemed on fire within him, 
 and he had well nigh forgotten all his resolutions, in order to 
 do the daring act which might bring about that glorious result; 
 and then, when fancy pictured him returning triumphant over 
 his rival, with peace restored, and civil war put down, and com- 
 merce flourishing, and the rights of France maintained on every 
 frontier, an uniform religion, a happy people, and the strong 
 truncheon of command in a hand thai could wield it lightly, the 
 prospect was too bright, too beautiful, loo tempting; and he 
 pressed his hand tight upon his eyes, as if he could so shut it 
 out from his mental vision. 
 
 What was it that deterred him ? There was much reason on 
 his side ; there was Utile if any risk ; there was the object of the 
 
276 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 church's safety 5 there was the gratification of vengeance upon 
 those who had insulted and injured him ; there were the exhor- 
 tations of the King of Spain 5 there was almost the universal 
 voice of the people in the north of France; there was his own 
 ambition ; there was the certainty that all he did would be ab- 
 solved, sanctioned, confirmed by the head of the Catholic 
 Church; there was already in his favour the solemn and de- 
 cided declaration of the highest theological authority in France ; 
 and there was many a specious argument, which no one could 
 expect that he should sift and refute against himself. 
 
 What was it deterred him ? Was it that there is a majesty 
 which hedges in a King, sufficiently strong to overawe even the 
 Duke of Guise himself? Was it that the habitual reverence, 
 which he had been accustomed to show towards the kingly of- 
 fice, veiled or shielded from his eyes the real weakness of him 
 who exercised it? Was it that he feared himself?— Or was it 
 that he felt the act of usurpation must be confirmed by murder? 
 
 It cannot be told ! Certain it is that he dreamt grand visions 5 
 that he saw mighty prospects of fair paths leading to honour, 
 and glory, and high renown, and his country's good, and his 
 church's safety ; and that he banished the visions and would 
 not take the only step which would have over-passed every 
 barrier to his forward way. 
 
 The words of Catharine de Medici rung in his ears— the 
 words which had warned him against the growth of ambition 
 in his own heart ; he heard the shouts of the people without, 
 and her warning voice again came back in tones that seemed 
 well nigh prophetic. Almost, it would appear, without a cause, 
 the vanity of all things seemed to press upon his mind at that 
 moment with stronger effect than he had ever experienced be- 
 fore. There was a leaden weight upon his spirits he knew not 
 why. He seemed to feel the hand of Fate, the tangible pressure 
 of a directing arm, selecting for him the path he was to pursue, 
 and forcing him thereon at the very moment when supreme 
 command appeared given to him without a check. 
 
 The sun seemed to dazzle his eyes as he gazed from the 
 window, vague figures passed before him, and crossed the dan- 
 cing motes, picturing, like shadows, the persons of whom he 
 had heen thinking. He saw Henry the Third distinctly before 
 him, and fierce faces and bloody knives, and figures weltering 
 in their blood upon the ground. He felt that he had indulged 
 fancy too far, that he had given way to thought at the moment 
 of action, that his course must be shaped as he had predeter- 
 mined it in calmer hours ; and waving his hand, as if to dispel 
 the visions that still haunted his sight, he rose from his chair, 
 leaning heavily on the table, pushed the sword away from him, 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 277 
 
 and murmured to himself, "No, no ! I will never be an usurper ! 
 Ho, without there! " he continued. " Who waits? What is that 
 sound of musketry ? " 
 
 "Erlan has just arrived, my Lord," replied the attendant,' 
 "to bear your Highness word, that the citizens have driven 
 Malivaut down into the market, and that is the firing we hear." 
 
 " Tell Erlan to speed back as fast as possible," replied the 
 Duke, "and bid them cease directly. Let them content them- 
 selves with hemming in the enemy without attacking them. 
 But I hear' more firing still ; I shall be obliged to go forth 
 myself." 
 
 " Monsieur de Brissac has just gone out on one side, your 
 Highness," replied the attendant, " and Monsieur de St. Paul 
 on the other ; both with the purpose of stopping the bloodshed. 
 But they have not had time to get to the spot yet." 
 
 " It has ceased now," said the Duke listening. " It has ceased 
 now towards the Chatelet : but on the other side it is fierce. Go 
 down and see what are those shouts, and let me know ! Surely 
 Henry," he added, "would not venture into such a scene as 
 this. Alas, no ! He would venture nothing — dare nothing, either 
 for his own sake or his country's." 
 
 A moment after the attendant returned saying, "It is the 
 Queen, my Lord ; her Majesty Queen Catharine. The crowd 
 of people prevents the chair from coming up to the gates ; but 
 she has descended and is coming on foot." 
 
 The Duke instantly started up and approached the head of 
 the staircase for the purpose of hurrying down to receive his 
 royal visitor; but Catherine was by this time upon the stairs, 
 with Madame de Montpensier and a number of other ladies, 
 who had passed the morning at the Hotel de Guise, surround- 
 ing her on all sides. The Duke advanced and gave her his hand 
 to aid her in ascending the stairs •, and perhaps the aspect of 
 Catharine at that moment taught him more fully than any thing 
 else, how tremendous was the scene without, and how com- 
 pletely the capital of France was at his disposal. 
 
 Habituated for more than twenty years to controul all her 
 feelings, and to repress every appearance of fear or agitation, 
 Catharine de Medici was nevertheless on the present occasion 
 completely overcome. Her lip quivered, her head shook, and 
 there was a degree of wild apprehension in her eyes, which it 
 was some moments ere her strongest efforts could conquer. 
 
 " Cousin of Guise," she said, as soon as she had drawn her 
 breath, "I must speak with you for a few moments alone; I 
 must beseech you to give me audience, even if it be but for half 
 an hour." 
 
278 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " Your Majesty has nothing to do bat command," replied the 
 Duke. " My time is at your disposal." 
 
 The Queen smiled slightly at feeling how easily the empty 
 words of courts may be retorted upon those that use them. It 
 has been said that it costs nothing to use civil language and say 
 courtly things, even when insincere : but it costs much-, for, 
 sooner or later, we are sure to be paid in the same coin to which 
 we have given currency, perhaps even more depreciating than 
 when we sent it forth. She answered only by that smile how- 
 ever ; and the Duke led her forward to his cabinet, all the rest 
 of those who crowded the staircase remaining behind. 
 
 With every sign of ceremonious reverence the Duke of Guise 
 led his royal guest to a seat, and stood before her; but she 
 paused for a moment, and hesitated ere she spoke. " My Lord," 
 she said at length, " this is a terrible state of things." 
 
 " Your Majesty knows more of it than I do," replied the Duke 
 calmly, " for I have not gone forth from the house to-day; but I 
 hear there is some tumult in Paris." 
 
 " Henry of Guise ! " replied the Queen, fixing her eyes upon 
 him. " Henry of Guise, be sincere ! " 
 
 " Madam," replied the Duke, " one must adapt one's tone to 
 circumstances. With those who are sincere with us we may be 
 as candid as the day ; but when we are sadly taught the fallacy 
 of words, and the fragility of promises, we must, of course, 
 shelter ourselves under some reserve." 
 
 "Your Highness's words imply an accusation," said Cathe- 
 rine somewhat sharply. " In what have I dealt insincerely with 
 you?" 
 
 "Your Majesty promised me," replied the Duke of Guise, 
 " that my noble friend, the young Count of Logeres, should be 
 set at liberty not later than yesterday morning ; and that my 
 ward, Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, should be immediately re- 
 placed under my protection." 
 
 " You have done me wrong, your Highness, " replied the 
 Queen; " and attributed to want of will what only arose from 
 want of power. Villequier has formally claimed the guardianship 
 of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut; his application is before the 
 parliament at this hour ; and orders have been given on all hands 
 for the young Lady to remain under the protection of the King 
 till the question is decided." 
 
 " I will cut his cause very short," replied the Duke of Guise 
 frowning, "if she be not within my gates ere six hours be 
 over." 
 
 " She is within your gates even now, my Lord," replied the 
 Queen. " Your Highness is too quick. I sent an order myself 
 for the liberation of the Count de Logeres, for that only de- 
 
I1KNRY OF GLISK. 279 
 
 pended upon the King my son. Some one, however, diverted it 
 from its right course, and he was only set free this morning. 
 He ought to have been here hefore me, for I sent him on; hut I 
 suppose he has not been able to pass the mass of people round 
 your doors. As to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, 1 have risked 
 every thing to restore her to you-, and notifying to Yillcquier 
 and Epernon that I would no longer countenance her heing 
 detained, I liberated'hcr on my own authority and brought her 
 here in my own chair. She would have been freed two nights 
 ago, for I wished to effect the matter by a little stratagem, and 
 have her carried from the convent and brought hither without 
 any one knowing how or by whom it was done; but the 
 meddling burgher guard came up and drove the people that 1 
 sent away. But let us, oh let us, my Lord, discuss more serious 
 things. Have I now been sincere with you?" 
 
 " You have, madam," replied the J)uke, " and I thank your 
 Majesty even for doing an act of justice, so rare are they in these 
 days. But may I know what are now your Majesty's com- 
 mands?" 
 
 "You cannot affect to doubt, cousin," replied the Queen, 
 " that Paris, the capital of my son's kingdom, is in revolt from 
 end to end. Can you deny that you are the cause of it?" 
 
 " Though no man is bound to accuse himself, madam," 
 replied the Duke, returning the Queen's searching glance with 
 a calm, steady gaze, "yet I will answer your question, and 
 sincerely. I have in no degree instigated this rising. His Ma- 
 jesty is the cause and not I. We see, without any reason or 
 motion whatsoever, or any expression of the King's displeasure, 
 large bodies of troops introduced into the city, during the night, 
 without drums beating or colours flying, and altogether in a 
 clandestine manner. We see them take possession of various 
 strong points, and we hear them using menacing language — 
 Monsieur de Crillon himself passing through the streets, 
 breathing nothing but menaces and violence; and if your Ma- 
 jesty can wonder that in these circumstances the citizens of 
 Paris fly to arms for the defence of their property, of their lives, 
 ami of the honour of their women, it is more than I can do. In 
 truth, I know not what the King expected to produce, but the 
 very result which is before us. I assure your Majesty, however, 
 that it is not at my instigation that this was done ; though, even 
 if I had done this, and far more, I should have held myself 
 completely justified." 
 
 " Juslilied," said the Queen, shaking her head mournfully. 
 " What then becomes of all your Highness said upon ambition 
 but three days ago?" 
 
 " Ambition, madam, would have nothing to do with it," re- 
 
280 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 plied the Duke. " It would have been merely self-defence. 
 Who had so much cause to fear that the rash and despotic 
 proceedings which have taken place were aimed at him as I 
 have had ? Who had so much cause to know that the object 
 of all this military parade, was not the hanging of some half 
 dozen miserable burghers in the Place de Greve, but the 
 arrest, and perhaps massacre, of Henry of Guise and all his 
 kind and zealous friends? Can you deny, madam, that such 
 was the cause for which these soldiers were brought hither? 
 Can you deny, madam, that only yesterday, when the King 
 assuming friendship towards me, invited me to ride forth 
 with him— can you deny that it was debated in his council, 
 whether he should or should not order his guards to murder 
 me as we went? Confident in my own conscience, madam, and 
 believing that the King, though misinformed, entertained no 
 personal ill-will against one who had served him well, I came 
 to Paris, walked through the royal guards, and presented my- 
 self at Court in the midst of my enemies, with only eight atten- 
 dants •, and ever since that day, there has not been an hour in 
 which my life and liberty have not been in danger, in which 
 schemes for my destruction have not been agitated in the Ca- 
 binet of the King; and I say that, under these circumstances, I 
 should have been perfectly justified in raising the people for 
 my own defence. But, madam, I did not do so 5 and I am not 
 the cause of this rising. —What is it, Monsieur de Bois-dau- 
 phin?" he added, turning to a gentleman who had just entered, 
 and who now answered a few words in a low tone. The Duke 
 retired with him into the window, and after speaking for a mo- 
 ment or two in whispers, Guise dismissed him and returned, 
 making apologies to the Queen for the interruption- 
 It may be said, without noticing it again; that the same sort 
 of occurrence took place more than once— different officers and 
 attendants coming in, from time to time, speaking for a moment 
 with the Duke in private, and hurrying out again. Though 
 Catharine de Medici felt this to be somewhat unceremonious 
 treatment, and though it evidently showed her, that whatever 
 share the Duke had had in raising the tumult at first, he as- 
 suredly now guided all its proceedings, and ruled the excited 
 multitudes from his own cabinet ; yet, in other respects, she 
 was not sorry for time to pause and think ere she replied, know- 
 ing that she had to deal with one whose mind was far too acute 
 to be satisfied with vague or unsatisfactory answers. 
 
 " My Lord," she said, as soon as the conversation was re- 
 sumed, " I did not mean exactly to say that you are the active 
 cause of these proceedings, or that you have excited the people. 
 What 1 meant was, that your presence in Paris is the occasion 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 281 
 
 of this emotion. \ou cannot doubt that is is so; and therefore, 
 being in this respect the cause, it is only yourself who can pro- 
 vide the remedy." 
 
 "Pardon me, madam," replied the Duke of Guise-, "I do 
 not see how that can be. In the first place, I have all along 
 denied that I am the cause, either inert or active. The people 
 have risen for their own defence, though, certainly my defence 
 and my welfare is wrapped up in that of the people. In the 
 next place, I know not what remedy can be provided in the 
 present state of affairs. What have you to propose, madam?" 
 
 "What I came to propose, my fair cousin," replied the Queen, 
 " and what, I am sure, is the only way of quieting the tumult 
 that now exists, is, that you should quit Paris immediately. — 
 Nay! nay! hear me out. If I propose this thing to you, it is 
 not without being prepared and ready to offer you such induce- 
 ments and recompenses, both for yourself and all your friends, 
 as may show you how highly the King, my son, esteems you, 
 and at what a price he regards the service you will render him. 
 Look at this paper, good cousin of Guise, signed with his own 
 name, and see what perfect security and contentment it ought 
 to give you." 
 
 The Duke of Guise, however, put the paper gently and res- 
 pectfully from him, replying, "Madam, what you propose is 
 impossible. Either the people of Paris have risen in their own 
 defence, in which case my leaving the city would have no effect 
 upon the tumult, or else they have risen in mine, when it would 
 be base to abandon them. I believe the first of these cases is 
 the true one, and that, therefore, by staying in Paris, I may 
 serve the King far more effectually than I could by quitting 
 the city." 
 
 Catharine de Medici had nothing directly to reply to the 
 reasoning of the Duke; but she answered somewhat warmly, 
 " By my faith, your Highness, 1 think some day you will lo- 
 gically prove that the best way to serve the King is to take the 
 crown off his head." 
 
 " Madam," replied the Duke drily, "Messieurs d'Epernon, 
 Yillequier, Joyeuse, d'O., and others, have long been trying to 
 prove the proposition which your Majesty puts forth ; but they 
 have not yet convinced me of the fact, — nor ever will. They, 
 madam, are or have been those who have put the King's crown 
 in danger; and, as far as regards myself, I have but to remind 
 you that if I had any designs upon the King's person, five 
 hundred men sent out this morning by the Porte de Nesle, and 
 five hundred more by the Porte Neuve, would be quite suffi- 
 cient for all the purposes your Majesty attributes to me." 
 Catharine de Medici turned deadly pale, seeing how easily 
 
282 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 the palace itself might be invested. At that instant one of the 
 Duke's officers again entered, and spoke to him for a moment 
 or two apart. The Queen quietly took up a pen from the table, 
 wrote a few words on a slip of paper, and opening the door 
 of the cabinet demanded in a low voice, " Is Pinart there? " 
 
 A gentleman instantly started forward, and putting the paper 
 in his hands, she spoke to him for a moment in a whisper, end- 
 ing with the words, " Use all speed ! " Then re-entering the 
 cabinet, she took her seat while the Duke was yet speaking with 
 his friend. 
 
 " Cousin of Guise," she said, as soon as he had done, and 
 the stranger had departed, "you have certainly given me strong 
 proof that you have no evil intentions •, but such power is, alas! 
 very dangerous to trust one's self with. Read that paper, I 
 beseech you, and tell me if there be any other thing you can 
 demand— any other condition which will induce you to quit 
 Paris even for a few days ? " 
 
 " It were useless for me to read it, madam," replied the Duke. 
 " Nothing on earth that could be offered me would induce me 
 to quit" Paris at this moment. But believe me, madam, my being 
 here has nothing to do with the continuance of the tumult. I 
 have sent out all my friends and officers and relations already 
 to calm the disturbance. But it is the King who is the cause of 
 it, or, rather, the King's evil advisers. As he has occasioned it, 
 he must put a stop to it." 
 
 " What would you have him do?" demanded Catharine de 
 Medici quickly. " How would you have him act?" 
 
 "In the first place," replied the Duke, "let him recall his 
 troops 5 let them be withdrawn from every post they occupy ! 
 Their presence was the cause of the people's rising, and as soon 
 as they are gone, the emotion will gradually subside." 
 
 " He has sent the order of recall already," replied Catharine-, 
 " but it is impossible to execute it. Hemmed in by barricades 
 on every side, how can they retire, or take one step without 
 danger ? " 
 
 " That I trust," replied the Duke, " can soon " 
 
 But he was interrupted in the midst of what he was saying by 
 the sudden entrance of Charles of Montsoreau. 
 
 "I beg your Highness to pardon me," he said. "Your Ma- 
 jesty will, I am sure, forgive me, when I ask if you know what 
 has become of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut? " 
 
 There was anxiety and apprehension in every line of Charles 
 of Montsoreau's countenance, and the Queen's brow instantly 
 gathered together with a look of mingled surprise and appro 
 hension. 
 
 " She followed me into the hotel j did she not? " exclaimed the 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 283 
 
 Queen. " I got out of the chair first, and she came immediately 
 after. Surely I saw her upon the stairs ! " 
 
 "The porter, madam, declares, that there was no lady en- 
 tered with your Majesty; that two or three gentlemen came in 5 
 and that it was some time before your chair, and the rest of 
 your male attendants could come up, on account of the crowd. 
 I have ventured to ask Madame de Montpensier and the rest of 
 the ladies in the house, before I intruded here : but no one has 
 seen Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and she is certainly not in the 
 house." , 
 
 " Is this the way I am treated ? " exclaimed the Duke of Guise, 
 his brow gathering into a tremendous frown. " Is this the way 
 that I am sported with at the very moment — -" 
 
 " Nay ! nay ! nay ! Cousin of Guise," exclaimed Catharine de 
 Medici, rising from her seat and clasping her hands. " So help 
 me, Heaven, as I have had no share in this! I descended from 
 my chair in the midst of the crowd— knowing terror and agita- 
 tion, such as, indeed, I never knew before — and I thought that 
 this poor girl had followed. I was too much engrossed with the 
 thought of my son's throne tottering to its foundation to pay 
 much attention to any thing else ; but Monsieur de Logeres him- 
 self can tell you, that I treated her with all kindness, and that 
 mine was the order for her liberation." 
 
 "Indeed it was, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. 
 " Her Majesty displayed every sort of kindness, and Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut was in the same chair with her when I left her, 
 scarce a hundred yards from these gates. I fear, my Lord, how- 
 ever, that there are machinations taking place, which I must 
 explain to you. And in a low voice he told the Duke what he 
 had seen while returning from the Marche Neuf. 
 
 "This Nicholas Poulain is a villain," exclaimed the Duke 
 after he had listened. " I have received the proofs thereof this 
 very morning. Ho ! without there ! — Madam, by your leave," he 
 continued, turning to the Queen, " I would fain speak with these 
 attendants of yours, but dare not presume to command them 
 hither in your presence." 
 
 The Queen immediately directed all those who had followed 
 her chair, or had borne it, to be called in, and the Duke ques- 
 tioned them sharply, in a stern and lofty tone, regarding what 
 they had seen of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut after the Queen 
 had passed on. 
 
 The answer of each was the same however, namely, that none 
 of them had seen any thing of her. Some had accompanied the 
 Queen and kept the way clear, and two others who, had re- 
 mained with the chair, as well as the bearers themselves, de- 
 clared that the young Lady, after having descended from the 
 
284 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Queen's chair had gone on ; that there was an immediate rush 
 of the people, which separated them from the rest of the royal 
 train •, and that what hetween the pressure and confusion that 
 immediately took place, and the kicking of one of the chargers, 
 which made the people run back with cries and affright, they 
 had seen nothing more of the party to which they had belonged, 
 till they had made their way up to the Hotel de Guise and ob- 
 tained admission. 
 
 The Duke paused with a gloomy and anxious brow. " Go, 
 some one," he said at length, "go up to Philibert of Nancy, 
 who was placed above, to watch what was taking place from 
 the top of the house. Ask him what he saw after the Queen's 
 arrival, and bring me down word." 
 
 " May I go, my Lord ? " demanded Charles of Montsoreau. 
 
 The Duke nodded his head, and the young nobleman sprang 
 up the stairs, and guided by one of the servants found the watch- 
 man, who had been placed at the top of the house to report from 
 time to time whatever occurrences of importance he might per- 
 ceive in the neighbouring streets. All the information the man 
 could give, however, was, that he had seen a party separate 
 from the rest of the people, almost immediately after the Queen's 
 entrance ; that they seemed to be taking great care of some per- 
 son in the midst of them, who, he fancied, had been hurt by the 
 kicking and plunging of a horse which he had remarked hard by. 
 The party had turned the corner of the street without attracting 
 his attention farther; but, he added, that a moment or two af- 
 terwards he thought he had heard a shrill cry coming from the 
 direction which they had taken. 
 
 With such tidings only, and with his heart more agonised 
 than ever, Charles of Montsoreau returned to the Duke, who 
 was still standing gloomily by the Queen, who, on her part looked 
 up at his dark and frowning countenance with a degree of calm- 
 ness which did not seem quite so natural as she could have 
 wished. 
 
 " Whatever has happened, my Lord Duke," she said, after 
 listening to the young nobleman's report, " whatever has hap- 
 pened, on my honour, on my salvation, I have had no share in 
 it ; and I promise you most solemnly, not to rest a moment till 
 I have discovered what has become of your ward, and have made 
 you acquainted therewith. If she be in the Court of my son, I 
 make bold to say, that she shall be instantly restored to you : 
 but I cannot believe that it is so, as it is impossible for \ illequier 
 to have passed those barriers without being torn to pieces by the 
 people." 
 
 Still the Duke remained thinking gloomily without making any 
 answer. "Logeres," he said at length, " I must trust you with 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 28.1 
 
 this business, for I have more matters to deal with than I can 
 well compass. From what you said just now, and from what the 
 boy Ignati told me, I know how you stand with our poor Marie. 
 You know what I said, and what I promised long ago. Seek her, 
 find her, and wed her ! Monsieur deSt. Paul will tell you where 
 your own men are ; take her, wherever you find her : by force, 
 if it be necessary ; and if any man, calling himself a gentleman, 
 oppose you, cleave him to the jaws. I will bear you out in what- 
 ever you do : there is my signet : but stay ; you had better see 
 Marteau Ghapelle and Bussi about it. They know every house in 
 Paris, and I can spare them now from other affairs : bid them 
 
 go with you and aid you ; and tell Chapelle What is it now, 
 
 Brissac? You look confounded and alarmed." 
 
 " The news I have will confound your Highness also, I am 
 sure," replied Brissac 5 " to alarm you is not possible, I fancy. 
 I have just received intelligence from the Porte de Nesle, my 
 Lord, that the King has quitted Paris and taken the road to 
 Chartres ! " 
 
 The Duke of Guise turned towards Catharine de Medici, and 
 gazed upon her sternly, saying, " You have done this, madam ! 
 You amuse me, while you destroy me ! " ' 
 
 " I have done this, cousin of Guise," replied the Queen, "and 
 I have done wisely for all parties. I have removed from you a 
 great temptation to do an evil action— a temptation which I saw 
 that you yourself feared \ and while I have removed that danger 
 from you, my advice has put my son in safety." 
 
 " Madam," replied the Duke, " I felt no temptation : my re- 
 solution was firm, positive, and unshaken ; and had I chosen to 
 compromise the King's safety, or do wrong to his legitimate autho- 
 rity, the Louvre would have been invested six hours ago, for the 
 people were already on their march, if I had not stopped them. 
 I wonder that he escaped in safety, however, for they are very 
 much infuriated at the sight of these soldiers." 
 
 " He walked from the Louvre," replied Brissac, " on foot to 
 the Tuileries, I hear, followed by some half dozen gentlemen ; 
 he then mounted his horses in the stables, and rode out sud- 
 denly ; but it is said that they fired at him from the Porle de 
 Nesle. The people, however, as they hear it, are becoming quite 
 furious, and I fear that we shall not be able to keep them from 
 massacring the soldiery." 
 
 " You see, madam," replied the Duke of Guise, still thinking 
 alone of the King's escape, " you see, madam, to what danger 
 the King has exposed himself. Had he remained in Paris no evil 
 could have befallen him. He was safe, on my life, and on my 
 honour." 
 
 ' I have given the Duke's own words without variation. 
 
286 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " I believe you, cousin of Guise ; I believe you ; " replied the 
 Queen, who thought she saw that the tone of the Duke of Guise 
 was not quite so peremptory as it had been, while the King had 
 seemed entirely in his power. " But now, in order to prove your 
 good will entirely, let me beseech you to exert yourself to save 
 the unhappy men who have been placed in such a situation of 
 danger." 
 
 " That shall soon be done, madam," replied the Duke ; "and 
 as soon as this is done, I too must take means for finding my 
 ward. In the meantime, madam, I will beseech you to use such 
 measures at the Court, as may insure that the people of Paris, 
 and of the realm in general, shall not be driven again to such 
 acts as these, remembering, that as you warned me not long 
 ago, popularity is the most transient of all things, and that mine 
 may not last long enough to save the state a second time from 
 the dangers that menace it." 
 
 "I understand you cousin of Guise; I understand you-," 
 replied the Queen. " It may not last long enough, or it may not 
 be willingly exerted : but I give you my promise, that every 
 thing shall be done to content you ; and with that view 1 have 
 already demanded that the insolent, greedy, and ambitious Eper- 
 non shall be banished from the Court, and stripped of his plun- 
 dered authority.— But hark!" she continued, " I hear the firing 
 recommence. Wait not for further words, or for any ceremo- 
 nies ; I will find my way back to the Louvre without difficulty. 
 Go, my Lord, go at once, and save the poor Swiss from the fury 
 of the people ! " 
 
 The Duke bowed low, took up his hat and sword, and without 
 other arms walked out into the streets. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Passing out by the rooms belonging to the porter, instead oi 
 by the Porte Cochere, the Duke of Guise, followed by a number 
 of his officers, presented himself to the people on the steps which 
 we have already noticed. The moment he appeared, the whole 
 street rang with acclamations, a path was instantly opened for 
 him through the midst of the people, and mounting his horse he 
 rode on, the barricades opening before him, as if by magic, 
 wherever he came, and the people rending the air with acclama- 
 tions of his name. 
 
 From time to time he stopped as he went, either bending down 
 
HENRY OF GU1S-E. 287 
 
 his proud head to speak to some of those whom tie knew, or 
 addressing the general populace in the neighbourhood of the 
 different barriers, exhorting them to tranquillity, and beseech- 
 ing, commanding, and entreating them to desist from all attacks 
 upon the soldiery. His words spread like lightning from mouth 
 to mouth ; and though he went in person to several of the diffe- 
 rent points where the unequal contest was actively going on, 
 the assault upon the troops was stopped in other quarters also, 
 by the mere report of his wishes. 
 
 Thus, as it were in triumph, totally unarmed amidst the 
 armed multitude, he went ruling their furious passions, as if 
 by some all-powerful charm. The most violent, the most ex- 
 asperated, the most sullen, uttered not one word in opposition 
 to his will, and showed nothing but promptness and zeal in 
 executing his commands. Before he reached the Place deGreve 
 even, towards which his course was directed, the screams, the 
 cries, the shouts, the firing, had ceased in every part of Paris, 
 and nothing was heard throughout that wide capital but the 
 rending shouts of joy, with which the multitude accompanied 
 him on his way. 
 
 On entering the Place de Greve the Duke looked sternly up 
 at the windows of the Hotel de Ville, but did not enter the build- 
 ing. He said, however, speaking to those immediately surround- 
 ing him, " A week shall not have elapsed before we have cleared 
 that house of the vermin that infest it; and the people shall be 
 freed from those who have betrayed them." 
 
 Then dismounting from his horse, and ascending the steps lead- 
 ing to the elevated space, called the Perron of the Hotel de Ville, 
 he lifted his hat from his head for a moment, as a sign that he 
 wished to address the people. All was silent in an instant ; and 
 then were heard the full rich deep tones of that eloquent voice, 
 pouring over the heads of the multitude, and reaching the very 
 farthest parts of the square. 
 
 "My friends and fellow-citizens," he said. "You have this 
 day acquired a great and glorious victory. You have triumphed 
 over the efforts of despotic power, exerted, I am sure, not by 
 the King's own will and consent, but by the evil counsels, and 
 altogether by the evil efforts, of minions, peculators, and traitors. 
 The real merit of those who win great victories and achieve great 
 deeds, is ascertained more by the way in which they use their 
 advantages, than by the way in which those advantages have 
 been gained. Were you a mean, degraded, unthinking race of 
 men, who had been stirred up by oppression into objectless re- 
 volt, you would now content yourselves with wreaking your 
 vengeance on a few pitiable and unhappy soldiers, who in obe- 
 dience to the commands which they have received, have been 
 
288 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 cast into the midst of you, like criminals of old, given up naked 
 to a hungry lion. But you are not such people-, you have great 
 objects before you ; you know and appreciate the mighty pur- 
 poses for which you have fought and conquered ; and though 
 driven by self-defence to resist the will of the King, you are still 
 men to venerate and respect the royal authority ; and even while 
 you determine, for his sake as well as for your own, never to 
 rest satisfied till the Catholic Church is established beyond the 
 power of heretics to shake ; till the Court is freed from the mi- 
 nions and evil counsellors that infect it-, till the finances of the 
 state are collected, and administered by a just and a frugal hand ; 
 and till the whole honours, rewards, and emoluments of the 
 country are no longer piled upon one man — though you are 
 determined to seek for and obtain all this, nevertheless, I know, 
 you are not men to trench in the least upon the royal authority, 
 farther than your own security requires, or to injure the royal 
 troops whom you have conquered, when they are no longer in 
 a situation to do you wrong. You will remember, I am sure, 
 that they are our fellow-christians and our fellow-men, and you 
 will treat them accordingly. I have therefore," he said, " re- 
 quested my friends and fellow-labourers in your cause, Monsieur 
 de Brissac and Monsieur de St. Paul, to conduct hither in safe- 
 ty the French and Swiss troops from the different quarters in 
 which they have been dispersed. Their arms will be brought 
 hither by our own friends, and in the manner which we shall 
 deal with these two bodies of soldiery, I trust that we shall meet 
 still with the approbation of our brethren." 
 
 While thus speaking, the Duke of Guise had been interrupted 
 more than once by the applauses of the people, and in the end 
 loud and reiterated acclamations left no doubt that all he chose 
 to do would receive full support from those who heard him. 
 
 While he was yet speaking — according to the orders which 
 he had given as he came along — the arms of the Swiss and 
 French guards were brought in large quantities, by different 
 bodies of the citizens : some carrying them in hand-barrows, 
 some bearing them upon their shoulders ; and it was a curious 
 sight to see men and boys, and even women, loaded with mo- 
 rions, and pikes, and swords, and arquebuses, bringing them 
 forward through the crowd, and piling them up before the prince- 
 ly man who stood at the top of the steps, surrounded by many 
 of the noblest and most distinguished gentlemen in France. 
 
 This sight occupied the people for some minutes, and then a 
 cry ran through the square of " The Swiss ! the Swiss ! " The 
 announcement caused some agitation amongst the populace, and 
 some forgetting that the soldiery were disarmed, unslung their 
 carbines, or half drew their swords, as if to resist a new attack. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 280 
 
 The discomfited soldiers, however, came on in a long line, two 
 abreast, now totally disarmed, and seeming by their counte- 
 nances yet uncertain of the fate that awaited them. With some 
 difficulty a space was made for them in the Place de Greve, and 
 bring drawn up in two linos, the Duke commanded Ihem to 
 take their arms, but not their ammunition. Two by two they 
 advanced to the pile ; and each man, as far as possible, selected 
 his own, when it appeared, to use the words of the Duke of 
 Guise himself, when recounting the events of that day to Has- 
 sompiere, that there never had been such complete obedience 
 amongst so' agitated a multitude; for not one sword, morion, 
 pike, or arquebuse, of all the Swiss and French there present, 
 was found to be wanting 1 . 
 
 When all was complete, the Duke of Guise turned to the sol- 
 diery, saying in a loud and somewhat stern tone, " The people 
 of Paris considering that you have acted under the commands of 
 those you have sworn to obey, permit you for this once to re- 
 tire in safety from the perilous situation in which you have been 
 placed : but as there are points which make a considerable differ- 
 ence between the Swiss troops in the pay of France and the 
 French troops themselves, there must be a difference also in 
 their treatment. The Swiss, as foreigners, could have no mo- 
 tive or excuse for refusing to obey the commands imposed upon 
 them ; the French had to remember their duty to their country 
 and to their religion. The Swiss, therefore, we permit to march 
 out with colours flying and arms raised; the French will follow 
 them, with their arms reversed and their colours furled." 
 
 A loud shout from the people answered this announcement; 
 for throughout the course of that eventful day, the Swiss had 
 acted with moderation and discipline, whereas the licentious 
 French soldiery had during the early morning, while they thought 
 themselves in possession of the capital, displayed all the brutal 
 insolence of triumphant soldiery. 
 
 The Duke of Guise spoke a few words to Brissac and to 
 St. Paul, and those two officers put themselves at the head, 
 Brissac of the Swiss, and St. Paul of the French guards. Each 
 held a small cane in his hand, and with no other arms they led 
 the two bands from barrier to barrier through the city, till they 
 were safe within the precincts of the Louvre. 
 
 Scarcely had these two parties quitted the Place de Greve, 
 however, drawing a number of people from that spot, when 
 information was brought to the Duke, that there were still two 
 bands of soldiers in the city, one in the Cemetery of the Inno- 
 cents, and one under the Chatelet, but both threatened by the 
 people with instant destruction, 
 
 1 This extraordinary fact reminds us of days not long past. 
 
 19 
 
2«K) HENRY OF (JUISE. 
 
 " We must make our way thither quickly," said the Duke ; 
 " for, if I remember right, it is the band of Du Gas which is at 
 the Chatelet, and the people are furious against him." 
 
 He accordingly lost not a moment on the way ; but turning to 
 Bois-dauphin, who accompanied him, he said in a low tone, as 
 they went, " I would have given my left hand to stay and ex- 
 amine the interior of the Hotel de Ville, in order to punish 
 some of the traitors who, 1 know, are lurking there. Perhaps it 
 is better, however, to let them escape than that any mischief 
 should be done •, and in these popular movements, if we once 
 begin to shed blood, there is no knowing where it will end." 
 
 " I fear there is bloodshed going on at present," said Bois- 
 dauphin, hearing a shot or two fired at no great distance. 
 " They are at it under the Chatelet now." 
 
 " Hurry on ! hurry on ! " said the Duke, speaking to some of 
 those behind. " Run on fast before, and announce that I am 
 coming. Command them, in my name, to stop." 
 
 Two or three of his followers ran forward, and no more shots 
 were heard ; but scarcely two minutes after, just as the Duke had 
 passed one of the barricades, he saw two or three men hurrying 
 up to him, led by Chapelle Marteau, who approached him with no 
 slight expression of grief and apprehension in his countenance. 
 
 "• I fear I have bad news for you, my Lord," he said. 
 
 u What is it?" demanded the Duke calmly. " Such a day as 
 this could hardly pass over without some alloy." 
 
 " I fear," replied the Leaguer, " that your Highness' friend, 
 Monsieur de Logeres, is mortally wounded. He brought me 
 your signet and orders, which I immediately obeyed. We gained 
 information which led us to suppose that the persons we sought 
 for, were concealed in a house in the Rue de la Ferroniere here 
 hard by. We proceeded thither instantly and demanded ad- 
 mission 5 but they, affecting to take us for a party of soldiery, 
 fired upon us from the window, when two shots struck the 
 Count, one lodging in his shoulder, and the other passing 
 through his body. He is yet living, and I have ordered him to 
 be conveyed to the Hotel de Guise at once, where a surgeon can 
 attend upon him. Our people were breaking into the house to 
 take the murderers prisoners, when, hearing of your approach, 
 I came away to tell you the facts " 
 
 The Duke of Guise paused, and gazed sadly down upon the 
 ground, repeating the words, " Poor youth ! poor youth ! so are 
 his bright hopes cut short ! He shall be avenged at least ! Show 
 me the house, Chapelle." 
 
 And he followed rapidly upon the steps of the Leaguer, who 
 led him to a small house, with the entrance, which was through 
 a Gothic arch, sunk somewhat back from the other houses. 
 
HENRY OF (iUISE. -HJ1 
 
 There were two windows above the arch, and a window which 
 flanked it on either side ; but the followers of the young Count 
 of Logeres and of Chapelle Marteau had by this time broken 
 open the doors, and rushed into the building. 
 
 " This is part of the old priory of the Augustins," said the 
 Duke of Guise as they came up. "They exchanged it some 
 fifty years ago for their house further down. But there are two 
 or three back ways out, I know 5 and if you have not put a guard 
 there, they have escaped you." 
 
 It proved as the Duke anticipated. The house was found 
 completely vacant, and though strict orders were sent to all the 
 different gates to suffer no one to pass out without close exami- 
 nation, either the order came too late, or those against whom it 
 was levelled proved too politic for the guards ; for none of those 
 whom the Duke of Guise wished to secure, except Pereuse, 
 the Prevol des Marchands, were taken in the attempt to escape. 
 
 The shots, the sound of which, Guise had heard, proved to 
 be those which had struck the unfortunate Count de Logeres, 
 and no difficulty was found in inducing the people who sur- 
 rounded the soldiery near the Chatelet, to suffer them to depart, 
 as their companions had done. 
 
 On entering the Cemetery of the Innocents, however, the 
 Duke instantly saw that the danger of the troops was greater-, 
 for, shut up within those walls, together with the Swiss, he found 
 the famous Baron de Biron and Pomponne de Bellievre, while 
 the people without were loudly clamouring for their blood. They 
 both advanced towards him as soon as he appeared •, and the 
 Duke, gazing around him, said with a sigh, " Alas, Monsieur 
 de Biron ! those who stirred up this fire should have been able 
 to extinguish it." 
 
 " I say so, too, my Lord," replied Biron sadly. " Evil be to 
 those who gave the counsel that has been followed. God knows 
 I opposed it to the utmost of my power, and only obeyed the 
 King's absolute commands in bringing these poor fellows hi- 
 ther, who, I fear, will never be suffered to pass out as they 
 came." 
 
 " For the soldiery I have no fear," replied the Duke, " and 
 as for you, gentlemen, I must do the best that I can. But the 
 people look upon you as partially authors of the evil, and they 
 will not be easily satisfied." 
 
 The Duke of Guise, however, succeeded, though not without 
 difficulty, in his purpose of saving all. The people yielded to 
 him, but for the first time showed some degree of resistance-, 
 and he returned to the Hotel de Guise feeling more sensibly, 
 from that little incident, the truth of the warning which Catha- 
 rine de Medici had given him, regarding the instability of popu- 
 
292 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 larity, than from all the arguments or examples that reason or 
 history could produce. 
 
 We may easily imagine the reception of the Duke in his own 
 dwelling : the joy, the congratulations, the inquiries-, and we 
 may imagine, also, the passing of that busy night, while mes- 
 sengers were coming to and fro at. every instant, and couriers 
 were dispatched from the Hotel de Guise to almost every part 
 of France. 
 
 Henry of Guise was well aware, that whatever deference and 
 humility he might assume in his words towards the Ring, or 
 whatever testimonies of forgiveness and affection Henry might 
 offer to him, his own safety now, for the rest of his life, depended 
 on his power, and that his armour must be the apprehensions 
 of the King, rather than his regard. 
 
 Up to a very late hour, notwithstanding all the fatigues and 
 agitations of the day, he sat with his secretary Pericard, writing 
 letters to all his different friends in various parts of the country, 
 demanding their immediate assistance and support, even while 
 he expressed the most devoted attachment to the Ring ; and 
 thus, in the letter we have already cited to Bassompiere, he 
 makes use of such expressions as the following :— 
 
 " Thus it is necessary that you should make a journey here 
 to see your friends, whom you will not find, thank God ! either 
 wanting in means or resolution. We must have good intelli- 
 gence from Germany, however, that we be not taken by sur- 
 prise. We are not without forces, courage, friends, nor means ; 
 but still less without honour, or respect and fidelity to the Ring^ 
 which we will preserve inviolably, doing our duty, as people 
 of worth, of honour, and as good Catholics." 
 
 It was about twelve o'clock at night, when Reignaut, the 
 surgeon, entered the cabinet of the Duke, and bowing low said, 
 "I come, according to your Highness's order, to tell you the 
 state of the young Count of Logeres. Soon after I saw you 
 about six to-day, we extracted both balls. He bore the ope- 
 ration well, and has slept since for several hours." 
 
 " Is he sleeping still ? " demanded the Duke. 
 
 " No," replied the surgeon. " He awoke about a quarter of 
 an hour ago, and seems anxious to see your Highness. He 
 questioned me closely as to his state, when I told him the truth." 
 
 " You did right, you did right," replied the Duke. " He is 
 one that can bear it. What is your real opinion, Reignaut, in 
 regard to the result?" 
 
 "lean hardly tell your Highness," replied the surgeon. "Two 
 or three days more are necessary, before we can judge. The 
 wound in the shoulder is not dangerous, though the most 
 painful. The shot which passed through his body, and lodged 
 
HImNRY OF GDISE. -2<X\ 
 
 in the back, is one which we generally consider mortal^ but 
 
 then, in ordinary cases, death either takes place almost imme- 
 diately, or indications of such a result are seen in an hour 
 or two, as to leave no further doubt on the subject. No suCh 
 indications have appeared here, and it may have happened that 
 the ball has passed through without touching any vital part. 
 We must remember, also," he continued, " that the wound 
 was received when the moon was in her first quarter, which 
 is, of course, very favourable ; and we shall also, if there be any 
 chance of life being saved, have made some progress towards 
 recovery before any crisis is brought on by the moon reaching 
 the full." 
 
 The Duke listened attentively, for though such things may 
 appear to us, in the present day, mere foolishness, that was 
 not the case two centuries and a half ago, and the power of 
 the moon, in affecting the wounded or sick, was never ques- 
 tioned. " Stay, Reignaut," said the Duke, " I will go with you, 
 and see this good youth. I love him much ; there is a frankness 
 in his nature that wins upon the heart. Besides, he has saved 
 my life, and has come to my aid on all occasions, as if there 
 were a fate in it ; and I believe, moreover, that he loves me per- 
 sonally as much — nay, perhaps more, than any of my own fa- 
 mily and relations." 
 
 Thus saying the Duke rose, and, followed by Reignaut, 
 passed through the door of his cabinet into the anteroom. His 
 pages instantly presented themselves to light him on his way, 
 and traversing some of the long corridors of the vast building 
 he inhabited, he reached the chamber where his unhappy friend 
 lay stretched upon the bed of pain and sickness. The boy Ignati 
 sat beside him, tending him with care and affection; and at the 
 foot of the bed, with his arms crossed upon his chest, stood his 
 faithful servant Gondrin, with tears in his eyes. 
 
 The Duke seated himself by the young Count, and remained 
 with him for nearly an hour ; and knowing well what effect the 
 mind has upon the body, spoke to him cheerfully and hope- 
 fully of the time to come, talked of his recovered health as a 
 thing certain, and mentioned his union with Marie de Clairvaut 
 as beyond all doubt. 
 
 " It is upon that subject, my Lord," said the young gentle- 
 man, " that I wished particularly to speak with your Highness. 
 I have not had either time or opportunity of telling you all 
 that has occurred since I left you at Soissons. But from all 1 
 have heard, I now judge better in regard to the situation of 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut than even you can. Nay, Monsieur 
 Reignaut, I must speak a few words, but I will be as brief and 
 as prudent as possible. In this business, my Lord, suspect not 
 
294 HENRY OF GUSE. 
 
 the Queen. It is not in her hands that Mademoiselle de Clair- 
 vaut will be found. Neither is she with Villequier, depend upon 
 it ; nor in the power of the King. I grieve to say it, but I feel 
 sure my own brother has something to do with the events of 
 this day as far as they affect her so dear to me." 
 
 " But you surely do not think." exclaimed the Duke, " that 
 it is your brother's hand which inflicted these wounds upon you! " 
 
 " The ball would be poisoned, indeed, my Lord," replied 
 Charles of Montsoreau, " if I did believe such to be the case. 
 But I trust it is not so ; most sincerely do I trust — ay, and 
 believe— it is not so. There is another hand, my Lord Duke; 
 and not long ago I could as well have believed that my own 
 father's would have been raised against me as the one of which I 
 speak. But still there is another hand, my Lord, which — actuated 
 by motives dark and evil — I believe to have been raised against 
 my life. That hand is in general unerring in its aim ; and the 
 moment before the shot was fired, I saw the calm cold features 
 which I know so well, at the window just above me." 
 
 " But whose is the hand? " exclaimed the Duke. " Whose are 
 the features that you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean those of the Abbe de Boisguerin, my Lord," replied 
 the Count 5 " and to him, to him, I think, your Highness must 
 look even rather than to my brother. I believe Gaspar but to be 
 a lool in his hands, and that he uses him for his own dark and 
 criminal designs." 
 
 " Have I not heard you say he was your tutor? " demanded 
 the Duke. " What then are his motives? what can be his in- 
 ducements?" 
 
 " Love, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. " I have 
 the word of that sweet girl for his having dared to use words 
 towards her, for which he deserves and must meet with punish- 
 ment. Him I would point out to your Highness as the person to 
 be watched, and sought for, and made to account for all his ac- 
 tions j for, depend upon it, his are the machinations which are 
 ruling these events." 
 
 "He shall not be forgotten! " replied the Duke. " He shall 
 not be forgotten ! But now, Logeres, speak no more, except 
 indeed only to answer me one queslion, I have heard that the 
 county of Morly has lately fallen to you by the death of the old 
 Count. These, with the estates of Logeres, if properly conducted, 
 may afford me great assistance. You are incapable for the time 
 of directing them at all. Do you authorise me to fill your post, 
 and give orders in your name till you are belter? " 
 
 " Most willingly, my Lord," replied Charles of Montsoreau. 
 "I had already thought of it. But your Highness talks of my 
 becoming better : I have thought of that matter too, but in a 
 
KERRY OF GUlSt:. SO.') 
 
 different light; and considering what may take place in case of 
 my own death, I have requested Monsieur Reignaut here to 
 cause a will to be drawn up, leaving the whole that I possess to 
 the person whom I love best on earth, with your Highness for 
 her guardian. There are a few gifts bestowed on those that love 
 
 me, and a provision for all old servants : but " 
 
 " But it will not be wanted, Logcres," said the Duke, press- 
 ing his hand. "I see it in your eye; I hear it in the tone of 
 your voice. You will recover and strike by my side yet — per- 
 haps, in many a well-fought field. Silence and perfect quiet, I 
 know, are Monsieur Reignaut's best medicines; but I shall 
 come to you, from time to lime, when I have got any pleasant 
 tidings to bear." 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 We must now pass over a considerable lapse of lime without 
 taking any note of the political intrigues with which it was oc- 
 cupied, and lead the reader at once from the month of May to 
 the end of summer, and from the city of Paris lo the distant 
 town of Angouleme. 
 
 Under the high hill on which that city stands, at the distance 
 of about a league from the base, was in those days a beautiful 
 park with a pavilion of four towers ; and in one of these towers, 
 on a fine summer day towards the end of July, sat the young 
 Marquis of Montsoreau together with the Abbe de Eoisguerin : 
 not exactly in conversation, for the Marquis had not spoken a 
 word for nearly an hour ; but in dull companionship. 
 
 The young nobleman's back was turned towards the light, 
 his eyes were bent down upon the ground, his head drooped 
 forward in a desponding attitude, the nostril was painfully ex- 
 panded, as if he drew his breath with difficulty, and the teeth 
 were tight shut, as it were to keep down some struggling 
 emotions that swelled for utterance. An open letter lay upon 
 the table, and another much more closely written, and written 
 in cypher, was in the hand of the Abbe de Boisguerin. The 
 Abbe's brow too was a good deal contracted, and his lip was 
 somewhat pale, though it quivered not ; but from time to time 
 he addressed the young nobleman with words of consolation, 
 regarding some afflicting tidings just received. 
 
 Those words, however, though well chosen, appropriate and 
 elegant, were not of the words that console, for they were not 
 of the heart. He reasoned logically on the inutility of human 
 
296 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 grief, and still more on the vanity of regretting that which could 
 not be recalled. He spoke lightly of all deep feelings for any 
 earthly thing, and he talked of every deed upon the face of the 
 earth being justified by the importance of the objects to be ob- 
 tained. 
 
 When he had talked thus for some time without obtaining 
 any answer, he was going on to justify the past ; but Gaspar de 
 Montsoreau suddenly started up, and interrupted him with a 
 vehemence which he had never displayed before. 
 
 " AbbedeBoisguerin," he said, "talk not to me of consolation 
 and of comfort. Is not my brother dead? Is not my brother 
 dead, killed by my own hand? Can you tear that from the book 
 of fate? Can you blot it out from memory? Can you rase it for 
 ever from the records of crimes done ! Can you find me a pillow 
 on all. the earth, where I can lay my head in peace ?" 
 
 " Your brother, indeed, is dead, " said the Abbe de Boisgue- 
 rin, without in the least degree trying to relieve the mind of his 
 young companion from the crime with which conscience 
 charged him. " Your brother, indeed, is dead ; and it is not to 
 be denied that your hand, my dear Gaspar, took his life; but 
 yet you were in a city where war was actually going on between 
 two parties, one of which you served, and the other your 
 brother. These things have happened every day in civil wars, 
 and always will happen. They are to be grieved at, but who 
 can help them?" 
 
 " But I was engaged in no civil wars," exclaimed the young 
 Marquis. " My men were at the Louvre. I was not fighting on 
 the part of the Ring : I was not engaged in trampling down the 
 people. But what was 1 busied with, Abbe de Boisguerin ? I was 
 engaged in a scheme for carrying off — from him she loved, and 
 from those who had a right to protect her — one whom I had 
 no title to control, whom I was bound by honour to guard and 
 to defend. I was injuring her; I was preparing to injure her. 
 If 1 had not lied to her myself, I had caused her to be deceived 
 and lied to ; and all that I had previously done made the act 
 itself which I had committed, but the more hateful. Speak not 
 to me of consolation, Abbe; speak not to me of hope or comfort. 
 You of all men, do not venture to mention to me a word like 
 happiness or confidence." 
 
 ' ; And why not, my Lord?" demanded the Abbe somewhat 
 sternly. " "What have I done to merit reproach in the matter? " 
 
 " Has it not been you that have prompted me throughout? " 
 demanded the Marquis. " Was it not you who devised the 
 scheme, prepared the means, got possession of the Queer's letter 
 by corrupting her servants. Was it not your tool, that, upon 
 pretence of assisting her to the other gates of the hotel, got her 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 297 
 
 into our power; and was it not you, when her prayers and 
 entreaties and agitation would have made me yield— was it not 
 
 you that resisted, and remorselessly bade the men carry her on ? 
 J)id you not yourself stand by me when the shot was lired ; and 
 was it not your warning, that disgrace and death must follow 
 hesitation, which winged the ball that took my brother's life?" 
 
 " It is all true, Caspar," replied the Abbe de Boisguerin in a 
 sad but no longer a harsh tone. " It is all true 5 and from you I 
 meet the reward, which all men will meet and well deserve who 
 love others 'better than themselves, and who do for them things 
 that they would not do for themselves. ^Nevertheless, I still think 
 that there was not that evil on our side with which you seem to 
 reproach yourself. Shocked and mourning for your brother's 
 death, you see all things in dark and gloomy colours. Those 
 things which you regarded before as light, have now become to 
 you heavy and sombre as night. But all this is but mood, and 
 let me call to your remembrance what sense and reason say. 
 You and your brother loved the same person, — you vehemently, 
 warmly, devotedly ; he coldly, and by halves. You, as the elder 
 brother and as lord of the dwelling in which she was received, 
 had, if any thing, the first claim upon her ; and he himself ren- 
 dered that claim still greater by leaving her entirely to you, and 
 absenting himself from her. You had every right, therefore, to 
 seek her hand by all means ; and when you found that, though 
 he affected generous forbearance, he had gone covertly to fore- 
 stall your demand, and gain the promise of her hand from her 
 guardian, surely you were bound to keep no measures with 
 him. All I did subsequently was to serve you in a cause that I 
 thought was right, and it is but a few days ago that you were 
 grateful to me for so doing. I said at the time, and I say again, 
 that if at the moment when your brother commenced his attack 
 upon the house in the Rue de la Ferromere, either you or I had 
 been taken, death and eternal disgrace would have been the con- 
 sequence. We acted but in our own defence, and those who 
 assailed us cannot accuse us for so acting." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him in sullen silence, his dark 
 eyes rolling from side to side beneath his heavy eyebrows. In 
 his dealings with the Abbe de Boisguerin he had by this time 
 learned fully how artful and politic was the man who led him. 
 He saw it, and he could not doubt it, even while he shared in 
 the things at which his better spirit revolted. But that ver\ 
 knowledge taught him to doubt, whether the art and the po- 
 licy were used for his service, and out of affection to him, 01 
 whether they were all directed in some secret way to the benelil 
 of him who wielded them so dexterously. The suspicious which 
 Villequier had instilled rose fresh in his mind at this very lime, 
 
298 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 and as his only answer to the Abbe's reasonings, he demanded 
 with a keen glance and a sharp tone, " Tell me, Abbe, was it, 
 or was it not, you who brought the reiters upon us, and who 
 gave the King's forces notice of our passage?" 
 
 "I did the one, but not the other," replied the Abbe calmly. 
 "I dealt not with the reiters, Gasparde Montsoreau, for that 
 would have been dangerous to me, to her, and to you. But I did 
 inform the troops of Ihe King, because I already had learned 
 how deeply the Duke of Guise was pledged to your brother ; 
 because I knew that no reasoning would prevent either you or 
 this fair girl from going on to Soissons ; and because I saw that 
 there was no earthly chance of your obtaining her hand, but by 
 placing her under the charge of her father's nearest male rela- 
 tion, from whom the Duke of Guise unjustly withholds the guar 
 dianship. I own it, I acknowledge it, I am proud of it. " 
 
 The way in which the Abbe replied was not such as Gaspar 
 de Montsoreau had expected ; but dissatisfied with himself, and 
 of course with every thing else, Gaspar de Montsoreau still gazed 
 sullenly on the floor, and then raised his eyes to the open win- 
 dow of the pavilion, where the warm sun was seen streaming 
 through the green vines, with the birds still singing sweetly in 
 the woods without. But it was all to him as the face of Eden to 
 our first parents after the fall : a shade seemed to come over his 
 eyes when he looked upon the loveliness of nature •, the very 
 sunshine seemed to him darkness ; and the fair world a desert. 
 
 " Can you give me back my delight in that sunshine ?" he said, 
 after a pause. " Can you make the notes of those birds again 
 sound sweet to my ear? Can you remove the heavy, heavy bur- 
 den of remorse from this heart ? Can you ever, ever prove to me, 
 that for this unrequited love I have not made myself a guilty 
 wretch, bearing the sign of Cain upon his brow, the curse of 
 Cain within his bosom?" 
 
 "If such be your feelings," replied the Abbe, "if such — 
 contrary to all justice and reason — is the state in which your 
 mind is to remain, there is one way that will alleviate and soothe 
 you, that may seem in your eyes some atonement, and put your 
 conscience more at rest. Cast off this love which you believe has 
 led you into evil, yield the pursuit of this fair girl, renounce the 
 object for which you did that whereof your heart reproaches 
 you, and by that voluntary punishment and self-command, do 
 penance for aught in which you may have failed. Doubtless, that 
 penance will be severe and terrible to endure ; but the more it is 
 so, the greater is the atonement." 
 
 The Marquis gazed him in the face thoughtfully while the 
 Abbe spoke, and then fell into a long reverie. His brow was 
 raised and depressed, his teeth gnawed his nether lip, his hand 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 200 
 
 clenched and opened with thcslrugglo that was going on wilhin, 
 and at length, stamping his heel upon the ground, he exclaimed, 
 "No, no, no! I have paid a mighty price, and I will save the 
 jewel that I have nought with my soul's salvation ! That fiery 
 love is the only thing now left me upon earth. — She shall he 
 mine, or I will die! What is there that shall stop me now? 
 What is there that shall hinder me? Have I not wealth, and 
 power, and courage, and strength, and daring, and determina- 
 tion? The ,fear of crime ! the fear of crime ! that weak barrier is 
 cast down and trampled under my feet. Have I not broken the 
 nearest and the dearest ties of kindred and affection, murdered 
 the brother that hung on the same breast, dimmed the eyes that 
 looked upon me in infancy, frozen the warm heart that was 
 cradled in the same womb with mine? — Out upon it! What is 
 there should stop me now? The lesser crimes of earth, the 
 smaller violences, seem ground into unseen dust by this greater 
 crime. Abbe, I will buy her of Villequier!-— I know how to win 
 him ! — I will force her to love me, or she shall hate her husband! 
 What is there shall stop me now? I will buy the priest as well 
 as the ring, or the wedding garment ; and she shall be mine, 
 whether her heart be mine or not !" 
 
 While he spoke the Abbe de Boisguerin gazed upon him with 
 one of his calm dark smiles; but upon the present occasion that 
 smile upon the lip was at variance with a slight frown upon his 
 brow. He replied little, however, saying merely, " It is so, 
 Caspar! It is so, that men seek to enjoy the fruit, and yet 
 regret the means. They will never find happiness thus how- 
 ever." 
 
 " Happiness!" exclaimed the Marquis, with a look of agony 
 upon his face. " Is there such a thing as happiness? Oh yes, 
 there is, and 1 once knew it, when together with that brother 
 who is now no more, and you also, my friend, undisturbed by 
 stormy passions, content with that I had, blessed with the only 
 friendship and affection that was needful to content, I passed 
 the sunny hours in sport and joy, and scarcely knew the common 
 pains incident to man's general nature. And you have aided to 
 destroy this state, and you have helped to drive me forth from 
 happiness, to blot it out so entirely, that I could almost forget 
 it ever existed." 
 
 " No, no, Gaspar of Montsoreau ! " exclaimed the Abbe 
 quickly, " I have not done any of these things you talk of. I 
 have not aided in any one degree to take from you the happiness 
 you formerly had. There is but one secret for the preservation 
 of happiness, Gaspar. It matters not what is the object of 
 desire, for any thing that we thirst for really may give us hap- 
 piness in nearly the same portion as another. Happiness is 
 
300 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 gained by the right estimation of the means. If a man ever uses 
 means that he regrets, to obtain any object that lie desires, he 
 loses the double happiness which may be obtained in life, the 
 happiness of pursuit and the happiness of enjoyment. Every 
 means must, of course, be proportioned to its end ; where 
 much is to be won, much must be risked or paid : but the firm 
 strong mind, the powerful understanding, weighs the object 
 against the price 5 and, if it be worthy, whatever that price may 
 be, after it is once paid and the object attained regrets not the 
 payment. It is like an idle child who covets a gilt toy, spoils 
 it in half an hour, and then regrets the money it has cost, ever 
 to sorrow over means we have used, when those means have 
 proved successful. Say not, Caspar, that I disturbed your hap- 
 piness! While you were in your own lands, enjoying the calm 
 pleasures of a provincial life, knowing no joys, seeking no plea- 
 sures but those which, like light winds that ruffle the surface 
 and plough not up the bosom of the water, amuse the mind 
 but never agitate the heart, I lived contented and happy amongst 
 you, believing that, but once or twice at most in the life of man, 
 a joy is set before him, which is worthy of being bartered against 
 amusement. I joined in all your sports, I furnished you with 
 new sources of the same calm pleasures ; and as long as I saw 
 the passions were shut out, I sought no change for myself or for 
 you either. But when the moment came, that strong and deep 
 passions were to be introduced ; when I saw that your heart, 
 and that of your brother, like the moulded figure by the demigod, 
 had been touched with the ethereal fire and woke from slumber 
 never to sleep again, then it was but befitting that I should aid 
 him who confided in me, in the pursuit that he was now destined 
 to follow. If the object was a great and worthy one, the means 
 to obtain it were necessarily powerful and hazardous. No man 
 ought to yield his repose for any thing that is not worth all 
 risks; but having once begun the course, he must go on; and 
 weak and idle is he who cannot overleap the barriers that he 
 meets with, or, when the race is won, turns to regret this flower 
 or that which he may have trampled down in his course." 
 
 " You are harsh, Abbe," replied the Marquis thoughtfully, 
 somewhat shaken by his words — for though the wounds of 
 remorse admit no balm, they are sometimes forgotten in strong 
 excitement. " You are harsh, but yet it is a terrible thing to 
 have slain one's brother." 
 
 " It is," replied the Abbe-, " but circumstances give the value 
 of every fact. It is a terrible thing to slay any human being; to 
 take the life of a creature, full of the same high intelligences as 
 ourselves : but if I slay that man in a room, and for no purpose, 
 it is called murder; if 1 slay him in a battle-field, in order (o 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 301 
 
 obtain a crown, il is a glorious act, and worthy of immortal 
 renown." 
 
 The Marquis listened to his sophistry, eager to take any 
 theme of consolation to his heart. Hut any one who heard him, 
 would have supposed that the Abbe de Boisguerin thought his 
 companion too easily consoled. Perhaps it might he that the 
 Abbe himself sought to defend his share in the transaction, 
 rather than to give any comfort to his unhappy cousin. At all 
 events, after a brief pause, during which both fell into thought, 
 he added, ',' What I grieve the most for is, that Charles was 
 kind-hearted and generous, frank and true, and I believe sin- 
 cerely that, but for this unhappy business, he loved us both." 
 
 " Ay, there is the horror! there is the horror! " exclaimed the 
 Marquis, casting himself down into a chair, and covering his 
 eyes with his hands. " Fie did love me, I know he did ; and I 
 believe he sought to act generously by me." 
 
 The Abbe suffered him to indulge in his grief for a moment or 
 two, and then replied, "But the misfortune is, that, with all 
 this, your object is not yet secured-, that though you have once 
 more snatched her from the pow r er of the Guises, you have not 
 contrived to keep her in your own." 
 
 The Marquis waved his hand impatiently, saying, "I cannot 
 — I will not talk of such things now. Leave me, Abbe, leave 
 me! I can but grieve ; there is no way that 1 can turn without 
 encountering sorrow." 
 
 The Abbe turned and left him ; and descending the steps into 
 the gardens, he walked on in the calm sunshine, as tranquilly as 
 if purity and holiness had dwelt within his breast. " J must bear 
 this yet a while longer," he said to himself. "But now, if I 
 could find some enthusiastic priest, full of wild eloquence, such 
 as we have in Italy, to seize this deep moment of remorse, we 
 might do much with him to make him abjure this pursuit-, per- 
 haps abjure the world! The foolish boy thinks that it was his 
 hand that did it, and does not know that I iired at all, when his 
 hand shook so that he could not well have struck him. Perhaps 
 there may be such a priest as I need up there," he continued, 
 looking towards Angouleme, " perhaps there may be such a 
 priest up there, of the kind I want. Epernon has his fits of de- 
 votion too, I believe. At all events. I will go up and see. The 
 madder the better for my purpose." 
 
 Thus saying he called some servants, ordered his horse, and. 
 as soon as it was brought, rode away towards Angoul6me. 
 
302 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau remained in the same position in 
 which the Abbe had left him for nearly an hour, and the struggle 
 of the various passions which agitated his heart, were perhaps 
 as terrible as any that had ever been known to human being. 
 His situation, indeed, was one which exposed him more than 
 most men are ever exposed, to the contention of the most op- 
 posite feelings. He had not been led gradually on, as many are, 
 step by step, to evil ; but he had been taken from the midst of 
 warm and kindly feelings, from the practice of right, and an 
 habitual course of calm and tranquil enjoyment, and by the 
 mastery of one strong and violent passion had been plunged 
 into the midst of crimes which had left anguish and remorse 
 behind them. 
 
 Still, however, the passion which had at first led him astray, 
 existed in all its fierceness and all its intensity 5 and, like some 
 quiet field — from which the husbandman has been accustomed 
 to gather yearly, in the calm sunshine, a rich and kindly harvest 
 —when suddenly made the place of strife by contending armies, 
 his heart, so tranquil and so happy not a year before, had now 
 become the battle-place of remorse and love. 
 
 Sometimes the words of the Abbe came back upon his ear, 
 urging him to abandon for ever, as a penance for his crime, the 
 pursuit which had already led him to such awful deeds ; but 
 then again the thought of Marie de Clairvaut, of never behold- 
 ing that beautiful being again, of yielding her for ever, perhaps, 
 to the arms of others, came across his brain, and almost drove 
 him mad. 
 
 Then would rush remorse again upon his heart, the features 
 of his brother rose up before him, his graceful form seemed to 
 move within his sight; the frank warm-hearted, kindly smile, 
 that had ever greeted him when they met, was now painted by 
 memory to his eye-, and many a trait of generous kindness, 
 many a noble, many an endearing act, the words and jests of 
 boyhood and infancy, the long remembered sports of early 
 years, the accidents, the adventures, the tender and twining as- 
 sociations of youth and happiness, forgotten in the strife of 
 passion and the contention of rivalry, now came back, as vi- 
 vidly as the things of yesterday — came back, alas! now that 
 death had ended the struggle, rendered the deeds of the past ir- 
 reparable, thrown the pall of remorse over the last few months, 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. .'J03 
 
 and left memory alone to deck the tomb of the dead with bright 
 flowers gathered from their spring of life. 
 
 It was too much to bear : he turned back again to the words, 
 not of consolation but of incitement, which the Abbe had spoken 
 to him. He tried to think it was folly to regret what had been 
 done ; he tried to recollect that it was in a scene of contention, 
 and in moments of strife, that his brother had fallen; he strove 
 to persuade himself that Marie de Clairvaut had been under his 
 care and guidance and direction, and that his brother Charles 
 had had no right even to attempt to take her out of his hands. 
 He laboured; in short, to steel his heart; to render it as hard 
 iron, in order to resist the things that it had to endure. He 
 sought anxiously to rouse it into activity •, and he tried to fix his 
 mind still upon the thoughts of winning Marie de Clairvaut. 
 He resolved, at whatever price, by whatever sacrifice, to gain 
 her, to possess her, to make her his own beyond recall : with 
 the eagerness of passion and the recklessness of remorse, he de- 
 termined to pursue his course, trusting, as many have idly 
 trusted, that he should induce the woman, whose affections and 
 feelings he forced, to love the man to whose passions she was 
 made a sacrifice. 
 
 The struggle was still going on, the voice of conscience was 
 raising itself loudly from time to time, memory was doing her 
 work, and passion was opposing all, when, without hearing any 
 step, or knowing that any one had arrived at the house, he felt 
 a hand quietly laid upon his arm, and starting up with a feeling 
 almost of terror, which was unusual to him, he beheld the 
 dark and sinister, though handsome, countenance of Yillequier. 
 
 The courtier grasped his hand with enthusiastic warmth, 
 and gazed in his face with a look of deep interest. "You are 
 sad, Monsieur de Montsoreau," he said ; "1 grieve to see you 
 so sad. I fear that the news which I came to break to you has 
 been told you, perhaps, in a rash and inconsiderate manner. 
 You are aware then that your brother is no more. I hoped to 
 have been in time, for I only heard it the day before yesterday, 
 in the evening, from the Duke of Guise, who is now with the 
 King, and, as you know, all powerful." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau heard him to an end, and then merely 
 bowed his head, saying, "I have heard all, Monsieur de Yille- 
 quier." But although he saw that his companion— who had 
 more than once witnessed the fierceness of his feelings towards 
 his brother regarding Mademoiselle de Clairvaut— was surprised 
 at the deep grief he now betrayed, he dared not let him know 
 how much that grief was aggravated by remorse, from the be- 
 lief that his own hand had cut the thread of his brother's life. 
 
 "I am sorry, Monsieur de Montsoreau," added Yillequier, 
 
304 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " to see you so deeply affected by this matter. Pray remember, 
 that though Monsieur de Logeres was your brother, he was 
 struggling with you for the hand of the person you love, and 
 that his being now removed, renders your hope of obtaining the 
 hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut no longer doubtful and re- 
 mote, but certain and almost immediate." 
 
 "I see not the matter in the same cheering light that you do, 
 Monsieur de Villequier," replied Caspar de Monlsoreau thought- 
 fully. u You say, and I hear also that it is so, that the Duke of 
 Guise is now all powerful with the King ; if such be the case, 
 what results have we to anticipate? Do you think that the Duke 
 of Guise will ever consent to the union of his ward with me ? 
 Do you think that, prejudging the question as he has already- 
 done, he will give me the bride that he promised to my brother"? 
 Have I not heard from those who were present, that he has 
 sworn by all he holds sacred, that never, under any circum- 
 stances, should she be mine ? " 
 
 "The Duke of Guise is not immortal," replied Villequier 
 drily 5 "and his death leaves her wholly in my power. Should 
 such an event not take place, however, and the period of her 
 attaining free agency approach, we must risk a little should need 
 be, and employ a certain degree of gentle compulsion to drive 
 or lead her to that which we desire." 
 
 " When will it be?" demanded Gaspar of Montsoreau. 
 " Whv should we pause? why should we risk any thing by 
 delay?" 
 
 " She becomes a free agent by the law," replied Villequier, 
 " on the morrow of next Christmas. If that day passes, it is 
 true, prayers and supplications will be all that can be used, for 
 the Parliament will extend its protection to her, and not the 
 King himself can force her to wed any one she does not choose. 
 Before that period her guardian can, for such is the feudal law 
 of this realm, that she can be forced either to resign her lands 
 or produce some one in her stead to lead her retainers in the 
 King's service. The law has been somewhat stretched, it is 
 true-, but on more than one occasion, with the consent of the 
 King, the guardian of a young lady difficult to please, has com- 
 pelled her to make a choice, and the Parliament has sanctioned 
 the act." 
 
 "Are you not her lawful guardian, then?" demanded the 
 young Marquis, " that you should hesitate, in hopes of the 
 Duke of Guise's death." 
 
 " I maintain that I am her guardian," replied Villequier, 
 " and my suit is before the Parliament; but 1 should be much 
 more certainly her guardian, if the Duke of Guise were dead." 
 
 " The Duke of Guise dead ! " said Gaspar de Montsoreau sul- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 305 
 
 ienly. " A thing improbable, unlikely, not to be counted upon. 
 11 that be all my hold upon you, Monsieur do Villequicr, the 
 hopes that you have held out. to me are but slight in':fabric and 
 foundation." 
 
 "Hear me, my good young friend," replied Villequicr. " They 
 are not so slight as you imagine. In the first place, wo have for 
 some time held in France that rash and troublesome persons 
 who oppose our progress, or thwart our desires, are to be en- 
 countered for a certain time by the arts of policy and by every 
 soft and quiet inducement we may hold out to them. When we 
 have been patient as long as possible, and find that they are not 
 to be frustrated by any ordinary means, it becomes necessary to 
 put a stop to their opposition, and to remove them from ^e way 
 in which we are proceeding. Now, the Duke of Guise I sheen 
 very busily teaching a number of persons, both high ,* d low, 
 that his prolonged life would be extremely inconvenient to 
 them. Biron does not love him, D'Aumont abominates him, 
 D'O. has good cause to wish him a step beyond Jerusalem ; 
 Henry of Navarre has in him a bitter enemy; the rash, vain, 
 Count of Soissons an obstacle and a stumbling-block 5 and 
 though I am his humble servant, and the King his very good 
 friend, yet both Henry and myself could do quite as well with- 
 out him. Besides these, there are at least ten thousand more in 
 France who would walk with their beavers far more gallantly, 
 if there were a Guise the less in the world ; so that I say, on 
 very probable reasoning, that I would fully as soon reckon upon 
 the life of a man of eighty, as I would upon the robust, powerful 
 existence of Henry of Guise even for an hour. But putting all 
 that aside, Monsieur de Montsoreau, taking it for granted that 
 he lives, what can I do but what I propose? You have the King's 
 promise and mine in writing 5 we can do no more. The cause 
 is before the Parliament, and Henry, restrained in his own 
 court, at war with his own subjects, and driven from his own 
 capital, depend upon it, will never sign your contract of mar- 
 riage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut till every other hope has 
 failed ; ay, and what is more, till he sees before him a very very 
 great object to be gained by so doing." 
 
 " A fresh object you mean, Monsieur de Villequier," replied 
 Caspar de Montsoreau. " J know that this is the way in which 
 kings and statesmen deal with men less wise than tbemselvcs. 
 There must be always one object secured to obtain the promise, 
 and another to obtain the performance. Pray, what is. the new 
 object, Monsieur de Villequier? and is it sure, that if an object 
 be held out of sufficient worth and importance, the King will not 
 find some specious reason for drawing back, or that some new 
 irresistible obstacle docs not present itself? " 
 
 20 
 
&QtJ HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 "Consider the King's situation, Monsieur de Montsoreau," 
 replied Villequier, " with the Duke of Guise constantly at his 
 side, dictating to him all his movements, with the question of 
 guardianship even now lying before the Parliament, he would 
 run the very greatest risk at this moment if he were to do as we 
 both wish, and forcibly hurry on this business to a conclusion. 
 But the aspect of affairs is changing every day,— the Count of 
 Soissons has come to join him ; Henry of Navarre himself has 
 sent him offers of assistance and support 5 Epernon, roused into 
 activity, is levying forces in all parts of the country 5 every day 
 the King may expect to make some way against the party of his 
 adversaries ; and therefore every day is something gained. But 
 even were it not so very hazardous to attempt any thing of the 
 kind at present, you could not expect the King to risk much, 
 and embarrass his policy for your sake, without some individual 
 motive. That this business should take place, is your strong and 
 intense desire. It is very natural that it should be so ; but neither 
 the King nor myself have any such feelings, passions, or wishes. 
 Let us each have our advantage, or our gratification, in that 
 which is to ensue, and I will undertake, and pledge myself in 
 the most solemn manner, that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut shall 
 be your wife before next Christmas-day." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau paused, and thought carefully overall 
 that had been said. " I thank you, Monsieur de Villequier," he 
 said, " for speaking freely in this matter. Let us cast away all 
 idle delicacy. Things have happened to me lately which have 
 taught me to hold all such empty verbiage at naught. Let us 
 look upon this business as a matter of dealing, a matter of 
 merchandise." 
 
 "Exactly!" replied Villequier raising his eyes slightly, but 
 not seeming in the least degree offended. " Let us consider it 
 in such a light. Every matter of policy is but trade upon a large 
 scale." 
 
 " Well then," continued Gaspar de Montsoreau in the same 
 bold tone, "I will look upon you and the King, Monsieur de 
 Villequier, as two partners in a mercantile house. Now, what 
 sort of merchandise is it that you would prefer to have in barter 
 lor your signature to my marriage contract with this young Lady. 
 Shall it be money?" 
 
 " Money ! " exclaimed Villequier, with a slight ironical 
 smile playing about the corners of his mouth. " Have you any 
 money? It is indeed a surprising thing to hear any one talk of 
 money except the Duke of Guise, or the Duke of Epernon. 
 Why, Bellievre assures me, upon his honour, that the very dis- 
 patch which he was ordered to send to Soissons, to forbid posi- 
 tively the Duke of Guise coming to Paris, was stopped, for what 
 
NKNRY OF GUISE. 307 
 
 reason think you? Because, when he took it down to the trea- 
 sury, there was not found fifty livres to pay the courier's ex- 
 penses. The courier would not go without the money, Bellievre 
 had none to give him, so between them holh they carried the 
 King's dispatch to the post, and put it in with the common let- 
 ters. The letters went to Rheims before they were sent to Sois- 
 sons, and the Duke of Guise was in Paris, while the order to 
 forbid him was on the road 1 . Money? Oh certainly, money 
 above all things! But pray do not let it be a large sum, lest, 
 like an apoplectic epicure, the Ring's treasury and my purse 
 die of sudden repletion." 
 
 " Well then, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis, after 
 taking one or two turns up and down the room, "I will tell 
 you what I will do, to show you how dearly I hold the gift that 
 is promised me. On the day of my marriage with Marie de 
 Qairvaut, when it is all completed, the benediction said, the 
 contract signed, your name as guardian, and the King's in con- 
 firmation attached, I will place in your hands the sum of one 
 hundred thousand crowns of the sun." 
 
 " Heavens and earth ! " exclaimed Villequier in the same tone 
 in which he had spoken before, " I did not know that there was 
 such a sum in France. If I were to tell it to Monsieur d'O. he 
 would not believe me." 
 
 " But remember, Monsieur de Villequier," replied Gaspar of 
 Montsoreau, not quite liking the levity of his companion's speech, 
 " this is no jesting matter with me, whatever it may be with you ; 
 and I must have such sure and perfect warranty that you will 
 not betray my hopes again, or ask for even the slightest further 
 delay, that there cannot be a doubt rest upon my mind; other- 
 wise " 
 
 "Otherwise what, Monsieur de Montsoreau?" demanded 
 Villequier. " If we do not keep our words, you know we shall 
 lose the great advantage that we hope to gain from you. That 
 is the surest bond ! Let the matter stand thus, Sir : if this mar- 
 riage do take place, as I have promised you it shall, the hundred 
 thousand crowns of gold are paid 5 if not, we are the losers. I 
 see no alternative beyond this." 
 
 "By Heavens! but there is, and there shall be one," an- 
 swered Gaspar de Montsoreau impetuously. "I see that Mon- 
 sieur de Villequier, who is supposed to count upon every chance 
 and circumstance collateral and direct, has forgotten one or two 
 points, although he has not forgotten that I am heir of my bro- 
 ther's lands, both of Logeres and Morly. But I will only put him 
 
 1 This is historically true in regard to one of the dispatches to the Duke of Guise ; and 
 in representing Henry and his courtiers as occasionally acting the part of low and mer- 
 cenary swindlers, lirst fleecing and then laughing at a dupe, I am also borne out by facts. 
 
308 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 in mind of what might take place on either side. The King and 
 Monsieur de Villequier might find obstacles of great import rise 
 up against my wishes, or they might find greater advantages in 
 some other quarter-, they might think it worth while to keep 
 me trifling in inactivity, or employ me in their service against 
 the enemy. They might do all this, and then forego the sum 
 named for a greater. I, on the other hand, Monsieur de Ville- 
 quier, might see wavering and hesitation $ 1 might grow tired 
 of waiting and dependence 5 I might say to-morrow I have no 
 certainty in this business, and I might give my banner to the 
 wind, broider the cross of the League upon my breast, or assume 
 the double cross of Lorraine, and either range the spears of 
 Montsoreau and Logeres in the ranks of the army of Mayenne, 
 or marching to Chartres, Tours, or Blois, might bow me lowly 
 to my Lord of Guise, and begging him to forget the past, swear 
 myself his faithful servant." 
 
 Villequier gazed on him for a moment with certainly not the 
 most friendly expression of countenance, and was about to 
 speak ; but the young Marquis, conscious of his own impor- 
 tance, waved his hand, saying, "Nay, nay, Monsieur de Ville- 
 quier ! on all and on every account the plan I am about to pro- 
 pose is the only one that can be followed. Of course, in deal- 
 ing with his Majesty, I cannot treat as crown to crown ; " and 
 he smiled somewhat bitterly. " But I must treat with you 
 as gentleman to gentleman, and leave you to entreat his Majesty 
 — urgently and zealously, as I doubt not you will do it, to accede 
 graciously to our views. Thus then shall it be, that you and the 
 King shall enter into a bond with me, by which you shall en- 
 gage that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut shall, with the full consent 
 of both parties expressed by their signature to our marriage- 
 contract, become my wife on or before next Christmas-day, and 
 in default shall be subject to amercement in whatsoever amount 
 the Parliament of Paris may judge that I am damaged by the 
 want of performance. This is merely to secure that the matter 
 be explicit; and in the same bond may be placed my engage- 
 ment to pay the sum named, upon the fulfilment of the contract. 
 This is fair, and only fair ; and you know my last resolve." 
 
 " In truth, Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, " if 
 you knew but the state of our finances, you would see that we 
 are far more likely to be so eager in concluding this business 
 as even to risk dangerous consequences, than to trifle with you 
 in any degree." 
 
 He remembered the curious engagement that he had entered 
 into with the Abbe de Boisguerin, and he paused a moment, in 
 hopes thatGaspar de Montsoreau might show even the slightest 
 sign of hesitation : but, so far from it, the frown deepened on 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 309 
 
 Itae young nobleman's brow, and he replied sharply, " I will 
 trust to no contingencies, Monsieur do \ jllequier. These are 
 changing times, as you well know. The cross Fleurdelisr.' 
 in your arms 1 may well be changed, by the golden billets 
 dropped around it, into the cross of Lorraine. If what I have 
 offered be as good as you say, there is no earthly reason why 
 his Majesty of France or yourself, Monsieur de Yillequier, 
 should object to enter into the engagement with me that I pro- 
 pose." 
 
 "Well,"' answered Yillequier; "well, I must do my best 
 with the King; but I dare say, Monsieur de Montsorcau," he 
 said in a lower voice, " I dare say you are well aware that a 
 little compulsion, perhaps, must be used in this instance." 
 
 He thought he saw hesitation, and he went on the more ea- 
 gerly, for he wished to avoid the written engagement. "I must 
 be permitted to use what means I think fit to wring consent 
 from the young Lady herself. Nor must I have one word ol 
 objection on your part, whatever you see or hear — no asking 
 for delay ! — no yielding to her tears. One w r ord of such a kind , 
 remember, vitiates the engagement upon our part, but leaves 
 you as strictly bound as ever." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau gazed down upon the ground sternly 
 for several moments, with his brows contracting, till his eyes 
 were nearly hid beneath them. His fingers were seen to clasp 
 into the palms of his hands, as if the nails would have buried 
 themselves there. But after a short and terrible struggle, the evil 
 spirit maintained its ascendancy, and he exclaimed, " Bet it so ! 
 Be it so ! But in the meantime, Sir," he continued abruptly, 
 " there is one thing I have to demand. How have I been led 
 with hopes, and meeting nothing but disappointments, for the 
 last two months. I who dared all, and underwent all, to snatch 
 her once more from the power of the Guises. When forced to 
 fly, it was under your power and in your charge I left her ; and 
 yet, though this is the fourth or fifth time that you and I have 
 met, I have never been able to see her, or to learn distinctly 
 where she is. This must be no longer, Monsieur de Yillequier. 
 I need consolation ; I need comfort -, the only comfort or conso- 
 lation I can find is in her presence and in her society. Where is 
 she ? — I demand to know where she is. I was brought to Angou- 
 leme by information that she was in the neighbourhood ; but 1 
 cannot discover her, and I will be trifled with no longer." 
 
 "By all I hold sacred," exclaimed Yillequier, not a little sur- 
 prised by the bold and daring tone and decided manner, which 
 the young nobleman had so suddenly put on, "By all I hold 
 sacred " 
 
 1 Such were the arms of the Villcquier family 
 
310 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 "What is that, Sir?" demanded Gaspar de Montsorean. 
 
 Villequier smiled. " Oh many things, Monsieur de Montso- 
 reau," he answered ; " I hold many things sacred. But with any 
 oath or abjuration (hat you think most convenient, I assure you 
 that Mademoiselle de Clairvaut is not under my charge, or in 
 my power at this moment." 
 
 "But was so how long ago?" demanded the Marquis. 
 
 " About a fortnight," replied Villequier coolly. " The fact is, 
 Monsieur de Montsoreau, that his high and mighty Highness, 
 the Duke of Guise, having come to pay a humble visit to his 
 Majesty — to congratulate him, I suppose, on being driven out of 
 Paris, — gave significant notice to the King, on their first inter- 
 view at Chartres, that he believed Mademoiselle de Clairvaut to 
 be in my hands, and that he would have her instantly delivered 
 up. I was not present, you know, but every thing passed as the 
 Guises wished. I dare say you have heard all the rest; Epernon 
 was banished, and fled to Angouteme here, stripped of his high 
 posts and manifold emoluments-, Guise was created generalis- 
 simo of the King's armies ; in fact, Guise dictated the law to the 
 King, and Henry was fain to forget all the past, or to cover the 
 bitter memory with a jest." 
 
 " But to the point; to the point, Monsieur de Villequier," said 
 the Marquis de Montsoreau. " What of Mademoiselle de Clair- 
 vaut!" 
 
 " Why, the King told me," replied Villequier, " that the Duke 
 demanded her at all events till the Parliament of Paris had de- 
 cided our cause. The next day the Duke and I had an interview 
 on the subject-, but ere that, I had placed her in the hands of a 
 friend, and begged him to remove her for a time from the house 
 where she then was. The Duke was as imperious and uncere- 
 monious as an executioner. He vowed that I should give her up 
 to him at once; and though we did our best to deceive him, 
 exactly as we had done with your wild thoughtless brother, the 
 Duke did not so easily believe us ; and both 1 and the King were 
 obliged to swear upon the mass that she was not in our power, 
 and that we knew not where she was. That was easily done; 
 but Henry's low laugh had nearly betrayed the whole ; and the 
 Duke swore loudly, and menaced high, that if he were deceived, 
 he would have vengeance." 
 
 " And now, Monsieur de Villequier," said the Marquis, 
 "where is she now? And who is the friend in whose hands you 
 have placed her?" 
 
 Villequier paused for a single moment, as if to consider 
 whether he should tell him or not. But a moment after he 
 answered with a smile, "The friend in whose hands she is 
 placed, Monsieur de Montsoreau, is one in whom at that time 
 
HENRY OF GUISi:. 311 
 
 you yourself placed great confidence. I trust the same feelings 
 exist still towards him. I mean the Abbe" de Boisguerin." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau started at the intelligence with feel- 
 ings of angry dissatisfaction, which he could hardly aceount for 
 to himself, but which he instantly strove to conceal from the 
 keen eyes of the artful man with whom he was dealing. The 
 exclamation of "Indeed! "however, which broke from his lips, 
 was uttered in a tone which instantly showed Villequier that 
 the tidings were by no means pleasing; and while he suffered 
 the young ^Marquis to digest them at leisure he laid out in his 
 own mind a plan for keeping the Abbe and his former pupil at 
 variance, not with any clear and definite object, indeed, but for 
 the purpose of having a check upon the young Marquis at any 
 future moment, in case of necessity. Villequier felt, too, that the 
 clear, artful, and unscrupulous mind of the Abbe de Boisguerin 
 was far better fitted to deal with, and frustrate him in any pur- 
 pose that he might entertain, than that of the young Marquis, 
 which, though not deficient either in acuteness or policy, was 
 constantly misled by inexperience, or by the impetuosity of 
 strong passions. He felt that the counsels of the Abb6 might 
 under many circumstances, if given sincerely, be a safeguard to 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau against his arts ; and he therefore saw 
 no slight advantage in encouraging feelings of doubt and dissa- 
 tisfaction in the mind of his young companion. 
 
 " It is surprising," said the Marquis, " that the Abbe did not 
 communicate to me the facts which you have mentioned, Mon- 
 sieur de Villequier; but I suppose that you bound him down to 
 secrecy." 
 
 " To general secrecy," replied Villequier, " as was absolute- 
 ly necessary. But you, of course, as my friend, and as the per- 
 son most interested — you, of course, were excepted. No, Mon- 
 sieur de Montsoreau, no! In this business the Abbe has acted 
 upon his own judgment. He was then at Blois, you know. I 
 was in great haste, knew no other person to whom I could apply, 
 and therefore entrusted him with the task, thinking him also, at 
 that lime, you must remember, sincerely, truly, and devotedly 
 your friend." 
 
 "And have you any cause, Monsieur de Villequier, "de- 
 manded the Marquis, " have you any cause to suppose now that 
 he is not my. friend?" 
 
 "Nay, Monsieur de Montsoreau!" replied Villequier. "If 
 you are satisfied, I have nothing to say. I only thought you 
 seemed dissatisfied, and " 
 
 "And what, Monsieur de Villequier?" demanded the Mar- 
 quis, seeing that he paused. 
 
 "I was going to say," replied Villequier, " that it might bo 
 
31.2 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 as well for you to he upon your guard. We are living in troublous 
 times, Monsieur de Montsoreau. We are both of us placed in a 
 delicate situation 5 every word and action ought to be guided by 
 policy and forethought ; and though 1 do not wish to wound the 
 delicacy of your friendship towards your relation and friend, 
 Monsieur de Boisguerin, yet we all know that he is a skilful 
 politician, and that when, some years ago, even as a young man 
 he appeared at the Court of France, her Majesty the Queen- 
 mother was heard to say, she was glad when he was gone, for 
 she was confident that he would outwit Satan himself, and 
 therefore might go far to outwit her." 
 
 "I should not mind his policy," replied the Marquis. "I 
 should not mind his policy, if you had not insinuated doubts as 
 to whether he was at heart my friend." 
 
 Villequier answered nothing, but gazed down upon the 
 ground with his brow somewhat contracted, and then stirred the 
 rushes on the floor with the point of his sword, as if determined 
 not to make any reply. 
 
 "You are silent, Monsieur de Villequier," said Caspar of 
 Montsoreau 5 " and yet there is hanging a cloud of much thought 
 upon your brow, as if there were intelligence in your breast 
 which you could give, but would not. I beseech you, if you are 
 really friendly to me — or to speak more plainly — if our interests 
 in this business are in some degree linked together, I beseech 
 you to let me know fully and fairly what you think, and what 
 you know, of the Abbe de Boisguerin." 
 
 " Thus adjured, Monsieur de Montsoreau," replied Villequier, 
 " 1 can but answer you, that I do not think Monsieur de Bois- 
 guerin is as friendly to you as you suppose. Depend upon it, he 
 has his own purposes to answer first, and you are but a secondary 
 consideration, if not, perhaps., a tool." 
 
 " These are grave charges, Sir," said Gaspar de Montsoreau, 
 somewhat angry at the term tool. " I should like to have some 
 proofs to sustain them." 
 
 " See ! you are angry already," cried Villequier. " However, at 
 the present moment I have no proofs to give. At some future 
 time — ay, before the period of your marriage with Mademoiselle 
 de Clairvaut, I may give you such proof of what is the Abbe's 
 real character and real feelings towards you, that you will say 
 I am well justified. In the meantime I have warned you suffi- 
 ciently to put you on your guard. That is enough for the present 
 moment : you must act as you think fit ; but still you will be 
 prepared. Farther, I have only to say, that it is not I that keep 
 you from seeing Mademoiselle de Clairvaut. You have my full 
 will and consent to see her whom you will. I would not, indeed, 
 have you visit her too often, lest discovery should ensue, and 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 313 
 
 Guise obtain possession of her at once. Hut your own discretion 
 must be your guide. I will now leave you, Monsieur de Mont- 
 soreau 5 and, depend upon it, you will not Ond that 1 will fail 
 you in any of the promises I have made, and will very soon 
 return to you with the business arranged by the King, in the 
 manner that you desire. We must then wait until further delay 
 be judged dangerous : then if nothing occurs to relieve us from 
 the other obstacles, we must in the end step over them r, and, 
 forgetting a Little law, conclude your marriage, whether the 
 Parliament awards me the guardianship or not. When once 
 she is made your wife, they cannot easily unwife her." 
 
 Gaspar de Montsoreau, full of thoughts rather than words, 
 did not pursue the conversation further. " I have but shown 
 you scanty courtesy, Monsieur de Villequier," he said, " in not 
 asking you to make your home of my poor house. It is not, 
 indeed, such as I could wish to offer you, having been taken 
 from its bankrupt lord in some slight haste. But still " 
 
 "I thank you most humbly, Marquis," replied Villequier. 
 "But I am bound farther to the city on the hill there. I must 
 lodge with Epernon to-night, for I have messages to him from 
 the King." 
 
 Thus saying, after various more such ceremonious speeches 
 as the age required, Villequier took his departure, and mount- 
 ing his horse, which he had ordered to.be kept still saddled in 
 the court-yard, he rode on towards Angouleme, followed by his 
 train. As he did so, he once more thought over the alliance 
 between Gaspar de Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut. " If I 
 can bring it about," he thought, " I not only gain this sum he 
 promises, but bind him to me for ever. I am her nearest male 
 relation, and I could not well find such an alliance in France. 
 Montsoreau, Morly, Logercs;itis a wonderful combination! 
 But even, were it not for that— were it half as good, where 
 should I get the man in France who would give a hundred 
 thousand golden crowns for the possession of such a cold piece 
 of pretty marble as that." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 While the conversation just narrated was taking place, and 
 the character and views of the Abbe de Boisguerin were being 
 commented upon in a manner which he could but little have 
 wished, he himself was pursuing his way towards the town of 
 Angouleme, with feelings and purposes varying at every step: 
 
314 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 though in his case it was not the slightest sting of remorse or- 
 regret which occasioned this vacillation of purpose. 
 
 Prohably there never was a man on earth who wholly and 
 entirely stilled the voice- of conscience, and there might be 
 moments when the Abbe's own heart reproached him for things 
 which he had done. But the habit of his thoughts was different. 
 He had been brought up in a school where right and wrong 
 were so frequently confounded for the purpose of maintaining 
 the temporal dominion of the church that, at a very early period 
 of his life, he had arrived at that conclusion, which the sceptical 
 followers of Pyrrho arrive at by a more lengthened process, 
 namely, that on earth there is no absolute and: invariable right 
 and wrong. 
 
 The Jesuits had taught him, that what was wrong under some 
 circumstances, and marked by the reprobation both of God and 
 man, was right under other circumstances, and even praise- 
 worthy 5 and forgetting the cautious restrictions under which 
 the wiser and the better members of the order attempted, 
 though vainly, to guard the doctrine, his keen and clear mind 
 at once determined, that if fraud could ever be pious, virtue of 
 any kind could be but a name. If there were no invariable and 
 universal standard : if his thoughts and his actions were to be 
 governed by the opinions, and directed to the purposes of men, 
 the only rule of virtue, he saw, must be the approbation of 
 others like himself 5 and as every course of action must have an 
 end and object to secure energy in pursuing it, he readily fell 
 into the belief that gratification was the great object, and men's 
 good opinion but to be sought as a means to that end. 
 
 It may be easily conceived how far he went on upon such a 
 course of reasoning. It naturally ended in the disbelief of every 
 thing that other men hold sacred : yet he put on all the sem- 
 blances of religion 5 for as he believed in no hereafter, to do so, 
 did not seem to him an impious mockery, but merely an un- 
 meaning ceremony required by society. Every thing had be- 
 come with him a matter of calculation ; any thing that was to 
 be obtained, was to be obtained by a certain price; and, as he 
 himself declared, he never regretted giving any price, provided 
 the object was attained, and was of equal value. 
 
 It was his passions alone that led him wrong, and made him 
 calculate falsely. They had done so more than once in life, but 
 yet not frequently, not indeed that he sought to subdue them, 
 but that they were not naturally easily roused. 
 
 It was no remorse then, or regret, that moved him in the 
 varying state of his thoughts as he rode on. It was doubt as to 
 the means that he was employing ; it was doubt as to whether 
 the strong passion, which he felt within bis breast, was not 
 
HENRY OF CUISF-. 315 
 
 blinding his eyes, and misleading his judgment, as to the choice 
 of paths and instruments. He felt that on the present occasion 
 he calculated not so coolly as he was accustomed to do ; he felt 
 that the object he had proposed to himself— or rather which 
 passion, and rash passion had suggested— was one so great and 
 so little likely to he obtained, that the means employed must be 
 great and extraordinary also ; and that no single false step could 
 be taken without the loss of every hope. His sensations were 
 all strangely complicated, however. He felt and reproached him- 
 self for feeling that the passion in his heart had grown up so 
 powerful, so overwhelming, that when he thought of staking 
 life itself upon the issue, not a hesitation crossed his mind, and 
 that he was ready to say, like a love-sick boy, "Let me die, if 
 she be not mine ! " But with that passion, he had mingled am- 
 bition, both as a means and as an end \ prospects had opened 
 before his eyes which had roused in his heart aspirations, which 
 he thought he had put down •, and not only to succeed in his 
 love, but to gild that love with pageantry and slate and power, 
 had now become his object. 
 
 Still, however, he remembered that in grasping at these high 
 things, he might overlook matters which would prevent him 
 reaching them; and after riding on quickly for some time, he 
 drew in his rein, to think more calmly, to review his situation, 
 and to calculate exactly all the important, the critical steps 
 which were now to be taken. 
 
 "What am I next going to do?" he thought. " To seek for 
 a priest, who may work upon that impetuous, weak-minded hoy, 
 to yield the object of his passion, because, in the pursuit thereof, 
 he has shed his brother's blood. And yet, is it likely that he wilt 
 yield it? No! 1 fear not ! and yet stronger minds than his have 
 been bowed down by superstition to greater sacrifices. He may, 
 it is true-, and it may be as well to secure that chance : but then, 
 even then, only one small step is gained. If one could get him 
 to yield all his great possessions at the same time, that were 
 something! But he will not do that/ Two centuries ago we 
 would have sent him to the holy land : but those good times are 
 past. What then is to be done? — To hurry him on into some 
 rash enterprise, and sharing his danger, take the equal chance 
 of which shall live and which shall die? — That were a game- 
 ster's policy indeed. — No! we must find more easy means than 
 that." 
 
 " However," continued the Abbe, after a pause " in the mean- 
 time, I must strike for myself alone. She hates and abhors him 
 evidently. I myself have been too rash and rough with her. My 
 passion has been too impetuous— too fiery. I know that those 
 women who seem so cold and circumspect arc often like ./Etna, 
 
316 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 icy above but with fire at the heart. But I have been rash. She 
 will easily forgive that offence, however, and forget it too, when 
 I can woo her as one unbound by the clerical vows, and com- 
 panion of the high and great. I must lose no time, however, 
 for events are drawing clearly to a mighty issue. Here is the 
 party of Henry, and the party of the League. I must choose 
 between the two without delay. And yet the choice is soon 
 made. In the first place, it would be long ere Guise would trust 
 me : in the next, he would never love me : in the next, he him- 
 self is not long lived. As I have seen a bird, when hit by a 
 skilful fowler, tower high into the air before it falls, so Guise is 
 soaring up with mighty effort, which will end but in his own 
 destruction. I will away to Epernon at once. He is the man 
 whose fortunes will yet rise-, his unconquerable spirit, his cou- 
 rage, determination, and activity, his gross selfishness, his inso- 
 lence, his very weakness, will all contribute to support him still. 
 This is a world in which such things thrive! Epernon must be 
 the man ; and if I show him such cause as I can show him, he 
 may well be glad to attach me to himself, as increasing his 
 power and enhancing his importance with the King. It is to 
 him I will go ! Doubtless his reverses have humbled him some- 
 what, otherwise it were no light task to deal on such subjects 
 with Epernon." 
 
 In judging of Epernon the Abbe" judged by mankind in ge- 
 neral, for in almost every breast pride is a cowardly quality, 
 and once depressed sinks into grovelling submission. Epernon, 
 however, was the exception to the general rule, and seemed 
 rather to rise in haughtiness under adversity. 
 
 With thoughts like those which we have just detailed the 
 Abbe spurred on towards Angouleme ; but as he began to climb 
 the steep ascent, he saw several indications of popular emotion, 
 which made him hesitate for a moment, as to whether he should 
 proceed or not. There were to or three groups of citizens all 
 speaking eagerly together, and in low tones ; and at the gates 
 of the city he remarked a man whom he had seen before, and 
 knew to be the mayor of the place, conversing in a low tone, 
 but in what seemed an anxious manner, with the soldiers of the 
 Corps de Garde. The Abbe contrived to make his horse pass 
 as near them as possible, but at the same time affected to be 
 deeply busied with his own thoughts while really listening at- 
 tentively to their conversation. He could only catch, however, 
 the end of one sentence and the beginning of a reply ;— 
 
 " This Duke— a proud insufferable tyrant," said the voice of 
 the mayor. 
 
 " Get along 5 if you were not what you are, I would put my 
 pike into you," replied the soldier; and went on with some 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 317 
 
 observations upon his companion's conduct, not very compli- 
 mentary, the whole of which the Abbe de Boisgucrin did not 
 hear. 
 
 As he advanced into the town, however, his keen eye remark- 
 ed many more signs and symptoms of the same kind, from all of 
 which he drew his own deductions ; and on entering the castle, 
 which was then inhabited by the Duke ofEpernon, he dismounted 
 in the court of the guard-house, as it was called, where there 
 were a considerable number of the Duke's soldiery loitering 
 about. Though it was not the usual place for visitors to dis- 
 mount, they suffered him to attach his horse to one of the large 
 iron hooks in the wall, and in a few minutes after he was in 
 the presence of the Duke of Epernon. Not a trace of humilia- 
 tion or abasement was to be seen in the Duke's countenance or 
 demeanour. He was as proud, as fierce, as fiery as ever; and 
 although he received the Abbe, having seen him more than once 
 in Paris during the late events, and entertaining that degree of 
 consideration for him which a keen and powerful mind almost 
 always commands, he nevertheless seemed to doubt whether he 
 should ask him even to sit down, and did it at length with an air 
 of condescension. 
 
 " Well, Monsieur de Boisguerin," he said at length, " to what 
 do I owe this visit?" 
 
 " I come, my Lord," replied the Abbe without a moment's 
 hesitation, " to offer your Lordship my poor services." 
 
 The Duke smiled. "They are of course," he said, "wel- 
 come, Monsieur de Boisguerin. But the time of offering them 
 is somewhat singular, when all men think my fortunes on the 
 decline, or, perhaps I should say, utterly down." 
 
 "Such it may seem to them, my Lord," replied the Abbe; 
 " but such it seems not to me. There arc sciences, my Lord, 
 which teach us what the future is destined to produce; and I 
 own that I am quite selfish in my present act, seeking to attach 
 myself to one who is yet destined to uphold the throne of 
 France, to affect the fortune of the times, to triumph over all 
 his enemies, and to outlive most of them now living." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said the Duke thoughtfully ; " and am I to believe 
 this prophecy seriously?" 
 
 "Most seriously, my Lord," replied the Abbe. "I myself 
 believe it and know it, as I believe and know the great fortunes 
 that are likely to attend myself — otherwise, perhaps, you might 
 not have seen me here to-day." 
 
 "That is candid, at all events," said the Duke; " and to say 
 truth, I think that your prophecy, in some things, may be right; 
 for 1 feel within my breast that undiminished power, that sense 
 of my own strength, that confidence in my own destiny, which 
 
318 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 surely never can be given to a falling man. But you spoke of 
 your own future high fortunes, Sir. What may they be?" 
 
 The Abbe paused and looked down for a moment, but then 
 replied, " I tell not the prophecy to every one, my Lord ; but to 
 you, to whose services I hope to dedicate those high fortunes, 
 I fear not to relate it. It was pronounced long ago, in the city 
 of Rome, when I was there studying, and as a rash young man 
 had entangled myself in an affair with a fair girl of the city, who 
 suffered our intercourse to be discovered, and consequently 
 well nigh ruined all my prospects. I thought indeed it was so, 
 and was turning my back upon Rome for ever, when 1 met 
 with an old monk, who from certain facts I told him drew my 
 horoscope, and assured me that I should find my fate in France-, 
 that my fortune would be brought about by the death of two 
 relations far younger than myself; and that I should suddenly 
 take a share in great events, and rule the destiny of others when 
 I least expected it. Such was the old man's prophecy now many 
 years ago ; and I have seen no sign of its accomplishment till 
 the present time." 
 
 " And what signs have you seen now? " demanded Epernon. 
 
 " That I have been suddenly led, my Lord," replied the 
 Abbe, " from the calm and tranquil quiet of a provincial life, 
 without my own will or agency, into scenes of activity and strife ; 
 and that one, out of the two lives which lay between me and 
 the great possessions of Montsoreau, Logeres, and Morly — lives, 
 which in their youth and hcalthfulness seemed to cut me off 
 from all hope— has already lapsed, and left but one." 
 
 " How is that?" exclaimed the Duke. " What life has 
 lapsed?" 
 
 " That of the young Count of Logeres," replied the Abbe. 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed the Duke of Epernon in a tone some- 
 what sorrowful. " I had not heard that. He was a bold, rash 
 youth; but yet there was in him the seeds of great things. He 
 was fearless, and proud, and firm : virtues, the parents of all 
 dignity and greatness. — You say then that there is but one life 
 between you and all these lordships." 
 
 " But one," replied the Abbe; " that of Caspar of Montso- 
 reau, in regard to whom you took some slight interest, at the 
 time his marriage with Mademoiselle de Clairvaut was talked of." 
 
 "Was talked of?" said the Duke. "Is it not talked of still?" 
 
 "Why, my Lord," replied the Abbe, "the Lady's evident 
 detestation of the young Marquis has rendered the matter hope- 
 less. You yourself remarked it, when you spoke with her at 
 Vincennes ; and he is now convinced of it himself. The grief 
 and depression thus produced have impaired his health ; and, 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 319 
 
 mdecd, it would seem as if ten years had gone over him, instead 
 of a few months, since all this affair began." 
 
 " I hope, Monsieur de Boisguerin," said the Duke of Epcrnon 
 with a bitter smile, " I hope that you have not been taking too 
 deep lessons of our friend Villequier. I would rather be a pri- 
 soner on a charge of high treason, and with Guise for my enemy, 
 than I would be next akin to Villequier, and between him and 
 lands and lordships." 
 
 The Abbe's brow grew as dark as night. "My Lord," he 
 said, " I will- not aflect to misunderstand you; but I am sure 
 that fate will work out its own will without any aid of mine •, and 
 had I been disposed to clear the way for myself, who should have 
 stopped me, or who could have discovered any thing I did, 
 when these two youths have been under my care and guardian- 
 ship ever since their father's death ? " 
 
 "I did but jest, Abbe," replied the Duke. " But supposing 
 that the events which you anticipate were really to occur, what 
 would be your conduct then ?" 
 
 " So sure am I, my Lord," replied the Abbe, " that they will 
 occur, that my conduct has been put beyond doubt. I have 
 already demanded of the Court of Rome to be freed from this 
 black dress-, and my last letters from the eternal city announce 
 to me, that the dispensation is already granted, and, drawn up in 
 full form, is now upon the road." 
 
 "Hal" exclaimed the Duke of Epernon. " Is it so, indeed? 
 You must have powerful protectors in the conclave." 
 
 " I have," replied the Abbe; " and though his Holiness is not 
 fond of relaxing the vows of any one without some puissant 
 motive •, yet, when there is a strong one, he does not let the 
 opportunity of unbinding slip, lest his key should grow rusty. 
 But however, my Lord, supposing these things done away, and 
 I Marquis of Montsoreau and Lord of Logeres, my first aim and 
 object would be to raise what power and forces I could, and 
 with my sword, my wealth, and my life, were it necessary, 
 serve his Majesty the King, under him whom I hope soon to 
 see directing the state, namely, the Duke of Epernon, if " 
 
 " Ay, there is still an if" replied the Duke. " Well, Sir, what 
 is the condition?" 
 
 " It is, my Lord," said the Abbe after a pause, in which it 
 was evident that he considered the way he was to put his de- 
 mand, " It is, that the Duke of Epernon will pledge me his 
 princely word, that as far as his power and influence go, he will 
 support my claim to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut." 
 
 The Duke actually started back with surprise ; and, forgetting 
 altogether the splendid future with which the Abbe had been 
 endeavouring to invest his pretensions, he exclaimed, in a tone of 
 
320 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 anger and contempt that chafed and galled the spirit of the am- 
 bitious man with whom he spoke, " Yours, — yours? Abbe de 
 Boisguerin? you, a poor preceptor in your cousin's house, an 
 insignificant churchman, unbeneficed and unknown — you, to 
 lay claim to the heiress of Clairvaut, a niece of the Guise, a lady 
 not far removed from a sovereign house? On my soul and ho- 
 nour, I mind me to write to Villequier at once, and bid him 
 marry his cousin to this young Marquis out of hand, in order to 
 save your brains from being cracked altogether! " 
 
 "Villequier can marry his cousin to no one," answered the 
 Abbe, " without my full consent. No, nor can the King either!" 
 
 " Mor-bleu .' " exclaimed Epernon with a scornful laugh. " Va- 
 nity and ambition have driven the poor man mad. Get you gone, 
 Monsieur de Boisguerin ; get you gone ! 1 shall not trust with 
 any mighty faith to your fine prophecies." 
 
 Though the Abbe de Boisguerin felt no slight inclination to 
 put his hand into his bosom, and taking forth the dagger that 
 lay calmly there, to plunge it up to the hilt in the heart of Eper- 
 non, he showed not in the slightest degree the wrath which in- 
 ternally moved him. Nay, the great object that he had in view 
 made him in some degree conquer that wrath, and he replied, 
 u Well, my good Lord, I will get me gone. But, before 1 go, 
 you shall hear another warning, which may enable you to judge 
 whether my divinations are false or not. It is destined that, in 
 the course of to-day or to-morrow, you should encounter a great 
 peril. Remember my words! be upon your guard! and take 
 measures to ensure yourself against danger! Go not out into 
 the streets scantily attended " 
 
 " Oh no!" replied the Duke with a sneer. " I do not trust 
 myself alone in the streets and high roads without a footboy to 
 hold my horse, like the noble aspirant to the hand of Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut. I am not so bold a man, nor so loved of the 
 people-, and as to chance perils, I fear them not." 
 
 " Your acts on your own head, my Lord Duke!" replied his 
 companion. " I give you good day." And turning away abruptly, 
 he passed out of the room through the long corridor, and part 
 of the way down the stairs which led to the court of the guard. 
 
 He w T as scarcely halfway down, however, when some sounds 
 which he heard coming from the other side of the building made 
 him suddenly stop, listen, and then turn round; and, with a 
 step of light, he retrod his way to the chamber where he had left 
 the Duke. 
 
 Epernon was busy writing, and looking up fiercely, demanded 
 "What now?" 
 
 " Fly, my Lord, fly quick !" exclaimed the Abbe. " I come 
 to give you time to save yourself, for the mayor and his faction 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 321 
 
 are upon you. They have come in by the great court, and I think 
 have killed the Swiss at your gate. Believe me, my Lord, for 
 what I say is true! Fly quickly, while I run down to send the 
 guard to your assistance." 
 
 His words received instant confirmation, even as the Duke 
 gazed doubtfully in his face; for a door on the opposite side 
 of the room burst open, and a terrified attendant rushed in, 
 while eight or nine fierce faces were seen pursuing him quickly. 
 
 The Duke darted to a staircase, which led to a little turret, 
 and the first steps of which entered the room, without any 
 door, just behind his chair. He sprang up eagerly towards the 
 small dressing-room above, and the mayor and his armed com- 
 panions pursued as fiercely, leaving the Abbe to make his escape 
 towards the court of the guard, without giving any heed to 
 his proceedings. Before the Abbe had passed the door, how- 
 ever, he heard a loud crash, and turned his head to see by 
 what it was occasioned, when, at a single glance he perceived 
 that the very eagerness of his pursuers had saved the Duke 
 of Epernon. Ten or twelve heavily armed men had all rushed 
 at once upon the old and crazy staircase which led to the Duke's 
 dressing-room. The wood work had given way beneath them, 
 precipitating one or two into the story below, and the greater 
 part back into the room itself, but leaving a chasm between 
 them and the Duke, which it was impossible for them to pass 1 . 
 
 Without pausing to make any farther remark, the Abbe ran 
 down hastily and alarmed the guard ; and while the soldiers 
 rushed tumultously up to defend a commander whom they 
 all enthusiastically loved, the Abbe de Boisguerin mounted his 
 horse and rode quietly out of the town. He doubted not, as 
 indeed it happened, that the soldiery would arrive in time to 
 save their Lord, and to compel the mayor and his comrades 
 to make a hasty retreat. 
 
 It was not, however, towards the Chateau of Islay, where he 
 had left Gaspar de Montsoreau, that the solitary horseman 
 took his way ; but, on the contrary, crossing the Charente, 
 he rode rapidly onward by the banks of the river, in the direc- 
 tion of that field of Jarnac, where, in his early days, Henry III. 
 had given such striking promises of heroism and conduct which 
 his after life so signally failed to fulfil. 
 
 As he rode along, he thought with somewhat of a smile 
 upon his countenance, that his last prophecy to the Duke of 
 Epernon had met with a speedy fulfilment ; and he pondered 
 
 1 Such is the account given by the most credible historians. The author of the life of 
 the Duke, M. Girard, who was nearly contemporary, gives a different version .- acknow- 
 ledges that the Duke fled into his cabinet, but adds that he there defended himself like a 
 lion. 
 
 21 
 
322 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 with some bitterness over the parting words which that noble- 
 man had spoken to him. 
 
 " The aspirant to the hand of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," 
 he said to himself, " without a single footboy to hold his horse ! 
 That may be in the present instance policy rather than any 
 thing else, my good Lord Duke. But still we may learn wisdom, 
 even, from such bitter words as those. I had forgotten how 
 much all men value the gilded exterior. Rut it shall be so no 
 longer. This that I aim at must be soon lost or won. I have 
 staked life upon the pursuit, and all that makes life valuable. 
 And why should I not stake fortune also ? ' Fortune buys for- 
 tune,' says the old adage ; and as the stake is great, so shall my 
 game be hold." 
 
 His resolution was instantly taken. He possessed, as we have 
 said before, sufficient wealth to give him competence, and to 
 enable him to mingle with decent splendour in the society in 
 which he was born. But he calculated that the same fortune 
 which put him at ease for life, might afford him the means of 
 magnificence and display, if he resolved to expend the whole 
 within a few years. He did so resolve, saying to himself, " I 
 shall either be at the height of fortune and enjoyment ere two 
 years be over, or I shall be no more. It suits me not to go on 
 playing stake after stake, as many men do, beaten, like a tennis- 
 ball, from prosperity to ruin, and from ruin to prosperity. I 
 have bent myself to one great purpose, and I will attain it or 
 die. That is always within one's power, to shake off life when 
 it is no longer a source of happiness." 
 
 As he thus thought, his horse slowly descended a gentle hill 
 by the side of the river, with a meadow down to the Charente 
 on the one side, and a bank crowned with the wall of a vineyard 
 on the other. Built up against the wall was a little shrine, with 
 a virgin and child behind a net-work of iron, and the votive 
 offering of a silver lamp burning below. 
 
 Sitting on the little green spot which topped the bank at 
 that place — after having apparently said his prayers at the foot 
 of the shrine— was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of 
 age ^ and as the Abbe came slowly near, the youth took a pipe 
 out of his pocket and began playing a wild plaintive Italian air, 
 full of rich melody and deep feeling. The music was not new to 
 the Abbe ^ he had heard it before in other lands, when the few 
 pure feelings of the heart which he had ever possessed had not 
 been crushed, like accidental flowers blossoming on a footpath, 
 by the passing to and fro of other coarser things. 
 
 He drew in his horse and paused to listen, and then gazed at 
 the boy, and thought he had seen him somewhere before. The 
 eyes, the features, the expression of the countenance, seemed 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 32,'i 
 
 to be all connected with some old remembrances ; and the air 
 which he played too, brought his memory suddenly back to 
 early scenes, and a land- that he had loved. As he gazed at 
 the boy, who went on with the air, the recollection of his 
 person again connected itself with different events; and, though 
 now he was clothed in simple grey, he fancied he recognised in 
 him the youth who had been seen with Charles of Montsoreau 
 when he attacked and defeated the small body of reiters near 
 La Ferte, and whom he had also beheld more than once in 
 Paris, when he was watching the proceedings of the young 
 Count in the capital. 
 
 This conviction became so strong, that he went up and spoke 
 to him, and found that it was as he suspected. After conversing 
 with him for a few moments, he told him that if he would 
 pursue that road for nearly a league, he would meet with some 
 buildings belonging to a farm; and then, turning again down a 
 road to the left, he would find him at a chateau upon the banks 
 of the river. The boy promised to come, and the Abbe rode 
 on, while Ignati putting up his pipe followed as fast as pos- 
 sible, and soon arrived at the gates of the dwelling to which 
 he had been directed. 
 
 He was brought into the presence of the Abbe by an attendant 
 wearing the colours of no noble house in France, and found 
 him with some fruit and wine before him. But in regard to the 
 subject on which the boy expected to be questioned most closely, 
 namely, the death of Charles of Montsoreau, the Abbe spoke 
 not one word. Notwithstanding all his firmness of purpose, 
 notwithstanding the remorseless character of his mind and of 
 his habitual thoughts, he loved not to touch upon the subject of 
 his young cousins death, unless forced on to do so by circum- 
 stances. He spoke of Paris and of the Duke of Guise ; and where 
 he had first met with the young Count of Logeres, and of all 
 the accidents that had befallen him while in company with 
 Charles of Montsoreau. But he spoke not one word in re- 
 gard to the day of the barricades, or the young nobleman's 
 death. 
 
 From time to time, while he talked with the boy, Ignati saw 
 that the Abbe's eyes fixed upon his countenance, and at length 
 he asked him, " You are an Italian by birth, are you not? " 
 
 " I am," replied the boy ; " that is, I am a Roman." And he 
 said it with that pride which every person born within the pre- 
 cincts of the ancient queen of empires feels, although glory has 
 long departed from her walls, and the memory of past greatness 
 is rather a reproach than an honour. 
 
 " And what is your name?" demanded the Abbe sharply. 
 
 " My name is Ignati," answered the youth. 
 
324 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " Ignati ! " said the Abbe, " Ignati ? But you have some other 
 name. What was your father's ? " 
 
 " I do not know," answered the boy, with his cheeks and his 
 brow glowing. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 " Your mother's then?" said the Abbe, without replying to 
 his question. "Your mother's? what was your mother's name?" 
 
 " Her name was Laura Pandolfini," replied the boy, gazing 
 upon the Abbe with a degree of sternness in his look. " Did you 
 know her?" 
 
 The face of the Abbe changed from deadly pale to glowing red 
 in a moment-, and after a pause he replied angrily and abruptly, 
 "I know her? — I know her? I know a common strumpet?" 
 
 The boy's eyes Hashed fire ; and his hand was in his bosom in 
 a moment seeking the knife that lay there. But he had put the 
 pipe in the breast of his doublet also, and ere he could reach a 
 weapon, which, as we have seen, he was able to use with fatal 
 effect, the form of a lady passing across the two open doors on the 
 other side of the room made him suddenly pause ; and after a 
 moment's thought, he drew back his hand and said, " What you 
 say is false ! She deserved not the name you have given her ! " 
 
 He was turning towards the door, when the Abbe cried "Stay!" 
 and as the boy turned, he put his hand to his head and mused 
 thoughtfully. Then starting suddenly he added, "No, no! It 
 would be discovered ! — Come hither, boy ! " he added ; and 
 taking out his purse he counted out some pieces of gold, to no 
 light amount: and giving them to the boy, he said, "There, 
 you have lost your master and seem to be poorly off. Take those, 
 and get thee into some reputable employment." 
 
 But the boy gave one fierce glance at his countenance, dashed 
 down the gold upon the pavement, and exclaiming, " I will have 
 no liar's money! " quitted the chamber and the house. 
 
 The Abbe gazed after him for a moment or two, fell into deep 
 thought, and ended by pressing his hands over his eyes and 
 exclaiming, "I am a fool!" 
 
 After pausing for a few moments more, he said to himself, 
 " W T ell, I must wait no longer here. This girl seems pleased with 
 my new demeanour towards her. Of my past language which 
 frightened her, it seems that very soon no other impression will 
 remain but the memory of the deep and passionate love I testi- 
 fied. That is never displeasing to any woman ; and if I can lead 
 her gently on, the matter will be soon accomplished, now that 
 this her first fancy is at an end, and the grave has taken the great 
 obstacle out of the way. Love him, she did not, with true, wo- 
 manly, passionate, love ; but fond of him she was, with the sickly 
 fancy of an idle girl ; and her grief will be sufficient to soften her 
 proud heart. It is a wonderful softener, grief ; and she will cling 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. ;}2.i 
 
 to whosoever is near her, that has skill and power to soothe and 
 support her. I will teach her to love better than she has loved ! — 
 But I must write down these tidings. I must not tell them to her 
 with my own voice, and with her eyes upon me, lest she learn 
 to hate me as the hearer of evil tidings." 
 
 And seeking for pen and ink he wrote a note, such as few 
 others but himself could have composed. It was tender, yet 
 respectful, — not lover-like, yet through every word of it love's 
 light was shining — sad, but not gloomy — melancholy, yet with 
 words of hope. When he had done he folded and sealed it, and 
 then listening to the distant village clock, he said - 
 
 " If I am absent much longer, Gaspar may suspect ; and I am 
 rather inclined to believe that some one has roused suspicions 
 in his mind already. Well, we shall soon see ; it is no very dif- 
 ficult task to rule a light-brained youth like that." 
 
 Thus thinking, and leaving the note behind him on the table, 
 the Abbe proceeded to the stables, chose a fresh horse, caused 
 it to be saddled and bridled, and rode back to the Chateau of 
 Islay with all speed. Before he proceeded to the saloon to join 
 the young Marquis, he questioned his own servants as to all that 
 had taken place during his absence ; heard of the long visit of 
 Villequier; and planned his own conduct accordingly. 
 
 Gaspar of Montsoreau, when he joined him, expressed some 
 surprise that he had not returned before, and added, in as gentle 
 a tone as he could assume, " I trust, my good friend, that you 
 have been pursuing the inquiries which have so long frustrated 
 us in regard to the dwelling of that sweet girl, whom we were 
 very wrong to place again in the hands of Villequier, even 
 though it might have cost us our lives had we either remained 
 in Paris, or attempted to take her with us." 
 
 Though the young Marquis spoke quickly, his companion, 
 who knew his character to the very bottom and could instantly 
 see the workings of his mind when he used any of the arts he 
 himself had taught him, perceived at once that Villequier had 
 betrayed the secret of Marie de Clairvaut's abode-, and he re- 
 plied deliberately, " Yes, Gaspar, I have been more successful; 
 and I think now— tamed down as you have been by grief, and 
 requiring some consolation — I think now, I say, that it is not 
 only safe but right, to let you know both that this fair girl is in 
 the neighbourhood of the spot where we now stand, and that 
 she is under my care and guidance." 
 
 " In the neighbourhood?" exclaimed Gaspard of Montsoreau. 
 " Under your care and guidance? How happened I not to hear 
 tn is before, Abbe?" 
 
 " Simply," replied the Abb6, " because the state of violence 
 and irritation in which you were when I last returned to you 
 
326 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 from Blois— the period when I first became possessed of any 
 knowledge on the subject— would have led you into acts of im- 
 petuosity, which, in the first place, would have terribly injured 
 your cause with her-, and, in the next, w r ould have discovered 
 the place of her abode to every one from whom we seek to 
 conceal it. Now, however, I think you can command yourself, 
 and you will find the benefit of what has been done to serve you. 
 All I require is, that you would let me know when you visit 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut ; that you would do so with prudence 
 and caution and forbearance-, and though it is not of course 
 necessary that you should desist from pleading your own cause 
 with her, yet let it be as gently as may be." 
 
 The Abbe de Boisguerin knew that Caspar de Montsoreau 
 could not do as he asked him ; that it was not in his nature to 
 plead his own cause gently. He felt perfectly confident that the 
 rash impetuosity of the young Marquis would alienate more and 
 more the regard of Marie de Clairvaut, and thus, perhaps, facili- 
 tate even his own views and purposes. Could he have prevented 
 it, he would not willingly have let him visit her at all ; but it was 
 now impossible to exclude him ; and he knew that the secret of 
 Charles of Montsoreau's death gave him the power of destroying 
 at once all his former pupil's hopes, if he saw that he even made 
 one step in removing the bad impressions Marie previously had 
 received. 
 
 On his part, though not quite satisfied with being deceived, 
 Gaspar of Montsoreau believed that the Abbe had deceived him 
 for his own good; and the selfish purposes which were most 
 needful for him to discover, were still concealed in spite of the 
 warnings of Villequier. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 In the gardens of the Chateau by the banks of the Charente -, 
 which the Abbe de Boisguerin had left to return to Gaspar de 
 Montsoreau, and in an arbour which had been constructed, as 
 is still ordinary with the people of that country, by a number of 
 vines entwined over a light trellis work: with a soft and beauti- 
 ful scene before her eyes, and the autumn sunshine gilding the 
 glowing waters, Marie de Clairvaut sat and wept, with the note 
 from the Abbe which had conveyed to her the bitterest tidings 
 she ever had received on earth open in her hand. A day had 
 passed since the events just recorded had taken place, and she 
 had now received the news many hours, but her grief had not 
 in the least subsided : and to herself it even seemed greater than 
 
MENKY OF GUISEi 327 
 
 il had been at first. Her whole thoughts at lirst had been bent 
 upon the one painful fact, that he whom she had loved with all 
 the fervour, and the depth, and the devotion of a heart that had 
 never loved before, was lost to her for ever ; that she should 
 never behold again that frank and candid countenance, beaming 
 with looks of deep and indubitable affection ; that she should 
 never again see those eyes poring into hers with the intense 
 gaze of love, and seeming at once to give and receive fresh 
 light; that she should never hear the tones of that musical voice, 
 which had so often assured her of protection and support; that 
 she should never cling to that arm, which had so often brought 
 her rescue and deliverance in the moment of danger. Then, she 
 had felt only that he was lost and gone, cut off in the brightness 
 of bis days, in the glory and strength of his youth, in the full 
 hlossom of his hopes, and ere he had yet more than lifted to his 
 lips the cup, which, offered to him by honour, virtue, and 
 sincerity, ought to have been a sweet one indeed. 
 
 Now, however, there had grown upon her mind feelings in- 
 deed more selfish, but which were the natural consequences of 
 her situation, and connected intimately with the loss of him she 
 loved. A feeling of desolation had come over her — of utter lone- 
 liness in all the world. It seemed as if she had never loved or 
 esteemed or clung to any but himself; as if there were no one 
 to protect her, to guide, support, direct, or cheer her upon earth; 
 as if life's youth were over, the fortune of existence spent like a 
 prodigal, the heart's treasury empty, and nothing left for the 
 immortal spirit on this side the grave but penury of every rich 
 and noble feeling, lone solitude and petty cares, and all the dull 
 anxieties of a being without an object. 
 
 Desolate, desolate indeed, did she feel : and well too might she 
 feel desolate ! for though her grief did some wrong to many who 
 loved her as friends and relations, and would have done much 
 to aid and support her ; yet, oh ! what is such love and esteem? 
 what is aid and support wrung from the midst of hours devoted 
 to other things, and thoughts and feelings centered upon other 
 objects, when compared with the entire devotion, the pure, 
 single love of an upright, an honourable, and a feeling heart — 
 where the being loved is the great end and object of every 
 thought and every action — where all the feelings of the spirit are 
 hovering by day round that one object, and guarding it like an- 
 gels through the watches of the night? Oh yes, she was lonely, 
 she was desolate, she was unprotected and unsupported, when 
 she compared the present with the past! Well might she think 
 so ; well might she grieve and mourn over her own deprivation, 
 when she wept for him and for his early end ! 
 
 Some comfort perhaps, had been indeed afforded her by the 
 
;i28 HEARY OF GUISE. 
 
 change which had taken place in the demeanour of the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin. She could never love him ; she could never like 
 him : his society could never even become tolerable to her : but 
 yet it was no slight satisfaction to find that she was no more to 
 hear words which she considered as little less than sacrilegious, 
 or to endure the eager passion in his eye, and hear him dare to 
 talk to her of love. She looked upon him as her gaoler indeed, 
 though he often denied that he had power to liberate her ; but 
 yet she felt that peace and comfort at least depended much upon 
 lhatgaolor's will, and was not a little pleased to find that during 
 the three or four last visits which he had paid, no word which 
 could offend her had been spoken, no tone or even look that she 
 could take amiss was to be seen, though a certain tenderness 
 and melancholy seemed to have fallen upon him, which she 
 could well have wished removed, or not so openly displayed. 
 
 During the very morning of which we are now speaking, he 
 had come there again, and his conduct towards her had been 
 all that she could have desired. He had not spoken directly of 
 the cause of the deep grief which he saw his intelligence of the 
 former day had brought upon her, but all his words were chosen 
 so as to harmonise with that grief; and the object of his visit 
 itself, as he expressed it, was only to see whether he could do 
 any thing to console her, or to alleviate the sorrow under which 
 she laboured. She had thanked him for his courtesy and kind- 
 ness ] but, ere he had left her, he said with a tone of what seemed 
 real regret, that he was sorry to say his own visit would be fol- 
 lowed by another, which he feared might, in some degree, im- 
 portune her. 
 
 " The young Marquis of Montsoreau," he added, " will be 
 restrained no longer from seeing you-, and you know, Madam, 
 it is impossible for me to prevent him, which I would willingly 
 have done, especially as the view he takes of the recent most 
 lamentable event is not likely to do aught but give you pain." 
 
 " Oh , cannot you stay him?" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut. 
 " Cannot you stay him at this terrible moment, when the very 
 sight of him will be horrible to me?" 
 
 " I fear not, indeed, Lady," replied the Abbe. " I would have 
 given my right hand to prevent his coming, but he seemed per- 
 fectly determined. However, when I return, I will do my best 
 once more, in the hope that he may yet be moved." And after a 
 visit very much shorter than usual, he had taken his leave and 
 departed. 
 
 The fair girl he left had gone out into the gardens, as we have 
 seen, once more to weep alone over the sad and painful situation 
 in which she was placed, and over the dark and irreparable loss 
 which she had sustained ; but ere she had gone out, she had 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 329 
 
 taken the only precaution in her power to insure that her soli- 
 tude would remain inviolate, directing the servants — who acted 
 indeed the part of turnkeys — if the Marquis of Montsoreau ap- 
 plied to see her, to state at once that she was not well enough 
 to receive him, and wished to pass some days alone and in tran- 
 quillity. 
 
 She wept long and bitterly ; but in about an hour after she had 
 gone out, the sound of horses' feet reached her ear, and voices 
 speaking at the gateway made themselves heard. She could dis- 
 tinguish even the tones of the young Marquis, and indistinctly 
 the words of the servant in reply. But Caspar of Montsoreau 
 was hurt and offended by the message she had left, and a cer- 
 tain inclination to tyranny in his disposition broke forth with 
 his usual impetuosity. 
 
 " Inform Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said, " who it is that 
 desires to see her, and let me have an answer quick. Say that I 
 much wish for a few minutes' conversation with her. What, 
 fellow? Would you shut the gates upon me like a horseboy? 
 Get ye gone and return quickly. I will walk in the gardens till 
 you comeback." And striding in he threw the gate violently to, 
 and advanced directly to the water's side, as if he could have 
 divined that the object of his search was there. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut was indignant, and that feeling for a mo- 
 ment enabled her to throw off the overwhelming load of grief. 
 Rising at once she came forth, and crossed the green slope to- 
 wards the chateau, passing directly by Caspar of Montsoreau as 
 she did so, and intending merely to bow her head by way of 
 salutation. He placed himself in such a manner, however, that 
 she could not pass on, although he must have seen the tears 
 fresh upon her cheeks, and her indignation was more roused 
 than before. 
 
 " I directed the servant, Sir," she said, when forced to pause, 
 " to inform you, if you came, that 1 was not well enough to see 
 you ; and that I wished for solitude and tranquillity." 
 
 " Nay, indeed, dear Lady," said the young Marquis, con- 
 quering the feelings of anger with which he had entered, and 
 speaking with a calm and tender tone, " I thought, if you knew 
 that I was here, pity, if nothing else, would induce you to see, 
 but for a few moments, one who has languished for weeks and 
 months for a single glance of your eyes — one who so deeply, so 
 tenderly, so devotedly, loves you." 
 
 Those words sounded harsh, painful, and insulting to the ears 
 of Marie de Clairvaut — words which, from the lips of him she 
 loved, would have been all joy and sweetness, but were now 
 abhorrent to her ear ; and looking at him sternly, with her bright 
 eye no longer dimmed, though her lip quivered, she said, 
 
330 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " Never let me hear such words again, Sir !— I beg that you 
 would let me pass !— Marquis of Montsoreau, this is cruel and 
 ungentlemanly ! Learn that I look upon myself as your brother's 
 widow, and ever shall so look upon myself till my dying day." 
 And thus saying she passed him, and entered the house. 
 
 She listened eagerly for the sound of horses' feet after she had 
 entered her own apartments, and was very soon satisfied that 
 the young Marquis had gone back. As soon as she was assured 
 of this, she once more went out into the open grounds—for the 
 load of grief ever makes the air of human dwellings feel oppres- 
 sive 5 and again going down to the hank of the river, she gazed 
 upon its tranquil current as she walked by the side ; and though 
 her sorrow certainly found no relief, yet the sight of the waters 
 flowing beneath her eyes, calm, tranquil, incessant, led, as it 
 were, her thoughts along with them. They became less agitated, 
 though still as deep and powerful ; they seemed to imitate the 
 course of the river, running on incessantly in the same dark 
 stream, but in quiet and in silence. The tears indeed would, from 
 time to time, rise into her eyes and roll over her cheeks, but no 
 sob accompanied them ; and though a sigh often broke from 
 her lip, it was the sigh of deep, calm despair, not of struggling 
 pain. 
 
 It is wonderful how, when we are in deep grief, the ordinary 
 sounds and sights of joyous nature strike harsh and inharmonious 
 upon us. Things that would pass by unheard at other times, as 
 amongst the smaller tones in the great general concert of the 
 day, then become painfully acute. The lark that sung up in the 
 sky above her head, made no pleasant melody for her ear; a 
 country boy crossing the opposite fields, and whistling as he 
 went, pained her so much, and made her gentle heart feel so 
 harsh towards him, that she schooled herself for such sensations, 
 saying, " He cannot tell that I am so sorrowful ! He cannot tell 
 that the sounds which I once was fond of, are now the most 
 distasteful to me." 
 
 A minute or two after a few notes upon a pipe were played 
 immediately beneath the garden wall — a little sort of prelude, 
 to see that the instrument was clear ; and unable to endure it 
 longer, Marie de Clairvaut turned to seek shelter in her prison. 
 
 Ere she had taken three steps, however, she paused. The air 
 was not one of the country ; a finer hand, too, a more exquisite 
 taste than France could produce woke the instrument into 
 sounds most musical, and in a moment after, she recognised the 
 sweet air which she had twice before heard, and both times from 
 the lips of Charles of Montsoreau. 
 
 The memory of the first time that it had met her ear was 
 sweet and delightful ; but the memory of the second time was 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 331 
 
 as the memory of hope ; and, in despite of all, it woke again the 
 feelings it had awakened before ; and an indistinct feeling of 
 glad expectation came across her mind, like a golden sunbeam, 
 shining through the mist of an autumnal morning. What was it 
 she hoped? what was it she expected? She knew not herself ; 
 but still there was an indistinct brightening came over her heart, 
 and feelings ; and when the air was over, instead of Hying from 
 the music, she listened eagerly for its renewal. 
 
 The pipe, however, sounded not again ; but in a moment after 
 she heard some one say, " Hark ! " and the sweetest possible 
 voice began to sing : — 
 
 SO>G. 
 
 Weep not, Lady, weep not, 
 
 Grief shall pass away ; 
 Angels' eyes that sleep not 
 
 Watch thee on thy way. 
 
 Heavenly hands are twining 
 
 Garlands of glad flowers. 
 Joy and Hope combining 
 
 Wreath thy future hours. 
 
 Diff'rent powers are near thee — 
 
 Bright Hope, dark Despair ; 
 Let the Goddess cheer thee — 
 
 Fly the Fiend of Care. 
 
 Son of Sin and Sorrow 
 
 Despair by earth was given ; 
 Child of the bright to-morrow, 
 
 Hope was born of Heaven. 
 
 What could it mean? Marie de Clairvaut asked herself. The 
 words seemed directly addressed to her, and applicable to her 
 own situation : yet the voice, as far as she could judge, she had 
 never heard before. But still every note, every word, appeared 
 to counsel hope. " Can I have been deceived? " she thought. 
 " Can the Abbe de Boisguerin and Gaspar de Montsoreau have 
 combined for their own dark purposes to eheat me, to induce me 
 to believe that the one I love so well is dead ? " 
 
 But, alas no ! The Abbe had left, inclosed in his own, the 
 brief note which he had received from Paris, announcing the 
 event, and that note bore every appearance of being an ordinary 
 matter of business, passing regularly through the post-oflice of 
 the capital. Could the song that she had heard, she asked 
 herself, again— could it have been accidental ; could it have been 
 sung at that moment through one of those strange combinations, 
 
332 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 which sometimes arise out of entirely indifferent circumstances, 
 to give zest to our joy, or poignancy to our sorrow ? She deter- 
 mined, if possible, to ascertain 5 and raising her voice a little 
 above its ordinary tone, she said, " Who is there? To whom do 
 you sing ? " 
 
 She did not seem to have made herself heard, however, for 
 a moment after the same voice demanded, " Is there any one 
 that listens ? " 
 "Yes, yes ! " she exclaimed, eagerly, " I listen ; speak on ! " 
 "Well then, hearken," said the voice, and again a new air 
 and a new song began. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 He goes away to a far distant land, 
 
 With cross on his shoulder and lance in his hand j 
 
 And news soon comes how his lightning brand 
 
 Has scattered the hosts of paninrie. 
 His beautiful Lady sits weeping and lone, 
 And wishes she were where her Knight has gone; 
 But she grieves not his absence with angry moan, 
 
 For her spirit is full of his chivalry. 
 
 But what are the tidings come next to her ear ? 
 
 Oh ! tidings dark and heavy to hear; 
 
 How her fearless warrior, her husband dear, 
 
 Has fallen 'neaththe lance of the Moslema. 
 How, gallantly staking his life, to save 
 From infidel hands, the Redeemer's grave, 
 He has fought for the righteous and sleeps with the brave, 
 
 'Neath the walls of Hierosolima ! 
 
 'Tis true, oh, 'tis true !— yet she will not believe, 
 
 " Ah, no ! e'en in dying he would not deceive, 
 
 " And he promised, if spirit such power could receive, 
 
 "And he fell in his holy chivalry. 
 " To visit my side in the watches of night, 
 "To comfort my heart, and to gladden my sight, 
 " And call me to join him in countries of light, 
 
 " And dwell in his breast through eternity." 
 
 Years pass ; and he comes not. Nor yet she believes ! 
 'Tis his absence, but 'tis not his death that she grieves. 
 Hope strong in affection, her heart still deceives, 
 
 Lo! she watches yon Palmer how eagerly, 
 To ask him some tidings of Syria to say — 
 But what is thy magic, oh, thou Palmer gray? 
 She is clasped in his arms ! she has fainted away ! 
 
 And he kisses her fair cheek how tenderly. 
 
 As the song had gone on, Marie de Clairvaut could no longer 
 doubt that, though allegorical, those words were applicable to 
 herself. Joy— joy beyond all conception took the place of grief ; 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 33,'t 
 
 all that she had suffered, all that she had endured in the past, 
 she now felt, indeed, to be nothing to what she had lately un- 
 dergone. But the extatic delight whieh the last words of that 
 song gave, the sudden dissipation of grief was too much for her 
 to endure. It was like the light that blinds us when we suddenly 
 rush from the darkness into the sunshine ; and she who had 
 gone through dangers, and horrors, and perils of many a kind, 
 firm and unshaken, fell fainting under the sudden effect of joy. 
 How long she remained so she knew not ; but at all events it 
 was not long enough to attract the attention of the people of 
 the house, from the windows, of which she was screened by a 
 thick alley of trees. Some one, however, had been near her, for 
 there were the prints of small feet in the grass, extending from 
 the wall to the spot where she lay, and immediately under her 
 hand was placed a small packet addressed to herself. 
 
 Fearful of discovery, she hid it instantly in her bosom, and, 
 as soon as she could, rose, and with a step far slower than her 
 wishes, sped back again to the house to read the paper she had 
 received, in secret. 
 
 It was written in a bold, free hand; the date was that very 
 morning •, and the first words, " My beloved. ,T 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut laid the letter down and gasped for breath. 
 It was sufficient, it was altogether sufficient ; every doubt, every 
 fear that had remained was now at an end, and she once more 
 burst into tears; but, oh, how sweet were those tears! how 
 happy ! how unlike the past ! Soon she took up the letter again, 
 and through the dazzling drops that still hung in her eyes read 
 the bright assurance, that he lived for her who loved him. 
 
 "I have feared," the letter said, "I have feared, that a report 
 of my death which has been current in this city of Paris should 
 have reached my beloved Marie, and the more especially as, 
 by the counsel and earnest entreaty of the Duke of Guise, I have 
 myself contributed to the spread of the rumour, and have taken 
 every means to suffer it to be confirmed. The object of this, 
 however, was to deliver you alone by throwing those who so 
 unjustly detain you off their guard; and some days ago I came 
 on into this neighbourhood — where my brother, the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin, and the Duke of Epernon, all are, and to which we 
 have traced \ illequier several times— in the confident belief that 
 you were not far distant from Angouleme. It might have been 
 some time ere I discovered your abode, but accident has be- 
 friended me, and my page, who bears you this, and undertakes 
 positively to deliver it to you, saw you yesterday morning by a 
 most extraordinary but fortunate chance. I dare not venture 
 near you in the early part of the morning, but ere night has 
 closed in, I will find some means to see and speak with you. 
 
334 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 As far as possible, dearest Marie, be prepared for any thing that 
 it may be necessary to undertake. I fear that you have already 
 suffered much •, but I will not doubt that even the rash and vio- 
 lent men who have dared every crime to withdraw you from 
 those that love you best, have treated you with tenderness and 
 kindness. I too have suffered much, but far more from knowing 
 that you were at the mercy of those who persecute you while I 
 was lying stretched upon the bed of sickness, than from the very 
 wounds that brought me there. I am now well : I am near you ; 
 and that is enough to enable me to say that I am happy, al- 
 though there may be perils and dangers before us, as we are 
 still in the midst of our adversaries, and must once more attempt 
 to pass through a long track of country with obstacles at every 
 step." 
 
 The letter ended with every expression of affection and of 
 love •, and again and again Marie de Clairvaut read it and wept, 
 and fell into fits of deep thought, and could scarcely believe 
 that the joyous tidings were true. 
 
 She next asked herself what she could do to favour her lover's 
 efforts. The two or three women who had been appointed to 
 wait upon her, as well as the male attendants by whom she 
 was surrounded, were all strangers to her, and she felt that they 
 were her gaolers. There was one of them, however, who had 
 looked upon her during the preceding day with evident com- 
 passion, had watched her tears with sorrowful eyes, and had 
 spoken a few words of consolation. At one time she thought of 
 speaking to that woman, and trying to gain her to her interests 
 for the purpose of facilitating any thing that Charles of Mont- 
 soreau might do to effect her liberation. She hesitated, how- 
 ever, and judging that if he succeeded in seeing her that evening 
 it would be by passing over the wall at the spot where she had 
 heard the boy singing in the evening ; she lingered about during 
 the whole of the evening, listening for the least sound. None 
 was heard, however, and at length the bell at the gates of the 
 enclosure was heard to ring. 
 
 Agitated and anxious, fearing that every moment might bring 
 Charles of Montsoreau to the spot, at the very time that other 
 persons were near, she came out from behind the trees, and 
 walked slowly on by the side of the river. Just at that moment 
 a small boat pushed slowly up the current by a country boy, 
 passed by the spot where she stood ; but the boy whistled lightly 
 on his way, as he went, and took no notice of her : and in a 
 minute after, she heard steps approaching from the other side, 
 and turned with some anxiety to see who it was that approached. 
 
 It was the servant girl we have before mentioned, who came 
 towards her quickly, saying, "You have been very sad these 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 335 
 
 two days, lady, and I wish you would lake comfort. Here is a 
 good man, one of the preaching friars just called at the gate, 
 and I'm sure, if you would but listen to him, he would give 
 you consolation." 
 
 " Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut, " he could give me no 
 consolation, my good girl. My own thoughts just now arc my 
 best companions." 
 
 As she spoke, however, to her dismay, she saw the monk 
 coming across the green from the side of the gates, and she 
 determined at once to reject all his proffered advice and conso- 
 lation, fearing that the precious minute for seeing him she loved 
 might he lost by this unwonted intrusion. 
 
 " Do listen to him, dear lady," said the girl. " When I told 
 him how sad you were, he said he was sure that he could give 
 you comfort." 
 
 In the mean time the friar approached with a slow step, with 
 his cowl drawn over his head, and his hand supported by his 
 staff. Marie de Clairvaut trembled from anxiety and apprehen- 
 sion, and only returned the friar's benedicite by an inclination 
 of the head and an assurance that she did not stand in need 
 of the consolation he offered. 
 
 " Yet listen to me, daughter," he said, without withdrawing 
 the cowl from his head. But the first tones of that full rich 
 voice proved sufficient nearly to overpower the fair girl to whom 
 bespoke. " If you will hear me but for five minutes, my daughter," 
 he said, " I think and I believe, that I can suggest to you con- 
 solations that you may take to heart ; and if not, the few words 
 I have to speak can do you no harm at least." 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut bowed her head, and took a step or two 
 nearer to the water, while the woman withdrew for a short 
 space, so as to be out of ear shot. But still she remained 
 watching the two, as if she were either afraid of having done 
 wrong in admitting the friar at all, or had suddenly conceived 
 some suspicion of his purpose. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut 
 and of Charles de Montsoreau turned that way, and both saw 
 that they were watched. Could they have followed the dictates 
 of their own hearts, they would have cast themselves into each 
 other's arms ; but now they were forced to stand, ruling every 
 look and every gesture, and assuming the demeanour of strangers, 
 even while the words of love and affection were bursting from 
 their lips. The young nobleman, however, gave but brief course 
 to his feelings. 
 
 " This night, Marie," he said, after a few words of passionate 
 tenderness, " this very night at twelve, a boat shall be ready 
 for you underneath that bank, and means prepared for you to 
 descend. It has already passed up the river in order that we may 
 
336 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 descend swiftly with the stream, for the current is too rapid to 
 permit of our passing up without the risk of being stopped at 
 every moment. At Jarnac, however, all is prepared for our es- 
 cape, and though our journey thence may be longer, it will be 
 more secure. Can you be here at that hour?" 
 
 "I can," she said, "and will, and, oh! may God grant, 
 Charles, that this time we may not only come within sight of 
 the haven, as we have twice done before, but reach it altogether ; 
 and never, never again will I suffer them to separate me from 
 you, as I did on that awful day in Paris." 
 
 " Even yet, neither I nor the Duke know how it happened," 
 said Charles of Montsoreau. 
 
 " As I was following the Queen," replied Marie, rapidly, 
 " some one pulled me by the sleeve, and on turning to see who 
 it was, the crowd closed in between me and Catharine. The 
 person who had touched me was dressed in the colours of 
 the house of Guise, and he said, 'The Duke expects you Made- 
 moiselle. If you will come round this way, I will lead you to 
 the other gate where there is no crowd.' I followed willingly, 
 and nothing doubting ; and he led me round into one of the 
 streets behind, when suddenly I was seized by the arms on 
 either side, and hurried along without the power of resistance. 
 I cried for help as loud as I could, indeed, but they bore me 
 rapidly into the house opposite, where 1 saw the Abbe de Bois- 
 guerin, and could hear your brother's voice talking to Mon- 
 sieur de Yillequier. They then put me into a chair, the blinds 
 of which I could not undraw, and carried me rapidly to another 
 house, where I remained for some time, till Yillequier and the 
 rest again appeared. I did all that woman could do, Charles, 
 to make them set me free ; but what could I do ? what means 
 had I to use? — entreaties, to which they were deaf; menaces, 
 at which they laughed. Your brother, indeed, said something 
 that he intended for kindness, and the Abbe looked gloomy 
 and sad. But Yillequier only smiled for all answer; till at length 
 tidings were brought them that they were discovered, and that 
 people were coming rapidly in pursuit of them. I was then once 
 more borne away by Yillequier, after a few words between him 
 and your brother-, and 1 heard your brother say as they parted, 
 ' I will delay them as long as possible.' Where they took me 
 I know not well, but I believe it was the Hotel de Yillequier. — 
 But see, the woman is coming near ! We must part, dear Charles ; 
 I fear we must once more part." 
 
 jNothing more could be said, for the girl now approached •, 
 and Charles of Montsoreau, assuming the tone of the friar, bade 
 Marie remember his words, and take them to heart; and then, 
 giving her his blessing, departed. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 337 
 
 Shortly before midnight, wrapt in a cloak of a dark colour, 
 in order, as far as possible, to pass unobserved if any eye should 
 be watching, Marie deClairvaut passed through one of the lower 
 windows of the chateau, and with a light step, sprang into the 
 little cloister that ran along one side of the building, at no great 
 depth from the window. The moon was shining bright and 
 full, and every object around, except where the shadow of the 
 cloister fell, was as clear as if the sun had been in the sky. 
 
 She paused and listened with a beating heart. There was no 
 sound but the murmur of the quick Charentc; and then, put- 
 ting her ear to the open window, she listened there to ascertain 
 that all was quiet in the house. Nothing stirred 5 and, knowing 
 how important it was to leave no trace of the manner in which 
 her flight had been effected, she closed the casement carefully, 
 and prepared to go forth into the moonlight. 
 
 There was something, however, in the stillnqss, and the clear- 
 ness, and the calmness of every thing that was in itself fearful-, 
 and she hesitated for a moment before she went out. At length, 
 however, she ventured across the green and shining turf, and 
 with a quick step approached the edge of the water. Looking 
 down upon it from above, she could see nothing in the deep 
 shadow of the bank ; but, suddenly, a bright ripple caught some 
 stray rays of moonlight, and chequered the dark bosom of the 
 water with quick lines of silver. 
 
 " Are you there? " said the voice of Charles of Montsoreau 
 from below. 
 " Yes," she said. " How shall I descend?" 
 But, even as she spoke, a figure glided out from the shrubs 
 beside her, and, uttering a low cry, Marie de Clairvaut perceived 
 the girl who had given admittance to the supposed friar on the 
 preceding evening. The sound which she had uttered had in- 
 stantly caught the attention of Charles of Montsoreau 5 and, 
 springing up the bank, he found the girl with her hand clasped 
 round the Lady's wrist, but holding up the other hand as if 
 enjoining silence. 
 
 " You are unkind," said the girl, in a low tone, "when I 
 was kind to you. I have already been bitterly reproached for 
 letting in the monk ; and now, if you fly, what will become of 
 me? They will say that I did it." 
 
 "Fear not, fear not!" answered Charles of Montsoreau, 
 " and attempt not to detain the Lady, my good girl; for go she 
 must and will; and, as there is no other boat here, any attempt 
 to pursue us will be vain. All you can do by endeavouring to 
 detain her will be useless, and but injure yourself. Here is money 
 for you," he continued. 
 The girl put it away with her hand, replying, " I want no 
 
 22 
 
338 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 money, Sir; but if she goes, I will go with her. I will not stay 
 here in the power of that dark Abbe. I will come with her if 
 she will let me." 
 
 " Willingly, willingly," replied Charles of Montsoreau ;" but 
 say not a word, and come quick ; and remember, till the Lady 
 is safe under the protection of the Duke of Guise, we pause for 
 no one, so there must be no pretences of fatigue." 
 
 " Fear not," replied the girl ; " I can bear more than she can. 
 But how can we get down the bank ? " 
 
 "There is a short ladder," said the young Count. "Come 
 quick ! " And in a moment after he aided Marie de Clairvaut 
 to descend. It was all done in a moment. The girl followed the 
 Lady, the ladder was taken into the boat, and, with joy and sa- 
 tisfaction beyond all conception, the fair girl, whose days had 
 lately passed so sorrowfully, felt the little vessel fluctuating be- 
 neath her feet as she seated herself in it; while Charles of 
 Montsoreau, with a man who had been waiting therein, pushed 
 the boat away from the bank, and a boy seated at the stern 
 guided it into the deeper parts of the water. There were but a 
 few words spoken by any one. 
 
 " You are sure, Ignati,'" said the young Count, "that you 
 marked every ruck and shoal as you came up?" 
 
 "Quite sure," replied the boy; and, leaving the current, 
 which was rapid and powerful, to bear them on, without dis- 
 turbing its smooth surface by the splash of oars, they glided 
 along quickly down (he stream : now in moonlight, now in shade, 
 with the high rocky banks and promontories tilled with holes 
 and caverns, which border the valley of the Charente, now seen 
 in bright clear light — now rising up against the silvery sky 
 wrapped in deep shadows and obscurity. 
 
 The hand of Marie de Clairvaut lay clasped in that of her 
 lover as they sat side by side. Their hearts were full, though 
 their lips were silent; and the eyes of both were raised tow r ards 
 the sky, tilled with thankfulness, and hope, and trust. Thus 
 they went on for about two hours, saying but little, and that 
 little in low and murmured tones; but as they went, Charles of 
 Montsoreau found occasion to tell her that he had luckily ef- 
 fected a new arrangement, and that he had procured means of 
 landing and proceeding on their journey before they reached 
 Jarnac. 
 
 At length, after a voyage of about two hours and a half, as 
 the moon was beginning to decline, a rushing sound was heard 
 over the bow r of the boat, and the waters of the river were seen 
 fretting against a dyke, which had been built to confine it in its 
 proper course. A couple of bouses, sheltered by tw r o sloping 
 hills which swept down to the very bank of the river, appeared 
 
1IENKY OF GUISE. X'59 
 
 upon the loft hand, with what seemed a number of living objects 
 gathered about them. 
 
 Marie de Clairvaut turned her eyes to Charles of Montso- 
 reau with some apprehension, but he pressed her hand ten- 
 derly, saying, " Fear not, fear not. They are my own people, 
 waiting for our arrival." 
 
 The boy guided the boat safely up to the landing place, and 
 the question, "Who comes here?" was demanded, as if at a 
 regular warlike post. 
 
 " A friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, and gave the 
 word Chateau Thierry. The man grounded his arms, and 
 Charles of Montsoreau, springing to the shore, led Marie de 
 Clairvaut and the girl who had followed her, to one of the 
 houses, where every thing seemed prepared for their re- 
 ception. 
 
 He paused for a moment to gaze upon the face of the girl who 
 had accompanied them, and to ask her name, which he found 
 to be Louise. The countenance was good, and frank, and gentle, 
 and the natural spirit of physiognomy, which is in every one's 
 brain, gave a pleasant reading of that face. 
 
 " Listen to me," he said, speaking to her. " As you have pre- 
 ferred the service of (his lady to remaining behind where I found 
 you, depend upon it every attention and devotion that you show 
 to her by the way will be taken note of and well rewarded • and 
 do not forget, that, if possible, you are never to leave her, but 
 to do every thing in your power, under all circumstances, to 
 enable her to reach the Duke of Guise, who is her near relation, 
 and whom we expect to find at Blois or Chartres." 
 
 " Is she so great a lady?" said the girl. 
 
 " She is the niece and ward of the great Duke of Guise," re- 
 plied Charles of Montsoreau ; " and the time is rapidly coming 
 when those who have injured and offended her will be severely 
 punished, and those who have assisted and befriended her re- 
 warded far beyond their expectations." 
 
 Having said this, lie left them to see that all was properly 
 prepared ; and in a few minutes more Marie de Clairvaut, with 
 the girl who accompanied her, were placed in one of the rude 
 but roomy chaises of the country, and with six horses to drag it 
 through the heavy roads, was rolling away in the direction of 
 Limoges, followed by Charles of Montsoreau, and a party of five 
 or six servants on horseback. 
 
340 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 The autumn was far spent, an early winter had set intensely 
 in, frost once more covered the ground, the last leaves had fallen 
 from the trees, and looking round upon the thick tapestry that 
 covered the walls, and the immense logs of wood which blazed 
 in the deep arched fire-place, the tenant of a splendid room in 
 the old chateau of Rlois smiled when he thought of where he 
 had last passed a similar frosty day : in arms in the open field 
 against the enemies of the land. 
 
 Now, however, the appearance of Henry Duke of Guise was 
 in some degree different from that which it had ever been be- 
 fore. Loaded with honours by the King, adored by the people, 
 gratified in every demand, ruling almost despotically the state, 
 the height to which he had risen had impressed itself upon his 
 countenance, and added to that expression of conscious power, 
 which his face had ever borne, the expression also of conscious 
 success. His dress, too, was more splendid than it had ever 
 been — not that he had adopted the silken refinements ofEper- 
 non or Joyeuse ; not that his person was loaded with jewels, or 
 that his ear hung with rubies : but every thing that he wore was 
 of the richest and most costly kind 5 and as he now stood ready 
 dressed to go down to hold the table of grand master of the 
 Ring's household and generalissimo of the armies of France, at 
 which Henry himself, and all the great nobles of the Court were 
 that day to be present, it would have been difficult, throughout 
 all Europe — nay, it would have been impossible, to match his 
 princely look, or to excel in taste his rich apparel. One single 
 star gleamed upon his bosom, the collars of manifold orders 
 hung around his neck, the hilt of his sword was of massy gold, 
 and thin lines of gold embroidery marked the slashings of his 
 green velvet doublet, where, slightly opening as he moved with 
 easy dignity, the pure white lining below appeared from time to 
 time. There were no jewels on his hands, but one large signet 
 ring. He wore no hat, and the brown hair curling round his 
 forehead was the only ornament that decked his head. There 
 was a jewel in his belt, indeed, a single jewel of high price, and 
 the pommel of the dagger, which lay across his loins, was a 
 single emerald. 
 
 From time to time, while he had been dressing ; — indeed we 
 might say almost every minute, some messenger, or page, or 
 courier appeared, bearing him news or letters from the various 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 31 1 
 
 provinces of the realm. His secretary stood beside him, but 
 every line was read first by the Duke's own eye 5 and then ho 
 handed them to Pericard, either with some brief comment or 
 some direction in regard to the answer to he returned. 
 
 " Ha!" he said, smiling, after reading one epistle. " There 
 is a curious letter from good Hubert de Vins. Hubert loves me 
 as his own brother, and yet to read that letter one would think 
 he respected me but little. There is no bad name he does not 
 give me down to Maheutre and Huguenot, because I trust in 
 King Henry, who, he says, is as treacherous as a Picardy cat." 
 
 " I think with Monsieur de Vins, your Highness," said Peri- 
 card, who had been reading the letter while the Duke spoke, 
 " ' that trusting in the semblances of the King's love, you expose 
 your life every hour as if it were neither a value to yourself or 
 your friends or your country.' " 
 
 " You mistake, Pericard," replied the Duke; " I trust not in 
 Henry's love at all. Whether it be feigned or whether it be real 
 for the time, matters not a straw. If it be feigned, it does me no 
 harm, but, on the contrary, daily gives me greater power; if it 
 be true, I receive the benefits thereof for the time, well knowing 
 that to-morrow or the next day it will change completely into 
 hate. 1 'II tell you what it is I trust to, Pericard : not to the 
 King's love, but to his good sense ; for were 1 dead to-morrow- 
 he could be ten times worse than he is to day. I am he who 
 stands between him and destruction !— Ah ! who have we hear?" 
 he continued, as the door again opened. " From Provence;" — 
 and taking the letter from the hand of a dusty courier, he read 
 it over attentively and threw it to Pericard, saying, "That is 
 good news surely, Pericard ! In the room of the two deputies 
 who were so difficult to manage that we" were obliged to stuff 
 them with carp and truffles till they both fell sick and tied, we 
 have got two steady Leaguers not to be shaken by threats or 
 moved by choice meats. If we could dislodge that viper, Eper- 
 non, from Angoumois, all would be clear before us till we reached 
 the confines of Henry of Navarre. But Epernon is raising troops, 
 I hear " he added, although he saw that some one had en- 
 tered the room and was approaching him. 
 
 " Which he will soon disband, Monsieur de Guise," said the 
 stranger, " as I am charged by the King to set out to-morrow 
 morning to give the Duke his commands to that effect." 
 
 " By my life, Monsieur Miron," said the Duke, "you will 
 have soon to lay aside altogether the exercise of your esculapean 
 powers, at least upon his Majesty's person. You show yourself 
 so skilful in healing the wounds of the state, and curing the sick- 
 ness of the body politic." 
 
 " Your Highness is good unto me," replied the King's physi- 
 
342 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 cian, looking humble 5 " but I came to pay my respects to your 
 Highness now, not having seen you since the exile of Villeroy, 
 Pinar and the rest. I hope your Highness does not think that 
 their disgrace is likely to affect your interests at court." 
 
 " Not in the least, Monsieur Miron," replied the Duke; "far 
 from it. I seek to exercise no influence amongst the King's 
 ministers. Those who are good for the state are good to me. 
 On the King's good feeling and good sense I firmly rely." 
 
 " Some body, 1 ' said the physician, " informed his Majesty 
 that you were grieved at the dismissal of Villeroy. I may tell him, 
 then, that such is not the case, for he was pained to hear it." 
 
 "Tell him so, I beseech you," replied the Duke. " I know 
 the King would not wish without some good reason to dismiss 
 any one that I especially esteemed.'"' 
 
 " Most assuredly," replied Miron 5 " but might I give your 
 Highness one slight warning as a friend, and a most sincere one?" 
 
 " Most gratefully will it be received," replied the Duke. 
 " Speak freely, my learned Sir," he continued, seeing that the 
 physician had fixed his eyes upon Pericard. " Our good Peri- 
 card is as silent as your friend death, Monsieur Miron, who 
 tells no tales you know to those on this side the grave, what- 
 ever he may do to those on the other. What is it you have to say ?" 
 
 " It is this, my Lord," replied Miron. " I should tell you first, 
 that I do believe the King sincerely loves you, and that if you 
 deal but politicly with his humours, there is none in whom he 
 will place such confidence. But my good lord the King's tempe- 
 rament is a strange one. — I speak as a physician. It is indeed 
 injured by some excesses, but though by nature full of the mer- 
 curial character, there was always much of the saturnine in it. 
 The balance between these has been overthrown by many cir- 
 cumstances, and in certain conjunctions of the planets he is 
 strangely and variably affected. Such also is the case in the 
 time of these hard frosts. In soft and genial weather he may 
 be easily dealt with : you will then find him but as a thing of 
 wax in your hands. But I beseech you, my Lord, remember 
 that, when the pores of the earth are shut up and filled with 
 this black and acrid frost, 't is then that all the humours of the 
 body are likewise congealed, and Henry is at that lime filled with 
 black and terrible vapours, which are dangerous not alone to 
 himself, but to every one who approaches him unprepared. I 
 say it advisedly, my good Lord. Any one who urges the King 
 far, at such moments, is in peril of his life '. But 1 must say no 
 more, for here comes a messenger." 
 
 ' Such, and in such terms, strange and fantastic as they may seem, was undoubtedly 
 the warning given by the physician Miron to the Duke of Guise not many days before the 
 catastrophe of Blois. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 343 
 
 " I thank you most sincerely," replied the Duke. " Who is 
 this packet from? 1 must speedily descend to supper." 
 
 " From his Highness of Mayenne," replied the messenger. 
 " He said it was matter of life and death, and commanded 
 me to ride post haste." 
 
 " Ha ! " said Guise, as he opened the packets and saw the 
 contents. " Our cousin of Savoy in arms in France. This shows 
 the need of unanimity amongst ourselves. He shall find himself 
 mistaken, however, if he thinks Guise will forget his duty to 
 his country. Write Charles of Mayenne word, Pericard, to firing 
 his troops into such a position that they can act against Savoy 
 at a moment's notice, and tell him that he shall have orders to 
 do so ere three days be over. Send, too, to Rouen, thanking 
 them for their attachment; and see that our agent at the court 
 of Rome have full instructions regarding the Count deSoissons. 
 Ha ! here comes our firother of the church. My good Lord 
 Cardinal, we will descend together. We shall scarcely reach 
 the hall before the Ring arrives." 
 
 The person who entered fiore a strong family likeness to the 
 Duke, but was neither so tall nor so powerful in person. He was 
 dressed in the crimson rofies of a prince of tfio church of Rome ; 
 and fiis countenance, which had much shrewdness and some 
 dignity, accorded well with his station. Miron had retired 
 quietly while the Duke spoke ; a sign had dismissed the mes- 
 senger from the Duke of Mayenne, and none fiut Pericard re- 
 mained in the room. But yet the Cardinal spoke in a whisper 
 to his brother, who merely smiled, replying, " Come, come ; 
 we have no time now to jest." And thus saying, he led the 
 way down to a hall, where supper was prepared at the table of 
 the Grand Master for all the most distinguished guests then re- 
 sident at Blois. 
 
 The table was covered, as was then much the custom, with 
 jewelled plate of many kinds, and various fanciful devices. The 
 room was in a blaze of light, and all the guests, but the King 
 and his particular train, had already arrived. They were stand- 
 ing back from the table, and gathered together in the magni- 
 ficent dresses of that period, formed splendid groups in different 
 parts of the chamber, while sewers and other attendants, hurry- 
 ing backwards and forwards, brought in the various dishes, 
 and set them in their regular order. 
 
 The appearance of the Duke and his brother, the Cardinal 
 de Guise, occasioned an instant movement amongst the guests, 
 and the proudest there bowed lowly to the gallant Prince, whose 
 fortunes hitherto had gone on from height to height. Nobles 
 and generals of the highest distinction eagerly sought a word 
 with him, and bishops and prelates of many a various character 
 
MA HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 crowded forward, but to touch the hand of one who had stood 
 forth so prominently in defence of the church. 
 
 In a few minutes the table was covered with the various 
 dishes, and intimation that supper was served was immediately 
 given to the King, who appeared the moment after, while the 
 Duke of Guise advanced to the door to receive him, and with 
 every testimony of lowly respect led him to the raised seat 
 appointed for him. The King was followed by six gentlemen, 
 for whom places had been reserved, and amongst them the eye 
 of Guise rested upon Villequier. That eye flashed for a single 
 moment as it saw him ; but the next instant all was calm, and 
 the Duke noticed him especially by an inclination of the head. 
 
 As soon as the King had taken his seat, saying, " Sit. my 
 Lord Duke, I pray you ; stand upon no further ceremonies," 
 Guise and the rest seated themselves at the table, and the 
 monarch and his princely officer bent forward to say some 
 complimentary nothing to each other, each at the same time 
 unfolding the napkin that lay before them. As they did so, 
 from the napkin of the Duke of Guise fell out upon his plate a 
 folded letter ; and Henry, who was all gaiety and condescension at 
 that moment, exclaimed aloud with a light laugh, " Some letter 
 from his lady-love, upon my honour. Read, read, my Lord Duke! 
 Read, read! Carvers, touch not a dish till the Duke has read." 
 
 The Duke opened the letter smiling, while the King bent a 
 little towards that side, as if jestingly, to see the contents. AH 
 eyes round the table were fixed upon those two 5 and it was 
 seen that the colour mounted into the cheek of the Duke of 
 Guise, that his brow gathered into a frown, and his lip curl- 
 ed with a scornful smile. As far as the paint on the King's 
 countenance would admit, he appeared to turn pale al the same 
 moment. But Guise, crushing the letter together in his hand, 
 threw it contemptuously under the table, saying aloud, " They 
 dare not! » " 
 
 None but the King around the table knew to what those words 
 alluded: but Henry had seen the words, "Beware, Duke of 
 Guise, your life is in danger every day. There are those round 
 you from morning to night, who are ready to spill your blood." 
 
 The Duke seemed to forget the matter in a moment, and by 
 the graces of his demeanour soon caused it to be forgotten also 
 by all those around. Henry resumed his gaiety and tranquillity ; 
 wine and feasting did their part; and some short time after the 
 King, with his glass filled with the most exquisite wine of France, 
 exclaimed, " Let us drink to some one, my Lord Duke. To whom 
 shall it be?" 
 
 ' Some of the Duke's historians say that he did not speak the words aloud, hut merely 
 wrote at the holtom of the uote, " On n'oseroit," and then threw it under the table. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 345 
 
 M It is for your Majesty to comnuiiu!," replied the Duke gaily. 
 " Let us drink to our good friends the Huguenots ! " 
 
 "Willingly, willingly," cried Henry laughing. "To the Hu- 
 guenots, cousin of Guise-, ay, and to our good barricaders, too; 
 let us not forget them." 
 
 The King smiled, and many around smiled also, at what they 
 thought would be a mortification to the Duke. But Guise an- 
 swered immediately, after drinking the toast, " It is well he- 
 thought of your Majesty, while you give us the health of your 
 bitter enemies, to give us that of your most faithful servants, 
 who will never cease to defend you against them." 
 
 He spoke with such an air of good humour, that none could 
 see he had taken any offence, and this matter was also for- 
 gotten in a few moments. Shortly before the dessert was placed 
 upon the table, a page slipped a small scrap of paper with a few 
 words written upon it into the hands of the Duke, who gathered 
 the meaning at a single glance, while his whole countenance 
 brightened with satisfaction. " Come, Monsieur de Yillequier," 
 he said, " honour me by drinking with me to a mutual relation 
 of ours. Here is to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, as sweet, as good, 
 as fair a lady as any in France. Let us drink her health, and a 
 gallant husband to her soon." 
 
 "Willingly, willingly, my Lord," replied Villequier-, "and 
 I wish your Lordship would let me name that husband. But 
 here is to her health." And he drank the wine. 
 
 " Nay," answered Guise, " that cannot be, Monsieur de Yil- 
 lequier, for I have named him myself already." 
 
 " Indeed ! " exclaimed Yillequier, with no slight surprise in 
 his look. But he instantly overcame the first emotion, adding, 
 "I suppose, then, that the young Lady is under your protec- 
 tion at the present moment? " 
 
 "At which you can neither be displeased nor surprised, 
 Monsieur de Yillequier," replied the Duke, still bearing a cour- 
 teous and affable look. " As you know you swore upon the 
 mass some weeks ago that she was not under your protection, 
 and that you knew not where she was, it must be a relief to 
 your mind to find that she is well cared for." 
 
 " Oh, my good Lord of Guise," replied Yillequier in the same 
 courteous tone, " no one ever doubts that his Highness of Guise 
 cares lor every one that comes within his influence. Have we 
 not an instance of it here, when no sooner is one of the good 
 Duke's friends, and the allotted husband of his fair niece, dead, 
 than another of his friends is raised to the same happy prospect. 
 But, pray, may I ask if the young Lady herself is well pleased 
 with this rapid substitution of lovers?" 
 
 " Delighted, I believe," replied the Duke with a smile full of 
 
346 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 meaning. " Though I have had no particular communication 
 with her yet, inasmuch as, it having been discovered that she 
 had escaped from the hands of some base persons who unjustly 
 detained her, the worthy and respectable governor of Angou- 
 mois took pains to guard the country all round, in order to stop 
 her on her journey to Blois. This has much delayed her com- 
 ing, and would most likely have delayed it still longer, had she 
 not taken refuge with Monsieur and Madame Montmorin, till I 
 sent a force sufficient to open the way for her through all the 
 La Valettes in France. It is thus only this night — nay, this very 
 moment, that I hear of her arrival in Blois." 
 
 " Well, my Lord," answered Villequier with a laugh, " it is 
 evident that he who attempts to strive with the Duke of Guise, 
 either in stratagem or in force, must be a bold man, and should 
 be a clever one. As I told your Highness, Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut was not in my hands, but how she was set free from 
 the hands in which she was placed must remain a mystery rather 
 difficult to solve. A servant girl, it seems, became the immediate 
 instrument 5 but the skill with which every trace of her path was 
 concealed, and even the manner in which her flight itself was 
 effected, bespeaks a better brain than that of a peasant of An- 
 goumois. Is it permitted, my Lord, to ask the name of the fa- 
 voured gentleman you destine for her husband? " 
 
 " His Majesty receives his Court to-night, I think," replied 
 the Duke, "and then, Monsieur de Villequier, I shall have 
 much pleasure in presenting that gentleman to you. But, Mon- 
 sieur de Villequier, if, as your words imply, you have suffered 
 yourself to be out-manceuvered in Ihis business, I will mortify 
 your pride in your own skill by telling you that you have been 
 foiled and frustrated by no efforts of mine, but by the wit of a 
 girl and the courage and stratagem of a mere youth. My Lord 
 the King, may I humbly beseech your Majesty to let us drink 
 better policy to Monsieur de Villequier. 1 ' 
 
 Henry laughed lightly and drank the wine ; and the rest of 
 the supper passed off gaily, though Villequier from time to time 
 fell into a momentary fit of thought, from which he was twice 
 roused to find the eye of the Duke of Guise upon him. At length, 
 as the hour for the reception of the Court in the King's own 
 apartments approached, Henry rose and retired, followed by Vil- 
 lequier and the rest of the gentlemen who had accompanied him. 
 
 The Duke of Guise paused for a moment after, speaking ra- 
 pidly to several of those around him ; and then, calling a page, 
 he whispered to him, " Go witli speed to Monsieur Chapelle 
 Marteau. Tell him to let me see him at midnight. I should also 
 like to see Monsieur de Magnac, one of the Presidents of the 
 INobles. You will very likely find him in his cabinet at the Pa- 
 
HKNRY OF GUISE. 347 
 
 lais de Justice. 1 would fain see them both. — Gentlemen, the 
 King will soon he in the hall, where you had better meet his 
 Majesty. I must be absent for a few moments, and you will 
 therefore pardon me." 
 
 Thus saying the Duke left them, and followed by one or two 
 attendants, proceeded to the apartments assigned especially to 
 himself. 
 
 In the mean while the rest of the nobles hurried from the 
 chateau to various parts of the town, in order to accompany 
 their wives and daughters to a great assembly of the Court, 
 which was to be held that night in the grand hall of the castle. 
 In the same hall the meetings of the States -General of the 
 kingdom usually took place, when the three orders assembled 
 together; but, as it was considered probable that they would 
 deliberate separately for some days to come, the hall had been 
 arranged that night, as we have said, for the reception of the 
 Court ; and in it soon appeared almost all the splendid nobility 
 of France brought into Blois by the meeting of the States. 
 
 The Duke of Guise, however, had not yet arrived when the 
 King appeared, and much was the surprise and w r onder of all 
 that he did not show himself. In ahout ten minutes after, 
 however, there was a whisper near the great doors of " The 
 Duke ! the Duke is coming ! He is in the corridor speaking to 
 Brissac : " and after the pause of an instant, the two wings of 
 the door were thrown open, and Guise, followed by a long and 
 brilliant train, and himself decorated with the collars and jewels 
 of all the first orders in Europe, entered the great hall and 
 advanced towards the King. With him appeared the lovely 
 form of Marie de Clairvaut, leaning on his left arm, while, 
 dressed with all that splendour to which the fashion of the day 
 lent itself, appeared upon his right the young Count of Logeres, 
 somewhat thinner and somewhat paler than he had been when 
 he before presented himself at the Court of France, but with his 
 head high, and proud with the best kind of pride, the con- 
 sciousness of rectitude, and his eye bright with the excitement 
 of the moment and the scene. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut 
 were bent down, and there was a slight but not ungraceful 
 embarrassment in her manner, from the consciousness that 
 many late events which had befallen her would attract more 
 than usual attention to herself. 
 
 Advancing straight towards the King and Queen, the Duke 
 of Guise took Marie's hand in his, saying, " Allow me to pre- 
 sent to your Majesties my dear niece and ward, Mademoi- 
 selle de Clairvaut, and permit me also to present to you my 
 
 friend ;" and he laid particular emphasis on the word, 
 
 " the Count ot Logeres, whom, with your Majesty's permis- 
 
348 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 sion, and this fair Lady's consent, I destine to be her husband. 
 Were it possible to give him a higher treasure than herself, 
 I should be bound to do it, as if it had not been for him, and 
 for his skill, courage, and determination on two occasions, 
 my head would have been now in the dust, and I should not 
 now have had the hope of serving your Majesty well, faithfully, 
 and successfully, as I trust to do." 
 
 From his first entrance, and while he spoke, a low murmur 
 had run through the whole Court, some inquiring who the 
 gentleman was that accompanied him, the few who knew Charles 
 of Montsoreau whispering his name, and all, as it passed round, 
 expressing their surprise at the re-appearance of one supposed 
 to be dead. The Duke of Guise in the mean time turned to 
 Villequier, who had at first become pale at the sight of Charles 
 of Montsoreau. 
 
 " Monsieur de Villequier," said the Duke, " you were de- 
 sirous of knowing the name of the friend for whom I destine 
 my niece. Allow me to present him to you in the person of 
 the Count of Logeres, whom I trust you will soon congra- 
 tulate upon their marriage." And while he spoke he ran the 
 finger of his right hand gently down his baldric towards the 
 hilt of his sword, with a gesture significant enough, but which 
 could only be seen by Villequier. 
 
 Having said this, the Duke and his party retired to a space 
 left for them on the King's right hand, and the various en- 
 tertainments of the evening commenced, the King, who had 
 been rather amused than otherwise at the re-appearance of 
 Charles of Montsoreau, giving himself up to one of those bursts 
 of gaiety, which occasionally ran into somewhat frantic ex- 
 cesses. 
 
 We cannot pause here to describe the scene. All was splen- 
 dour and amusement ; and in the light Court of France the 
 circumstances in which Marie de Clairvaut was placed were 
 sufficient to draw around her all the gay, and the gallant, and 
 the idle. Unaccustomed to such scenes — less accustomed, indeed, 
 than even she was — the eye of Charles of Montsoreau turned 
 towards her from time to time, with perhaps some anxiety, 
 to see how she would bear the homage that was paid to her ; 
 whether, in short, it would be the same Marie de Clairvaut 
 in the midst of flattery and adulation and that bright and glitter- 
 ing scene, that it had been with him in the calm quiet of 
 country life, in more than one solitary journey, and in many 
 a scene of peril, danger, and distress. Whenever he looked 
 that way, however, he saw the same sweet, calm, retiring de- 
 meanour •, and more than once he found her eyes seeking him 
 out in some distant part of the hall, and her lips light up with a 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 349 
 
 bright smile as soon as their glances met. He felt, and he 
 felt proudly, that there was none there present who could doubt 
 that her guardian's choice was her own also. 
 
 With the irregularity which marked all Henry's conduct at 
 that period, after remaining for half an hour with the appear- 
 ance of the utmost enjoyment, the Ring suddenly became 
 sombre and gloomy ; and, after biting his lip and knitting his 
 brow for a few minutes, turned and quitted the hall. All was 
 immediately the confusion of departure, and Charles of Montso- 
 reau made his way across to where the Duke of Guise was 
 seen standing, towering above all the rest. The young Count 
 had remarked, that in the course of the evening the Duke had 
 been speaking long and eagerly with a lady of extraordinary 
 beauty, who stood at some distance from the royal party •, and 
 he had heard her named as the Marchioness of Noirmontier, 
 with a light jest from more than one tongue at her intimacy 
 with the Duke. When he now reached the side of that Prince 
 she had passed on, and was bending over Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut, and speaking to her with a look of tenderness and 
 admiration. 
 
 " Come on Count, come on," said the Duke, in a low but 
 somewhat sharp tone, as soon as his young friend joined him. 
 And they advanced to the side of the two ladies at the mo- 
 ment that Madame de Noirmontier was urging Marie to spend 
 a few days with her at her beautiful chateau some way down 
 the Loire. The Duke, however, did not suffer his ward to 
 reply. 
 
 " I fear, dear Madam," he said in a decided and somewhat 
 stern tone, " that it cannot be." 
 
 The colour rushed violently up into the cheeks of Madame 
 de Noirmontier, and the tears seemed ready to spring into 
 her eyes. But the Duke added, " Logeres, escort Marie back to 
 my apartments. If you will permit me, Madam, I will be your 
 attendant to your carriage, and explain why my young ward 
 cannot have the extreme pleasure and honour you intended for 
 her." 
 
 " It needs no explanation, your Highness," replied the Mar- 
 chioness, raising her head proudly. "I intended to have staid 
 some days longer in this neighbourhood-, but as she cannot 
 come to me, I shall return at once to Paris." 
 
 The Duke looked mortified, but still offered her his hand; 
 and when he rejoined his own party in the apartments assigned 
 to him, he was somewhat gloomy and abstracted. 
 
350 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 " His Highness, Sire," said one of the attendants to Henry III. 
 on the following day, " His Highness of Guise is not to be 
 found this morning. His servants say that he has gone forth 
 on horseback, followed only by two grooms : but whither he- 
 has turned his steps, no one seems rightly to know." 
 
 " Seek him with Madame de Noirmontier," said Villequier, 
 who stood beside the King. 
 
 But Henry, however, who was in no mood for jesting at 
 that moment, replied sharply, " He is playing with me! He 
 is playing with me ! He mocks me ! He will repent it some 
 day ! And I think you mock me too, Villequier, to talk of Ma- 
 dame de Noirmontier at this moment. Have you not heard 
 this business of Savoy ? He knew it last night, and said nothing 
 of it 5 and I'll tell you what more he has done, Villequier, which 
 you may like as little as I like the other. He has fixed the 
 day for the marriage of his niece with that bold young Logeres. 
 But this business of Savoy is terrible, and these mutinous States 
 will be the ruin of the realm." 
 
 " Sire," replied Villequier, " your Majesty must remember 
 that I am somewhat in darkness, in twilight at least. I have 
 heard a rumour that the Savoyard is in arms in France. But 
 what of the States ? " 
 
 " Why, they are even now discussing," exclaimed the King, 
 " whether there shall be war or not, even to defend our invaded 
 territory. There are the Clergy now arguing it at the Jacobins, 
 the Nobles in the Palais de Justice, and the Third Estate in 
 the Hotel de Ville, — all, all showing a disposition to hesitate 
 at such a moment ; and Guise, the Generalissimo of my armies, 
 and Grand Master of my household absent, Heaven knows 
 where!" 
 
 " The devil knows best, most likely," replied Villequier with 
 a calm smile. " But, perhaps, the secret may be, that the Duke 
 of Savoy is son-in-law of the King of Spain. Now, the King of 
 Spain has been a good friend to the Duke of Guise, and the 
 good Pope used always to say that a Guise never jumped 
 higher than the King of Spain liked." 
 
 " By my faith !" replied the King, " I sometimes think that 
 this same gloomy Philip is more sovereign in France than the 
 King thereof. But here come tidings from the Tiers Etats. 
 Come, Monsieur Artau, how have gone the deliberations of the 
 States? What say our good Commons to war with Savoy?" 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 351 
 
 " They go against it altogether, Sire," replied the officer, 
 who now entered. "Ghapelle Marteau spoke against it vehe- 
 mently, declared that it was bet a plundering excursion of some 
 light troops, who had carried off a few thousand crowns, while 
 it would cost many millions to carry on a war with Savoy ; and 
 then, up got another, and talked of imposts and taxes and the 
 poverty of the state, and said that millions and hundreds of 
 millions had been lost in peculation and extravagance. If your 
 Majesty indeed, he said, would hear two-thirds of the expense 
 out of your domain, and would cut down your tall trees, or 
 mortgage a part of the royal forests, the Commons would see 
 what could be done." 
 
 " By Heaven ! " exclaimed Henry stamping his foot, " when 
 they keep me here, a throned beggar, without a crown in my 
 pocket, to give a jewel to a mistress or a friend, they expect me 
 to carry on the defence of the country at my own expense ! 
 On my soui ! I have a great mind to cast away the sceptre, to 
 go down into the ranks of a private gentleman, and name my 
 rule-loving mother to govern in my stead: or faith, 1 care not 
 if it were Guise himself. He would teach these surly citizens 
 what, it is to have an iron rod over their heads. By the Lord! he 
 would not spare the backs of the porkers Hie thee, good Artau 
 to the Clergy at the Jacobins-, see what they say to the matter. 
 And what say you, > illequier, to my scheme of abdicating?" 
 
 "Why, Sire," replied Villequier caimly, "I think it is an 
 excellent good one. But I hope, in the first place, that you will 
 give a few thoughts to what I told you concerning the young 
 Marquis de Montsoreau and the hundred thousand crowns he 
 promised on the day of his marriage with Mademoiselle de 
 Clairvaut. You know your Majesty has claimed the lion's 
 share-, and seventy-five thousand crowns at the present mo- 
 ment, or any time between this and Christmas, might serve to 
 give your Majesty a new lace to your doublet, or a new doublet 
 to your lace, for to my mind both are plaguy rusty. jNow, though 
 there-appearance of this young Count of Logeres will cut down 
 the amount of his brother's estates most terribly, yet that affects 
 me more than you, Sire-, and by having made inquiries I find, 
 to a certainty, that he is quite capable of paying the money the 
 moment the marriage is concluded." 
 
 "Seventy-five thousand crowns!" repeated the King thought- 
 fully. "Seventy-five thousand crowns! Why, my friend, I 
 think that neither you nor I have heard of such a thing since we 
 had beards. But how does all this square with my giving the 
 crown to Guise, which you approved so highly?" 
 
 "Oh, extremely well, Sire," replied Villequier. " The crown 
 I would have you give him is neither the crown of Trance nor 
 
352 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 of Poland: I would give him an immortal crown, Sire. You 
 will fit him better, depend upon it, that way than with a ter- 
 restrial one. His aspiring spirit seeks the skies, and could I 
 deal with him, should very soon find them. However, you will 
 remember, that your royal word, as well as mine, is pledged 
 to the young Marquis de Montsoreau." 
 
 A dark smile came over the King's face. " We will see, 
 Villequier 5 we will see," he said. "My word must be kept 
 and shall not be broken. The morning of Christmas-day the 
 Duke has fixed for the marriage. Who knows what may hap- 
 pen between this and then, Villequier. She is then absolutely 
 your ward failing the Duke of Guise, and we will have no he- 
 sitation or delay, when we have the power to compel obedience. 
 But we must be very cautious, Villequier; we must be very 
 cautious. We must neither seem pleased with this business of 
 the marriage, for then he would suspect us of some concealed 
 design ; nor must we oppose him strongly, because that would 
 put him on his guard-, and I fear me, that all the crowns in 
 France could not do me so much good as the Duke of Guise 
 could do me harm if he were offended." 
 
 "Without being slain," replied Villequier in a low tone. 
 " Oh no, my Lord, I know well, a wounded boar is always the 
 most dangerous." 
 
 The King smiled again in the same dark and sinister man- 
 ner, but he made no reply to Villequier's insinuation — perhaps 
 still doubtful of his own purposes, perhaps prevented from 
 speaking openly by the return of Monsieur D'Artau. 
 
 "What! so soon come back?" exclaimed Henry. "You 
 cannot judge of the tone of the assembly, D'Artau. You should 
 have heard more of their deliberations." 
 
 " There was no more to hear, Sire," replied D'Artau. "The 
 Clergy were all agreed ; everybody had become wonderfully 
 pacific in a moment. There had not been one voice raised for 
 war, and fifty or sixty were raised against it : so their delibe- 
 rations, as I have said, were almost concluded at the time I 
 entered. They went to no vote, indeed, upon the subject, but 
 agreed to pass on to another question." 
 
 "The villains! the crows!" exclaimed the King. "What 
 did they give us as reasons, did you hear?" 
 
 "Why, they said, Sire," replied the officer, "that they had 
 taxed themselves, time after time, for the purpose of carrying 
 on the war with the Huguenots ; that they had now again taxed 
 themselves to the utmost of their means, and would not con- 
 sent that any part of the sum thus raised should be diverted to 
 make war upon their fellow Catholics, while nothing had yet 
 been done against the enemies of their faith." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 353 
 
 <w The specious hypocrites! " exclaimed Henry. " Hut what 
 said they all to the absence of the Duke of Guise? " 
 
 " Jt was said, Sire, as I heard, hy several people, that lie had 
 evidently absented himself from policy, not wishing to oppose 
 your Majesty, and yet unwilling to go to war with Savoy. Some 
 said, indeed, Sire," he continued, " that Chapelle Marteau had 
 acknowledged that this was the case. Hut that could not be so 
 either, for the Duke sent for the President of the Tiers Etats 
 last night, without being able to find him. That I know from 
 the servants, so that what Chapelle said must have been out of 
 his own head ; while, on the contrary, I hear that Monsieur 
 Magnac, and the Count de Hrissac, who were with the Duke 
 for more than an hour last night spoke vehemently against the 
 Duke of Savoy amongst the Nobles at the Palais de Justice. 
 Thus the Nobles were as unanimous for the war, as the other 
 two States were against it." 
 
 "That should be the foot-fall of a Guise in the antechamber," 
 said the King. " Who is without there?" 
 
 "The Duke of Guise, your Majesty," said a page entering 
 almost as the King spoke, " craves audience for a moment." 
 
 "Admit him," said the King-, "admit him : "and the next 
 instant the Duke of Guise entered hastily in a riding dress. 
 
 " Your Majesty's gracious pardon," he said, "for presenting 
 myself before you thus : but I heard tidings, as I came along, 
 which I believed might give you great and exceeding pain." 
 
 "Well may it give me pain, cousin of Guise," replied the 
 King. "Well may it give me pain, to find that my subjects are 
 so insensible to their own honour or to mine, as to suffer a 
 foreign enemy to encamp upon our native soil, without doing 
 what best we may to drive him forth." 
 
 "It may, indeed, Sire," replied the Duke of Guise. " But the 
 matter has not been properly explained ; and neither the Tiers 
 Etats nor the Clergy have seen it in its true light." 
 
 "Rut where was the Duke of Guise to explain it?" demanded 
 Henry. " Where was the Generalissimo of my armies, the Lieu- 
 tenant-general of my kingdom, the Grand Master of my house- 
 hold, the man whose voice is only second to my own in France 
 — ay, and by Heavens! whose voice is sometimes first likewise? 
 Where was he, I say ; and how came he not to be present?" 
 
 " From the simplest of all possible causes, Sire," replied the 
 Duke. " Thebusiness regularly appointed for this morning's dis- 
 cussion by the States was a mere trifling matter of some petty 
 impost. I had not told your Majesty last night of this affair of 
 Savoy because I thought it would spoil the pleasure of your 
 evening, and perhaps disturb your rest. I myself, however, 
 neglected nothing. I instantly dispatched orders, in your Ma- 
 
 23 
 
351 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 jesty's name, to my brother of Mayenne, to advance towards 
 Piedmont with troops from Lyons. Before I rested, I sent for the 
 Presidents of the Nobles and of the Tiers Elats. The latter, 
 however, was not to be found 5 but I told Brissac andMagnac 
 what had occurred, and begged them to prepare all minds for 
 vigorous measures against Savoy, without disclosing the actual 
 fact of aggression, that fact having only reached me by the exces- 
 sive speed of my brother's courier. I felt perfectly certain that 
 the news could not be known till to-night or to-morrow 
 morning 5 and how it happened that your Majesty was informed 
 of it so early, as to send down a message thereon to each of the 
 three Estates, 1 really do not know." 
 
 "Very simply, my good cousin of Guise," replied the King, 
 whose face had now relaxed from the harsh and acrid aspect it 
 had borne throughout the morning ; "it was Miron told me." 
 
 "I had forgotten, I had forgotten," replied the Duke. "He 
 was in the room when the packet arrived, and I must have given 
 vent to my thoughts aloud." 
 
 " Well, under such circumstances," replied the King, "I sup- 
 pose I must pardon, cousin of Guise, your having gone to pay 
 your homage somewhere else, as Monsieur de Villequier insi- 
 nuates, when the King much wanted your presence." 
 
 " Monsieur de Villequier is as usual, wrong," replied the 
 Duke of Guise frowning upon him. " AVhere he seeks for or finds 
 such abundance of evil motives to attribute to other men, I do 
 not know. May it not be in his own bosom? I went, for your 
 Majesty's service, to inspect a body of three thousand men, 
 about to march early this morning from Laucome to join the 
 army of the Duke of Nevers, and it was only as I returned that 
 I heard of this unfortunate business." 
 
 "Perhaps his Highness thinks," said Villequier, not unwil- 
 ling to increase any feeling of ill-will between the King and the 
 Duke, "perhaps his Highness thinks that your Majesty would 
 have done more wisely to have waited till his return, and not to 
 have communicated the news from Savoy at all to the States, till 
 you had consulted him upon it." 
 
 Villequier had almost said, "till you had asked his permis- 
 sion-," but he feared that a part of the King's anger might fall 
 back upon himself. The Duke of Guise, however, saw through 
 all his purposes in a moment, and replied, "Far from it, Mon- 
 sieur de Villequier! 1 think, on the contrary, that I should have 
 done more wisely if, instead of inspecting the troops at all — 
 although Nevers, who is my enemy, might have reproached me 
 for neglect — I had waited till the King had risen, to convey the 
 expression of his will in person to the States-General. Sire, I 
 humbly crave your Majesty's pardon for this one instance of 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 355 
 
 neglect; and, lo prove how sorry I am that it lias occurred, I 
 will undertake to show the Clergy and the Commons such good 
 motives for changing their decision, that your Majesty's name 
 and honour shall not suffer hy the invasion of your territories 
 unresisted." 
 
 "They will refuse you, Guise ; they will refuse you, " replied 
 the King. "I know them well. You think to rule them, Guise; 
 but the first time you speak of money lo Commons or to CJergy, 
 you will find that cabalistic word, money, acts on them as the 
 sign of the cross upon the fiends we read of, and makes the 
 seeming angels resume their shapes of devils in a moment." 
 
 " Well, Sire, well," exclaimed the Duke of Guise, tossing his 
 lofty head with a proud smile, " if they refuse us, we will shame 
 them. You and I together will put our lances in the rest, as in 
 days of old : we will call the nobility of France about us; and I 
 will promise, at my own expense, without craving these penu- 
 rious Commons for a sol, with my own men and your Majesty's 
 good help, in three weeks' time to drive the Savoyard back to his 
 mountain den. But no, Sire, no ! They will not refuse me 5 and 
 I pledge myself before this hour to-morrow to bring you such 
 tidings from both Clergy and Commons as you could wish to 
 hear." 
 
 " If you do, cousin," cried the King eagerly, " if you do, you 
 are my best of friends and counsellors for ever." 
 
 " Fear not, Sire-, fear not," replied the Duke of Guise; " I 
 will be bold to undertake it. But I must see the presidents and 
 some of the deputies speedily, to know what are the vain and 
 idle notions on which they have hesitated in regard to a step 
 imperatively necessary. I will therefore humbly take my leave, 
 beseeching you to think well of me during my absence, even 
 though my good Lord of Yillequier be at your Majesty's right 
 elbow." 
 
 Thus saying the Duke retired, and the King, turning to Yil- 
 lequier, asked with some anxiety " Think you, Villequier, that 
 he will succeed?" 
 
 " I know not, Sire," replied Yillequier; "but I should judge 
 not. They have too far committed themselves to retract, let the 
 question be what it would, but are not at all likely to retract 
 where money is concerned." 
 
 "Well, well," said the King ;" I will hope the best. And 
 now, Yillequier, we must think of what can be done, in order 
 not to lose the seventy-five thousand crowns. Mort Dieu ! What 
 a sum ! In the very first place, we must call hither your young 
 friend, wherever he may be, without loss of an hour. We must 
 not have him appear at the Court, however. He must lie 
 concealed, but be ready at a moment's notice. Let him bring 
 
356 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 what men he can with him. But above all, do not let him forget 
 the crowns, Villequier. Let them be prepared. — Nay, smile not, 
 I have a scheme for the purpose, which will mature itself in 
 time. But no good plan should ever be hurried, and it should 
 always be formed of elements as ductile as warm wax, that it 
 may fit itself into the mould of circumstances. It will mature 
 itself in time, Villequier ; it will mature itself in time. But now 
 to this other terrible business." 
 
 " Pray, Sire, what is that? " demanded Villequier with some 
 alarm, for since his arrival at Blois, Henry had shown so much 
 more activity and application to serious matters, that even his 
 favourite had forgotten his character. " Pray, what terrible 
 business does your Majesty speak of? " 
 
 " Have you not heard," exclaimed the King, "have you not 
 heard, that the boat was upset in coming down the Loire — the boat 
 with the parrots and monkeys; and my great beautiful black ape, 
 Ridolin-din-din, was nearly drowned, and has caught such a cold, 
 that it is feared he will die !— Sweet creature, he is a beauty, and 
 in his woollen night-cap and long gown is not at all unlike my mo- 
 ther. Poor fellow, have you not heard him coughing in the room 
 beyond? I must go and give him some confection of quinces." 
 
 During a considerable portion of the day Henry devoted him- 
 self to his ape, but towards evening his anxiety in regard to the 
 States and to the eruption of the Duke of Savoy seized upon 
 him again. This was terribly increased by the arrival of a new 
 courier, bearing more ample particulars than the former. The 
 king slept ill at night, and rose early the next morning 5 but still 
 all the reports brought him of the disposition of the States made 
 him imagine that no means would be taken to curb the enemy, 
 and that he himself would be left by his subjects the mockery 
 and by-word of Europe, unable to repel the outrages of even the 
 pettiest of all the neighbouring princes. The sneers of many of 
 his favourites and courtiers at the Duke of Guise, too— their 
 ironical smiles at the very idea of his being able to change the 
 announced determination of two great bodies in the State, 
 tended to irritate the King still more, and to drive him almost to 
 madness. 
 
 In this state of mind he was walking up and down his chamber 
 between eleven and twelve o'clock on the succeeding day, when 
 suddenly hearing the bustle of many feet without, he himself 
 threw open the door and beheld the Duke of Guise approaching 
 with his usual train and several other persons. 
 
 There was in the noble countenance of the Duke the glad 
 consciousness of success ; but Henry, eager for confirmation, 
 exclaimed, " What is it, cousin of Guise? What is it? Uncer- 
 tainty drives me wild." 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 357 
 
 " Health to your Majesty," replied the Duke. " These gentle- 
 men who follow me, Messieurs Brissae and Magnac, the Presi- 
 dents of the Wohility, the Archhishop of Lyons representing the 
 Clergy, and my good friend, Chapelle Marteau, President of 
 the Third Estate, humbly approach your Majesty with a peti- 
 tion, that as the Duke of Savoy has committed a wanton in- 
 fringement upon the territories of France, you would be 
 graciously pleased to pronounce a declaration of war against 
 that Prince, in which your dutiful subjects will aid and support 
 your Majesty to the best of their ability." 
 
 The King's joy knew no bounds, and throwing his arms 
 around the Duke of Guise, he kissed him on both cheeks. 
 Recovering himself, however, in a few minutes, he received the 
 deputies from the States with some degree of dignity. His joy, 
 however, was still exuberant-, and, in dismissing the petitioners, 
 he said that the declaration should be immediately issued, and 
 that he would trust to his best friend and wisest counsellor, point- 
 ing to the Duke of Guise, to repel speedily, with that uncon- 
 querable hand which had won so many victories, this new 
 aggression upon the territory of France. 
 
 As soon as the deputies were gone, he burst forth again in 
 the same strain, vowing to the Duke that he loved him beyond 
 every thing on earth, that his attachment should be unalterable 
 and inviolate, and that whatever might be said or urged against 
 the Duke, he would never believe it. 
 
 " Cousin of Guise," he exclaimed, " there are people who 
 would fain persuade me that you aim at my crown, and perhaps 
 there are others who may try to persuade you that I aim at your 
 liberty or life. I know there are." 
 
 " Sire, we neither of us believe them," replied the Duke. 
 
 " Let us never believe them," answered the King; "let us 
 never believe them. Let us swear, Guise, let us swear to hold 
 good faith and undoubting sincerity and true friendship to each 
 other for ever! Let us swear it upon the altar even now! Let 
 us swear it by the Holy Communion, by which we dare not 
 swear falsely, and then the insinuations of our enemies will be 
 as empty air!" 
 
 "Most willingly, Sire, 1 ' replied the Duke; " I am ready this 
 moment. It is near the hour of mass, and having nothing in my 
 heart but good towards your Majesty, I am ready this very 
 moment." 
 
 " Come then, come to the chapel," cried the King. And ta- 
 king the Duke of Guise by the hand he led the way, followed 
 by only the two attendants who were in the anteroom. In ten 
 minutes more the King and the Duke might be seen kneeling 
 before the same altar, calling down the wrath of God upon 
 
358 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 their heads if they ever did one act of enmity towards each other, 
 drinking of the same consecrated cap, and dividing the host 
 between them 1 . 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 It was a bright clear frost, all the ancient houses and streets 
 of that most curious and interesting old town, called Blois, were 
 seen clear and defined, without the slightest thin particle of 
 smoke or haze, and from the high windows of the chamber of 
 Catharine de Medici the servant, who sat and gazed out, might 
 see the slightest object that passed. along the road below. 
 
 As she thus sat and gazed, her eyes fell upon a glittering 
 troop of cavaliers who issued forth from the castle gates, and 
 took their way through the town, and she could see the princely 
 form of the Duke of Guise, and the strong frame of Brissac, and 
 the graceful person of Charles of Montsoreau, riding nearly 
 abreast at the head of the troop. 
 
 "The Duke has gone forth, may it please your Majesty," 
 said the woman, turning to the bed on which lay Catharine de 
 Medici, sick in body and uneasy in mind. " The Duke has gone 
 forth, and a large train with him." 
 
 " Then the King will soon be here," replied the Queen-mother. 
 "Go into the further chamber, good Bridget, and wait there 
 till he leaves me. If Madame de Noirmontier arrives from Paris 
 before he is gone, bid her wait there too. I will see her after, 
 and be glad to see her." 
 
 The attendant had scarcely retired, when Henry III. himself 
 entered with a slow step, a dull frowning brow, and lips turned 
 down, giving his countenance a diabolical expression of sneer- 
 ing malice, which contrasted strongly with the white and red 
 paint which he had used, and the gay foppery of his apparel. 
 
 " You sent for us, good mother," he said. " How goes it 
 with you? Has the fever left you, or do you still suffer?" 
 
 " My sufferings are of no moment," replied Catharine de 
 Medici. " They will soon pass, Henry, and I shall be well again. 
 But the illnesses of states pass not so soon, my son; and upon 
 your acts, at the present moment, depends the welfare of France 
 for centuries." 
 
 " I know it, madam," replied Henry sullenly. " But may I 
 ask upon what particular occasion your Majesty has thus re- 
 sumed the maternal rod ? " 
 
 ' This awful fact is but too certain. 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 3£"9 
 
 "The occasion is this, my son," replied the Queen : " 1 lind 
 that you are opposing Guise, when you have no power to op- 
 pose him ; and you are opposing him in things where your op- 
 position will not increase your power, hut will increase his. 
 Were you to oppose him tirmly hut stedfastly on points where 
 reason, and right, and the welfare of the State were upon your 
 side, however blind they might be for a time, the people would 
 come over to your side in the end. Hut if you oppose him in 
 things where your pride, or your vanity, or your seliishness is 
 concerned,' depend upon it his party will every day increase; 
 for Guise having identified himself with the people and the Ca- 
 tholic Church, his foibles will be treated far more leniently by 
 both church and people than yours." 
 
 " Guise! —Guise! — Guise!" cried the King in a bitter tone. 
 " For ever, Guise ! I am sick to death of the very name. What 
 would you have, Madam? Have I not yielded almost every thing 
 to him? Have not all his demands been granted, till they be- 
 come so numerous that I have not wherewithal to stop their 
 mouths? Did I not sign the decree of July? Did I not declare old 
 scarlet Bourbon next heir to the Crown? Did I not satisfy the 
 cravings of Nemours and of Mayenne? Did I not banish Eper- 
 non •, give the Duke all sorts of posts ; yield him up towns and 
 cities ? Did I not render bim king of one half of France ? W hat 
 is it that I have refused him ?" 
 
 "In many points you mistake, my son," replied the Queen. 
 " You have yielded more than one of these things, not to him, 
 but to the League. You refused to him, too, the sword of Con- 
 stable-, and in that perhaps you were right. At all events he 
 liimself seemed to think that you were so, for he has not pressed 
 the demand : but after promising to the League, as one of their 
 towns of surety, the city of Orleans, which both you and I know 
 was promised, you would now persuade Guise and the League 
 that it was inserted in the edict by mistake, and that the town 
 promised was Dourlans, a heap of hovels on a little hill, as if 
 you thought that, by such a trumpery evasion, you could de- 
 ceive the keen wit of a Lorraine. Guise, of course, set his foot 
 upon the small deception. But what are you doing now? Quar- 
 relling with him because he demands that which has been re- 
 cognised as a right of every generalissimo in the kingdom ; namely, 
 the right of having his own pre\6t and guards. Such has ever 
 been the case, as you well know. The matter is a trifle, except 
 to your own jealous disposition •, and even were he not right, it 
 would still be but a trifle. But when he is right, and you are 
 wrong, the refusal is an insult, and the matter becomes of im 
 portancc." 
 
 "Madam," said the King bitterly, " in spite of ail you say 
 
360 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Guise shall not absolutely be King of France. Has he not here, 
 within these three days, refused me an impost necessary to 
 maintain my dignity as a King, and to provide for the safety of 
 the State? Does he not try to keep me a beggar, that I may have 
 no means of asserting my own rights and dignity?" 
 
 " No," replied the Queen ; " No, Henry! He did not refuse 
 you the impost ; it was the States. If I heard rightly, he spoke 
 in favour of it." 
 
 "Ay, spoke!" cried the King. "But how did he speak? 
 Lukewarmly — unwillingly. The States soon saw which way his 
 wishes turned. Had he not been playing the hypocrite, he would 
 have commanded it in a moment. Did he not show how he could 
 command in that business of Savoy? Four-and-twenty hours 
 were sufficient for him to make every man in Clergy and in 
 Commons eat their words. This is something very like sovereign 
 power, madam. It is power such as I never possessed myself." 
 
 " Ay, and then you were grateful to him for its exercise," re- 
 plied Catharine ; " and swore eternal friendship to him on the 
 altar!" 
 
 "Certainly, but his ambitious views have become far more 
 outrageous since then," replied the King angrily. " Has he not 
 exacted that Henry of Navarre shall be excluded by name from 
 the succession? Has he not forced the Count de S'oissons to 
 receive absolution from the Pope? Has not he blazed abroad, 
 throughout all the world, the letters of the Pope himself, thank- 
 ing him for his efforts to put down heresy, and exhorting him 
 to persevere, as if he and none other were King of France? 
 And now he must have guards, must he ! now he must have 
 guards ! When will the crown be wanted ? His leading staff is 
 already the sceptre, for it sways all things ; his chair is already 
 the throne, for from it emanates every movement of the States- 
 General of France. Yes, madam, yes! the throne and sceptre 
 he has gained ; and I see the leaves of his ducal coronet gra- 
 dually changing themselves into fleur-de-lis, and the bandlets 
 of the close crown ready to meet above his head." 
 
 " But to the guards which he demands," said Catharine de 
 Medici, " he has a right, as Lieutenant-general of the kingdom ; 
 and why should you oppose him on a point where he is right?" 
 
 " Ay, the guards ! the guards ! " cried Henry. " Let him have 
 them, madam ; let him have them. But nevertheless, in a few 
 days, all this will be over." And so saying, without waiting 
 for further reply, the King turned and quitted his mother's 
 chamber. 
 
 Following a private staircase, which had been so constructed 
 as only to afford a means of communication between the various 
 apartments of the royal family, the King descended to a large 
 
HENttY OF GUISK. 3Gi 
 
 chamber, or sort of hall, with a deep window looking out towards 
 the Loire. He found already in that chamber several of his most 
 intimate and confidential friends and favourites, who, notwith- 
 standing the high degree of confidence which the King placed 
 in them, viewed the gloomy sullenness of his countenance with 
 some sort of apprehension. In truth, when the fit was upon 
 him, it could never be told where the blow would fall ; and he 
 often thus deprived himself of counsel and assistance in his mo- 
 ments of greatest need. 
 
 There were some, however, then present, whose purpose it 
 was to exasperate the irritation which he suffered, even at the 
 risk of injuring, in some degree, themselves; and the Marechal 
 d'Aumonl, who had been waiting there for his return, advanced, 
 and though the King addressed not one word to him, but walked 
 on sullenly till he had almost touched him, he began the con- 
 versation first, speaking in a low tone. At length the King stop- 
 ped abruptly, and, gazing in his face, exclaimed, "What, 
 without my veto ; without my consent and approbation ? Do 
 the States propose that their determinations be law without the 
 King?" 
 
 "They do, Sire," replied the Marechal d'Aumonl-, "and 1 
 doubt not they would consider that the approbation of the Duke 
 of Guise would be quite sufficient. They have already made him 
 feel that such is the case, Sire ; for one of his creatures offered 
 me not long ago, if I would attach myself to him, to make me 
 Governor of Normandy, declaring that the States, at a word 
 from the Duke, would make your Majesty take it from the Duke 
 of Montpensier, to whom you had given it." 
 
 The King paused for a moment, with his hands clasped, and 
 his eyes gazing on the ground. At length he raised them sud- 
 denly, saying, " Hark ye, D' Aumont?" and then spoke a few 
 words in a whisper, as the Marshal bent down his ear. 
 
 D' Aumont turned somewhat pale as he listened-, his brows 
 knit, and a certain degree of wildness came into his eyes-, but 
 he answered, the moment the King had done, " I have not 
 rightly understood your Majesty. But it seems to me, that the 
 only way a sovereign can deal with rebellious subjects and trai- 
 tors, is to cause them to be arrested, and deliver them over to 
 their natural judges, to be tried according to law." 
 
 Henry waved his hand with a look of contemptuous disap- 
 pointment, and then added, looking fixedly in D' Aumont's face, 
 " You will be silent! " 
 
 "On my honour, Sire," replied D' Aumont; and bowing 
 low, but with a face still pale, he quitted the chamber. 
 
 Without noticing the other gentlemen who were standing at 
 the farther corner of the room, Henry called to a page, and des- 
 
362 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 cended by the staircase into the gardens. He looked up for a 
 moment at the bright and cheerful sunshine, and then upon the 
 clear wintry scene around 5 but the sight seemed only to plunge 
 him in deeper gloom than ever 5 and turning to the boy he said, 
 "Run back to the hall, and bid Monsieur Crillon come here 
 alone." 
 
 He then stood with his arms crossed upon his chest, gazing 
 upon the ground beneath his feet, and when Crillon approached 
 he took him by the arm, and walked slowly on with him to the 
 other side of the gardens. He was silent for some moments 5 
 but then turning to Crillon he said, '"You are colonel of my 
 French guards, Crillon, and there is a service which I want you 
 and them to perform." 
 
 "Speak, Sire," replied Crillon with his bluff manner. "If 
 there be any thing that a soldier and a man of honour can do 
 for you, I am ready to do it." 
 
 " Are not kings the highest magistrates in their realm, Cril- 
 lon ?" said the King, gazing in his face •, " and have they not a 
 right to judge their own subjects, and pass sentence upon 
 them ? " 
 
 "I wish to Heaven I were a lawyer, Sire," replied the old 
 soldier, "and then 1 would give your Majesty an ansvver. But 
 on my honour, at present, I have not considered the subject." 
 
 " Well then, Crillon," continued the King, " to put it in ano- 
 ther shape : I have a subject who is more king than myself; who 
 stands between me and the sun ; who grasps at all the power in 
 the realm 5 and who, day by day, is increasing in ambition and 
 insolence." 
 
 "Your Majesty means the Duke of Guise," said Crillon 5 " I 
 know him in a minute by the description." 
 
 "You are right," said Henry. " But this must not continue 
 long, Crillon. Methinks a small body of my guards, with a 
 brave and determined commander, might rid me of this enemy, 
 of this viper. The most learned lawyers of my realm have as- 
 sured me that law and justice and right authorise me to cause 
 this deed to be done. Will you undertake it, Crillon?" 
 
 "Sire," replied Crillon, " I beg your Majesty's pardon for 
 reminding you, that there is a public executioner appointed by 
 law, and I must not interfere with any other man's office. As 
 to my becoming an assassin, that your Majesty does not con- 
 ceive possible for a moment." 
 
 Henry looked bitterly down upon the ground, and then said, 
 in a tone between wrath and anguish, " My friends desert me !" 
 
 " No, Sire, they don't," replied Crillon. " There is a way of 
 settling the matter, which your Majesty has forgotten, hut which 
 suits my feelings and habits better than any other way. I will 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 3G3 
 
 now humbly take leave of your Majesty, and going up to the 
 cabinet of his Highness of Guise, 1 will insult him before his 
 people, tell him that he has wronged his King and his country, 
 and bid him accompany me to the field with equal arms. The 
 Duke, bad as he is, is not a man to refuse such an invitation ; 
 and I think I can insure your Majesty, that you shall not be 
 troubled with the Duke of Guise for a long time to come." 
 
 The King smiled. "Alas! Crillon," he said, "you deceive 
 yourself. You forget what you undertake. Remember, you pur- 
 pose to strive with, hand to hand, the most powerful man in 
 Europe— the most dexterous and skilful in the use of every 
 weapon upon the face of the earth— the most fearless, the most 
 active, the most prompt, whose hand never trembles, whose eye 
 never winks, whose foot never slips. He would slay thee, Cril- 
 lon ; he would slay thee in a moment." 
 
 " I know it, Sire," replied Crillon calmly ; " but not before I 
 have slain him. If I choose to make my body a sheath for his 
 sword, I will make his body a sheath for mine, while my hand 
 holds tight against my breast the hilt of his weapon, to keep in 
 my own spirit till I see his fled. This can be done, Sire, and 
 it shall be done within these two hours. I give your Majesty 
 good day, for there is no time to spare." 
 
 11 Stay, Crillon, stay ! " said the King, " I command you not 
 to think of it. If you attempt it, you will ruin all my plans. 1 
 thank you for your willingness. I owe you no ill-will for your 
 refusal. You will find the page at the door : tell him to send 
 Monsieur de Laugnac to me— Montpizat Laugnac, you know." 
 
 "Oh, I know him, Sire," replied Crillon. "He is a man of 
 small scruples. I will tell the page as your Majesty bids me." 
 And he retired from the presence of the King with a quick 
 step. 
 
 The manner in which the King dealt with Laugnac formed 
 a strange contrast with his manner towards Crillon. The mo- 
 ment that the former, who was first gentleman of his chamber, 
 and captain of the famous band of Quarante-cinq, joined him 
 in the garden, the King seized him by the hand, saying, " Lau- 
 gnac, the Duke of Guise must die! " 
 
 " Certainly, Sire," replied Laugnac, as if it were a thing per- 
 fectly natural. " I have thought so some time." 
 
 " Will you undertake it, Laugnac," demanded the King. 
 " You and your Quarante-cinq ? " 
 
 " I must have more help than that, Sire," said Laugnac, " if 
 it is to be done out in the streets, in the open day, which I 
 suppose must be the case, as he his seldom out at night." 
 
 " Oh no, no, no ! that will never do ! " exclaimed the King. 
 " We must have no rashness, Laugnac. He never rides but 
 
364 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 with a train, which would set you at defiance; and, besides, 
 the town is filled with Guisards. You would have men enough 
 upon you to slay you all in five minutes. We must put him off 
 his guard ; we must lull him into tranquillity, and then draw 
 him to some private place, where you and your good fellows, 
 posted behind the arras, can strike him to the heart before 
 he is aware." 
 
 " It is an excellent good plan, Sire," exclaimed Laugnac en- 
 thusiastically. " I will speak with my good friend, Larchant, 
 who is a bold man and strong, a mortal enemy of the Guise, 
 and a most devoted servant of your Majesty. We will soon ar- 
 range a plan together which cannot fail." 
 
 " Swear him to secrecy," cried the King; " and remember 
 to-morrow must not pass without its being done. If you can 
 find Villequier too, who ought to be returned by this time, for 
 we have much to do together to-morrow, consult with him, for 
 in a matter of poisoning or of the knife you know, Laugnac, 
 he has not his equal in France." 
 
 The King smiled, and Laugnac smiled too, at the imputation 
 which they cast on another of the dark deeds exactly similar to 
 those they were both plotting themselves. 
 
 " Do you not think, your Majesty," said the latter, " that it 
 could be done just about the time of the Duke's coming to the 
 Council to-morrow ? " 
 
 " Excellent, good," said the King, " for that will cut him off, 
 just ere this marriage that is talked of. But go quick, Laugnac, 
 and make all the arrangements, and let me know the plan to- 
 night 5 for look where the very man comes : " and he pointed 
 down the alley that led to the chateau, where the Duke of 
 Guise was seen approaching alone. 
 
 " He is alone," said Laugnac. " Could it not be done now? 
 I and another could make sure of it, if your Majesty would de- 
 tain him here till I seek aid." 
 
 "On no account," said the King, grasping his wrist tight. 
 " On no account, Laugnac. You forget all the windows of the 
 chateau see us. The rest of his creatures would escape, and 1 
 must have not a few of them in prison. JNo ! we will be tender 
 with him. He shall be our sweet cousin of Guise, our well- 
 beloved counsellor and friend. Greet him gracefully as you pass 
 by him, and tell the page to seek, high and low, for Villequier, 
 and bring him to me." 
 
 Laugnac bowed low, and walked away, and as he went he 
 left the Duke of Guise the whole of the path, pulling off his hat 
 till the plumes almost swept the ground, but without speaking. 
 Guise bowed to him graciously; but, evidently in haste, passed 
 on towards the King, whom he saluted with every demonstra- 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 365 
 
 tion of respect, and on whom in return Henry smiled with tin- 
 most gracious expression that he could assume. 
 
 " What seeks our fair cousin of Guise?" said the King. " 1 
 know this is a busy hour with him in general, and therefore 
 judge that it must be matter of some importance brings him 
 now." 
 
 "Not exactly so, Sire," replied the Duke, "There is but 
 little business of importance stirring now, when so many of the 
 multitude, lately collected in Blois, have returned to their own 
 homes for the approaching festival. I came, however, to beseech 
 your Majesty to grant me permission to absent myself for a few 
 days on the same joyful occasion. All business for the time ceas- 
 ing, my presence will not be necessary." 
 
 " Assuredly, assuredly! " replied Henry, turning pale at the 
 very idea of the Duke escaping from his hands. " But do you 
 go soon, fair cousin. I thought that you proposed the marriage 
 of your fair ward for to-morrow; indeed, I heard that every 
 thing was prepared, and I myself intended to be one of the 
 guests." 
 
 " We have not forgotten your Majesty's gracious promise," 
 replied the Duke. " Every thing is prepared, and half an hour 
 before high mass we shall all be waiting for your Majesty in 
 the revestry of the chapel. Never yet have I seen two young 
 beings so happy in their mutual love; and as we have broken 
 through some cold forms, in consideration of the many services 
 which the lover has rendered to his future bride, they arc 
 always together, and clinging to each other, as if they fancied 
 that something would yet separate them." 
 
 Henry smiled, but there was a certain mixture in it, which 
 rendered it difficult to say whether the expression was gracious 
 or ironical. " Well then, good cousin," he said, " as you have 
 such mighty business toward, we had better hold our council 
 as early as possible to-morrow, and not wait till the usual hour. 
 Let it be as near day-break as possible. The god of day does 
 not open his eyes too soon at this season of the year. And yet 
 I fear that the business of various kinds, that we have before us, 
 will occupy more time than one council can afford. Thus we 
 may be obliged to detain you at Blois, fair cousin, longer than 
 you expect, I fear." 
 
 " I did not intend to go, Sire," replied the Duke, " till some- 
 where about twelve on Christmas-day, which would give me 
 the opportunity of being present at two councils ; and I shall 
 be also absent so short a space of time— certainly not longer 
 than three whole days — that the interruption will not be great." 
 " Well, be it so; be it so," replied the King. " We know 
 that your activity makes rapidly up for lime lost. As to the 
 
366 HENRY OF GUISli. 
 
 marriage, I will sign the contract in the revestry, where I meet 
 you j and I think that, notwithstanding the poverty of my trea- 
 sury, I have a jewel yet of some price to give the bride." 
 
 " I beseech your Majesty think not of it," replied the Duke 
 of Guise. " She and her good husband will be equally devoted 
 to your service without such a mark of your condescension." 
 
 After a few more words of the same kind, the Duke took 
 leave, and Henry remained in the garden walking to and fro, 
 and growing every moment more and more impatient for the 
 arrival of Villequier. 
 
 "Where can he be?" he muttered to himself. "He pro- 
 mised to be back before nine o'clock this morning. What can 
 detain him ? By Heavens ! he will lose the best part of our 
 enterprise if he stays. Can he have met with some mishap by 
 the way— or has some lady poisoned him with champignons or 
 with Cyprus wine— or tried cold steel upon him— or shot him 
 with a silver bullet in honour of his great master. No steel would 
 touch him, I should think, if all tales are true. Rut here he 
 comes ; here he comes, alive and well, with the eye of a wolf 
 and the footfall of a cat. — He is a handsome animal notwith- 
 standing, even now, if he would but paint his lips a little, for 
 they are too pale. Something has gone wrong. He seems agi- 
 tated ; and to see Yillequier moved by any thing is indeed a 
 wonder. Why, how now, dear friend ? What is it that affects 
 you? I declare your lip quivers, and your cheek is red. What is 
 the meaning of this ? " 
 
 " Why, Sire," replied Villequier, " I just met the Duke of 
 Guise in the hall of the chateau, and he not only tells me that 
 the marriage of his niece goes forward, but that your Majesty 
 has promised to sign the contract, and to be present at the cere- 
 mony. How you intend to withdraw yourself, I do not know; 
 but to throw, at least, some obstacle in the way, I said that my 
 signature had not been asked ; and while my application was 
 before the Parliament of Paris, the marriage could not take place 
 without that signature. He answered haughtily, Sire, not by- 
 requesting, but by commanding, me to be in the revestry of 
 the chapel at the hour of half-past eleven ; and he added, with 
 a significant tone, that he would teach me the use of pen and ink." 
 
 Henry showed no wrath : his mind was made up to his pro- 
 ceedings •, his dark determination taken ; and utterly remorseless 
 himself, he sported in his own imagination with the idea of 
 Guise's death, and only smiled at his conduct to Yillequier, as 
 the skilful angler sees amused the large trout dash at the gilded 
 fly, knowing that a moment after he will have the tyrant of 
 the stream upon his own hook, and panting on the bank. 
 
 " You shall be in the revestry, Villequier," said the King ; 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 367 
 
 " you shall sign the marriage contract, for the King commands 
 you as well as the Duke of Guise 5 and surely two such potent 
 voices must be obeyed." 
 
 Yillequier paused for a minute or two ere he replied, calcu- 
 lating what might be the King's motives in his present conduct. 
 He knew Henry well, and knew his vacillating changeable dis- 
 position ; and he suspected that he was determined to violate his 
 promise to Gaspar de Montsoreau upon some inducement, either 
 of hope or fear, held out to him by the Duke of Guise. He was 
 well aware, however, that if the means taken had been dis- 
 agreeable, the King, though he might have endured them smil- 
 ingly in the presence of the Duke, would have burst forth into 
 passion, almost frantic, when conversing with him. He therefore 
 replied straightforwardly, "I suppose, Sire, the younger brother 
 has outbid the elder." 
 
 " Wrong, wrong, good friend," replied the King. " Your 
 hawk has missed its stroke, Yillequier. The Duke of Guise wills 
 it so ! Is not that quite sufficient in France?" 
 
 " I hope it will not be so long, Sire," replied Villequier, now 
 beginning, though indistinctly, to catch the King's meaning. " I 
 hope it well not be so long." 
 
 "Ha, Rene! Do you understand me now?" said Henry. 
 " Hark ye ! Are you not this girl's guardian beyond all doubt, 
 were the Duke out of the way ? " 
 
 " Indubitably," answered Villequier ; '•'• for the only thing that 
 affects my right, even now, is her father's will, appointing this 
 same Henry, Duke of Guise to be her guardian : the other brothers 
 are not named." 
 
 " Well then," said Henry, " have a contract of marriage in 
 due and proper form drawn out, this very night, in the names 
 of Marie de Clairvaut and Gaspar, Marquis of Montsoreau. Be 
 in the revestry at the hour named, and bring with you your gay 
 bridegroom with all his golden crowns. You shall sign the con- 
 tract, and I will sign the contract, and we will find means I 
 think to make the fair Lady sign the contract too, while the 
 Duke of Guise's bridegroom discovers his way into a dungeon 
 of the chateau. You have been so long absent, I feared you 
 would not come in time to hear all this." 
 
 " Why, Sire," replied Villequier, " I was forced to be absent ; 
 for although your Majesty seems to have forgotten a certain 
 paper given to the Abbe de Boisguerin, I have not." 
 
 " Ha ! " said the King, " I had forgotten indeed. W r e must 
 suppress that, Villequier; we must suppress that, if he will not 
 consent to our plans 5 which, I see by your face, it is not your 
 opinion that the worthy Abbe will do. You must get it from him 
 and suppress it." 
 
368 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 Villequier smiled at the very thought. " He will never give 
 it up to be suppressed, Sire," replied the Marquis. " Your Ma- 
 jesty little knows the man." 
 
 "Well, then, suppress him!" said the King with a laugh ; 
 " suppress him, Villequier, and the paper with him. Under the 
 great blaze made by this business of the Guise, his affair will be 
 but as one of the wax tapers that a country girl, with a sore 
 eye, buys for half a denier to hang up before St. Radigonde. 
 Suppress him, Villequier ; suppress him. I know no one so ca- 
 pable of sweeping the window clear of such flies." 
 
 " Yes, Sire," replied Villequier ; " but he is a wasp, not a fly. 
 He has antidotes for poison, and sureties against the knife. He 
 has, besides, more powerful friends, it seems, than any of us 
 believed, or at least more powerful means of gaining them. 
 The Pope has been induced to set him free of his vows. I find, 
 too, that Epernon sent for him immediately after that business 
 of the attempt upon his life at Angouleme, and they are now 
 sworn friends and comrades, levying forces together, holding 
 counsel every other hour ; and here is the former Abbe now 
 disporting himself as Seigneur de Boisguerin 5 and, just like a 
 butterfly that has cast its slough, he arrives in Blois last night 
 in gilded apparel, with a train of twenty horse behind him, and 
 a number of sumpter mules. I saw him in his gay attire near 
 Angoultjme, and find that he aspires to the hand of the fair 
 heiress himself. 1 ' 
 
 " But what is to be done, Villequier? " said the King smiling. 
 " It seems to me that all the w T or!d are seeking her. Suppose we 
 send for an auctioneer, and set her up aux encheres. But, to 
 speak seriously, what will you do with this cidevant Abbe?" 
 
 " I have done with him something already," replied Ville- 
 quier, " that with all his art he could not prevent nor know. I 
 found this young Marquis of Montsoreau somewhat stubborn 
 to counsel. He loved not the plan of coming and lying concealed 
 at Blois. Though he is politic and artful at seasons himself, yet 
 now he was all passion and fury. Nothing would serve him but 
 he must come to Blois in open day, with a hundred lances at 
 his back. He would fight his brother, it seemed, and cut his 
 throat. He would beard the Guise \ and he would compel your 
 Majesty and me to fulfil our promise to the letter. That the girl 
 had escaped he attributed to my connivance ; and, by Heavens! 
 I almost feared he would have laid violent hands upon me. In 
 short, Sire, by a little skilful teazing, I found that this same 
 Abbe de Boisguerin, whose credit I had once greatly shaken, 
 had resumed the mastery, and was urging on his former pupil 
 to every sort of rash and violent act, probably with the hope of 
 getting him killed out of his way. I soothed the good youlh 
 
IIKINRY OF GUISE. 369 
 
 down, however, and lold him I would give him proof of his 
 friend's regard. I hid him where he could hear all that passed, 
 and then entrapped the Abb6 into talking of the paper that we 
 had signed for him. I told him that the person for whom your 
 Majesty and I destined this fair Helen, was the young Marquis 
 of Montsoreau. I reminded him that he had obtained that paper 
 with an absolute and direct view to that marriage 5 at least, 
 that he had told me so; and I asked him immediately to sign his 
 consent to the alliance. Your Majesty may imagine his answers ; 
 and the youth's rage was such that most assuredly he would 
 have broken in upon us, if I had not stationed two men to stop 
 him. However, he became afterwards as docile as a lamb, was 
 convinced, by what passed, that we had throughout been deal- 
 ing sincerely with him, and will be ready at the hour to-morrow. 
 When the good Abbe, perhaps, hears that the whole affair is 
 concluded, that Guise is gone, and your Majesty powerful, he 
 may judge it more wise to be silent and resigned. We can tempt 
 him, first, with some post; we can alarm him, if that will not 
 do, with some peril ; and lastly, if we fail in both, then we must 
 find some way of putting an end to the matter altogether." 
 
 " That will be easily done," replied the King, his mind re- 
 verting to the Duke of Guise. " But come, Villequier, let us go 
 and consult with Laugnac. I told him, before you came, to seek 
 for you and consult with you. We must trust as few as possible 
 in this business, and I must see to the whole myself, for this is 
 a step on which, if we but slip, we fall to inevitable perdition." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 Was the Duke of Guise unconscious of the dangers that sur- 
 rounded him? Was he unaware that the power which he as- 
 sumed, and the power which the States also put upon him, could 
 not but render him obnoxious in the highest degree to the 
 King, who, though weak and indolent, was jealous of that autho- 
 rity which he failed himself to exercise for the benefit of his 
 people? Was the Duke ignorant that the Monarch was as 
 treacherous as feeble, was as remorseless as vicious? Was it 
 unknown to him, that to all the creatures who surrounded the 
 King he was an object of hatred and jeaiousy 5 and that there 
 were ready hands and base hearts enough to attempt any thing 
 which the royal authority might warrant? 
 
 He was not so ignorant, or so unaware : he had been warned 
 sufficiently, days and weeks before; but even had that not been 
 
370 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 the case, on that very night he received sufficient intimations of 
 his danger to put him on his guard. 
 
 He had presided at the supper-table as Grand Master of the 
 King's household, and he had received his guests with easy 
 courtesy. The meal was over somewhat sooner than usual ; 
 and, the business of the Stale being considerably slackened, in 
 consequence of the approaching festival of Christmas, he sat in 
 his cabinet with Charles of Montsoreau and Marie de Clairvaut 
 only, enjoying an hour of refreshment in calm and tranquil 
 conversation upon subjects, which, however agitating to them, 
 was merely a matter of pleasant interest to him. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau sat by his side making some notes of 
 various little things that the Duke told him, and Marie dc Clair- 
 vaut was seated on a stool at his feet, while he looked down 
 upon her, from time to time, with the sort of parental tender- 
 ness which he had displayed towards her from her infancy. 
 
 A pleasing sort of melancholy had come over him, — a sad- 
 ness without grief, and mingling even occasionally with gaiety. 
 It was that sort of present consciousness of the emptiness of all 
 worldly things, which every man at some moment feels, even 
 the ambitious, the greedy, the zealous, the passionate. Perhaps 
 that which had brought such a mood upon him, was the con- 
 trast of all the arrangements for his fair ward's marriage and 
 the deep and intense feelings which that event excited in the 
 bosom of herself and Charles of Montsoreau, with the eager and 
 fiery struggles in which he had been lately taking part, while 
 engaged in the dark fierce strife of ambition, or tossed in the 
 turbid whirlpool of political intrigue. And thus he sat, and thus 
 he talked with them of their future prospects and their coming 
 happiness, sometimes speaking seriously, nay gravely— some- 
 times jesting lightly, and smiling when he had made Marie cast 
 down her eyes. 
 
 As he thus sat there was a tap at the door of his cabinet, and 
 the Duke knowing it lobe the page, bade him enter; when the 
 boy Ignati appearing, informed him that the Count de Schom- 
 berg was without. 
 
 " Bid him come in," replied the Duke, keeping his seat, and 
 making a sign fur his companions not to stir. " Welcome, 
 Schomberg," he said ; " you see that I am plotting no treason 
 here. What do you think of my two children? Joinville will be 
 jealous of my eldest son. But, jesting apart, I think you know 
 the Count de Logeres. My niece, Marie, I know you have had 
 many a time upon your knee in her infancy." 
 
 Schomberg bowed to each, but gravely; and replied to the 
 Duke, who held out his hand to him, " My dear Duke, I wish 
 every body were as well persuaded that you are plotting no 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 371 
 
 treason as I am. But I come to speak to your Highness upon a 
 matter of business. I have a warning to give you," he added in 
 a whisper. 
 
 " Oh ! speak it aloud ; speak it aloud," replied the Duke. " If 
 it concerns myself, you may well speak it before these two." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Schomberg, apparently hesitating, and run- 
 ning his eyes over the tapestry, as if calculating how he had 
 best proceed. " My good Lord Duke," he said, at length, " I 
 believe you know that there are few who love you better than 
 myself, though I neither am nor affect to be a zealot, but rather 
 what your people call one of the Politics." 
 
 " I know Schomberg, what you mean," said the Duke; " you 
 are my friend, but not my partisan. I can make the distinction, 
 Schomberg, and love the friend no less. What have you to say?" 
 
 " Why this, my Lord," replied Schomberg, " Look up above 
 the door there, just before your eyes. Do you see how beauti- 
 fully they have carved in the black oak the figure of a porcu- 
 pine, and how all the sharp and prickly quills stick out, ready 
 to wound the hand that touches it ? " 
 
 " Yes, I see," replied the Duke. " But do you know the his- 
 tory of that porcupine, Schomberg?" 
 
 "Yes," answered the Count, " I know it well, my Lord of 
 Guise. Both in the stonework and the woodwork of this castle, 
 there are many such. They were placed there, I think, my Lord 
 — am I not right? — by an old monarch of France, as a sort of 
 device, to signify that whoever grasps royalty too rudely, will 
 suffer injury in consequence." 
 
 The Duke smiled in the same placid mood as before, but re- 
 plied, " In the next chamber, Schomberg, which is my own bed- 
 chamber, you may see the device of Francis the First too, — a 
 salamander unhurt in the midst of flames ; which may be inter- 
 preted to mean, that strong courage is never more at ease than 
 in the midst of perils." 
 
 A grave smile came over the face of Schomberg, to find the 
 figures in which he involved his warning so easily retorted by 
 the Duke of Guise. " I have heard of your Highness," he said, 
 without noticing the Duke's reply, "that not very many years ago 
 you were known to swim against the stream of the Loire armed 
 at all points. You are a strong man, my Lord Duke ; but there 
 are other streams you cannot swim against, depend upon it." 
 
 " Then I will try to go with the current, Schomberg," replied 
 the Duke. " As long as that is with me, it will bear me up." 
 
 " But it may dash you against a rock, Duke," replied Schom- 
 berg 5 " and I see one straight before you." 
 
 He spoke sternly and impressively, and Guise listened to him 
 with more attention. " Speak, Schomberg," he said; "speak; 
 
372 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 you may speak clearly before them. But sit, good friend; pray thee 
 sit. Standing there before me, with your sad aspect and warning 
 voice, you look like a spectre." 
 
 " Well, my Lord," said Schomberg, seating himself, " I have 
 certain information that there are evil designs against you, ripe, 
 or almost ripe, for execution. Your life is in danger, Guise 5 1 
 tell you truly, 1 tell you sincerely, and I beseech you to hear me. 
 Your life is in danger, and you have no time to lose if you would 
 place it in safety." 
 
 " Why, what would you have me to do, Schomberg?" said 
 the Duke in a tone not exactly indifferent but still showing no 
 great interest in the subject. 
 
 " I would have you mount your horse this night," replied 
 Schomberg, " or at day-break to-morrow. I would have you ga- 
 ther your train together, take these two young people with you, 
 and retiring to Paris, inform the King that you had proof your 
 life was not safe at Blois." 
 
 The Duke of Guise meditated for a moment, and then replied, 
 " Schomberg, I cannot grasp this fear. Brought up to arms from 
 my youth, cradled in the tented field, with death surrounding me 
 at every hour of life, I cannot feel as other men might feel in 
 moments of peril to myself. Neither will I ever have it said of me, 
 that I willingly fled from my post under the apprehension of any 
 personal danger." 
 
 " By our old friendship. Guise," replied Schomberg, " by our 
 companionship in the lields of other days, I beseech you to con- 
 sider and to judge wisely. Ptemember, if the vengeance of a 
 monarch, or the instigation of villanous courtiers, were to have 
 success, and you were to fall beneath the blow of an assassin, 
 what would become of your children, all yet in their youth? 
 what would become of your relations and your friends, placed, 
 as you have placed them, on a high pinnacle, to be aimed at by 
 a crowd of idle minions with their bird-bolts? What would be- 
 come of your son?" 
 
 " Joinville must make his own fame," replied the Duke, " and 
 guard his own rights with his own sword. I was left earlier 
 than he is without a parent's care ; with a host of enemies around 
 me -, with my father's name, giving me a heritage of envy and 
 hatred-, and with no support but my own sword. With that 
 sword I have bowed those enemies to the dust, and Joinville 
 must show himself worthy to bear it too." 
 
 He paused, and meditated for a moment or two, and then add- 
 ed, " After all, Schomberg, I do not see that there can be 
 much danger. Here, in the castle, I am as strong or stronger 
 than the King. When I go forth, I am so well accompanied, 
 that it would be difficult to surprise me, if they attacked me 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 373 
 
 with numbers. A single assassin might dog my steps, it is true -, 
 but I do not know that man upon the face of the earth, who, 
 hand to baud with me, would not have more than an equal 
 share of fear and danger. However, 1 will think of what you 
 have said, and will take good care to be more upon my guard 
 than ever. At the same time, Schombcrg, I thank you most 
 sincerely, and look upon your regard as one of the best posses- 
 sions that I have." 
 
 " Guise," said Schomberg, rising and approaching the door, 
 " I have failed with you. But I yield not my point yet. 1 will 
 send those to you who may have more influence." 
 
 "Stay, Schomberg, stay!" cried the Duke; but his friend 
 passed through the door and would not return. 
 
 Charles of Montsoreau then raised his voice in the same cause 
 as Schomberg, and Marie de Clairvaut entreated anxiously that 
 he would yield to what had been proposed. But at them the 
 Duke only laughed. 
 
 lt Hush, hush !" he said. " Logeres, you do not know what 
 you say. There, kiss her and be gone. To-morrow she shall be 
 yours, no more to part. Say no more, silly girl •, say no more. 
 You, a child of a Guise, talk to me of fear ! Call thy maidens, 
 get thee to thy bed, and rise to-morrow with bright eyes and 
 blooming cheeks. Fare thee well, sweet one. I long to be quit 
 of thy guardianship." 
 
 Remonstrance was useless, and they parted •, and the Duke of 
 Guise sitting down for a moment, gave himself up to thought. 
 His eyes were fixed upon the dark tapestry opposite, where was 
 depicted a woody scene, the particulars of which could not be 
 well distinguished by the dim light of the lamp. 
 
 After he had gazed for a moment or two, however, his eyes 
 assumed a peculiar expression, a fixed, intense, and somewhat 
 bewildered stare. He passed his hand twice before them, as if 
 he felt them dim or dazzled ; then clasped his hands together 
 and gazed, still muttering to himself, " Strange, very strange! 
 lt is there still ! " And starting up from the table, he seized the 
 lamp, and advanced directly towards the side of the room on 
 which his eyes had been fixed, still gazing stedfastly on the same 
 spot. At length, as he approached close to the wall, his features 
 relaxed, and he said with a smile, " It is gone ! These delusions 
 of the sight are wonderful !" 
 
 He had not yet returned to his seat, when the door on his 
 right hand opened gently, and the form of a woman glided in. 
 It was that of the beautiful being with whom he had parted in 
 some anger at the King's ball, and she gazed at him, evidently 
 surprised to see him standing with the lamp in his hand close to 
 the wall, on a side where there was no exit. 
 
374 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 "In the name of Heaven, Guise! what is the matter?" she 
 said. " I heard you speaking as I came in. You are pale; your 
 lip quivers!" 
 
 " It is nothing; it is nothing," replied the Duke, putting down 
 the lamp, and taking her hand. " This is, indeed, dear and kind 
 of you, Charlotte. I trusted, I was sure, that your anger for a 
 light offence would not last long." 
 
 " It would have lasted long, Guise," she said, " or at least its 
 effects would not have passed away, had it not been for the 
 warning that I have received concerning you. Guise, you would 
 not have seen me now — you would never have seen me in these 
 rooms again " 
 
 " Nay, nay," interrupted the Duke, " traduce not so your 
 own nature. Say not that a few unthinking words would render 
 her so harsh, who is so gentle." 
 
 " They were not unthinking words, Henry of Guise, "replied 
 the Lady. " They were words of deep meaning, to be read and 
 understood at once. Think you that I could misunderstand 
 them? Think you that I could not read that Guise would not 
 suffer the pure to dwell with the impure? However," she added 
 quickly, seeing that the Duke was going to interrupt her, " let 
 me speak of other things. I was about to say that you would 
 not have seen me this night, you would never have seen me in 
 these chambers again, had I not learned that your life was in 
 danger 5 and then my fears for you showed me that my love was 
 unchanged, and I came, at all risks, to warn you, and to beseech 
 you to be gone." 
 
 " Nay, nay," replied the Duke. " How can I be gone when 
 you are here, Charlotte ? And, besides, there is no real danger. 
 It is Schomberg has frightened you, I know. He came here with 
 the same tale ; but I showed him there was no danger." 
 
 " It was not from Schomberg !" said Madame de Noirmoutier 
 vehemently. " I have never seen Schomberg since I have been 
 here. It was from the Queen ; it was from Catharine herself that 
 I heard it. She told me to tell you ; she told me to warn you. 
 Her son, she said, had not divulged to her his scheme ; but from 
 her knowledge of the man, and from the words he used, she was 
 certain that he would attempt your life within three days." 
 
 " Then his attempt will fail, dear Charlotte," said the Duke, 
 holding her hand tenderly in his. " Fear not for me ; I am fully 
 upon my guard ; and in this chateau, and this town, am stronger 
 than the King himself." 
 
 "Oh Guise, Guise, you are deceiving yourself," she said, 
 bursting into tears. " Twice I have been at your door this night, 
 but the page told me there was some one with you ; and now I 
 have come determined not to leave you, till I see you making 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 375 
 
 preparations to depart. Let me entreat you, let me beseech you," 
 she continued, as Guise wiped away her tears. "Nay, Guise, 
 nay ; in this I will take no refusal. If not for your own sake, for 
 my love you shall lly. You shall treat me ill, as you did before, 
 again and again. You shall make a servant of me — a slave. You 
 will not surely refuse me, when you see me kneeling at your 
 feet." And she sunk upon her knees before him, and clasped her 
 fair hands in entreaty. The Duke was raising her tenderly, when 
 the page's knock was heard at the door ; and before he could 
 well give the command to enter, the boy was in the room. 
 
 "My Lord," he said, " there is Monsieur Chapelle Marteau, 
 and several other gentlemen, desiring earnestly to speak with 
 
 you." 
 
 Madame de Psoirmonlier looked wildly round the room, and 
 seemed about to pass through the door by which the page had 
 entered. " Be not alarmed," said the Duke, " you cannot pass 
 there, Charlotte. These men will not be with me above a few 
 minutes. Pass into that room, and wait till they are gone. I 
 have a thousand things to say to you, and will dismiss them 
 soon." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation she did as he directed, and turn- 
 ing to the page, the Duke bade him admit the party who were 
 waiting without. It consisted of Chapelle Marteau, the Presi- 
 dent de Neuilli, a gentleman of the name of Mandreville, the 
 Duke's brother the Cardinal de Guise, and the Archbishop 01 
 Lyons. 
 
 The Duke received them with that winning grace for which 
 he was famous, and soon learned from them that their visit way 
 owing to the information received from the Count de Schom- 
 berg. Every one then present, but the Archbishop of Lyons, 
 urged him strongly to quit Blois immediately. They had come 
 in a body, they said, in hopes that their remonstrances might 
 have the greater effect. Each had heard in the course of the 
 evening those rumours which generally announce great events : 
 some had been told that the Duke was arrested ; some that he 
 had been absolutely assassinated in the gardens of the chateau ; 
 and some that the act was to be performed that night by a 
 number of soldiers, who had been privately introduced into the 
 castle. 
 
 Guise listened silently and with great attention, displaying in 
 demeanour every sort of deference and respect for the opinions 
 of those who showed such an interest in his fate. He replied, 
 however, that he trusted and hoped that both the rumours they 
 had heard, and the intelligence given by Schomberg, originated 
 in nothing but mistaken words, or in those idle and unfounded 
 reports which always multiply themselves in moments of great 
 
376 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 political agitation and excitement. Besides this, he said, even if 
 the King were disposed to attempt his life, the execution of such 
 an act would be very difficult, if not impossible ; and that, con- 
 sidering before all things his duty to his country, the very fact 
 of the King seeking such a thing ought to be the strongest 
 reason for his stay, inasmuch as the Monarch's animosity could 
 only be excited towards him out of enmity to the Catholic 
 Church, and a disposition to repress and tyrannise over the 
 States. 
 
 "If such be his feelings," continued the Duke, " we must 
 consider ourselves as two armies in presence of each other, and 
 the one that retreats of course awards the victory to his ad- 
 versary." 
 
 The Archbishop of Lyons, perhaps, was the person who de- 
 cided the fate of the Duke of Guise ; for had the party which 
 came to him been unanimous and urgent in their remonstrance, 
 there is a probability that he would have yielded ; but the Arch- 
 bishop seemed doubtful and undecided. He said that he thought, 
 indeed, it might be well the Duke should go ; at least for a time. 
 But they had to consider, also, the probabilities of the King 
 making any attempt upon the Duke. Though weak, timid, and 
 indolent, Henry was shrewd and farseeing, he said. The only 
 result that could follow an attempt upon a person so beloved by 
 the whole nation, and especially by the States, as the Duke of 
 Guise, would be to arm the people of France in an instant 
 against the sovereign authority. This the King must well know, 
 he continued 5 and that consideration made him less eager upon 
 the subject, though he thought it might be as well that his High- 
 ness should retire for a time. 
 
 His speech more than counterbalanced the exhortations of all 
 the rest ; and from that moment the resolution of the Duke 
 became immovable. His dauntless mind, which might have 
 yielded had he stood absolutely alone in opinion, came instantly 
 to the conclusion, that if there were a single individual who 
 doubted whether he should fly or not, he himself ought to de- 
 cide upon remaining. He made no answer to the Archbishop's 
 speech, but suffered Mandreville to combat his arguments with- 
 out interruption. That gentleman replied that Henry, far from 
 being the person represented, though cunning, was any thing 
 but prudent. Had they ever seen, he demanded, the cunning 
 of the King, even in the least degree, restrain or control him? 
 Had the self-evident risk of his throne, of his life, and of the 
 welfare of his people, ever made him pause in the commission 
 of one frantic, vicious, or criminal act? He was no better, the 
 deputy said, than a cunning madman, such as was frequently 
 seen, who, having determined upon any act, however absurd or 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 377 
 
 evil might be the consequences, even to the destruction of his 
 own self, would arrive at it by some means, and go directly to 
 his purpose, in despite of all obstacles, lie contended thai 
 they had good reason to know that the King devised evil against 
 the Duke ; and they might depend upon it that no considera- 
 tion of policy, right, or religion, would prevent him from ex- 
 ecuting his purpose by some means. 
 
 He spoke truly, and with more thorough insight into the 
 character of the King than any one previously had done ; but 
 the resolution of the Duke of Guise, as we have said before, 
 was already taken. 
 
 "My good friends," he said in conclusion, "I thank you 
 most sincerely, and I shall ever feel grateful for the interest that 
 you have taken in me, and for your anxiety regarding me on 
 the present occasion. But my resolution is taken, and must be 
 unalterable. I cannot but acknowledge that the view of Mon- 
 sieur de Mandreville may have much truth in it ; but, never- 
 theless, matters are now at such a point, that if I were to see 
 death coming in at that window, I would not seek the door." 
 
 Against a determination so forcibly expressed, there was, of 
 course, no possibility of holding further argument ; and after a 
 word or two more on different subjects of less interest— the 
 Duke of Guise replying as briefly as possible to every thing that 
 was said —the party took their leave and retired. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 There was at that time a large open space round the church 
 of St. Sauveur, in Blois, where the people from the country- 
 used occasionally to exhibit their fruits and flowers for sale; 
 and exactly opposite the great door of the church stood a large 
 and splendid mansion, with an internal court-yard, part of 
 which had been let to some of the deputies for the States-Ge- 
 neral. The principal floor, however, consisting of sixteen rooms, 
 and several large passages and corridors, had been left un- 
 tenanted, in consequence of the proprietor asking an exor- 
 bitant rent, till two or three days before the period of which we 
 speak. Then, however, the apartment was taken suddenly, a 
 number of attendants in new and splendid dresses appeared 
 therein ; and, as we have seen from the account of Villequier to 
 the King, the Abbe de Boisguerin arrived in Blois, with a 
 splendid train of attendants, and took up his abode as the master 
 of that dwelling. 
 
378 HENRY OF GUiSE. 
 
 About the same time that the conversations which we have 
 detailed in the last chapter were going on in the cabinet of the 
 Duke of Guise, the Abbe was seated in one of the rooms, which 
 he had fixed upon for his own peculiar saloon. It was very cus- 
 tomary in those days, and in France, for every chamber, except 
 a great hall of reception, to be used also as a bed-room. Rut 
 that was not the case in this instance ; for the chamber, which 
 was small, though very lofty, had been used by the former oc- 
 cupants as a cabinet, and had been chosen by the Abbe probably 
 on account of its being so completely detached from every other 
 chamber, that no sound of what was done or said therein could 
 be overheard by any one. 
 
 He sat in a large arm-chair, with his feet towards the fire, 
 and with his right elbow resting on a table covered with various 
 sorts of delicacies. Those delicacies, however, were not the 
 productions of the land in which he then lived, but rather such 
 as he had been accustomed to in other days, and which recalled 
 former habits of life. There were line dried fruits from the Le- 
 vant, tunny and other fish from the Mediterranean ; and the 
 wines, though inferior to those of France, were from foreign 
 vineyards. 
 
 Before him was standing a man whom we have had occasion 
 to mention more than once — that Italian vagabond named Orbi, 
 from whom, it may be remembered, Charles of Montsoreau de- 
 livered the boy Ignati. He was now dressed in a very different 
 guise, however, from that which he had borne while wander- 
 ing as a mere stroller from house to house. His shaggy black 
 hair was trimmed and smooth ; his beard was partially shaved 
 and reduced to fair proportions, with a sleek mustachio, well 
 turned and oiled, gracing his upper lip ; his face, too, was clean ; 
 and a suit somewhat sombre in colour, but of good materials, 
 displaying in the ruff and at the sleeves a great quantity of line 
 while linen and rich lace, left scarcely a vestige of the fierce 
 Italian vagabond, half bravo, half minstrel, which he had ap- 
 peared not a year before. 
 
 The conversation which was going on between him and the 
 master he now served, was evidently one of great interest. The 
 Abbe's wine remained half finished in the glass ; the preserved 
 fruits upon his plate were scarcely tasted 5 and he exclaimed, 
 " So, so ! Villequier sends me no answer to my letter ! A bare 
 message, by word of mouth, that the Duke of Guise wills it to be 
 so-, and that the Duke's will is all powerful at the Court of 
 France! The Ring sets at nought his own royal word, does 
 he?" 
 
 " He said something, Sir," said the Italian, " about his know- 
 ing, and the King also, that they must pay a penalty ; but thai 
 
HENRY OF GUIS!:. 370 
 
 no sum was to be grudged, rather than offend the Duke at this 
 time." 
 
 " Sum ! " cried the Abbe de Boisguerin, starting up and push- 
 ing the chair vehemently from him. "What is any sum to me?" 
 And with flashing eyes, and a countenance all inflamed, he 
 strode up and down the chamber for a moment or two, with 
 his heart swelling with bitterness and disappointed passion. 
 " A curse upon this bungling hand," he cried, striking it upon 
 the table, " that it should fail me at such a moment as that! I 
 thought the young viper had been swept from my way for ever ! 
 — My aim was steady and true, too! His heart must be in some 
 other place than other men's." 
 
 " Ha! my Lord," joined in the Italian in the tone of a con- 
 noisseur, " the arquebus is a pretty weapon, I dare say, in a 
 general battle, but it is desperate uncertain in private affairs like 
 that. You can never tell, to an inch or two, where the ball will 
 hit. But, with a dagger, you can make sure to a button-hole; 
 and even if there should be a struggle, it is always quite easy so 
 to salve the point of your blade, that you make sure of your 
 friend, even if you give him but a scratch. Now the attempt 
 to poison a ball is all nonsense, for the fire destroys the venom." 
 
 " At what hour said you, Obi?" demanded the Abbe, without 
 attending to his dissertation. 
 
 "Half an hour before high mass," replied the man, "the 
 marriage is to take place." 
 
 Again the Abbe de Boisguerin burst into a vehement fit of 
 passion, and strode up and down the room cursing and blas- 
 pheming, till accidentally his eyes fell upon a small \enetian 
 mirror, and the aspect of his own countenance, ordinarily so 
 calm and unmoved, now distorted by rage and disappointment, 
 made him start. A smile of scorn, even at himself, curled his 
 lip ; and calming his countenance by a great effort, he again 
 seated himself, and mused for a moment. 
 
 " This must not, and shall not be," he said at length. " Orbi, 
 you are an experienced hand, and doubtless dexterous. Will 
 you stop this going forward ? " 
 
 The man smiled, stroked back his mustachios, and replied, 
 " I thought you would be obliged to take my way at last. Well, 
 Monseigneur, I have no objection ; but the time is short. I told 
 you what I expected for such an affair when I offered to do it in 
 Paris." 
 
 " You shall have it! you shall have it! " replied the Abbe. 
 " But if you do it, so that no suspicion ever falls on me, you 
 shall have as much again this day two years ; for nothing but the 
 lives of these two young men stands between me and immense 
 wealth." 
 
380 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " The worst of it all is," said the Italian, " that there is so 
 short a time. It is to take place in the castle chapel ; so there 
 will be no going through the streets. To find him alone will be 
 a matter of difficulty ; and though I went over the passages, 
 thinking it might come to this, yet I saw no one place, but at 
 the door of the room called the revestry, where one could strike 
 easily." 
 
 " I have seen the place,' 1 said the Abbe, " long ago 5 but I do 
 not remember it so perfectly as to give you any aid. I know that 
 the window of the room you mention looks into the court and 
 gardens, and under the garden wall shall be a swift horse to bear 
 you away. That is all I can do for you." 
 
 " I must do the rest for myself," replied the man, " and will 
 find some means, depend upon it. Perhaps he may not wait for 
 the other if he be eager, but may come first by himself, and 
 then it will be easily done. However, I will now go and get the 
 dagger ready, and I can undertake that the least scratch shall 
 not leave an hour's life in him." 
 
 The Abbe de Boisguerin nodded his head and smiled as the 
 other departed. " They know not," he said to himself, " they 
 know not the man they have to deal with. These mighty men, 
 these haughty Guises, may find that every man of strong deter- 
 mination and unflinching courage may thwart, if he cannot 
 master, them 5 may destroy their plans, if he cannot accomplish 
 his own. But there is another still to be dealt with. There is this 
 proud, unfeeling, contemptuous girl ; she who has been rejoicing 
 in the reappearance of this crafty fair-faced boy.— There is now 
 no going back-, and why should I not risk life to win her too, 
 and gratify both my love and my revenge?— Yet that seems 
 scarcely possible," he continued. " Closely watched within tin- 
 castle, never going out but strongly accompanied, she is put, it 
 would seem, entirely out of my power, now that Villequier has 
 fallen off from me.— And yet," he continued meditating, " and 
 yet, there is nothing impossible to the dauntless and the daring. 
 —Could I not bring her to the postern gate of the garden an 
 hour before this marriage is to take place, and then, with swift 
 horses and a carriage ready, convey her once more far away? — 
 We have done as bold and difficult^ feat before ; and methinks, 
 if I could tell her that I have news to give her concerning her 
 uncle's safety— for rumours of his danger must have reached 
 her ears— she will not fail to come, and come alone.— Oh ! if I 
 once more get her in my power, she shall find no means to fly 
 again, till, on the contrary, she shall be more inclined to kneel at 
 my feet, and beseech that I would wed her.— So it shall be ! I 
 will write to her that, if at ten o'clock she will be alone at the 
 postern gate of the castle, she will hear news that may save her 
 
HENKY OF GUISK. 38 1 
 
 uncle's life. Then, with the swiftest horses we can find, a few 
 hours will take us far from pursuit ! — 1 will carry her into Spain ! 
 Epernon is with me anil the way open ! — It shall he done ! " he 
 said aloud ; " it shall he done ! But, then, this hoy's dealh is 
 scarcely needful. Why should I mind his living?— It will he hut 
 the greater torture to him to know that she is mine ! — And yet, 
 it were better he should die. All the tidings, and the rumours, 
 and the bustle of his violent dealh in the castle will too much 
 occupy the minds of men to let them notice our flight; so that 
 we shall gain an hour or two. There is an eager and a daring 
 spirit, also^ within him— a keen and active mind- which might 
 frustrate me once more in the very moment of hope. He must 
 die ! I have set my own life upon the chance ; and what matters 
 it whether one or two others are swept away before me? He 
 must die! and then, without protection, she is mine. Once into 
 Tourraine, and i am sale ! — Ha ! you are hack again quickly, 
 my good friend Orbi. Is all ready?" 
 
 " Every thing, Sir," replied the man ; " and if I could but get 
 into the chateau, and stumble upon the youth alone, I might be 
 able to accomplish the matter to-night. Could you not furnish 
 me with a billet to this Yillequier, or some one ? It matters not 
 what ; any empty words, just to make them admit me at the 
 gates." 
 
 " Not to Yillequier," said the Abbe ; " not to Villequier. 
 But I will write a few words to Mademoiselle de Clairvaut 
 herself." 
 
 "That will do well! (hat will do well!" replied the man. 
 "I am more likely to find him hanging about her apartments 
 than any where else -, and then one slight blow does the deed." 
 
 " Bring me paper and pens from the next room," cried the 
 Abbe. " It shall be done this moment." And as soon as imple- 
 ments for writing were procured, he wrote a subtle epistle to 
 Marie de Clairvaut, beseeching her to speak for a moment, at 
 the postern gate of the chateau gardens early on the following 
 day, to a person who would communicate something to her, 
 which might save the life of her guardian the Duke of Guise. 
 It was written in a feigned hand, and under the character of an 
 utter stranger to her. Some mistakes too were made in the or- 
 thography of her name, and in regard to other circumstances, 
 for the purpose of rendering the deception complete. When this 
 was concluded and sealed, he placed it in the hands of Orbi, and 
 after a few 7 more words they parted. 
 
 While the Abbe" busied himself in causing a carriage to be 
 bought for the proposed enterprise of the following day, and in 
 ordering the.swiftest horses that could be found, to be obtained 
 —not from the royal post, by which his course might have been 
 
38-2 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 tracked, but from one of the keepers of relais, as the irregular 
 posting houses were called, which were then tolerated in France; 
 the Italian proceeded on his task, with feelings in his heart 
 which might well have been received as a reason for abating the 
 price of the deed he was about to perform. 
 
 To tell the truth it might be considered fully as much his own 
 act as that of the Abbe, for the same malevolent feelings were 
 in the hearts of each •, and he went not there merely as the com- 
 mon hired assassin, to do the work of his trade, as a matter of 
 course ; but he went also to avenge a long remembered blow, 
 which still rankled in his heart, with the same bitterness that he 
 had felt at the moment that it was received. 
 
 He met with some difficulty in obtaining entrance to the cha- 
 teau at so late an hour of the night ; but the letter addressed to 
 Mademoiselle de Clairvaut enabled him to effect that object at 
 length, and he was directed towards the suite of apartments 
 assigned to the Duke of Guise and his family. When he had 
 once passed the two first gates, he met with no obstruction, but 
 wandered through the long dimly lighted corridors, scarcely en- 
 countering a waking being on his way, and certainly none who 
 seemed inclined to speak to him. 
 
 When he had reached that part of the building to which he 
 had been directed, he looked round for some one to give him 
 farther information, not absolutely intending to seek the apart- 
 ments of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, and deliver the note, but 
 merely to obtain a general knowledge of how the different cham- 
 bers were allotted. After passing on some way, without meeting 
 any one or hearing a sound, he saw a door half open, with thj 
 light streaming out, and quietly approaching he looked in. 
 
 There was a boy in the dress of a page, sitting before a large 
 Christmas fire reading a book \ but though he walked stealthily, 
 the first step which the Italian took in the room caught the 
 youth's quick ear, and starting up he showed the Italian the 
 face of his former bondman, Ignatius Marone. The man started 
 when he saw him ; but recovering himself instantly, he went up 
 and endeavoured to soothe the boy with fair and flattering words. 
 " Ah, my little Ignati," he said, " here thou art then, and 
 doubtless well off with this young Lord of thine." 
 
 " I am well off, Signor Orbi," was the boy's brief reply ; and 
 seeing that the man paused and kept gazing round him, the boy 
 added, " But what is your business here?" 
 
 " I am only looking about me," replied the man in somewhat 
 of a contemptuous tone, which he could not smother, although 
 it was his full intention to cajole the boy into giving him all the 
 information he wanted, and perhaps even to induce him un- 
 consciously to aid his purpose. 
 
HENRY OF GUISi:. 38:? 
 
 " Come, come, Signor Orbi," replied the boy, " I know you 
 well, remember ? and I know, that though you may have changed 
 your doublet, you cannot have changed what is within it. ]f 
 you do not say immediately what you want, I will call those 
 who will make you." And he approached one of the other doors 
 which the room displayed, and raised his hand towards the 
 latch. 
 
 " Hist, hist, Ignati!" cried the Italian. " fiy Heavens ! if you 
 do, you shall never hear what I have got to tell you, — some- 
 thing that would make your heartbeat with joy if you knew it." 
 
 "And what is that?" said the boy, still standing near the 
 door, and looking at his fellow-countryman with a face of scorn 
 and doubt. 
 
 " Come hither, and I will tell you/' said the Italian; but the 
 boy shook his head, and Orbi added in a low tone, " You know 
 who your mother was, Ignati •, but do you know your father?" 
 
 The boy gazed at him bitterly and in silence, without making 
 any further answer ; and the man added, " He is now in Blois." 
 
 Ignati instantly sprang forward towards him, exclaiming, 
 " Where? Where? Where can I find him ?I have still the letter 
 from my dead mother. I have still all the proofs given me by the 
 Marone. Where is he? where is he?" 
 
 " Come, let us sit down by the fire," said the man, " and I 
 will tell thee more-," and finding the boy now quite willing to 
 do what he wished, the man sat down by the fire with him, cal- 
 culating the various results of particular lines of conduct open 
 before him, but without suffering any one good principle or 
 feeling to mingle at all with his considerations. 
 
 He had spoken the words which had called Ignati to him 
 simply as a matter of impulse, and the first question he asked 
 himself was, whether he should tell the boy more of the truth or 
 not. Various considerations, however, induced him to go on, 
 for he had a little scheme in his head which rendered it expe- 
 dient for him to embarrass the proceedings of the Abbe de 
 Boisguerin, on the following morning after the deed proposed 
 was done, as much as possible. 
 
 "You know, Ignati," he said, " that I always loved you, my 
 good youth." 
 
 " You gave me bitter proofs of it," replied Ignati. 
 
 "Nay, nay, it was my way," replied the Italian. "If you had 
 been my own son, it would have been the same." 
 
 " I dare say," replied Ignati, " you would have murdered 
 your own son almost as readily as you tried to murder me." 
 
 " Nay, boy, I tried not to murder thee," rejoined the man. 
 " I was not such a fool ; that would never have answered my 
 purpose." 
 
384 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 " You did it by halves," said the boy. " But come, Master 
 Obi, tell me more about this matter you spoke of; and tell me 
 loo what brings you here? Where is my father to be found, if, 
 as you say, he is here?" 
 
 " He is to be found, 1 ' said Orbi, " in the great house by the 
 church of St. Sauveur. I remember him well, for when your 
 mother fled out of Rome before you were born, and was glad to 
 get what assistance she could, she sent me three times back into 
 the city to speak with the Abbe of Laurans, as he was then 
 called." 
 
 "And what is he called now?" exclaimed Ignati eagerly. 
 "What is he called now?" 
 
 " He is called the Abbe de Boisguerin," replied the man, " or 
 the Seigneur de Boisguerin, as it now is." 
 
 " Then I have seen him," cried Ignati. "Then I have seen 
 him ; and he called her " But the boy suddenly checked him- 
 self. " And now, what is it you want here? " he said. 
 
 " No harm, Master Ignati," replied the man, with;,a look half 
 sneering, half dogged. " You seem as grateful as any one else, 
 and as soon as you get all you want, you turn upon one. I sup- 
 pose you are waiting for your young master coming back from 
 some gay revel, for the whole place seems as silent as it* every 
 body were gone to bed but you." 
 
 " Oh, no," answered Ignati. "There are six of the Duke's 
 men sitting up in the next room ; and all I fear is, that the 
 gentlemen who are with the Duke himself should come out and 
 find you here." 
 
 " Then, I suppose, your master is with them," said the Italian. 
 
 The boy smiled. " My master is with them," he said, " for 
 my master is the Duke of Guise 5 but if you mean the young 
 Count who took me from you, he has been gone to bed an hour 
 ago. Ay, Master Orbi, and has two stout men sleeping across 
 his door. I hav'n't forgot that he struck you a blow one day ; 
 nor you either, it seems." 
 
 "You are out there, Sharp-wits," said the Italian. "I bear 
 the boy no grudge. I got his money, if he gave me a blow into 
 the bargain; so we are quits." 
 
 "I doubt you," muttered Ignati to himself; but the man 
 went on without attending to him, saying, "]No, no; what I 
 came for really, if you want to know, was to give a letter to 
 a young lady here, from an old gentleman at the other side 
 of the castle. Here it is ! Ma'mselle de Clairvaut is the name." 
 
 " Ay, she is gone to bed long ago too," replied the page, 
 " Let me look at the letter." 
 
 " It is of no great consequence, I believe," replied the Ita- 
 lian, who fancied the letter a mere pretext. " It is of no great 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 385 
 
 consequence •, all about a Persian cat, I believe. So you may 
 take it and give it her to-morrow, if she is gone to bed now. 
 There it is. But how is it you are not with the young Count 
 now? The Duke of Guise!— Page to the Duke of Guise! Why, 
 that is a step, indeed ! " 
 
 " Hush!" cried Ignati, hearing the door of the Duke's cabinet 
 open behind the arras. " Hush ! get you gone with all speed! 
 They are coming out, and if they find you here, I would not 
 answer for your ears, or my own either. " 
 
 The man started up, and ran out of the door by which he 
 had entered, as fast as possible. But he had scarcely made his 
 escape, when the tapestry which covered the doorway into the 
 Duke's cabinet was drawn aside, and the Cardinal de Guise, 
 with the Archbishop of Lyons, and the rest of the Leaguers, 
 came forth from their conference with the Duke.j 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 It is now necessary to turn to other apartments in the cha- 
 teau of Blois; namely, a suite inhabited by the King himself. 
 It comprised — besides several others both above and below — 
 the King's bed-room, into which opened four doors— one com- 
 municating with the Monarch's private staircase, which we 
 have already spoken of — one to the right entering into a small 
 dressing-room — one to the left, which gave admittance to a 
 chamber called the old cabinet — and one communicating by a 
 short and narrow passage with the large chamber, which, 
 during the residence of the King at Blois, was employed as a 
 council-room. The walls of the council-room were bare ; but 
 those of the King's chamber and the two cabinets were lined 
 throughout with rich old tapestry. 
 
 Before five o'clock on the morning of the 23d of December, 
 Henry had risen from his bed and dressed himself in haste, and 
 as soon as his toilet was completed, one of his valets was des- 
 patched with all speed to bear a message, which had already 
 been entrusted to him. The King then passed out of his dress- 
 ing-room into his bed-chamber, holding a light in his hand, 
 and approached the door which led to the private staircase. 
 There was eagerness and much anxiety in his countenance, and 
 his eyes were fixed upon the top of the stairs with an intense 
 gaze, which seemed to strain them from their orbits. 
 
 At length a heavy foot was heard ascending, and then several 
 more, and in a moment after the head and shoulders of an 
 
 23 
 
386 IlIilNIlY OF GUISE. 
 
 armed man, carrying a light, appeared at the mouth of the 
 staircase. 
 
 " Ah, Laugnac, this is well! " cried the King, as soon as he 
 saw him. " You are punctual and prepared, J see. Whom 
 have you with you?" 
 
 " Nine of my most determined fellows, Sire," replied Lau- 
 gnac. " There is not one, indeed, of the Forty-five that would 
 not shed his life's hlood for your Majesty. But these gentlemen 
 I know well for men who would kill the devil himself, I be- 
 lieve, if you were to bid them." 
 
 As he spoke, half a dozen steps behind him appeared, man 
 after man, nine of the Gascon band, called the "Quarante- 
 cinq," in whose countenances might be read that sort of re- 
 morseless determination, which was suited to the moment and 
 the deed, and whose frames displayed the strength requisite to 
 execute whatever violent act was entrusted to them. 
 
 " This is well-, this is well," said the King, as they entered. 
 " But where is Larchant, Laugnac?" 
 
 " He remained behind, Sire," replied the other, "as it will 
 be necessary to secure the doors of the council-chamber. When- 
 ever the enemy has entered, he will come round and join your 
 Majesty." 
 
 " I should like to have some one with me in the cabinet," 
 said the King. " Run and tell Ornano, Bonnivet, and la 
 Grange, to come to me," he continued, speaking to a valet. 
 " Bring them by the back staircase." 
 
 The valet went away with a pale countenance, feeling all 
 the agitation which such events might well produce-, and while 
 he was gone, the King, after asking Laugnac if he had explained 
 to his companions what was the task in which they were about 
 to be employed, addressed them all in a short speech, not with- 
 out eloquence and fire. 
 
 When he had concluded, he made Laugnac open one of 
 the large chests which formed the window-seats of his bed- 
 room, and taking thence a number of long, sharp, and well- 
 pointed knives, he gave them with his own hands to the as- 
 sassins, saying, " Here, gentlemen, are the avengers of your 
 liberty and mine ! and I command and authorise you lo use them 
 for the punishment of the greatest criminal in my kingdom. 
 Every law, divine and human, requires his death ; and where 
 power prevents the ordinary course of justice from taking place, 
 it is a right and a privilege of the sovereign to execute judgment 
 by any means that present themselves! Now, follow me, gentle- 
 men ! " And leading them on to the other side of the chamber, 
 he posted them himself,— the principal part of thern in the 
 old cabinet, and the rest behind the arras round the door of 
 
HENRY OF GUISK. 387 
 
 the bed-room itself. Most of those even who were in the cabinet 
 were concealed also behind the arras near the entrance, and the 
 door was left open. 
 
 By the time this had been arranged a page had entered the 
 King's bed-room, and now informed him that the gentlemen 
 he had sent for had arrived, adding, " Monsieur dc Nambu is 
 there also, Sire, saying you told him last night to come at this 
 hour." 
 
 "I did, I did," said the King. "Bid them all come up ;" 
 and greeting, the others briefly, he took Nambu by the arm 
 and led him into the passage which conducted to the coun- 
 cil-chamber. Through the door which led thither voices were 
 heard speaking beyond. 
 
 " Stay there, Nambu," he said in a whisper, " and let no one 
 pass without my especial order. The council cannot have begun 
 its sitting yet, for it is still dark, I see." 
 
 " As I passed by I saw into the room," said Nambu, " and 
 there were none but ushers and such people : but I heard 
 that the Duke had been sent for according to the commands 
 your Majesty gave last night." 
 
 The King then left him, and returned into his room, where 
 he found Laugnac and the rest of the gentlemen, whom he 
 led towards the door of his dressing-room. 
 
 " I have taken off my head-piece and cuirass, Sire," said 
 Laugnac, " as I intend to remain here at the door of your 
 Majesty's dressing-room till the matter is settled, and the sight 
 of arms might scare the prey." 
 
 " Right, right, Laugnac !" replied the King. " Bid the page 
 send for Revol by the back staircase. We shall want him to 
 fetch the Duke." And, this said, he retired into his cabinet. 
 
 The page ran round at once to the door of the council- 
 chamber, where he found Revol just about to enter ; and whis- 
 pering a word to him, the Secretary of State gave the bag of 
 papers which he had in his hand to one of the ushers, bidding 
 him hold it till he returned, and followed the King's domestic, 
 forbidding the servants, who had accompanied him thither, to 
 go any farther. The spot where they remained was the large 
 open space at the top of the great staircase, and a number 
 of other persons were there collected, while the company of 
 the King's guard might be seen at the foot of the staircase, 
 not, indeed, under arms, or drawn up in regular order, but 
 waiting apparently for the arrival of some one to give them 
 directions. 
 
 After the departure of Revol, the statesmen who had been 
 summoned to the council arrived rapidly one after the other. 
 The Cardinal of Vendorae was amongst the first, and then fol- 
 
388 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 lowed the Marshals de Retz and d'Aumont. Some other mem- 
 bers of the council came next, and then the Archbishop of 
 Lyons. But still neither the Cardinal de Guise nor the Duke 
 had made their appearance. Time was now wearing on, and 
 occasionally a page, or valet-de-chambre, known to belong to 
 the King, was seen to come and speak with some of the people 
 at the top of the staircase, and then return suddenly. 
 
 While this was going on, a boy, bearing the habiliments 
 of a page of the Duke of Guise, passed along at the foot of 
 the staircase; and, seeing a number of archers of the guard 
 collected there, he ran lightly up the steps and mingled with 
 the various persons collected. He passed rapidly along from one 
 to another, as if he was looking for some person, spoke to 
 two or three of those whose faces he knew, and then hurrying 
 away down the stairs, passed with a step of light to the apart- 
 ments of the Duke of Guise. He found that Prince just quitting 
 his cabinet and entering the antechamber. A number of gentle- 
 men and officers followed him, but the boy advanced straight 
 towards him with a degree of familiarity, neither insolent nor 
 ungraceful, and kissing his hand said, with his slight Italian 
 accent, " May so humble a being as I am detain your High- 
 ness for one moment?" 
 
 "What is it, Ignati? Speak!" said the Duke of Guise, " I 
 am already late for the council, my good boy." 
 
 " Your Highness promised to grant me any favour I asked," 
 replied the boy, " and as the greatest at this moment, I ask to 
 speak with your Highness alone." 
 
 " What is it?" said the Duke somewhat impatiently •, " what 
 is it?" And he drew him a little on one side, motioning the 
 rest to remain. 
 
 " My Lord," said Ignati, " there is danger going forward, I 
 am sure. All the archers of the guard are at the foot of the 
 staircase; there are many strange faces, not usually seen at 
 the door of the council-chamber. Twice I saw a servant of 
 the King's come and speak to Henville, and hearing you had 
 not arrived, go round again, as if by the back staircase, to the 
 King's apartments. I am sure, Sir, there is something wrong." 
 The Duke smiled, but it was somewhat thoughtfully. " Thank 
 you, my good boy," he said. " I know rumours often precede 
 the act; but I cannot pause to consider such things now." 
 
 "Oh, Sir, think!" the boy ventured to exclaim; " think 
 bow the welfare of the State and the welfare of a thousand 
 individuals depend entirely upon your safety. W T hat would be- 
 come of me? What would become of the young Count and his 
 
 bride, if " 
 
 " Ay, well bethought," replied the Duke. " Bring me here 
 
henry of guise. 389 
 
 paper and the ink-horn-," and when the boy brought them, 
 Guise bent down over a large cofl'er that stood near, and wrote 
 a few lines. 
 
 " Take that (o the Count," he said, as soon as he had finished 
 writing. " Quick, Ignati : but, after all, these warnings arc but 
 nonsense. There is nobody in France dares do it. Look, 1 have 
 delayed too long. Here comes a messenger from the King." 
 
 " As I find your Highness coming," said the usher, approach- 
 ing the Duke, ' k it is needless, perhaps to deliver the King's 
 message : but I was directed to say to your Highness that the 
 council waited, and that His Majesty was extremely anxious 
 that the business of the day should go on, as he wished to pro- 
 ceed to Clery in time for dinner. If your Highness were not 
 well, he said, perhaps you would not object to the council being 
 held without you." 
 
 " You see! " said the Duke in a low voice, turning towards 
 Ignati with a smile, " you see! " And following the usher, he 
 walked on upon his way towards the council-chamber. 
 
 At the bottom of the staircase he found Larchant and the 
 whole body of archers of the guard, who now pressed round him 
 somewhat closely. 
 
 " What is it, Larchant? what is it, my good friend?" said the 
 Duke. " Your presence here is unusual, I think." 
 
 " We are here, your Highness," replied Larchant, " to solicit 
 in a body your mediation with the King. You promised me 
 yesterday, my Lord, that you would present our petition to his 
 Majesty, and advocate our cause in the council. These poor 
 fellows have not received any pay for months ; 1 might almost 
 say years." 
 
 " I did advocate your cause, yesterday," said the Duke, " and 
 his Majesty graciously sent an order upon the treasurer by one 
 of the ushers." 
 
 " But the treasurer ungraciously told us, Sir, that there was 
 not a sous in his coffers," replied Larchant ; and the Duke taking 
 the paper out of his hand, began to mount the stairs, saying. " I 
 will see to it, Larchant-, I will see to it." 
 
 Larchant and the archers followed him up the steps, still 
 pressing close upon him ; and he heard a low deep voice say 
 from the midst of them, " Look to yourself, my Lord Duke, 
 there are bad men abroad ! " 
 
 The Duke passed on however, without notice and entered the 
 hall of the council, the ushers drawing back with low bows as 
 he appeared, and throwing open the doors for him to go in. 
 The moment after those fatal doors had closed behind him, the 
 archers drew up across them at the head of the stairs. Larchant 
 hurried away towards the chamber of the King, and Yillequicr, 
 
390 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 passing rapidly by, said in a low voice to one of the attendants, 
 " Go down to Monsieur de Crillon, at the Corps de Garde 5 tell 
 him to shut and guard the gates, as the Duke has gone in." 
 
 Though he spoke low, he seemed little to heed who listened to 
 the words 5 and they were heard by the boy lgnati, who, with 
 the painful conviction that some great evil was about to befall 
 the Duke, had followed him step by step to the council-chamber. 
 The boy put his hand to his brow with a look of painful anxiety, 
 and darted away once more towards the apartments of the 
 Duke of Guise. The first person lie met with there was Pericard, 
 the Duke's secretary 5 and grasping his arm, he exclaimed, 
 "They will murder him! they will murder him! They are 
 closing the gates of the castle and guarding them ! " 
 
 Pericard rushed to one of the windows that looked out into 
 the court. "Too true, indeed!" he exclaimed. "Too true, 
 indeed! It may be yet time to save him though. Run quick, 
 lgnati, and get one of the Duke's handkerchiefs while I write." 
 And with a rapid hand he wrote down, — " My Lord, your 
 death is resolved. They are barring and guarding the gates. I 
 beseech you come out from the hall of the council to your own 
 apartments. We can make them good against all the world, 
 till the town rises to protect you." 
 
 Before he had done, the boy was back again with the hand- 
 kerchief; and enveloping the note therein, Pericard gave it to 
 him, exclaiming, " Fly, fly with that to the door of the council- 
 chamber, lgnati. The ushers will let you in, surely to give it to 
 the Duke, if you say that he has forgotten his handkerchief." 
 
 " They have let me in before," said lgnati ; " but I doubt it 
 now. I will try and make my way at all events." 
 
 Again he flew to the top of the staircase, and, as if a matter of 
 course, pushed up towards the door, endeavouring to force his 
 way through the archers. 
 
 "Stand back, saucy spright," cried one of the men; "you 
 cannot pass here." 
 
 " But I must pass," cried the boy, turning upon him with a 
 fierce air of authority. " I am the Duke of Guise's page and 
 bring him his handkerchief, which he forgot. Make way, saucy 
 archer, or I will teach you to whom you speak." 
 
 " Listen to the insolence of these Guisards," said the man. 
 " But their day is over. Stand back, fool, or I'll knock you down 
 with my partisan." 
 
 The boy laid his hand upon his dagger, still striving to push 
 forward; and the man, without further words, struck him a 
 blow over the head with the staff of his halbert, which laid 
 him prostrate upon the ground. For a moment he seemed 
 stunned, but then, starting up, he turned away, and went down 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 391 
 
 the stairs, bursting into tears ere he reached the bottom, not 
 with the pain of the blow he had received, but with the bitter 
 conviction that the last effort had failed, and the fate of Guise 
 was sealed. 
 
 In the meantime the Duke of Guise entered the council-room, 
 carrying in his hand the petition of the guards. Every one rose 
 at his approach ; and as the greater part of those present were 
 personally friendly towards him, he went round and spoke to 
 them with his usual grace and suavity, and then laying the peti- 
 tion on the' table, approached the fire, saying, "Jt is awfully 
 cold this morning! Has not his majesty yet appeared?" 
 
 "Not yet," replied the Cardinal de Guise, " though we ex- 
 pected him before, for he sent down to hasten our coming. But 
 what is the matter with your Highness? there is blood trickling 
 over your mustachio." 
 
 "The cold has made my nose bleed twice this morning," 
 replied the Duke, and putting his hand in his pocket he said, 
 " My people have been negligent; they have forgotten to give 
 me a handkerchief. St. Prix," he continued, turning his head to 
 one of the King's valets-de-chambre, who stood on the inside of 
 the door communicating with the King's apartments. " I wish 
 you would send to my rooms for a handkerchief. You will find 
 some of my people at the door." 
 
 " There are plenty, my Lord, belonging to the King," replied 
 St. Prix, "in this little cabinet: and crossing the hall of the 
 council, he took one out and gave it to the Duke, who thanked 
 him graciously, and still sitting by the fire fell into a deep fit of 
 thought. Suddenly, however, he turned pale-, his eyes assumed 
 the same expression as they had done the night before, when 
 he had fancied he saw a figure in the room with him, and taking 
 a small silver bonbonniere from his pocket, he opened it, as if' 
 seeking for something that it usually contained, saying at the 
 same time, " I feel very faint! — My people have neglected every 
 thing," he added, " this morning." 
 
 Several members of the council gathered round him, and St. 
 Prix, the valet, brought him from the cabinet where the hand- 
 kerchief had been found, some of the dried plums of Brignoiles, 
 which were then held as a restorative. The Duke took one of 
 them and ate it, and placed the others in the bonbonniere. 
 After a little, his colour returned, and he said, "I am better 
 now. How strange these attacks are, and how fortunate that 
 one never feels them on occasions of battle or danger! " 
 
 A moment or two after, he took a turn or two up and down 
 the room, and seemed perfectly recovered ; and as he was 
 about to resume his seat the door of the passage leading to the 
 King's chamber was opened, and the Secretary of State, Revol, 
 
392 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 entered, saying, " Monseigneur, his Majesty wishes to speak a 
 word with your Highness before the business of the council 
 commences. You will find him in the old cabinet to the left." 
 
 Revol was as pale as death. But the Duke of Guise took not 
 the slightest notice; and, passing through the door, which 
 St. Prix held open for him and closed after him, he advanced 
 towards the chamber of the King. 
 
 On entering it he saw Laugnac seated upon the coffer at the 
 farther end of the room ; and he remarked, with an angry 
 frown, that the King's attendant did not rise when he entered. 
 He said nothing, however, but turned towards the door of the 
 old cabinet, which was too low to suffer him to pass without 
 bowing his head. He accordingly stooped for the purpose ; and, 
 raising the tapestry with his left hand, while he held his hat in 
 the right, he passed on. 
 
 He had scarcely taken a step into the cabinet, however, 
 when he at once saw several men in arms standing round. At 
 the same moment there was a sound close to him; and, spring- 
 ing from behind the arras, a fierce and powerful man, named 
 St. Malines, rushed upon him. 
 
 The Duke dropped his hat, and moved his hand towards his 
 sword ; but at the same moment some one seized the hilt with 
 both hands, and St. Malines struck him a blow with a knife over 
 the left shoulder, burying the weapon in his bosom. 
 
 Another and another blow succeeded from the hands of those 
 around him ; the blood rushed up into his mouth and throat; 
 but still, with prodigious power, he seized two of those who 
 were assailing him, and dashed them headlong to the ground, 
 exclaiming at the same time, " Ah, traitors!" 
 
 Rushing towards the door, he dragged another along with 
 him into the chamber of the King; and seeing Laugnac still 
 there, and marking him as the instigator of his murder, with a 
 brow awful in the struggle of the strong spirit against the power 
 of death, with hands clenched, and teeth set, he darted towards 
 him. 
 
 Ere he had taken two steps, however, his brain reeled, his 
 eyes lost their sight, and Laugnac starting up saw, by the fearful 
 swimming of those visionlcss orbs, that the terrible deed was 
 fully accomplished, that the life of Guise was at an end; and 
 though the Duke still rushed forward upon him with the convul- 
 sive impulse of his last sensation, the Captain of the Quarante- 
 cinq did not even unsheath his sword; but merely struck him 
 a light blow with the weapon in the scabbard, and Guise fell 
 headlong on the carpet by the King's bedside. 
 
 The sound of that deep heavy fall was enough, and Henry, 
 coming forth from his Cabinet, gazed for several minutes earnestly 
 
IIENKY OF GUISE. 393 
 
 upon the dead man, while the dark blood rushed forth, and 
 formed a pool round the Monarch's feet. 
 
 The countenance of every one there present, lips and cheek 
 alike, were as white as parchment ; and for two or three minutes 
 not a word was spoken, till at length the King exclaimed, 
 " What a height he was! He seems to me taller even dead than 
 living ! " 
 
 Then setting his foot upon the dead man's neck he cruelly 
 repeated the cruel words which Guise himself had used at the 
 death of Coligny, "Venomous beast, thou shalt spit forth no 
 more poison ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 From the door of the council-chamber the boy Ignali flew 
 back to the apartments of the Duke of Guise, and the tidings 
 which he brought spread confusion and terror through the 
 whole of the Duke's domestics : but Ignati was of a clinging 
 and affectionate disposition, and after the Duke, his master, his 
 next thoughts turned to Charles of Montsoreau. To his apart- 
 ments then the boy proceeded with all possible speed, having in 
 his hand the note from the Duke of Guise, which he had almost 
 forgotten in the agitation of the late events. He found the young 
 nobleman already dressed, and concluding with his attendants 
 various arrangements for his approaching union with her he 
 loved— an union, indeed, entirely dependent upon the life of 
 him who was at that very moment falling under the blows of 
 assassins. 
 
 With the natural hopefulness of youth and of high courage, 
 Charles of Montsoreau, though still somewhat anxious, had 
 nearly forgotten the apprehensions of the night before. But the 
 terrified countenance of Ignati, and the cut upon the boy's brow 
 from the blow he had received, showed the young Count at once 
 that something had gone wrong; and demanding what was the 
 matter, but without waiting for an answer, he opened the billet 
 of the Duke of Guise, and read. 
 
 The words which he found there written were as follows : — 
 
 " I have had many warnings, Logeres, which personally, it 
 does not become me to attend to. However, should these warn- 
 ings prove to have been justly given, and you see Henry of 
 Guise no more, take your fair bride with you at once ; fly to my 
 brother of Mayenne; be united as soon as possible, without 
 waiting for any ceremony but the blessing of the priest ; and, to 
 
394 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 the best of your power, avenge the death of him who was your 
 friend to the last." 
 
 " Where is the Duke, Ignati?" demanded the young Count, 
 eagerly. " Has he yet gone to the council?" 
 
 "He is gone! he is gone!" replied the boy; "and he will 
 never return!" And in a rapid manner he told him all that had 
 taken place, as far as he himself yet knew it. 
 
 " Fly to the apartments of Mademoiselle de Clairvaut in- 
 stantly," said the Count. " Ask if I can speak with her, and give 
 her that note. If she is not in her own apartment, she is in 
 that of the Duchess of Nemours, which is by the side of it. 
 Quick, Ignati-, tell her there is not a moment to be lost." 
 
 The boy sped away. The Count then gave a few rapid orders 
 to Gondrin, bidding him discover if there was any means of 
 issuing forth from the castle; and then turned his steps, as 
 speedily as possible, towards the chamber of Marie de Clairvaut. 
 
 In the narrow passage, however, which led towards the 
 apartments of the Duchess of Nemours, he was passed by 
 Pericard, the Duke's secretary, who slackened not his pace for 
 an instant, but said, " Fly, Sir! Fly! The Duke is dead ! " and 
 rushed on. The next moment, Charles met the fair girl herself, 
 coming towards him with as swift a pace as his own, and fol- 
 lowed by the boy Ignati, who from lime to time turned back his 
 head, as if to see that they were not pursued. Marie was as 
 pale as death. 
 
 " Oh, Charles," she said, " I fear we cannot obey my uncle's 
 commands. What has happened to him, I know not; but the 
 guards have just arrested the Duchess de Nemours and my 
 poor cousin Joinville. It is impossible to pass in that direction, 
 and I fear all the gates are guarded." 
 
 " Run to the chapel," said the boy. " Run to the chapel by 
 the back staircase and the little corridor behind the Duke's 
 room. There will be no one in the chapel in this time of con- 
 fusion, and there is a way from the chapel into the gardens. 
 The postern may be left unguarded." 
 
 " Excellently bethought," replied Charles of Monlsoreau. 
 " Speed on, Ignati; speed on before us, and see that there is 
 no one on the watch. If you find Gondrin, send him to the 
 chapel without a moment's delay. We must fly, sweet Marie; 
 we must fly, as your uncle has ordered. It is clear— though it is 
 terrible to say — it is clear that he is dead. They would not have 
 dared to arrest his son and mother had he been living. But we 
 must find you some cloak or covering, sweet girl. You cannot 
 go forth in all this bridal array." 
 
 Marie bent down her head and wept, for though she had 
 suffered much within the last few months, it had not been with 
 
HENRY OF GUISE. 395 
 
 that withering kind oi' suffering which dries up the fountain of 
 our tears. She hurried on with her lover, however, and in his 
 apartments a mantle was speedily found to cover the bright and 
 happy attire which she had that morning put on with feelings of 
 hope and joy. In few but distinct words Charles of Montsorcau 
 told the two servants, whom he found there, to get out, if pos- 
 sible, by any means into the town, and to bring round the rest 
 of his train and his horses to the farther side of the gardens ; and 
 then hurrying on by the way which the boy had suggested, he 
 led Marie de Clairvaut towards the chapel, where they were to 
 have been united. 
 
 The little corridor which they followed entered at once into a 
 small room, called the revestry, by the side of the chapel itself, 
 and as Charles of Montsoreau approached, he heard voices and 
 paused to listen. He then plainly distinguished the tones of 
 Gondrin and the page ; and though another deep voice was also 
 heard, he hurried on, feeling certain that they would have come 
 to give him warning had there been danger. 
 
 The door was partly open, and throwing it back, the Count 
 beheld a scene which made all his blood run cold, while the 
 fair girl whom he was leading forward recoiled in terror and 
 dismay. 
 
 Stretched upon the floor, with his sword half drawn from the 
 sheath, and a deep wound in his left breast, lay Gaspar de Mont- 
 soreau. A pool of blood surrounded him, and the expression of 
 his whole countenance showed in a moment that the spirit had 
 departed some time. Scattered — some upon the ground, some 
 upon the table in the midst of the room, some even in the midst 
 of the blood itself — were a number of pieces of gold ; and two 
 leathern bags, one open and half empty of its contents, were 
 seen upon the ground. 
 
 At the further side of the room, near the door leading into the 
 chapel, was standing Gondrin, with his sword naked, and his 
 foot upon the chest of the Italian Orbi •, while the boy Ignati 
 knelt beside the assassin, and with his drawn dagger held over 
 him, seemed putting to him some quick and eager questions. 
 
 "I tell you true," answered the man, as Charles of Montso- 
 reau entered; "I tell you true. It was he who set me on and 
 paid me : the Abbe" de Boisgueiin, and no one else." 
 
 The boy sprang up and moved away on the young Count's 
 appearance; and a few words from Gondrin explained to him, 
 that coming from the gardens— where he had found all solitary, 
 the key in the lock of the postern gate, and the way clear — he 
 had heard a low cry from the side of the chapel, and on enter- 
 ing that room had discovered the unhappy Marquis de Montso- 
 reau weltering in his blood, and the Italian Orbi gathering up 
 
396 HENRY OF GUISE. 
 
 some of the [gold pieces, which seemed to have fallen to the 
 ground in a brief struggle between him and the Marquis. 
 
 During this account, Marie de Clairvaut, pale as death and 
 terribly agitated, supported herself by one of the high-backed 
 chairs, and turned her eyes from the horrible sight which 
 that room exhibited ; and Charles of Montsoreau gazed for a 
 moment on the dead form of his brother, with those feelings of 
 fraternal love which no unkindness or ill treatment had been 
 able to banish. 
 
 Every instant, however, was precious ; and recovering him- 
 self as speedily as possible, he turned to Gondrin, bidding him 
 disarm the Italian who had still his sword, though the weapon 
 with which he had committed the murder had been dropped 
 beside the dead body. 
 
 " Shall I kill him, Sir?" said Gondrin, pressing the man down 
 more firmly with his foot, as he found him make a slight effort 
 to escape. 
 
 " Oh, in pity, in pity, Charles," cried Marie, clasping her 
 hands towards him, " do not ; do not !" 
 
 "No, no!" replied Charles of Montsoreau; "cut that rope 
 from the window, Ignati. Bind him hand and foot, Gondrin, 
 and leave him to the justice of those who come after." 
 
 It was done in a moment ; and Charles of Montsoreau only 
 pausing once more for a moment to gaze on his brother's 
 corpse, exclaimed with sincere sorrow, "Alas, poorGaspar!" 
 and then with a quick step led Marie de Clairvaut from that 
 terrible chamber into the gardens and towards the postern gale. 
 
 All was clear, and Charles of Montsoreau turned the key 
 and threw the gate back. The moment that it was opened, 
 two men darted forward from the other side, as if to seize the 
 person coming out, and in one of them, though entirely changed 
 in dress and appearance, Charles instantly recognised the Abbe 
 de Boisguerin, who, before he saw that any one had accom- 
 panied Mademoiselle de Clairvaut, had caught her violently by 
 the arm. 
 
 The memory of a thousand wrongs flashed upon the young 
 Count's mind in a moment; his sword sprung from the sheath, 
 glittered for a single instant in the air, and then passed through 
 the body of the base man before him, piercing him from side to 
 side. 
 
 The Abbe uttered a shrill and piercing cry, and, when the 
 Count withdrew his weapon, fell instantly back upon the ground, 
 quivering in the agonies of death. The other man who had stood 
 beside the Abbe fled amain; but on the road, about iifty yards 
 from the garden wall, stood a carriage with six horses and their 
 drivers, with a group of some nine or ten men on horseback. 
 
HENRY OF CUISE. 397 
 
 On the Abbe's first cry the horsemen began to ride towards 
 the spot, hut the appearance of Gondrin coming through the low 
 door behind the Count, and then the page, made them pause, 
 hesitate, and seem to consult. In another moment or two the 
 sound of horses coming from the side of the town caused them 
 to withdraw still farther from the spot ; and with joy that is 
 scarcely to be expressed, Charles of Montsoreau saw his own 
 colours in the scarfs of the horsemen that approached. In a mo- 
 ment after, he was surrounded by at least twenty of his own 
 armed attendants : led horses, loo, were there in plenty ; and he 
 now whispered words of hope that he really felt to Marie de 
 Clairvaut, who clung almost fainting to his arm. 
 
 "Stop the carriage, Gondrin!" he exclaimed, seeing the 
 drivers in the act of mounting, as if to hasten away after the horse- 
 men, who, on their part, had taken flight at the first sight of 
 the young Count's followers. " We must make use of it, whe- 
 ther they will or not; but promise them large rewards. There is 
 a mystery here I do not understand ; but it is evidently some new 
 villany. Come, dear Marie, come : we must not pause." And 
 leading her forward to the carriage, he spoke to the drivers 
 himself. 
 
 One of them was the master of the horses which the Abbe had 
 hired, and he was found not at all unwilling to enter into any 
 arrangement that the Count chose to propose. Marie de Clair- 
 vaut was placed in the carriage, the horsemen surrounded it, 
 and Charles himself was about to mount his horse, when he 
 perceived that the boy Ignati had not followed him, but remained 
 kneeling by the side of the Abbe de Boisguerin. Turning quickly 
 back, to his utter surprise he found the youth weeping bitterly ; 
 and when he urged him to rise and come with the carriage, 
 Ignati shook his head saying, "No, no ! I cannot leave him like 
 dead carrion for the hawks and ravens. — He was my father ! Go 
 on, my Lord Count, and God speed you !— 1 must see him bu- 
 ried, and masses said for his soul! " 
 
 The Count was moved, but he could not remain 5 and giving 
 the boy some money, he said, "Spend that upon his funeral, 
 Ignati , and then follow me with all speed to Lyons. I grieve for 
 you, my boy, though I understand not how this can be." 
 
 Only one more difficulty existed, which was, to pass through 
 that part of the town leading to the bridge over the Loire. But 
 the servants who had made their escape from the castle, and 
 brought round their fellows to his assistance, assured the Count 
 that the news of the Duke of Guise's murder had already spread 
 through the city, and that every thing was in such a state of 
 confusion and dismay, he might pass with the greatest security. 
 
 Such he found to be (he case ; all the guard of the King was 
 
398 HEJNRY OF GUISE. 
 
 within the walls of the chateau ; the gates of the bridges, and o( 
 the town itself, were in the hands of the faction of the League ; 
 and no questions were asked of one who was known to have 
 been the dear and intimate friend of the murdered Duke. 
 
 Taking his way through a part of the country devoted to the 
 League, Charles of Montsoreau and his fair companion found 
 no difficulty in reaching Lyons, where the history of all that had 
 taken place was soon told to the Duke of Mayenne, and the last 
 lines which the hand of Henry of Guise ever traced were shown 
 to him, who was destined thenceforth to be the great head of the 
 League. 
 
 Had the words and the wishes of his brother not been suffi- 
 cient for Mayenne, the necessity of binding to his cause for ever 
 one whose aid was so important as that of Charles of Montso- 
 reau, would have been enough to decide the Duke's conduct 
 towards him : and as soon as possible, after all the anguish, 
 difficulty, and danger, which they had undergone together, the 
 fate of the young Count of Logeres and Marie de Clairvaut was 
 united for ever. 
 
 In regard to them it need only be said that they loved each 
 other to the last hours of life. 
 
 The boy Ignati followed the young Count to Lyons, but he 
 would not remain with the man who had taken his father's life. 
 He subsequently devoted himself to the church, and in the end 
 rose high, by the great interest that was exercised on his behalf. 
 
 The wars of the League succeeded : but the feelings of Charles 
 of Montsoreau were greatly changed by the death of the Duke 
 of Guise ; and though he waged war, as zealously as any body 
 could possibly do, against the murderer of his lost friend, yet, 
 when Henry III. himself fell under the biow of an assassin, the 
 young Count of Logeres would no longer contend against a 
 monarch so generous, so noble, and so chivalrous, as the King 
 who next ascended the throne. 
 
 He sheathed the sword then, after the accession of Henri 
 Quatre, and the rest of his days passed in peace and calm retire- 
 ment, in the society of her whom he loved ever, and loved alone. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 L. 
 

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